It's All Rubbish

I told Rich he would eventually be one of those crotchety old men who wander the streets mumbling some nonsense that others won't understand, his fist shaking in the air, and me (his loving wife) would walk ten steps ahead and occasionally turn around to yell, "No one cares, you old codger! Shut up and move on!"

This made Rich smirk, as if he hoped to be that man someday. This is the exact opposite reaction than what I hoped he would have. In fact, without knowing it, he's been gladly practicing for this kind of future since we moved to England, as if he subconsciously understood that doing so would someday create a marital picayune for me.

It would be one thing if what Rich mumbled about was something hugely significant - like how the UN could possibly vote to ignore the heinous atrocities in Syria or maybe something to do with the Greek austerity and bailout crisis. If it were about people or injustice or something radical, I would help him shake that fist. However, Rich's irritation is personal. It's something that, I'll admit, it fairly irritating. The difference is my reaction is far more sensible and measured compared to Rich's - which is to roam the dark alleys of Weybridge and mumble personal vendettas with regards to the offender.

One of the perks to moving to England is that this country is far more efficient with their recycling. In front of each house is a trash bin, a recycling bin, and a compost pail. Every Monday (for us) the Elmbridge Borough Council makes sure that those of us who are tax payers have our bins dumped - one week for trash, the next for recycling. The composting is genius. We have a small covered pail with decomposable liners that sits on our kitchen counter. We empty the liners full of spoiled food into the small bin on our front porch to be picked up and composted by the county. It's brilliant! A perfect system! And if one plays his cards right,   he can use the bins so efficiently and effectively that none of the bins are ever overfull, aka unsightly to the rest of the street.

And here's the rub:
Our recycle bin keeps disappearing. Like clockwork. Twice Rich has circled the block and found the bin in a back alley. Rich has been on the phone daily with Elmbridge council, asking if/when the bin should be left. He's involved the shoe shop underneath our flat, the wine merchants next door and the property manager a few doors down. Of course they haven't seen anything. "No, Rich. No shady characters have been spotted that we know of. Nothing unusual to speak of.." He bought permanent markers to clearly mark our bin as belonging to us.

Still, it disappears.

If I didn't know better, I'd say that someone was playing a joke on the poor guy. In fact, I'm a little bit jealous that I didn't think of it.

Nothing gets Rich out of the bed in the morning. NOTHING. Until now. At the first sign of a truck on our street, Rich leaps out of bed and runs outside into the freezing cold. He is constantly thinking up schemes to catch the offender. He has constructed hundreds of theories as to why.. and who.. And I never get the impression that he is fully participating in anything anymore - eating, sleeping, breathing, sex.

And now he mumbles. I catch him as we walk home from the car park most days. I'll unlock the door to our flat and he'll say, "You go on in, Ginger. I just want to check the alley one more time."

Here comes Santa Claus(es)

As I plodded into the town center, I saw in the distance a gang of Santas all clad in their red and white jingle suits who, from that distance, looked like they were going to audition for a role in a small town production of Miracle on 34th Street. “Festive,” I thought and grinned alongside all of the other passersby. When I got closer I realized they were a bunch of jolly, middle aged British ladies who quite literally stopped traffic (intentionally) as they paraded into the heart of Weybridge. Their hats rested at precarious angles on their heads, their coats open, revealing an array of colored stripes, bulges, and belly. Paper number signs were ironically pinned on their backs as if they were about to run a marathon. One brandished a small paper towel roll – It’s a scepter. No! a wand. Now it’s a traffic baton!! – in the middle of Church Street on a Sunday, stopping traffic.


I crossed the street with them as they continued their merriment in whichever direction they were headed. For a brief, fleeting second I found courage to ask them what they were doing, and I even toyed with the idea of joining them or following them to their festival to take a journalistic peek at the very least. But then imagination is so much juicier than reality, innit. Plus, I am much less bold than they, and so into the coffee house I ducked to write about it.

Momma loves Jack

He said, she thought - and that rarely turns out well..

He was kissing me good night - in a very platonic British way which still sometimes feels a little awkward (especially when he does it to my husband) - when it hit me. Well actually, he thought it hit him first, hitting me in a more informed way, but then it was supposed to shoot back to him, wrapped in a glossy package of understanding.. by osmosis. Instead, the point I was trying to make rebounded itself over his right shoulder, flew into the chilly Surrey air, finding its tarmac a street gutter.

I must have flinched.

Sensing my stress, he said, "You know, you are so blessed! Just be happy! All you need to do is meditate."

I said, "Fuck off!! Seriously. You think I haven't tried that?"

Actually, I didn't say that. My mumbled reply was something like, "Really? You know.. Um.. Really? You think that's the issue?"

Or maybe I didn't say anything out loud, but I must have at least looked uncertain.

"You are so blessed," he reiterated as he pointed up at my new place.

I didn't have to look at the soft glow emanating from the little apartment above the shoe shop here on Queens Street to know that he was right about the blessed part.

For the record, I am.  Completely blessed.

If blessed means being brave enough to completely decimate my old life - leaving my job, my dear family and friends, my roomy suburban house, a good job, financial stability.. my comfort zone - to come to an entirely new country and move into a tiny apartment above a shoe shop where I can't run the dishwasher and washing machine at the same time,  to try my hand at international teaching - privileged kids, no less- to sell two cars (my husband's and mine) to afford one and then drive it white knuckled on the "wrong" side of the road, to have to make a mathematical conversion every time I want to know the weather or cook a meal, to not know cultural nuances or if/ when to tip, to have to scrutinize the size and value of every coin in my purse to pay, holding up the line at the grocery store.. then yes. I am. I even made the transition with a 3 year old boy who happens to be blossoming here.

Yes. Yes. I am BLESSED.

And I mean that with sincerity because only a blessed life gets an option.

In that moment, however, I didn't feel blessed. I felt sad. I felt like life is hard.. because it is.

For a while I wouldn't allow myself the negative emotion because here I am in England - an English speaking country that I LOVE, a place where I have a really good friend who picked me up at the airport, whose family helped me beyond measure when I first arrived and had no bed to sleep in; the very one that suggested I meditate. This is a place that was and remains my number one on the list of "Where I Would Consider Moving My Family, For Reals Y'all", surpassing places like Morocco and Libya, but placed after Norway and Switzerland. I spent years applying - hoping - afraid - bold - begging - waiting - praying..

After confirming my job position, I spent the summer begging banks for money transfers, arranging for the new apartment, praying someone would rent my house "in this horrendous market", wondering if I made the right decision to uproot my son from a place and person he adored to go somewhere so far away. And what about my family? What was I doing to them?  What about my new position? Would it pan out? What, exactly, was I running away from? Or was it as I said - that I wanted a new start - an international experience for my son, for me, for my husband?

All of this - the epiphany that jolted through my body at a seemingly simple solution - to meditate or not to meditate..
I squared my friends shoulders and pointed to my temple. "I know that," I said. "I know that I am blessed, that I am living this dream of mine, but the problem is my brain doesn't get it. Neither does my heart. That's the problem. I have anxiety! It's not something that just goes away because I will it to."
What I meant was, please allow me a transition, friend. What has happened to (for) me - what I've made happen to me - is HUGE. And yes, I may need to meditate more - to, as my native Texans might say, "Hold onto my butt" a little longer, but as my epiphany that night suggested, I need to also allow myself to de-stress, to allow myself some transition time in this foreign place, to mourn the fact that I'm not around the majority of those who love me and no longer accessible to those who seriously, with heavy hearts NEED me, to allow for the understanding that meditation will come.. but not now. And not for a while.. At least not until I learn how to sleep through the night here in my very blessed apartment, on my glowingly safe street, in this new place, England.

Boho Rebound

I bit the bullet, my back against the wall; my cupboard was bereft of coffee, my body begging for it. I went downstairs to Boho , the little tea and coffee shop two doors down from my above-the- shoe-shop flat. I hadn’t been there since the owner summarily chided Jack (and me by proxy) about being too enthusiastic on the premises.

The story goes that Jack came bounding into the coffee shop – genuinely happy for the first time living in England, having had a nice day at his brand new (at the time) “school” – and bounced into a chair to see over the counter and order “Milk and cookies, please!” He decided in his own three-year-old way that he was a regular, and anyway, we are also neighbors. The owner, all blond and gorgeous in her throaty Eastern European accent, snarled “We do not allow shoes on the chairs here.” She then grimaced and turned her back on us.

By the time milk and cookies arrived, my feelings were deeply hurt. Probably it wasn’t a big deal, and probably I shouldn’t have dwelled on it too much. More than likely, she forgot that she said it in the first place and didn’t mean anything personal by it. Could it be a language barrier married to a harsh sounding dialect? Was I especially sensitive that day? Then again, any civilized person knows that it is rude to put your feet on someone’s living room chair. I knew this at the time, but bit my bottom lip, trying to feel anger instead of embarrassment.

I felt stung and had ill feelings every time I walked by afterward. I wanted so much to build community, especially with those on my street – my literal neighbors who not only own the shop but who live above it as well. It felt ruined somehow.

The fact is it might be the coolest place on my street. Its tiny windows face the big church on Queens Street and advertise, in twirly letters, latte and cream tea. Tiered dishes of cupcakes and pastry beckon passersby into the shop. Little wooden bistro sets stand out front and beside the shop is a covered patio that houses several more colorful seating areas with polka-dot cushions.

The tea is served in individual tea pots, all of them different from the others. It’s like the owner collected them on her travels and now we get to share her experiences via Earl grey and steamed milk. The inside is a happy space – small counter, wooden furniture, great view. Boho is always packed in the morning with people reading daily newspapers and sipping on espresso, people who, mid dog-walk , popped in for a coffee, people who make it part of their daily routines to stop and chat with other towns folk next to a warm and cozy pot of English Breakfast tea.

Boho opens and closes on a whim. I’m not sure what the hours are, nor does it make any difference. Small town law dictates that if one needs to close shop to catch a football match, or visit a neighbor, or take a nap - it’s fine. Probably most other folks are doing the same.

And that’s why I was sad that I felt icky about going back.

But as I’ve already stated, there was a dire need last week end. Jack and I stumbled out of our door onto the sidewalk and took our time walking to Boho. The tinkling bell announced our arrival and we ordered one white coffee (that’s coffee with milk), one breakfast pastry (cinnamon apple), one glass of cold milk (because sometimes they steam it), and a chocolate cookie.

We sat on the covered patio and enjoyed our treat, the hurt feelings comforted a little with every tasty sip.

The Launderette

I remember the day Rich and I bought our washer and dryer. We had just moved out of our apartment and were spending loads of time overcharging our credit cards with things that we “needed” for our new, seemingly huge house in suburbia, Metroplex. The washer and dryer were of particular importance because we had this conversation:

“So, we just bought a washer and dryer.”

“Yep.”

“That probably makes us grown-ups.”

“Uh huh. Next we’ll be talking about health insurance and goiters.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah. Cool!”

Fast forward ten years and we’ve reverted back to being college kids.. at least when it comes to doing laundry.

The English, as I may have mentioned in almost every previous post, do things differently. They, like most other Western nations, wash their clothes in a machine, but then they hang them on a line to dry, unlike the good ole modern Texas suburban way of washing and drying in two separate machines. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time wondering about the logistics of line drying. Questions like, “How long does it take for clothes to dry?” lead to “What happens if it rains?” and then, ”If it rains, do you start the laundry over again or do you just leave it out to dry? What about mildew? Bugs? Underwear thieves? What happens if you are drying your underwear and company pops by? Do people buy underwear with this in mind? What would mine say about me?” And so on.

At first I felt some relief about having a washer/dryer combo in my kitchen (which is where they are kept in this country) because I wouldn’t have to learn the answers to the series of ridiculous questions that take my thoughts prisoner. I felt relief until I learned that my washer/dryer has about 75 thousand settings with symbols that may as well be hieroglyphics except that hieroglyphics actually use pictures that some archeologists, with much research and studying, may be able to understand; that it takes, without exaggeration, six hours to wash one small load of laundry if you actually figure out a combination – a series of poking buttons and prayer - that makes the machine work; and that drying, according to my machine, is something akin to lightly breathing upon the sopping wet clothes and then breaking for tea.

I do not have a garden or any outdoor space to dry my clothes which means that I have to string wet laundry on every surface of the house and will it not to sour. Unless I time it correctly and turn the clothes every twenty minutes or so, the clothes do, in fact, sour and I have to start over.

On one of my few and far-in-between jogs around my neighborhood, I saw a little launderette and decided to try it. I gathered together my bundles and paraded them down the street, in front of Café Rouge where people sit sipping glasses of wine and people watch, past the tiny corner Tesco where folks step over each other (with all the polite "pardons") to get their groceries, and one block further. Inside were 6 washing machines and 6 dryers: Four quid to wash, one pound twenty to dry. The washers have four options – hot, warm, cold, or delicate. They take twenty minutes to wash. Drying – hot, warm or cool – takes fifteen. I loaded, paid, and waited. I settled in and reacquainted myself with the game of Hearts on the computer, and halfway through the rinse cycle, I realized that I was enjoying myself. A lot.

I now look forward to laundry time. I get grading done as I wash. I read and play games. I think and am still for 35 minutes per visit, more time than I ever spent being still at home when I worked on other things while the machine whirred in the background. My neighbors walk by the launderette’s open door and some even smile. I’ve begun recognizing them. This is my community full of people who do normal things like laundry!

Maybe I’m nostalgic about feeling like a college kid again. Maybe I’m being overly sentimental about what it means to be here rather than to visit here. Maybe in the winter I will take all of my sappy sweet feelings back and bitch about how horrid it is to trudge all the way down to the launderette in the bitter cold to wash towels. But for now, I’ll enjoy it.

Today is laundry day!

Actually LIVING here

Then other day I received an email from a dear friend who wanted to know all about where I live and what it is like for me here. She, more than most, understands how amazing it is that I’ve made this particular move to London, as she’s been here with me a couple of times and has seen the way I light up the second my shoes hit England’s glorious spongy grass. Also, she was among those poor souls who survived my first, most vulnerable year teaching when she was twelve. Now she’s twenty five.


When she asks, “Tell me about your new 'hood! What's the vibe? Who lives around? What goes on? Have you had any more shut-downs because of the Olympic cycling? What's your take on teaching and what-not? What's your take on it "all"? How is it looking at the US from the other side of the Atlantic?” she doesn’t expect, nor does she deserve, the canned answer I realized I’ve been nonchalantly wielding about: “It’s great! I love it! School is fine. It rains here sometimes which is new and different for a nice girl from Texas.”

The worst part is, I’m not sure I truly know the answers, yet, other than, ”Nope. No more shut downs because of Olympic cyclists.” Knowing the answers would mean actually paying attention to each moment – living in it -without being distracted by routine. I’d like to try and do that better and possibly share what I’ve experienced.

I’ll start with the laundrette.