Life In London: October 2005 Archives

If you've never lived here, it's easy to forget just how far north London is. It's at 51°30′ N, which means that--at least in terms of latitude--it's closer to Moscow than to Venice. Vancouver, Seattle, and Zurich are all south of London. Still not clear on how far north this city is? There are parts of Siberia that are south of London.

Fortunately, thanks to the Gulf Stream, London has a far more temperate climate than its geographic sisters. Unfortunately, the Gulf Stream can't carry sunlight.

In winter, the sun can rise as late as 8AM, and set as early as 4PM. After a summer in which there's still light in the sky until 9PM, the transition to winter is a brutal one, and this is the time it hits me hardest. In a month or so, I'll be once again used to getting up before, and staying at work after, the sun does the same. But for now, it's hard to get out of bed in the morning, let alone stay awake until dinner time.

It is an unquestionable theological principle that anybody who is even slightly less religious than I am is a godless heathen, while anyone who is even a jot more religious is a dangerous fanatic. That's why I'm glad to have found a synagogue in London that is very near the level of observance that I grew up with.

But there's one major difference that never fails to jar me. In every Jewish service I've been to, there's always been a "prayer for our country," which asks that wisdom be granted to our nation's leaders. In the US, I've seen some variations that specifically mention the President and the vice-president, and others that just cover all the bases by praying for "all who exercise just and rightful authority."

But at our synagogue in London, the prayer includes "the Queen and her advisors." That's logical enough, but it always feels a little odd to my rebellious Colonial soul to be praying for the Queen.

In any case, shana tovah to my Jewish readers, Ramadan mubarak to my Muslim readers, and to everybody else, erm, have a nice day.

Our minicab driver has a Caribbean accent, although it's been faded by years in England. There's a "Dominica" sticker on his dashboard, and one on his windshield.

He tells us that English children have no discipline. He's carried passengers with kids, and watched in amazement as the kids treated the parents "like servants," yelling at them, and even cursing.

"My mother would never let us get away with anything," he says. "When she sent you to the store, she'd spit in a corner, and tell you you'd better get back before it dried. You hurried. There was a tree near the house--it looked a little like that one, over there--and when she wanted to punish you, she'd pull off a branch, and strip it, and--"

He mimes whipping. "Then she'd tell you to go down to the beach--we lived near the sea--and swim in it."

"Salt water," I say. "Ouch!"

"Salt water," he agrees. "And you had to do it, because when you came back..." He mimes his mother running her finger along the back of his neck, and then licking her finger to check for salt. "And if you just put your head in, she'd lift up your shirt." He mimes the same action, this time on his back. "She knew."

He drives for another minute or two, and then adds, "My brothers and my sisters, they're here in England, but they've sent their kids to her to raise, so they can just work, and send back their money."

"Are your sisters as tough as your mom?" I ask.

"No, they're not," he says, and then adds, "My dad is white." I'm not sure if that's meant as an explanation, or just as a new train of conversation. He goes on, "He's lived in Dominica for so long, though. When I go visit them from England, he says, 'Go back to your country, and take your cold weather with you.'"

And then, unfortunately, we're at our destination. We pay our fare, and go our separate ways.