"I'm not going any further" I call out to Jeremy's receding back. "Jeremy!"
He screeches his bike to a halt and turns around. "What's wrong now?"
"I'm not going any further." I get off the bike and resist the urge to throw it into the bushes and stomp my feet.
"Come on - we're almost there and you're doing so well."
I know when I'm being patronised, plus we're not almost there. There's at least another mile of hill ahead of us and the 100 feet I've just done has near enough killed me.
There's a reason I'm wary of bikes. I have a habit of spontaneously and inexplicably catapulting myself over the handlebars and I am pretty much entirely without muscle. So when Jeremy suggested we get me a bike so that we could cycle around Burlington VT this weekend, I was apprehensive. "Will it be hilly?" I asked. "No." was the reply - "it's a lake-side city - all very flat". So against my better judgment I borrowed a bike from my friend's oldest son which we strapped to the back of the car and drove off up to Burlington.
It turns out that while Burlington VT is on a lake, the lake is in a valley and our hotel was not. Our hotel was at the top of the hill that led down to the lake in the valley. And while cycling down to the lake was fun and required more exertion of my brakes than my legs, cycling back to the hotel was less fun.
There are times when I hate my husband. There are times when I glare into the back of his head (these times are always when he is ahead of me on some excursion of some sort where my heart rate is required to go above what is comfortable), furious at him for being so frustratingly reasonable and nice and physically fit. (Furious at myself for being so unreasonable, annoying and embarrassingly unfit.) Cycling up hill in Burlington VT on a bike that was last owned by a sixteen year old boy, with Jeremy riding way ahead with mocking ease, was one of those times.
"Well what do you want to do instead?" He asks.
I consider asking him to go get the car to pick me up, but I don't much fancy waiting in the dark for him to return - plus I think his saintly patience might be wearing thin and he might just decide to leave me here. I weigh the amount of time it'd take me to push the bike back to the hotel vs the pain and anguish of riding back vs the fact that I need to pee.
I get back on the bike.
"There you go - I knew you could do it - you're more capable that you think" Jeremy says. I glower - refusing to let him see that while I know I'm being patronised, I like it all the same.
Snap Crackle Pop
Today (while volunteering) I met someone who had never seen rice krispies before. Someone who had never heard of cereal. Any cereal.
Imagine that.
I know it's not exactly an integral part of our existence but just imagine.
No snap
No crackle
No pop
The thing that baffled me was not so much the lack of cereal experience. If I'd never eaten rice crispies I think I'd be OK . (In fact the only thing rice-krispies are good for is to mix with molten chocolate, cool for an hour or so and then indulge in the chocolaty crispy goodness.) The thing that confounded me was the degree of separation from western culture that lack of rice-krispie knowledge represents.
Now imagine that the person who has never heard of rice krispies has arrived in America. Friendless, homeless and emotionally scarred because of experiences that drove them to leave their family, friends, home and familiar breakfast food. Neither permitted to work nor entitled to benefits. Able to speak 5 languages but none of them English. Expected to navigate an immigration system so abstruse and dense that I, (a person who has grown up with rice-krispies) lost considerable amounts of sleep, saline and sanity because of it.
And if they fail to navigate that system - if they fail to attend appointments for health assessments, biometrics and immigration interviews - if they can't afford to get to the appointments or are so overwhelmed by this country they're scared to leave the house, then they become an 'illegal immigrant' and are immediately thought of by the masses as the scourge of society.
There are people who flee to the west who have never before encountered stairs.
That blows my mind.
I've taken two things from today:
1. I've remembered why I'm passionate about helping refugees and asylum seekers. I've remembered the importance of extending warmth and welcome to people who have experienced the worst of this world and then find themselves in a foreign world - technically 'safe' but in reality exposed and disoriented and lost.
2. I've seen my situation in its true perspective. I am lucky. Blessed. This experience of mine is not easy, but it could be worse beyond all imaginings.For all the times I am homesick, at least I know that my family is safe from harm. For all the times I miss chocolate digestives and sausages (and I do miss them, very very much), at least I have the means to buy food (ice-cream gets special mention). For all the times I long for the familiar, at least I speak the language.
At least I know what rice-krispies are.
Imagine that.
I know it's not exactly an integral part of our existence but just imagine.
No snap
No crackle
No pop
The thing that baffled me was not so much the lack of cereal experience. If I'd never eaten rice crispies I think I'd be OK . (In fact the only thing rice-krispies are good for is to mix with molten chocolate, cool for an hour or so and then indulge in the chocolaty crispy goodness.) The thing that confounded me was the degree of separation from western culture that lack of rice-krispie knowledge represents.
Now imagine that the person who has never heard of rice krispies has arrived in America. Friendless, homeless and emotionally scarred because of experiences that drove them to leave their family, friends, home and familiar breakfast food. Neither permitted to work nor entitled to benefits. Able to speak 5 languages but none of them English. Expected to navigate an immigration system so abstruse and dense that I, (a person who has grown up with rice-krispies) lost considerable amounts of sleep, saline and sanity because of it.
And if they fail to navigate that system - if they fail to attend appointments for health assessments, biometrics and immigration interviews - if they can't afford to get to the appointments or are so overwhelmed by this country they're scared to leave the house, then they become an 'illegal immigrant' and are immediately thought of by the masses as the scourge of society.
There are people who flee to the west who have never before encountered stairs.
That blows my mind.
I've taken two things from today:
1. I've remembered why I'm passionate about helping refugees and asylum seekers. I've remembered the importance of extending warmth and welcome to people who have experienced the worst of this world and then find themselves in a foreign world - technically 'safe' but in reality exposed and disoriented and lost.
2. I've seen my situation in its true perspective. I am lucky. Blessed. This experience of mine is not easy, but it could be worse beyond all imaginings.For all the times I am homesick, at least I know that my family is safe from harm. For all the times I miss chocolate digestives and sausages (and I do miss them, very very much), at least I have the means to buy food (ice-cream gets special mention). For all the times I long for the familiar, at least I speak the language.
At least I know what rice-krispies are.
Curbed enthusiasm
There is a frustrating trait of mine where when those key life moments come, when one is supposed to scream and jump and squeal, I stall. When I got 4 As at A-level (which even after two degrees still feels like my biggest academic achievement to date), when I got my first 'proper' job, even when Jeremy proposed...
Whenever I am supposed to have an excited ecstatic response, I freeze. 'I'm happy', I say. 'Really happy, honest.' While friends and family watch on, curious and perturbed by my coolness, my detachment. Where are the squeals? The yelps of joy? I summon more evidence of excitement at the prospect of ice-cream (this invariably elicits small claps of glee) or greys anatomy (more clapping).
So it was yesterday when my mum surprised me with the announcement that she will be coming too when my sister Jess visits in 3 weeks time. It's something I've wished for, hoped and prayed for. There have been times when the 3 months stretching ahead until I saw my family again felt like a desert and I felt parched and weakened at the thought of wading through those months. But when she told me I found myself drained of emotion. 'Wow, that's amazing.' I said. 'I couldn't be happier'.
And the words were all true. This visit is something I need - I want my mum to see that Boston is not always gray and cold, to see that Jeremy and I are happy and our home is ours rather than his - I want a big hug and a chance to recharge that part of me that is fueled by my family alone. And yet I still sounded like I'd be more excited if someone told me Ben and Jerries was 2 for 1 at the local shop (granted that would excite me).
I don't think I'll ever understand this part of me. It's like the really big, really crucial things are too much for me to react to there and then. I am not a squealer. Ever. And certainly not at the times when other people expect me to squeal. Perhaps I'm just contrary. Or maybe I'm taking the time to let my heart digest the change in tack. To process that the 3 months of desert I'd prepared myself for no longer lie ahead. To let the happiness and relief build. It's as if in these moments - when things I've waited and hoped for actually happen- the barriers I've built up to shield myself against the alternatives come down and I am left tired at the effort of having kept those barriers there. That's the best analysis I can give, and I'm still not sure it's entirely accurate.
I'm thrilled. Really. Just give me time to assess and reflect and maybe then we'll have a few hand-claps thrown into the mix.
Whenever I am supposed to have an excited ecstatic response, I freeze. 'I'm happy', I say. 'Really happy, honest.' While friends and family watch on, curious and perturbed by my coolness, my detachment. Where are the squeals? The yelps of joy? I summon more evidence of excitement at the prospect of ice-cream (this invariably elicits small claps of glee) or greys anatomy (more clapping).
So it was yesterday when my mum surprised me with the announcement that she will be coming too when my sister Jess visits in 3 weeks time. It's something I've wished for, hoped and prayed for. There have been times when the 3 months stretching ahead until I saw my family again felt like a desert and I felt parched and weakened at the thought of wading through those months. But when she told me I found myself drained of emotion. 'Wow, that's amazing.' I said. 'I couldn't be happier'.
And the words were all true. This visit is something I need - I want my mum to see that Boston is not always gray and cold, to see that Jeremy and I are happy and our home is ours rather than his - I want a big hug and a chance to recharge that part of me that is fueled by my family alone. And yet I still sounded like I'd be more excited if someone told me Ben and Jerries was 2 for 1 at the local shop (granted that would excite me).
I don't think I'll ever understand this part of me. It's like the really big, really crucial things are too much for me to react to there and then. I am not a squealer. Ever. And certainly not at the times when other people expect me to squeal. Perhaps I'm just contrary. Or maybe I'm taking the time to let my heart digest the change in tack. To process that the 3 months of desert I'd prepared myself for no longer lie ahead. To let the happiness and relief build. It's as if in these moments - when things I've waited and hoped for actually happen- the barriers I've built up to shield myself against the alternatives come down and I am left tired at the effort of having kept those barriers there. That's the best analysis I can give, and I'm still not sure it's entirely accurate.
I'm thrilled. Really. Just give me time to assess and reflect and maybe then we'll have a few hand-claps thrown into the mix.
Saying goodbye to mum back in March.
Cities to live in...
This week I made a flying visit to New York (city - for all you Americans who don't automatically assume I mean city, unlike the English who barely know there is a NY state). A friend of mine who works for BA had a stop-over there so I spent 5 mind-numbing can't-believe-the-girl-next-to-me-isn't-sticking-to-the-arm-rest-territory-limits hours on a bus there to spend under 24 hours with her and then 6 desperate rush-hour-and-raining hours back.
(Which basically means I spent a day playing Tetris on my phone this week)
I've never navigated NYC on my own before. Normally I'm with seasoned NYers, or at least a more competent nonNYer - and it's been a good 5 months since I last ploughed through London rush-hour. So when I arrived at Penn station in the pouring rain at 5.30pm and attempted to get down and across town via Grand Central, it is fair to say I was overwhelmed.
New York is like London on crack. In a fight, New York would kick London's ass all the way back to Samuel Pepys and beyond. Not because it's cooler or more fun but because it's hardcore and seems to have unfathomable reserves of strength and rage. New York rush hour left me in no doubt that I could ever live there and marveling with a mixture of awe and dread at the breed of human that can and does.
So when I arrived back in Boston, where 'rush hour' equals more than one train every 10 minutes, where there are pigeons rather than rats on the platforms and where people actually chat to each-other on the trains (not me, mind you - I'm English after all), I was washed with a wave of fondness for this city.
Because if New York is London's evil twin (a lot of fun to visit and party with but not gonna be invited home to meet the parents any time soon), Boston is its unassuming country cousin. In fact if it wasn't for volunteering at the hospital and seeing its grimmer 'city' side, I would need convincing that Boston even qualifies to be called a city at all. And that's just why I like it - love it, even. Boston, with its profusion of fairy lights and enchanting steaming grates, its pride in all things Irish and its love of chowder, is a city I could live in, a city I could learn to love.
All that remains to be done is to either cause a massive land-shift, resulting in England being attached to America again, or bamboozle friends and family into moving here too. Oh and to speed up global warming enough that Boston isn't buried in 10 feet of snow come December. Simple.
(Which basically means I spent a day playing Tetris on my phone this week)
I've never navigated NYC on my own before. Normally I'm with seasoned NYers, or at least a more competent nonNYer - and it's been a good 5 months since I last ploughed through London rush-hour. So when I arrived at Penn station in the pouring rain at 5.30pm and attempted to get down and across town via Grand Central, it is fair to say I was overwhelmed.
New York is like London on crack. In a fight, New York would kick London's ass all the way back to Samuel Pepys and beyond. Not because it's cooler or more fun but because it's hardcore and seems to have unfathomable reserves of strength and rage. New York rush hour left me in no doubt that I could ever live there and marveling with a mixture of awe and dread at the breed of human that can and does.
So when I arrived back in Boston, where 'rush hour' equals more than one train every 10 minutes, where there are pigeons rather than rats on the platforms and where people actually chat to each-other on the trains (not me, mind you - I'm English after all), I was washed with a wave of fondness for this city.
Because if New York is London's evil twin (a lot of fun to visit and party with but not gonna be invited home to meet the parents any time soon), Boston is its unassuming country cousin. In fact if it wasn't for volunteering at the hospital and seeing its grimmer 'city' side, I would need convincing that Boston even qualifies to be called a city at all. And that's just why I like it - love it, even. Boston, with its profusion of fairy lights and enchanting steaming grates, its pride in all things Irish and its love of chowder, is a city I could live in, a city I could learn to love.
All that remains to be done is to either cause a massive land-shift, resulting in England being attached to America again, or bamboozle friends and family into moving here too. Oh and to speed up global warming enough that Boston isn't buried in 10 feet of snow come December. Simple.
Grovelling.
I'm being unreasonable. I hate it when I'm unreasonable, because I can hear everything that I'm saying and I know it's all crap. And I know that Jeremy knows that it's crap and I look pretty dumb but I can't stop myself from saying it because when I'm unreasonable there's nothing to be done about it but see it through to its humiliating end.
I'm not about to write what I'm being unreasonable about. a) because writing about arguments on a blog seems unwise and b) because I'll look stupid, and even in my unreasonable state I can recognise that I don't want the world to see me at my full irrational height.
Suffice to say that my argument has no grounds, is not supported by any evidence and is largely borne out of grumpiness and ever so slightly too much wine. Either way it's the principle of the matter. Except I've forgotten what the principle is. Plus I have a sneaking suspicion that principle is not on my side.
There should be a gag button I can press when I start to go down the unreasonable road. Because it always ends in shame.
Bugger.
When Jeremy gets back from whichever room he's skulked off to I'm going to have to apologise. I think that may have been his skulking plan all along. He knows I know when I'm being unreasonable and his reasoned approach is just to wait it out until I give up and apologise.
Guess he wins this one on all counts.
Double bugger.
I'm not about to write what I'm being unreasonable about. a) because writing about arguments on a blog seems unwise and b) because I'll look stupid, and even in my unreasonable state I can recognise that I don't want the world to see me at my full irrational height.
Suffice to say that my argument has no grounds, is not supported by any evidence and is largely borne out of grumpiness and ever so slightly too much wine. Either way it's the principle of the matter. Except I've forgotten what the principle is. Plus I have a sneaking suspicion that principle is not on my side.
There should be a gag button I can press when I start to go down the unreasonable road. Because it always ends in shame.
Bugger.
When Jeremy gets back from whichever room he's skulked off to I'm going to have to apologise. I think that may have been his skulking plan all along. He knows I know when I'm being unreasonable and his reasoned approach is just to wait it out until I give up and apologise.
Guess he wins this one on all counts.
Double bugger.
For once the Atlantic comes up trumps...
It's been a strange few days for me. Being here while the UK is left hanging, waiting for a wink and a nod and a few fingers-crossed-behind-their-backs promises to tip the balance into a Tory government (albeit with a few Lib-Dem concessions, to be weaseled out of at a later date).
I feel more detached and more enamored with Obama with every new report on deals and coalitions and muddled-explanations of what exactly has happened/ could happen/ will happen and why.
I guess it doesn't help that I'm not a big fan of any of the political options right now. Me and the rest of my country it seems, since no consensus was reached. The conservatives keep saying that there's been a decisive rejection of Labour - I don't really see what's so decisive about a hung parliament, but whatever.
I was talking to a young republican recently (always a rare find here in Massachusetts) who, worried that I was unfamiliar with what a republican was, told me that they're kind of like UK conservatives...only different.
Good job I already knew what a republican was.
Because UK conservatives are different. This is by no means a defence of them, but they do try to hide their social-conservative tendencies. They'd be in a lot of trouble if they just came out and said that they don't have much time for gay people. Instead, they give tax breaks to the traditional-nuclear family and hold press interviews of unparalleled incompetence on gay rights issues (seriously - it'd give Palin a run for her money). And they don't align themselves with the Christian Right. Probably because there isn't one. Or if there is, it doesn't have much muscle. And besides championing the rights of people to chase foxes until they're exhausted and then have them torn limb from limb by dogs, they don't really speak of gun laws. And while they moan their heads off about the NHS, they wouldn't dare disband it.
Basically, UK conservatives are just that. UK conservatives. With all the reticence and reserve and feigned politeness that being British entails. Which actually leaves me more suspicious of them than I am of American conservatives - at least with them you know exactly what they are thinking. They shout it, with refrains of 'drill baby drill' and "baby killer" and the like. With UK conservatives, you get the impression that beneath the smirk and Eton polish they are carefully maneuvering their way towards an uncertain but definitely sinister goal.
As a semi-politically aware adult, I have yet to live in a conservative country. My one memory of Margaret Thatcher's policies (John Major just doesn't count) is that she discontinued the distribution of milk to primary schools - something I was disappointed about since I'd read all sorts of picture books where kids got milk with straws at break time. Never-mind that the law was passed before I was even born, or the fact that she did a lot worse than lessen the country's calcium intake, that's still my lasting-thatcher memory.
And now here we are, a few slimy steps away from a conservative government, and for once I'm glad of the distance that the Atlantic gives. My self-interested-master-plan is that Labour will now be forced to get its arse in gear, remember what its values are and be ready to take on Smarmeron in 5 years time. Right about when I'm planning on moving back to England and a couple of years before Obama will have to leave office (I'm working on the assumption that he's getting voted in again - I can't bear the alternative).
So, I'm alright. I just feel sorry for anyone living in England who is poor...or gay...or eastern-european....or a single parent...or an unmarried cohabiter...or principled... oops, didn't mean to say that out-loud. Gonna shut up now before I lose friends.
I feel more detached and more enamored with Obama with every new report on deals and coalitions and muddled-explanations of what exactly has happened/ could happen/ will happen and why.
I guess it doesn't help that I'm not a big fan of any of the political options right now. Me and the rest of my country it seems, since no consensus was reached. The conservatives keep saying that there's been a decisive rejection of Labour - I don't really see what's so decisive about a hung parliament, but whatever.
I was talking to a young republican recently (always a rare find here in Massachusetts) who, worried that I was unfamiliar with what a republican was, told me that they're kind of like UK conservatives...only different.
Good job I already knew what a republican was.
Because UK conservatives are different. This is by no means a defence of them, but they do try to hide their social-conservative tendencies. They'd be in a lot of trouble if they just came out and said that they don't have much time for gay people. Instead, they give tax breaks to the traditional-nuclear family and hold press interviews of unparalleled incompetence on gay rights issues (seriously - it'd give Palin a run for her money). And they don't align themselves with the Christian Right. Probably because there isn't one. Or if there is, it doesn't have much muscle. And besides championing the rights of people to chase foxes until they're exhausted and then have them torn limb from limb by dogs, they don't really speak of gun laws. And while they moan their heads off about the NHS, they wouldn't dare disband it.
Basically, UK conservatives are just that. UK conservatives. With all the reticence and reserve and feigned politeness that being British entails. Which actually leaves me more suspicious of them than I am of American conservatives - at least with them you know exactly what they are thinking. They shout it, with refrains of 'drill baby drill' and "baby killer" and the like. With UK conservatives, you get the impression that beneath the smirk and Eton polish they are carefully maneuvering their way towards an uncertain but definitely sinister goal.
As a semi-politically aware adult, I have yet to live in a conservative country. My one memory of Margaret Thatcher's policies (John Major just doesn't count) is that she discontinued the distribution of milk to primary schools - something I was disappointed about since I'd read all sorts of picture books where kids got milk with straws at break time. Never-mind that the law was passed before I was even born, or the fact that she did a lot worse than lessen the country's calcium intake, that's still my lasting-thatcher memory.
And now here we are, a few slimy steps away from a conservative government, and for once I'm glad of the distance that the Atlantic gives. My self-interested-master-plan is that Labour will now be forced to get its arse in gear, remember what its values are and be ready to take on Smarmeron in 5 years time. Right about when I'm planning on moving back to England and a couple of years before Obama will have to leave office (I'm working on the assumption that he's getting voted in again - I can't bear the alternative).
So, I'm alright. I just feel sorry for anyone living in England who is poor...or gay...or eastern-european....or a single parent...or an unmarried cohabiter...
So this is the choice we get. Appealing, huh?
Change, Prostitution, Crossing Roads and a Confession.
1. Too much change.
No, this isn't me lamenting my uprooted disoriented state. I have too much change.
Literally.
In my wallet.
Far more change than I ever had in England, which is weird as we have a lot of redundant coins - not only do we have £1 coins (whereas here they have notes, unless you're paying for a subway ticket in which case the change it spews is all $1 coins that inspire suspicious resentment in any sales assistant recipient), we also have £2 coins and 2p coins and 20p coins and 50p coins... in fact, England has eight different coins to America's four. Five if you count the rare and begrudged $1s.
Yet I still have far more change in my wallet here than ever before. And I'm pretty sure it's not because I'm spending less. It's because although I know that the 10p shaped coins are actually 25c and the 5p shapes are 10c and the other silver coins that don't look like anything other than maybe the old 5p pieces that were decommissioned back in the 80s are 5c, I don't trust myself to know this instinctively while I search for money at the cash register. So I reach for the largest note I see (which in itself is hard because they all look exactly the same). This results in my wallet weighing more than a small child and my periodically emptying my change out, promising myself that I'll take it to the bank soon to convert it back into easy notes. Only I wont because I don't really know how to do that here and I can't be bothered to find out.
2. Prostitution
All the English people who visit me nod gravely when I say that some parts of Waltham are a bit deprived. "We've noticed there seems to be a big problem with prostitution here", they say. Jeremy and I look at them puzzled. Prostitution? Alcoholism, maybe. Meth addiction even. Homelessness, for sure. But prostitution? "yea - all the stores here have signs on them saying 'no soliciting'...". At which point Jeremy and I catch on and I start to giggle. "They mean trade soliciting / salesmen", we explain.
I don't mention that I knew what they meant all along because I'd thought the exact same thing back when I first visited here.
3. Crossing roads.
Aside from the obvious issues with crossing roads in a foreign country where one has to retrain one's brain to look left first instead of right (or is it right first? I can never remember.). And the fact that I've grown used to the pavements in London telling you which way to look (directions are literally painted on the road - seems I'm not the only foreigner to get confused). And that I'm just not a very good road crosser (Jeremy calls me R2D2 because of my tendency to walk unwittingly into danger...I had to have the joke explained to me 'cause I've never seen Star Wars)...I have another problem with crossing roads here.
Cars always stop.
Sometimes of course it's nice, but they stop even when there's nothing else coming and it'd be much easier for them to pass me by. I'm not sure if they're scared of getting sued or they assume anyone crazy enough to walk is likely to throw themselves in front of a car. Either way, I don't like it - I feel self conscious having them watch me cross when had they ignored me we could have continued on both of our journeys without this momentary pause where I am observed and they are delayed. Sometimes, I pretend not to be crossing the road to trick them into not stopping.
4. A confession.
There's a taxi company here called 'Veterans Taxis'. For a long time I thought they were for veterans only and I was surprised by how many Veterans there must be in need of transportation. Surprisingly enough it turns out it's just a taxi company with no stipulations on whether its passengers have served in a war. Although I do still wonder whether they give a discount to those that have...
No, this isn't me lamenting my uprooted disoriented state. I have too much change.
Literally.
In my wallet.
Far more change than I ever had in England, which is weird as we have a lot of redundant coins - not only do we have £1 coins (whereas here they have notes, unless you're paying for a subway ticket in which case the change it spews is all $1 coins that inspire suspicious resentment in any sales assistant recipient), we also have £2 coins and 2p coins and 20p coins and 50p coins... in fact, England has eight different coins to America's four. Five if you count the rare and begrudged $1s.
Yet I still have far more change in my wallet here than ever before. And I'm pretty sure it's not because I'm spending less. It's because although I know that the 10p shaped coins are actually 25c and the 5p shapes are 10c and the other silver coins that don't look like anything other than maybe the old 5p pieces that were decommissioned back in the 80s are 5c, I don't trust myself to know this instinctively while I search for money at the cash register. So I reach for the largest note I see (which in itself is hard because they all look exactly the same). This results in my wallet weighing more than a small child and my periodically emptying my change out, promising myself that I'll take it to the bank soon to convert it back into easy notes. Only I wont because I don't really know how to do that here and I can't be bothered to find out.
2. Prostitution
All the English people who visit me nod gravely when I say that some parts of Waltham are a bit deprived. "We've noticed there seems to be a big problem with prostitution here", they say. Jeremy and I look at them puzzled. Prostitution? Alcoholism, maybe. Meth addiction even. Homelessness, for sure. But prostitution? "yea - all the stores here have signs on them saying 'no soliciting'...". At which point Jeremy and I catch on and I start to giggle. "They mean trade soliciting / salesmen", we explain.
I don't mention that I knew what they meant all along because I'd thought the exact same thing back when I first visited here.
3. Crossing roads.
Aside from the obvious issues with crossing roads in a foreign country where one has to retrain one's brain to look left first instead of right (or is it right first? I can never remember.). And the fact that I've grown used to the pavements in London telling you which way to look (directions are literally painted on the road - seems I'm not the only foreigner to get confused). And that I'm just not a very good road crosser (Jeremy calls me R2D2 because of my tendency to walk unwittingly into danger...I had to have the joke explained to me 'cause I've never seen Star Wars)...I have another problem with crossing roads here.
Cars always stop.
Sometimes of course it's nice, but they stop even when there's nothing else coming and it'd be much easier for them to pass me by. I'm not sure if they're scared of getting sued or they assume anyone crazy enough to walk is likely to throw themselves in front of a car. Either way, I don't like it - I feel self conscious having them watch me cross when had they ignored me we could have continued on both of our journeys without this momentary pause where I am observed and they are delayed. Sometimes, I pretend not to be crossing the road to trick them into not stopping.
4. A confession.
There's a taxi company here called 'Veterans Taxis'. For a long time I thought they were for veterans only and I was surprised by how many Veterans there must be in need of transportation. Surprisingly enough it turns out it's just a taxi company with no stipulations on whether its passengers have served in a war. Although I do still wonder whether they give a discount to those that have...
Meet the Nersasians...
I spent last week holidaying in the US Virgin Islands with Jeremy's family. St John is insanely beautiful - teeming, seething with life. Turtles, iguanas, deer, mongoose (mongeese? mongi?), kittens, donkeys, goats, chickens, mice, crickets. It has it and we saw it all.
A lesser known species non native to the islands are the Nersasians. Aka my in-laws. I could write and write about late night debates, travel debacles, itinerary disputes and just plain crazy statements. I could, only I wont because I'm planning on remaining related to these people for a long long time. And besides, a description is unnecessary, because they're just a family like any other. With the same tug of love for each other - no matter how inconvenient that love may sometimes be - the same frustrations and rolling here-we-go-again eyes.
The difference is of course that this particular family is not my family, or rather they are now but haven't always been. And while I've known them for over 6 years now, something about the binding rope of til-death-do-us-part has meant that I've lost any sense of distance. They are mine, and they're here to stay.
So I have to learn the intricacies, the dance steps, that will allow me to navigate unscathed the inevitable ructions and turbulence that accompanies family gettogethers. Here are a few survival tips I've garnered for in-law-holiday-navigation:
- Coffee is of paramount importance upon waking. Do not speak / pass go / collect any amount of dollars or pounds before taking that first all-important slurp. Proceed with caution until well into the second cup of the day.
- Headphones are always an option, as are sunglasses, if the need to appear / feel invisible becomes overwhelming.
- Cocktails are permissible from 5pm, Beer from noon.
- Choose your battles - know what principles you're prepared to overlook in favour of the greater, calmer good and which you are duty-bound to defend. Learn to lose gracefully.
- If all else fails, the pool / ocean is your ally.
Don't get me wrong, I'm under no illusions about my own family. For sure, it's easy enough for me, but they're mine and I contribute to the mystical dynamics as much as anyone else. For the uninitiated, I'm sure my family can be more than a little daunting- we flare and fight and forgive with alarming rapidity to those unaccustomed to voicing gripes. We also say 'I love you' more often than is normal, demand hugs at inconvenient times and love each other fiercely - so that an outsider might feel uncertain how to enter the tightknitness of our unit.
What coping techniques Jeremy has developed I'm not entirely sure. He's yet to go on holiday with my family though, so maybe the need has not yet presented itself. I'd wager that tapping, yawning, neck-clicking and his incomparable ability to appear to listen while he's elsewhere entirely would be part of his in-law defence.
Families. Unavoidable, infuriating, miraculous. They are what they are, and now I have two.
A lesser known species non native to the islands are the Nersasians. Aka my in-laws. I could write and write about late night debates, travel debacles, itinerary disputes and just plain crazy statements. I could, only I wont because I'm planning on remaining related to these people for a long long time. And besides, a description is unnecessary, because they're just a family like any other. With the same tug of love for each other - no matter how inconvenient that love may sometimes be - the same frustrations and rolling here-we-go-again eyes.
The difference is of course that this particular family is not my family, or rather they are now but haven't always been. And while I've known them for over 6 years now, something about the binding rope of til-death-do-us-part has meant that I've lost any sense of distance. They are mine, and they're here to stay.
So I have to learn the intricacies, the dance steps, that will allow me to navigate unscathed the inevitable ructions and turbulence that accompanies family gettogethers. Here are a few survival tips I've garnered for in-law-holiday-navigation:
- Coffee is of paramount importance upon waking. Do not speak / pass go / collect any amount of dollars or pounds before taking that first all-important slurp. Proceed with caution until well into the second cup of the day.
- Headphones are always an option, as are sunglasses, if the need to appear / feel invisible becomes overwhelming.
- Cocktails are permissible from 5pm, Beer from noon.
- Choose your battles - know what principles you're prepared to overlook in favour of the greater, calmer good and which you are duty-bound to defend. Learn to lose gracefully.
- If all else fails, the pool / ocean is your ally.
Don't get me wrong, I'm under no illusions about my own family. For sure, it's easy enough for me, but they're mine and I contribute to the mystical dynamics as much as anyone else. For the uninitiated, I'm sure my family can be more than a little daunting- we flare and fight and forgive with alarming rapidity to those unaccustomed to voicing gripes. We also say 'I love you' more often than is normal, demand hugs at inconvenient times and love each other fiercely - so that an outsider might feel uncertain how to enter the tightknitness of our unit.
What coping techniques Jeremy has developed I'm not entirely sure. He's yet to go on holiday with my family though, so maybe the need has not yet presented itself. I'd wager that tapping, yawning, neck-clicking and his incomparable ability to appear to listen while he's elsewhere entirely would be part of his in-law defence.
Families. Unavoidable, infuriating, miraculous. They are what they are, and now I have two.
Chickens on the beach at St John
Jeremy and I attacking my mum with kisses - on a much colder beach in England.
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