Start Each Day...

via

Most darling of readers, I have been neglecting you shamefully - it's been a whirlwind few days and, in fact, today is my birthday!  It's been a truly wonderful day, and I must send tons o' thanks to all of my friends and family for surrounding me with such love.

It's strange, you know, that schools and universities all over the place are currently in session, and I'm only just now having my summer vacation.  Today was a bank holiday, actually; the whole of the United Kingdom had the day off work in honor of me.  But tomorrow starts a holiday for real.  One of my besties, Christian, came over from DC on Saturday, and tomorrow we're heading to the continent for twelve days of wonderful exploration and hedonistic adventures.  We'll be in Berlin and Lisbon, mostly, although we've also got two days on a Portuguese beach and, let's be honest, the wind could take us anywhere!

I will try to blog while I'm away, but I'm not sure how reliable my internet will be (girls on a budget stay in hostels, natch) and I'm not sure how much downtime Christian will let me have.  But never fear!  I've asked three lovely bloggers to fill in for me while I'm gone - make sure to check back regularly for their guest posts.  It's a real treat to have them at Betsy Transatlantically, and I hope you will join me in thanking them for their stopovers.

I'm back on 10 September, and promise that I will then - if I haven't been able to earlier - fill you in on my trip.  Expect lots of pictures and as many stories as are fit to print!  Hopefully, though. we'll be able to check in together while I'm away.

Bon voyage to me, and a very happy end of summer to all of you.

Classes Aren't Just For School

I want to blame my current preoccupation with social classes on the riots in England the other week, but actually, from going back through my old Facebook statuses and even through the archives of this blog, it seems that I've historically been at least subliminally conscious of my socio-economic standing relative to those around me.  Thinking about it, though, I'm not sure if it's possible to be immune to the tangible markers of class structure, regardless of where you place yourself - or where you are placed by others.

Others - that's the key, I think, to class.  It's about how you identify yourself in regards to how you identify those around you.  (Certainly, it's also about how others identify you in regards to how they self-identify, but I'm going to leave that point for the time being.)

I vividly remember a conversation with a friend in college about class structure; it was the spring semester of sophomore year and we were paging through our orange copies of the Marx-Engels Reader.  It was one of those wonderfully vaguely delirious discussions, fueled by too many cups of coffee and an absurdly late (or early, depending on how you look at the clock) hour, that our Core Curriculum courses encouraged from its students.  My friend's family was wealthy, no matter how you sliced the loaf: they lived in an affluent Connecticut suburb, he had attended an exclusive boarding school in New England, and his father was about to be named CEO of a major American company.  Even he admitted that he was from a high echelon of society, but he noted that his parents still determinedly identified as upper-middle class.  "So many of their generation do, you know," he told me.  "It's a self-conscious thing for baby boomers who are slightly better off than their parents were.  No matter how well they've done, they're uncomfortable with being thought of as upper class if they didn't start there."  He blamed the revolutionary culture of the '60s and '70s, partially, and then I think the conversation took a hard fork to the left and we started contrasting the anti-Vietnam movement with the current anti-war movement and goodness knows where we went from there.

His point stuck with me, though.  Regardless of how socially mobile our culture is, when we move from one class to another - especially upwards - we're generally uncomfortable with our new positions.  And regardless of our society's emphasis on providing opportunities to better oneself, we all, secretly, are desperate to be considered some variant on average.

I bring this up now not just because of the recent riots and the ensuing debates here in the UK, but also because of two links that a friend sent me today in response to this status that I posted on my Facebook wall:

love love love thank-you notes and am fighting the urge to reply with a thank-you note of my own


First, she sent me to The Middle Class Handbook with its Periodic Table of the Middle Class. (I'm either an Alt.Middle or a member of the New Young Fogey Club, don't you think?)  Then she pasted this Telegraph article, pointing out especially point number six.

And so I wonder: has it come to this?  We're all so insecure about being anything other than a variation on the theme of middle-class that we've had to begin mocking ourselves in order to feel comfortable about our self-imposed identities.  I am, certainly, and I do.  (For reference, see this status, also posted on my Facebook wall the other day: Jon has pointed out that I begin too many sentences with "I don't mean to sound like an elitist, but...")


There's a Woody Allen quote that keeps tripping through my mind; he said something like, "I'd be anti-Semitic if I weren't Jewish."  Is that how we feel about our place in the socio-economic structure of our Western society?  And, if so, I have to ask - where will this limiting self-loathing take us?  I can't imagine that it will lead to a universal drive for improvement in any measure.

(So sorry for the lesson, dear readers, but I've had this bee in my bonnet for a while now and had to put pen to paper.  I'd love to know what you think of all this, if you're comfortable sharing.)

Preps Rejoice

First I find out that JCrew is now shipping to the UK, which means that I can get all this:

via

without having my mother order it for me, receive the parcel in my name in DC, and finally repackage it to send over to London.  Huzzah!

But then also I was forwarded this email from a darling friend who clearly cares little about the state of my bank balance:

Kate Spade is coming to London!  Woohoo!  I mean... I respect my paycheck.  I budget responsibly.  I only window shop.

Hey, did someone mention window shopping?  I hear there's this great new store in Sloane Square.  Does anyone fancy a wander through the Royal Borough?  Because I'll join you for a mid-meander cup of coffee - after I've stopped by the new Kate Spade, of course.  A girl has got to have her priorities!

Monday Laugh

My birthday is one week from today!  You may start sending your salutations now.

(And many happy birthday wishes to AT, too, who celebrated hers yesterday.  Hip, hip!)

Cookbooks, Magazines, and the 'Net (Oh My)

I remember reading a post on The Kitchn a few months ago that bewailed a problem facing gourmets who live in small spaces: what to do with cookbooks and cooking magazines amassed over years of recipe-gathering?  On the one hand, you've only got so much shelf space, but, on the other, you never know when you might need that article on making fresh pasta from scratch.  (Really.  You never know.)

I lugged my cooking magazines and my cookbooks from the States over to England, where they're now on their second flat.  The cookbooks get a place of honor in my bookcase; the magazines have been steadily piling up on a chair for months.  I so rarely use any of them properly - in fact, their best purpose is usually one of inspiration rather than instruction.  To be honest, even though they have loyally followed me across an ocean, I repeatedly betray them with Epicurious and The Kitchn and the host of wonderful amateur cooking blogs out there on the interwebs.

Dana on The Kitchn explained in her post that she decided to get rid of all her cooking magazines.  "So there it was," she writes, "the combination of dust, weight, dwindling quality, internet access, and environmental impact all came together and I decided to call it off."  She culled her collection, putting aside her romantic attachment to ink on paper.  One day, I told myself, reading and nodding sadly, I will be as strong as Dana.  One day, I will be ruthless, and my chair will again be free for sitting.

Well, dear readers, that day has come - sort of.  The cookbooks are still on their shelf in all their hardback glory, but I have hacked my magazines to pieces.  Armed with nail scissors and a glue stick, I cut out all of the recipes that interested me and pasted them into a fresh new Moleskine.  (Yes, I thought about ordering them primarily by season and then by course, but realized that being so unbearably type-A would only lead to self-flagellation when I counted an asparagus dish as a side and not a starter or something.)

Anyway, the point is this: a lovely notebook, stuffed with recipes from all over the publishing world, is now sitting happily on a shelf next to my dogeared Bittman.  I don't know when I'll next open either - dinner tonight hails from Smitten Kitchen - but I feel like I've been terribly productive, and I feel that I have, in a funny way, respected the forgotten magazines more by singling out their best offerings than I had been by neglecting them altogether.

Westminster in the Morning

There's a line in a new play that I saw recently, Loyalty, about the intelligence that led to England's entry into America's war on terrorism; I don't remember the exact wording but it's something like, "MI6 are like the Met - usually wrong but really all you've got to go on."

I've been laughing over that all day, mostly because - at least regarding the weather service - it's spot on.  When I woke up at 7:30 this morning it was brisk and sunny, the sky studded with a few fleecy clouds.  It poured earlier this afternoon.  At the moment, I can't see anything but blue when I look up.  (All this, when yesterday the BBC predicted overcast skies with a low chance of precipitation consistently throughout the day.)  Who knows what will happen next?

I spent the night at a new friend's flat yesterday; a bunch of us went back to his after closing down the pub for some continued merriment.  (Simmer down, guys, I stayed on the couch.)  He lives in the Dean's Yard at Westminster Abbey - nbd, as the kids say - and although when we walked through the imposing security gate at midnight I absolutely took it for granted that naturally we were going into an area usually restricted to the public (after all, it's about who you know, darling), this morning I was a bit more starstruck.

Let me tell you: Westminster at 7:30am is empty, save for a few very determined tourists checking historical buildings off their lists, a few very determined revelers at the tail end of what I'm sure was a great night out, and a very determined young Asian couple in full wedding garb who were being trailed by an equally determined photographer.  In fact, the only person I saw on the street lacking in determination was me.  I spent most of my walk from the abbey to Waterloo blinking blearily, trying to clear the contacts from my eyes.

However, even in my morning-after state, I recognized that a Westminster lacking in things-that-get-in-the-way-of-photos (like people and cars and, you know, things) was an opportunity too good to pass up.

And there it is - there, just there, in the corner of my mind, as it hasn't been in quite some time: the oh-my-God-I-live-here feeling.  I catch the feeling, and I enjoy it, and then I think, "Why, yes; yes, I do."  And I enjoy that feeling, too.

London in August

London in August empties out.  I mean, phwosh.  There are no people here.  None.  Okay, maybe a few.  But that's really sort of it.  What does this mean for the daily grind?  Let me tell you:

- I can't get much work done.  Most of our donors are on holiday, and so I can't contact them to encourage their philanthropic spirits.  Also, though, many of my colleagues are away - often up in Edinburgh at the Fringe Festival, as we're in the theatre business - and so there aren't many collaborative projects that can be moved forward.

- Traffic is negligible.  My commute has been a good 5-10 minutes shorter than usual for the past week or so.  In fact, when I last took the bus (hello, my lovely route 82) from Jon's new place to the office, we had to pause every few stops and wait for a bit to regulate the service; we were moving at such a clip that we were catching up to the bus ahead of us!

- Similarly, the tube is much less crowded.  I've had a seat on almost every underground journey I've taken to and from work for days now, even on the abysmal Northern Line.  When I have had to stand, I've thankfully been free from the awkward oh-hello-my-face-is-in-your-armpit scenario.  (This is second in cringeworthyness only to the oh-hello-I-don't-mean-to-graze-your-[insert bodypart here]-with-my-[insert bodypart here]-but-I-don't-have-any-other-spatial-options scenario.  Eek.)

- The whoopsie aisle at the supermarket has been stocked to the brim every time I've been in to Tesco, giving me yummy dinner possibilities on the cheap.  (The whoopsie aisle is the one -it's a couple of shelves, actually, and not a whole aisle, but whatever - where they put all the reduced-price food that's about to expire.  I have no idea where Jon came up with the name for this, but I've adopted it wholeheartedly.)

As payday is tomorrow and I've been boyfriendless since Saturday, I haven't been out on the town much for the past week or so; I don't therefore know what this exodus means for London's nightlife.  I'd imagine that it means reservations are easier to come by and bartenders are less harried.  I'll let you know this weekend!  I've got three nights out on the trot starting this evening, you see, and as I'm going to three very different spots (a pub in Marylebone tonight, a restaurant/bar in the City on Thursday, and a beer garden in Primrose Hill on Friday) I think I should be able to select an appropriate sample of data for you all.  The things I do for you, dear readers!

It's Okay To Be Arrogant In Oxford

... according to my host Fiona.  In fact, she said, approvingly, it's practically a requirement.  Good, I replied, because I will be taking lots of photos and at least 20% of them will feature moi.

I will let the images do the talking in this post, though please indulge me for a little recap:

I arrived around noon on Saturday to warm temperatures but an overcast sky.  As I've been to Oxford several times before, we made catching up our priority rather than sightseeing, though we did traipse around town for most of the afternoon just for my camera's sake.  We lunched at a lovely pub just on the edge of town and spent the evening at Fiona's college bar with her friends.  Sunday was pure laziness as we whiled away the morning lingering over breakfast and the newspapers, and I headed off around midday.  It was a wonderful weekend, and I'm counting down the days till I go back in December for the winter ball!

Bright Monday Morning

Good morning, all!  I'm going to interrupt our normally scheduled programming - no Monday Laugh today - because I'm in such a good mood that I don't need to be cheered up.  (If you remember, we started the Monday Laugh as a bit of oomph to launch ourselves into the workweek.  Don't be silly, I'm not speaking in the royal we; I just think of this blog as a collaborative effort!)

I catch myself smiling for the silliest of reasons.  On their own they don't mean much, but together they make for a very optimistic Monday morning.

In fact, the sun is shining so happily through my French doors onto my crisp and clean white sheets - that does make all the difference to a good night's sleep, doesn't it? - and the roses on my table have burst into such luxurious bloom - I find myself a bit infatuated with pots of mini-roses at the moment, especially when they're pink - that I am tempted to ask permission to work from home.

via

Alas, it's not an option today - but I do have a desire to take these fresh neutrals and vibrant hues with me all day.  I'm thinking of wearing this...

via

and if I could get my hands on this...

via

I'd be an even happier woman.

Have a perfectly lovely Monday, dear readers!

A Quiet Sunday

Hello, dearest readers.  I know you're all looking forward to a post about my weekend in Oxford, but - although I have indeed already uploaded the 123 photos I took in the 24 hours I was there - I'm a bit tripped out.  You're just going to have to wait for details.  (Patience is a virtue, you know; my father used to tell me this all the time.)

rainbow in central London 6/8/2011

It would have been a quiet weekend if I had stayed home: Jon's gone on a weeklong stag do with four friends to some godforsaken corner of Ireland and my landlords are out of town on holiday.  Also, payday is Wednesday and so I'm a bit hand-to-mouth for the next few days.  All that equals a restful Betsy!

my garden 14/8/2011

Hope you've had a lovely weekend, filled with visits to old chums, drinks with new friends, and a quiet moment or two to yourself.

Frock Fridays - Oxford

I'm heading out of town this weekend to visit my friend Fiona, who is a PhD student at Oxford.  I don't know what the days will hold; when I asked her on gchat about plans, she said:

well, depending on the weather we can have some yummy food, maybe a picnic in the park, wander around some of the colleges, possibly go punting if i can convince someone to punt us, go to a cromwellian eta pub on the river, dinner, cocktails, wolfson college bar, and general awesomeness.

In other words, she's being elusive about plans - but the weather is supposed to be warm and at least not rainy, so I predict we'll do lots of simply meandering around town.  We did our master's degrees together and both loved the art/architecture aspect of Medieval Studies, so I'm also guessing we'll stroll past more than a few historic buildings.  Knowing Fiona, the evening will be a bit raucous - I'll need a frock for every possible adventure that might come my way on Saturday!

Good thing I've got a go-to weekend dress.  I've been living in this Anthro classic for weeks and I think it's going to be dragged out again for this trip.  What say you?

Cardigan, bangles, and pearls?  Flats for day, heels for night?  Yes and yes.  Sorted!

Oxfordbound

The last time I went to Oxford, I ended up a statue in a niche:

Who knows what might happen this weekend?

I might meet a tardy white rabbit and fall down the rabbit hole...

via

I might get swept up in the fortunes (and misfortunes) of a charismatic young aristocrat...

via

Or I might be set upon by a diminutive race...

via

The possibilities, literary or otherwise, are endless!  And at the very least I'll have some good books to keep me company on the bus ride up and back this weekend.

Souire / Lire

I always liked that the French verb for to smile rhymed with the verb to read; it's a nice symmetry, isn't it?

I love to read.  Unfortunately, I think I share the plight of many adults: not enough time to read for pleasure.  But when I was young, I could be found without fail curled up on the couch with a book - I can trace my childhood from The Boxcar Children to Nancy Drew to Judy Bloom to Tamara Pierce and beyond.  (Sarah, I know you're laughing at me right now.  Stop it.  I mean it.  Stop!  Ah, hello, readers.  Ahem.)  My love for reading was probably encouraged by our lack of a TV and my hatred of exercise when I was young, but I think that, essentially, it was more primordial than that.  I think I simply devoured books because I understood that they were meant for my soul.

As I was a fast reader, my parents used to have a rule about buying books: if I could finish a book in the store by the time they were done browsing, they wouldn't buy it for me.  They weren't against purchasing or owning books - you probably could have paid a year's worth of Montgomery County residents' late book fees at the public library with what we spent annually at Barnes and Noble - it was just that they were aware that we had a finite number of shelves.

I, too, today, have a finite number of shelves.  I dream of the day I have a library like that in Beauty and the Beast.  In fact, I tear up a bit when I watch this clip:

Alas, though, I don't think I'll ever have a castle.  And, for the nest few years at least, I'll probably have limited space for books given the sort of flats I'll be able to afford.  Good thing there are options when it comes to shelving!  Check out these nifty ideas for open storage:

via

via

via

Love these!  What wonderful options.  Hooray for books and places to put them!

(By the way, check out me and Sarah when we were little - and notice what we're reading.  No idea why she's crying, but I guess she was a sensitive thing back then.  Also, notice the early-1990s flannel nightgowns.  Boy, we were classy.)

London Riots - Night Three

As I'm sure you're all aware, there are many varying theories kicking around about the motivations behind the unrest that has now spread throughout England.  I don't know what the answer is to why this chaos is ongoing, but I do know that the residents of this country who are not vandalizing, looting, and committing arson are fed up.  For each piece of evidence of the ignorance and brutality of the rioters, there are video and images of heartening pride in this country and in its law-abiding citizens:

via

I hope you're all safe wherever you are.  Many thanks to all in England who are cleaning up their neighborhoods, protecting their cities, and standing up to the hoodlums.

(Editor's note: tomorrow's post will be a piece of total escapism.  Be prepared for fluff!)

Riots in London

First of all, many thanks to those of you who messaged to check on my safety - your concern is much appreciated.  I'm fine, though I will admit that last night was a bit scary; hearing multiple sirens going past at midnight is somehow both worrying and reassuring.


If you don't know what I'm talking about, I think the best coverage of recent events in London (and now elsewhere as well) is the BBC.  The short version of the story of madness is this:


On 4 August, the police shot and killed a 29 year old man named Mark Duggan in Tottenham, London.  It's possible that he fired first or it's possible that the police were being antagonistic; we don't yet know.  His family claims that he was a pillar of the community and innocent of any wrongdoing.  Other reports identify him as the ringleader of a criminal gang and a drug dealer.  Regardless, on 6 August, 100 of Duggan's family and friends staged a peaceful protest at the police station to find out what happened and why.  When, after several hours, the police didn't acknowledge their concern, the protest turned violent, and over the past three nights that unrest has spread from Tottenham to Wood Green to Croyden to Peckham to Hackney to Clapham Junction to Enfield to Ealing and beyond to Liverpool, Birmingham, and Bristol.

The New York Times and The Guardian, in their infinite liberal wisdom, have pinpointed the underlying motivation for the chaos, which is mostly being perpetrated by disaffected youths:

For a society already under severe economic strain, the rioting raised new questions about the political sustainability of the Cameron government’s spending cuts, particularly the deep cutbacks in social programs. These have hit the country’s poor especially hard, including large numbers of the minority youths who have been at the forefront of the unrest.  NYTimes

I don't deny that this viewpoint might have some merit, but I don't think that it's entirely accurate to blame the conservative government (much though I generally like to) for this unrest.  Eyewitness accounts are telling stories of looters ransacking electronics stores, hiding their booty in residential gardens, and going back to increase their hauls.  Social media is apparently being used to incite and gather the felons to violence; their acts include not only ransacking and looting stores, smashing windows as they go, but also arson.  This isn't just a case of those who are at the wrong end of the government's policies protesting their lot.  This is also a case of the young criminal element taking advantage of a terrible situation to get their kicks.

I read somewhere that, on the first night of riots, the gangs who took to the pavement yelled, "These are our streets."  Clearly they didn't stop to consider that they were also the streets of the bystander whose car was set alight, the shopkeeper whose livelihood was ruined as his goods were stolen, the neighbor who was evacuated from his home to protect him from the violence.

These are the true victims.  Please keep London in your thoughts - its leaders, its residents, and especially its police who are trying to contain the devastation.

Monday Laugh

I was messing around on YouTube - as you do - and came across this very funny Fry and Laurie sketch that I'm not comfortable with my grandparents watching or knowing that I watched but that I do want to share with the rest of my readers.  (Was that sneaky enough?  No?  Darn.)  So, because I'm selectively posting it - in theory - it doesn't count as a Monday Laugh.

But never fear, dear readers, for I found something to make up for the above link!  Hark, I have found a clip that is both funny and educational.  Check it out:

Did you enjoy that?  I hope so, because leaning is fundamental!  Get it?  Fundamental?  Yes?  No?  Not funny?  Oh.  Whoops.  Epic Monday Laugh fail.

Best Sunday Breakfast

As Jon's been moving house this week - he's going from a thirty-minute walk away from me in SW12 to zone four in North London, eek - we've been having trouble finding some quality time together.  I'd love to help him shlep everything across town, but one evening in the (now) old flat mid-clean-up absolutely proved that I was just getting in the way.  But today is ours: we're having a leisurely breakfast together over the Sunday Times, and then we're going to take the last pieces from the Clapham flat up to Finchley.  It'll be the first time I'm seeing his new place.  I hope I'll like it - after all, I plan on spending quite a lot of time there!

via

We're getting ahead of ourselves, though.  First is breakfast, and I have found the most fun concept ever. Oh, Martha - I hate to love you, but love you I do.  Who else would come up with egg and bacon toast cups?  It's completely simple and yet totally genius.  (American bacon is best for this, obvi.)  Serve with a side of fruit salad; we had avocado slices the first time I made this but today it's going to be cut-up peaches.  (By the way, does anyone know where the UK gets peaches from?  Surely they're not imported from Georgia?  Hm.)

Nom nom nom.  Hope you're all having a lovely weekend!  And please do treat yourselves to a scrummy breakfast - it makes all the difference!

Frock Fridays - Birthday

My birthday's at the end of the month, and it's a bit of a big one.  (Due to my own foibles, I'm not going to tell you how old I'll be turning, but how many big birthdays are there in your mid-twenties?  I'm sure you can figure it out, dear readers.)  There are most likely going to be posts galore on all of my plans - look out especially for the one on stationery/invitations - but, as this is Frock Friday, let's explore some dress options.

If I were having a night out, taking a schmancy bar by storm or dancing at a club, I'd probably go for something like this.  I can't pull off Hervé Leger, which is the natural choice, but I'd still want something showstopping.  Short and sparkly, yes, please!

If I were throwing myself a cocktail party in the backyard or gathering friends in the beer garden of an slightly classier pub, the frock would probably look more like this.  I'm still deep into the maxi fad, and this print is so much fun!

But in real life I think I'm going to be hosting a brunch at one of my favorite restaurants in South London.  Looks like I'll need a frock like this; something flirty and sweet.  A perfect compliment to all the mimosas I'll be drinking!

all images via

Al Fresco Dining

via

Given that I was awakened by the crashing of a rainstorm at early o'clock this morning, it's hard to believe that that night I was having a leisurely late dinner in the garden - but I was.  We've been enjoying amazing weather in London for the past few days (though clearly that spell has ended) and so last night Jon came over and I cooked us a simple summer pasta dish to enjoy outside.

I felt very mediterranean - we didn't start eating until 10 and continued till nearly midnight, the wine flowed freely, and it was balmy enough that I didn't need a cardigan over my strappy jersey dress.  Heaven!  I was inspired to make an easy chocolate cake for dessert, but the star of the meal was definitely the pasta.

via

Pasta with Broad (Fava) Beans, Tomatoes, and Sausage

serves 4

2 tbs olive oil

1/2 diced onion

2 tbs minced garlic

dusting of red pepper flakes (as much as your constitution can handle!)

6 sausages, casings removed

1/4 cup dry white wine

1 punnet chopped plum tomatoes

1/2 kg shelled and blanched and peeled broad beans (so worth all the effort)

250g pasta (I used orchiette)

grated parmesan

Make the pasta.

At the same time, heat oil in large saucepan over medium heat.  Add the onion, garlic, and red pepper flakes and sauté until the onion is translucent.  Add sausages, breaking up the meat and mixing it with the onion/garlic mixture; sauté until brown.  Add wine and simmer for a minute, scraping up any brown bits from the bottom of the pan.  Add tomatoes and broad beans and sauté for about 5 minutes.  Season with salt and pepper.

Put the cooked pasta in a pretty serving bowl, coat with the sauce (make sure to toss well) and serve with the grated parmesan on the side.  Enjoy!

Like Crazy

The forthcoming hit indie film of the autumn, which was premiered to great acclaim at Sundance, is Like Crazy, the story of "a British college student who falls for an American while studying abroad only to be separated from him when she's banned from the US after overstaying her visa."  From the trailer, it seems that he goes to visit her in the UK after she has left the States, but things do not go as smoothly as one might have hoped or imagined.

I'm not really into artsy cinema - never caught (500) Days of Summer and have no desire to spend £10 on The Tree of Life - but, obviously given the subject matter, I'm definitely going to drag Jon to see this when it comes out in London.  I even expect I'll need to bring tissues.

I know that a lot of my fellow expat bloggers as well as a good number of my readers have been in long distance relationships (or are currently navigating them).  I'd be interested to hear from any who are comfortable sharing what they think of the premise of this movie - would you go see it / does it speak to you?

I for one found myself with a bittersweet smile playing on my lips while watching the trailer; I can't count the number of times Jon was subjected to a tearful "um... hey" from across the Atlantic.  The line that really caught me, though, was this:  "It just doesn't feel like I'm part of your life... it feels like I'm on vacation."

Catching the Sun in Devon

I traveled to the southwest of England this past weekend with Jon and eight of his friends; Natasha's grandfather has a cottage - well, not really a cottage, but I suppose it's all relative - near the sea and we spent a wonderful two days swimming in the pool, building sandcastles on the beach, exploring the quaint little town, and eating and drinking far too much.  But that's the way of holiday weekends, isn't it?

me and Jon

surveying their fortress

morning on the river

in the town

in the town

 on the river