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<title>WGTE Public Media : Postcards from london with wendy sherer</title>
<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte</link>
<description><![CDATA[Airs Thursdays at 7:35 a.m. during Morning Edition on FM 91
(Listen to archived episodes below)
Written and hosted by Wendy Sherer, "Postcards from London" is a weekly series of four-minute dispatches about Sherer's experiences in London, including her impressions of the city's people, places, customs and culture.
Wendy Sherer is a former Toledo resident and longtime WGTE volunteer. An ordained Lutheran minister for 13 years, Wendy moved to London in 2011 to fulfill two lifelong dreams: to work in radio and to live in England. She is currently studying a Masters in Broadcast Journalism at the University Westminster, volunteering at hospital Radio Northwick Park, and living near Tower Bridge with her two American cats. "Postcards from London" was born out of Wendy's abiding affection for her adopted country and a desire to share her adventures with listeners in Northwest Ohio.
This program is written and hosted by Wendy Sherer, produced by&nbsp;Sion Tammes and distributed by WGTE Public Media.]]></description>
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	<title>Postcards from London: In Remembrance</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12906</link>
	<description><![CDATA[Airdate: March 14, 2013
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On the tenth anniversary of September 11, 2001, I had the uncommon sensation of being a stranger here.&nbsp; It's not that I expected no one to remember the day, but I've grown accustomed to a kind of shared grief in observing it when I'm in the U.S., and I didn't anticipate that same feeling in the UK, now ten years after the event.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I ventured down to the Imperial War Museum which was displaying a number of original steel girders recovered from the World Trade Center, and featuring a silent slide show of images from the airline hangar where much of the wreckage was taken for examination after being removed from the site.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The photos were sobering, as I'd expected they'd be.&nbsp; Ordinary items like briefcases and shoes, randomly collected.&nbsp; Severely damaged fire engines and subway cars.&nbsp; Lots and lots of glass and metal and nondescript materials.&nbsp; The girders themselves were just large pieces of steel, but impossibly bent and twisted under the weight and heat of the disaster.&nbsp; It was strange to look at them up close and consider the transatlantic journey they'd made for this exhibit.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Later in the day I attended a ten year memorial service at Westminster Abbey, somewhat surprised to find that nearly every available seat was filled.&nbsp; Surely these people couldn't all be Americans, and it was clear that they weren't.&nbsp; I reminded myself that many countries lost citizens on that day, and London is a city of many nations.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The following year, on the 11th anniversary, there were no notable events scheduled for the day, perhaps not surprisingly.&nbsp; I chose to visit the permanent memorial garden in Grosvenor Square, across from the U.S. Embassy.&nbsp; This structure commemorates those who lost their lives in the attacks, specifically the British citizens among them.&nbsp; There are flowers planted in the garden, and a pavillion made of oak featuring a plaque with the names of the victims.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When I arrived, there were a few other people visiting the site.&nbsp; Most of them lingered for a minute or two, and then moved on. &nbsp;But one woman remained, leaning against a pillar facing the memorial, and crying softly.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It struck me that we in the the United States could be tempted to see ourselves as the sole owners of the grief which resulted from this attack, which felt personal and specifically directed at us.&nbsp; We don't always intentionally remember that citizens from 90 countries lost their lives that day, and somewhere, in every one of those countries, families are still grieving their loved ones as we are.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Somewhere in the rubble of that horrible day, we were reminded again of what connects us beyond our invented borders&mdash;what makes us part of each other. &nbsp;It's what drives me to cross the ocean and make my home here, in a land far from my birth, but close to my heart.&nbsp; And it's a woman, leaning against a pillar in a beautiful rose garden, holding to the memory of someone precious, in a world where in the Queen's commemorative words, "grief is the price we pay for love."
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&mdash; Wendy Sherer]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Wed, 13 Mar 2013 09:06:38 EST</pubDate>
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	<title>Postcards from London: Star Gazing</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12884</link>
	<description><![CDATA[&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I lived in London for over a year before I saw an actual celebrity.&nbsp; Here I was, living in this international city, close to the suburb of Hampstead, where such people as Helena Bonham Carter and Tim Burton were rumored to live.&nbsp; But not once did our paths cross, so I never had a chance to give my knowing nod of recognition and be the ever cool, unfazed civilian I always hoped I'd be in such situations.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I once heard that Johnny Depp had been sighted near Oxford Street.&nbsp; Be still my heart!&nbsp; I'd been out there many times, but alas, no quirky, enigmatic actor sightings for me.&nbsp; I became resigned about the whole celebrity spotting thing.&nbsp; What did I need with it anyway?
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Which is why, I guess, when Hugh Grant walked right in front of me, I didn't recognize him.&nbsp; That and the fact that I wasn't wearing my glasses.&nbsp; My journalism classmate and I were attending a rather dry presentation about the Leveson Inquiry&mdash;investigations into British Press conduct involving multiple instances of phone hacking.&nbsp; A panel of experts sat at the front of the lecture hall, taking questions from the audience.&nbsp; A man hurried in several minutes late and sat down in the front row.&nbsp; "That's Hugh Grant," whispered my classmate.&nbsp; "No it's not," I said dismissively, but she insisted.&nbsp; Sliding my glasses on for a closer look, I realized that she was absolutely right.&nbsp; And all of a sudden it made sense, given that the actor had testified at these public hearings and had strong opinions about the press.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And now, here I was, sitting casually in a small lecture hall, just a few rows away from Hugh Grant!&nbsp; No big deal, he's just a person.&nbsp; I'm a person.&nbsp; Two people, concerned about press regulation.&nbsp; It made perfect sense we'd be in the same room together.&nbsp; I noticed a number of heads were turning his direction throughout the lecture.&nbsp; Predictably, phone cameras were coming out, trying to capture a candid shot or two.&nbsp; I rolled my eyes.&nbsp; This is a serious venue, let's all try to act like adults, shall we?
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At intermission, several students approached him for a photo.&nbsp; I would never be so predictable.&nbsp; Instead I stood at some distance, casually trying to get a picture with my notoriously inadequate phone camera.&nbsp; Then as we were standing around with our cups of tea and cookies, a number of people tried to strike up conversation with the celebrity.&nbsp; Hugh was tolerant, but I imagined that he'd spotted me across the room, secretly longing for my superior wit and company.&nbsp; If he were more bold, I thought, he might dare to cross the room and approach that mysterious foreign woman, perhaps secretly desiring to reenact Notting Hill or Four Weddings and a Funeral.&nbsp; Let's face it, it's always the Americans who end up capturing his heart.&nbsp; He was just being characteristically British and shy.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; During the rest of the presentation&nbsp; I amused myself framing up Hugh Grant with my camera phone. &nbsp;My predictably bad photos each featured a tiny, unidentifiable man wearing a blue sweater. &nbsp;We never did exchange words that day.&nbsp; He simply returned to his humdrum celebrity life, while I casually told my friends about the day I had a cup of tea with the stars.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&mdash; Wendy Sherer

Photo credit: Daria Dergacheva]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Wed, 6 Mar 2013 15:14:19 EST</pubDate>
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	<title>Postcards from London: A Cup of Cheer</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12819</link>
	<description><![CDATA[Airdate: February 28, 2013
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;My second Christmas in London bore no resemblance to the first.&nbsp; And while I did receive several fabulous dinner invitations over the holidays, I still ended up with no plans for Christmas Day, the only day of the year when not a single bus or train runs in London, and cabs charge double fares.&nbsp; The last thing I wanted was to be stranded at home&mdash;alone&mdash;on the 25th of December.&nbsp; I put out a general Facebook inquiry, trying not to sound too desperate.&nbsp; And lo and behold&mdash;a friend who happened to have a car responded, saying he'd been invited to a Christmas get together with some friends who were looking for company, and I was more than welcome to come along.&nbsp; All I had to do was bring a secret Santa gift worth &pound;5 or less.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Our plan was to first attend morning services at St. Paul's Cathedral.&nbsp; However, we thought better of that once my friend arrived well behind schedule, with two others in the car, saying that they'd taken too much time getting ready.&nbsp; Now we would have to face disapproving looks as we paraded 20 minutes late past the cathedral congregation, our shoes uncomfortably loud on the stone floor.&nbsp; How about a cup of tea instead?&nbsp; "That sounds great!" I said.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It turned out that the tea was served on the West side of town in a public hall where AA was having all day meetings.&nbsp; It also turned out that my friend&mdash;along with his two companions&mdash;were all recovering alcoholics, and as our holiday gathering wasn't due to start for several hours, and we needed to kill some time, this was as good a place as any.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I sat on the molded plastic chair, holding my styrofoam cup, as one person after another stood up, in a real-life reinactment of what I'd only ever seen in movies and television:&nbsp; "Hello, my name is Arthur, and I'm an alcoholic."&nbsp; "Hi, Arthur."&nbsp; &nbsp;So...this is Christmas, I thought to myself.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; As we made our plans for the rest of the day, it became clear that most everyone coming to the dinner party was in recovery from some kind of addiction.&nbsp; Suddenly I remembered, with embarrassment, the secret Santa gift I'd brought:&nbsp; a small bottle of Bailey's with assorted chocolates.&nbsp; Oops.&nbsp; I told my friend, who assured me it would be fine&mdash;we would simply arrange so that the party host&mdash;who wasn't in a recovery program&mdash;would be the one to receive my gift.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The party was a little unconventional, and my friend was the only person there whom I knew.&nbsp; We caught a bit of the Queen's traditional Christmas address on a smartphone while the final dinner preparations were made.&nbsp; And then we sat down, a mismatched bunch of holiday revellers gathered around two large tables pushed together, discussing various recovery group meetings and the relief of not having to spend the holiday with family, where uncomfortable scenes were likely to arise.&nbsp; But at the center of it all was a classic English turkey dinner with trimmings and puddings, and I found myself once again surprised at the places I land in this life, surrounded by the generosity of strangers, and struck by how, though we may seem different, we humans all choose our own addictions, finding ways to deal with life, to recover from its heartaches, and ultimately enjoying Christmas cheer and friendly faces around a table big enough for everyone.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; Wendy Sherer

photo credit: Marie Vejvodov&aacute;]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Mon, 25 Feb 2013 10:27:56 EST</pubDate>
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	<title>Postcards from London: Ticket to Ride</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12791</link>
	<description><![CDATA[Airdate: February 21, 2013
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Public transportation in London is not cheap.&nbsp; Fares increase as often as postage in the U.S., and for my first year of living here, it seemed I was always worried about running out of money on my Oyster card, the universal transportation pass for Londoners.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; As a student, however, I get a discount on an annual travelcard.&nbsp; London is divided into 9 travel areas, called zones.&nbsp; Zone One is the very center of town, where I live, and my university lies in Zone 4, so my travelcard lets me ride trains within these four zones, as well as buses in any zone
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I never knew what true freedom was until I got my travelcard.&nbsp; Whereas last year I would often walk, sometimes up to an hour, just to avoid spending down my card, I now make a sport out of travelling as much as possible on this "free" pass, forgetting, of course, how much it cost in the first place.&nbsp; I will now take a bus for only one stop&mdash;just because I can.&nbsp; And I'll play what I call the "travelcard game"&mdash;riding the train to the very edge of my allowed zone, then hopping on a bus for the rest of the journey&mdash;thus avoiding extra charges.&nbsp; It's fun.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But recently my travelcard and I were separated after a fateful journey on a 106 bus.&nbsp; I figured out that it must have flipped out of my pocket when I reached for my mittens, and I didn't notice until I stood at a bus stop on my way home, fumbling through my empty pocket with disbelief and growing panic.&nbsp; I called up the house where I had just been, hoping I'd perhaps dropped it there.&nbsp; No luck.&nbsp; But they were kind enough to offer me bus fare so that I could get home.&nbsp; I boarded the 106, dropped my change in the tray, only to be told that I was 10 pence short.&nbsp; Fares had apparently increased since I'd purchased my travelcard.&nbsp; Desperately, I began asking fellow passengers if they had a spare coin&mdash;barely worth more than a dime.&nbsp; No one responded.&nbsp; Then a kind looking lady boarded the bus and sat behind me, gladly obliging my request and even giving me more than I actually needed.&nbsp; Thank God for the kindness of strangers.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But I was still without my travelcard, and I was determined to get it back.&nbsp; I phoned the bus garage where the 106 retires each night.&nbsp; Sorry, no one had turned in a travelcard enclosed in a very distinctive BBC London Oyster wallet.&nbsp; I called again the next morning.&nbsp; Then the next.&nbsp; And this time, when I described the lost card and its container, the man asked me my name.&nbsp; "Wendy Sherer," I said, hopefully.&nbsp; "University of Westminster?" he inquired.&nbsp; My heart leapt, because I knew my student ID card was also in the wallet.&nbsp; "Thank God!" I exclaimed.&nbsp; "No," he said, "my name's Carl."
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It was a chilly ride and a long walk down a grimy industrial street leading to the West Ham Bus Garage.&nbsp; But nothing could contain my excitement for this reunion.&nbsp; Arriving through the door where uniformed drivers were coming on and off their shifts, and quickly locating the lost property window, I was scarcely done introducing myself when the friendly man placed the wallet in my hand.&nbsp; "You just made my day," I told him, floating out the door with a spring in my step and a huge grin on my face, in search of another train, another turnstile, to welcome me and my free pass to London, which, after our brief separation, I now loved more than ever.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&mdash; Wendy Sherer]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Tue, 19 Feb 2013 11:09:30 EST</pubDate>
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	<title>Postcards from London: Free for the Taking</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12730</link>
	<description><![CDATA[Airdate: February 7, 2013
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; My favorite way to get something for nothing in London is Freecycle.
Someone offers something for free online, and all you have to do is reply, and arrange to pick it up.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; My good friend once made the mistake of offering to rent a van if I ever needed to pick up something that was too big to take home on the bus.&nbsp; So off we went to collect a mattress from a multi-story apartment building a few miles away.&nbsp; When we showed up at noon, as agreed, there was no answer at the front buzzer nor from the contact phone number I'd been given.&nbsp; Determined to go home with a mattress&mdash;and avoid my friend's anger&mdash;I slipped inside on the coattails of the mailman, found the apartment and knocked&mdash;to the surprise of the sleepy tenant who appeared to have no knowledge of this pickup arrangement.&nbsp; But I could see a mattress propped against the wall inside, and not only convinced her that it was mine, but even enlisted her help in dragging it to the elevator.&nbsp; I hadn't come this far to be denied.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Our second excursion was less satisfying.&nbsp; I'd been promised a red couch to be collected on the weekend.&nbsp; The owner hadn't replied to my proposed pickup times, but my friend told me that van rentals were more competitive on weekends, so I went ahead with Saturday, since there was also a bed frame to be collected from the same area.&nbsp; So the trip wouldn't be in vain, even if the couch pickup fell through.&nbsp; The owner said I could try and contact his housemate, as he himself was out of town.&nbsp; I was beginning to get a very bad feeling about this.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; My friend and a very large van showed up at the location of the bedframe, which turned out to be three fairly lightweight detached pieces of an old futon.&nbsp; We loaded them into the van, where they sat, unimpressively small, in the bottom of the cavernous vehicle.&nbsp; Now off to find the couch, for which we didn't even have an address, as the housemate had still not replied to any of my calls or text messages. &nbsp;"Maybe we should just drive around and look for a couch that someone's throwing out," I half joked.&nbsp; My friend was not amused, and proceeded to grumble about the cost of the van and people who don't communicate, his driving worsening with his mood.&nbsp; I could hear the tiny futon frame banging around in the back of the van with each turn and sudden stop.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We pulled into a filling station, only to discover that the gas cap was facing the wrong side.&nbsp; My friend swore.&nbsp; I hopped out to throw something away, and looked up to see the van speeding off.&nbsp; "Well, this is just great," I thought.&nbsp; A few minutes later my phone rang.&nbsp; "Where are you?!" he demanded.&nbsp; "Where are YOU?" I countered.&nbsp; He had pulled over a block down the road and was now waiting for me.&nbsp; As I scrambled unenthusiastically back into the passenger's seat, my friend said, "I'm willing to do this for you, but you have to stay in the van!"&nbsp; I was suddenly struck by the absurdity of it all, and couldn't stop laughing.&nbsp; I think he even cracked a smile.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When we arrived at my street, our van was so huge that it blocked all the traffic behind us.&nbsp; "I don't care," muttered my friend, as he stubbornly carried my broken little futon frame through the gate to my door, car horns beeping impatiently behind us.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A day or so later, I got a text message from the owner of the couch.&nbsp; "Sorry I got held up over the weekend.&nbsp; My housemate lost his phone so he couldn't answer it.&nbsp; Can you come and pick up the couch tonight?"
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Sure, I thought.&nbsp; Here's my friend's number&mdash;you can ask him yourself.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&mdash;Wendy Sherer]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Wed, 6 Feb 2013 12:05:20 EST</pubDate>
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	<title>Postcards from London: Baseball Blues</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12707</link>
	<description><![CDATA[Airdate: January 31, 2013
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Although my obsession with the Chicago Cubs has relaxed somewhat in the past couple years, I still get that rush of excitement at the first hint of Spring, and the feeling that anything's possible on opening day.&nbsp; I would hang a team flag outside my house on such occasions, to demonstrate my team loyalty to all my Ohio neighbors.&nbsp; Here in England I have my Cubs jacket and blue cap, and I wear them around town sometimes, but it's a different experience.&nbsp; And that's because in London, baseball caps are just something novel to wear on your head.&nbsp; There are shops where you can buy a sort of generic version of a major league ballcap, but I suspect it's more of a fashion choice than a statement of loyalty for most people here.&nbsp; Either that or London has the highest percentage of &nbsp;Yankee fans outside of New York City.&nbsp; &nbsp;Occasionally, I think I pass a tourist sporting authentic team apparel, but it's not too often, and I'm never quite sure it's a real fan.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As a Cubs fan abroad, I am mostly an odd blue fish in a sea of football fanatics.&nbsp; And by "football," I mean the English game.&nbsp; You know&mdash;soccer.&nbsp; But I'm no bigger fan of that game here than I was in the U.S.&nbsp; In fact, the only sport I've ever gotten excited about is baseball.&nbsp; And now I'm struck by how much of my enjoyment actually came from sharing the experience with other fans.&nbsp; Isn't that the true appeal of spectator sports?&nbsp; To be part of a tribe--to belong, at least within this invented kingdom with its odd but agreed upon rituals.&nbsp; And there's an unspoken kinship with these others around you, even if the only thing you all have in common is the team you support.&nbsp; What exactly is a baseball fan in isolation?&nbsp; Is she even a fan?&nbsp; Or just some odd expatriate who offers nonsensical comments whenever the topic turns to sports?&nbsp; Or "sport," as they call it here.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I'd been afraid that this would be the first year I would go a whole season without actually being at a live game.&nbsp; I was resigned that the highlight of 2012 would be catching Kerry Wood's final pitching appearance before retiring from the Cubs&mdash;leaning into my computer speaker to not miss a moment of the live internet stream.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But then, good fortune struck, and I found myself back in Toledo for a few weeks in August, lucky enough to catch a Mud Hens home game with some friends.&nbsp; Walking into that small but friendly ball park was like coming home to my "tribe."&nbsp; Okay, it wasn't Wrigley field, but the Toledo fans were in fine form, as was the home team.&nbsp; I thought I would burst with happiness as I sat in a fabulous seat behind home plate, clutching a ball park frank and a draught beer, overwhelmed by the sounds and smells of the game.&nbsp; And the Mud Hens topped off the evening by pulling off a very exciting 9th inning victory.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When people here in London ask me if I miss the States, I answer, "Not exactly."&nbsp; I really don't miss living in U.S.&nbsp; But what I do sometimes long for are those small snapshots of life&mdash;the intoxicating smell of fresh grass on the field, the unmistakable crack of a home run hit, and the closeness of old friends, kind enough to take a transplanted baseball fan out to a game, and show her a wonderful time.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&mdash; Wendy Sherer]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Wed, 30 Jan 2013 09:34:31 EST</pubDate>
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	<title>Postcards from London: Cats About Town</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12673</link>
	<description><![CDATA[Airdate: January 24, 2013
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When I decided to move to England, I knew I could never live without my cats.&nbsp; Or rather, I would never choose to.&nbsp; I would do whatever was necessary to bring them here, and to make their overseas life as good as it could be.&nbsp; I called them my International Cats of Mystery, particularly in reference to my older male cat, as the title seemed to fit his personality.&nbsp; I think he would've preferred a little less mystery, and a little more of the stable comfort of the familiar.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Both cats made the airline journey well, having travelled in a climate controlled area of the plane, separate from luggage or the noisy distractions of the passenger cabin.&nbsp; We were reunited in a specially designated building at Heathrow Airport called the "Animal Reception Centre."&nbsp; Even though I had to wait over an hour for their paperwork to clear, I was assured that my pets were being fed, exercised, and generally looked after until I could claim them.&nbsp; Considering the cost of shipping animals overseas, I should have hoped that they were reclining in the VIP lounge sipping cocktails upon arrival.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I'm fortunate that my cats are not in the habit of holding grudges, and that they mostly live in the moment.&nbsp; I'm not sure they even remember the international flight, or all the space we used to have in our Toledo home.&nbsp; The first year in London was spent in a tiny efficiency apartment, what I called a glorified shoe box.&nbsp; At least I could get out during the days&mdash;all Philo and Athena could do was jump up into the space-saving loft for a little variety.&nbsp; I felt sorry for them, but they still seemed content to be with me.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We have since moved into a larger place across town, and they are clearly more comfortable now that they can run from room to room.&nbsp; My male cat Philo rises early and practices his morning yeowling at the top of his lungs.&nbsp; I've never figured out what purpose this serves, as he still never gets breakfast before 7am.&nbsp; I used to think it was just because he just likes hearing the sound of his own voice.&nbsp; This is a cat whose every move comes with an accompanying vocalization. &nbsp;It's endearing, unless it's 4:00 in the morning.&nbsp; Or on a bus to the vet. &nbsp;Yes, that's right, fellow passengers, that distressed yeowl coming from this carrier is my cat.&nbsp; You might as well get used to it.&nbsp; Sometimes I get sympathetic smiles.&nbsp; Mostly just puzzled glances.&nbsp; Once an older woman sat next to us, and told me a whole story about how she used to have cats but couldn't anymore.&nbsp; She clearly loved animals as much as I do.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And love is what it requires to tote a whining animal four blocks to the bus, seven stops and four blocks more (a walk through the park to try and distract him), and about ten minutes at the vet for a quick shot only to turn around and go back again.&nbsp; Philo has never minded actually being at the vet.&nbsp; He loves wandering around, exploring new places.&nbsp; It's the travelling he hates.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I sincerely hope the nuisance of airplanes, buses, and tiny apartments is outweighed by the simple fact that my cats get to live with me&mdash;no matter where in the world we are.&nbsp; With one purring loudly on my chest and the other across my legs, I indulge myself in the belief that where human/feline relations are concerned, true love definitely goes both ways.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; Wendy Sherer]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Wed, 23 Jan 2013 09:18:12 EST</pubDate>
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	<title>Postcards from London: Word Games</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12647</link>
	<description><![CDATA[Airdate: January 17, 2013
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; British people have a different word for everything.&nbsp; But I already knew this before moving here, and I was ready.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Being an Anglophile from a very early age, and having spent two years in the British territory of Hong Kong, I already knew that in England trucks are lorries, elevators are lifts, and cookies are biscuits.&nbsp; I'd also listened to London radio for a whole year prior to moving, just to get a feel for the local scene, and so I expected to make a fairly seamless linguistic transition.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;At first, the differences seemed quaint, even endearing, like a fun little word game.&nbsp; Even the sound of the new phrases amused me.&nbsp; I mean, wouldn't you rather be chuffed, gutted or knackered instead of simply elated, devastated or tired?&nbsp; The British words also sounded more elegant somehow.&nbsp; Who would settle for just "going to a movie" when you can "take in a film?"&nbsp; And pavements and car parks feel much more glamorous than sidewalks or parking lots.&nbsp; Even calling trash "rubbish" gives it a kind of dignity, and the gold-lettered bins in Regents Park are a fitting depository for such royal refuse.&nbsp; (A bin is a garbage can, by the way.)
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But this new language was actually more complicated than simply substituting one word for another.&nbsp; Sometimes, for instance, words were dropped altogether, such as being "in hospital" rather than "in the hospital," and "catching cold" instead of catching a cold.&nbsp; Or sometimes words were added.&nbsp; It wasn't as simple as going out for ice cream and coffee&mdash;one must have an ice cream and a coffee to make it right.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Not long after settling into London life, I found my initial amusement slowly turning to a bitter resentment that everything had to be said in a different way here.&nbsp; I was convinced that this was really just to annoy visitors from the U.S. and prove that we know nothing of speaking English properly.&nbsp; I mean, what's the big deal if I'd rather ride a bus instead of a coach or call someone instead of ringing them?&nbsp; It took me a full five minutes in the soap and cleaner aisle to establish that the "washing up" liquid I held in my hand was, in fact, the dishwashing soap I was looking for.&nbsp; Washing up WHAT?? I kept asking aloud.&nbsp; No picture of a dish on the bottle, no instructions for use anywhere on the package.&nbsp; Repeated sniffing of the contents finally convinced me that even if this were the wrong thing, it would at least work for my intended purpose.&nbsp; And I'm sure it got me more than a few stares from passing shoppers.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I've relaxed a bit since those early days, and now only have occasional relapses of "word rage."&nbsp; I mean, how much does it really matter in the end?&nbsp; Standing in a long queue is no more annoying than a long line, and hoovering a rug isn't really more tedious than vacuuming it.&nbsp;&nbsp; And if taking a stab at the local lingo means getting a nod of recognition instead of an annoying squint of confusion, I guess I'm more than happy to play the word game.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Just know that if you ask me to do the "washing up", I'm still going to do the dishes.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&mdash; Wendy Sherer

Photo credit: rubbish bin in Regents Park (Wendy Sherer)]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Mon, 14 Jan 2013 12:48:13 EST</pubDate>
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	<title>Postcards from London: Vicarious Victory</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12611</link>
	<description><![CDATA[Airdate: January 10, 2013
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Many people have asked me what it was like to be in London during the Olympic games.&nbsp; "Fabulous!" I answer.&nbsp; But truthfully, I missed most of it.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It all began with the torch relay, the famous flame travelling all through the UK, handed off at each mile marker by designated runners, to the excited cheers of the crowd.&nbsp; Here was an event that cost nothing but the time spent waiting for the torch to appear&mdash;and somehow I only realized this an hour after it passed less than a mile from where I was living.&nbsp; There went the chance of a lifetime.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The opening ceremonies were a little more satisfying&mdash;I gathered with a crowd on a fake "beach" with a smattering of sand and lawn chairs behind a music venue called the Roundhouse.&nbsp; The "big screens" were, well, pretty medium-sized, and we had to crowd together quite close to catch the action.&nbsp; I still ended up re-watching the whole thing on my computer the next day, as the noise of the crowd had drowned out many of the quieter musical numbers.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; As for the actual games, I didn't have tickets to any events.&nbsp; I satisfied myself with periodic television coverage (much like I would've done had I been living overseas), and ecstatic Facebook updates from lucky friends who'd scored tickets.&nbsp; Apparently, the live events were electric.&nbsp; I can only imagine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It was a remarkable year for British athletes who brought home a record number of medals.&nbsp; People around town also seemed to be more relaxed, kinder somehow, I don't know, just&mdash;happier&mdash;during the games.&nbsp; It was as though we'd all been sprinkled with magical Olympic dust that transformed London into a wonder-filled place.&nbsp; And I'm really not exaggerating.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I was obliged to make a Stateside trip for over three weeks during the time the games were going on, and it nearly killed me to leave the country while the magic was still alive.&nbsp; It took at least half a week to come down from the high and admit that I'd actually left.&nbsp; I couldn't explain my mood.&nbsp; It's just that London was, so friendly.&nbsp; I wanted more.&nbsp; Of course, now that I was thousands of miles way, a UK friend finally offered an extra event ticket via Facebook.&nbsp; "Sure," I thought glumly, "does it also come with airfare?"
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I did manage to return to London during the Paralympic Games, but had no better luck scoring a ticket.&nbsp; More excited friends' updates.&nbsp; More vicarious enjoyment.&nbsp; If nothing else, I thought, I'll catch the closing ceremonies on television, which I did&mdash;snuggled in the comfort of my own bed.&nbsp; Which would've been quite satisfactory had I not realized too late that fireworks were being exploded all over town, from the Olympic Park to the Southbank at the Thames Festival.&nbsp; Living near Tower Bridge, the view from my very own roof would have been spectacular.&nbsp; That is, if I hadn't been so comfortably tucked in bed.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The 2012 Olympic Games really were an extraordinary experience, though, and I didn't miss everything.&nbsp; I made a special effort to attend the athletes' victory parade through the city.&nbsp; Although their faces weren't easy to recognize, and you couldn't really see their event signs until after the floats had already passed, still I waved my little flag and cheered my heart out, along with the rest of enchanted London.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; Wendy Sherer

Photo credit: London 2012 (Torchbearer and London Underground employee John Light carries the Olympic Flame onto an underground train at Wimbledon Station, London.)
Additional photos at right: Wendy Sherer's camera phone.]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Tue, 8 Jan 2013 10:18:42 EST</pubDate>
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	<title>Postcards from London: Jubilee</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12558</link>
	<description><![CDATA[Airdate: January 3, 2013
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 2012 was a momentous year for London.&nbsp; The mayor's election, of course the Olympic and Paralympic Games, and in June, the Queen's Diamond Jubilee.&nbsp; How exciting!&nbsp; The Queen's Diamond Jubilee!&nbsp; Okay, I have no idea what that is.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I soon learned that it was the commemoration of 60 years of Queen Elizabeth's reign.&nbsp; But how do you celebrate such a thing?&nbsp; Well first, neighbors all around London hosted street parties, which sounded like great fun to me&mdash;but I wasn't invited to any, and somehow didn't feel like hunting one down.&nbsp; Oh well.&nbsp; What else is there?
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A star-studded concert at Buckingham Palace, featuring Annie Lennox, Elton John, Stevie Wonder, and Paul McCartney to name a few.&nbsp; 10,000 members of the public selected by national ballot to attend the concert.&nbsp; And...I was not one of them.&nbsp; I caught snatches of the event on a friend's TV, which was fine, but still didn't feel very "jubilee."
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On Sunday there was going to be a seven mile river parade&mdash;called a "pageant"&mdash;carrying the Queen in her royal barge, accompanied by 1000 other boats.&nbsp; I heard that folks were already lining the river banks for the best viewing spots--at 8am, on a rather cold day, with rain predicted, for an event that wasn't expected to begin until the afternoon.&nbsp; No thank you.&nbsp; Off to church I went, figuring that there was no way I'd get a good view of the Queen.&nbsp; Who wants to stand out in the rain for hours, waiting for one moment when a golden boat passes by?&nbsp; Apparently, 1.2 million people.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Around 1pm I took a quick stroll past the river just to get a look at the gathering crowds.&nbsp; Predictably, all of the space alongside the river was occupied.&nbsp; Folks had also positioned themselves on steps and other raised platforms to try and catch a glimpse of the impending pageant.&nbsp; I came upon a huge television screen, broadcasting the event live.&nbsp; At least here, I thought, I can see everything, if not an immediate view of the river.&nbsp; I sat myself atop a bicycle docking post&mdash;thankfully, without a bike in it.&nbsp; This small, flat pillar was about five inches square across, and served as a nice little stool on which to sit and eat my lunch.&nbsp; I really hadn't planned on getting caught up in the craziness of the crowd, but as the Queen's Barge was approaching, I somehow became obsessed with seeing it&mdash;not on tv, but here, live, in this singular moment of history.&nbsp; I foolishly scrambled up onto the pillar in my 2 inch heels, perched precariously as the monarch approached.&nbsp; And just over the heads of the crowd, I saw the very top of that gilded boat, right in front of me!&nbsp; The people roared with excitement, and I confess, I couldn't help myself.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Soon afterwards, a damp drizzle started, and I headed home alongside hundreds of others swarming into the Underground.&nbsp; On the soaked road I spotted a small British flag which someone had dropped.&nbsp; I adopted it, cleaned it up, and now it sits proudly on my shelf, just waiting for another public event.&nbsp; That settles it, I thought.&nbsp; I may not have a British passport, but after a cold day by the Thames, pressing into a crazy crowd for a glimpse of royalty, I think I'm official..
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; Wendy Sherer

Main photo: HRH Queen Elizabeth II's official portrait for Diamond Jubilee (mirror.co.uk)
Photos at right: Wendy's view of the crowd at riverside as she sat on a cycle meter, and the cycle meter itself.]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Wed, 19 Dec 2012 10:27:44 EST</pubDate>
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	<title>Postcards from London: Blue Autumn</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12556</link>
	<description><![CDATA[Airdate: December 27, 2012
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I hope I will be forgiven for saying this, but it's not Autumn.&nbsp; Yes, the calendar says we're in the final months of the year, but it sure doesn't feel like Autumn here in London.&nbsp; At least, not the way I remember it.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I do need to say that for the most part, I love living in the U.K.&nbsp; But at this time of year, this place is sorely lacking in flaming red and yellow leaves that drift gently down on a cool, dry breeze, to blanket your pathway in a bright and crunchy carpet.&nbsp; Reading Facebook posts from my friends back in the Midwest have me sighing loudly, trying to re-create smells of burning wood fires and fragrant apple orchards.&nbsp; Fresh sweet corn roasting.&nbsp; Hot cider and roasted pumpkin seeds.&nbsp; I can hardly stand it.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; For some reason, I wasn't as discontent with Autumn in London the first time around.&nbsp; But this second year, I can't shake the itchy feeling that somewhere, very far away, I'm missing it all.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On the short walk between the university where I study and the hospital where I volunteer, I happened upon a smattering of yellow leaves, and stopped in my tracks.&nbsp; Looking up I saw a small but undeniable maple tree, dutifully shedding its leaves and making as good a show of it as could be expected.&nbsp; I picked up one of the leaves, admiring it, and then pocketing it for future pressing, so as not to lose this experience.&nbsp; And then it occurred to me: maple trees!&nbsp; I hadn't seen very many around the city.&nbsp; I remembered my childhood in Iowa when lush, flaming orange and yellow maples turned the town into a magical world.&nbsp; There must be some to be found, somewhere on this island.&nbsp; A friend suggested that I visit Grosvenor Square, where, as it happens, the U.S. Embassy is also located.&nbsp; Apparently, he said, they had imported a number of maples and planted them there.&nbsp; I was on a mission.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I'd been to Grosvenor Square before, but never took notice of the trees during the summer time.&nbsp; Now I couldn't wait to get there, imagining a fairylike re-creation of childhood Autumns, right there in the heart of London.&nbsp; But this time, I couldn't find the place.&nbsp; My pre-planned route took a wrong turn somewhere, and I ended up, frustratingly, at Berkeley Square instead.&nbsp; No maples here, and the daylight was fading much too quickly.&nbsp; Somehow I instinctively found my way to the chosen destination, but when I arrived the sun had already set, and thus the gates were closed for the night.&nbsp; No matter, because it was clear to me, even in this dim light, that there would be no magical flaming trees here.&nbsp; Maples, yes.&nbsp; But only slightly changing colors, and hardly any dropping their leaves in this maddening island climate.&nbsp; I sat down in front of my embassy, across from Eisenhower in his proud military regalia, and sighed deeply.&nbsp; And in one of those very rare moments, I asked myself, "What am I doing here?"&nbsp; Not the embassy, but this country.&nbsp; This damp, Autumn-less place.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I resolved that in future years, I would simply plan a Stateside trip during this, my favorite season, to get my fix of pumpkins and apples and crisp, burning things.&nbsp; Until then, I'll have to be content with a single leaf, plucked from a rainy pathway, where one small but proud orange maple dares to show its colors.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; Wendy Sherer]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Wed, 19 Dec 2012 10:04:00 EST</pubDate>
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	<title>Postcards from London: Discomfort Food</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12513</link>
	<description><![CDATA[Airdate: December 20, 2012
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;How did I get here, standing outside the locked door of a specialty grocery store on Christmas Eve, fighting back tears?&nbsp; Earlier that day, I made a plan to shop for baking ingredients in the afternoon, and return home merrily at 4pm, just in time to catch those first famous notes of the Lessons and Carols from Kings College, a fitting soundtrack for whipping up a batch of holiday cheer.&nbsp; How could I have predicted the holiday disaster about to unfold?
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Clutching my shopping list in the middle of Sainsbury's grocery store, I got the sinking feeling that Christmas baking wasn't going to be a piece of cake this year.&nbsp; I couldn't find anything I needed.&nbsp; Nothing had the right name, if it was even anywhere to be found.&nbsp; Powdered sugar&mdash;would that be this little pink and white box labeled "icing sugar"?&nbsp; I also figured out that "bicarbonate of soda" must be baking soda.&nbsp; But where on earth was molasses?&nbsp; All I could find was a strange brown box called "molasses sugar," which I did end up buying, but what the heck do you do with it??&nbsp; And I completely gave up on corn syrup or the licorice flavoring for my gingerbread.&nbsp; After almost 30 minutes of wandering up and down the same aisles, I had only half of my ingredients, and no complete set for any one recipe.&nbsp; On top of that, it was already 4:00 and I was missing that little choir boy who starts off "Once in Royal David's City" with his pure, dulcet tones.&nbsp; I choked back frustration and disappointment; my holiday cheer all but evaporated, and made my way home in defeat, a motley and useless assortment of groceries in my half-filled bag.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Hope returned, however, when partway through the Lessons and Carols, an internet search revealed Peacocks&mdash;a specialty grocery featuring a number of hard to find American baking ingredients&mdash;with two locations right here in London!&nbsp; Perhaps Christmas could be saved after all.&nbsp; I quickly mapped my route to Peacock's from church, making sure I'd arrive well before their Saturday closing time.&nbsp; What I didn't plan on were the special early closing hours for Christmas Eve&mdash;not advertised on the website.&nbsp; Behold Wendy fighting back tears as she stands before a locked grocery store, the key to all her holiday happiness trapped inside.&nbsp; Not even the magical blue glowing lights of Sloane Square could cheer me as I made my empty-handed journey back to the train.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I did eventually learn that most everything I needed had actually been at Sainsbury's, just with an unfamiliar name.&nbsp; Corn syrup is essentially the same as "golden syrup," and molasses is called "dark treacle," and comes in a metal cylinder which strongly resembles a can of wood varnish.&nbsp; Candy canes, on the other hand, are nowhere to be found, but crushed tea biscuits can make a satisfactory substitute for Vanilla Wafers.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I did end up spending a delightful Christmas Day at a dinner prepared by a friend from Finland who had married a Welshman.&nbsp; They showed me the best English holiday I could've asked for, complete with party favors called Christmas crackers, a very drunken pudding, and a televised address by the queen herself.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Shopping disaster a distant memory, and a merry little Christmas was had by all.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; Wendy Sherer]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Thu, 13 Dec 2012 09:30:59 EST</pubDate>
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	<title>Postcards from London: My English Heart</title>
	<link>http://www.wgte.org/wgte/item.asp?item_id=12456</link>
	<description><![CDATA[Airdate: December 13, 2012
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I moved to London for love.&nbsp; I'm not exactly sure when the dream of living in England began.&nbsp; But I do know the symptoms.&nbsp; Adolescent pining after the lead singer of Duran Duran or the mysterious Remington Steele.&nbsp; A handmade Union Jack flag proudly displayed on my bedroom wall.&nbsp; Waking up at 4 a.m. to witness the full grandeur of a royal wedding at age ten&mdash;and then again at age 39.&nbsp; A teenage fixation with Gothic romance novels, all of which featured a young heroine who softens the heart of an aloof nobleman&mdash;who just happens to have a huge estate out on the wild Cornish coast.&nbsp; And while these were only indications of a growing obsession with the little island across the pond, I can't really put a finger on the exact reason why I chose England.&nbsp; With true love, you just know.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Even the two years I lived abroad after college were spent in Hong Kong, which at that time was a British territory.&nbsp; Of course.&nbsp; Aside from U.K. Nationals populating the streets--and the governor's chair--Hong Kong bore many similarities to London&mdash;something which I only discovered after I moved here.&nbsp; Double decker buses, underground trains, place names like Admiralty, Stanley, and Victoria&mdash;even some of the random smells from the markets, are the same here as in that Southeast Asian territory.&nbsp; And every time I returned to London, there was something familiar about it, perhaps the feeling you get when you've come home.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This town was made for me.&nbsp; Or maybe I was made for London.&nbsp; I've always felt comfortable on a bus, inching down congested streets, revealing scenes before me like a slowly changing postcard.&nbsp; I love the river.&nbsp; I rang in the New Year huddled with hundreds of revelers crowded on Blackfriars Bridge trying to get a good view of the fireworks from the Southbank, taking swigs from a shared bottle of champagne.&nbsp; This is what crazy Londoners do.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When I first walked through the Rose Garden in Regents Park, I imagined my grandmother walking those same paths years ago on one of her many visits to London.&nbsp; I'm sure she loved those flowers.&nbsp; As she stood in the souvenir shop buying me and my sister those little palace guard replicas&mdash;the kind that come in plastic tubes&mdash;could she have even had an inkling that one day her granddaughter would call this city home?
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Yet here I am and even if I lived the rest of my life here, and did something different each week, I would still not run out of new things to experience.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Now, don't get me wrong; it's not like I'm overly fond of the elevated cost of everything from real estate to chocolate bars, or the polluted streets overrun with tourists, the perpetual train line closures or windows without screens.&nbsp; It's just that the view from Parliament Hill or the sudden magnificent sight of Tower Bridge as the number 15 bus rolls around the corner, is all it takes to make any petty complaint I might have seem irrelevant.&nbsp; In that moment, my only thought is, dang, I live here.&nbsp; Granted, Mr. Darcy hasn't yet asked me to be mistress of his fabulous estate at Pemberly.&nbsp; But even on the grayest, wettest, windiest day, on the slowest bus, heading home to a drafty East Side apartment, I can't pretend that I'm not still hopelessly in love.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; Wendy Sherer


Photo: Gate and Roses at Regents Park in London (larger photo at right) credit: Wendy Sherer]]></description>
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	<pubDate>Wed, 5 Dec 2012 11:42:15 EST</pubDate>
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