Life in London is amazing, surprising, wonderful and terrifying. Imagine waking up in a room with three, ten, or eleven roommates from different countries speaking French, Italian, Polish, Portuguese, Spanish, an African dialect, or Aussie, Scottish or British English. Most speak "some English," but good luck trying to understand them at first or having them understand you if your from the Western United States. At one point, I remembered walking out of the hostel and forgetting that they even speak English in England because all I heard inside the building was Italian, French and Spanish. Some familiar words like pants take on different meanings that may cause embarrassment or a second thought. For example: pants are "underwear," garbage is rubbish, cheers means hi, thanks, bye or whatever and sorry also means excuse me - that one still makes me nervous at times when people say it - I keep wondering if they spilled something on me or stepped on my foot. After putting on some "knickers" and a shirt, head into the kitchen for breakfast of nearly paper thin white or wheat bread, jam and butter (probably phony) cornflakes, maybe rice crispies or Wheetabix (if you're lucky enough to have a variety) and if you're really lucky, some soft boiled eggs. You will have a choice of tea or instant coffee with whole milk and possibly hot chocolate or orange juice too. On weekends, baked beans, eggs, stewed tomatoes, and sausage or bacon enter the menu selection. For the rest of the day, you're probably on your own for meals, picking up fruit and rolls or sandwiches from little markets or corner stands and tossing something together for dinner in the community kitchen, enjoying a hostel buffet or for the big spender getting a meal at a local restaurant or pub. Each day new faces emerge and disappear, new opportunities for friendship, for love, for cultural exchanges, merriment, frustrations and confusions. Even simple things like using a lavatory become an event. First, you must find them. The word for the facility will be called a "toilet," "WC (wash closet/room)," or "loo" and people do not "pee" there, they "wee." To turn on the light, you'll probably have to push a button outside or pull a string inside. Once finished leaving a deposit, you'll find transparent or pink toilet paper and it will probably take at least three flushes for anything to go down. As for washing up, it amazes me that the English do not have a Hepatitis A epidemic. There is rarely soap although often water and hand blowers. Some restaurants and libraries don't even have toilets for public use. Fortunately they can sometimes be found in the middle of the street (literally) or in parks (one of them in Hyde Park even has music playing). The best public toilet I found, however, had to be in the McDonalds on Queensway. It has an incredible three-in-one hand washing system. Poke button number one for soap, number two for water and number three to dry all in the same sink chamber. During my first experimental week in the city "as a resident," I remembered reading a quote that said something like this 'If a man is tired of London, he is tired of living.' At the time I thought that he had a much different impression of the city than I did. Looking around, London seemed almost too perfect, thin people, beautiful parks, ornate old buildings and one of the highest economy in the world. What place did this city have for me- a crazy entrepreneur seeking people who like to shake things up and a dirty or blank canvas to improve? Yet, this perfection seemed to rely so much on retail, tourism and restaurants. Buy, buy, buy, eat, eat, eat and then leave. The people who lived there enjoyed the parks as members of running clubs and espied the tourists from their round tables with disdain. They did not need to rummage through the reduced price sandwiches and salads in Tescos for a meal. In fact, they seemed to enjoy a few pints every evening at the local pub or some wine. How I longed to have pounds to burn rather than dollars that were worth half as much. Life for them seemed so much simpler. At the same time, however, I did not envy their living arrangements. I did not want to aspire to living in a townhouse with no yard. Plus, the constant barrage of people, especially in Oxford Circus around 5pm nearly drove me nuts at first. The more time I spent in London, the more wonderful surprises it offered including Carnival. The streets of Notting Hill came alive. Street after street, block after block, bodies pulsed with Hip Hop, Reggae, Steel Drum and soulful music (and a little Beatles) blaring from small bands and the "Carnival" parade trucks. Smells of roasting corn, jerk chicken, cigarette and other smoke;0)filled the air while Caribbean fruits and specialties like goat, ginips(green olive sized fruits with smooth leathery skins that are similar to lychees), "patties" filled with salt fish or meat, fresh sugar cane, watermelon, and coconuts as well as some traditional American, English and Indian/Asian tempted stomachs. After much anticipation and deliberation (I'm not usually a big coconut fan), I decided to try one of the organic jelly coconuts. Mmmm! What a delightful splurge! First the guy cut open a hole in the top and hands it to me with a straw. Pleasantly sweet, almost creamy juice filled my mouth. When finished, I returned the shell for him to whack it open and let me scoop out the jelly like inside. These coconuts are very large, almost a pale green on the outside unlike the small brown ones from Hawaii used for macaroons. Other welcome surprises included many men to dance with - I joke that had my own mafia during my first clubbing venture - I went with two Sicilians, an Aussie and a Tunisian. I also had the opportunity to break bread and enjoy "sweets" with two women: one from Uzbekistan and one from Brazil, make balloon animals and flowers for children in Hyde Park and made a few pounds singing in the streets. I have never done these things in the United States, but they seem natural in London. London strangely beckons and grows on its inhabitants. We all seem oddly drawn there - I personally wonder there is a genetic code in our brains that says:" If lost, go to London." And, once there, although maybe not instantly enchanted, we do not want to leave and most often for the reasons that first unnerved us - the multitudes of people, the funny mistranslations, and that wonderful sense that you will never be alone or run out of things to see or do. Whew! That wraps something up for now.