Fashion Knows No Boundaries - Or, I'll Trade You Swedish Minimalism For Lace Push-Up Bras

The recent influx of American brands and stores in the UK means that I'm starting to have less reasons to shop in the US: four of my favorites, J. Crew, Anthropologie, Forever 21 and Victoria's Secret, have already made their way over here (albeit at twice - or more - the price).

Yesterday, during my run with Elaine along the Southbank (btw, BIG MISTAKE - honestly, the stupidest place to run at the height of Olympics tourist season), I almost ran smack into the back of a man as I passed an activity display that seemed to be sponsored by none other than ... Target. As in, the place I buy my milk, clothes, make-up, and iPad accessories at in the US. Be still, my beating heart. Could the brands of my teenage years, Xhiliration and Mossimo, finally find their way here?

Now I'm just waiting for more European "high street" chains to make their way to the States. Come on, guys - let's make an even trade, no? Swedish minimalism for lace push-up bras?

I recently read that Nordstrom in San Francisco Center is getting a Topshop concession. But how about COS (pictured, above right)? Or Zara in places other than NYC? I think Oasis and Warehouse are beginning to make their way over as well.

Even my highly impressionable and fashion-forward (read: dapper) little brother bemoaned the lack of European styles in the US. After hearing him admit to shopping at the cheaply made and highly uninspired American mall fixture, Express, I clutched his arm in sympathy. "I knowwwwww," he wailed. He's a smaller build, so suits the likes of Topman, COS, Bershka, and Zara. Previously, he could only find slim-fit pants and shirts on family trips to Uniqlo in Hong Kong, but visiting London opened a whole other world for him. When he visited last year, I took him on the best possible mini-shopping spree my modest publishing salary could afford.

So I'd really appreciate it if Massimo Dutti, Mango, COS, and my other (typically Spanish, sometimes British, and always Scandinavian) favorites would make their way across the pond. Soon. All this cross-continental swapping is getting me really excited. Fashion knows no boundaries.

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What did you think of the London 2012 Opening Ceremony?

So now that the Olympics are well under way, what did you think of the Opening Ceremony?

I was lucky enough to attend the final technical rehearsal last Wednesday, so had a sneak peek at pretty much everything that happened, minus the celebs and the Queen jumping out of the helicopter, of course.

At first, I was a little skeptical about the whole "English countryside" concept, complete with walking "clouds":

But I found myself very moved by the use of Nimrod from Elgar's Enigma Variations to illustrate Danny Boyle's vision of the "Isles of Wonder". Audience participation was critical here, as you can see:

That part was fun. Apt and appropriate.

For those watching on TV, I could see how it might have been a little less-than-spectacular way to open the Games, but in the stadium, I can tell you that it was quite stirring and emotional - even for a dress rehearsal!

By the time we transitioned into the Industrial Revolution, I was hooked: the staging was jaw-dropping and more importantly, original. The dusky sky also provided the perfect backdrop, as seen below:

The culmination of this part of the program into the forging of the Olympic rings was spectacular:

Don't tell me you weren't impressed by that?! I think, at that exact moment, I felt really proud to be  Londoner. I thought of all the volunteers within the park and across London, and all those performing "on stage" that night (which included Lauren), and it made me little teary!

It wasn't without its flaws, I'll admit: the NHS bit was cute, but seemed forced. The giant baby's head at the end? Creepy and kind of reminiscent of those baby cake wrecks circulated via email a while ago. Just ... no. And, why?

Even ol' Duck-Face AKA Voldey AKA He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named made an appearance. I'm not even going to comment on "Tubular Bells" being chosen as the soundtrack for this part. If you're American who grew up in the 90s, that just stirs up bad memories of this particular CD (which I've just noticed apparently has only Part 1 of Tubular Bells - I can only imagine what joy Part 2 brings).

Let's just say that I thought the beginning was better than the end, though guest appearances by J.K.Rowling, Rowan Atkinson, The Queen, and Daniel Craig James Bond made up for it. I was also very, very pleased that Akram Khan (whom I blog about on here a LOT) and his company were chosen to close the ceremony, accompanied by one of my new favorites, Emeli Sande. It was a beautiful piece and Shame that NBC in the States cut his performance. Shame on them, really.

What did you think?

The Olympic Torch Relay - Or, Should I Get Off This Bus or Not?

This morning, as I turned the key in my door to leave for work, I froze: it was my brother's birthday. Too late for a card, not too late for a Facebook message. I didn't feel *too* guilty - after all, we'd gone shopping together when I was back recently and I bought him a jacket he wanted. Not too shabby for an otherwise absent sister.

But then as I got settled on the bus, I saw this:

Hmm ... a red bus with arms, popping out of Upper Street, and tons of people with cameras at the ready lined up on the meridian ... was I forgetting something? Oh yes, the Olympic Torch Relay, which I missed last weekend when it was going through Hackney.

'The Olympic Torch is coming through my old neighborhood!!!! OMG!!' I typed excited to my mom via my Blackberry. 'Really?' she replied. 'Didn't think that place was a big deal.' No love for Islington from my mom, then. Sheesh.

So then I had this inner argument with myself as the bus sailed down past Angel station, then Sadler's Wells: should I get off or not? On one hand, I envied the Islington-set, clutching their paper flags and coffees, but on the other, I desperately needed to get to work early to sort out some emails. 'That's a lame excuse,' I said aloud. 'This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!' (I think I was still on a high from yesterday's performance)

My decision was kind of made for me when I spotted Alice and her boyfriend, Matt, near Exmouth Market. "I see you," I said in a stalker's voice, after dialing her number. "I think you should get off and meet us on the corner," she replied, as if she had been expecting me to call all along. "Then we can walk to work together."

So this was the scene when I got off the bus:

You know it's serious when the po-po arrive on their sparkly bikes.

But what I didn't know was that the relay would feature some "pre-show" entertainment from all the Olympics sponsors, including Coke:

And Lloyds, which - in my books - won the award for the most awkward/random float/car/van-thingy and "street performers" ever. Check out the girl in the middle. Can you imagine what her brief was? "Hi, yeah, we'd like you to do some acrobatics, periodically, just ahead of the Olympic Torch. You'll be accompanied by a guy jumping on those ... bouncing ... things. Guy on the bouncing thing? Yeah. We're gonna to need you to blow this whistle. At random intervals."

Then the "official" bus came along, which was kind of cool:

And then there were whispers in the crowd of who'd be carrying the torch. "I heard it was David Walliams!" someone said, jostling at my shoulder. (I don't expect any Americans to know who that is ... unless you're a fan of Little Britain. No? Me neither.)

He showed up a few minutes later, all bronzed and fit. David Walliams is neither tan nor fit (though he did swim 140-miles in the Thames for charity). "WHO'S THAAAT?" I screeched, as only an American can, when he passed. "Seriously," I said to Alice. "Who the hell was that?" (I still don't know. Anyone?)

In the end, I still made it to work early and scored myself a little flag that I can wave on Saturday at the Gymnastics. The moral of the story? Always get off the bus.

London 2012 Opening Ceremony Preview: No Spoilers, Just Fabulous Nail Art

Last night, I was lucky enough to attend the final technical rehearsal for the Olympics Opening Ceremony, thanks to Lauren (who's performing in it). I'm not going to post any spoilers here, obvs, but check out the nails on the lady I sat next to:

Aren't they faboosh? I don't even use words like "faboosh", but these nails totally warrant it. She's an Olympics volunteer, working at the Excel center (where events like boxing, weightlifting, and gymnastics are taking place). After I complimented her, she told me that she had them done especially today, so that they'd match her volunteer uniform of purple and orange. "I might be handling a ticket scanner on Saturday," she explained. "So, you know, I thought my nails had better look good!" She's got my vote.

So I won't post any more photos from last night until the big day has passed (big screens were plastered with the hashtag, #savethesurprise, appropriately), but I will say that it was one of the most jaw-dropping, mind-blowing experiences I have ever had in my life. And that I was very thankful to be there.

2 days and counting.

Taking Advantage of 20 Minutes of Sun at Towpath Cafe

I'm trying to be positive about the summer we're having in London this year (and the year before that, and the year before that), but it's really, really hard. Particularly as it's absolutely pouring outside as I write this and I'm wearing black opaque tights out of necessity, rather than as a fashion statement. In July.

Nevertheless, when a spot of sun appears, I'm the first one to seize the day. Yesterday, John and I wandered to one of our favorite haunts for breakfast, Towpath Cafe, which is situated on the canal smack dab between where we used to live in Angel and where we are now in Dalston. So, essentially, it's in Haggerston/Hoxton.

See that selection of jam there? It's divine. Truly. If I could, I would have smuggled the strawberry and peach (?) underneath my holey Gap sweater and taken them home with me. John had the porridge and apricots, which I was told between mouthfuls was equally delicious.

On a sunny day, Towpath is bustling. Paul Simon is blaring and Bob Marley is wailing. Sausages are on the grill and the coffee orders are non-stop. Joggers stop for a slug of water from the numerous pitchers available and then order a coffee. You're lucky if you can grab a seat mid-morning on the weekends. Otherwise, you can grab a blanket and set yourself down on the nearby planter.

On a rainy day? Not so much. I spoke to the American owner, Lori De Mori, as she took my order. Originally from LA (this is her fourth year in London), she's much happier here, though she cited the bad weather as bad for her business - which isn't surprising, since not many people would want to sit in the rain, sipping a latte, with no shelter.

I love the simple, honest food and coffee at this cafe, plus Lori's and her staff's incredibly charming and friendly demeanor. I overheard a lycra-clad jogger order a "skinny latte", only to be answered by an apologetic Lori, "Sorry, we only do full-fat here." "Full-fat is fine, then," the customer conceded. Although I am prone to ordering a soy vanilla latte at chains, I appreciate the no-nonsense approach Towpath takes.

And that's why Lori's customers are so loyal - that and for the scenic view of the canal (when it's not raining, of course).

Hot Diggity Dog

Aside from obsessing over American-worthy pickles in burger joints, I've got a real thing for hot dogs (which, I've already blogged about before, I know) - anything but the British kind (blech! bleurgh! yuck! spittoo, spittoo!). I like mine in a white bun (non-toasted), with ketchup, mustard, LOTS of relish (the kind you pump out of a vat of green stuff), and a sprinkling of white onions. Like tacos, I could probably eat two. Or three.

Below are some of my faves. What are yours?

1. The Costco Dog - I can't remember how much it is now. A dollar something? And that includes a drink. The part I enjoy the most is going around the corner and pumping out the sauces from the large, disgusting vats. And the fact that it's wrapped in foil. This is important. I don't know why.

2. The Copenhagen Dog - So, this is a new discovery. While everyone else in the wedding party last weekend was bragging (yes, really) about dining in the Michelin-starred restaurant, Noma, where the tasting menu begins at £150, John and I were happily consuming some of the tastiest (but probably still the most expensive, since Copenhagen is pricey) hot dogs we'd ever had. The secret? Crispy, finely chopped, fried onions and a secret, tangy sauce, topped with generous slices of pickles, of course. Yum, yum, YUM.

3. The New York Dog - I mean, I probably had one ... once ... at some point. When I was in college or something. Or maybe aged nine, when I was on the Chinese tour bus. Oh wait, did I just admit to being on a Chinese tour? With a tour guide who used her umbrella to herd us in and out of the Statue of Liberty? Anyway, I just feel like if I don't put this on here, I'll have NYCers jumping up and down going, "YOU HAVEN'T EVER HAD A HOT DOG UNTIL YOU'VE TRIED A NEW YORK DOG." Okay, okay, here it is. Grumble, grumble.

4. The IKEA Dog - This one only tastes really good after you've walked through the seven levels of hell that is IKEA. You know, you've jealously/critically eyed their perfectly constructed "rooms" (which NEVER turn out like that in real life, btw, NEVER), bought Swedish plastic thing-a-ma-bobs you'll never use, only because they're Swedish and therefore, cool, and cheap, and almost broken your back trying to heft a bed frame off the top shelf in the warehouse. Because there's no one around to help you. What's the reward at the end of this soul-destroying tunnel? A hot dog. Or four. For £1.

Apparently, there's a new place that's just opened up in Soho called Bubbledogs, which does champagne and hot dogs. I'm eager to try it out, but not so much with the champagne. I'd like to swig mine down with an ice-cold bottle of brewski, thanks, or Coke. I don't need to dress up my dog.

Culture Shock: Not Bagging My Own Groceries

I've lived in the UK for nearly six years now. Six! That's a long time. It's no surprise, then, that every time I go "home" to the US, I experience, well, a little culture shock.

"How can that be?" I've been asked. "That's where you grew up!" Yes, but trust me: once you spend a few years adapting and adjusting to a new/different way of life, you start getting used to it.

So, one of the things I always forget when running to Fred Meyer or Albertson's to pick something up for my parents back in Puyallup, is the fact that check-out cashiers always bag your groceries for you - that or some high school kid on his/her summer vacay is bagging it for you. And yes, more often than not, in a brown paper bag.

John makes fun of me because I sometimes carry my groceries here as if it's in a brown paper bag - i.e. hefted up on my hip, close to my body, kind of like a baby. John: "Why are you holding your shopping [they don't say "groceries" here] like a baby?" Me: "Because it's heavy, closer to my center of gravity, and makes my arms hurt less." John: "Fair enough."

But back in the States, I watch helplessly as the cashier seamlessly scans and bags my items at the same time. I can't even reach over to help because it's literally on the other side of the counter, inaccessible. I feel almost ... bad.

Here, I fumble for about 40 seconds in Tesco (when I'm not shopping with my own environmentally friendly fabric bags), trying to rip a plastic bag from the dispenser, which always results in me being forced to lick my finger, try about 10 times to open the damn thing, while the cashier has scanned all my items and my eggs, bananas, 5-pack of mini Diet Cokes, asparagus spears, and whatnot have piled up at the end of the counter thingy and the impatient customers behind me take turns breathing down my neck. 'Incompetent fool,' they're all thinking.

Back to the US: I don't know if people are just less green in Puyallup (probably), but I don't think very many people bring their own bags with them. There was the time I bought a carton of juice and said I didn't need a bag. The guy looked at me like I was crazy. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Um, yep," I said. "It's a carton of orange juice ... I'm just walking to ... my car. Which is not more than a few feet from the front door." "Not even, like, just, a small one?" he pressed. "Really, I'm fine," I assured. 'Freak of nature,' he's thinking.

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