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From Peachtree Street to Portobello Road: A Southern Belle in Britain
Former AH&L Contributing Editor Amy Laughinghouse contemplates a new life across the pond after her first 100 days in London.

This past April, I kissed my grits goodbye. My husband received a job offer in London, and after giving this international upheaval careful consideration (possibly the longest 10 seconds of my life), we decided to leave our home in Atlanta. Cheerio, Peachtree Street and pulled pork BBQ. 'Ello, Portobello Road and shepherd's pie!

Do You Speak English?

OK, so nobody in London actually says 'Cheerio,' unless, perhaps, they're asking for the breakfast cereal. And that's just one of the linguistic surprises we've encountered.

You might think we share the same tongue with our British brethren, but the first time you utter the words 'fanny pack,' you will realize, to your shock and horror, that you are indeed very much mistaken. (Suffice to say, a purse worn around the waist is called a 'bum bag,' and let's just leave it at that). You should also know that pants are 'trousers,' underwear are 'pants,' and if something is deemed unsatisfactory, it's also 'pants' (pronounced with a sneering curl of the lip). Presumably, when the elastic on goes on the 'pants' you've owned since the last millennium, they are 'pants pants!' Confused? Me too.

Less Is More

The British have honed the art of 'small,' as you'll notice the moment you take to the roads. In Atlanta, we like our SUVs to accommodate a king-sized bed and swimming pool, but when the price of a liter of gas equals the gross national product of a Third World nation, you learn to bend those knees and elbows.

In London, instead of owning an entire home, you're more likely to rent a single floor of a townhouse. Think of your old college dorm room, but smaller. In our case, this means that our giant nude painting, which seemed utterly discreet at the top of the stairs in our suburban Atlanta home, now hangs in our combination living/dining/great room/hallway, greeting guests in all her lewd, life-sized glory like the welcoming committee at the Playboy Mansion -  if the 'mansion' was a 600-square-foot, one bath flat in Notting Hill, that is.

Living Large

While the size of our home has decreased substantially (and I really can't complain about having three fewer toilets to scrub), our universe has increased exponentially. In London, the parks and pubs are your lawn and living room. And no one reads the Sunday paper at home. It's best to linger over the pages with a pint at your 'local' (i.e. a pub within crawling distance of your front door) or with a cappuccino at one of the coffee bars that have sprung up - like mushrooms in a field, or Waffle Houses in Atlanta - on every city block.

Global Gastronomy

In fact, we've discovered a Waffle House right here in London, although, with its menu of bagels and brie, this isn't the Waffle House y'all know and - well, love may not be the word. While we still haven't found anyplace that serves 103 varieties of hash browns, in our multicultural neighborhood we can dine on Malaysian, Moroccan, Persian, Portuguese, Lebanese, Thai, Spanish, and yep, even Mexican fare within a 10-minute walk from our flat.

Royal Procession

Speaking of walks, when I lived in Atlanta, my daily goal was to stroll to a stop sign near our neighborhood golf course. Now I step out my door and into Portobello Road's famous market, where I've scouted everything from ancient Egyptian artifacts to the sweetest apples I've ever tasted. And instead of a stop sign, my goal is to reach the gates of Kensington Palace.

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