I have barely made it home, and I am already and acutely in need of another US stopover. Now that the glorious nation is no longer made up of bigots and warmongers, but peace-loving creatures who elected
the best man in the world as their president, every minute spent in the New World is highly appreciated. Returning to the home island, instead, proved a little harsh.
First I was left stranded on a runway, temperature hovering around 0 degrees, for about 20 minutes, because they "forgot" to send the pick-up bus. Then I marched for hours around the shiny new Terminal 5, unable to find the train to Paddington, because they thought it would be unimportant to tell you where it is. When I eventually got into London, I wrongly opted for the popular Tube, Londoners' favourite transport system, only to find myself stranded for half an hour with millions of furious commuters on a platform, an ironic voice repeating at regular intervals that the Eastbound Metropolitan line is only 4 minutes away. By the time I turned the key into my front door, 2.5 hours had passed from the minute I had landed.
But let's gloss over these details. Thanksgiving in the US was absolutely magnificent, although not too dissimilar - if I may say so - from the London event that we have been holding for 4 years now at number 61. There was lots of traditional food, although the US version seemed deprived of any fat content. There was lots of booze - this time with an added Italian twist, Negroni. And of course there was a cast of characters, the likes of which could have stood comfortably in our London home. The stroppy teenager, speaking just like those in the OMG teen cruds we like so much. The New York Jews, straight out of a Woody Allen comedy. And the 21 year old boy who used to be a girl. Really, one for everyone.
My most excruciating moment was not, as you dear readers might think, sitting at a table having amiable conversation about oil-making, or death-marching for 10 miles along an Ocean pathway, or even encountering Italian Americans in a local deli (this was in fact rather scary). No. The most excruciating moment was by far the playing of Spoons, one of the most insidious compulsory fun activities I have ever come across.
Spoons revolves around the grabbing of - you guessed - spoons, which are positioned at the centre of a table. Players gather in a circle, Sabbath-like, and are given 4 cards each. With swift wrist movements, they begin passing on to their neighbour to the left a card they don't wish to keep, while receiving one from their neighbour to the right. This chain goes on until one player has 4 identical cards in his hands. At which point he grabs a spoon. Thus all players scramble to grab a spoon too, but since the total number of spoons is equal to the number of players minus 1, one contestant will remain without a spoon, and is therefore ejected. This continues until there is only 1 player left.
Needless to say, not only did the game bring out the worst competitiveness in the family, which - being American - is already all too prone to such perversion; it also caused me to sweat profusely, since I am allergic to competition. Or so I thought. When I found myself wrestling with Tot T's mum and grabbing the last spoon from her hands, much to everyone's hilarity and approval, I realised just how low I had fallen. I made sure I was ejected the following round, to avoid ending up in a fight with Tot T, and perhaps wrecking my relationship for good.
Back in NYC, a wonderful meeting with Captain Oast meant lots of prodding as to possible Tuscan visits over NYE, lots of hugs and Christina Aguilera-like "you are so BEAUTIFUL" compliments. And - truth be said - a couple of margaritas too much.
All in all, jolly good fun. Bring on the next one, I say! And this time, with Lady V...
