Mitzi Szereto on a Mitzi TV shoot in London
A chat about my grand passion the internet, along with email etiquette, social networking, geekdom, and all things Mitzi TV; (broadcast on 4 August 2009, the Dave Monk programme, BBC Radio Essex).
Click to listen: http://mitziszereto.com/Mitzi-Szereto-BBC-Essex
Mitzi Szereto and Teddy Tedaloo enjoy some strudel
I bet you didn’t know that I was named after an Austrian countess (or rather my name was passed down to me by my mother, who was the one originally named for said countess). Okay, so I don’t think my ancestors hung out with Mozart (more likely Liszt), but it’s rumoured that the ghost of my maternal grandmother is wandering the streets of Vienna as we speak! She’s probably checking to see if anyone makes better apple strudel than she did.
Which brings me to Wien. What was initially supposed to be a short visit three years in the making turned into a whirlwind of activity and a combo work-holiday/food orgy. No sooner did I arrive at Vienna airport than Teddy and I were whisked off in a Fiat Panda (yes, I said panda!) to Radio FM4 ORF to be interviewed on the “Reality Check” programme by Kerry Skyring, who turned out to be Australian rather than Austrian. Perhaps it was inevitable, since not only did the car I was riding in have a sticker in the rear window of a koala bear with an Australian flag, but my hostess for the weekend (Sylvia Petter) is herself Australian. I should’ve known the shrimp was on the barbie when I was treated to an authentic Austrian Australian breakfast of Vegemite on toast. (Why does Vegemite always conjure up Men at Work and their song “Land Down Under“?) Not even 24 hours had passed and already I was wondering which country I’d come to. Had I boarded the wrong plane at Gatwick? It was all becoming a blur: Austria, Australia, Vienna, Vietnam. Whatever. As long as I could get some nice cakes I was cool with it.
I didn’t even have a chance to recover from my journey (why does it take twice as long to get to the bloody airport here in the UK than it does to fly across Europe?) then I was up early the next morning (anything before 10am is perverse for me) and off on the Mutzenbacher tour – an interesting and rather unique walking tour of Vienna’s less than savoury past. Let me tell you, it’s a good thing I had one of those Viennese coffees to start off the morning with! Mind you, the heat of the day was proving unbearable, and as the tour reached its conclusion I was fearing I’d never manage my reading that evening at Shakespeare & Company Booksellers. I don’t “do” heat very well, and as morning turned to afternoon, it grew hotter and hotter. It might have been prophetic that one of the readings I’d planned for the evening was from my short story “Hell is Where the Heart is” (in Getting Even: Revenge Stories). Because it was definitely hotter than hell!
Mitzi Szereto partakes of a pre-author reading pigout
To keep me alive, just before the reading Sylvia took me to an ice cream parlour in The Bermuda Triangle area (no, I didn’t spot any sharks!), where I hurriedly indulged in a divine ice cream sundae topped with candied chestnuts (I say hurriedly because the heat was melting it), after which the three of us made our way to Shakespeare. Ted was keeping a low profile in his backpack. It’s a good thing too, considering we were greeted at the bottom of the road leading to the bookshop by a gentleman armed with a really butch submachine gun. As we headed up the hill, I noticed a police car blocking the top of the road. Seriously, I never expected my appearance to cause this much of a fuss. I’ve performed my work in such diverse locales as London, Los Angeles, and Wales – and there was never any necessity for armed officers and police guards. Then it dawned on me. The road housed the Stadttempel, Vienna’s main synagogue. Aside from the fact that this happened to be a Friday evening, the Stadttempel had been attacked by terrorists some years back – and clearly the authorities had no intention of allowing it to happen again. Talk about sobering. What a nasty world we live in when people can’t even go to shul without risking their lives.
Mitzi Szereto with Teddy Tedaloo outside Shakespeare & Company Booksellers
At the bookshop I consumed glass after glass of mineral water, hoping I wouldn’t melt into a literary puddle before the time came for my gig to start. The owners were beginning to look at me with concern, no doubt thinking I’d keel over dead right in the middle of their shop. In an attempt to cool off, I went outside (it wasn’t much better there either), where I struck up a conversation with a very nice lad, who’d been perusing the books before he had to head off to synagogue. Okay, so maybe I was chatting him up, if you want to know the truth! (After all, doesn’t every girl’s mother tell her to find a nice Jewish boy?) He seemed genuinely interested in my reading and wanted to attend, but being a Friday evening, the rabbi called. Not one to let a good opportunity pass, I did everything I could to convince him to skip out of shul, even suggesting he recruit the rabbi and anyone else he could find and bring them on over. Alas, our relationship hadn’t yet progressed to the point where he’d choose me over the rabbi, but I remain hopeful.
Anyway, the last I heard, my Aussie Austrian hostess Sylvia was getting the wedding invitations printed. Mazel tov!
(Stay tuned for Part 2 of my Vienna blog!)
A bit of Viennese craziness:
Mitzi Szereto with Teddy Tedaloo at her author appearance in Vienna
For those of you who were unable to be there in person, you can hear me read an excerpt from my short story “Odalisque” (from my anthology Foreign Affairs: Erotic Travel Tales), which took place at Shakespeare & Company Booksellers in Vienna, Austria on 17 July 2009. This had to be the hottest night of the year, but thanks to Teddy, copious glasses of mineral water, and a bit of unexpected inspiration from the synagogue next door (now that’s MY secret!), I managed to survive without melting away completely!
Watch the Video on YouTube:
Mitzi Szereto at Mitzi TV Morris Dancing video shoot
Mitzi TV ventures into Central London to meet up with the Westminster Morris Men, a team of Morris dancers who do a lot more than shake their booty as they keep alive this wonderfully rhythmic English folk dance!
Visit the official Mitzi TV website at: http://mitziszereto.com/tv
It’s another Fourth of July – Independence Day for us Yanks – and it’s got me thinking about what I miss most about America. Okay, if I’m honest, I’d have to say not a whole heck of a lot. However, if I’m also honest, well… there are some things. So to be fair to the old homeland and the Stars and Stripes (cue “Star Spangled Banner”), I thought I’d come up with a list – or rather a short list, since I really must put the kettle on!
Top of the pops would have to be clothes dryers. I mean, exactly what is this invention here in the UK they call a “clothes dryer”? It sure doesn’t dry clothes, I’ll tell you that much. It does, however, do a slap-up job of wrinkling the hell out of them (as does the great British washing machine and its mentally challenged sister, the “washer-dryer”). It’s no wonder my pile of ironing never diminishes. Whoever designed these things was surely taking the mickey out of people who like to wear clean fresh-smelling clothes. American washing machines and clothes dryers do a wonderful job, even the cheaper models. Frankly, I don’t understand why they’ve fobbed these ridiculous appliances off on us. Perhaps some primitive tribe on a forgotten South Pacific island didn’t want them, so the manufacturers said, “oi, let’s dump these piles of shite onto the Brits. They won’t make a fuss. Still upper lip and all that!” (Whoever said the war was over?)
Another thing I miss are doctors’ offices that don’t look like a waiting room at a rundown city centre bus station. Just try to find a magazine more recent than 2005, especially one that isn’t about fly fishing! There’s also usually some reasonably pleasant music playing in American doctors’ offices, as opposed to the dulcet tones of phlegmy coughing and wheezing that we listen to here from people who should probably be quarantined or shot, not sitting with a roomful of sorry bastards who might value another few years of life on this doomed planet.
Having said that, I don’t miss the exorbitant medical costs that go into having nicer patient waiting areas or paying the salaries of the ten dozen or so people per doctor’s office who just handle patient and insurance billing, but do nothing that contributes to a patient’s actual health care. Nor do I miss the terror of either having no health insurance or wondering if I’ll either be cancelled, refused insurance, have a claim rejected, or be able to pay for the portion of a claim the insurance doesn’t cover or, or that matter, be able to afford the next premium (which generally increases exponentially with each breath you take and far exceeds the rate of debt of all the Third World countries combined).
Something else I really pine for is the TV commercial for “The Clapper“. (And no, this isn’t some new STD.) It always comes on around Christmastime and features a slew of lazy buggers who can’t be bothered to switch off the lights or telly. My favourite out of this cast of loonies is the mad-looking old bat who’s lying all tucked up in bed, then suddenly from beneath the bedclothes these big gorilla hands appear, clapping the telly off. I tell you, American television just doesn’t get any better! (I wonder if I can land an interview with her for Mitzi TV?)
I also miss the fact that in America the majority of people can actually go for a night out and drink in reasonable moderation (well, except for students in frat houses or on spring break in Daytona Beach), rather than here where they fall into the gutter and pass out – and that’s only after they’ve left behind a pool of vomit for some unsuspecting pedestrian to step in – or slip and fall into. The real tragedy is, these people are going to bankrupt the British National Health Service with the vast menu of ailments and diseases which will develop from their excessive drinking. Perhaps some of the costs can be offset if the UK begins to export a new delicacy: pickled liver.
And lastly, most of all I miss the teeth.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could take the best of both America and Britain and create one great big wonderful country? Or perhaps we already have.
It’s called Canada.
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Interview and discussion of erotic writing and male versus females writers; (broadcast on 24 June 2009, the Dave Monk programme, BBC Radio Essex)
Listen Now: http://mitziszereto.com/Mitzi-on-BBC-Radio-Essex
Mitzi Szereto interviews an Austin Healey for Mitzi TV
Mitzi TV heads to the Connaught Village Spring Festival in London, encountering some cool cars and the likes of Batman, Fred Flintstone, Formula 1 racecar driver and BBC Television’s “Top Gear” and “Fifth Gear” presenter Tiff Needell, and Carrie Bradshaw’s favourite couture shoe designer Jimmy Choo!
Visit the official Mitzi TV website at: http://mitziszereto.com/tv
Mitzi Szereto at Teddy Tedaloo's London Photo Shoot
What’s a girl to do when her own bear upstages her?
A bear who hogs the limelight – it’s a problem I’ve had a number of times. Bad enough he blew me out of the water on Mitzi TV, not to mention pretty much knocked me off the page in the Sunday Telegraph a few years back. And it’s getting worse. Who do you think received an invitation last week to do a photo shoot in London? No, not me, but – you guessed it! Teddy. Like, what’s up with that?
I tell you, it never ends. He even steals my friends on Facebook.
Of course I had to agree to this caper, since I knew I’d never hear the end of it. So I packed a few changes of outfits for him (at his insistence) and what does he do? – sticks to his favourite red jumper and jeans. Here I’d been schlepping this stuff all over the place, only to end up not even needing it! Okay, I didn’t want to make a fuss; I admit the colour contrast between the red of his jumper and the black of my little vest top worked out quite well from an artistic perspective. Hey, I’ll give credit where credit is due – Teddy certainly has an eye for what works from a design perspective.
Which brings me to the London Underground. (How’s that for a nifty segueway?) I realise I haven’t had a good rant about the public transportation system in Blighty for awhile, and I didn’t wish to neglect this fertile subject. There’s nothing like a summery Saturday afternoon in Londoninium: the sun’s shining, there’s a nice breeze, people are happy (or at least their usual dour expressions are brightened by the sun, giving the appearance of “happy”). You figure hey, it was a productive day, we had some great photos shot, and we can get home early enough to chill out and fix a salad for dinner; there’s even time to stop off in Brick Lane for some Bengali sweets, since it’s practically around the corner from Whitechapel Road. What can possibly go wrong?
Dare you ask?
Thinking I’d save myself the hassle of passing through Liverpool Street station with its teeming mass of manic commuters who take delight in mowing you down at warp speed, I opted for the District line to Mile End, where I’d change to the Central Line to Stratford. I’d done it on the way in – easy peasy! It made perfect sense to do the same thing on the way out. Well, there’s no fool like a fool who travels on the London Underground. An ominous feeling began to take hold of me as our train sat for nearly ten minutes at Whitechapel station, with swearing and shouting Chelsea supporters (I presume they won) in the next car. Finally an announcement came on saying that we were waiting in order to “even out the gaps between services.” (At least there weren’t any leaves on the line or – considering it was the Underground – dead rats.)
At long last we lurched back into service. I rose from my seat in readiness to propel myself and my important passenger out the door at Mile End. Alas, that ominous feeling returned in full force when we sped past what appeared to be a station platform packed with commuters, our train barrelling deeper and deeper into the darkness beneath East London. The electronic signboard inside our car claimed the next station was Mile End. Well, if that were the case, Mile End should have been renamed Ten Mile End. And then we arrived.
In Bow.
Did I want to go to Bow? No, I didn’t want to go to Bow. Did Teddy want to go to Bow? Not that I was aware of. Fine, whatever. I figured the driver was probably some descendant of Jack the Ripper and was tormenting us by skipping stops. Being resourceful, I climbed the stairs and made my way round to the other side so I could catch another train heading back in the direction from whence I came. Made sense, right? Well, it did until I finally managed to decipher a garbled announcement informing us that Mile End station was closed due to a “passenger incident.” Now this could be anything: a suicide, an attempted suicide, some nutter pushing someone in front of a tube train…
Well, if someone wasn’t dead, I sure as hell felt inclined to help them on their way.
An official (loose usage of the term) from London Underground told me I could walk to the Docklands Light Railway. “Two minutes!” he claimed. If so, it was the longest two minutes I’ve ever experienced – and I’m a fast walker, especially when I have the safety of my bear to consider. Bow isn’t exactly … errr… Holland Park. It’s amazing how many friends you can make in London when you’ve been done over by public transport. I found a kind young gentleman who escorted me to the DLR, and he too, was wondering why two minutes seemed to be lasting a lifetime. As we waited on the platform, we marvelled at the fact that the DLR method of timekeeping jibes with any form of timekeeping known to man (or woman). The electronic signboard claimed seven minutes to the next train, but by everyone’s watch, it was more like fifteen. Funny, that.
To pass the time of day, my new friend entertained me with a tale of how he’d been late for work because a pregnant woman decided to suddenly give birth on the underground train he was riding in. His boss wasn’t having it, however. It was only when an article finally appeared in a newspaper featuring a beaming London Underground worker holding a baby that he got back into his boss’s good graces. Soon others chimed in with their tales of woe…
… until the DLR train arrived to ruin our fun.
Ted and I got home safely, albeit hungrily. It was 9:30 pm before I sat down to eat my salad. (I’d been reckoning on no later than 8 pm.) To be honest, I was so exhausted I barely managed it. Oh, well, who needs all those faddish diets with weird berries when you have the London Underground? The problem is, I’m not even on a diet!
Mitzi Szereto presenting Mitzi TV
Mitzi TV goes on the prowl in London in search of the famous East End Cockney delicacy, the jellied eel… (Turns out these scary denizens of the deep weren’t our cup of tea. We should’ve ordered the pie and mash instead!)
Visit the official Mitzi TV website at: http://mitziszereto.com/tv
