Travel. We didn't travel enough when we lived in the US. It wasn't that we didn't want to. Our restrictions were money, time and distance.
Money
We arrived in the US just after the crest of the Easyjet wave had broken in the UK, when you could fly to European cities for literally £10 a ticket, or occasionally even less. Not that we had done any flying to European cities, me not being a huge fan of city-breaks with toddlers/babies, but our youngest was nearly 3 when we went to the US, and I thought we'd be in a phase where that kind of travel would be more enjoyable. I envisaged us flying to interesting destinations: New York, Washington, San Francisco... Seattle... It was a shock to discover that the budget airline idea hadn't reached the US, and that to take a family of five anywhere by plane would cost several hundred dollars. I also hadn't realised that our little city, in the middle of the country, not being a hub, had a very limited choice of destinations, so that to get to New York, Washington, San Francisco or Seattle would involve two flight. That always ends up being the best part of a day, which makes the idea of a weekend jaunt a lot less feasible.
Time
The first aspect of time being a limiting factor was the way the school year is arranged. The UK school year is full of breaks: Christmas and Easter, and then half-terms here, there and everywhere (well, I suppose they're half-way through each of three terms, so not exactly "here, there and everywhere" but if you've lived the routine of the US school year, that's what it feels like when you compare the British system). We had three days off at Thanksgiving, a couple of weeks at Christmas, a week in March, and that was it. Yes, there's scope in there for trips, but if you want to be at home for Christmas and Thanksgiving, it didn't seem like much. Of course there is the hugely long three-month summer vacation, but of the six years were there, for three summers we came back to the UK, one was taken up with surgery and chemotherapy, and one involved our final move back. Only in our first summer did we really have the opportunity to explore the US. I guess the expat family will always be juggling their resources between making the most of their new adventure and keeping in touch with their roots.
Distance
I'm sure it would have been different if we'd lived in another location. If we were on the East coast or West coast, there would have been places of interest to drive to. But we were right in the middle of the country. It's hard to get a feel for the scale of journeys involved in the US until you live there. We all know it's big, but to experience what exactly that means is a different thing. In UK terms, it was a day's drive before you reached somewhere that looked or felt different. Yes, driving is easier and we had a big comfortable minivan (people carrier), but even so, it did mean that trips were for holidays rather than week-ends. In terms of places that we could visit within a day, or even an overnight stay, we pretty much exhausted those in our first year. I know you'll find that hard to believe, but there are vast tracts of the Midwest where there is nothing but wheat field upon wheat field, for tens, if not hundreds, of miles. If you do stop, the choice is this McDonalds or the next one. When you reach another big city, it feels exactly like your home one, all on a grid system, and you end up eating in a chain restaurant, because it's hard to find anything else in a city you don't know (I expect Google and TripAdvisor has made this rather easier now, but five to ten years ago, it was hard to get beyond the main street in a strange place).
This all sounds rather more negative than I meant it to. I suppose I have in my mind an anonymous reader taking me to task: "Seriously? There wasn't anywhere interesting you could go for a week-end? You lived in another country for all those years and you hardly took your children anywhere!". I want to explain to that voice what it was like, and I guess that is one of the frustrations of the returning expat, that you can put something into words, but as your audience hasn't experienced the context, it's hard to make it understandable. You'll just have to take my word for it.
I like to think, as well, that it's a sign of how we assimilated to where we were. After our first summer, I started conversations at the school gate as I would do in Britain. "Did you have a good summer? Did you go anywhere nice?" I was amazed at how few people had been on vacation at all. People had perhaps visited family for a week-end, but very few had had what we would call a holiday. I stopped asking those questions, because they weren't the right questions to ask. I started asking "Did you have a good summer? What sports teams and camps did your kids enrol in?" Perhaps, over time, my travel aspirations dwindled.
Having said all of the above, we did manage some travel. I went off on some cheeky week-ends on my own: to Chicago for the week-end of the Expat Brits Blogging Six, to New York to visit an old friend and meet up with my brother's family on holiday there, to Chicago again to stay with the hugely hospitable Expat Mum who also put up my brother while he was on a conference. They were real high points. We did also craft some trips with our kids. We went to San Diego in our first year, when we were flush with cash from our initial move when the pound had been particularly strong against the dollar. We went to Colorado too, a 12-hour drive from home, four times in all - or was it five? The place we went to in Colorado became special to us, and we loved returning there. We may not have taken the children to a great number of different places, but we do all share strong and happy memories of that one place. There is something nice about returning to the same location over three or four years, and that thought goes some way towards dissipating any regrets I have, if ever I look at a map of the big, big continent of North America, and think "New York... Washington... San Francisco... Seattle...".
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Showing posts with label holiday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holiday. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
Thursday, May 16, 2013
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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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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Thursday, February 23, 2012
Just sayin'
I think this is bad. Al Fresco holidays ran a competition where they asked you to write a blog post about your best holiday ever. Forty-nine bloggers did. Al Fresco picked a winner. I thought the winning post was good. I didn't think any more about it, until I scrolled down and read a comment that said:
"The winner’s post was very good, but it was more than twice as long as the stated word limit. A 1000 word post is going to be very different to a 500 word one. Was wondering why there wasn’t a level playing field for such a great prize?"
Good point. I went back to the competition launch, and checked what it said:
"Your post should be no longer than 500 words and try to include a picture or two to bring it to life."
Well, Al Fresco thought about it, and said:
"The competition copy suggested the word count, and wasn’t a stated rule, but a suggested length.
All the competition entries were judged on a number of criteria, including length, but also quality of writing, humour, and style – and overall, Inside The Wendy House was the best performing post."
Hm. Tread carefully, Al Fresco holidays. We bloggers are writers. We choose our words attentively. We don't play fast and loose with them. To me "your post should be no longer than 500 words" means that your post shouldn't be longer than 500 words. If the winning post had been 510 words, that's one thing. But 1,000 words? Twice as long?
So why am I posting about this? Of course it sounds a bit sour-grapesy, because I didn't win. (But I knew I wasn't going to, didn't I? I posted a photo of a baby with a beer can for heaven's sake.) I just think that Al Fresco should fess up to having made a mistake - it happens, we're all human - and try a bit harder to make things right, rather than squirm out on a technicality. The company received a lot of publicity from the competition, publicity which depended on the effort of bloggers who were playing by the rules. Where's your good will and sense of fair play, Al Fresco?
I would say this. If you are booking with Al Fresco this summer, do read the terms and conditions very carefully.
If you want to read the story so far, it's in the comments here. And if you want to see the competition rules - sorry, "suggestions" - in the context in which they appeared, you can see them here. But life is short, so I wouldn't bother if I were you. Seriously. Go and spend some time with your kids instead. I just feel the need to back up what I've said.
"The winner’s post was very good, but it was more than twice as long as the stated word limit. A 1000 word post is going to be very different to a 500 word one. Was wondering why there wasn’t a level playing field for such a great prize?"
Good point. I went back to the competition launch, and checked what it said:
"Your post should be no longer than 500 words and try to include a picture or two to bring it to life."
Well, Al Fresco thought about it, and said:
"The competition copy suggested the word count, and wasn’t a stated rule, but a suggested length.
All the competition entries were judged on a number of criteria, including length, but also quality of writing, humour, and style – and overall, Inside The Wendy House was the best performing post."
Hm. Tread carefully, Al Fresco holidays. We bloggers are writers. We choose our words attentively. We don't play fast and loose with them. To me "your post should be no longer than 500 words" means that your post shouldn't be longer than 500 words. If the winning post had been 510 words, that's one thing. But 1,000 words? Twice as long?
So why am I posting about this? Of course it sounds a bit sour-grapesy, because I didn't win. (But I knew I wasn't going to, didn't I? I posted a photo of a baby with a beer can for heaven's sake.) I just think that Al Fresco should fess up to having made a mistake - it happens, we're all human - and try a bit harder to make things right, rather than squirm out on a technicality. The company received a lot of publicity from the competition, publicity which depended on the effort of bloggers who were playing by the rules. Where's your good will and sense of fair play, Al Fresco?
I would say this. If you are booking with Al Fresco this summer, do read the terms and conditions very carefully.
If you want to read the story so far, it's in the comments here. And if you want to see the competition rules - sorry, "suggestions" - in the context in which they appeared, you can see them here. But life is short, so I wouldn't bother if I were you. Seriously. Go and spend some time with your kids instead. I just feel the need to back up what I've said.
Friday, February 3, 2012
On holiday with Socrates
This post is an entry to the Tots100/Al Fresco Holidays competition. Thomson Al Fresco offer holidays in "luxury mobile homes in Europe's best parcs", and you can visit their website by clicking here.
Why do we go on holiday anyway? It’s a big part of life for us Brits, but it’s not the same in all cultures. After our first summer living in the US, I was surprised to discover that most families hadn’t been on holiday. Going away in the summer just isn’t an expectation, a normal thing to do, as it is for us. I don’t want to be critical of Americans, but I do think they’re missing out.
It’s not just the chance to experience a new place, a different culture, unfamiliar foods. It’s not just the opportunity to spend more time with family or friends, or pursuing a favourite activity. No. It’s the time in the year when we rest, relax and reflect. Socrates said “The unexamined life is not worth living”. In my book, holidays are those times when our lives are examined.
I deliberately put that sentence in the passive, because I don’t mean that we need to sit around in some philosophical fug, reading weighty tomes and pondering deep cogitations. Sometimes our lives can be ‘examined’ by little nudges here and there which tell us important things, if only we will listen. It might be that you remember how much you really, really love running around outside with your kids, and that thought will motivate you to make time to go to the park on a Saturday morning when you get home. Or perhaps you’ll dare admit to yourself a sense of restlessless, a needing to move on, which will prompt you to look for a new challenge. Or maybe you’ll just realize that your life is full of good things, and the break will deliver you back to ‘normal life’ less anxious and more grateful.
I remember our first holiday with a baby, in 1997. He was three months old. My husband and I were living in London, and house-sat for a week in Brighton. I took my usual holiday fare – a stack of paperbacks. I returned home having finished not even one of them. That was a Socrates moment. Life was different with a baby (duuuuh…) We went on the Bluebell steam railway – because obviously a three month old baby can fully appreciate steam railways. That was the other side of the coin of lost paperback time. It was a taste of the years ahead of family-orientated outings, of being one of those lucky people who I’d so often seen, pottering along a railway platform at a snail’s pace, a small hand in their own, their enjoyment of the day wrapped up in the excitement of the diminutive railway enthusiast attached to that small hand.
Here is my favourite photo from that holiday. I do have pictures of the steam train, and the beach, and the South Downs, but I like this one, staged with our poor innocent unsuspecting firstborn. It speaks of the process of adjusting to parenthood.
Take Socrates on holiday with you. He would have approved of holidays, I think.
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Why do we go on holiday anyway? It’s a big part of life for us Brits, but it’s not the same in all cultures. After our first summer living in the US, I was surprised to discover that most families hadn’t been on holiday. Going away in the summer just isn’t an expectation, a normal thing to do, as it is for us. I don’t want to be critical of Americans, but I do think they’re missing out.
It’s not just the chance to experience a new place, a different culture, unfamiliar foods. It’s not just the opportunity to spend more time with family or friends, or pursuing a favourite activity. No. It’s the time in the year when we rest, relax and reflect. Socrates said “The unexamined life is not worth living”. In my book, holidays are those times when our lives are examined.
I deliberately put that sentence in the passive, because I don’t mean that we need to sit around in some philosophical fug, reading weighty tomes and pondering deep cogitations. Sometimes our lives can be ‘examined’ by little nudges here and there which tell us important things, if only we will listen. It might be that you remember how much you really, really love running around outside with your kids, and that thought will motivate you to make time to go to the park on a Saturday morning when you get home. Or perhaps you’ll dare admit to yourself a sense of restlessless, a needing to move on, which will prompt you to look for a new challenge. Or maybe you’ll just realize that your life is full of good things, and the break will deliver you back to ‘normal life’ less anxious and more grateful.
I remember our first holiday with a baby, in 1997. He was three months old. My husband and I were living in London, and house-sat for a week in Brighton. I took my usual holiday fare – a stack of paperbacks. I returned home having finished not even one of them. That was a Socrates moment. Life was different with a baby (duuuuh…) We went on the Bluebell steam railway – because obviously a three month old baby can fully appreciate steam railways. That was the other side of the coin of lost paperback time. It was a taste of the years ahead of family-orientated outings, of being one of those lucky people who I’d so often seen, pottering along a railway platform at a snail’s pace, a small hand in their own, their enjoyment of the day wrapped up in the excitement of the diminutive railway enthusiast attached to that small hand.
Here is my favourite photo from that holiday. I do have pictures of the steam train, and the beach, and the South Downs, but I like this one, staged with our poor innocent unsuspecting firstborn. It speaks of the process of adjusting to parenthood.
Take Socrates on holiday with you. He would have approved of holidays, I think.
.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Iota goes to a football match
I’ve just been to my first ever professional football match. I added in the qualifying “professional”, because it wouldn’t be fair to say I’ve never been to any football match. I just haven’t been to any in which all the players are over the age of 14 and unrelated to me.
My father-in-law is making Hull City supporters out of my sons, having himself been a fan for literally decades. He got four tickets for the pre-season friendly against Liverpool, and I surprised the family by saying that instead of Husband going along to represent the middle generation, I’d like to go. I thought it was a bit of a shame to get to the age of 46 without ever having seen a football match. In my defence, I nearly got to a match once. In 1990, I went with an Arsenal-supporting boyfriend to an Arsenal v. Tottenham game, but being a local derby, it was totally sold out, and we didn’t get in. (“… local derby…” Impressed by the football lingo there?) After a mere 21 years, I decided it was time to have another try.
I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon. I really did. Hull City won 3 – 0. A good result against the big guns of Liverpool. Yay, Tigers. Oh no. Hang on. That’s in America that we say Yay, isn’t it? What do we say here? Jolly good show, Tigers. No. That’s not quite right. Um…
Anyway, it was a good result, and a deserved one. The Tigers did play very well. Especially number 2. Whoever that was. Well done, Number 2. You were very fast and sprinty. If you keep it up, I’m sure you’ll be number 1 before too much longer. The goalie played very well too, though he didn’t control his defenders very tightly. He didn’t communicate much with the back four. That is my considered opinion of his performance. (It’s also what the man in the seat behind me said to his friend.)
The event was rather more intimate than I’d imagined. There were nearly 21,000 people there. That's a lot of people, but it didn’t feel as overwhelming as I'd expected. From watching football on tv, I thought the pitch and players would seem distant, but I felt close to the action. I confess that the pitch seemed smaller than on tv. I suppose they have to have the cameras an awfully long way up, which makes the game look smaller and more distant than it is to the spectators, even those of us in row DD. In all, it felt rather less intimidating and more… what’s the word?... more domestic than I’d anticipated.
If there was any disappointment on my part, it was that the Hull City fans were a little subdued. The Liverpool fans were in good voice, chanting and singing. The Hull fans gave encouragement by way of the odd roar or burst of applause, but they were relatively quiet, even though their team was triumphing. It felt rather over-polite, and they didn’t sing at all. Compared to the Liverpool fans, they were, frankly, a bit girlie. According to my father-in-law, that was because it was a friendly, and at home. Apparently Hull City supporters are known for their singing at away matches. I’ll have to go to one of those next. I suppose I was secretly hoping for the opportunity to find my inner raucous shouting self, but that will have to wait for another time.
It was something of a grand afternoon out, what with driving across the beautiful Yorkshire wolds to get there, and sitting in slow-moving traffic through Hull with Grandad pointing out landmarks from his youth.
“My school used to be right in the middle of that roundabout. Before the roundabout was there, of course. That’s where I used to jump on the bus. They were open at the back, with a pole to grab on to. Saved me 10 minutes, catching it as it came round the corner instead of going down to the bus station. Meant I could go home for lunch. They used to tell me I’d meet my fate, jumping on those buses as they went round that corner, but I’m still here… I used to go to the football with my big cousin. I was probably about your age, 10-yo. I always stood in those days. Never had a seat. You’d get to the front, if you were small. People let you through so you could see.”
I looked round, and saw the boys on the back seat looking out of the car window as we crawled along. Good for you, Grandad, for being more interesting than a DS and an iPod. And good for you, Hull City, for getting the season off to a cracking start.
My father-in-law is making Hull City supporters out of my sons, having himself been a fan for literally decades. He got four tickets for the pre-season friendly against Liverpool, and I surprised the family by saying that instead of Husband going along to represent the middle generation, I’d like to go. I thought it was a bit of a shame to get to the age of 46 without ever having seen a football match. In my defence, I nearly got to a match once. In 1990, I went with an Arsenal-supporting boyfriend to an Arsenal v. Tottenham game, but being a local derby, it was totally sold out, and we didn’t get in. (“… local derby…” Impressed by the football lingo there?) After a mere 21 years, I decided it was time to have another try.
I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon. I really did. Hull City won 3 – 0. A good result against the big guns of Liverpool. Yay, Tigers. Oh no. Hang on. That’s in America that we say Yay, isn’t it? What do we say here? Jolly good show, Tigers. No. That’s not quite right. Um…
Anyway, it was a good result, and a deserved one. The Tigers did play very well. Especially number 2. Whoever that was. Well done, Number 2. You were very fast and sprinty. If you keep it up, I’m sure you’ll be number 1 before too much longer. The goalie played very well too, though he didn’t control his defenders very tightly. He didn’t communicate much with the back four. That is my considered opinion of his performance. (It’s also what the man in the seat behind me said to his friend.)
The event was rather more intimate than I’d imagined. There were nearly 21,000 people there. That's a lot of people, but it didn’t feel as overwhelming as I'd expected. From watching football on tv, I thought the pitch and players would seem distant, but I felt close to the action. I confess that the pitch seemed smaller than on tv. I suppose they have to have the cameras an awfully long way up, which makes the game look smaller and more distant than it is to the spectators, even those of us in row DD. In all, it felt rather less intimidating and more… what’s the word?... more domestic than I’d anticipated.
If there was any disappointment on my part, it was that the Hull City fans were a little subdued. The Liverpool fans were in good voice, chanting and singing. The Hull fans gave encouragement by way of the odd roar or burst of applause, but they were relatively quiet, even though their team was triumphing. It felt rather over-polite, and they didn’t sing at all. Compared to the Liverpool fans, they were, frankly, a bit girlie. According to my father-in-law, that was because it was a friendly, and at home. Apparently Hull City supporters are known for their singing at away matches. I’ll have to go to one of those next. I suppose I was secretly hoping for the opportunity to find my inner raucous shouting self, but that will have to wait for another time.
It was something of a grand afternoon out, what with driving across the beautiful Yorkshire wolds to get there, and sitting in slow-moving traffic through Hull with Grandad pointing out landmarks from his youth.
“My school used to be right in the middle of that roundabout. Before the roundabout was there, of course. That’s where I used to jump on the bus. They were open at the back, with a pole to grab on to. Saved me 10 minutes, catching it as it came round the corner instead of going down to the bus station. Meant I could go home for lunch. They used to tell me I’d meet my fate, jumping on those buses as they went round that corner, but I’m still here… I used to go to the football with my big cousin. I was probably about your age, 10-yo. I always stood in those days. Never had a seat. You’d get to the front, if you were small. People let you through so you could see.”
I looked round, and saw the boys on the back seat looking out of the car window as we crawled along. Good for you, Grandad, for being more interesting than a DS and an iPod. And good for you, Hull City, for getting the season off to a cracking start.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
At the beach
Where've I been this week then?
I've been here.
Fife.
We used to live here. It's lovely coming back on holiday, because it's the best of both worlds. It's a holiday, so there's none of that daily life stuff to bother about. But it's familiar territory. We know where to go, where to shop, what to do, all the best haunts. We've caught up with a few old friends too.
This is the May Isle. You can take a boat trip there.
But guess what? I never have done. I don't know why. Just didn't quite get round to it when we lived here, and haven't ever got round to it since. I love the fact that I know it's really called the May Isle, not the Isle of May. It's the Isle of May on maps and to visitors, but locals have always called it the May Isle. I love knowing that. I love calling it the May Isle.
This is what my daughter looked like about 6 years ago.
She still loves the beach. She doesn't get there very often these days.
I've lifted these photos from a post I wrote a year or so ago about my favourite beach in Fife. This is how I described the beach then.
"I don’t know how many hours I spent on this beach, in the company of this view, but it was many, and I don’t regret a single one. I love this beach. I got to know it, as you get to know a friend. I learned that the day after a storm, it might be covered with slimy green seaweed, but that a few days later it would be pristine clean again. I learned that the best way to spot sea glass, is by walking into the sun, preferably when it was low in the sky. I learned that gravelly sand can be as good for sand castles as fine sand. I learned that the sea would accept any anxiety or ill feeling, tied in my imagination to the stone in my hand, and thrown as far as I could manage it. The sea could be waveless, still as a pond, or dancing daintily, or crashing feverishly. It could be twinkling with sunlight, blue and silver, or it could be grey and dark, not bothering to reflect the sky at all. I tell you, every time I went to that beach, it offered me both something new and something familiar. Like the best of relationships."
You're allowed to recycle old blog posts when you're on holiday, aren't you?
.
I've been here.
Fife.
We used to live here. It's lovely coming back on holiday, because it's the best of both worlds. It's a holiday, so there's none of that daily life stuff to bother about. But it's familiar territory. We know where to go, where to shop, what to do, all the best haunts. We've caught up with a few old friends too.
This is the May Isle. You can take a boat trip there.
But guess what? I never have done. I don't know why. Just didn't quite get round to it when we lived here, and haven't ever got round to it since. I love the fact that I know it's really called the May Isle, not the Isle of May. It's the Isle of May on maps and to visitors, but locals have always called it the May Isle. I love knowing that. I love calling it the May Isle.
This is what my daughter looked like about 6 years ago.
She still loves the beach. She doesn't get there very often these days.
I've lifted these photos from a post I wrote a year or so ago about my favourite beach in Fife. This is how I described the beach then.
"I don’t know how many hours I spent on this beach, in the company of this view, but it was many, and I don’t regret a single one. I love this beach. I got to know it, as you get to know a friend. I learned that the day after a storm, it might be covered with slimy green seaweed, but that a few days later it would be pristine clean again. I learned that the best way to spot sea glass, is by walking into the sun, preferably when it was low in the sky. I learned that gravelly sand can be as good for sand castles as fine sand. I learned that the sea would accept any anxiety or ill feeling, tied in my imagination to the stone in my hand, and thrown as far as I could manage it. The sea could be waveless, still as a pond, or dancing daintily, or crashing feverishly. It could be twinkling with sunlight, blue and silver, or it could be grey and dark, not bothering to reflect the sky at all. I tell you, every time I went to that beach, it offered me both something new and something familiar. Like the best of relationships."
You're allowed to recycle old blog posts when you're on holiday, aren't you?
.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Train of thought
7.35am, and I’m sitting in the Pumpkin Café, York station, with cup of tea and bacon roll. On my way to the US Embassy to renew my visa. Mine and the children’s. Probably want to take them back with me when I go. Be a shame if I had a visa and they didn’t.
Bit of an adventure getting here. Had planned to leave house by 6.10, to get 6.53 train from Malton to York. Woke up at 6.28. Don’t know how this happened. My alarm clock was set. Husband’s alarm clock was set. Did we both mis-set them? Did they both fail to go off? Freakish. Or did we both sleep through them? Perhaps we need a holiday. Oh. We’re on holiday. Does the part of me that doesn’t want to renew my visa have more say when I’m asleep? So anyway, 6.28. That left me 25 minutes exactly to get up, dressed, drive 8 miles to Malton, find somewhere to park (no station car park at Malton and I don’t know the town, only ever been to the station to pick up or drop off), and buy a ticket.
I made it. Still now quite sure how, though remember finding a miraculously free car park (didn’t know those existed any more), and running to the station, wiping tears out of my eyes as the chill morning wind whipped by my face (wind, because I was running like the, not because it was a windy morning - just to clarify). Even had time for little chat with booking office clerk, who said he’d been a bit late for work himself and it must be one of those days. Hope the Embassy staff don’t mind my hair, or my unshowered aroma.
8.05am, and I’m on the train to London King’s Cross. I love train travel. Love it with a passion that makes me wonder if I was born in the wrong era. Thank goodness I had sons, because they’re nothing if not a good excuse for the occasional steam train ride.
Got a seat with a table, and have The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, which I’m told (by many, though not all) I won’t be able to put down, but I know that for most of the journey, I won’t write or read. I’ll look out of the window. Why ever not? Flashing through probably the most beautiful county in probably the most beautiful country on earth.
Might have to move. There’s a woman with a mobile phone, a written report, and a very loud voice.
“Well, Jason, I think I’m just going to put 2.5 as regards that figure, because that’s what all the other sites have done, and so I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
I don’t see why she shouldn’t either, but I don’t want to listen all the way to King’s Cross. Train is remarkably empty (why?), so plenty of choice.
Power stations – one on my left, one on my right. Countryside very flat now. That’ll teach me to write “probably the most beautiful county…”.
Haven’t got a laptop. Just in case you were picturing me, all high tech and wired up. Or wire free. No, not allowed electrical things in the US Embassy. Not even allowed a clicky key fob. Lucky I had an old-fashioned turn-in-the-lock one, though intriguingly it only worked in the passenger side door. That required about 3 precious seconds in the car park. The remembering and the sprinting round to the other side.
Now, Bloggy Peeps. Should that be Peops? Trouble is, that looks like Pee-ops. But Peeps is a bit Thomas the Tank Engine. Oh, I don’t know. I’ll call you Bloggy Friends.
Now, Bloggy Friends. I know I’m on a blogging break, but I thought you might like to know about my summer so far. Just a few highlights.
Cyber Mummy
Oh my goodness, I loved Cyber Mummy (except for the name, sorry, I just can’t love that name). There was something very fulfilling, in the genuine sense of that word, about meeting women who I’d got to know so well online over the past three years. I mean, three years is hardly a whirlwind romance, so these are people who have had a window into a measurable percentage of my adult life, and I into theirs. Yours.
There were some excellent moments. One of my faves was when I won a month’s supply of Garofalo pasta in the prize draw. I and the friend I was sitting next to thought it was Gruffalo pasta, because she’d just been telling me about interviewing Julia Donaldson. Gruffalo pasta. Why the heck not?
More summer highlights:
over-riding my vertigo to go up the Eiffel Tower – to the top, mind you – and finding I thoroughly enjoyed it;
sitting in the front garden, sharing a bottle of evening wine with my husband and brother, the temperature somewhere around the high 80s, the air scented with jasmine, still, and heavy, the conversation punctuated by Parisians nodding Bonsoir to my brother as they walked past;
watching my temperature-resistant children swim in the sea with cousins in both Brighton and St Andrews (different cousins – we don’t carry a set round with us on our travels);
the mundane familiarity of small English things, like being called ‘Love’ by shop assistants;
visiting ruined abbeys and having picnics;
staying with my mum, who is quite definitely one of Britain’s National Treasures;
old friends, with their children 2 years older than last time I saw them;
going to a museum, or two or three, including the Natural History Museum in London, where 9-yo decided he wants to become a geologist;
bumping into some friends at Abington services on the M74. We were driving north from Yorkshire to the Scottish Highlands. They were driving south from Edinburgh to the Lake District. What were the chances? We last saw them in October 2006, just before we went to America. We gave them lamps that we couldn’t take with us (different voltage in the US). I’d forgotten. They now have a 2 year old.
Oh so many more, but this is a blog, not a novel, so I must stop. One low point to report: 9-yo breaking his collar bone when he fell off a bike. Hurrah for the NHS, I must say. In and out of A&E within an hour and a quarter - friendly nurses, friendly doctor, x-rays, pain-killers, and a sling - no forms to fill in, and not a penny to pay. Horrid to see him in pain and shrunk into himself, though. He's doing fine now - thanks for asking - and having an arm in a sling doesn't stop him doing much. Cricket, football, swimming, building sandcastles, DS, monopoly, sibling squabbling... all these summer activities are possible one-armed. Just as well he's not a blogger. Blogging one-handed would be frustrating.
More anon.
.
Bit of an adventure getting here. Had planned to leave house by 6.10, to get 6.53 train from Malton to York. Woke up at 6.28. Don’t know how this happened. My alarm clock was set. Husband’s alarm clock was set. Did we both mis-set them? Did they both fail to go off? Freakish. Or did we both sleep through them? Perhaps we need a holiday. Oh. We’re on holiday. Does the part of me that doesn’t want to renew my visa have more say when I’m asleep? So anyway, 6.28. That left me 25 minutes exactly to get up, dressed, drive 8 miles to Malton, find somewhere to park (no station car park at Malton and I don’t know the town, only ever been to the station to pick up or drop off), and buy a ticket.
I made it. Still now quite sure how, though remember finding a miraculously free car park (didn’t know those existed any more), and running to the station, wiping tears out of my eyes as the chill morning wind whipped by my face (wind, because I was running like the, not because it was a windy morning - just to clarify). Even had time for little chat with booking office clerk, who said he’d been a bit late for work himself and it must be one of those days. Hope the Embassy staff don’t mind my hair, or my unshowered aroma.
8.05am, and I’m on the train to London King’s Cross. I love train travel. Love it with a passion that makes me wonder if I was born in the wrong era. Thank goodness I had sons, because they’re nothing if not a good excuse for the occasional steam train ride.
Got a seat with a table, and have The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, which I’m told (by many, though not all) I won’t be able to put down, but I know that for most of the journey, I won’t write or read. I’ll look out of the window. Why ever not? Flashing through probably the most beautiful county in probably the most beautiful country on earth.
Might have to move. There’s a woman with a mobile phone, a written report, and a very loud voice.
“Well, Jason, I think I’m just going to put 2.5 as regards that figure, because that’s what all the other sites have done, and so I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
I don’t see why she shouldn’t either, but I don’t want to listen all the way to King’s Cross. Train is remarkably empty (why?), so plenty of choice.
Power stations – one on my left, one on my right. Countryside very flat now. That’ll teach me to write “probably the most beautiful county…”.
Haven’t got a laptop. Just in case you were picturing me, all high tech and wired up. Or wire free. No, not allowed electrical things in the US Embassy. Not even allowed a clicky key fob. Lucky I had an old-fashioned turn-in-the-lock one, though intriguingly it only worked in the passenger side door. That required about 3 precious seconds in the car park. The remembering and the sprinting round to the other side.
Now, Bloggy Peeps. Should that be Peops? Trouble is, that looks like Pee-ops. But Peeps is a bit Thomas the Tank Engine. Oh, I don’t know. I’ll call you Bloggy Friends.
Now, Bloggy Friends. I know I’m on a blogging break, but I thought you might like to know about my summer so far. Just a few highlights.
Cyber Mummy
Oh my goodness, I loved Cyber Mummy (except for the name, sorry, I just can’t love that name). There was something very fulfilling, in the genuine sense of that word, about meeting women who I’d got to know so well online over the past three years. I mean, three years is hardly a whirlwind romance, so these are people who have had a window into a measurable percentage of my adult life, and I into theirs. Yours.
There were some excellent moments. One of my faves was when I won a month’s supply of Garofalo pasta in the prize draw. I and the friend I was sitting next to thought it was Gruffalo pasta, because she’d just been telling me about interviewing Julia Donaldson. Gruffalo pasta. Why the heck not?
More summer highlights:
over-riding my vertigo to go up the Eiffel Tower – to the top, mind you – and finding I thoroughly enjoyed it;
sitting in the front garden, sharing a bottle of evening wine with my husband and brother, the temperature somewhere around the high 80s, the air scented with jasmine, still, and heavy, the conversation punctuated by Parisians nodding Bonsoir to my brother as they walked past;
watching my temperature-resistant children swim in the sea with cousins in both Brighton and St Andrews (different cousins – we don’t carry a set round with us on our travels);
the mundane familiarity of small English things, like being called ‘Love’ by shop assistants;
visiting ruined abbeys and having picnics;
staying with my mum, who is quite definitely one of Britain’s National Treasures;
old friends, with their children 2 years older than last time I saw them;
going to a museum, or two or three, including the Natural History Museum in London, where 9-yo decided he wants to become a geologist;
bumping into some friends at Abington services on the M74. We were driving north from Yorkshire to the Scottish Highlands. They were driving south from Edinburgh to the Lake District. What were the chances? We last saw them in October 2006, just before we went to America. We gave them lamps that we couldn’t take with us (different voltage in the US). I’d forgotten. They now have a 2 year old.
Oh so many more, but this is a blog, not a novel, so I must stop. One low point to report: 9-yo breaking his collar bone when he fell off a bike. Hurrah for the NHS, I must say. In and out of A&E within an hour and a quarter - friendly nurses, friendly doctor, x-rays, pain-killers, and a sling - no forms to fill in, and not a penny to pay. Horrid to see him in pain and shrunk into himself, though. He's doing fine now - thanks for asking - and having an arm in a sling doesn't stop him doing much. Cricket, football, swimming, building sandcastles, DS, monopoly, sibling squabbling... all these summer activities are possible one-armed. Just as well he's not a blogger. Blogging one-handed would be frustrating.
More anon.
.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Taking a break
I’ve really struggled with this post. You see, I want to take a break from blogging over the summer. I thought I could get to you to click on the play button below, and create in your minds a picture of me shimmying off into the distance, passport in one hand, mug of tea in the other, no way of carrying a laptop too. “I’m heading to the UK, and I don’t want to be writing blog posts all summer”, I would have said breezily. And that would have been a fair picture. Well, fair-ish anyway. So go ahead and click (it’s a great song, you’ll enjoy it).
See that shimmying? Then I started writing a bit more honestly about why I want to take a break, and several hundreds of words later, I thought “this is way too long, and do I really want this uber-personal stuff to sit on my blog as the top post for weeks?”, but I liked the honesty of it, and so I didn’t know what to do with it. It had paragraphs that started:
One of the thoroughly miserable things about having had cancer is that you can't go back to being quite how you were...
Returning to normal life after a trauma like cancer is a little like running a sprint, and then being asked unexpectedly to tack a half-marathon on the end of it...
Here's the difficult thing. I find it very hard to complain about any of this without feeling very guilty. I mean, shouldn't I just be so grateful? The fact that I've got through so far seems to have deprived me of the right to feel hard done by about anything else...
I know I'm very bad at the whole head/heart balance thing. Thing is, Head has got it all so sussed, and knows that it needs to get out of the way and let Heart have a turn at running things, but for all its cleverness, it doesn't know how to do that...
I do see someone to talk to (since you're all going to suggest that), and yes, it does help. And I know it will take time (so if you mention that in a comment, prepare to have your comment deleted, since I’m quite irritable on that point)...
Does that give you enough of a flavour? Each one could be the subject of a whole blog post, and there was lots more where that came from too, but truth to tell, I am a little fed up of writing all this stuff. You know how I always love writing, and blogging? Well, I have to confess I’ve slightly fallen out of love with this blog over the past few weeks. It's seen me through so much, but it's recently become a bit of a burden as well as a pleasure. Has that shown?
So, in an honest nutshell, that’s why I'm going to take a break.
There's one little loose end. Do you remember that conference I said I wanted to run? You know. The yoga bottoms and chocolate cake one? Well, I was, actually, quite serious about it, for a short while. But then a very wise bloggy friend (you know who you are) said "Don't run a conference. Spend your precious summer enjoying time with family and friends." And I thought "she's absolutely right". I haven’t seen my immediate family for two years. Two years! Hello Mum, I'm waving at you now! I have good friends to catch up with. I want to sit on beaches, walk in woods, eat picnics in fields, have days out in historic cities. We're flying on Sunday. So I’m not going to organise that conference, but I am going to Cyber Mummy (probably not in my yoga bottoms), and if your summer will be incomplete without meeting me in the flesh, you can see me there. I'm looking forward to meeting so many of you. It feels a little weird – I know you, and you certainly know me, more than is normal for first time meetings, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.
At Cyber Mummy, the tables at lunch are going to centre round different themes, to get people with similar interests together, and to get conversation going. I’m hosting a table, discussing Identity and Anonymity (kind of ironic, since I’ll be giving up the latter to attend Cyber Mummy). So please come and join me if you’d be interested in those topics - or if you spot me sitting all on my own. (And psst… between you and me, no-one made me sign a contract saying I would stick to the subject, so if we want to share pictures of our kids or talk about chocolate cake, then I think we can get away with it.)
And the music? Well, that song has become something of a theme tune for me over the past few weeks. 6-yo asked for ‘a grown-up cd’ for her birthday, and while browsing in Dillons, I came across a compilation one: Summer of ’67. It had a picture of a chiffon-clad, long-haired, wafty woman in soft focus on the front which I knew would appeal to 6-yo. It is a fabulous cd. Wow, they knew a thing or two about music in 1967. Somehow this song has become the place I’ve gone to when I just haven’t been able to connect with the world, as well as being the accompaniment to lots of happy moments. It has suited every mood. Wistful. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to it. Isn’t it odd, what gets you through? (And that line at 1.58, “you and me and Leslie” is actually “you and me endlessly” – makes me laugh every time.)
Oh, and if you've been lurking all this time, why don't you come on out and say hello to me? I'm only going on a break; I'm planning to be back; but you never know what the future holds, and look how long it took Ross and Rachel to get together again.
There. I’ve packed my virtual suitcases (or soupcases, as 6-yo calls them), and I’m off on my break.
Happy blogging...
.
See that shimmying? Then I started writing a bit more honestly about why I want to take a break, and several hundreds of words later, I thought “this is way too long, and do I really want this uber-personal stuff to sit on my blog as the top post for weeks?”, but I liked the honesty of it, and so I didn’t know what to do with it. It had paragraphs that started:
One of the thoroughly miserable things about having had cancer is that you can't go back to being quite how you were...
Returning to normal life after a trauma like cancer is a little like running a sprint, and then being asked unexpectedly to tack a half-marathon on the end of it...
Here's the difficult thing. I find it very hard to complain about any of this without feeling very guilty. I mean, shouldn't I just be so grateful? The fact that I've got through so far seems to have deprived me of the right to feel hard done by about anything else...
I know I'm very bad at the whole head/heart balance thing. Thing is, Head has got it all so sussed, and knows that it needs to get out of the way and let Heart have a turn at running things, but for all its cleverness, it doesn't know how to do that...
I do see someone to talk to (since you're all going to suggest that), and yes, it does help. And I know it will take time (so if you mention that in a comment, prepare to have your comment deleted, since I’m quite irritable on that point)...
Does that give you enough of a flavour? Each one could be the subject of a whole blog post, and there was lots more where that came from too, but truth to tell, I am a little fed up of writing all this stuff. You know how I always love writing, and blogging? Well, I have to confess I’ve slightly fallen out of love with this blog over the past few weeks. It's seen me through so much, but it's recently become a bit of a burden as well as a pleasure. Has that shown?
So, in an honest nutshell, that’s why I'm going to take a break.
There's one little loose end. Do you remember that conference I said I wanted to run? You know. The yoga bottoms and chocolate cake one? Well, I was, actually, quite serious about it, for a short while. But then a very wise bloggy friend (you know who you are) said "Don't run a conference. Spend your precious summer enjoying time with family and friends." And I thought "she's absolutely right". I haven’t seen my immediate family for two years. Two years! Hello Mum, I'm waving at you now! I have good friends to catch up with. I want to sit on beaches, walk in woods, eat picnics in fields, have days out in historic cities. We're flying on Sunday. So I’m not going to organise that conference, but I am going to Cyber Mummy (probably not in my yoga bottoms), and if your summer will be incomplete without meeting me in the flesh, you can see me there. I'm looking forward to meeting so many of you. It feels a little weird – I know you, and you certainly know me, more than is normal for first time meetings, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.
At Cyber Mummy, the tables at lunch are going to centre round different themes, to get people with similar interests together, and to get conversation going. I’m hosting a table, discussing Identity and Anonymity (kind of ironic, since I’ll be giving up the latter to attend Cyber Mummy). So please come and join me if you’d be interested in those topics - or if you spot me sitting all on my own. (And psst… between you and me, no-one made me sign a contract saying I would stick to the subject, so if we want to share pictures of our kids or talk about chocolate cake, then I think we can get away with it.)
And the music? Well, that song has become something of a theme tune for me over the past few weeks. 6-yo asked for ‘a grown-up cd’ for her birthday, and while browsing in Dillons, I came across a compilation one: Summer of ’67. It had a picture of a chiffon-clad, long-haired, wafty woman in soft focus on the front which I knew would appeal to 6-yo. It is a fabulous cd. Wow, they knew a thing or two about music in 1967. Somehow this song has become the place I’ve gone to when I just haven’t been able to connect with the world, as well as being the accompaniment to lots of happy moments. It has suited every mood. Wistful. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to it. Isn’t it odd, what gets you through? (And that line at 1.58, “you and me and Leslie” is actually “you and me endlessly” – makes me laugh every time.)
Oh, and if you've been lurking all this time, why don't you come on out and say hello to me? I'm only going on a break; I'm planning to be back; but you never know what the future holds, and look how long it took Ross and Rachel to get together again.
There. I’ve packed my virtual suitcases (or soupcases, as 6-yo calls them), and I’m off on my break.
Happy blogging...
.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Thanksgiving: the shadow side
Okay, okay, so that Thanksgiving post was a bit Pollyanna. I admit it. Truth is, I chopped the last bit off the first draft. That was partly in line with my policy of trying to write shorter posts these days, partly because I thought it spoiled the Thanksgiving jollity, and partly because I thought it was an idea that merited a post of its own. Here is that last thought…
There's a line in the film Father of the Bride when Steve Martin is reflecting on how it feels to bring up a daughter. He says:
"There comes a day when you quit worrying about her meeting the wrong guy, and you worry about her meeting the right guy, and that's the biggest fear of all, because then you lose her".
The Parent's Paradox. I suggest that there’s an Expat’s Paradox which parallels it. It goes like this:
“There comes a time when you quit worrying about this being the wrong place, and you worry about this being the right place, and that's the biggest fear of all, because then you lose something important of yourself”.
I'm not there myself yet, not by a long chalk, but perhaps my idyllic Thanksgiving break gave me a glimpse (maybe it was the redemptive green bean casserole that did it).
Blimey, these thoughts look a lot scarier typed out in black and white than I imagined they would.
.
There's a line in the film Father of the Bride when Steve Martin is reflecting on how it feels to bring up a daughter. He says:
"There comes a day when you quit worrying about her meeting the wrong guy, and you worry about her meeting the right guy, and that's the biggest fear of all, because then you lose her".
The Parent's Paradox. I suggest that there’s an Expat’s Paradox which parallels it. It goes like this:
“There comes a time when you quit worrying about this being the wrong place, and you worry about this being the right place, and that's the biggest fear of all, because then you lose something important of yourself”.
I'm not there myself yet, not by a long chalk, but perhaps my idyllic Thanksgiving break gave me a glimpse (maybe it was the redemptive green bean casserole that did it).
Blimey, these thoughts look a lot scarier typed out in black and white than I imagined they would.
.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thanksgiving
We've been to Colorado again, for a week. So there's lots of stuff I could be sorting out, and there's a mountain of laundry, but... I'm going to write a blog post instead.
There is something about mountains. You always feel better for having been in them. We had a week of idyllic weather, with blue, blue skies and temperatures in the 60s, and even the 70s. Of course if it had been freezing cold and snowing a blizzard, that would have been fine too. It was win-win, really, and actually, part of us had hoped for weather so bad that we'd get snowed in and be forced to lengthen our stay.
It was, as far as I can remember, my best birthday ever. We started the day with a couple of hours of sledding. Where we were, at 7,500 ft, there wasn't any snow to speak of, but half an hour away, at 10,500 ft, there was enough. No broken limbs, just a few grazes, and glorious moments of speed and adventure. Then we soaked in the local hot springs, and emerged smelling of sulphur, but relaxed and invigorated. I successfully negotiated the changing rooms, which is a bit different in this post-surgery era of my life, but I managed ok, and even got to hold a 6-month old baby for a mother who didn't have enough hands to get herself and her two children dry and dressed (been there, know that feeling). Holding a baby: a nice thing to do on your birthday. We went out for dinner in a Chinese restaurant (new departure, having children old enough and adventurous enough to manage a Chinese menu), and ended up snuggling under a cosy blanket on the sofa watching the film Father of the Bride together. It's always a challenge to find a dvd that can be enjoyed by everyone in the family, but that seemed to hit the spot. There was a bottle of champagne in there too, somewhere along the line.
Apart from birthday frivolities, there was, of course, Thanksgiving. I have much to be thankful for this year, so for me, it was more about that, than about turkeys and pilgrims. Not that I'm knocking turkeys and pilgrims. Anyway, we got scooped up for a Thanksgiving meal by a local couple, who take it upon themselves to cook dinner for about 25, and then open their home to people who aren't celebrating with their own families. This seemed to include friends, friends of friends, and stray British wanderers. The food was totally delicious, the kids had fun, the company was relaxed, and it all took place in a perfect setting - a large house right on the shores of a beautiful lake. Going out on the deck (remember, it was sunny and warm, with blue skies), margarita in hand, I had one of those "I feel like I'm in a film" moments. How did life bring me to be enjoying Thanksgiving Dinner with all these people who I don't know, in a lake house, in Colorado, and drinking tequila? I don't even like tequila. Life is a puzzle.
I have to make a brief aside here, and reveal to you all - and I know many of you will find this hard to believe - that the green bean casserole was completely delectable. I'm a convert. It's a worrying sign that I might have been in America too long. Actually, I think it's more that I got to sample what a green bean casserole CAN be like, which is as different from what I've experienced before under that title as a unicorn is from a horse (ie not really all that different in substance, but very rare and exotic, and a whole new beautiful experience).
Americans, I have to tell you, are very good at the whole 'being nice to strangers' thing. I don't mean to knock the British, but really, we're in a very minor league when it comes to this. It's humbling to be on the receiving end. We have now stayed in Colorado for three separate weeks, each time in accommodation for which we have not paid a dime, and via a connection of two removes. And this time, we were welcomed into a Thanksgiving celebration as if we were old friends. As we left, the hostess gave me a big hug, and insisted that if we ever wanted to come to Colorado and didn't have anywhere to stay, then we must come and stay with her. She has met us once. This generous hospitality really is America at its finest. I think it's a lovely quality.
.
There is something about mountains. You always feel better for having been in them. We had a week of idyllic weather, with blue, blue skies and temperatures in the 60s, and even the 70s. Of course if it had been freezing cold and snowing a blizzard, that would have been fine too. It was win-win, really, and actually, part of us had hoped for weather so bad that we'd get snowed in and be forced to lengthen our stay.
It was, as far as I can remember, my best birthday ever. We started the day with a couple of hours of sledding. Where we were, at 7,500 ft, there wasn't any snow to speak of, but half an hour away, at 10,500 ft, there was enough. No broken limbs, just a few grazes, and glorious moments of speed and adventure. Then we soaked in the local hot springs, and emerged smelling of sulphur, but relaxed and invigorated. I successfully negotiated the changing rooms, which is a bit different in this post-surgery era of my life, but I managed ok, and even got to hold a 6-month old baby for a mother who didn't have enough hands to get herself and her two children dry and dressed (been there, know that feeling). Holding a baby: a nice thing to do on your birthday. We went out for dinner in a Chinese restaurant (new departure, having children old enough and adventurous enough to manage a Chinese menu), and ended up snuggling under a cosy blanket on the sofa watching the film Father of the Bride together. It's always a challenge to find a dvd that can be enjoyed by everyone in the family, but that seemed to hit the spot. There was a bottle of champagne in there too, somewhere along the line.
Apart from birthday frivolities, there was, of course, Thanksgiving. I have much to be thankful for this year, so for me, it was more about that, than about turkeys and pilgrims. Not that I'm knocking turkeys and pilgrims. Anyway, we got scooped up for a Thanksgiving meal by a local couple, who take it upon themselves to cook dinner for about 25, and then open their home to people who aren't celebrating with their own families. This seemed to include friends, friends of friends, and stray British wanderers. The food was totally delicious, the kids had fun, the company was relaxed, and it all took place in a perfect setting - a large house right on the shores of a beautiful lake. Going out on the deck (remember, it was sunny and warm, with blue skies), margarita in hand, I had one of those "I feel like I'm in a film" moments. How did life bring me to be enjoying Thanksgiving Dinner with all these people who I don't know, in a lake house, in Colorado, and drinking tequila? I don't even like tequila. Life is a puzzle.
I have to make a brief aside here, and reveal to you all - and I know many of you will find this hard to believe - that the green bean casserole was completely delectable. I'm a convert. It's a worrying sign that I might have been in America too long. Actually, I think it's more that I got to sample what a green bean casserole CAN be like, which is as different from what I've experienced before under that title as a unicorn is from a horse (ie not really all that different in substance, but very rare and exotic, and a whole new beautiful experience).
Americans, I have to tell you, are very good at the whole 'being nice to strangers' thing. I don't mean to knock the British, but really, we're in a very minor league when it comes to this. It's humbling to be on the receiving end. We have now stayed in Colorado for three separate weeks, each time in accommodation for which we have not paid a dime, and via a connection of two removes. And this time, we were welcomed into a Thanksgiving celebration as if we were old friends. As we left, the hostess gave me a big hug, and insisted that if we ever wanted to come to Colorado and didn't have anywhere to stay, then we must come and stay with her. She has met us once. This generous hospitality really is America at its finest. I think it's a lovely quality.
.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Festivals
One of the things that is very noticeable about living in America is how much more effort they put into celebrating festivals. Houses are decorated, schools have parties, the ‘seasonal’ aisles in stores are filled with appropriate merchandise (although that happens well in advance of the festival itself, as if those aisles are in their own private time zone).
My personal theory is that we don’t need the excitement of festivals so much in Britain, as our school year is organized differently. We are never more than a few weeks away from a holiday (Christmas, Easter, summer) or half-term. If you need something to look forward to – and don’t we all? – then you have lots of scope to arrange a day out, a trip, a visit to or from relations, a holiday, something to break up the routine. Over here, there’s a 2-week Christmas holiday, a week’s Spring break, and otherwise, all the school holiday is in a great long 12-week stretch over the summer. (I know I've talked about this before so I'm sorry to be repetitive, but it really does make such a big difference to life.) There are occasional days off, but it’s just not the same as having a long week-end, or a half-term week. I mean to say, if your children returned to school on August 17th, and their only break before Christmas was 3 days holiday in late November, wouldn’t you need a few events to get excited about?
Each festival has a colour associated with it. At the time of the relevant festival, the stores have a rash of that colour dotted through them. Cupcakes have the theme colour icing, there are a couple of racks of children's clothing in it, there'll be a sprinkling of it in the adult clothing section too, homewares will sport the colour in paper plates, tableclothes, napkins, and candles, and there'll be plenty of novelty goods spattered around in that same colour too. I was thinking about this, and I reckon every feasible colour is accounted for. Here’s the list:
Valentine’s Day: red and pink
St Patrick’s Day: green
Easter: yellow (and pastel shades generally)
Memorial Day and Fourth of July: red, white and blue
Hallowe’en: orange, black and purple
Christmas: green and red.
It really only leaves brown and grey unused. They’re not very festive colours, so it’s not surprising. I suppose Labor Day could adopt them, to represent the drudgery of work. But I have a better plan for them. I’m working on a ‘British Day’ celebration when we could put them to use. It would have to be 4th January, ie the opposite to 4th July. The grey would symbolize the British weather, and the brown the British countryside, (ideally we’d want to use green for that, but that’s already taken by St Patrick and the Irish and in January, the British countryside is more brown than green anyway).
I think I’m going to have an uphill battle getting this one universally adopted, especially so soon after the Christmas season. On the other hand, those seasonal aisles are pretty purposeless in January. It’s a good six weeks till Valentine’s Day. I’m sure the major retailers would welcome a January festival. No-one will have grey and brown paraphernalia stored away in their closets, so this would present an opportunity for significant new purchasing. Perhaps I should write to Target and Wal-mart and see if I can get something started (and yes, I know I’d have to spell it ‘gray’ for their benefit).
.
My personal theory is that we don’t need the excitement of festivals so much in Britain, as our school year is organized differently. We are never more than a few weeks away from a holiday (Christmas, Easter, summer) or half-term. If you need something to look forward to – and don’t we all? – then you have lots of scope to arrange a day out, a trip, a visit to or from relations, a holiday, something to break up the routine. Over here, there’s a 2-week Christmas holiday, a week’s Spring break, and otherwise, all the school holiday is in a great long 12-week stretch over the summer. (I know I've talked about this before so I'm sorry to be repetitive, but it really does make such a big difference to life.) There are occasional days off, but it’s just not the same as having a long week-end, or a half-term week. I mean to say, if your children returned to school on August 17th, and their only break before Christmas was 3 days holiday in late November, wouldn’t you need a few events to get excited about?
Each festival has a colour associated with it. At the time of the relevant festival, the stores have a rash of that colour dotted through them. Cupcakes have the theme colour icing, there are a couple of racks of children's clothing in it, there'll be a sprinkling of it in the adult clothing section too, homewares will sport the colour in paper plates, tableclothes, napkins, and candles, and there'll be plenty of novelty goods spattered around in that same colour too. I was thinking about this, and I reckon every feasible colour is accounted for. Here’s the list:
Valentine’s Day: red and pink
St Patrick’s Day: green
Easter: yellow (and pastel shades generally)
Memorial Day and Fourth of July: red, white and blue
Hallowe’en: orange, black and purple
Christmas: green and red.
It really only leaves brown and grey unused. They’re not very festive colours, so it’s not surprising. I suppose Labor Day could adopt them, to represent the drudgery of work. But I have a better plan for them. I’m working on a ‘British Day’ celebration when we could put them to use. It would have to be 4th January, ie the opposite to 4th July. The grey would symbolize the British weather, and the brown the British countryside, (ideally we’d want to use green for that, but that’s already taken by St Patrick and the Irish and in January, the British countryside is more brown than green anyway).
I think I’m going to have an uphill battle getting this one universally adopted, especially so soon after the Christmas season. On the other hand, those seasonal aisles are pretty purposeless in January. It’s a good six weeks till Valentine’s Day. I’m sure the major retailers would welcome a January festival. No-one will have grey and brown paraphernalia stored away in their closets, so this would present an opportunity for significant new purchasing. Perhaps I should write to Target and Wal-mart and see if I can get something started (and yes, I know I’d have to spell it ‘gray’ for their benefit).
.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Home again, home again, jiggety jig
We are back. We had a golden summer. Cousins played happily with cousins. I had my fix of old friends. We went to lovely beaches, the North York Moors, enjoyed old haunts, discovered new ones. Walked down streets – such a different thing from going to the mall. Walked along leafy country lanes that I have known since I was pushed along them in a big Silver Cross pram, kicking my younger brother for leg space. Went to the christening of my blogson. Husband and 11-yo had a day at Lord’s. Realised we’d been away too long when I said “there’s the pub”, and 4-yo piped up from the back of the car “what’s a pub?”
And blogging. Hm. Didn’t do much of that. Didn’t have internet access, you see. Had to go to the public library. Cramps one’s style a bit. Hadn’t planned to go silent for three months, but it sort of happened. Sorry.
It was good to go home. I had been worried that it would be unsettling for us all, make us unsure of where we fit in these days. But the opposite happened. It helped. The children made sense of which cousin belonged to which aunt and uncle, and if we needed evidence that blood is thicker than water, it was there to be found in the way they got on so easily. Links to places and people were still strong, but didn’t seem to evoke the same sense of loss. We fitted in here, there and everywhere more easily that I could have imagined. The familiarity was comforting. Most of all, we just didn’t think about it too much. I had been worried that the trip would make us homesick, but no. At least not for now. It made Britain seem more reachable, just a flight away, the Atlantic really just a big pond.
This, too. The balance has tipped. We knew deep down all along that this our American chapter would be not wrong, just different, and not forever, but we decided that we would live from the outset as if it were, putting down deliberate roots, holding loosely to home ties, living our thought lives as well as our physical lives here in the Midwest. I never fooled myself, but I gave it my best shot, carefully and with effort. Our summer changed that. We’ve started thinking and talking about the return strategy. Too much, probably. We did some forward planning, a bit vague at this point, but at least the direction is decided. We’ve done the uphill climb, we’re now on the plateau. I know the downhill may be some way off, but I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge it exists. That is a good feeling.
A golden summer with silver linings.
And blogging. Hm. Didn’t do much of that. Didn’t have internet access, you see. Had to go to the public library. Cramps one’s style a bit. Hadn’t planned to go silent for three months, but it sort of happened. Sorry.
It was good to go home. I had been worried that it would be unsettling for us all, make us unsure of where we fit in these days. But the opposite happened. It helped. The children made sense of which cousin belonged to which aunt and uncle, and if we needed evidence that blood is thicker than water, it was there to be found in the way they got on so easily. Links to places and people were still strong, but didn’t seem to evoke the same sense of loss. We fitted in here, there and everywhere more easily that I could have imagined. The familiarity was comforting. Most of all, we just didn’t think about it too much. I had been worried that the trip would make us homesick, but no. At least not for now. It made Britain seem more reachable, just a flight away, the Atlantic really just a big pond.
This, too. The balance has tipped. We knew deep down all along that this our American chapter would be not wrong, just different, and not forever, but we decided that we would live from the outset as if it were, putting down deliberate roots, holding loosely to home ties, living our thought lives as well as our physical lives here in the Midwest. I never fooled myself, but I gave it my best shot, carefully and with effort. Our summer changed that. We’ve started thinking and talking about the return strategy. Too much, probably. We did some forward planning, a bit vague at this point, but at least the direction is decided. We’ve done the uphill climb, we’re now on the plateau. I know the downhill may be some way off, but I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge it exists. That is a good feeling.
A golden summer with silver linings.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Different things
Over the past few days, I have been collecting a list of things that will be different about life when we’re in Britain. They are pretty random, so I will just spew them out, although I have made at least a little attempt at organizing them. They are in three categories. Three categories – come on, that’s pretty good. I mean, it’s not the kind of intelligent analysis that would get me to be where someone like Matt Frei is, but three categories is three categories. Don’t knock it.
Things that will be different
• There will be reassuring white lines at road junctions, so that I will know where I am meant to stop the car
• Stop lights will not swing about on their wires in the wind in that alarming way
• The meat aisle in the supermarket will be mostly chicken with a small section of beef, rather than mostly beef with a small section of chicken
• Children won’t call each other “dude” (or perhaps they will; we’ve been away 18 months and this could be a new fashion for all I know)
• Everything will seem very small, especially cars and houses. A friend of mine laughed when I told her we have an air hockey table in our basement playroom: “you have a playroom large enough for an air hockey table?”. I didn’t tell her we could fit 3 or 4 in that room, and that we have a choice of other rooms where it could go. And that our house is not abnormally large for a family of five
• Children in a park won’t ask their parents for an underdog (which is surprising, given we’re meant to be a nation that always likes the underdog)
• A grill will be something you put meat under, not on top of
Things I will miss
• A big fridge
• The lack of traffic
• Not having to spend time planning the hunt for a parking space
• Thunderstorms
• Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in a box (which, annoyingly and humiliatingly, is much, much more delicious than homemade)
• Mixer taps that actually mix the hot and cold water
• Seeing exotic food in my local supermarket (cactus leaves, buffalo meat) – or will Cadbury’s chocolate fingers and Wall’s chipolatas seem exotic now?
• Knowing it will be warm enough every day to wear flip flops (I find the relentless heat hard to cope with, but I do like flip flops)
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent
Things I definitely will not miss
• Obscenely large portions in restaurants
• Drinks served 75% ice 25% liquid (am I the only one who likes a drink to be something you can drink? am I the only one with teeth sensitive to cold?)
• When I order milk from a children’s menu, the waiter asking “white or chocolate?”
(Of course these first three are entirely hypothetical, since we won’t be eating out at all. Given the cost of living in the UK, we will be existing on bread and water – oh, but at least it’ll be delicious bread, not the compacted cotton wool that is marketed as bread over here.)
• Commercials on tv – their number, frequency, length, quality and medical content (I think that covers the gist of it)
• The word “ornery”, because I just can’t quite get the nuance of what it means – one of those words which has a dictionary definition, but whose usage depends on undefinable knowledge
• The word “flakey”, for the same reason (and is it “flakey” or “flaky” – I can’t even spell it)
• Chiggers
• Four-way stops (don’t get me started)
• Children saying “can I get…” instead of “please may I have…”
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent (and yes, that’s meant to be in both lists - I’m a bit complicated on this one. Sometimes it’s nice to be different and have an immediate talking point, sometimes it would be nice to blend in a little more.)
Things that will be different
• There will be reassuring white lines at road junctions, so that I will know where I am meant to stop the car
• Stop lights will not swing about on their wires in the wind in that alarming way
• The meat aisle in the supermarket will be mostly chicken with a small section of beef, rather than mostly beef with a small section of chicken
• Children won’t call each other “dude” (or perhaps they will; we’ve been away 18 months and this could be a new fashion for all I know)
• Everything will seem very small, especially cars and houses. A friend of mine laughed when I told her we have an air hockey table in our basement playroom: “you have a playroom large enough for an air hockey table?”. I didn’t tell her we could fit 3 or 4 in that room, and that we have a choice of other rooms where it could go. And that our house is not abnormally large for a family of five
• Children in a park won’t ask their parents for an underdog (which is surprising, given we’re meant to be a nation that always likes the underdog)
• A grill will be something you put meat under, not on top of
Things I will miss
• A big fridge
• The lack of traffic
• Not having to spend time planning the hunt for a parking space
• Thunderstorms
• Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in a box (which, annoyingly and humiliatingly, is much, much more delicious than homemade)
• Mixer taps that actually mix the hot and cold water
• Seeing exotic food in my local supermarket (cactus leaves, buffalo meat) – or will Cadbury’s chocolate fingers and Wall’s chipolatas seem exotic now?
• Knowing it will be warm enough every day to wear flip flops (I find the relentless heat hard to cope with, but I do like flip flops)
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent
Things I definitely will not miss
• Obscenely large portions in restaurants
• Drinks served 75% ice 25% liquid (am I the only one who likes a drink to be something you can drink? am I the only one with teeth sensitive to cold?)
• When I order milk from a children’s menu, the waiter asking “white or chocolate?”
(Of course these first three are entirely hypothetical, since we won’t be eating out at all. Given the cost of living in the UK, we will be existing on bread and water – oh, but at least it’ll be delicious bread, not the compacted cotton wool that is marketed as bread over here.)
• Commercials on tv – their number, frequency, length, quality and medical content (I think that covers the gist of it)
• The word “ornery”, because I just can’t quite get the nuance of what it means – one of those words which has a dictionary definition, but whose usage depends on undefinable knowledge
• The word “flakey”, for the same reason (and is it “flakey” or “flaky” – I can’t even spell it)
• Chiggers
• Four-way stops (don’t get me started)
• Children saying “can I get…” instead of “please may I have…”
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent (and yes, that’s meant to be in both lists - I’m a bit complicated on this one. Sometimes it’s nice to be different and have an immediate talking point, sometimes it would be nice to blend in a little more.)
Friday, May 2, 2008
"Home" thoughts from abroad
In two weeks, we will be on English soil. Retrospectively, I’ll be able to call it a fortnight (did you know that Americans don’t use that word?). I’m excited and looking forward to it, and I know it will be a wonderful time, all 12 weeks of it, but I have to confess to being a little nervous too.
There will be so many good things. Seeing family and friends, time as a family together on holiday, enjoying the beauty of the gentle English countryside (I hope you all appreciate how lucky you are to have it on your doorsteps), seeing the sea. Oh goodness me, so much! It’s a vacation, and I want it to be that, but I can’t avoid the fact that it will also be a trip to the old country. I don’t want to use the word “home”. I’ve spent a year and a half carefully and consistently referring to here as “home”. So when I tell people we’re going to Britain for the summer, and they reply “oh how neat, you’re going back home”, I don’t let them spoil my record. I counter with “yes, we’re going to Britain”. I shouldn’t think they notice, but I have my own personal pc rules.
I don’t need to go to Britain any more. Last summer, I desperately needed to, wanted to, ached to, which in itself was probably a reason against. No, now I fear I almost need NOT to go. I might like it too much. The hermetic seal around my life here, a separate chapter, an interesting interlude, but not real life somehow, will be broken. I’ve invested of myself here heavily and genuinely. I haven’t pretended (well, sometimes a little). But I know deep down that I am like one of those old-fashioned toy clowns that children used to have, round at the bottom and weighted, so that they always bob back upright with a jingle when released by the chubby hands which bat them and hold them down at an angle. I do my best, but I can’t change my centre of gravity.
None of this is new, though, and none of it is rocket science, (or some touchy-feely equivalent of that – I don’t think rocket scientists would be all that hot on emotional analysis, actually). None of you will say “oh my goodness, Iota is going to Britain, and she’s feeling it’s a bit complicated, who’d have thought THAT?” You know me too well. And I don’t mind complicated, really. Not for myself. I do mind it for my children though.
I mind it for 10-yo, who loves it here, has grown into a life which he can’t bear to think of moving away from, and for whom the question “how long will we stay in America?” is threatening and best avoided. I know friends will ask, and I know if he's in earshot I will fashion the answer more for him than for them, pass it off lightly, and not look in the direction of his face as I do so.
I mind it for 7-yo, who is fiercely proud of his Scottish birthright, and occasionally comes home from school with an A4 wax-crayonned Saltire: “we had some spare time in Art, and she said we could draw whatever we wanted”. I mind that the place which retains a hold on him might live up to his expectations, and make it hard to leave. I mind that it might disappoint, and that afternoons with friends of 18 months ago will not be what he imagines.
I mind it for 4-yo, who thinks she remembers Scotland and her little friends, but probably remembers the stories we have told her, the memories we have created for her. I mind that she will adore the beach, and though the coast of Fife even in summer won’t be quite the same as her mental picture of a beach (California), she will flit about in her wellies and warm fleece (I think you can flit in wellies…), enjoying again the freedom and space and openness that I and she used to delight in, and now so lack in our impoverished hemmed-in suburbia.
I mind for us as a family, that we don’t share the same place in our minds when we root around for where we think of as "home" (oh, that word again). I mind for the family we have in Britian, who will have to say good-bye to us again, with a brave face.
Bother. I thought I meant it when I said I didn’t mind complicated.
There will be so many good things. Seeing family and friends, time as a family together on holiday, enjoying the beauty of the gentle English countryside (I hope you all appreciate how lucky you are to have it on your doorsteps), seeing the sea. Oh goodness me, so much! It’s a vacation, and I want it to be that, but I can’t avoid the fact that it will also be a trip to the old country. I don’t want to use the word “home”. I’ve spent a year and a half carefully and consistently referring to here as “home”. So when I tell people we’re going to Britain for the summer, and they reply “oh how neat, you’re going back home”, I don’t let them spoil my record. I counter with “yes, we’re going to Britain”. I shouldn’t think they notice, but I have my own personal pc rules.
I don’t need to go to Britain any more. Last summer, I desperately needed to, wanted to, ached to, which in itself was probably a reason against. No, now I fear I almost need NOT to go. I might like it too much. The hermetic seal around my life here, a separate chapter, an interesting interlude, but not real life somehow, will be broken. I’ve invested of myself here heavily and genuinely. I haven’t pretended (well, sometimes a little). But I know deep down that I am like one of those old-fashioned toy clowns that children used to have, round at the bottom and weighted, so that they always bob back upright with a jingle when released by the chubby hands which bat them and hold them down at an angle. I do my best, but I can’t change my centre of gravity.
None of this is new, though, and none of it is rocket science, (or some touchy-feely equivalent of that – I don’t think rocket scientists would be all that hot on emotional analysis, actually). None of you will say “oh my goodness, Iota is going to Britain, and she’s feeling it’s a bit complicated, who’d have thought THAT?” You know me too well. And I don’t mind complicated, really. Not for myself. I do mind it for my children though.
I mind it for 10-yo, who loves it here, has grown into a life which he can’t bear to think of moving away from, and for whom the question “how long will we stay in America?” is threatening and best avoided. I know friends will ask, and I know if he's in earshot I will fashion the answer more for him than for them, pass it off lightly, and not look in the direction of his face as I do so.
I mind it for 7-yo, who is fiercely proud of his Scottish birthright, and occasionally comes home from school with an A4 wax-crayonned Saltire: “we had some spare time in Art, and she said we could draw whatever we wanted”. I mind that the place which retains a hold on him might live up to his expectations, and make it hard to leave. I mind that it might disappoint, and that afternoons with friends of 18 months ago will not be what he imagines.
I mind it for 4-yo, who thinks she remembers Scotland and her little friends, but probably remembers the stories we have told her, the memories we have created for her. I mind that she will adore the beach, and though the coast of Fife even in summer won’t be quite the same as her mental picture of a beach (California), she will flit about in her wellies and warm fleece (I think you can flit in wellies…), enjoying again the freedom and space and openness that I and she used to delight in, and now so lack in our impoverished hemmed-in suburbia.
I mind for us as a family, that we don’t share the same place in our minds when we root around for where we think of as "home" (oh, that word again). I mind for the family we have in Britian, who will have to say good-bye to us again, with a brave face.
Bother. I thought I meant it when I said I didn’t mind complicated.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
New York, New York
Do you want to know how much can be fitted into the hours between 12.30pm on Friday and 9.30pm on Monday? Let me tell you:
two 6 hour journeys (4 flights), dinner with my old friend and her new husband, visits to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and Museum of Modern Art, purchase of nice stripey top in the Museum of Modern Art Design Store, trip through security measures to visit Statue of Liberty (this deserves separate entry), matinee kids’ ballet by the Paul Taylor Ballet Company, lunches and dinners in fabulous eateries, wander around Soho, walk round Central Park, glass of wine in the revolving bar at the top of the Marriott Hotel, walk along the Connecticut shore watching sea birds pick up shells, rise 10 feet in the air and drop them to crack them open (packaging these days can be such a challenge), watching the departure of my sister-in-law on the back of a Harley Davidson with a complete stranger, reading 212 pages of a 273-page book (which I then left in the seat pocket of the aeroplane - grrr), writing a post-card to the friend I visited New York with 14 years ago, and a lie-in.
This leads me strongly to suspect that when you change your watch from Central time to Eastern time, you’re not just moving into a new time zone, but into a whole new time reality. The hours must, somehow, be longer, or fatter, or more flexible. I’m sure I couldn’t fit that much into a week-end here in the Central time zone. Even just having breakfast and getting ready to go out takes half a morning. I feel I must be on the brink of some very clever discovery to do with space, time and astrophysics. Or maybe it’s just that I usually have three kids in tow and a heap of things to do less interesting than exploring NewYork City. Hm. No, I think I’ll stick with the astrophysics discovery. It could be big. Actually, we in the Central time zone had a chance to try it out a few days ago, when we put our clocks forward, but you know what? Those smug East coasters are so sneaky, they put their clocks forward at exactly the same moment. We’ll never find out their secret.
Anyway, back to New York. It was all fabulous, totally totally fabulous. Apart from the obvious things that were wonderful (family, old friends, the buzz of a big city, the inherent interest of the places visited, the freedom of it all), the biggest treat was having someone else organize me. It’s very relaxing not to have to be in charge, for a change. Someone else found places to eat, someone else read the map, someone else made decisions about what to do and when, someone else calculated how long to allow to get to the airport. I begin to see the attraction of those big organized holidays with a tour guide. And no wiping. I didn’t wipe a nose, a bottom or a kitchen counter for four days. I did swipe my credit card a few times though, which is altogether a more satisfying feeling. Swiping not wiping – that was my big city experience.
I just have to tell you about the man I sat next to on one flight. He was in his 80s, and he and his wife were travelling from Florida to Connecticut for the surprise 90th birthday party of his sister-in-law (I just hoped it wasn’t too much of a surprise for her). “Don’t like the French, but I like the English” he said, puzzled by my account of my English brother who would choose to live in Paris. And then he told me why he liked the English. He was serving as a gunner in WWII, and was shot down behind enemy lines in Burma. After he and the two other airmen who survived had been trying to find their way back for a few days, a local man found them, and hid them upstairs in a building, indicating that they were to stay put. They had no idea whether he had gone to fetch the Japanese or the Americans. The next day, they heard footsteps approaching up the stairs. They were at the ready, guns trained on the trap door in the floor. When it opened, there were a couple of British soldiers, who greeted them with “Bloody Yanks. Can’t be trusted to do anything without us, can you?”
So that was New York. Did I mention that it was fabulous? I’m thinking about my next week-end away already… Oh, and that bit about my sister-in-law leaving on the back of a Harley Davidson? It was quite true, by the way. You’ll have to wait till next time for the story, though.
two 6 hour journeys (4 flights), dinner with my old friend and her new husband, visits to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and Museum of Modern Art, purchase of nice stripey top in the Museum of Modern Art Design Store, trip through security measures to visit Statue of Liberty (this deserves separate entry), matinee kids’ ballet by the Paul Taylor Ballet Company, lunches and dinners in fabulous eateries, wander around Soho, walk round Central Park, glass of wine in the revolving bar at the top of the Marriott Hotel, walk along the Connecticut shore watching sea birds pick up shells, rise 10 feet in the air and drop them to crack them open (packaging these days can be such a challenge), watching the departure of my sister-in-law on the back of a Harley Davidson with a complete stranger, reading 212 pages of a 273-page book (which I then left in the seat pocket of the aeroplane - grrr), writing a post-card to the friend I visited New York with 14 years ago, and a lie-in.
This leads me strongly to suspect that when you change your watch from Central time to Eastern time, you’re not just moving into a new time zone, but into a whole new time reality. The hours must, somehow, be longer, or fatter, or more flexible. I’m sure I couldn’t fit that much into a week-end here in the Central time zone. Even just having breakfast and getting ready to go out takes half a morning. I feel I must be on the brink of some very clever discovery to do with space, time and astrophysics. Or maybe it’s just that I usually have three kids in tow and a heap of things to do less interesting than exploring NewYork City. Hm. No, I think I’ll stick with the astrophysics discovery. It could be big. Actually, we in the Central time zone had a chance to try it out a few days ago, when we put our clocks forward, but you know what? Those smug East coasters are so sneaky, they put their clocks forward at exactly the same moment. We’ll never find out their secret.
Anyway, back to New York. It was all fabulous, totally totally fabulous. Apart from the obvious things that were wonderful (family, old friends, the buzz of a big city, the inherent interest of the places visited, the freedom of it all), the biggest treat was having someone else organize me. It’s very relaxing not to have to be in charge, for a change. Someone else found places to eat, someone else read the map, someone else made decisions about what to do and when, someone else calculated how long to allow to get to the airport. I begin to see the attraction of those big organized holidays with a tour guide. And no wiping. I didn’t wipe a nose, a bottom or a kitchen counter for four days. I did swipe my credit card a few times though, which is altogether a more satisfying feeling. Swiping not wiping – that was my big city experience.
I just have to tell you about the man I sat next to on one flight. He was in his 80s, and he and his wife were travelling from Florida to Connecticut for the surprise 90th birthday party of his sister-in-law (I just hoped it wasn’t too much of a surprise for her). “Don’t like the French, but I like the English” he said, puzzled by my account of my English brother who would choose to live in Paris. And then he told me why he liked the English. He was serving as a gunner in WWII, and was shot down behind enemy lines in Burma. After he and the two other airmen who survived had been trying to find their way back for a few days, a local man found them, and hid them upstairs in a building, indicating that they were to stay put. They had no idea whether he had gone to fetch the Japanese or the Americans. The next day, they heard footsteps approaching up the stairs. They were at the ready, guns trained on the trap door in the floor. When it opened, there were a couple of British soldiers, who greeted them with “Bloody Yanks. Can’t be trusted to do anything without us, can you?”
So that was New York. Did I mention that it was fabulous? I’m thinking about my next week-end away already… Oh, and that bit about my sister-in-law leaving on the back of a Harley Davidson? It was quite true, by the way. You’ll have to wait till next time for the story, though.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Trips
I’m off on a trip. A trip? Yes, a trip. A trip to New York, no less. On my own. No husband, no kids. Ah ha ha.
What takes me to New York? Let me tell you. Charlesinparis. For it is he. You can’t have missed his enigmatic comments on my blog. You must have wondered about my mystery man in that most glamorous of locations. Here is the moment of revelation. Charlesinparis is … (drum roll) … my big brother. He and Wifeinparis, along with Twokidsinparis, are spending a week in New York, and I am joining them for the week-end. I am also seeing Friendinsuburbs, who I met in 1987 and see on average about once every 5 years, and meeting her husband and twin 2 year old boys. Now if that isn’t a fabulous week-end for Wifeandmotherinthemidwest, I don’t know what is.
Charlesinparis – I have to tell you about him. In my teens and twenties, when any of my girlfriends came to visit, they would always ask oh so casually "is Charlesinparis around?". Think tall, dark, handsome. Think beanpole. Think daddy-long-legs. Think chiseled features and heavy eyebrows. Think very blue eyes. Think Anthony in The Wiggles in his younger days (he’s the one in blue), but better looking. Think snappy dresser and urban sophistication. Think lightning-speed conversation and rapier wit (in three languages). Think horrendous cheesy puns that you have to laugh at anyway. Think plum-coloured MG. Sadly it is no longer a part of his life (and it was an MGB GT, no less, with spokey wheels), having been replaced by a sensible Renault people carrier. In its day, the MG was lent to him on a long-term basis by a friend. I never understood why anyone who owned an MG would lend it to someone else, let alone someone whose driving position in it would involve their knees being somewhere in the vicinity of their ears. I’m grateful that she did though (yes, it was a woman…), as it provided me with one of my favourite Charlesinparis memories.
It was a hot day in August 1989, my younger brother’s wedding day. Charlesinparis had been best man, made a spectacularly funny speech, and then when it was time to go, he said “hey Sis, come in the MG”. So we set off, open-topped on the open road, him in his smart suit, me in a peacock blue bridesmaid dress, in one of those dreamy perfect balmy summer evenings that we do so well (if a little infrequently) in England, with the setting sun behind us. I know it was behind us, because Charlesinparis said “I haven’t got a road atlas. Where are we, anyway? Sort of north of Bristol somewhere? Hm. Well, we’ll just head east, that’s easy enough, and we’re bound to pick up signs to Oxford or London. The MG doesn’t like motorways, but the Cotswolds are around here somewhere, between here and home at any rate, so it’ll be a pretty drive.” And it was. A pretty drive. A pretty long drive. Difficult to navigate by the sun after dark. It rained towards the end and got cold (it always does in an MG), but Charlesinparis put up the top, we were young and it was fun.
The last time I saw Charlesinparis was the week-end before we left Scotland for the USA. He phoned one day and said “your birthday’s the 23rd of November, right?” (Wrong – it’s the 24th, but he’s not a details man on this kind of thing.) “That’s a week before you leave for the States, right?” (Right – see, he gets the details which matter.) “Well, I’ve arranged for me, big sister and little brother to come and see you. Book us into a B&B. We’ll take you out for dinner on your birthday, but other than that, you can see as much or as little of us as you like. We’re there for you. We can help out with whatever you want, or we can entertain ourselves and get out of your hair.” So for three days, there they were. They took car loads of stuff to the tip. They played with the kids. They washed bedding (2-yo caught a vomiting bug). They gave me the ideal excuse to go to all my favourite places instead of doing all the sensible house-tidying sort of things I would otherwise have done. They walked with me on the beach. They didn’t mind that I was distracted and odd. They said all the right things about our move (“the Midwest sounds great”).
Every girl should have a Charlesinparis. And from time to time, a Charlesinnewyork.
What takes me to New York? Let me tell you. Charlesinparis. For it is he. You can’t have missed his enigmatic comments on my blog. You must have wondered about my mystery man in that most glamorous of locations. Here is the moment of revelation. Charlesinparis is … (drum roll) … my big brother. He and Wifeinparis, along with Twokidsinparis, are spending a week in New York, and I am joining them for the week-end. I am also seeing Friendinsuburbs, who I met in 1987 and see on average about once every 5 years, and meeting her husband and twin 2 year old boys. Now if that isn’t a fabulous week-end for Wifeandmotherinthemidwest, I don’t know what is.
Charlesinparis – I have to tell you about him. In my teens and twenties, when any of my girlfriends came to visit, they would always ask oh so casually "is Charlesinparis around?". Think tall, dark, handsome. Think beanpole. Think daddy-long-legs. Think chiseled features and heavy eyebrows. Think very blue eyes. Think Anthony in The Wiggles in his younger days (he’s the one in blue), but better looking. Think snappy dresser and urban sophistication. Think lightning-speed conversation and rapier wit (in three languages). Think horrendous cheesy puns that you have to laugh at anyway. Think plum-coloured MG. Sadly it is no longer a part of his life (and it was an MGB GT, no less, with spokey wheels), having been replaced by a sensible Renault people carrier. In its day, the MG was lent to him on a long-term basis by a friend. I never understood why anyone who owned an MG would lend it to someone else, let alone someone whose driving position in it would involve their knees being somewhere in the vicinity of their ears. I’m grateful that she did though (yes, it was a woman…), as it provided me with one of my favourite Charlesinparis memories.
It was a hot day in August 1989, my younger brother’s wedding day. Charlesinparis had been best man, made a spectacularly funny speech, and then when it was time to go, he said “hey Sis, come in the MG”. So we set off, open-topped on the open road, him in his smart suit, me in a peacock blue bridesmaid dress, in one of those dreamy perfect balmy summer evenings that we do so well (if a little infrequently) in England, with the setting sun behind us. I know it was behind us, because Charlesinparis said “I haven’t got a road atlas. Where are we, anyway? Sort of north of Bristol somewhere? Hm. Well, we’ll just head east, that’s easy enough, and we’re bound to pick up signs to Oxford or London. The MG doesn’t like motorways, but the Cotswolds are around here somewhere, between here and home at any rate, so it’ll be a pretty drive.” And it was. A pretty drive. A pretty long drive. Difficult to navigate by the sun after dark. It rained towards the end and got cold (it always does in an MG), but Charlesinparis put up the top, we were young and it was fun.
The last time I saw Charlesinparis was the week-end before we left Scotland for the USA. He phoned one day and said “your birthday’s the 23rd of November, right?” (Wrong – it’s the 24th, but he’s not a details man on this kind of thing.) “That’s a week before you leave for the States, right?” (Right – see, he gets the details which matter.) “Well, I’ve arranged for me, big sister and little brother to come and see you. Book us into a B&B. We’ll take you out for dinner on your birthday, but other than that, you can see as much or as little of us as you like. We’re there for you. We can help out with whatever you want, or we can entertain ourselves and get out of your hair.” So for three days, there they were. They took car loads of stuff to the tip. They played with the kids. They washed bedding (2-yo caught a vomiting bug). They gave me the ideal excuse to go to all my favourite places instead of doing all the sensible house-tidying sort of things I would otherwise have done. They walked with me on the beach. They didn’t mind that I was distracted and odd. They said all the right things about our move (“the Midwest sounds great”).
Every girl should have a Charlesinparis. And from time to time, a Charlesinnewyork.
Monday, August 13, 2007
The wanderers return
Well, we’re back. It was a very good holiday. When I said “a week or two”, I was understating a little. We were away, in fact, for 2 weeks and 2 days. Maybe the American week is bigger than the British week.
I made a marvellous discovery in Colorado. Now you know how much I like our neighborhood pool. I’m afraid to say that they do much better in the Rockies. Yup. They sure do. They have hot springs.
We tried out hot springs in three different towns. It made me want to move to Colorado. Imagine having neighborhood hot springs instead of a neighborhood pool. It’s like having a warm bath in the middle of the afternoon, under the guise of entertaining your children. The one I liked best was in Ouray, the Switzerland of America as it is known, where you are in a sort of basin surrounded by peaks, and can't raise your eyes without enjoying stunning mountain views [you have to click on "Today's Movie" to make this worth watching, by the way]. Whoever had designed the Ouray hot springs had put careful thought into the layout, and had got it 100% right. I hope he or she got an award. It was set out so that there was a bath-hot pool in which one could do some serious lounging, whilst watching one’s off-spring play in the adjoining ice-cold pool to which they were attracted by a couple of big slides. This seems to me to be the ideal arrangement: adults lounge in the warmth while children cavort in the cold. There was also an intermediate tepid pool to one side, where one could play with the off-spring when required, meaning that I never, not once, ever, had to venture into the cold pool at all. I should mention at this point that Husband earned himself huge totals of brownie points – that’s UK girl guide brownie points, not US chocolate brownie points, although he could have had those too if he had wanted, such was my gratitude – by accompanying the off-spring into the cold pool when necessary, which actually amounted to a very long time. So not all the adults got to do all the lounging. Those who have a long-standing love affair with the hot bath took priority.
I developed a theory. When you visit the Rockies, you are very aware of their history, and how the great gold rushes of the late 19th century led to this harsh country being populated. There is evidence of mining all around, of fortunes being made and lost, of hopes and dreams, of new beginnings, of hardship and adventure. I’m not sure this was all to do with gold, though. I reckon word got out about the hot springs. I mean, if you were a pioneer, in a dusty covered wagon, your limbs aching from the bone-shaking motion, your feet sore from walking, your children dirty and tired, wouldn’t the promise of hot springs have done it for you? Just one “there’s hot springs in them thar hills” and I’d have been leaping on the front horse and whipping it to within an inch of its poor beleaguered life, stopping for the briefest of moments when the baby fell out of the back of the wagon, and turning back for it only because the cries of the older children were so piteous when I suggested that we would have more chance of being first at the springs if we let another wagon stop to pick it up.
This was my theory, at any rate, until we got home to the plains. Back home on the range, I looked up Weatherbug on the internet, and was a little dismayed to find that the weather forecast for the next 5 days didn’t show any temperatures below 100 degrees. It has definitely hotted up since we went away. We had been warned, but as with all these things, you don’t quite believe it till you experience it. So I am pleased to be back to the neighborhood pool, which is open for another 3 weeks until Labor day. Neighborhood hot springs have their time and place, but I guess here and now is not it.
I have also to report, with some degree of smugness, that we only had ONE fast food meal in all our time away. Travelling with 3 children in America, this represents something of an achievement. The one fast food meal we did have was very well worth it. The lady behind the counter, on hearing our accents, went a bit dreamy and asked if we had ever met Sir Paul McCartney. I was sorry to have to disappoint her, but it was nice to be asked. Our visit to the establishment also meant that I could listen all evening to 3-yo talking about Burger Ting (she can’t say the sound “k” at the beginning of a word, not even in Tolorado), which was unbelievably sweet. Tute, one might venture.
I made a marvellous discovery in Colorado. Now you know how much I like our neighborhood pool. I’m afraid to say that they do much better in the Rockies. Yup. They sure do. They have hot springs.
We tried out hot springs in three different towns. It made me want to move to Colorado. Imagine having neighborhood hot springs instead of a neighborhood pool. It’s like having a warm bath in the middle of the afternoon, under the guise of entertaining your children. The one I liked best was in Ouray, the Switzerland of America as it is known, where you are in a sort of basin surrounded by peaks, and can't raise your eyes without enjoying stunning mountain views [you have to click on "Today's Movie" to make this worth watching, by the way]. Whoever had designed the Ouray hot springs had put careful thought into the layout, and had got it 100% right. I hope he or she got an award. It was set out so that there was a bath-hot pool in which one could do some serious lounging, whilst watching one’s off-spring play in the adjoining ice-cold pool to which they were attracted by a couple of big slides. This seems to me to be the ideal arrangement: adults lounge in the warmth while children cavort in the cold. There was also an intermediate tepid pool to one side, where one could play with the off-spring when required, meaning that I never, not once, ever, had to venture into the cold pool at all. I should mention at this point that Husband earned himself huge totals of brownie points – that’s UK girl guide brownie points, not US chocolate brownie points, although he could have had those too if he had wanted, such was my gratitude – by accompanying the off-spring into the cold pool when necessary, which actually amounted to a very long time. So not all the adults got to do all the lounging. Those who have a long-standing love affair with the hot bath took priority.
I developed a theory. When you visit the Rockies, you are very aware of their history, and how the great gold rushes of the late 19th century led to this harsh country being populated. There is evidence of mining all around, of fortunes being made and lost, of hopes and dreams, of new beginnings, of hardship and adventure. I’m not sure this was all to do with gold, though. I reckon word got out about the hot springs. I mean, if you were a pioneer, in a dusty covered wagon, your limbs aching from the bone-shaking motion, your feet sore from walking, your children dirty and tired, wouldn’t the promise of hot springs have done it for you? Just one “there’s hot springs in them thar hills” and I’d have been leaping on the front horse and whipping it to within an inch of its poor beleaguered life, stopping for the briefest of moments when the baby fell out of the back of the wagon, and turning back for it only because the cries of the older children were so piteous when I suggested that we would have more chance of being first at the springs if we let another wagon stop to pick it up.
This was my theory, at any rate, until we got home to the plains. Back home on the range, I looked up Weatherbug on the internet, and was a little dismayed to find that the weather forecast for the next 5 days didn’t show any temperatures below 100 degrees. It has definitely hotted up since we went away. We had been warned, but as with all these things, you don’t quite believe it till you experience it. So I am pleased to be back to the neighborhood pool, which is open for another 3 weeks until Labor day. Neighborhood hot springs have their time and place, but I guess here and now is not it.
I have also to report, with some degree of smugness, that we only had ONE fast food meal in all our time away. Travelling with 3 children in America, this represents something of an achievement. The one fast food meal we did have was very well worth it. The lady behind the counter, on hearing our accents, went a bit dreamy and asked if we had ever met Sir Paul McCartney. I was sorry to have to disappoint her, but it was nice to be asked. Our visit to the establishment also meant that I could listen all evening to 3-yo talking about Burger Ting (she can’t say the sound “k” at the beginning of a word, not even in Tolorado), which was unbelievably sweet. Tute, one might venture.
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