Adventures in Grocery Shopping

So. The things I like most about living in a foreign country are:

1. Forgetting which way I pronounce words like chamomile and via
   
2. Weird flavor combinations, especially in potato chips, excuse me, crisps. Who wants lamb and mint crisps? Anybody???
3. Discovering that I have no idea how to perform a previously very simple task

Case in point: Grocery Shopping. Specifically, getting a cart. Or trolly. Or trolley, whatever.

So. I went to Sainsbury's. A big chain here. The inside looks like many other grocery stores I've been to in my life. A little like Meijer's, a little like Busch's, or even Super Wal~Mart (which I've only been to once, against my will).

Anyway, everybody else was walking around with carts and I didn't see them anywhere. And I looked. Trust me. I asked to two security guards (!) sitting at the front of the store where the carts were.

"Excuse me. Can you tell me where I can find the shopping carts."
"You mean, trolleys?"
"Umm..yeah. I guess so."
"They're outside."

OK, no problem. I can go outside. So I did. And I saw all the carts. That was easy.

Or so I thought.

Because they were all locked up. Chained to each other...like, a chain gang of shopping carts. And I didn't have a key!

Thankfully, there were two people getting their groceries out of their cart nearby. So I asked them how can I get a cart.

"How can I get a cart?"
"You mean, trolley?"
***They didn't actually say that - I just thought it would be funny. What they did say was...
"You have to pay a pound."
"You have to pay to use a cart?!?!"
"Yeah, isn't that a rip off!"
"I'm not going to pay to use a cart!"
"Well, you get your pound back when you're done."

WHAT??? It turns out that each cart has a little notch that a one pound coin fits into snugly. And when you insert the coin - your cart is unlocked from its fellow cart-prisoners.

Except I didn't have to do that because the nice people just gave me their cart with a pound coin in it already and I in turn gave them my pound coin.

But the entire time I was shopping I was so worried that somebody was going to come by and steal my pound! That' like a $1.62 right now - the right to shop with a cart doesn't come cheap here.

Turns out that you can only release the pound with the key from another cart. Even though my cart has its own key - the chain is too short to reach around and release the coin. I hope this makes sense...not a spacial thinker, which means I'm not a spacial writer either.

Anyway - it all worked out - I passed on my cart to some lovely ladies in exchange for their pound coin.

Fast forward to this week when I went to the store. I am now a shopping cart PRO! I know where they are. I have my pound coin. I.AM.READY. And I did fine. Got my cart, did my shopping, took my cart back outside, and put it away. There was no one there who was ready to take over my cart, so I was excited to lock it up! And I did. So. My cart was locked snugly with the cart in front of it. I had my coin back, but...

I had locked my groceries into the bellies of the cart prisoners. And I couldn't get the bags out. I tired. A couple of times. Turns out, I had to put the stupid coin back in, pull the carts apart, and free my groceries.

Duh.

Look at all those guilty carts!
Lock 'em up!!!

Don't Worry

I haven't forgotten about you. I've just been blogging in my head. Which is great for me. Might be a little boring for you. But I have things to put up here. And I'll get around to it. Trust me.

Just so you know, I'm going to the movies this week. With a friend! I have 2 now. Things are looking up:)

And I'm going to a store that sells A&W Rootbeer! I'm going to have an ice-cold A&W before the week is out! Isn't that amazing??? Something I can use my dorm room fridge for...finally.

For Dad

So. Before we moved to London, my Dad had a request. He wanted me to describe things. How things were different. How when you walk into a shop it smells different and sounds different.

Well. As the 15 of you know. I haven't done this yet. So today. I'm going to talk about a place I've been to 3 times now. You got it. McDonald's.


OK. That's fine. Noted. I'm not proud that I've been to McDonald's 3 times since we've moved to our new apartment. But I've needed lunch. And we don't have groceries. And sometimes I only have 3GBP - and in this neighborhood - 3GBP gets you lunch at McDonald's.

We're living in a very "smart" neighborhood. You and I would call it "posh," but apparently, people in the know don't say posh anymore - they say smart. If you say posh - you are labeled as middle class (Oh, the humanity!) or American (I'm sure, a fate worse than death).

Sometimes...smart neighborhoods don't like to have things like Wal-Mart or McDonald's tarting up the place. So these stores - if they can ever get into the neighborhood, sort of have to hide who they are. This McDonald's is in a store front. With a tiny M sign hanging down over the sidewalk. Sort of like the kind of signs they used in the 14th century with a bandaged arm or a boot to show that this place was a barber or a boot maker (I'm not making that up. I read it in a book). Big glass windows. The windows are trimmed in wood, smartly painted black. In side, there are (or is it is) no obvious McDonald's paraphernalia. Because you might be able to see it from the street. I had to look for the menu.

There are water colors (maybe acrylics, I'm not an art expert) of the comely streets in our area hanging on the walls. Someone is always mopping. Usually, it's the manager. And she is wearing a black skirt, hose, black shoes, and a black blouse with tiny white polka dots. No Ms anywhere on her either. The workers behind the counter are dressed in McDonald's uniforms. And there are no kids working. Everyone employed there is an adult through and through. Not even early 20s. Which I think is odd.

The weirdest thing though, and this is for Dad, is the smell. I should say: The lack of smell. You know what I'm talking about. Every McDonald's smells the same. You can even smell it in the parking lot. I think it's the fry grease.

They don't have that here. Walking past the entrance on the sidewalk - you can't smell it. Inside the store (I was going to say restaurant, but that made me uncomfortable) you can't smell it. The food basically tastes the same. I would actually venture to say it tastes better. The buns seem fresh, the lettuce isn't wilting, the chicken nuggets had a weird texture, but I think that might be because they don't use liquid chicken.

So we have a McDonald's that doesn't smell like McDonald's. It doesn't smell like anything. You might even think it smells like mopping - but it doesn't. Do they have really excellent ventilation? Or is something more sinister going on here?

I prefer to think it's something sinister. And that's why I've been 3 times. Because I'm trying to figure it out. Solve the mystery for you. Making sure that everything is safe for your arrival. Because you are coming to see me, right? RIGHT? I'm hungry.

Michelangelo's David McDonald

What's this all about?

Well, as you know, I lived in NYC for about 10 years. And while I was there I never once saw anybody get hit by anything. But since I've been in London, let's see...about 2 months and 1 week, I've seen 2 bike and car collisions. TWO! I think that's kind of a lot. Thankfully, both times no one was seriously injured. Yes. Thank you very much.

Granted, today was a bit more of a bike running into a car.

But.

What's going on? Are Londoners bad drivers? Do they not have the ability to see bikes? Are bikers terrible people? Do they deserve to be hit by cars?

From now on, I will only travel by...

Ooooo...you should fill in the blank!!!

Sitting

You all know I am very good at sitting. We're talking Olympic ability to sit. Much like Michael Phelps has been genetically designed to swim (remember the time filler during Summer Olympic Coverage? Spinning image of Michael detailing why he's such a good swimmer. Long arms, short legs, big feet.), I have been genetically designed to sit. A lot. I'm really good at it.

However. My abilities are failing me. I have found a type of sitting that I am not good at. AND...more disturbingly, that I don't want to do anymore.

It's sitting on the floor.

I hate it.

I think my butt is going to die. Excuse me, bum. I guess what you call it doesn't matter much if it's DEAD!

Good News/Bad News

Yesterday we got the keys to our new apartment! We each got a set of four. Three keys out of the four are skeleton keys...yeah...um...people still make locks like that??? Tony said it best, "I feel like a 17th century grounds keeper." Me too, dear husband, me too.

We spent yesterday afternoon in our new place. Checking everything out, making sure nothing was super broken. We also walked around the neighborhood - walked into a few local stores. I told (just about) everybody I saw that we had just moved in. Because I'm trying to make friends. It got us free lattes at the fancy food store - and maybe a friend.

Getting a new apartment is a great way to push through jet lag. Kind of. I'm still tired. And unfocused. Still sick (boo. I thought that once you got away from all the corn and ragweed you were supposed to feel better). But I'm pretty sure my lunch is going to fix everything: coke and reese's pieces. At 5pm.

Now for the bad news...well, not bad really. Just annoying.

Here's what was supposed to happen:

Return to London on Tuesday, pick up keys.
All our stuff delivered to new apartment on Wednesday.
Start our new life totally happy and unpacked on Thursday.

Here's what's happening:

Returned to London on Tuesday, picked up keys.
Our stuff is not being delivered today because of construction on our street.
...As for Thursday...ummm...

Basically, the moving company says it can't bring us our things until...September 10. Not only because of the construction, but also because they failed to apply for a parking permit. And that takes 2 weeks to get. I'm not quite sure how they would have gotten around this bit if they were going to deliver our stuff today. Since, apparently, they only applied for the permit - yesterday.

I am reminded of a gentle warning from Tansasser about how hard it was for Marmina and Mmarc to get their stuff delivered.

Also of interest, our corporate apartment allotment is up tomorrow morning. Officially. Unofficially they (the job) are going to put us up until something can be worked out. But, we're going to start moving our things up to the new place.

So...we might be living in an empty apartment for a couple of weeks. At least it will give me plenty of time to make sure it's all clean and ready.

Some more good news:

We're very happy with our apartment choice. The neighborhood is great. We timed the walk to the train - 2 min 40 sec. And I think we took the long way. And we're pretty sure our apartment is going to be big enough and comfortable enough. All good news. I can't wait to actually live there.

Still, more good news:

My brother got married. I love him. And his new wife. Makes me so happy.

Women Are Dirty

"Women are dirty" Ricky Gervais as Brent on the office. Circa, whenever that show was on.

One of my, no probably my absolute favorite quote from The Office. The one on the BBC. My favorite quote from the one on NBC is from Michael to Oscar, "Is there something less offensive than Mexican that I should be calling you?" Just because that is so offensive on so many levels. Clever.

Anyway.

Back to women being dirty.

I have decided that London is officially dirtier than NYC. Shock. Gasp. Hand to chest.

I know. You probably don't believe me. But listen. (Or read) (Whatever) I LIVE HERE. And you don't!

I'm not talking about trash on the street or in the Tube stations. That's probably better than NYC. What I am talking about is boogers. Now, this is not the first time I've blogged about boogers. Read this.

Every time I come home from being out in the London air and then blow my nose... It's all gray. Or grey. I'm not sure how the spell it here. Probably grey. From soot. Or something like that. There is dirt in my nose!!! A lot of it. Turning boogers everywhere (or at least in my nose) grey. Just from walking around and breathing.

I do not like this.

Isn't this why Charles Dickens wrote Oliver? And other stuff? So that the air would be cleaner?

Gross, right?

"Boogers are dirty"