London Blog

The world is a very big place.  Having family spread across three continents sounds exotic but the reality is that we very rarely see one another.  Our last Australian family reunion was four years ago.  Our Israeli reunion was over six years.  So, when my Israeli nephew e-mailed us in April that he and his family had just booked cheap tickets to London, my husband and I had a decision to make.  We had talked for years about meeting up in Europe because of the huge distance between LA and Israel.  Not to mention every time I headed to Israel a war seemed to break out.  My husband was convinced that there was a correlation and urged me to meet family in Europe instead.  He promised to join. 

But so fast!  Only a few weeks away.  May 13!  I had an event on May 14 and another on June 8 for which I was totally responsible.  I had a new staff person, coupled with my fear of flying, not to mention the expense.  It was not possible. 

But, on the other hand, my nephew and his family were stretching to make this trip.  My husband, who was my nephew and his sister’s ‘second father’ from the time they were four and eight respectively, hadn’t seen them in over a decade.  Though I had seen them six years ago, it was during the Gaza war which broke out on December 27, 2008. I flew there the next day, but my nephew was called up on shortly afterwards and so I only saw him once.  Here was a great opportunity, even though, sadly, our niece, his sister, would be unable to join us.  I’d been saving my mother’s modest inheritance for something special.  A family reunion would certainly qualify.  When I spoke with my staff, boss, board etc., they all encouraged me to go.  My husband agreed to the trip and so we were ON.

My husband and I both have a British past.  I lived in London for four years during which time I had a tempestuous relationship with a manic-depressive Dutchman, earned a Master’s from the London School of Economics and worked in a school for severely disabled children.  I remembered being cold, depressed and poor.  My husband’s, on the other hand, was about being refused entrance to a hotel with his 2^nd ex-wife (because she was white), and leaving London sans regrets. 

Nevertheless, we both decided to negotiate these troubled waters.  Tickets bought.  Hotel booked. Traveling clothes ordered online. (Mine.)  Dog sitter arranged.  Work stuff negotiated.  Heads cleared.  Relaxation tape charged up. Husband’s tablet organized for maximum efficiency once in London.

To minimize travel drama, I arranged for a flat fee car to drive us to the airport.  Not exactly Uber since all those rape reports and rioting taxi drivers but simple enough that we wouldn’t have to stress about parking etc.  The car, a Prius, got us to LAX in record speed.  As we gathered our bags and paid the man, my husband discovered HE HAD LEFT HIS CARRY ON AT HOME.  His immediate reaction was not so Zen.  His carefully organized tablet was in that bag, amongst other things not quite remembered.  I won’t go into details, except to say there was a moment when I didn’t think the trip would happen.  None of my best Zen techniques helped.  But, eventually, he came to terms with the loss of his carefully planned ten and a half hour flight.  I kept thinking about William Hurt in ‘The Accidental Tourist’.  The more he tried to control things the more they spiraled out of control, until, eventually, he stopped fighting for so much control, found a new life and healed.  My husband once told me that William Hurt was his least favorite actor because he always looked like he was in perpetual pain.  Funny, that’s why I loved Hurt so much.

We embarked sans my husband’s carry on. I secretly prayed for a calm flight and then took a Zanax.

Our nephew had already told us about the free WhatsApp for communicating around the world.  This, after both my husband and I paid AT&T mucho bucks for an International data plan that never actually worked. We arrived safely and a taxi took us to the Astor Court Hotel, which had a royal ring to it when I booked online.  Though not royal, the hotel was fine.  Smaller bed than we were used to (hey, you can’t come close to the California King), but lovely staff and separate office/living room space—essential for a seven day stay.  And very central, though not knowing where our hotel was in proximity to our nephew, his wife and their 3 kids: 4, 8 and 12—we walked for blocks the first night, until discovering it was only a straight block away.  We were accidental tourists, indeed. 

We loved the great nieces/nephew from the first moment we saw them.

That first night, we all walked together to the main drag—Great Kensington Road.  Our first choice of restaurants was booked, something we would regret afterwards, so we went next door to Nandos.  Remember that name. Nandos. We settled into the horseshoe booth in the back of the restaurant.  Seven of us.  The other table was filled with several grownups and a young kid who kept running around our table.  I was at one of the ends and tried to hook my handback on the booth but it kept falling off so I set it on the floor next to my feet.  We sorted out what to order (basically bad British fast food) and I reached for my bag to accompany my nephew to the counter. 

My bag was not there!  No way.  Not possible.  Seven of us sitting there.  But it was gone.  So gone.  I reached down deep for my Zen Buddha spirit with deep breaths and my mantra: “It’s only stuff.  No one was hurt.  We are all still together and everything will work out.”  Why, then, did I feel like I was going into freefall just before the plane crashed? The restaurant wanted nothing to do with it.  Not responsible.  Didn’t see a thing.  But after seeing how traumatized we were, management shifted to calling the police, giving us a free dinner to go, etc. etc. 

We stumbled to my niece and nephew’s short term rental where I proceeded to cancel EVERYTHING.  Phone.  Credit cards.  Bank register.  Passport?  OMG.  How would I even get home?  We googled what to do and with my wise, practical Israeli niece’s urging, my husband and I turned up at the next morning at the American Embassy. 

Clutching a yellow plastic bag with a few pounds of cash in the cold London drizzle, I explained to the security guard that my passport had been stolen the night before.  “Can I see some ID?” he asked, at which point I broke into tears.  I was nobody.  Nothing.  My California Driver’s License was gone.  My checkbook.  Credit cards.  Cash.  Phone.  Lipstick.  Under eye concealer.  Purse. Medical card.  House key. Comb.  Perfume.  Sunglasses.  Wallet.  EVERYTHING.

The security guard looked worried until my tears stopped with the realization that I had a trump card.  My husband!  He still had his passport and ID.  We were linked.  Inextricably. Legally. For the past 30 years.  That had to count.  Four hours later, I had an emergency passport.  My trump card and I took a taxi to the closest department store, Debenhams, which also happened to be very high end. Three hundred pounds later on my husband’s credit card, I had a new handbag, wallet, sunglasses, make-up, etc. etc. We resumed our vacation.

That story of theft was the one I repeated most often when I got home.  But the real story was being with family.  No wonder recent studies on longevity have proven that in countries where you are surrounded by your loved ones, however you define that, you live longer.  Of course, other things like diet, exercise, balance etc. etc. play a role.  But my trauma was mitigated greatly by how our family rallied around, even the kids.  And how much fun we had after that.    

Everything is an adventure with kids.  Taking selfies in the tube, the buses, the museums and parks and restaurants and just being silly everywhere.  How much my Israeli great-nieces and nephew loved Starbucks!  I always thought it was an overblown American franchise, but even my husband and I thanked God for it after the terrible British coffee. 

Okay.  Just for the record, British food has not improved.  My prawn salad was dressed with ketchup and mayonnaise. Really.  Mushy peas?  Why?  The only good restaurants were Indian and other exotic places influenced by immigrants.  But the Brits do some things really, really well.  Like their parks, stretching in glorious greenery for miles.  You can take a paddle boat on the lake along with the ducks and swans, which our nephew did with the kids, while we rested on a lovely bench along the waterfront.  Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park, once the venue for Karl Marx and other greats, is now mostly overrun by religious zealots.  But even the fact that these crazies can proclaim in a public place is great.  Los Angeles desperately needs more public spaces.  It makes your city livable. 

Americans can learn from British Museums.  So can Israelis.  Don’t post armed guards all over the place who stand aggressively near you with bulging weaponry.  Give the people space and let them take lots of selfies and get up really close to great art.  I stopped going to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art because of the number of armed guards and how intimidating it was for the viewing experience. British museums are stellar.  My great-nieces took selfies next to Van Gogh.  How cool is that?  And the café, OMG the café!!!  Free food for children!  I love that.  Maybe Americans do that, too, but I don’t know about it.  And it was healthy food.  Salads and fruits and humus and tahini.  Fresh vegetables and lovely breads. 

Public transportation makes a city livable.  Pay attention LA.  The benefits are so huge.  Although we relied on our niece to put all the pieces together, we were able to get around by bus so easily.  And walk back to our hotel.  Exercise, saving money, saving the environment with all those extra car fumes.

 

Both of us agree that our nephew is an amazing father.  My father was pretty much an absent one.  Though he was a kind, funny, beautiful man, we mostly saw him asleep in his chair after a long day’s work.  Too tired to counterbalance my mother’s hysterical bouts, he took a passive role.  But the few days he spent with us are etched in our memory.  But too few.  He died at age 56 and we all missed out.  My husband’s experience with divorce left a fractured relationship with his children, something that still haunts him and his children. 

Not so with our nephew.  Not only does he cook and bake with his kids, all of the meals are colorful and delicious.  We experienced a couple of them in a short-rental kitchen that was not so well-stocked, but he still managed to create subtly seasoned stir fries, great pasta dishes and vibrant salads.  His children chop, hand him ingredients, stir and taste for seasoning.   His dessert combos are not to be denied.  I remember when he and his sister stayed in our non-kosher home in the summers; they would solve the no meat with milk ban by eating their ice cream (Häagen-Dazs) before the main meal.  For some reason, that was allowed.  Hey!  Don’t ask me.  I never followed the rules.

Our niece, his wife and their mother, is a strong beautiful woman who models competency, leadership and warmth.  She is the go-to person in a crisis as I learned first-hand.  She also knows how to kick back and enjoy the idiosyncrasies of her children.  She laughed when her 8-year old dashed around the rented apartment in live communication on her tablet with her Israeli friends.  She is quick to detect her 12 year old’s moods, and does things like spending the day with her, alone.  She is a driving force in all decisions.  She is someone you want in your court during a crisis.  And at all other times. Probably why our smart nephew fell in love with her in the first place.  Plus she is beautiful.  And the kids.  Well, only the eldest spoke English, and neither of us speaks Hebrew, so the rest is surmised from non-verbal cues.  The four year old boy is adventurous, sensitive and inquisitive.  He loves breaking things apart and putting them back together, has a great sense of humor and can also be very knowingly naughty. 

The eight-year-old daughter, also inquisitive, is observant, very smart and creative with quite a dramatic flair for art.  The eldest daughter is very loving and kind.  She is shy and also very bright.  She is solicitous of her younger siblings and is approaching adulthood with much more wisdom and calm than I could muster at that age. 

They are a family to emulate.  They discuss things, create projects together, cook and bake, and spend lots of time laughing.  It is an adventure to watch them in action.  And that, in all honesty, was the best part of being in London. 

It was hard to integrate the London from my 20s and the London now that I am a very old broad.  Suffice it to say that most of it seemed so unreal.  Did I really go to the London School of Economics (LSE)?  Although I have the degree to prove it, I can’t remember where the campus was located.  I had e-mailed the LSE Alumni Department, hoping to visit.  Although I later discovered that they e-mailed me back, by that time my phone was stolen and with it all connectivity.  I remember a few things about LSE.  Winston Churchill’s nephew (at least that’s what he claimed) picked me up on his motorbike my first day on campus, and it went from there.  My husband should not feel jealous since I can’t even remember his name.  I do remember the first name of the head of the Social Work & Administration Department. Jalna.  She assured me that a Master’s Degree in Social Work would land me a job in America.  I did move to LA shortly after receiving my degree and got my first American job within three months of my arrival.  Thank you, Jalna!  One day, I will try and find you. 

There was also the hippie who spotted me across the tube tracks, and crossed them (strictly forbidden) so that he could talk to me.  The fact that he broke the rules sealed the deal for me and we ended up having an Indian meal together.  I also don’t remember his name but I remember the Indian meal.

I remember a British boyfriend who yelled at me for toasting bread under the grill instead of the toaster because it took more electricity.  I wish I didn’t remember his name.

The only food I liked when I lived there was Indian food.  The best meal my husband and I had with our extended family in London was also an Indian one.  I was so proud because I found it.  I was not really sure it was within walking distance because I can’t really read maps, but I trusted the Astor Court Hotel staff who assured me it was close.  My husband was skeptical, probably because he knew my dyslexic sense of direction.  But it turned out to be so cool.

It was an interesting dynamic between my husband and me.  Did he secretly like the fact that I was totally dependent upon him with no access to my bank accounts, credit cards or phone?  Normally, I am very independent.  I earn a decent salary and coordinate most of the bills, though honestly, I wouldn’t be where I was today without his wisdom and support.  But suddenly, here I was in London, terrified about getting separated from him because I had no ID.  Perhaps it was my overactive imagination but I think there was a part of him that liked it.  In any case, it was nice being there with him. 

I remember being tremendously lonely all of those years ago in London.  No matter how many boyfriends I had, I was insecure, poor and mostly terrified.   Now, I was part of a beautiful thriving family.  With very young people who threw their arms around me for no particular reason. With a husband who had stuck with me through many traumas and was smart and cool.  With a nephew and his rock star family.  The stuff of life. 

This trip was well worth the expense, even given the fact that AT&T is making me pay mucho bucks for my stolen and uninsured phone.  Now that we are home the Whats App has morphed into an ongoing family reunion.  My two sisters (one in Melbourne, the other in Jerusalem) and other Israeli niece and nephew have also joined.  We all post silly and fun things.  We watched our great niece in her ballet class, looking graceful and sweet.  We saw how grown-up our Aussie nephew was and watched our Israeli nephew celebrate his birthday.  Maybe social media is not what the studies meant about being around family, but in the mornings, when my husband and I go out to breakfast in Glendale, we check to see postings that make us laugh. 

Somehow, this trip has made the world a more intimate and connected place for our family.  Suddenly, the distances do not feel so insurmountable.  We have London to thank for that.