from Napa Valley to Nappy Valley

Don't worry, we didn't die, we just moved to England.

The last ten days have been such a blur it's impossible to summarise into a coherent piece, so I'll just offer little tidbits for you.

The couple of days before we left San Francisco we re-defined the meaning of the word 'panic', with Donna falling as sick as I've ever seen her, hacking and coughing in a ball on our bare floors, yet still managing to pack up the remainder of our belongings.

"This is your flight crew from the cockpit. Welcome aboard. We've got a plane and a full tank of gas. Lets rock and roll." I half expected the pilot to add "Do I make you horny baby? Do I?! Yeah!"

As the plane soared away from SFO, we were treated to a flyover of San Francisco Bay on a crisp clear day of the like I've never seen before. By contrast, the descent into Heathrow was through endless grey soup, the plane bucking and diving, buffeted by a rare wind storm to hit the British Isles. We emerged from the clouds, were within sight of the runway, a mere few hundred feet off the ground, suddenly the plane pulled up sharply, engines whining, going into a steep climb into the soupy grey again. Yes, I thought, back to California. We turned around and took another stab at landing in the wind storm, this time touching down roughly but definitively onto soggy English soil. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the co-pilot, wanted to tell you that your captain did an excellent job of landing us today. We had an interesting view of the approach from up here, let me tell you." I took that as pilot code for we were shitting ourselves. As we drove away from the airport, a British Airways plane came in to land overhead, listing and wobbling, practically hitting the runway sideways.

Installed at my sister's house, Donna curled up on the sofa dosed up on medicine, I answered the phone.
"Who's this?" said the voice
"This is Blanca's brother", I replied sleepily
"What's your name?"
"Juan"
"What?"
"Juan"
"What?"
"Hooo-aaa-aaahhhn"
"I'm sorry I don't speak Spanish, I can't pronounce that"...

"Look", I said in WHSmith in Weybridge. "Even the book covers are nicer in England."
"I think it's because you grew up here," replied Donna.
"Just tell me they're better."
"Oh they're MUCH better", she said, smirking.

A couple days after we arrived, a large cargo chip beached off the UK coast, containers washing ashore and being looted, sorry, salvaged, by the locals. "Look," I said, "that one says 'from San Francisco, property of Juan and Donna'". I looked at Donna. She wasn't smiling.

A week ago we moved our stuff to the Covent Garden Travelodge in Central London, paid for by our new employer, while we found our feet. The building must have been an old hospital, the narrow corridors and old wooden doors with wire-reinforced round windows set in the middle. "Which floor are we on?" I asked. "Radiology, or Obstetrics and Gynaecology?". The door opened to a room not dissimilar to the offices in the film Brazil - I half expected us the bed to be shared between our room and the room next door.

We focused our search for a flat to rent around Clapham Common, near my other sister. The local estate agents took our details and we wandered in and out of flats feeling uninspired. To satisfy curiosity, we went to Notting Hill to see what they might have to offer there. "There's a place just around the corner actually," said the agent. "Would you like to see it now?". We walked around to a gorgeous mews, cobblestoned and charming. The door opened, and I squeezed through. The stairs upwards were so narrow I could not fit without having to turn myself sideways a little. The flat was charming, and tiny. I felt as if I was in a large doll's house. The bedroom had a row of sinks across the wall. That's odd, I thought. I walked to the closet, and opened it to find myself looking at a bathtub. In the closet. "This is £380. A week."

Back in Clapham Common, we intensified our search. Where my sister lives is known as Nappy Valley for the large number of young families flooding the trendy area. Just across the Common is Abbeville Road, a similarly pleasant mix of residential, decent shops, pubs and restaurants. I'd been clued into this corner when my friends Luke and Amy lived here and remembered their flat. We walked into a maisonette a few steps off Abbeville Road. It had the perfect combination of light, space, and that indefinable I think I can live here quality that had otherwise eluded us. All things going well (a few bits of paperwork and a lot of money still to change hands), we move in next Saturday.

Back in Central London, Donna wasted no time in checking out the largest running club in the city - The Serpentines. We joined them for the Wednesday evening run. I picked the shortest run, Two Parks (Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens). Donna joined a group of people running about 8 miles along the river. Before she knew it she had lost her initial crowd and was with a fast group of men set on doing at least 12, all the way to Tower Bridge and back. Oh well, she said. This morning (Sunday) we came out to Richmond Park for a long run with the club. Well, I'm sat in a coffee shop writing this while she's running, but I'm with her in spirit at least.

We've been soaking in the kul-cha as well - quick visits to the British Museum, National Portrait Gallery, a trip on the slides at the Tate Modern (after getting a little drunk in the member's room courtesy of my sister's membership). We also squeezed in a play - Frost/Nixon. It was excellent. Donna proclaims the Gielgud Theatre the best place to take a nap in London.

All this as well as numerous family visits, trying to get our head around the myriad transport systems and buses that don't go as far as they advertise (or don't stop when you ask them to), arbitrary Tube closures, pounding the pavement day after day. We both have the look of people having to absorb too much in too little time, and we haven't even started work yet.

That's tomorrow.

Travel | London | Frost Nixon | Clapham | San Francisco