British taxis make me smile like this. 

I suppose now would be a good time to discuss the little gaffes, cultural and otherwise, that have caused me to turn a deep pink over the past few days. 

First, I discovered within four hours of arriving that one does not request a “to-go bag” in London; you finish your meal, or you don’t. I asked to “have the rest wrapped up” during our first meal out (at The Oak), and the waiter sort of smiled at me and walked away. Parisa later explained that he likely was totally confused by my request, because nobody ever has anything “wrapped up.” That makes sense, I suppose, given that portions here are much smaller. 

Second, I have managed to have near-death experiences every single time I have attempted to cross the road, due to the whole “driving-on-the-other-side-of-the-street” thing. I was actually hit by a car the first time I visited London, when I was 16 – I went shooting out into the street to hail a taxicab and looked the wrong way, and was promptly struck by another cab (I rolled off the roof and went flying up in the air, but was totally fine). Parisa guides me around like a small child whenever we take walks. 

Third, I persist, despite my efforts to not do this, to say “sorry” and “excuse me” in a (terrible) British accent. It just happens. I can’t help it, and I apologize.

Finally, the first thing I did upon arriving was to destroy Parisa and Tim’s beautiful, pristine apartment. Parisa was showing me her new boots in their cream-carpeted bedroom, and so I tried on my newly re-soled (as in, have never been worn outside and should therefore be sparklingly clean) ones. Obviously, they left enormous black spots all over their carpet. I spent the next 45 minutes scrubbing madly on hands and knees, and they very sweetly told me not to worry, because the rug is due for a cleaning any day, but OH GOD. Why do I do this EVERY TIME?