Natural Spring Blooms Spark Urban Contemplations

Driving home from work the other day I noticed shiny new movie posters adorning the walls of the little bus stops that dot the winding, leafy Surrey roads. It wouldn't have been a big deal in the dead of winter, when the grass is contemplating brown and the gnarled tree limbs seem to cower from a foggy grey sky. In fact, apart from the car bumper in front of you and the suicidal bike riders darting around and in-between said bumpers, I would wager that the winter weather bus stop posters are a most effective form of advert, as they are a spot of color among the haze.

Spring, however, is completely different.

Where Texas has it's gorgeous bluebonnets, Surrey has its daffodils, or 'Daffs!' as the flower traders declare on their signs, 'only £3.50 per bundle!' The daffs are incredible here and grow like the gorgeous wildflowers that blanket the Texas Hill Country do - everywhere and in the most unexpected places. In addition to the innumerable happy yellow flowers, the trees in Surrey are in full blossom.

Jack and I were walking home from the park last week end when he stopped, took hold of my hand, and shouted, "Momma! That tree looks like it has icing on it!!" It was a gorgeous cherry blossom tree, the pink blossoms so thick that I admitted there could be no other description for what it looked like - creamy pink icing. We immediately went home and made cupcakes.

Add to this the fact that the days have been summer-like and pleasant, and all anyone wants to do is be outside.

But I digress. My point here is to say that movie posters, no matter how new. or glossy they are, ought to pale in the midst of such natural beauty. I shouldn't have noticed them, but I did. Thus, this post.

Mirror Mirror. That's the name of the movie. The posters depict Julia Roberts, considering the shiny red apple in hand, and the promise of a re-created Snow White fairy tale that is supposed to revive all Snow White stories in the same way that Cinderella was given new life a few years ago in the forms of Ever After, Ella Enchanted, and The Princess Diaries. Roberts plays the evil witch, obsessed with being the fairest one of all who, in what can only be called the extremest form of envy, decides to murder the newest one to win the beauty competition ((ahem.) Scholarship program).

In the 19th century Brothers Grimm version, Snow White is the daughter of a beautiful queen who desires and creates a beautiful daughter, "that was as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as ebony wood."* When the little girl is 7, "she surpassed even the queen herself" in beauty. "Her jealousy gave her no peace," and she therefore decides to order her daughter's slaughter, the little one's guts to be brought back as proof and to serve as the queen's supper.  The rest follows, that the man ordered to kill the little girl couldn't follow through, she meets the dwarfs, the queen finds out, devises several other plots to murder Snow White by playing on her naivete and kindness shown to others, successfully puts Snow White into a coma with one bight of glossy red apple...you know this part.. sad dwarves, glass coffin, and a hot young prince who becomes obsessed with the beautiful dead woman and has to be in her presence 24/7 lest he becomes sad. One day, sans kiss, Snow White coughs up the apple stuck in her throat and happily marries the prince, much to every one's relief. The queen, in an odd turn of events, attends the wedding, is clamped into a pair of metal shoes at the after party which are ceremoniously held over a fire, charring her feet to the bone, and then is made to dance at the wedding until she dies.

Anyway, upon seeing the movie poster, I started to wonder about why this type of story is so popular now. Is it too obvious to say that as a middle aged woman, I am afraid of aging and feel intense jealously with regard to youth and beauty? Does the story simply mirror the seasons: the gnarled tree limb's jealousy toward the icing blossoms and daffs? Is it to acknowledge the obsessive nature of humans, whether it be towards something we desire (beauty, wealth, something that someone else possesses) or this major need for things to stay exactly as they are? What is it? Does it matter? Should it?

In any case, the bus stop became a place of contemplation for me.

*Source: Kinder- und Hausmärchen, 1st ed. (Berlin: Realschulbuchhandlung, 1812), v. 1, no. 53, pp. 238-50. Translated by D. L. Ashliman. © 1998-2002.

Spring Moving

Spring is finally settling in England. Apparently it's been unseasonably warm here and the threat of drought is whispered occasionally on newscasters lips, though most people are reveling in the unusually sunny weather. It took a little warm front for us to realize how much we miss having green space - a place where we can garden, sip a glass of wine on a lovely evening, go outside in the morning without changing out of our pajamas, etc...

In fact, on Monday I climbed out of our kitchen window onto a rooftop landing where I had just enough space to plant flowers in a planter. We can't actually see the flowers from our window (we need to find something to put the planter on), but it felt good at the time to get soil under my fingernails. With the planting came a sweet promise of parks and barbecues, kites and picnics, all of which are much needed after a tough winter of feeling very isolated, lonely, and cold.

We've started seriously looking for a new place in Surrey, one with some green space and lots of light. Now we have to decide when we can move - before we head home for a hot summer in Texas or after we come back. I cringe at the thought of packing up and relocating, especially since our little shoe-shop flat is now so cozy and organized. (I can finally reach for an item and it be where I thought it was!) But even Jack says he's ready to move.  I asked him where he would like to live and he answered "Cornwall". Sorry, little man. Surrey is our home for the moment. :)

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."

Bits and Bobs

It's been a while since I've been here. That's ok. Life has a way of interrupting all good intentions. Potty training, for example, requires one to drop what she's doing immediately and run to the toilet (as they call it here), throw a Lightin' McQueen potty seat on the porcelain, yank down the trousers (also what they call them here) of the pre-schooler, plop him on the seat, and hold her breath until the pre-schooler has either done the deed or cries because he didn't. On a good day its the former, rewarded with a sticker. If the latter(or an accident on the way because Momma was too slow with her potty-seat throwing), then it's about consolation and warm hugs so as not to "demonize" the toilet experience.
Ahem.
In any case, my point is that life is full of interruptions.So here's what life's like at the mo for us:
1. School is fine. When I say fine, I mean insanely busy. That's all I will say about it.. Except that report card writing is coming which means mental hibernation is imminent, followed by a nervous week of duck and cover. It's not that bad, but my anxiety creeps up my back and shoulders at the thought of the frenzied, last minute marking, bartering, and reporting that's coming.

2. I wrote my first official journalism article with my friend Mark. When I say I wrote it, I mean to say that he had an idea, and I helped guide his thoughts into something a bit more structured. It was published in a little indy-magazine and has since been linked to other interviews and shared with other sites in other parts of the world, including Detroit where there is a concerted effort to talk about the church's role in the Occupy Movement. I just learned you can also see it here on IndyMedia UK and Democratic Underground. Um. Weird.

3. I'm going into London tonight to the TS Elliot Award poetry reading. Here are the featured poets, if you're interested. Carol Ann Duffy, a British version of Canadian Margaret Atwood will be there, and I will be stalking her.. Believe it. Fortunately for me, I will be with my new colleagues who will surely hold me back if necessary, or (more likely) give me a leg up boost over the waiting crowd to get to the front of the line for an autograph in my copy of The Bees. :) Also, I'm pretty sure I'll fall in love with Daljit Nagra.

4. We taught Jack how to ride his scooter. This was supposed to help with the walking/whining pattern that occurs anytime we walk anywhere. The Brits walk A LOT. A mile wouldn't be considered a long walk to the train station, for example, much less walking around the block to get to daycare, which is what Rich does with Jack every morning. So far, Jack rides for a few seconds, whines about it being too hard, and one of ends up carrying the scooter and the other Jack.. WHO IS GETTING TOO BIG TO CARRY. It hasn't stopped us from going anywhere, though, and Jack is getting better at riding.  Or maybe Rich is building a lot of muscle mass..

So that's a little bit about now. I am off to catch a train.. I'll leave the story about how we booked a Mediterranian cruise for our Easter break on the very eve before the great cruise capsize story hit the news for another post... (sigh). 

Monumental

Sitting in the vulnerable position- under the hairdresser's color brush and foils - I told her how I was looking forward to the faculty Christmas party.
"Did you buy a dress?" Pantine asked as she worked her magic.
"I plan to go shopping this afternoon," I replied, "but I'm not exactly sure how to dress for this event. The theme for the evening is 'New York'."
"Oh right," she said. "That is a difficult one. Gosh. I mean what do they expect you to do after all? Go as the Eiffel Tower?"

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.

So cozy here

So, it gets dark at 4:00pm here. That means the sun starts to set at 2:00, or so it seems. The sun is brighter right before it sets and emits a dream-like brightness, a quality amplified by the umber shadows.  Because of this my internal clock goes all cozy at around 3:00.

To complicate things, I usually leave work by 4:00 - after dark - and instead of rebounding (a small rest followed by either excercise or wine, depending on the day) like I did in Texas, I immediately get in my pajamas and lay on the cozy, beckoning couch. I may or may not make dinner opting for Chinese food instead and find myself too tired to play with Jack which means enduring hours of Scooby Doo with the occasional storm trooper battle until I drag myself to bed around 8:30.

This is unhealthy. I understand this, and yet..

I imagine that if I went outside for a walk (in the dark, cold outside), I might enjoy the Christmas lights. I might see other moms pushing prams, and I might, dear Lord, make a friend here. All of that sounds ludicrous, especially the dark, cold outside part.

SO I make this vow: In April, a new rowing class starts.. as in I will row a boat on the River Thames.  The class will kick my ass and my abs and my legs. The arm work out is a given.

I welcome the ass kicking.

Until then, it's Shaggy and Scooby accidentally solving mysteries with all the other meddling kids while I, in my winter hybernating state, store food in my belly (and in my thighs) , and justify my laziness by doing endless amounts of homework.

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.

Out and About

Visit pics on the Flickr of last week ends whirlwind road trip to Bristol for the International Kite Festival, Glastonbury Abbey, and a ride on a refurbished steam engine! :)

On Buying Bread and Other Existential Crises

I panicked buying bread the other day.

It’s not really worth mentioning except that it kind of illustrates the whole of my existential being lately. It was one of those things: Me standing in a supermarket aisle full of bread – sliced, whole wheat, iron fortified, and baguette – when I heard myself sputter and crack a little.

Anywhere we’ve ever travelled Rich’s philosophy when eating was to order bravely. “Yes, I’ll take the duck spam special!” or “One curry-wurst please”. And of course, who could forget the time when “I’ll take the sprout and tarter sandwich on a penis loaf,” came fumbling out of his mouth? The point is Rich knows to order bravely when on vacation because, as he puts it, “There’s always bread in case I don’t like what I ordered.”

I’m the say way.

(Minus the penis loaf.)

What I mean is change the food metaphor into experiencing anything while travelling and I can honestly say that I’m the same kind of brave.

This morning, I took a leisurely tour around my blogging community, not having been around for a while since I’ve been somewhat preoccupied with turning my world up-side-down. One of my favorite bloggers, K A B L O O E Y, a hilariously dead-pan writer who enjoys the irony in life as much as any realistic mother living in a surrealistic world can, wrote about vacationing this week. She talked about the fact that when, for example, on a cruise, she finds herself conversing with people and sharing experiences with them more than she does in her day-to-day life. She said she would normally rather “juggle flaming batons” than “work a room” in her community and attributes her bravery to the fact that she isn’t held accountable for who she is among folks who don’t send their kids to the same school or other folks she sees on a daily basis.

The second I read that, it occurred to me what happened in the bread aisle. Like K A B L O O E Y, I lose my inhibitions when I travel. The hard truth is I like who I am better when out of town because there is no baggage tied to me. I become more friendly and convivial, and it’s evident. My body feels less deflated, my shoulders straighten for once, and there is color- actual rose colored life- in my cheeks. I love travelling!

Herein lies the conflict: I have never been to England other than in that capacity. My expectations about this place are skewed.

When I dreamed of living here, I thought I might skip down to my little Boho coffee and tea shop every morning under a gray sky, brolly at the ready. I would order a cuppa and peruse the morning paper a little, rolling my eyes at the headlines and willing myself to remember an important and upcoming town event. I would be Rory and Lorelai in one – waving at other locals, witticisms and pop culture references dripping off my tongue. People would say hello to me by name and we would have running jokes about the town eccentric. Then I would need to “dash” to catch a train on which I could sit and meditate through what my day would be like at work before I had to actually immerse myself in it.

Instead here’s the reality: Every morning I have to hurry like a mad woman to get the family out the door and Jack to his nursery. Rich practically runs Jack around the block while I stumble to the car in heels not meant for cross-country, cobble stone marathons. I don’t mind the drizzle, except that holding a brolly and coffee and my school bag while tripping down a street isn’t ideal. I get into the car, parked blocks away, and white knuckle my way down a very tiny lane to pick up Rich who tries desperately every morning to swiftly drop off Jack despite the lovely child-minder’s efforts to engage him in conversations about the best way to trim the hedges and a very kind man named Mr. Innocent.

I don’t go in because I’m much more whimpy than Rich and will stay and listen politely instead of interrupting to say that we’re late and I’m sorry but we can’t talk right now. Rich can do that. And when he does, he leaps into the car and we hurry up and wait in traffic for twenty minutes (if we’re lucky) on the way to work, dodging cyclists and buses anytime the rpm goes above 0.0. Forget a leisurely morning. Forget speaking to anyone. Forget “dashing” and/ or meditating, and insert soul crushing anxiety about being on time to work.

(Oops, here's an aside:
After one particularly difficult day at work, we picked up Jack and promised him milk and cookies at the Boho tea shop downstairs from our flat. He bounded in like a playful puppy and into a chair by the counter. Before I could get there, he stood up so that he could see over the counter-top and enthusiastically said, “Milk and cookies, please!” to the attendant. The second I thought, “Look how comfortable he is here,” and “this is a lovely hang out for us after school!” the lady at the counter turned to me and snarled,

“We do not allow shoes on the furniture here.”

End aside)

The reality of all of this manifested itself in the bread aisle at Tescos. I’m not on vacation. I live here. No one, including me, is obligated to be anything other than routinely deflated – by our jobs, by our frantic schedules, by our rent payments.

Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. Most days I'll stand on anyone's chair and freely wave my Union Jack. I’m glad to be buying bread, and possbibly this is the most brave thing I've ever done, other than raising a child. It's worth it to be here.

I am living my dream in England, but it turns out, that like any place that isn't vacation, there happens to be an inhibitive reality here. I've only just realized it.

The Condition of my Back

Probably I shouldn’t write about my school in any form that can later be downloaded and printed off for lawyers to peruse for my trial – the one that happens after I’ve completely cracked and phoned every student or parent who was ever mean and told them what they could go and do with themselves. And you know I would never actually mention names in my writing.. mostly because I can’t remember them. HOWEVER, I do need to mention the fact that tomorrow I step into an entirely new academic dimension – one where there is no mask about privilege ruling supreme, where kids are treated as royalty, probably because they actually are royals.


Tomorrow is the first day of school.

Before I go into specifics about the knots in my back, I should mention a particular time in Montezuma, New Mexico, a day where all stress induced back aches disappeared and I felt free. Montezuma is host to a gorgeous international school where they occasionally hold what I affectionately call “teacher camp” for international teachers. It was a usual IB training with booklets and coffee breaks, but because it was in the mountains, there were also obstacle courses and “trust game” activities. For me and some newly made friends, there was spinning and dancing in an open field under the stars on a particularly magical, musical night. There was laughter and camaraderie, and skinny dipping in hot springs. It was lovely breathing fresh, crisp air and being so alive! It was a time when the teachers felt like kids again, where we actually felt important, like what we do for kids in the classroom matters.

At this camp, not only did I learn what I would consider the true nature of IB – organic, inquiry based learning where marks are given for ingenuity and insight, not taken away for mistakes – but I learned that I HAD to be part of the international teaching community. It was my niche, something I already knew about myself but hadn’t, until then, understood the urgency. The school in Montezuma was a scholarship school which to me said “level playing field.” In other words, everyone had an opportunity to play. No one had to pay. Everyone was valued and valuable.

Unfortunately most international schools are not like Montezuma. Most international schools have an agenda, the top three being religious, governmental, or for profit. This isn’t a new revelation. In fact it is the same in the states in public schools whether we care to admit it or not. It’s the wealthy elite enjoying excellent education via privatization and neighborhood privilege while the poor marginalized are left to beg for their intellectual bread. Generally international schools are for kids whose parents are “relocated” by their jobs or who have choice (i.e. money) about where they get to go to school.

My longing to be part of the international teaching community – and fitting in with those who are free spirited, educational gypsies - went to war with my integrity about what I think education should be: something organic, equalizing, and rooted deeply in community. I signed up anyway, giving-in to my selfish (perhaps that’s too strong of a word) need to feed my personal desire instead of huddling in the trenches with those who are fighting for the ideal promised to us as part of “the American dream”, and which is, in my opinion, a basic human right.

So back to my back. It hurts. Tomorrow is the first day at my new international school, and I’m stepping across the threshold with stories about how certain crown princes must carry their cell phones at all times in case of diplomatic emergencies; how certain affluent mothers squealed at seeing a washing machine for the first time and asked the dorm parent who would be doing her son’s laundry; how certain kids go for walks on sunny days instead of coming to class because they’ve never had to adhere to anyone else’s agenda; how the school is elite academically because they know the “strategies” involved with squeezing out the best test scores for programs like IB and AP, organic learning be damned; how the parents tend to overstep their bounds by being too involved.

I have to admit I’m afraid. Mostly I’m worried about connecting with my kids. Tomorrow is the first time I will be formally acquainted with elitism beyond anything I’ve ever seen (and I’m from Texas, folks!). I know kids are kids. I’m sure I will connect with many of them. I also know that most people are good people as Desmund Tutu reiterated regardless of what's in or not in their bank accounts. Also, the nature of my school almost forces community because we are all new here- teachers, students and parents alike. Still. This is most definitely a surreal leap.

I hope I’m cut out for it.

The Toilets Don’t Flush the Same and Things More or Less Awkward

So first of all, I’ve learned a new way to greet people.
Here people give a robust “Hi-yuh!” Which sounds to me like (or in my mind, has the same number of syllables as) “How are ya?”


It’s weird because when I hear, “Hi-yuh!” I want to respond, “I’m fine! How are you?” But that answer gets odd looks, especially since no one actually asked about my well being. What’s worse is when things are stressful, and in walks someone who says, “Hi-yuh!” and I’m all, “Well, shit. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, you know? I mean, I like it here and all, but things will be much easier when my bank account works or when internet is installed. You know?”

And they’re all, “Right. Ok then. I’ll just grab this breakfast bun and.. I’ve got to fly now.* Bye, bye. Bye!”**

So the correct response to “Hi-yuh!” is “Good morning” or a simple. “Hi”. Sometimes I get it right and say, “Hey, how’s it going?” which is somewhat more rhythmic and less awkward.

Next, I feel the need to address the fact that I cannot get a town coke here. Anywhere. There are a billion towns around these parts and all of them sell coke.. but not a town one. And for those of you who don’t know me, my mom, or my Mimi, you should learn that a town coke is a fountain drink with good ice – semi-crushed. I would even go as far to say that a town coke has to be from Dairy Queen or Sonic – a treat when you’re out driving the drag or when you need a little pick-me-up. Gas station fountain drinks don’t count.

And they don’t have them here in England.

In fact, no one seems to drink anything other than orange juice, coffee, pints, or (hot) tea. Bottled water is around, but I rarely see anyone having any. I remember Christine and I having a lengthy conversation about this once. I theorized that perhaps the reason the English don’t have Big Gulps or other embarrassingly large beverages is because the whole country is pretty much hydrated. “After all,” I said, my fore-finger in the air, “it does rain almost daily there.” Plus (and I forgot to tell Christine this) the grass is really sponge-y in England. Perhaps the Brit’s skin is like the grass and absorbs water from the air. (Some of my synapses may, in fact, be retarded.)

Christine politely didn’t roll her eyes (too much) and reiterated the fact that while here she just carried a huge water bottle everywhere. “I just slammed it on the counter like I owned the place. Everyone else be damned. Yep, “she said, “this is my ginormous beverage. Deal with it. What?!” ***

Lastly, I must mention driving. And with the word “driving” in England I should also say, “Holy shit!” because damn. I spend the majority of the time in the car with my buttocks clenched. Why? Because every moment on the road in England is a “close call”. Actually, what I’m learning is that unless you actually bend in the side mirrors (a feature that all cars have here), you aren’t really close. But tell that to me as I’m inching between an American sized lorry and a cyclist with a baby on board, in a lane meant mainly for Kate Moss to saunter down and we’ll talk about the medical benefits of butt clenching.

“CURB!” is the word I mostly yell seconds before I rip my passenger-side rims into one.

*Seriously. That’s another thing. They say “I’ve got to fly, now” and all I can think of is Gandalf falling into endless doom in mines of Moria and the hobits burying their heads in their hands, forever altered by their immense grief.


** And they say “Bye” at least three times, fading out on each one, especially if they’re hanging up on a phone conversation. I think it’s kind of poetic.


***Probably this is a paraphrase

Shoe Shocked

Muslim culture’s tradition of taking off one’s shoes at the door before entering someone’s home leaves this Western girl feeling insecure and uncertain about how best to move forward. In my culture shoes are essential. I’ve been taught that feet are dirty, that you can’t walk into a restaurant, convenience store, or any kind of market without them or if you do, you take a serious risk of either being kicked out or at the very least reprimanded by clerks and/or forthright patrons. It is an unwavering rule – No shirt, No shoes, No service. I’ve even found myself having acrimonious thoughts towards little children who sashay barefoot into places with their thoughtless mothers. How could any responsible mother allow her child to be subject to the many hazards and germs that foot to floor contact elicits? Worse, how could any responsible adult let another person leave germs and other hazards behind for unsuspecting, shoe clad people to muck through? If it weren’t a big deal, then why do shoe stores offer hosiery for trying on shoes? “Forget your socks? No problem. Have a footie,” reads a sign at DSW. It comforts me. At least I know that if someone tried on a pair of shoes I might buy, I can rest assured that probably no one’s stinky feet have actually touched my inner soles. Even in my childhood household, shoes were required in the kitchen, just as hairbrushes had to stay out.

It is these thoughts that hung over me as I stood on my sweet Muslim friends’ doorstep yesterday. Without more than a couple of natural movements, four people breezed through the front door, leaving their shoes in a nonchalant, cluttered pile. I, on the other hand, hesitated.

At least three years have passed since I remember walking into their home, not noticing that everyone had removed their shoes but me. Several hours into the visit I realized my error. Of course, the family was too nice to mention it, but I felt incredibly rude for being insensitive to that particular cultural norm. I remember trying to tuck my clunky shoed feet underneath furniture so as to hide my faux pas, and yet all I could stare at was everyone else’s toes.

And here, again, came the moment; it was time to behave as everyone else did and take off my shoes at the door. I felt like the others were watching me in anticipation. I was sure they were thinking, “Will she do it right this time?” or “Remember last time when she left her shoes on? They were sliders. She easily could’ve removed them!” or “Westerners. How arrogant!” Of course they weren’t thinking those thoughts. They’re much too kind to expel that kind of venom. Plus, rationally I am aware that not everyone has such specific memory about my flaws as I do. It probably wasn’t important to them in the first place. Still, as if I were stepping over a gated fence, I put one foot through the door and then the other. I slid into the nearest chair close by, and leaned down to take off my shoes. I kicked them to the side into the pile at the door and quickly curled my toes under my feet, afraid to look up and see if anyone noticed my angst.

Just then, a neighbor apparently walked by, as all of a sudden one of the little girls popped up and said, “Look! It’s so and so and her son!” She was pointing out the window behind me and hopping up and down excitedly. Everyone else perked up, too, looking around my form out the window. “Invite them in,” my friend said. “Yes do! Hurry!” another echoed. The little girl ran out of the front door, skipping over the pile of shoes, and insisted that her neighbors come in for a moment. Of course they did, as the hospitality of Islam encourages, and they also took off their shoes, adding them to the pile.

The woman stayed for a cup of tea and immediately drummed up a conversation about the circumcision of her 9 year old son which would be happening next week. She asked questions about what circumcision entailed, specifically, how to keep the “affected area” treated and dressed immediately after the procedure, and what the benefits of having it done were. They talked about the Islamic philosophy of circumcision, of characters in the Bible who had it done (one very specifically with an axe while he was in his nineties), the fact that someone’s grandfather did the procedure so rapidly, that he engaged in a competition with a local medical doctor to see who could circumcise the most boys in the fastest time. It was a circum-size-off! Boys lined up in two rows – one for the doctor, one for the grandfather, and someone ran a timer. Apparently, and according to the reenactment gesticulations of “snip and throw,” everyone in the living room smiled and nodded, one person even applauded, at the news that the grandfather won by a landslide.

During this entire conversation – which happened to be as bizarre and non sequitur as it is to you, the reader, as it was to me, the listener - all I could think about was finding a pair of socks.

Boots Down

So, here’s what I know so far. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been to the UK on vacation, nor does it matter how much I LOVE London and quaint, small villages around the city; I am a foreigner in a foreign place and I have to learn how to do everything all over again, including learning the language which is far different from the Texican I’m accustomed to.


For example, I am not supposed to say the word “knob” when I close my front door and yell out in frustration, “Where is my knob? Surely British people use them here!” Apparently, the word “knob” means “penis” in England. In one innocent moment of angst, I’ve insulted an entire nation’s sexuality and inspired doubt about my own. All I wanted to do was close my front door without smashing my fingers in the mail slot.

(Side bar:

In my defense about British sexuality, all I have to go on is my friend Peter’s comment about his parents - how they slept in single beds across the room from each other and how possibly he and his brother, Bugsy, were only conceived because his father had, “precise aim.. twice”. Maybe I'm not far off the insult.. Still, this is a proud and reproductive nation. I didn’t mean any offense. Plus, contrary to popular understanding, I’m only curious about my own missing knob when it comes to questions about the Western patriarchy and how shitty it is. If only women had knobs! Maybe then we would be taken seriously.

End side bar)

Other new words include these found in the following sentences:

You can definitely top up your mobile broadband if you pop into the Waitros, bang in the center of Weybridge. Just ask for a 5 pound voucher.

Translation:

You can add minutes to your internet device if you stop by the Waitros grocery store which is located in the center of the town of Weybridge. Just ask for a 5 dollar voucher.

This is probably an obvious translation to a lot of folks, but try understanding it in a thick British accent when you have jet lag, haven’t slept in.. - how long has it been since you slept?-, and can’t determine why your hands are shaking so badly – is it tiredness or too much caffeine? Is it too little caffeine or a lack of food?

Is it fear because you are a lonely foreigner in a foreign place where even shutting your front door is hard?

Each day gets easier, though. I now am a regular customer at the Café Nero – bang in the center of Weybridge – having been here two days in a row. I have learned how to wash my clothes and get to the bus station. Riding on public transport is still sort of a mystery to me, though. Maybe tomorrow. I've made a little perch of my huge livingroom windows that open to a bustling avenue and I drink wine there while I people watch.

This morning I ate an omelet made by my own two hands and have found that just being in the kitchen with an actual coffee maker, some bananas, and some dish soap is a comfort. It’s my kitchen; those are my bananas next to my coffee pot. That dish soap? I can use it whenever I want because I found the Tesco, bought it using the British pounds that came from my local ATM, and I’ll “do the washing up” with it when I feel good and ready because this is my place, my home.

I suppose I’m getting more comfortable here, and of course I’ve had massive help from my friends, Mark, Gemma, and Olly (saints, all of them!) who have been very tender and supportive through some of my more obvious meltdowns. Even the Vodafone store clerk said, “Hey I didn’t recognize you from yesterday. You look different.”

“Yep,” I think, “I do look different. I stopped shaking, I got some sleep, and I’m headed to my local coffee spot.”

It’s boots down, folks.