Consorting with Aristocrats

Week in Short: I hung out with the various aspects of British society, from working-class students to titled aristocrats. Read on to learn all about the modern-day British class system.
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In Which Theresa Begins With A Tangent

An interesting thing about British television is that not only does the BBC produce many educational and historical films, but people actually watch them. Case in point: tonight I could choose from Boudica or Byron. We decided to go with the tale of the Iceni queen who razed London to the ground after the Romans flogged her and raped her daughters as an example to the other Celtic tribes living in Britain. Boudica didn’t win in the end, but almost wiped out the Roman army in the process. I’ve been regaling my flatmates with all sorts of arcane Celtic and Roman knowledge—hey, being a Classics major can sometimes come in handy!

In Which The Flat Becomes More Like a House Than Home
A word on my flatmates: I originally moved in with Elizabeth (35, at LAMDA for acting classes), Meredith (20 and on an internships), and Brenna (28 and at the Royal Academy of Music as a post-grad vocal performance major). We’ve since been joined by Riya (Ukranian-Canadian, also at LAMDA), and this week Chrissy (from Hong Kong) moved in. Brenna’s friend has been here for the past four days, and now Chrissy’s friend is staying with us for a bit. Woo, full house! I’m also getting a roommate this upcoming weekend. Can’t say I’m excited about it. Actually I’m not looking forward to it at all—I haven’t shared a room in 3 years, and to start now… I’m hoping she’ll either a.) have a boyfriend or get one right away and will immediately spend all her time at his place, or b.) be an intrepid traveler and leave every weekend. Of course, there’s always c.) she’ll get a boyfriend and he’ll stay in our place all the time.

In Which Theresa Makes You Jealous

But this upcoming weekend I’ll be watching Kenneth Branagh perform live onstage at the Royal National Theatre in David Mamet’s Edmond. It’s a sold-out show, and I’m getting to see it for FREE. Yes, all because I’ll be attending Penn/Cornell/Brown’s orientation on Saturday. Lunch, a few hours of boring orientation for the students, high tea, and then the play. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday.


In Which Aristocrat #1 is Introduced

Now onto the interesting part of the week: yes, I’ve been hanging out with titled people. Hehehe. I must confess to having the typical American attitude towards being titled—I’m rather in awe and get a big kick out of it. I suspect that some of you will as well, so here are the details.

When I was in Swansea my old flatmate Cat gave me the number of one of her friends, Tom, who lives in London. He’s from Australia but his family are all English (I’ve met one of his cousins) and he’s been living here for the past five years playing the tuba in the Grenadier Guards. Yes, that’s right. He only works a few hours a month, playing for the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace and a private parties that the Queen has. Not a bad life. Add on to that the facts that:

• Tom’s grandmother is a Baroness (Baroness Lady Salt, to be exact)
• He’s second in line to the Baronetcy and is listed in the books of Peers of the Realm that are published yearly
• When his grandmother wanted to come see him graduate from boot camp his commanders freaked out because had she come as a Baroness she would have outranked every person there and would have had to inspect the troops. As it was, she ended up not coming as a VIP, just a regular grandmother, which is what Tom and she wanted
• His familial home has been lived in the past 500 years
• Everyone in his family keeps a daily journal, which are bound in leather and put in the library. It’s possible to compare four or five people’s versions of the same event for any day for hundreds of years
• His cousin just married into a family and became a Duchess (the highest ranking below a Prince), which she was complaining about because she had to give up her surname and get a new driver’s licence, passport, etc. that just says “Duchess Amelia of ____.” No mention was made of how she’s now one of the top 200 richest people in Britain, since money is not discussed in Tom’s family
• Another cousin is best friends with one of the Rothschilds, who are the richest family in the U.K. In fact, she’s housesitting for them now while they’re on their honeymoon, and Tom just hung out in their mansion
• Tom also hung out with one of his good friends on Friday, who was having a birthday party. She’s the niece of the late Ugandan dictator Idi Amin

In Which The Upper Class Lifestyle Is Revealed

So yeah, you might say Tom’s rather well connected. He’s also tall, an excellent dresser (when we met he was in a pinstriped suit), absolutely fun to be around, and he fences and plays polo in the Home Counties (rich areas of England surrounding London). Too bad we don’t fancy each other! We met in front of the Ritz on Thursday and went to a cool old bookstore where he bought five Enid Blyton novels for his Ugandan friend. She’s a famous children’s author who’s so well-known here that I’m surprised her popularity hasn’t jumped the Pond. Everyone keeps telling me how Madonna hasn’t heard of her, and how atrocious this is considering she’s writing her own children’s books now. Then Tom and I were off to Fortnum & Mason, a wonderful old department store akin to Harrods except much less busy and gaudy. There he bought a box full of chocolates and plunked down £50 on a leather penholder for one of his friends’ birthdays. Whew!

In Which Theresa Pretends To Be Upper Class

And then the pièce de resistance of the evening: we went to the Lansdowne Club, the private members-only club where Tom’s family have been members for ages. The Treaty of Paris, which ended the Revolutionary War, was composed in the Round Room, which Tom took me to. Luckily, I was dressed up enough to get the grand tour of all the ballrooms and smoking rooms, after which we went downstairs to the former servants’ quarters, where the swimming pool and fencing areas are, along with a bar. We were joined by Katie and James, both of whom fence, and we watched the people down below fence while we talked and ate snacks and drank the bottles of wine Tom got. It was such an interesting atmosphere to be in—everyone who belongs to the club just goes there to socialize with people. The crowd I was with were those who are interested in fencing, so later an older James came by, with a few more bottles of wine, and joined us while we ate dinner (which Tom put on his tab as Katie and I didn’t have any cash). It didn’t seem to matter that we were on different generations—everyone sat and talked without an deference or condescension. Not something I’m used to.

In Which The Syrian Royal Family Is Revealed

For a while we had a large group consisting of the four Englishmen/woman, an Italian, and a fellow American, Pauline. She’s an interesting character—got her law degree here and is also getting a PhD, and says highly inappropriate comments almost constantly. She has exotic looks and a slight accent, and when I asked her last night about it she told me her background is Armenian, French, and Christian Arab, and that she grew up speaking French, Armenian, and a little Arabic, although now she knows more Japanese than Arabic. Tom told me that she’s part of the Syrian royal family, which explains why she can do jack all (she doesn’t even know how to cook, and not just because she doesn’t like to do it like me) and can still afford the £500/month it costs to be a member of the Lansdowne Club. Um, yeah. That’s about £100 more than my rent!

In Which Rich People Talk To One Another

Like I said, the atmosphere is something I’m not used to. Towards the end of the evening, an American professor dressed in white linen came down to chat—he just comes any old time, before and after lectures. He used to run the German equivalent of the Tate, or something like that, and had just met a Czech jewellery designer, who’d given him a beautiful plastic bracelet she’d made out of some unusual process. It was such a rarefied atmosphere to be in—we talked about all sorts of intellectual things. James and I discovered a mutual love for classical literature and traded recommendations on everything from Alexandre Dumas to popular fantasy—this after talking about Thucydides. And the American held sway for a bit while discussing how he managed to obtain the Arabic version of A Thousand and One Nights so he could read it in its original language—all for the bargain price of $300. Hey, you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do.

In Which Money Is (Not) Discussed

I found it interesting how the subject of money was treated. Obviously, these are all monied (and sometimes even titled) people, and money is not an issue with them. But they sometimes feel the need to say how much something cost (like when Tom told me about the dues to the Lansdowne Club—and no, drinks and food are not included in the monthly price). Also, the dynamic between Tom and James and the serving staff was straight out of Gosford Park: lots of flirting and complimenting to get them to do what they wanted, which they always ended up doing. So we got another bottle of wine after they were supposed to quit serving. Around 1 a.m. the party broke up and we said our goodbyes. James walked with me and Tom for a bit, and Tom gallantly walked me all the way back to South Kensington. It was fun walking arm-in-arm with someone who knows the city (and wears a pin-striped suit). He came up for tea and we talked till 3.30 a.m.

In Which The Upper Class's Bias Is Revealed

Tom had some very interesting things to say that betrayed his class bias. For instance, I was talking about how the Crown Prince of Luxembourg wanted to enter King’s this autumn, but that we didn’t have any places for him in European Studies and his grades weren’t high enough anyway. “Of course they did the requisite photo shoot,” I said, “But I’m glad that he wasn’t treated specially because he’s titled.” Tom looked askance. “He should have been let in,” he said. “They should have found him a place.” “But there wasn’t any room—the classes are capped,” I responded. “There’s always a way,” he concluded with finality. I see. Later on, I said how enjoyable it was to talk about books with James and how I didn’t think of most Britons being so well-read. Tom made some kind of comment about who I hung out with, and asked if they went to public (read: private) school. “Of course not!” I said. “I went to Swansea, remember?” He told me that in order to find a “true” representative of Britain I had to talk to someone who was privately educated. While I pointed out that 90% of the population here was publicly educated, he still maintained that this upper echelon of society is representative of the “true” Briton. How utterly fascinating—and how relieving that I’m American. Because frankly, were I British I highly doubt I would have been invited to go to the Lansdowne Club and have people treat me in such a friendly, welcoming way. Coming in as an expat foreigner, and an American to boot, means that it’s okay not to come from a titled, privileged background with loads of money (although that last bit helps). I expressed this to Tom and James and they said that a.) I shouldn’t talk about not having money and feeling out of place to anyone else except them, and b.) that of course it doesn’t matter, and that it’s only when other people take exception with them that they’re limited with their friends.


In Which The Other Side Of The Stairs Is Shown

A different side of life is shown in my very good friends Emma and Steven, with whom I spent Friday and Saturday. I became friends with them (and set them up!) while studying Classics with them at Swansea, and as they’re living in Emma’s grandfather’s house south of London I took the train down after work. Ended getting fined £10 for not having a ticket, but that’s a different story. The two of them had changed from being starving students to job-seeking college graduates, just like many of my friends back home. The £40/wk the government pays each for “jobseekers’ allowance” doesn’t go a long way, not with credit card bills and student loans. The two of them have my deepest admiration for everything they’ve been through. Steven’s from the Valleys, near Cardiff, and used to take the train over an hour to get to lectures. Emma’s from a working-class family who scrimped to put her in a private girls’ school so she could get a good education and get into university. The gap year she took before uni she worked so she could help pay the bills, as her parents are in poor health. Both of them are the first people in their family to graduate with degrees (plus Emma’s father, who got his at the same time as her). Were they Americans, this would be the classic case of the American Dream: coming from unprivileged backgrounds and by dint of hard work, becoming successful. Well, we’re all waiting for the successful part, but just having a university degree is already opening doors that never would have been otherwise. Steven already has several interviews lined up, and I’ve offered to help choose a suit for when he goes for his interview at MI5, the equivalent of the FBI. I wish them all the best, and am so happy for them both graduating with good marks. For all the worries they have, at least they have each other and their degrees. I think they’ll do well.

In Which A Relaxing Time Was Had

We walked around East Croyden and shared a dinner at a J.D. Wetherspoon’s pub while shouting in each others’ ears because of the loud music. Then I decided to spend the night on the spur of the moment, so we bussed over to Tesco’s supermarket and stocked up on junk food before retiring to Emma’s grandfather’s house to watch Carry On Up the Khyber, a classic movie from a series of films from the 1960s. Think of a British take on Airplane! and Animal House and you’ve got the picture. The house was part of a row of terraced housing and was made of classic boxy rooms, with a long garden in back. For some reason I kept thinking of C.S. Lewis’ The Magician's Nephew, and wondered if it would be possible to climb into other houses… Anyway, I was exhausted and went to bed pretty soon after the movie ended, only to wake up early to a fresh cup of tea brewed by Emma. It took me and Steven a bit to fully wake up, at which point we journey by bus back to the station and enjoyed a milkshake before I left to go back to Kensington. The Brits don’t do milkshakes here! Well, they do, if what you think of a milkshake being is just flavoured milk, sans ice cream. I’m on a search—and refuse to go to McDonald’s.

In Which Theresa Gives A Little Message

With the promise to come and visit soon (and a bit of begging for them to come up and see me in Kensington when they have the money), I hopped back on the train. They’re such fun people, and it was a relaxing weekend break. But they are so different than the Lansdowne crowd in interests and occupations. I’m amazed I can coexist in both worlds. I like to think that no matter where I am I have good manners (a help with the aristos) and don’t judge people by their backgrounds, just by themselves. I know I’ve been rather over-excited by the whole oooh-look-they’re-rich-and-titled stuff, but it’s just because I’ve never met anyone like that before. I wouldn’t trade having Steven’s beautiful, unintelligible Welsh accent or Emma’s silliness with her fat, scary pet rats for all the free wine and pompous I-can-read-Arabic people in the world.

In Which Theresa Proves She Can Be Alone...For A While

That said, I was still nervous about whether or not Tom wanted me to hang out with him and his friends on Saturday. There was mention made of going out to a club on Thursday, and James and Tom assured me I was invited, but I wasn’t too sure when Tom texted and said we’d have to hang out “soon.” So Saturday night I was hoping my friend Spencer would call like he said he was going to, but as time rolled on I decided to go shopping in the city. The South Kensington tube station was evacuated due to a fire alarm, so I walked over to the next station in Chelsea, passing where London Fashion Week was held and wishing I had connections so I could do makeup. Ah well. There’s another Fashion Week in January so we’ll see. By the time I got to the West End all the shops had closed, but I espied Wasabi, the takeaway sushi place I’ve eaten at before. I wandered over to Covent Garden and felt quite proud I hardly had to use my map at all. I’m beginning to get the hang of London a little more.

In Which A Great Night Out Was Had For Only Five Quid (And That For The Taxi)

As I was sitting eating sushi and watching a street performer, Tom rang and told me to get on over to Tiger Tiger in Piccadilly Circus at 8:00. I went home to change and arrived about 9:30, where Tom, Katie and Pauline were all drinking Woo Woos. By the end of the night I’d had about four Woo Woos (Tom, Katie and her friend all bought pitchers), a White Russian (courtesy of James), and a Bailey’s on ice (courtesy of his friend Stuart). The British sure know how to buy rounds! We need more of this in the U.S.! I had a fun time talking to Katie’s Scottish friends, a brother and sister who both told me that Glasgow (where I’ll be going in mid-October) is a great city, better than Edinburgh. I’m sure I’ll have a lovely time if I get to talk to more Scotsmen. Boy, is the accent ever sexy! They have no idea. I felt simultaneously very old and very young, as everyone I talked to, including all of James’s friends, works in the City as a stockbroker or trader or something. I’m only 22! Never thought that would feel young. I also met two girls, sisters, who are Comtesses of Malta. They both speak Maltese, which is cool, but even cooler is that they live across the street from Bill Gates’s London home (which says something about the neighbourhood they must live in). A few months ago they witnessed him standing in front of his window, bashing the life out of his laptop. Which is even cooler. Just picture it.

In Which Theresa Learns How To Say "No!" Effectively

The Scottish girl (who’s name I’m forgetting) and I went downstairs to the dance floor and tore it up dancing to all the cheesy music British clubs so graciously supply. There’s nothing like singing along as you’re dancing. I got a big kick out of a difference in culture: In the States, guys who fancy you often come up and start dancing right behind you. The usual way to get him away it to move and switch places with a friend, or in dire necessity, to actually go to a different part of the floor. Well, I learned a different approach last night—saying “NO!” Any time a guy would come up (and plenty did, as happens when natural blondes wear short red dresses) my Scottish friend would just say “No.” Sometimes she had to say it a couple of times, but it always worked instantly and the guy would move off. One of them even thanked us for saving his time! I think we need to do more of this in the States as well. Then guys don’t waste their time on futile dancing and girls can be left alone. Works well for all concerned!

In Which Aristocrat #2 Is Introduced

Tom left and I hung out with James and his three friends. I was feeling mighty tall in me 3 ½ inch heels, but was dwarfed by the guys, who ranged from 6’ to 6’4. Interestingly, I wasn’t approached at all by any nasty guys when I was with them, except when I was by myself at the bar. Wonder why… 3 a.m. rolled around and everyone streamed out onto Piccadilly Circus. Stuart, Geoff and their flatmate Chris took a shady gypsy cab back to the East End, and James and I took a Black Cab to my place (he lives just across the river). James is so much fun! He reads, which is a big star in my book. Plus he went to uni at Aberystwyth, which as I’m sure you’ve gathered from the lack of vowels is in Wales. I’ve been there—lovely city on the coast. James then went to Sandhurst, the premiere military academy here, until he was injured in a fall in the Brecon Beacons and had to quit. Now he works for the Ministry of Defense doing I don’t know what. His parents are diplomats in Spain and Costa Rica and they rent out their house, so in holidays he goes to his godfather’s castle in Oxfordshire. Hehehe—I love knowing people who cavort around castles! (Actually, he stressed that his godfather is just really rich and bought himself the castle; it wasn’t passed down. And he himself is from the non-titled branch of his family.)

In Which Theresa Makes Friends

James and I are going to hang out this week, and his friend Geoff offered to cook me dinner. Plus Tom said something about me coming to the club again. Somehow I’ve managed to find a group of cool British friends exactly a month after arriving. It’s wonderful and has made me super happy. Plus now that I know how easy it is to visit Emma and Steven I’ll be going down there more often. And my flatmates are lovely, and my Swiss friend Stephan is visiting in a few weeks. Life is looking up! I just don’t want to think about having to leave.

Thanks for reading my novella, and feel free to comment or just say hi.
Love, Theresa