Anyway...So, I'm 30 and I don't have any kids yet, and this is something that my mother reminds me of every time she comments on the phone that she can actually hear me eating cheese and watching Netflix (“My son in law is not just going to knock on the door, Danielle.” It’s a moot point because even if he did, I’m not answering when Vampire Diaries is on, so go away bro).
Krista and I making Ma proud.
While I haven't yet managed to give her really any hope of grandchildren, you will be pleased to know that I have, in fact, done the exact opposite. You know that gene that women supposedly have that makes them forget about the pain of childbirth, lest they never want to have any more? Well I decided to use mine to help forget how absolutely terrifying it can be to pack your shit and start over somewhere new. It's a good thing too, my July 2014 move to sunny London marks the 3rd time in my life that I've relocated to a major city.
There are 900 reasons why I did this and only one reason why I was able to get it to work. I'm an insurance broker for really tough things and the weirder the thing, the more it ends up here (trust me that's all you want to know about that without wanting to melon your own eyeball out with a spoon). Anyway, Lloyd's of London is the oldest insurance 'market' in the world and doing deals on the floor there is like crack to insurance nerds like me. Anyway there was an opening I was qualified for and I jumped on it. After one calendar year of nagging my bosses in New York to the point where the sound of my voice incited violence, I packed my stuff and transferred on out. There's a lot more to that part of the story I won't go into but know this: corporate politics could kill us all and I firmly believe that when I look back on my career, making this work will still be the best broke of my life. There is so much good work to do here, I can't WAIT.
Lloyd's, on a day when the Queen came
As for the other reasons, well, I just really like adventure. I seek geographic solutions to boredom. I don’t know, I thought it'd be fun to live in London and get to travel in Europe on the weekends and maybe even learn to drive on the other side of the car/road. I want a London flat and a British bank account. Maybe meet a boy with a dumb accent I can make fun of, and he mine. For some reason the concept of backpacking for a few months never seemed like enough for me. I like the idea of going somewhere indefinitely and then seeing what kind of person it makes you. Maybe stay forever. Maybe not. (This concept stresses a lot of people around me out) Indeed, Los Angeles made me a world-class parallel parker and New York made me an unusually aggressive speaker. Well, I was always an aggressive speaker but New York made it to the point where I was aggressive even to them. You can imagine how much I've startled the English. The two nice guys that sit next to me have started swearing a lot and coming off more harshly (“the f-ck is that guy talking about!?”) as a direct result of being in constant close contact with me. I feel bad about this but it’s a real delight to hear a New York sentence with an English accent.
Anyway, super fun fact about moving to London: Within 2 weeks all the things you romanticized in your head, the way people sound, the way they react to the way you sound, the cars, the red buses, the whole thing...all of that goes away and you're left with the decision you've made. You're now 7,000 miles away from your family and enough time zones away to render only about 4 hours a day appropriate for phone calls (read: drunk dialing my mother at 9am her time will always be the most fun I'll have that day). You don't know anyone and the sound of your own accent annoys you in your head.
The good thing is I was able to figure out, honestly, if I wanted to be here or not. My initial relocation was only 4-6 months and it only took me about a month to figure out that I wanted to stay. It wasn’t even a particularly easy month. In fact the easiest thing I did was not get hit by a car flying down the road in the other direction (there were some near misses). The good thing is I know I made the decision honestly. This shit is hard, often lonely, and full of social faux pas you don’t even know you’re making until you make them and look like a Grade-A Jackass (how the hell was I supposed to know that saying “fanny pack” is wildly inappropriate here?). You know what else though? It never, even for a second, stops being interesting. The city is HUGE and spread out and absolutely beautiful. Every accent is different and all equally fun to mock. The only danger in this though is hearing them have a go at yours. It sounds like they’re straining to say words incorrectly and it sounds completely just...completely insane. Sort of makes you uncomfortable in the way that hearing a recording of your own voice does. I remember thinking, Jesus, is that what my accent sounds like?
You do get used to it.
So you guys will get a kick out of this. The English LOVE pre-made food. Love it. Pret, Pod, Abokado, everywhere. Even the grocery store. All stocked with sandwiches, salads, wraps, etc. The grocery store has MORE premade food that you take home and heat up than ingredients to make food. I asked for cookie dough one day and the guy looked at me like I was an asshole. The food is good and all, and definitely preferred to fast food, but dammit, a gal could REALLY use some Chipotle up in here. On that note, shitty American things like ranch dressing, hot dogs, and frozen waffles are just not a thing here. I mean it’s probably a conscious effort not to poison themselves to death, which is admirable, but sometimes I just want a red Robin chicken finger and I want to dunk it in a big thing of ranch. Is that so much to ask?
A feeding frenzy of fresh mediocrity.
Here’s another fun fact: Brits don’t talk about things. There seems to be a commonly understood list of things not to talk about and these topics are to be avoided at all cost. There is another very loud American girl that works in our area as well. Our desks face each other so really, every morning is a colorful session of gossip/opinion sharing/evening recap because that’s what American bitches do. We respect privacy, we don’t lie, and we’re never malicious but we also do not censor ourselves. The English kids around us have positively fallen out of their chairs in shock a few times. Anyway the things Brits don’t talk about usually boils down to anything involving feelings or subjects that can invoke strong showings of emotion from anyone within a 10 mile radius. Remember that Family Guy where Joe Swanson is crying and Peter, Quagmire and Cleveland just can’t deal with it and slither away? That actually happens here.
Joe loses the perp.
American’s love to be larger than life, and the way I talk is larger than life even by American standards. So for me, controlling my emotions is a struggle I couldn't give two shits to overcome. I don’t get any more angry than anyone else. Okay I don't get that much more angry than anyone else. Just...look I’m my mother’s daughter and sometimes I like to get all Italian or whatever and complain and yell at people and flail my hands around and all I want you jerkoffs to do enthusiastically agree and nod your stupid head and go, “hell yeah!” Well there have been no ‘hell yeahs’ here, just people so desperately uncomfortable I can see them physically lean towards the door.
I figured, screw it. Stick em' with the pointy end anyway. The Brits are going to get a full dose of Danielle and they’re going to learn to love it, as much as I love them. Ask my coworkers about the struggles of opening a British bank account, or the exact status of my visa, or how I feel about how badly the Jets are doing this year. Ask them how I feel about that account I lost, or how I feel about New York Pizza. They’ll tell you in alarming detail. They're learning to put up with the American tendency to criminally overstate things, another trait which I possess to cartoonish proportions. Whatever. Indian food did change my life, that movie was the greatest thing I ever laid my eyeballs on, and I really did want to push that guy out of the back of a moving truck going 75 miles an hour. I call people "dicks" at least 27 times a day and I mean it every single time.
"Oh what are you, a f-ckin world traveler?"
You know what is nice about being here though? The English have great wit and tremendous vocabularies by American standards. Their communication, even when awkward or dry, is very deliberate. I mean they also say crazy shit like “he had a bee in his bonnet about that,” but that only adds to the fun. The men here love chocolate. LOVE chocolate. Granted their chocolate is so phenomenally better that I lack the words to explain it. Bring in a bag of fun-sized bag of what-the-hell-ever and they gather like moths.
Anyway, I don’t really know what else to say about my experience so far. It’s been about three months and I am still living in ex-pat housing that my work set up for me. I don’t start the real, actual living here thing until January 1, which I imagine is probably going to be…comical. In the meantime all I can do is keep trying to adjust and enjoy it as best I can. I miss New York so much sometimes that it feels like someone punched me in the stomach. I miss the California sun and my insane family and my friends, all of whom are doing their own spreading out right now. I miss pizza (although I did find a Killer place here recently) and Mexican food and the sound of Jimmy Fallon or Saturday Night Live starting. But then I have to remember that one time, I lived on the beach in Santa Monica, another time I lived right by Central Park in New York City, and then I moved right smack in a really neat part of London…and then I turned 30. Challenges aside it hasn’t been too bad a way to spend the younger years of my life. Quite the contrary actually. I can’t wait to see what happens next.
America - Where you still owe us taxes.
