When we first moved here, both of our families were exceedingly nervous about our living in London. Now that our beloved families have adjusted to the idea, I have decided that now is the time to come clean on London. So I present to you: The Ten Plagues of London.
Bedbugs: Shortly after moving into our first flat (
Crumpet Corner), we both developed random and irresistible urges to scratch. The worst of it was the constant sudden pulling back of sleeves and trouser legs in the hopes of catching the rascals in the act. We finally called the landlord, who hired a pest control firm. We learned that the cause of our itch was a bedbug infestation just prior to leaving for our evening with
Patrick Stewart in MacBeth. Medically speaking, bedbugs are relatively harmless. I have to say that sitting there in the theatre with tingling itches everywhere strengthened by the knowledge of the cause was one of the most interesting sensations of my London adventure. Here I am in the midst of ‘high’ culture, well dressed, seeing a legendary performance trying desperately to hide my identity as a bedbug-invested, dirty, filthy bum. I learned later that the bugs actually do not live on their hosts, but instead live nearby and wait for you to fall asleep to feed on you. Anyway, the treatment worked and we were rid of them in a week.
Rats: In retrospect, knowing what I know now about that landlord, it is a huge red flag that they actually responded so quickly to the bedbug situation. The reason that they did is because they were aware of a man who was living directly above us who was storing rubbish from the street in his flat. They knew that the bedbugs fell off the rats that were traversing our flat on their regular visits our neighbour. However, we were not aware of this titbit (tidbit) at the time. My first rat encounter was when I was cooking dinner and a rat leisurely walked through the flat. I looked right at it and it briefly looked at me, neither concerned nor rushed. I immediately looked over to my beloved, but despite looking in the general direction of where it was, she made no indication that she had seen anything. I was contemplating how I should respond, thinking hopefully that the rat would move and maybe I could address with issue later, when a second rat made an appearance and this one was definitely noticed. The pest control people laid traps and put steel wool in all the holes. Eventually Ratman was evicted, but it was a lengthy process
Flood: His flat was cleaned and the rats disappeared. Next up, water dripping from the middle of our ceiling onto our bed. It turns out that one of the builders (construction workers) accidentally left something running while fixing up Ratman’s flat and the result was rain inside the flat. Lucky for us, he had remembered and come back to shut it off earlier that evening so the trickle of drips soon stopped on its own due to lack of supply.
Siren: The next plague was the opposite to and simultaneous potential cause of deafness. We had a string of fire alarms go off for many nights. That first night I and several other tenants where standing around the fire alarm box desperately trying to shut it off (after of course checking and finding no actual fire). Luckily, it was so loud that it also woke someone living several hundred feet away who knew how to shut the thing off. Now for the next several weeks when it randomly went off, at least we knew how to shut it off. We never did find out what was wrong with it, but the landlord eventually repaired (or more likely disconnected) the fire alarm and it was no longer a problem.
Cold: At our second flat (
Patchwork John’s… after the ‘maintenance’ man), there was the dance between the intermittent boiler, the tenants, and the landlord. We solved the heating problem by buying an electric heater, but you never knew when getting into the shower whether it would be scolding hot or freezing cold. The last straw was when my honey had to go to an appointment without showering.
Siren Sings Again: But before that we had the return of the siren song. However, in the spirit of upgrade, it was not deafeningly loud… and we knew the cause. In the basement flat, the smoke detector was in the kitchen. So if they made a roast, fire alarm; if they baked biscuits, fire alarm; if they made toast… well, you get the idea. Luckily, the flat was empty for the first eight months living there.
Flood 2: The sequel was water again coming through the middle of the ceiling, but this time onto the table via the electric light fixture in the ceiling. Again, it’s better than the bed. And the Patchwork John response was certainly entertaining: because we lived in the eaves, we would have to expect rain to come in if it rains hard. What is it with London and indoor rain? PJ further explained that we could ‘dry out’ the wet spot on the ceiling but turning on the overhead light. Mind you that this is the same light I had to remove the light bulb out of because it filled with water. When we brought up our concern about the water/electric cocktail, PJ explained nonchalantly that he has been doing this for years…
Flood 3: The indoor rain theme proves it has staying power as the third flat (Old Street) developed a leak and more indoor rain. This time, is was not the centre of the ceiling, but near a wall, and the landlord actually fixed it two weeks later.
Crazy: I won’t recount the Saga of Old Street. But I can say this: While I found the smell, bedbugs, and rats from our upstairs neighbour at Crumpet Corner absolutely disgusting, at least I understood where he was coming from. He was collecting garbage and living with rodents. I don't like it and I know I don't like it. Immediately This couple at
Old Street was just completely deceptive and controlling and I am so glad to be away from them. I will try to summarise (this is him speaking): you have to watch TV in your closet of a room even when I am not home, but I can watch DVDs in the large common space whenever I like… you can use the kitchen whenever you want unless I decide to sleep in it, in which case you have to go without eating and not wake me up… I can slam doors all morning every day and wake up the entire flat, but if you slip once in the evening I will yell at you to be quiet; and finally… if you rearrange any of the furniture in the living room, I will throw it out… I wasn't going to wait around for the next over the top unpredictable act. Can I just say: cuckoo cuckoo! It can't even think about it...
Mould: The new place (
Happy Flat… yeah I am that optimistic...) as you saw in the recent photos is lovely, as is our flatmate: who we rescued from Old Street (or perhaps she rescued us). And again, it is a significant upgrade because the water did not appear at the centre of the ceiling in any of the multiple rooms. This time, the water ran down between the interior and exterior wall. It is a quite posh (luxurious) ‘deluge’ because there is no actually water inside: rain or otherwise. The only evidence of torrent this time is mould. It is just a patch and when we contacted the landlord, she was here in person the very next day with a builder. Now that IS an upgrade. She didn’t even try to blame us or deny it. If fact, she thanked us for notifying her! She talked to several of the other tenants and found out that there is even more mould growing in the flat above us AND the one above that one. So there is an investigation going on to find out where the water is coming from. I have to say that despite the appearance of an imperfection in our otherwise lovely flat I am encouraged by the swiftness and logic of the response.
So there it is… you are now caught up with all the stuff we didn’t tell you about London for fear of causing undue stress…
When I showed my uncle my shiny new Portuguese national identity card and declared that I was Portuguese, he very dryly replied, “I could’ve told you that without the ID.” Of course, he meant that I am very clearly of Portuguese descent and have been all my life. And in America, we all walk around declaring that we are Portuguese, or Italian, or whatever the nationality… but what most of us mean is Portuguese-American, Italian-American, or an American who has parents or ancestors from another country. Living abroad, I have learned that this is an American construct. Even though all of my ancestry is Portuguese, I cannot declare that I am Portuguese in London. If you are Portuguese in London, it means you are ACTUALLY Portuguese. I even have a friend who declared herself half American (in other words, she has an American parent). And I can assure you that she was not referring to Native American. Perhaps it is because I grew up in a sea of American immigrants, but I found this assertion of being half American because one of your parents is American to be disorienting. In my neighbourhood, 
most of us dissected our lineages and combined as appropriate. Such an exercise for me was easy because my parents’ families are from the same mid Atlantic island. But for most Americans, this is a more convoluted operation. My best friend is half Irish and half Portuguese. And I don’t remember the various fractions of most of my other friends, but they are various fractions of Portuguese, French, and other various European countries. However, earlier in 2009, my perspective has shifted again. Now I can declare that I am Portuguese in any country, whether in London or in Lisbon: I am Portuguese. I have always been proud of my heritage and I am very excited to be connected to my ancestors in this new way, even if it is just on paper.
And here’s one from another weekend in October. My beloved & I went to Borough Market. It was a wonderful market (no pictures). They even had mulled apple juice (what Americans call ‘apple cider’, which bares absolutely no resemblance to the English drink of the same name). It was delish and it reminded me of the taste of home. So on the way back we stopped at 
Well, on further consideration, I think I will abandon that sentence altogether. The reader will kindly skip ahead to the second paragraph. No, really, there is no need to read this bit. I have already committed to movingon to the next paragraph. If you keep reading this one, there will not be any new content. I am simply nattering on with empty words devoid of any content in an effort to provide something for you to skip to make up for your having read the first half of this paragraph 
which clearly would have benefited from an editor. Therein lies the whole problem with blogging in general, who is editing all this drivel. No one, that’s who! I mean, any idiot with access to a computer is free to put any meaningless dregs out and claim to be writing. Open internet access is clearly the end of meaningful writing for Western civilisation.
Although there is not a large grocery store nearby, there are lots of interesting shops. I think my favourite so far is the Jamaican Best Taste Take Away (pictured above before they got their sign). I’ve had their Jerk Chicken with is awesome. It is spicy to die for! I also had their Spicy Chicken which was not as spicy as hoped but their Rice & Beans are great. I also had Guinness punch from there for the first, and 
