Banking Problems Continue

They don’t just continue, they multiply! I recovered from Pasha sometime on Monday only to discover that my Visa had gone missing sometime on Saturday. Now, I can absolutely say that I didn’t buy any drinks (which I will be repaying in free dinners for the next six months) and I didn’t charge a cab home and I had it prior to going into Pasha, so my best guess is it is lying in a gutter somewhere in East London. Good for it-bon voyage. One phone call to Visa netted ten minutes on hold, an Indian chick trying to sell me on mortgages and a new card promised within 10 days.
Lest ya’ll had forgotten about the whole British banking debacle, inroads were laid. I finally, FINALLY got the application approved and my shiny Solo card appeared in the mail (the name says “Miss Aoy”-thanks, now EVERYONE knows I’m single; really, necessary?) with its attendant chip. After much research and debate (and freezing on the balcony) the inevitable phone call to BT phone was made to receive broadband. My experience to date with British government agencies has been slightly poor, to say the least. I was thankfully surprised when “Jamie” (he seemed like a Jamie, perhaps an Ollie) jovially talked me through my options and agreed to have Internet installed in FIVE BUSINESS DAYS!!!!!!!!!! I couldn’t believe it-something in under three weeks-happy day! Of course, the reason for the delay-and I kid ya’ll not-is that when you reconnect a landline or order Internet, there must be a COOLING OFF PERIOD of 32-48 hours before the order can go through. I seriously expect a handgun to arrive with a router. But here’s where the British banks intervene. This was all too easy, silly me. You may get the card, you might even have an account and branch sort code (little info-you can ONLY do business at the branch that holds your account; it’s the banking system of yore in the 21st C.) but you have to ACTIVATE the debit account. In the US one can call the little number on the front of the card, decide on a clever PIN the will involve the birthday of a family member in someway, and then Bob’s Your Uncle! Oh no no no, in London you can either-mail a form in via snail mail and wait for them to receive, process and send a form back out or go to ‘your’ branch. I opted for B and was scolded by the cashier for not going to the 2nd cashier that handles new accounts (pardon, no signage, makes it hard) but grudgingly took the form. But wait, where was my original letter or acceptance with the full account number on it (as opposed to the 7 numbers already on the form in front of her)? Leaving your form at home gets you a “Tsk tsk” and five more minutes of standing in front of the window. Finally, she looks up at me and says, “Ok, you’re activated. You should receive your PIN in the mail in up to business days and THEN you can use your account.” Does this paragraph seem long, winding and pointless??? Because it sure as hell seems that way to me! It’s taken 7 weeks to set up a student checking account! I only shudder to think of investments or IRAs. Perhaps money launderers and the Swiss have it right-fight the power!

Brit banks and US banks settled, I conveniently forgot about my US insurance. I have applied for NHS but I had better pray to God I don’t get sick over here as I understand it. You apply, wait for them to contact you, then go to an office to wait, then wait for a letter, then wait to die waiting for an NHS number. Those Brits are sneaky Commies! But my US insurance, which I always billed to my Visa (lost somewhere in London) needed to be changed. This is where I had MANY MANY MANY “Northern moments”. BlueCrossBlueShield of NC is DAMN lucky that I am an ocean away. First, I simply thought to pay via Internet as the automatic debit would not have gone through. Ha! That would imply that their website worked, ever. After 4 fruitless days and e-mails to the Tech department, I loaded up my mobile and dialed the U.S. Three more days of being disconnected and told, “The Web Difficulties Help Line is currently experiencing difficulties, please try back later” for FOUR DAYS I was 14 quid poorer and a lot more ramped up. Plus, they have the worse automated response systems ever-‘So your policy is WWPX 134567; no, it’s really YPPW126802; you seem to be having trouble with our system; try back later; CLICK” Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. When I finally got a hold of of Columbus (that would be a human being in NC) in the billing department, I learn that A) His computer might be down; B) I can’t pay over the phone-they don’t take payments over the phone, ever; C) He is going to process my cancellation paperwork because I’m no a resident of NC as I’m in London for more than 60 days; D) I am supposed to mail a check to NC by Friday or Monday (this was Wednesday and that is an impossible feat unless I flew it there in person). I should feel worse about the fact that I 100% lost it on the phone with him but that was it. I had had it up to THERE and back and was trapped on the treadmill of the worst business management model possible. When “Columbus”, in a desperate bid to get me off his phone line so he could go cry in the women’s room” transferred me to the Web Support line, I was suddenly back at the main menu being asked in Spanish to enter my BCBSNC # or to visit their website.

I hung up, turned the walls of the bedroom blue, and called Mama. When in doubt, Southern girls call the mamas. It’s like a homing device, just like we run to our daddies when we need something (sorry, it’s true-we know it) or have a bad boyfriend to be taken out to the woodshed. She agreed to post a check in the mail and magically had no problems understanding my ID# for the check. LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG deep breaths were necessary. I eagerly await the results of this week.

Halloween

There is a song we learn in kindergarten about how to spell this wonderful word and to this day I always hum it while typing the letters: “H-A-double L-O-W-double E-N spells Halloween!” played on a scratchy turntable. Ahh, memories.

Speaking of memories, home sickness of an insidious nature has hit AoY hard. Maybe it’s the suddenly frigid temps, the totally backwards school system (Brits will agree with this) or the loneliness that surprisingly easy to experience in a city of 7 million people but it’s happened. It never happened in Italy (I could live and die there) or Germany (I just didn’t want to be there!) but I find myself missing things like gardenias, mac and cheese, venison, fall foliage (stealing magnolia leaves from the church for table decorations), the marshes and Intercostal, even the small town feeling of Columbia. It’s not that I actually NEED to be there, it’s just like a constant drumbeat in the back of my head. Combine that with the banking troubles of late and the absolute lack of ideas about future employment and hearth and home suddenly look damn appealing.

But enough of that! On to the spookiest night of the year! Quick note about British Halloween (still hum the song)-1) People dress up as scary and spooky things here like the undead, vamps, witches or Margaret Thatcher naked and 2) Trick or treating is not so big in the city (I can’t comment on the suburbs) and 3) costume parties are known as “Fancy Dress”. I love the last part-it’s so darn British. Flat mate and I sought out a costume store and after going into a sex store by mistake (we were looking for stockings, we didn’t need props) we found a Swashbuckling Wench outfit and a red 1920s red Flapper from Charleston (told you I was homesick). I even bought fake eyelashes and we both invested in fishnets.

The Event: McC’s Housewarming and Halloween party near Marble Arch. Transportation: The original idea was Tube after a run to Tesco for daiquiri mixers. We learned that Tesco no longer sells any mixers-just booze. I find this disturbing on so many levels. T’s fishnet hose ripped a tad in the package so the garter-belted wench poked out more holes. A quick check with McC confirmed the details for the part but we both wore LONG black trench coats just in case Bridget Jones’ Fancy Dress party reincarnated itself where we walk into a house full of bankers in suits while we look like street walkers. Thankfully this didn’t happen. We hadn’t gone 10 feet before being offered a ride ‘anywhere we were going, for free’. Hmmmm, thanks but no thanks. We ended up cabbing it to Marylebone (apparently pronounced MER-IL-BONE-EY). The party was amazingly fun. There was a mix of Aussies, Brits, Yanks, and a Paki dressed as Britney. Liquor flowed like oxygen, yummy finger foods abounded and an iPod constantly rotated back to Cyndi Lauper. Their fault is AMAZING-I just felt badly that it got trashed so soon after they moved in! I love meeting new people and it was such an amalgamation of groups that everyone got along, so well that I have the distinct memory of being slapped on the ass several times by various people-red; whodathunkit?

Only 2 major disasters of the evening occurred-1) No single people at the party save McC and he’s practically family and 2) AoY came down with a migraine. The lights-flashing, don’t touch me or make a sound or I might throw up on you variety migraine. This is NOT a good thing to get whilst in the middle of a rager. T was feeling frisky and didn’t want to leave for hours despite my whimpering and flat out bitching at one point. We FINALLY left around 2AM (I had stopped drinking at 11:30 when auras appeared) when I pretty much begged to leave. Now, Marble Arch might be cute and fun during the day but it gets a tad shady in the evening. Plus, there were ZERO cabs. I was so desperate to leave that we didn’t call one to the house (BIG mistake) so we tried street hailing; I then called every cab number in London and got an hours wait time for those even taking reservations. We got an unlicensed minicab driver, which is a big NO-NO for women in London (there are over 10 sexual assaults a month by unlicensed minicabs on London), offer a ride right as some asshole in an apartment pelted eggs onto the street. I now had a screamingly painful headache, sore feet and egg running down my stockings (we hid in a phone booth until the ambush ended). Interesting-we had a rickshaw driver offer to drive us after watching our flailing for 20 minutes (T had physically tried to manhandle a departing customer but lost the cab). A rickshaw! We laughed but he seriously offered to pedal back to Earls’ Court: 2 full grown girls (one healthier than most), a ride that takes 10-15 minutes in a cab w/o traffic, and multiple hills. His only asked 60 pounds (which could drive you almost to the coast!). We finally saw a cab across the road and flagged it down. Problem: A gate in the middle of the road to prevent jaywalking. T dashed down the street skirt the barrier but I saw two couples bearing down on our diesel savior and jumped it. In the middle of a major roadway I flashed everyone to Christmas and back and vaulted the damn thing in heels, migraine or no I was GOING HOME!!!!! I think the cabbie was so impressed (or horrified) that I would go to such lengths that he fended off the vultures until I got across four more lanes of traffic.

Now the question is, is such behavior commendable by Southern standards or have I jeopardized my entrance into the Junior League? I mean, straddling a fence in a dress and heels might be considered unladylike but I think the sheer resourcefulness of scaling something and subverting the system deserves kudos from the Cackalackins. Either way, we made it home in one piece, although I felt like pieces of my brain were slowly leaking out, but then T wanted to wait and see if some cute guys walking down our road were interesting. I fled the scene and crawled into bed with drugs. She apparently scored big and we met our French neighbors downstairs. One apparently was going to drag me out of bed to sit up and chat but I truly think I would have physically maimed him if T hadn’t talk him out of it.

All in all, a really fun experience of costume hunting, dressing up, and playing war games in the streets of London. Happy Halloween (dum di dum-still singing it)!!!!!!!!

We never did go pumpkin picking-a weekend out of the city is needed and SOON; this much smog cannot be healthy!

New terminology:
Netball: An entirely bizarre game that is a bit like basketball; there is a hoop with no backboard high up in the air and one receives the ball whilst standing in a circle. A girl can then pivot on one foot but can move at all. The goal is to shoot a basket. WHAT KIND OF LAME ASS SPORT IS THAT??? At least in badminton you have to lunge for the shuttlecock occasionally.

Night out with the Posh People!

Interesting times continue in London as I learned the art of VIP clubbing. A few Saturdays ago (sorry for the delinquency!) I began my evening with a fun dinner at a local pub with extended US family the notion of ‘going out big’ enters the conversation. Hmm, as AoY is always up for a big night with the right prodding I discovered the location: Pasha. When: 11:15 Where: Table reserved by a friend’s Black Amex Why: Show good friend of McC’s the fun times of London.

A quick rush home to change into appropriate gear (thank god the Armani fits again and I ditched the jeans) I hopped in a cab and prepared to fork over my life savings to get to Victoria. My cabbie, a nice East Ender who commiserated with flatmate’s laptop theft, told me that Pasha was a very well-know and ‘respectable’ club, unlike the ‘shit new places that fold in a month’. As we pulled up to a queue that literally was FIVE across by TOW BLOCKS long, I had doubts about my ever seeing the inside. Thankfully McC sent me to the ‘other’ side, reserved for those with, well, a reservation. With McC leading his harem of women (seriously, it was one man to about 7 women from around the world) to the door, I found myself at a cultural crossroads. First I was wanded by security, then patted down like I was in the Frankfurt airport by a woman, then my bag was subjected to the same. Now, in DC, if a club has this kind of security, YOU DON’T GO IN!!!! These are the clubs located in NE or SE and let’s just say that I would stick out like a French woman in a Venus shaver commercial. But tight security is apparently de rigger among the hip and trendy night spots of London.

Assured that I hadn’t brought an Uzi to the table we trooped upstairs to the tents of Morocco. Now, usually ‘getting a table’ means that one shells out 500 quid in drinks and then has the right to put their jackets down at a table in the corner. You literally pay through your ass to sit on it. Tables usually run around the edges of the dance floor and inevitably one club rat attempts to just ‘perch’ for a bit. No way this was happening upstairs at Pasha. We had a bottle service (something I had only heard of until now), fresh fruit, champagne and strawberries, and a tent with cushions in colors to make a sultan sigh. Trying not to sound provincial or worse, American, I just cracked a bottle, nibbled on melon and kiwi and watched the hoi polloi below me writhe to house music. It was either the continuous flow of bubbly or Grey Goose but by the end of the night I had sufficiently loosened up to hang over the rail and gyrate to surprisingly good club music. The best were these girls dressed up like Drew Barrymore from the Batman movie or Playboy bunny rejects. They wore all white lingerie and walked around the floor holding up signs. I suppose that it is a classier alternative to the tequila shooter girls of my usual haunts and hang outs. Two people braved the ground floor for some sweaty gyrations but I played the elitist whose feet were paining them. Really I just enjoyed lounging on velvet and talking in a reasonable tone of voice to other tenters. The only downside? No cute eligible men ANYWHERE on the VIP level (yes, it turns out we were VIP not just tableside). There were some 40-year-old gay men with their 20-year-old Eastern European hookers (which I totally didn’t understand-these men were gay!) and one or two sketchy older men but that’s it! I guess the rich and fabulous were at Nobu or Chinawhite that evening.
I was having so much fun hanging out (and drinking) that I barely noticed the time until suddenly it was 4:45 in the morning!!! I mentally kissed my morning run plans goodbye and made for a taxi. Yup, another solo ride (it was in a legit black cab, no worries!) and I suddenly became more aware of my state of inebriation out of the smoke and music. Thankfully the ride was uneventful and I crawled into bed just in time for the sun to rise!

The morning after was not fun. Morning, hell. I didn’t roll over until 2:15pm and that was only because my headache woke me up. A bottle of water and some Tylenol MIGHT have gone a long way towards easing my pain except I forgot the cardinal rule of overindulging-if you wake up and fell bad, get food into system before ingesting more liquids! Whoops-that ended badly, twice. So after repeating the cycle again (I can be a bit dim) I hit upon the idea of delivery. Of course-cosmopolitan London SURELY has delivery on a Sunday afternoon! My first thought was Cook-Out or Cosmic Cantina but I settled for locating Pizza Hut and saying Damn the Calories! I rung my pizza boy only to discover a horrible truth about Pizza Huts in the UK-THEY DON’T DELIVER. AT ALL. The nice young man mentioned that it was only a 15 minute walk to Kensington Church street and I could pick up my order. Thanks buddy, it might as well be 15 miles-I can’t even walk across the apartment! After my initial horror: “Seriously, you don’t deliver? Is this Pizza Hut? Yes? You don’t deliver? At all? But I’m hung over!!!!” My outburst cost me greatly in the headache department but I gamely dialed Domino’s (ewwwwwwwwwwwww, but desperate times…). A very nice boy agreed to delivery in under 20 minutes. One liter of Real Coke (no Coke Zero, Coca-Cola Lite, Diet Pepsi, Pepsi Max) and a slice of cheese pizza later my body forgave me and I lived. It was only 8 PM at this point. Time for bed.

All in all Pasha was fantastic but I am hopelessly spoiled now and will never stand in a queue 300 people long just to stand in a hot smoky club and rub against Albanians and the unbathed. I suppose this means that I won’t be clubbing again in London! But it was worth it, if only for the tales and photos :)