Monday
It’s a public holiday ‘Labour Day’. We have a lazy morning in bed (we get up at 8:15 which is lazy for us!) and make breakfast. I have leftover French toast from a brunch place we went to on Sunday, the young waiter asked where we were from “London” we said in unison (easier to say big city than go into detail about a smaller town near London) and he tells us he loves our accents. We follow up by saying we like his too (which we do, the southern twang is charming ya’ll).
Speaking of accents, we’ve been mistaken for Australians a couple of times now. The amount of time I’ve spent there, the amount of time invested in the wrong men there, I should have a passport. I may say a few things that have an Aussie twang YA FLAMIN MONGREL or maybe, just maybe it's because Americans can’t tell the difference. Bless' em’. Bless em’!
We try to go to the gym but it’s packed, oh no, TERRIBLE! We’ll have to go home and have a nap. I have never been more needing naps since I arrived here, perhaps it’s because I’m not working and think oh fuck it, or because I’m hurtling towards middle age and that’s just how it is? Either way, get me horizontal.
I am craving a chicken Parmy and a glass of red wine, so we head to an Italian restaurant, I was tempted to boycott them since they haven’t replied to my job application, but another way around this is charming the shit out of the manager, which, dear reader, is exactly what I did. We got to know, let's call him Ted, intrigued with our accents and our story, he came over and gave us the low down on Charlotte ‘this area you won’t hear gunshots’! (YIKES) He was funny and sarcastic, and this is a real treat for us as we’ve not been exposed to too much of that recently. By the end of the meal, Ted and I are besties, as he walked us out I said ‘Ted I’ll see you next week when I get a job here’ he laughed and went back inside, probably thinking those Brits were crazy. Watch this space.
We got home via a Lime scooter, and all kinds of squealing was happening, I almost stacked it going over the railway lines but these things are quick! If you haven’t ridden one, PLEASE DO. It’s the most fun you’ll have with two wheels, surprisingly fast and so easy to nip to places. I don’t know why I took a photo since they are universal but it’s an American one so there!
Tuesday.
I reapplied for the job at the restaurant, as per Ted’s instructions, he said to make sure I included his name, oh I will be, don’t you worry sunshine. I sent it off waiting for the phone to ring like a tween in the 80s.
Meanwhile, Is there a worse smell than dog poo? Curveball! When we first got here and saw just how many dogs inhabited our hood’ we couldn’t believe there was no shit to be seen- a stark contrast in the UK where we had to permanently look down so we didn’t step into something that a dog has curled out. It's a bit like when you move somewhere new, you overlook the cracks and see only a shiny veneer that stays fresh until it doesn’t. Perhaps there was poo all along but you don’t see it, too content to be swept up in the new surroundings. Time does its thing, you start to notice the flaws. I’m a bit of a militant when it comes to dog fouling (great word!) I’d have cameras everywhere, and if a dog owner doesn’t pick up the poo, then the owner's mugshot should go up on lamposts - a bit harsh? HOW ABOUT DOING A DOWNWARD DOG AND PICK UP YOUR POO?! Should I be going to therapy again?
Another thing I’ve noticed, Americans thank you when you wish them a good day, the same goes for a compliment - “You look great” They simply reply either ‘I appreciate that’ or ‘Thank you’. This is not easy for a Brit ‘Oh no, not this old thing, I’m a mess really, don’t even look at me, I DIDN’T EVEN ASK TO BE BORN” whilst scuttling off to find a queue to join.
Thursday
Preparing for my job interview - of course I am! Ted emailed me to ask if I am free for an interview for the host role, you bet. YOU CAN’T TOUCH ME. I’ve forgotten everything that I’ve learnt as a professional woman of 44 years of age. Even my last role seems like a blur but that’s what happens doesn’t it, when you aren’t working, it’s a break from having to perform the professional dance and it’s been bloody lovely. But I can scarcely remember my middle name so best get prepared…. “Tell me about yourself, Sammy”
Me “I’m a legend with a cracking set of norks, what else do you need to know - when do I start’?
I got the job! Apparently, before I’d even left the restaurant on Monday, must have THE CHAT and the kick-ass red dress I wore. If there's one thing I’ve learnt in all my time on this earth, it's that I could sell ice to an Eskimo.
Az and I celebrate by frequenting a new part of toon - called Plaza Midwood, apparently, it's fun and trendy, which by the very laws of things means we should be there IMMEDIATELY and PS I’ll be the judge, kids. This red dress needs a proper outing! We sank some high-strength beers which I will later regret but for now, in this glorious moment I feel so happy, I’ve got a job and I’ve ‘landed’. My piece of Charlotte I will claim. For dinner, we ‘have reservations’ (love the way Americans say this) at a smokehouse, sorry to state the bleedin’ obvious but a restaurant that smokes stacks of beef in a special oven, it is sick blud and honest after 3 beers and 3 kilos of meat I need a lie-down and someone to rub my back as I might be sick. Az wants to go to a bar that Mick Jagger went to whilst he was here (pfft, couldn’t care less, Rolling Stones are mediocre at best - my blog, my rules! But hey kudos to their stamina) Another fact about this bar was it told the property developers that wanted to knock it down to go DO ONE, as is increasingly the case in favour of building shit new paper mache apartments that even now we are likely priced out of. Oh, capitalism you ferocious knob. Yup, this tiny bar is stacked in the middle of two large apartment complexes and looks so funny. We take a seat at the bar and get talking to the ‘bartender’ a lovely guy, who wants to talk and swap stories, whilst we’re swapping information, I drink a Vodka soda (soda LOVE this word) this drink is needed like a hole in the head but sail we must. The place has so much character and is moodily lit but with soft lighting and furnishings to rival a late-night jazz club. There is a picture of Elvis in the toilet which immediately makes me think of my mum (she too had one in our loo back home, legend).
Friday
I wake up at 6:30 with a racing heart and a banging head. I take two paracetamol and pray they bring me back to life, they don’t do anything. I lie down and say in a high-pitched voice that I’ve not felt this bad since the last awful hangover which was years ago! I can’t figure out if I feel less hungover lying down or sitting up, ugh! Az goes to the supermarket buys me a Gatorade and gives me Ibuprofen. HOORAY, I FEEL BETTER! I hunt for breakfast caper, but yoghurt isn’t going to cut it. I need fat and grease. I am NOT going to order McDonald’s - there are levels and there are levels, a far classier alternative is the humble Chicken Dipper in the freezer - with the energy of a toddler I whoop and feel grateful that I’m an adult and can eat what I like! Az looks at me with mild disgust as I inhale them dripping in Ketchup. It's not even 9am. I’ve still got it.
Today, all of our remaining stuff from home, which has come by sea, is arriving. I’ve been waiting impatiently for this for weeks but in my post-dipper slump, I need a cup of tea and hardscore spooning. It is not my luck. The thought of unpacking my very much-missed clothes and English chocolate keeps me going.
The boxes start piling up in our living room with 3 removal men asking where we want everything. Jesus, an hour ago I was dying and now I’m directing them with the energy of an airport marshall. I’ve even managed to put on a red lip. I’m excited all of a sudden and since my decks are there, I play the guys some music and cheerfully let them know I’m practising to be a DJ (a massive exaggeration!) but one of them at least looked enthusiastic and like he didn’t want to disappear.
As the boxes ramp up, I start to flag and think where is all this going AND we need to unpack the boxes. I hate unpacking. The added pain the hole here is that in the UK we had clothes moths, the little bastards were EVERYWHERE and despite attacking the problem with everything I had, they wouldn’t budge so I’m washing every.single.item that has arrived. The great thing about this is I have a dryer, though I’m not a huge fan generally, they do come in handy for such emergencies. #ripmoths #chineselaundry
Saturday
With our apartment looking like a box apocalypse, I abandon my unpacking duties and head to a Greek food festival with my new friends. Arc at me! I’m enjoying the immediacy that I can see them - not waiting for weeks or months to hatch plans, just instantaneous hangs and getting to know one another but crucially, just feeling like I can be myself.
It’s hard making friends as you get older, people that you legit like hanging around with and have a connection with, it doesn’t feel forced and in a way feels more special since we all know that as you ripen and grow, you lose people along the way to geography, stages of life, kids etc.
I arrive home armed with Greek pastries, gratitude and a thirst for Celebs go dating (and a nap obviously)
Sunday
Further unpacked our boxes, and found stuff that we seriously didn’t pack - half-empty hand soaps, a blister pack of paracetamol that had 2 left, and old running trainers. And we really did go through our stuff before we left! Not enough clearly.
The weather is turning cooler, and I can’t wait. The mornings are chilly, I say chilly, 16 degrees with the sun coming up but it's wonderful to feel the change coming. It’s still in the high 20s until the end of September October is when it turns. I have enthusiastically folded all of my freshly washed and dried jumpers on the shelf of my closet - it gives me the most enormous sense of well-being, I hope we get a decent winter, long enough that I can wear my jumpers and fabulous coats!
Just because:
Finished reading my second book by the Author Jay McInerney ‘Bright, Precious days’ he writes beautifully but in a way that is accessible, I love his work.
I’m listening to Paloma Faith’s audiobook ‘MILF’ - it's comforting listening to Paloma, she’s got an unusual voice and it's a nice reminder of home. Everything she says about motherhood and society is bang on, also makes me grateful that I’m not putting myself through having children. It’s not for the faint-hearted! You mothers are made of different stuff. Bravo.
I’ve been giving Dina Carroll a good old run recently. This album is superb and MUST be listened to very loudly in the shower. Singing is essential. Dina Carroll! I remember being at a notorious gay club in Vauxhall with one of my best friends and he shouted out over the banging music in the VIP room ‘Dina Carroll’s doing a set next door’. It's still one of the funniest moments and an anecdote that never gets old.
Thanks for reading and for being here. If you think someone else might enjoy this ole’ bird harping on then please do share, as the Americans say, I appreciate it :)
Lastly, is there anything you want to hear specifically about living here? Let me know below, I’d love to hear from you.
>Me “I’m a legend with a cracking set of norks, what else do you need to know - when do I start’?
**Mic drop**
Keep writing Samma. I love these!!!!!