Ch-ch-ch-changes - the expat experience

OK, so everyone who is anyone is writing about what marks you out as an expat.

See here (Moscow)

and here (Chicago)

and here. (York)

I thought I'd better join in.

What do I do now, that I would never have done before my stint abroad?

• I don't mind if food isn't piping hot, and I don't expect plates to be warmed (though I do warm plates myself, if it's just me and Husband eating, without the children, which I guess is a dangerous indication of double standards, but I'm just being honest here).
• I used the adjective "excited" to describe adult emotions or behaviour. That always used to be a word just for children.
• I expect attentive customer service. This is a long, weary road to disappointment. I look back on myself in my pre-US days, and think "Why did I think that being ignored was comfortable and non-intrusive? What was wrong with me? What is wrong with Britain?" The one that really gets me is when someone says "I'll be with you in a minute" and continues writing on a piece of paper behind the till. I feel like saying "That piece of paper isn't going to make a purchase. I might. It is in your interests to serve me first, and attend to the piece of paper's needs later."
• I might mention that I used to see a counsellor. I might even go so far as to use the word therapist. I know. I'm never going to fit back in.
• I can't stop going on about how wonderful the NHS is. My GP politely listens. I haven't yet made an appointment with her just to tell her how wonderful the NHS is, but I can feel it coming. There was a notice up on the waiting room door saying "We arranged an extra clinic to meet demand, and ONE THIRD of patients didn't show up for their appointment. Please let us know if you are unable to attend an appointment." I wanted to go out and buy my GP flowers to make up for it. 
• I would quite like magazines in the waiting room that are dated later than 2011, though. 
• I say "uh-huh" instead of "yes". Which actually is quite Scottish, so that's ok. No-one notices. I sometimes say "absolutely" instead of "yes". I sometimes say "totally" instead of "yes". 
• I use the word "totally" way too much. I say "way too much" way too much.
• I find John Humphrys way too rude, irritating and aggressive. In fact, I don't listen to The Today Programme at all any more, which was one of the things I was looking forward to getting back to. There are only so many times you can shout "let them finish their answer" at the radio before you give up. 
• I would like parking spaces (which I call "parking spots") to reflect more accurately the width of the average 21st century car.

There are a million other things, but the list is long enough.

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It was a moment

I had a moment the other day.

I've stayed on a couple of email lists, and yes, I know, I know, we left America 11 months ago, so it probably is time to drop off them. But they don't generate much traffic, so they don't clog up my inbox, and it's kind of fun to keep an eye on them. One is the book club I belonged to, and I like to see what they are reading. The other is the study group I belonged to at church. Now, that was a special group in my life. You may remember reading about those people in this post.

I had a phone conversation with the friend who convenes that group out of the blue recently. It was fun to catch up - both the big things, and the little stuff. And then, just after, there was another email in my inbox. I hardly read them, these days, but the second paragraph caught my eye. 

"Also, on another note, for those of you who knew Husband and Iota, I got a call from her the other day and they are all doing well in Scotland. Husband likes his new job, the kids are doing well, and their house in America finally sold (Iota says thank you for the prayers and hello to all!)."

"For those of you who knew Husband and Iota..."  That was the moment. What? There are people in that group who don't know me? Seriously? You mean, it's not all just exactly as I left it? How can that be? People definitely aren't allowed to do that. My life there is in a box, and that box is absolutely not permitted to be shaken up.

It was a moment. 

I'm going to remove myself from those email lists. I'm in another church group over here now, and a couple of weeks ago, a friend and I decided to start a book club. We're reading The Great Gatsby... Life moves on.

It was just a moment. Those moments feel rather more like this, though.

Photo credits: IKEA, and Wikipedia

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Camping - the verdict

One of the troubles with blogging is that you sometimes anticipate what you are going to do in real life in terms of how you are going to blog about it. So when we set off for our camping trip, I'd already semi-written in my head two possible posts. One ended: "...and as I lay there, listening to the birds singing and watching the morning light creep up, I felt so relaxed and happy, that I knew camping had found itself a new convert". The other ended: "...and I decided that, much as I like the idea of camping, I'm just too old and comfort-loving to enjoy the reality".

The trouble is, neither applied. I didn't love it. But I didn't hate it. It was... ok.

We arrived at the campsite late on Friday night. There was a fish and chip van on the site, which seemed like a good start to the week-end, so we ate fish and chips in our car. (Too cold to be outside.) Then we started to put up the tent. The instructions start like this:

"Helpful hint: Please practice pitching your tent in good weather before you go away on a holiday or break. This ensures that you are familiar with the tent, with the experience being especially valuable if you later have to pitch in adverse weather conditions."

Eminently sensible. We hadn't done that, though. (And I didn't like the mis-spelling of "practice".) We did ok for a while, and got the hoops into the flysheet. It was windy, and the flysheet kept ballooning up, but morale was high, and it all seemed like fun. Then the instructions started talking about fitting the hoops onto the pins, and we hadn't a clue where or what the pins were. At that point, the nice friendly man from the next door pitch came over, and asked if we needed a hand. We said, yes, we do need a hand. He proceeded to instruct us and help us put up the tent, which was just as well, as the light was fading and so was I. (We did have a Plan B, I hasten to add -we're not THAT gung-ho - but it was nice not to have to fall back on it.) Meanwhile, someone from another tent came over and asked us if we'd like a cup of tea. We said, yes, we would like a cup of tea. She then pressed us to partake of some of the chili which she and her family had had for dinner, (but we'd already had the fish and chips). They are very friendly, those camping folk down in Northumberland.

The first night passed without adventure. On Saturday morning, I was the first up, and I had the kettle whistling on the gas, cups of tea ready for all, and cereal standing by bowls, before you could say "continental breakfast". It was sunny. Camping felt good.

We spent Saturday at Alnwick Castle (thoroughly recommend it, good day out), and then Saturday night in the tent, again without adventure. We packed up the tent on Sunday morning, and then headed back to Alnwick to visit Barter Books. If you like second hand bookshops, this one is a must. It's in the former station, and is wonderfully atmospheric. It's where the original "Keep Calm and Carry On" poster was found, which is framed and displayed over the counter.

But back to Keep Calm and Carry On Camping. What's the verdict?

I can see us having fun, camping as a family. The week-end brought back lots of memories of my own childhood camping experiences, and I'd love my kids to have similar memories of their own. But it's not exactly comfortable, is it? The facilities at the campsite were very good, but it's all very communal, isn't it? I'm not sure my idea of fun is a draughty shower in verucca city, having to hurry because I'm aware of the queue of people outside.

The children rose to the occasion. They said afterwards that they'd enjoyed it and would want to go again. There wasn't much bickering and complaining, though I wouldn't swear it had been exactly a zero on that front. 15-yo deserves a medal, for sleeping in the living bit of the tent (it was a 4-person tent - Husband and I took one sleeping compartment, 12-yo and 9-yo took the other). We hadn't velcroed the groundsheet to the flysheet, and I could feel a howling gale around my be-bedsocked ankles as I prepared for the night. 15-yo had a horrendous cold - the kind of cold that makes your head feel like an exploding tomato. But he laid his poorly head down on a rolled-up fleece (pillows provided only for the over 40s), in the gale, without complaint. His cold was much better in the morning, oddly enough.  Husband also gets a medal, as he'd been out camping in the hills with the school Cadet Corps the night before we camped. That's devotion to duty for you.

So we're going to buy a tent. We concluded that camping would be a fun thing to add to the family repertoire. I envisage us using it for week-ends here and there, and though I wouldn't rule out camping for a week or two as our main summer holiday, I also wouldn't rule out renting a holiday house instead. It struck me that camping isn't the cheap option that it used to be. You're looking at £25 a night, or more, and you can easily get a holiday house for a family the size of ours for 4 times that. Plus you have to buy the tent and kit in the first place. I pointed this out to Husband. He invited me to think of it in this way: you can have 4 weeks' holiday in a tent for the price of every 1 week you can have in a holiday cottage. But hm... I'm not sure I'd come down as equivocally in favour of the 4 weeks under canvas as he would. Short, sharp, sweet, luxurious burst of holiday might win over prolonged discomfort. (And it's not "under canvas" these days, is it? It's "under nylon" which doesn't have the same ring at all.) I've also just been browsing the Eurocamps website and other similar ones, and those fixed tents seem pretty reasonably priced.

The one thing I would have changed about the week-end was the location of our tent. The campsite had caravans round the edge, presumably because they need their electricity hook-ups. We were shown to a pitch in the middle. In the morning, as I stretched and yawned and poked my head out of the tent door, I wasn't greeted by a rural vista of beauty and serenity. We were surrounded, at close quarters, by a ring of caravans, 4 x 4s, and motor-caravans. It wasn't exactly the "back to nature" experience that camping is meant to provide. More like being on a stationary grass version of the M25. Another time, I would choose my own spot, or if that wasn't allowed, request a rather more secluded one.

I think this post has given an unfairly negative impression. I sound very reluctant. But we did have a good time, and we've made the decision to buy a tent. That can't be a bad conclusion, can it?

Anyone selling a tent?

                                                    Alnwick Castle as we saw it, on a sunny day, with a carpet of daffodils. Beautiful.
                                                            Photo credit:  bbc.co.uk

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Angelina

I haven't forgotten I owe you a post on our camping trip, but this morning, I just have to say Good for you, Angelina Jolie. She has had a preventative double mastectomy, because her risks of developing breast and ovarian cancer were assessed as high (87% for breast cancer). It's a brave decision - though I'd want to say that choosing not to have a mastectomy in that situation is also a brave decision. Dealing with risk always requires bravery, if you think about it.

On the radio this morning, I heard an interview with the woman who had Britain's first preventative double mastectomy. She said that she'd had to fight hard for that, and that everyone thought she was mad. She's a brave woman. Trail-blazing requires bravery too.

For Angelina, I think telling the world what she's done is brave. What she said is so careful and thoughtful, that it inspires huge respect in me. She said: "I feel empowered that I made a strong choice that in no way diminishes my femininity".

Good on ya, Angelina. I mean, it's easy for someone like me to say that. Well, not easy, exactly, but... Anyway, back to you, Angelina. Your public image, your career success, your financial worth, your value in the eyes of so many... they all hang on your physical appearance. So to say that your surgery in no way diminishes your femininity is wonderful. I guess you won't feel that all the time, and I'm sure you'll have your ups and downs, but for the moment, I just think you've done a great thing, by talking about your decision in such a way. What a fab person to rally behind! I'm on your team, Angelina! Next time you're over in Europe, pop in and we'll have a cuppa, and share mastectomy stories. You had the "nine weeks of complex surgery required for a double mastectomy", whereas I did all that in half an afternoon! But don't worry - I totally won't be competitive about that.

And you have a small, fictional, ballet-loving mouse sharing your name. That can't be bad.

                                                                                                                                                                  Photo credit: Reuters

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Smoked haddock quiche

I have made a smoked haddock quiche tonight, which looks exactly like the picture in the recipe. That never happens, does it? Never. But it did tonight. I thought it an important fact, worthy of sharing with you. I'm not going to post a picture, because food is very hard to photograph, and it wouldn't look as nice as it looks in reality. Oh, alright then.

Those little flecks are yummy chives.

The quiche is for an indoor picnic we're going to tomorrow evening. We're on a jolly table of excellent bods, and our theme is "The Great Gatsby". Cue flapper dress, headband, feather, and shoes which were half price in Sainsbury's earlier this week and look very 1920s. I love those shoes so much I think I might have to adopt them and make them joint beneficiaries in my will with my existing three children.

Bit of a stressful evening, Bloggy Friends. Our realtor was going to closing (that's the terminology) on our house today at 10.00am Midwest time, ie 4.00pm BST. There were a couple of emails from her. One was asking where the garage openers were (clicker things, a bit like tv remotes, that you open your automatic garage door with - and just why is it, exactly, that Britain hasn't caught on to automatic garage doors? I suppose it's because we use our garages for storage and leave our cars outside them, so we're not opening the doors on a several times daily basis.) Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. Two emails from the realtor. Well, I knew where the garage openers were, so that was ok. Phew. In a kitchen drawer. The second email, however, was a little more problematic. And I quote:

"One thing that I just found out about: Last night there was some hail. They are getting a roofer to look at it. I don't believe it was large enough to cause damage but I will let you know. If there is damage we would need to possibly call your insurance. I will let you know."

Well now, if that doesn't warm the heart of anyone on the brink of selling their house, I don't know what does. Actually, I do know what does. It's another email saying that they've had a roofer out, and he has given the roof a clean bill of health. The roof, incidentally, was brand new last June, because there was a hail storm seven weeks before we were leaving the country that caused so much damage that we had to have the house completely re-roofed. No mean feat to get that little baby sorted in seven weeks, I tell you. Especially as we spent the first one or two in denial and didn't even get anyone round to assess the roof damage because we couldn't face having to deal with the consequences. Sometimes I think I should go on "The Apprentice" - piece of cake, what those young bloods have to achieve, compared to moving continents.

So who knows what is happening regarding our house sale, except the money has gone into our bank account, so I guess either (a) all is well and those fabulous buyers have themselves a new house with an undamaged roof on it, or (b) the sale has stalled, but the title company set up the bank transfer in advance of closing, and couldn't stop the money going through. (a) would be best, but I'll take (b), because who the heck needs confirmation of a house sale when they are able to cook a smoked haddock quiche which LOOKS JUST LIKE THE PICTURE IN THE RECIPE?

Amen

PS I haven't forgotten that I need to report back from last week-end's camping trip.

PPS Can you have a PS after an Amen?

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A nation of contrasts

I'm writing this post for the new Where I Live Linky that the lovely Michelle Garrett has started, over at The American Resident. Every week there's a different topic to write about, and post pictures about if that's your thing. This week's topic is Contrasts. Oh, and there are prizes!

The Where I Live Linky has one condition - you have to say something positive about where you live. Now, Michelle. That's a sure-fire sign that you are truly assimilated from the culture of your birthplace (America), to the culture of your adopted country (England). Your upper lip is truly stiff, and you are probably humming "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" to yourself, even as I type.

We Brits are known for Stoicism, being positive in dismal circumstances, relying on our innate Dunkirk spirit. When our backs are against the wall, we look for the silver lining in the clouds above. I have, in my time, sat on a beach in the cold wind and rain, eating sandwiches made of white bread, margarine and spam, and been persuaded that I was having a lovely time. Here's an odd thing, though. We do also like a good moan. We love to complain. We particularly enjoy it when there's no possibility of changing the situation we are miserable about. To be honest, if there is such a possibility, part of the skill of the moan is to refuse to see it. "Oh, well, yes, I suppose so, but..." is a useful way of swerving round any glimmer of a solution to the problem.

The weather is a perfect example. Nice and sunny where you are today? It is here. But... oh, it's clouding over a bit already, and the forecast for tomorrow isn't good. Still, (very useful word which, roughly translated into moan speak, means "I'm getting quickly back to moaning now") mustn't grumble (which means "I am grumbling").

Yes, you see there's quite a vocabulary for the moan. If you ask someone how they are, they might reply "Can't complain" which means "I want to complain and will do so, if you will just give me a tiny conversational opening which will let me get my foot in the door". Or "Not so bad", which frankly is ridiculous. Not so bad as what?  Then there's "I've been worse", or - duh - "I've been better".

We love our glass to be half empty, and we can't be doing with that can-do attitude that made America what it is today.

So, Michelle, that's what it's like Where I Live. I'm among a people of contrasts. Stoic, but complaining. Jolly, but miserable. Optimistic in spirit, but pessimistic in outlook. And as for that positive spin you insist on... Well, I just love us. Who could fail to love a nation as crazy, mixed-up, and quirky as us?

If you want to join in the Where I Live Linky, then head over to The American Resident and jump on board. While you're there, you can read about a disco-dancing plant, and a man with a brick hiding in the bushes.

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For all you spaniel lovers out there

(And I include myself in your number, by the way. I'm in a good phase with Hector - though any tips on how to stop early morning barking would be appreciated.)

This isn't Hector. This is a cocker spaniel who belongs to a friend of mine, living in France. You have to watch to the end (go on, what better things have you got to do for 2 minutes and 25 seconds?) to appreciate fully the dog's artistic sensibility.