One week in England and I already think I’m Jane...

As you probably would’ve guess, I was vacationing in England with my husband’s family.

You can’t go just once in your life to that country, because once you’ve stepped onto its cities, you would want to go back over and over again.

True, summer time it’s not an intelligent time to do tourism in any part of the world, because most of the time, you’re walking down the streets and doing the mandatory sightseeing while sweating constantly, feeling like you’re decomposing at a slow pace.

However, the beautiful places, the awkward accent and the rudeness of the people compensate for the heat… (Yeah! rudeness… you’re not in England if people don’t give you orders and commands).

Tourists form an anthill onto the streets and you walk awkwardly like an elephant ballerina performing an impossible dance; while being pushed and throw forward (and I thought that New York was impossible to walk on!!).

We celebrated my brother in law’s graduation, so most of the time we spend it having fancy dinners and lunches (Argentineans and Dominicans don’t need a worthy excuse to celebrate), hence, we did obligatory walking to digest the meal down afterwards.

We carried boxes and luggage to move the 4 year’s worth of rubbish collected by my brother-in-law (I think I improved my arm’s strength in the process so no exercise for the next year or so) from Oxford to London, his next 4 years destination… Where more rubbish would be added to the pile and then, he would probably decide to throw everything away, because who on earth’s name would be able to carry all that back to the DR! (So all the moving we did was in vain… I think I’ll probably kill him when I get home tonight).

Anyhow… you can’t be in England without the need to become a sophisticated person, with a weird accent, who drinks tea, attends mass every day at 6 pm to hear the Gregorian chanting in the church, rides the tube (subway it’s too cheap of a word), takes the lift (elevators weren’t invented in England) and most importantly, attains this “double-identity thing” that makes you the next undercover agent in the story of tourists visiting the UK.

So, who am I?

I’ll have to kill you if I tell you… but call me Jane… Jane Bond.