Pish posh

Julia had a friend over for a playdate this past Friday who had never been to our home before. The little girl shed her coat and dropped her school bag as soon as she'd walked into the front door of the building and was clearly confused when Julia informed her that we still needed to go up a flight of stairs before we would actually be home. She looked around in surprise when we entered the flat, obviously thrown by the small space in which we live. I overheard her asking Julia why she doesn't have a TV in her room and whether we actually had a toilet ("we have three," Julia proudly informed her). And as she gazed out our back windows at the big garden behind our house, I felt grateful that it was a rainy day and I would not have to explain why we do not have the right to enter the beautiful green space below.

In the child's defense, she was nothing but polite and well behaved the entire time that she was here, and she was an absolute pleasure to have over for a playdate. She covered her surprise at our home reasonably well, and I doubt that Julia even aware of it. Even as I noticed her initial discomfort, I couldn't fault her for it; I've seen her home and the homes of many of their other friends, and they quite simply don't look like our little flat. I kind of doubt that this little girl even knew what a flat was or had seen one prior to entering ours.

This three bedroom flat is worth at least double what our five bedroom house in New Jersey is worth. Without the financial assistance of an expat package from Paul's company, we would never even consider laying out the kind of cash required to live here, let alone the exorbitant tuition for my kids' posh London private school. I didn't think twice about these things when we first made the decision to live in this area of London; if we could have the best -- on someone else's nickel, no less -- why shouldn't we enjoy it for a few years? In hindsight, there was more at stake with that decision than simple economics.

In many ways, I was correct that this would be a fabulous place to live. The area is leafy and green, yet urban and interesting, giving us a "village within the city" feeling that truly encompasses the best of both worlds. That kind of real estate comes at a price, of course, and we're grateful to have a package that enables us to enjoy it. But Julia's classmates are permanent residents of this area. They're not here temporarily, and no one is providing them with any kind of subsidy for housing, school, or anything else. They are the kind of people who easily shell out over $20,000 per kid per school year for private school just because that's what school costs. Even if it cost far more, they'd just lay that out, too, and I doubt they'd even flinch as they wrote the cheques. Their homes are large enough to provide the gracious living space their lifestyles require; in other words, no flats for these folks. They own single family homes in this area, purchased at costs I cannot begin to even imagine. In some houses, butlers answer the door, and in nearly every house, there is at least one full time housekeeper or nanny. Some of these kids are used to having more than 4 full time employees in their homes to meet their daily needs. I am the only mother picking my child up at school every day with the other child in tow. I am the only mother thinking about the hassle of ironing all of those damn uniform pleats. These are the children of very wealthy people, the names of one or two of whom you would easily recognize if I were gauche enough to drop them. And in the midst of them all, our little family is clearly out of its league.

I've experienced every bit as much culture shock during my encounters with London's upper class as with British culture in general, maybe more. Just as my accent marks me as a foreigner, my address marks me as not being of their world. To be honest, it's not a world I particularly aspire to; I'm pretty happy with our upper middle class American existence and consider this exposure to the upper class nothing more than an interesting foray into a different kind of lifestyle. But every time I pick Julia up at a playdate in a grand home or welcome a child born into privilege into our small flat, I wonder whether I've really done us any favors in choosing to live in Northwest London.

Would we have been better off settling in a different area, one that more accurately represents our own socio-economic status? The question is purely academic at this point. This is our London home, and this is where we will remain for as long as we remain in the UK. That people are different here quite irregardless of their nationality is simply yet another learning experience for me. But it is a learning experience that I am not anxious to share with my children, I must admit. For now, Julia and Evan remain oblivious to the difference between our lifestyle and that of their classmates. But at some point, they're going to want to know why we don't have a bulter, or even a private entrance to our home. And that's where the real hard learning here will begin, for all of us.