Nothing to See Here…

I’m in London this week. I know, I know - some of you think I’m so darn lucky.  If you’re one of those, you might want to turn back now and avoid this pity party.  Still, if you like inspirational tales, with perhaps a slight tugging at your heartstrings, read on.

I missed Father’s Day (and half my weekend) and will also be traveling all of the coming Saturday too.  I’m still a bit jetlagged and tired and I have a headache.  I’ve screwed up my birth control pills to the point where there is break through bleeding for which I am ill prepared.  I’m way behind on email and still have a complicated preparation to do tonight for my meeting tomorrow.

London, though!  What a city, huh?  Beautiful, alive.  And me on an expense account! 

Yet all I want is home.  I want my husband and my kids and my Sleep Number bed and my back-scratcher and my TV shows and morning Quick-Trip coffee and my cold skim milk in my refrigerator and my recliner.  I want my FAMILIAR. 

I think that’s what gets me about coming over here.  Everything requires too goddamn much thinking.  Nothing is familiar and I cannot navigate in autopilot. 

Sandwiches are unfamiliar.  The Brits seem to have an affinity for lots of egg things and cream cheese things and cucumber things where sandwiches are concerned.  All the smells are unfamiliar, the offices and hotels and even the outside air itself smells wrong.  The toilets don’t flush right.  The tubs are all elevated about 3″ from floor level so that at 6AM when I drag my jetlagged self into the shower, I step out and almost break my neck every time. Sometimes I can’t even figure out how to get the fucking lights to turn on.

The thermostat in the hotel has two settings:  too cold and too hot.

The television selection is baffling.  How is it that I love British TV in America but I hate British TV in Great Britain?  Every channel is covering World Cup except for that one that just shows gratuitous boobies in no context at all (although, really, they are quite lovely).

So it’s probably not surprising that after 3 days of British food, I was too tired to think about what I wanted for dinner from the unfamiliar options.  I read the room service menu 3 times trying to figure out if anything on it was British code for the American staples of ”club sandwich” and ”garden salad.” 

I couldn’t take any chances.  My spirit was teetering on the edge and my trip has 4 days left.  I needed to refuel - not just my stomach but my SOUL.  My low-class midwest pedestrian American soul.

So I set out.  I passed many a restaurant with promises of enticing cuisine from all corners of the globe.  I passed coffee shops and delis (no doubt full of sandwiches with cucumbers and cream cheese) and yet I kept on.

I was determined.  I knew that the evil American culture had infiltrated the world and the influence of Ronald McDonald was felt far and wide.  I just knew that if I would stay the course, I would be rewarded. 

And so I walked on.

The World Cup match had ended and people came pouring out of the pubs.  Rain started to fall.  Sweat was forming on my upper lip and without my consent, the lip quivered a little, as if it might cry any moment.

I soldiered on and on and on.

The process had worn me down and I was nearly ready to concede, to wave the proverbial white flag.  Nearly.  When, for reasons I still cannot explain, my line of vision was drawn up and to the left.  I can only assume it was supernatural forces that brought my attention there.  Right at the moment, the rain stopped and the clouds parted bringing pure clarity under the London night sky and I saw them - the Golden Arches.

This, my friends, is a testimonial to the unwavering American spirit.  Do not give up.  Do not concede.  Stay the course.  You will be rewarded!

I ordered a Filet-o-Fish and fries, and then added an apple pie.  APPLE PIE, people - the very symbol of what America stands for.  It was a proud and patriotic moment for me. 

I carried my reward back toward my hotel, holding it up over my head with two arms, as if it were the World Cup trophy itself.  My triumph!  I was surprised the throngs of people didn’t hoist me into the air so the crowd could celebrate my victory with me. 

A tear trickled down my cheek.  I celebrated my victory privately.

It’s lonely at the top.

Editor’s note:  If you roll your eyes at my inspirational tale and despise the fact that some people see ME and think all Americans are like me, I’m hoping you’ll refrain from commenting.  I prefer to hear from the “Yes, yes, that’s exactly what I’d do!” people and, as well, the “Oh, Linda, you are such a goof and that’s why we love you.” people.  Because I’m far from home and lonely and tired and NOBODY hoisted me up on their shoulders (which may be due to too many trips to McDonalds) and carried me in the real world, so I’m looking for a little virtual hoisting, to tell you the truth.  Don’t make me beg (because you know I will, right?)