Super Shortage

America used to the be the home of heroes. Larger than life figures that captured the world's attention. Icons that battled injustice wherever it was found. Superman, Spider-Man, Batman, the X-men... we had a monopoly on virtue. To quote Wikipedia, THE authority on such matters, "Superheroes are authentically US-American,spawning from The Great Depression era." But no longer, nowadays the ability to bend steel, climb walls, and battle evil villains is strictly an English-thing.

Recently Warner Bros. revealed that British actor, Henry Cavill, has been cast to play the Man of Steel in the upcoming Superman redux. This follows the latest news that Social Network star, and English raised, Andrew Garfield, will try on a pair of web-slingers in the upcoming Spider-Man film. Throw in Christian Bale's portrayal of the Dark Knight and we have the English superhero trifecta.

What happened to the great American superhero (and I'm not talking about William Katt, who is actually doing quite well as a voice actor if you must know)?
When did we lose our swagger? Our Machismo? If only the Duke(John Wayne for the non-fans) could see us now he'd roll over in his grave... then make... disparaging remarks about minorities to Playboy magazine....

But back to the topic at hand. When did the English become so tough and cool? With the exception of James Bond, name me another rugged British hero? Captain Britain, the JV version of Captain America? Danger Mouse? Who, despite his "rakish" eyepatch, hardly counts. Harry Potter? Who may, in fact, be responsible for this whole phenomenon. PLEASE.

Don't be mislead, despite the Kent surname, Superman is from Smallville, KANSAS! He grew up with tractors, overalls, the Jayhawks, and repressed libidos! He doesn't drink tea unless it comes out of a pitcher filled with ice, given to him by an old mid-western woman whose cat he saved!

Yet here we stand, on the precipice of another British invasion... and with no heroes to save us.

Pub Wisdom

It is that time of year again. The time of year where Americans sit on the edge of their seats in anticipation of our nation's most cherished holiday -- Super Bowl Sunday. As a Bears fan, which is by definition a sadist, I was fortunate (?) enough to have my team in this year's NFC championship game. Being one with England, however, means some creative thinking on my part will be necessary to watch said game. Not to worry, I (and when I say "I" read, "Jessica") make a call to the local pub, the Clifton, and ask if they'd be willing to show the NFL game this evening. Yes?
Suck it Fox/time difference.
*This is a great tip for those ex-patriots, abroad in England, who want to catch a "big game." You don't have to go out of your way to some dirty bar, just call your local pub and they'll most likely be willing to put it on.

So off to the Clifton for some good pub food and the game. Being a 3:20 E/T kickoff, Jess and I casually stroll in at about 7:50 to get our eat on. The Clifton is a very traditional English pub, that throws around words like 'convivial,' and prides itself on its oak interior, highlighted by oak accents, with just a dash of oak for color. Not surprisingly football, of the European variety, is playing on the telly. We manage to find a cozy seat next to the television and put our order in. A few minutes later, the barkeep switches channels and puts the game on. It is 8 o'clock, so I have to wade through another 20 minutes of Skye TV pregame bullshit.

The 3 inebriated gents sitting next to us...
Gent 1: What's this?
Gent 2: Looks like American football.
Gent 1: I think the Super Bowl is tonight.
Gent 3: You sure? I think they are still in preliminaries.

Perhaps I found it amusing that the word "preliminaries" should sit in place of "playoffs," or perhaps it had something to do with the hard cider I was drinking, but for some reason I heard my usually antisocial self chime in.
"The Super Bowl isn't for another 2 weeks. Tonight's game decides who goes to the championship."

1...2...3...
Gents (in unison): AH you're American!

Indeed I am. Indeed I am.

They look up at the screen and back at me. The nearest drunkard then asks, "Who's playing? I see you have the Bears of Chicago, but who is the other team?"

The Bears of Chicago. It were as though I was in Eddie Murphy's, "Coming to America."

"The Green Bay Packers," I calmly informed them.
"The Packers?" One quipped, "You mean Shit Packers!"
They seemed to really get a kick out of that one. I lifted my class slightly to let them know that, while not actually funny, they at least told their joke to a fan of the opposition.
"Ah America," my neighbor continued, "I like America, I really do."
Now, I knew for sure the conversation wouldn't end anytime soon. I felt... a segue coming on.
"I used to work for an American company," Lord Ale informed me, "I like the way they talk. Very... very..." My friend seemed stuck, so I tried to fill in the blank for him.
"Direct?" I guessed.
"You do it too you know. You probably don't even know it," he continued, ignoring me.
Of course I don't know it. I don't know what IT is.
"You speak with a certain effervescence," he finally finished.
For anyone reading this blog, English or American... Please, if you know, tell me what that means.
A few seconds later our appetizer arrived, and before anything else could be said I smeared some pate on a cracker and stuffed it in my mouth.
"You know what I don't like about America?"
Oh man, did I see this coming a mile away.
"You don't vote."
"Well, that is a problem." I responded, with a dryness intended to kill further conversation.
"What would you say if I told you I was a die-hard liberal?" Mr. Drink/Drank/Drunk asked, abruptly shifting gears.
Out of time (the game was starting) and patience, I looked to Jessica, who always has a way of saying the right thing at the right time... except for now. Her confused expression was like looking into a mirror. Finally, however, one of the other cheery men butted in and informed his friend to, and I quote, "Leave them alone."
After a little protesting my friend decided to drown himself in another pint and leave the political discussion for another night.

At the end of the second quarter, Jess and I slipped into another room, replete with comfy chairs and a bigger TV, directly under which sat a large table of Englishmen who were watching the game with utter fascination. I knew this look on their face, it is the same look I get when I watch rugby. I kind of 'get' the general rules, but I'm sure MUCH is lost on this novice viewer.

Male Patron 1: Why don't they just throw the ball every time? They pick up huge amounts.
Male Patron 2: Tactics! You can't just throw it every time! You've got to mix it up!
Male Patron 1: What's that mean "1st and 10"?
Male Patron 2: I think they get a set amount of opportunities to advance the ball.
Male Patron 3: Do they get points for the yards they pick up?
Male Patron 2: I don't think so.
Male Patron 3: Who is this Green Bay team? Where are they from?
Male Patron 2: Florida.

(Pause)

Male Patron 1: This isn't at all like Rugby.

While I greatly enjoyed overhearing this conversation, I was not enjoying the game. The Bears were down to their 3rd string quarterback and STILL hadn't scored (it was the 3rd quarter). Until, finally... a big play! I shook off my reserved- American patina and jumped from my seat in celebration.
The table turned... "You're American."

Fortunately, these guys weren't nearly as drunk as my 'friend' from earlier that evening. In fact, they seemed eager to talk about the game.

MP1: You cheering for Chicago?
Me: Unfortunately... yes.
MP2: They aren't doing so well, tonight. Didn't they used to be good? Who was that guy? The Fridge?

The Fridge! This guy just set the Bears back 25 years!

MP1: Do you know who Crystal Palace is? They are a football team. Er, a 'soccer' team.

I said I knew who they were, although I had no clue. I wanted to tell him that I think I may have once, in my college days, visited a questionable establishment called the "Crystal Palace," but I'm pretty sure none of the ladies in there played soccer.

MP1: Crystal Palace is my club.. and they suck! Your Bears remind me of them.

Ah yes, My Bears of Chicago... in My non-voting America... with our American-sized Refrigerators....

Dr. Who?

As one of my all time favorite T.V. doctors, Leonard H. McCoy aka Bones of Star Trek, once stated, "The only constant in the universe is the bureaucratic mentality." And it is bureaucracy, and nothing more, that has prevented me from registering for my MFA spring semester classes. Apparently I have one of those annoying 'holds' on my account for never having presented a record of my vaccinations. An issue which would appear to be easily remedied, save for the fact that my doctor passed away a few years ago and I now live in England. Of course, the vaccinations themselves aren't really required. What is REALLY required is a doctor's signature on a pre-formatted piece of paper, something that no doctor in the States will give me. This leaves me with one option, getting something called a titer blood test, which will then prove that I have received the appropriate vaccinations. So it is off to my local GP to see if he/she can sort out this mess.

The inside of the St. John's Wood Hospital is more or less what one would expect of a medical facility, replete with icy cold receptionists and long stretches of sterile white walls that give one the impression they are walking in place. When I finally hit the reception desk for my 3:40 appointment it is 3:42 and I'm told to wait in an area that vaguely resembles Alistair Cook's Masterpiece Theater. Despite the gold studded, high-back leather chairs, this reception/study area is seriously wanting for reading material. Unlike the customary unstable piles of magazines that teeter precariously along the edges of doctor office coffee tables all across America, the St. John's Wood's reception area is a Zen Buddhist shrine, with nothing to distract oneself accept for a few pamphlets on Breast Cancer (and one on Chlamydia). The focal point of the room is a large LCD panel, which gives one the sense they are waiting for an oil change rather than a check-up (although I suppose some males over 50 may be waiting for something that could be described as an 'oil change'). The displays function is to notify patients of their turn with a singular beep. Given, however, the symphony of chirps and chimes originating from other parts of the hospital, eager patients can often be found rhythmically snapping their necks upwards in unison, the waiting room version of a "flash mob ."

Moments after having just read about the possible ramifications of having "altered skin texture and drawing in of the nipple" the LCD board beeps. Up next: Barbara Walters... and I'm being serious. Unfortunately, this Barbara, while short and old, doesn't appear to be the one who spends her days tut-tutting Whoopi and Joy's comments. Regardless, this is a promising start to my first visit for sure.

Forty minutes and a discrete self-breast-exam later the LCD board finally flashes my name and it is off to "Room One" to meet Dr. T. Sharma. When I open the door I am surprised to find the mousy doctor already inside waiting for me. Slight and nerdy looking, Dr. Sharma sits stooped over her desk, feverishly clicking her mouse, half-looking as if she were expecting her Dungeon and Dragons opponent rather than a patient.
"And you are Mr. Mazzenga?" Her Serenity inquires.
Socialized health care really is the way to go, I think, you get a medical and an existentialist examination all at once!
After confirming my identity I take a seat in the first of a long row of blue chairs positioned adjacent to Dr. Sharma's desk, the office feng shui decidedly more 'job interview' than 'doctor's office.'
"How may I help you?" Dr. Sharma says folding her hands across her flat chest.
To the point, I succinctly explain my graduate school vaccination dilemma and what test I require to resolve it.
"You sure that is all you need?" The existentialist portion of my exam apparently not over.
"Yes, I'm sure." I confidently replied.
Dr. Sharma then proceeds to tell me that such an exam may not be possible unless I have private insurance, as it hardly seemed fair for the taxpaying British citizens to have to pay for an exam that is required in the United States. I look down at my slightly olive skin and wonder if I'm in Arizona.

"OOOOOOOOOOKkkkkkkkk...." is all I can really verbalize.

After a mentally regrouping, I intimate that the EXAM isn't necessarily required, so much as her signature... a suggestion that would never fly in the US.
"You just need a letter from me?" Sharma's voice quizzically rising. The subtext being, "Why didn't you just say that in the first place?" Turning her attention to the blue glow of her monitor, she quickly types out a letter for me (although she used the hunt and peck method to type... horrible). A final forceful keystroke later, and without any examination or inquiry at all, I have my letter. Dr. Sharma, abandoning her keyboard for a moment, picks up a pen and casually ticks a spartan white pad in front of her. I can't help but wonder if she is the most indifferent doctor I have ever met or a true slayer of bureaucratic bullshit.
"And you said something about a cough?" the Doctor says, returning her attention to me.
I had. While this visit was largely about the vaccinations, I figured I might as well mention a lingering cough I have had for the better part of 2 years. I tell her how I had been to several doctors in the past but had yet to find a sufficient treatment for my ever present and constantly annoying cough.
"You say you've been to doctors in the past and that nothing has worked?" Sharma inquires without so much as flinching.
"Yes." I replied.
"Hmmm... well I don't see what I can do for you?"
Was she kidding? Weren't doctors supposed to help their patients? Wouldn't she revel in the medical mystery that was and unfortunately, still IS, my cough?
Dr. House T. Sharma is not.
"Oh OK," was all I could muster, as Dr. Sharma's pen "ticked" a piece of paper again.
And without so much as saying "AHHH" I was on my way home, feeling somewhat empty despite having received what I came for. I can't put a finger on it but something.... something was missing. Was it attention I desired? Have I come to enjoy the customary doctor/patient song and dance? The thrill of false promises and regiment of endless testing?
While frustrating, Dr. Sharma's approach to medicine is certainly honest if not brutally direct. What else should I expect? Afterall... She is a doctor, not a politician...

Royal Relationships

Personally, the idea of hiking through Kenya hasn't the least bit of romantic appeal for me. It must for some though, as just the other day Prince William Arthur Philip Louis of Whales proposed to his girlfriend of 8 years, Kate Middleton, sending all of England abuzz. The impending royal wedding has been quite the story and will most assuredly hold my Blighty brothers' attention over the next year. Interestingly enough, the English are not the only ones affected by the recent news. Jessica, my better half and Star Trek watching partner, is also completely smitten by the announcement. A quick check of recent Google searches on my computer might reveal the following words: Prince William, Ring, Royal, Wedding, Kate Middleton, When, Will, It, Be, Me...(maybe not exactly those words).
When questioned Jessica can't really explain what about the engagement makes her all "atwitter." In fact, I find the entire nation's infatuation with the Prince's relationship to be a bit confusing. I get that William was once the delight of squealing pre-teen and teen girls all over the world, Jessica herself having confessed to once having harbored a serious "tween crush." Handsome, rich, and with a title, William's appeal is understandable but C'MON... that had to have passed by now, right? Especially given that the Prince's once boyish good looks have faded considerably. His signature shiny blonde mop of hair, now looking unhealthy and thin, his "crown" now well-exposed. His face, once dainty like his mother's, is now long and horsey, more akin to his charmed-in-life but not-in-looks father, Charles. Even the very reality of royal weddings has grown old and tiresome over the past 30 years, with 3 of Queen Elizabeth's 4 children now divorced a fact highlighted by Princess Di's death. So why the crazed fascination?

In an attempt to understand my adopted country mates (and Jess), I will endeavor to analyze the relationships of several high profile "Royals":

1) Larry King
Relationship history: King has been married 8 times to 7 women.
Current relationship: Married...well kind of... more like "Hanging on."
Relationship fun facts: King has married not one but TWO Playboy Bunnies. He was also recently accused of having an affair with his WIFE'S SISTER.
"Sexiest" quote: "There is a reason I needed double hip replacement..." [1]
Analysis: Larry King's marriages make no sense to me. It isn't as though I don't understand why they fail, given the second fun fact that part should be pretty clear. It's more that I don't understand WHY THEY HAPPEN! Who in their right mind finds Larry King attractive? Larry King is essentially a human 'Turduken.' Recipe: take one old guy, stuff him with Burgess Meredith, then stuff him with Keith Richards, leave them out in the baking hot sun of the Sahara desert for 10 years and VOILA-- Larry King.
Fortunately, given King's wish to have his body cryogenically frozen, we'll have more time to study this phenomenon.

2) Prince
Relationship history: Prince has been married and divorced twice... TO WOMEN.
Current relationship: dating Bria Valente
Relationship fun facts: Prince is STRAIGHT (I know... blows the mind), Prince has also been romantically involved with Kim Basinger, Madonna, and Carmen Electra.
"Sexiest" quote: "I guess I must be dumb cause you got a pocket full of horses, Trojan and some of them used..."
Analysis: Given all of the hurdles Prince has had to overcome: a predilection for ass-less chaps, an outdated pampadour and tiny mustache combo, and his recent conversion to the Jehovah's Witnesses which he described as being, "like Morpheus and Neo in the Matrix," and it is astonishing that Prince has been able to hold down a relationship for any amount of time. Although, if he ever sang Raspberry Beret to me...

3) Rex Grossman
Relationship history: Rex has had many a public affair with Ms. Fumble and Ms. Interception along with a not-so-public relationship with Peyton Manning, whom he gifted Super Bowl XLIV to.
Current relationship: Married to Alison Miska for 5 years.
Relationship fun facts: It was Miska, not the media, who actually coined the terms "Good Rex" "Bad Rex" in regards to his ummm... performance.
"Sexiest" quote: "I'm not going to force anything."
Analysis: For those of you who may not know, Rex Grossman is an NFL quarterback, having played for the Bears, Texans, and now Washington Redskins. Rex, given that he is the world's worst quarterback, has either actually found true love or is married to a sadist. Recently (and inexplicably) Grossman was called into a game to replace the healthy future Hall of Famer, Donovan McNabb. On his FIRST play from scrimmage, with his team down by only one score with two minutes to play, "Wrecks" Grossman fumbles the ball which is then picked up and run back for a touchdown.... but I digress.

4) Queen
Relationship history: Have been together in some form or another since 1971
Current relationship: Broke up with Bad Company's frontman Paul Rodgers in 2009.
Relationship fun facts: Hairy chests, mustaches, and spandex jumpers were once cool and sexy, especially when combined... Seriously.
"Sexiest" Quote: "Fat bottomed girls you make the rockin' world go round."
Analysis: Queen had what one might call an 'open' marriage, sharing their rock anthems with hordes of admiring fans-- truly a match made in heaven.

In summation, here is what I've learned in regards to "Royal" relationships:1) Marry a Playboy Bunny once shame on you; marry another, and get invited to the Nickelodeon Awards. 2) If you are into door to door conversions and ass-less chaps you may just land a hottie or two. 3) There is still room in this world for the lovable loser...so, chin up Prince Harry. 4) The best royal relationships are those that involve 4 men.

[1] No one has ever overheard Larry say this but I'm SURE he has.

Giving Thanks

Outside of the feeble toilets and the cluttered tables at Starbucks, the transition from the US to the UK hasn't been too difficult. Being November, however, I am reminded that for the first time in my life I will have to make a serious adjustment and do without my all-time favorite holiday-- Thanksgiving. I do plan on putting together something of a Mocksgiving for posterity's sake, but there may be a chicken instead of a turkey, and the only football I'll be watching will not be of the American kind. That being said, I will endeavor to stay true to the spirit of the holiday by giving thanks for that which I have been graced with.

Things I am grateful for in 2010:

1) Children with British accents- If your "adult" British accent amplifies the impression of intelligence than a child with a British accent nearly doubles, NAY, TRIPLES the cuteness factor. Take the following conversation I overheard a young girl have with her mother on the bus this afternoon and imagine it with a cute little English accent:

"Mum? Mummy! Did you know that you can eat snow? I tried it once... on a bench. It was VERY cold and VERY white."

Amazing.

2) Liberty- No, not the kind of Liberty that hangs out with "Life" and "The Pursuit of Happiness"; rather I'm referring to the Liberty department store in London. Unlike the gaudy interior of its rival Harrod's, one will most assuredly NOT find a bronze sculpture of Princess Di and her Lover releasing a dove, nor will one find any "Egyptian" escalators. Liberty is a class act. Housed in a beautiful Tudor style building Liberty is what commercialism should be-- charming and subtle. If you only have a few days in London and need to scratch your shopping itch (I won't ask where that most likely occurs) check it out.

3) Harry Potter- Admittedly I've never read one word of JK Rowling's tales of the misguided little wizard BUT... I have seen the movies. And given that the movie is set to debut in one week I've officially caught the Harry Potter fever. It isn't so much the story, the acting, or the special effects that intrigue me, rather it is the enjoyment of what I call "Nerd culture." As a life long Star Trek fan, I've taken a lot of shit for wholeheartedly throwing myself into the fictional world of James T. Kirk and co. (my therapist suggests I use the term "fictional world"... just kidding... or am I?). So I love the fact that in another 7 days I can go to a movie theater and see a long queue of fellow nerds (although they are more closeted about their nerdom) rocking everything from Gryffindor scarves and wands, to lightening bolt scars. And if I ever need a reminder that Nerd culture is alive and well in London, I can just pop down to King's Cross station and actually see platform 9 and 3/4.

4) No Thanksgiving- Did you read that right? Did I just say I was THANKFUL for the lack of a Thanksgiving, my aforementioned "favorite holiday" of the year? Let me explain... While I will, in some ways, mourn the loss of a year without Thanksgiving, it also can be viewed as a tremendous blessing. For one thing, seeing as though the English have no concept of our holiday, November 1st signals the ALL OUT START of Xmas replete with white lights, ribbons, trees, wreaths etc. I figure if I can't celebrate Turkey Day, then I may as well squeeze another few weeks out of the Xmas season. Also, seeing as though my Thanksgiving won't actually be occupied by the holiday itself, I now have more time for exploring this beautiful world of ours. Which leads me too #5...

5) Half-Naked Women Who Fall In Love With White Bulls-- If you are unfamiliar with the story, legend has it that Zeus, being the horny little king of the gods he was, fell in love with a beautiful mortal named Europa. Zeus then disguised himself as a handsome white bull to attract Europa and eventually carried her off for a wild love making session (Which makes me wonder if Europa coined the mid-sex tradition of moaning "Oh god! Oh god!"). Anyway, Europa's progeny went on to spread all over the continent which we now call, you guessed it, Europe. So if not for that saucy little lady, I may not be able to enjoy my Thanksgiving in Madrid, where I shall surely think of her every morning as I dine on a breakfast of churros and hot chocolate.

As for my peeps in the States... Happy Thanksgiving and enjoy the bird (and I don't mean that in the "Leda and the Swan" kind of way).

The Parent Visit aka Sorry for the Late Blog Post

The Slaughter stone...the Heel stone... these are but a few names given the towering megaliths of Stonehenge. Standing before the millennia old blue stones, one can't help but feel the mystic energy the ancients sought to tap into. In fact, in 1921 the amateur archaeologist Alfred Watkins conceived of the existence of ley lines, invisible pathways or "lines" that generate a form of mystical energy. These ley lines were said to have had an important role in ancient societies and that many of the most famous ancient monuments are founded upon the intersection of these psychic currents. The merging of...

"Where are the holes they keep talking about? I didn't see any holes?"
"Mom, they are called Aubry holes and they are all over the place. They are labeled, just look down."
"It says right here in the guide that these might have been built by aliens."
"Dad, that is under the myths and legends section. They are trying to say that one of the MYTHS of Stonehenge is they were built by aliens."

The merging of life forces have intersected at the "Parent Visit."

For the last few months in London I have led my life relatively free of any taxing responsibilities. Sure, graduate school kept me busy but that was relatively enjoyable. Plus, outside of the distractions of London there wasn't much else standing in my way. This has all changed recently, however, as I've begun teaching on a more permanent basis at a London based school. The grading and prepping, while not overwhelming certainly makes it slightly more challenging to keep up with the ever increasing grad school workload. Top it off with a 10 day parent visit and I'm feeling as though I've criss-crossed one too many ley lines.

"Your father won't eat here. It is too gourmet."
"Mark, take a picture of this sidewalk. This is a good sidewalk. I want to show everyone back home."

Oh well, only 2 more weeks until Thanksgiving...in Madrid.

Movie Magic

It's been some time since I've last taken in a movie at the cinema, and tonight, a rainy Saturday evening, seemed as good a time as any...

First step: Buying Tickets

Unlike in the United States, where one can casually stroll into a movie theater, find one's seat of preference, and occupy it, the Brits have a bit more rigid system where seats are allocated beforehand upon purchase of one's ticket. While going against the Darwinian natural order of things, this obviously has a tremendous upside. You can purchase your ticket online well in advance, show up 15 minutes late after the commercials and previews have run their course, and still rest easy with the knowledge that you have a specific seat, hand-picked, waiting for you. It also eliminates the annoying behavior of some movie-goers who think they can reserve an entire row of seats for their tardy friends. There are, however, several drawbacks to this system. First, whether you buy your tickets in advance or at the ticket counter, you still have to wait in the same queue. This means, if you've purchased your tickets beforehand, you have to sit behind several people who need to decide, via a floor plan, where they'd like to sit-- a nauseating and time consuming process. Pre-allocated seats also do not take into account the plethora of variables that go into choosing a seat. Row F, Seat 5 may seem all well and good when previewed on a chart, but is less desirable when you discover that you're sitting behind an asthmatic Big and Tall model. Want to move? Too bad.

Second step: Concessions

Everyone knows a concession stand can make or break the entire movie-going experience. Gummy candy, chocolate treats, thermos-sized chalices of carbonated bliss, and let us not forget the bags and bags of golden buttery popcorn. For the most part, a good number of these treats are stocked in abundance at my local Odeon theater with only a few notable differences. To begin with, the concession counter sold Doritos. OK, I love Doritos, you love Doritos, it's not so strange to want a small bag of faux cheddar magic with your movie right? And it would be OK if they were small bags, but we're not talking small personalized bags for sale; rather the Odeon peddles full regulation-sized SACKS of Doritos. The kind that you accidentally plow through when you're either drunk or high. Still, while strange, I'm putting the Doritos in the "cool category." Other items that join the club are wine, beer, and Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Every concession stand has its dark side, however, and the Odeon's snack counter is no exception.

Upon my arrival, I had immediately noticed the absence of a familiar buttery bouqet. Sure there was rather healthy looking popcorn lying in the display case, but where did it come from? Where were the "popping" machines? I didn't have time to ponder this mystery for very long because quickly THE question was upon me, "What would you like, Sir?"
Instinct took over.
"A small popcorn please."
The interrogation continued, "Would you be liking the salty or sweet kind or perhaps a mix of both?"
"Salty?" I requested/guessed and timidly added, "Would you be able to put butter on that?"
While my attendant mentally fumbled with this question, I overheard the gentleman next to me ask, "Do you have any candy bars...like in America?" Those last three word said as though he were speaking to someone with a hearing impairment.
"We have a buttery toffee popcorn but you said you wanted salty," 'my guy' finally coming to. Clearly this was one of those rare instances wherein we were simultaneously speaking and not speaking the same language. Now it was my turn to fumble.
Next to me, I heard the man's wife chime in, "They call them CHOCOLATE BARS here, Dear."
"Oh," he corrected himself, "Do you have any CHOCOLATE BARS here...like in America."
"Salty is fine," I surrendered, trying to preserve what little dignity America had left.
And with that I took my non-buttered, bagged popcorn into the theater...

Third step: The Movie
You can't judge an entire country based on one cinema but screen 6 of the Odeon could be described as either an incredibly shitty movie theater or an amazing one... if it was in your friend's basement. I was, however, pleasantly surprised to be greeted by the soothing harmonies of violins and cellos instead of the customary Huey Lewis and the News song. The lights dim and the commercials roll [1]. Much to my delight, I observed several reserved seating fiascos, as audience members who arrived early had understandably attempted to grab the more optimal seats, thus cementing in my mind America's movie theater seating dominance. After a few previews for movies I had no interest in seeing, it was time for the main attraction... until the lights went up.
"There is a problem with the film," I stated.
Very cutely Jess replied, "Perhaps this is how they do it here." And while I was 90% certain we were experiencing a technical glitch, I wouldn't have been surprised if she were right. One last chance for everyone to grab a pint before the movie starts?
Unfortunately, the usher's announcement confirmed my initial fears, we'd have to wait a little longer for our first movie in England.

10 minutes later and about 45 minutes after the movie's listed start time, the opening credits began to roll. The movie of choice, Ben Affleck's latest homage to Boston, "The Town." The cameras panned over Boston's beautiful skyline, Affleck slipped into a non-rhotic Southie accent, and I drifted into daydream land--- I was home again.

[1] When speaking in the past tense in German, the verb is placed at the end of the sentence. It is sort of confusing because you don't really know what the person is saying until the last word. British commercials are exactly the same. I have NO idea what they are about until the very last image of the company's logo pops up.