Buying a car in America is a tricky business.
Ric Gianino, "senior" (his quote marks) sales associate at Country Hill Motors is keen to sell us a vehicle. He shows us a Nissan, a Saturn and an awesome, retro, 1987 Jaguar. Unfortunately for Ric, none of them work properly. In fact he can't even get the Jag to start. This, my friends, is the seedier side of the American car industry.
We very nearly make a deal with Eric at Jay Wolfe motors, who wants to sell us a 1997 Acura - the upmarket Honda brand. Only one owner, pretty clean service history, black, sleek - a pretty pimp ride. It's on the forecourt for $5,700. We go in with a punchy offer of $4,000. Eric wants $4,800. No deal, unfortunately.
Joe's got cancer. Joe's mate, who's built a house in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in Kansas, wants to sell his MG, which has only done 20 miles in the last 20 years. So, he gives it to Joe to put on the front lawn of his apartment block, so as to get better attention from passers by.
Is any of the money from the sale going to help Joe pay for his cancer drugs? Who knows, but Joe, who's pouring liquid food down a tube directly into his stomach doesn't look as if he's going to live long enough to see the MG sold anyway. Thank God for the NHS.
Wednesday 30 December 2009
Sunday 27 December 2009
Oh so much to write in the last week! I feel dreadful for not recording everything as I have experienced it. My rather pathetic excuse is that everything has gone by in a whirl.
Following on from my last post, we made it to Washington, finally, and proceeded to head out for dinner with a friend. Well, my observation that all Americans were uber-friendly was swiftly dashed when we met one of the most unhelpful people I have ever encountered at the metro station. Not having used the metro before, we were both (my husband, the Major, and I) regarding the ticket machine like aliens from another planet, trying to work out exactly where to put our money in. Upon asking the man at the information desk how to get to Friendship Heights, he simply pointed at a handwritten sign. "The red line" he intoned impatiently.
"I'm sorry, I've never used the metro before, and I don't know what to do."
"The red line!" - this more impatiently.
"But I don't..."
Luckily help was at hand in the form of a nice lady who took pity on us, and proceeded to actually buy our tickets for us. Perhaps the majority of Americans are friendly after all.
The next day, after a briefing at the British Embassy (the Major is extremely important, natch), we took a little trip to the White House. Which was beautiful, in the snow, but remarkably small. Most surprising. Not quite as surprising as the police cars parked next to it, however. "United States Secret Service" they said on the side. Extremely secret, then.
Finally, on Monday evening, we flew out to Kansas. My first impressions of the natives - i.e. the other passengers on the plane - did not exactly fill me with confidence. Overweight, dreadful haircuts, high waisted blue jeans, sparkly white trainers. It was like stepping into a Wham video, but with less attractive characters. I'm a bitch I know, but that's how it was. It was a relief to finally get off the plane, three hours later (for some reason, the pilot was trying to get the air hostess to do the chicken dance - luckily she refused) and be collected by friends, who presented an oasis of normality in the maelstrom of foreign-ness.
Waking up the next morning (we're on to Tuesday now) was another matter. "For better, for worse" was the phrase running most clearly through my head. Wouldn't it be yours, when faced with a suburban scene straight out of Desperate Housewives, only with fewer white picket fences and hot gardeners? I donned my trainers and went for a run, which put me in a better mood. I saw deer leaping across the fields, and the trees reminded me of England. It was only when I got back that I was informed it was probably best not to walk or run in the fields out here - unless I wanted to be shot by a redneck farmer.
Luckily, Kansas City itself was something of a sophisticated relief. Having stocked up on Arm & Hammer toothpaste, Laura Mercier makeup and Marks & Spencers cardis (I was envisaging something like Stalinist Russia, I think) it was a joy to behold a Mac makeup store, Apple shop, Barnes & Noble bookshop and numerous others. I embarked upon spending the Major's money with glee.
All else - Christmas (major blizzard - for details, see the BBC website), Boxing Day (walk in the deep snow) and the rest I won't go into. Suffice to say there was much eating and drinking all round - so fairly standard. I'll endeavour to keep you all updated more regularly, so as to avoid having to wade through paragraphs of boredom. Next up - a road trip!
Following on from my last post, we made it to Washington, finally, and proceeded to head out for dinner with a friend. Well, my observation that all Americans were uber-friendly was swiftly dashed when we met one of the most unhelpful people I have ever encountered at the metro station. Not having used the metro before, we were both (my husband, the Major, and I) regarding the ticket machine like aliens from another planet, trying to work out exactly where to put our money in. Upon asking the man at the information desk how to get to Friendship Heights, he simply pointed at a handwritten sign. "The red line" he intoned impatiently.
"I'm sorry, I've never used the metro before, and I don't know what to do."
"The red line!" - this more impatiently.
"But I don't..."
Luckily help was at hand in the form of a nice lady who took pity on us, and proceeded to actually buy our tickets for us. Perhaps the majority of Americans are friendly after all.
The next day, after a briefing at the British Embassy (the Major is extremely important, natch), we took a little trip to the White House. Which was beautiful, in the snow, but remarkably small. Most surprising. Not quite as surprising as the police cars parked next to it, however. "United States Secret Service" they said on the side. Extremely secret, then.
Finally, on Monday evening, we flew out to Kansas. My first impressions of the natives - i.e. the other passengers on the plane - did not exactly fill me with confidence. Overweight, dreadful haircuts, high waisted blue jeans, sparkly white trainers. It was like stepping into a Wham video, but with less attractive characters. I'm a bitch I know, but that's how it was. It was a relief to finally get off the plane, three hours later (for some reason, the pilot was trying to get the air hostess to do the chicken dance - luckily she refused) and be collected by friends, who presented an oasis of normality in the maelstrom of foreign-ness.
Waking up the next morning (we're on to Tuesday now) was another matter. "For better, for worse" was the phrase running most clearly through my head. Wouldn't it be yours, when faced with a suburban scene straight out of Desperate Housewives, only with fewer white picket fences and hot gardeners? I donned my trainers and went for a run, which put me in a better mood. I saw deer leaping across the fields, and the trees reminded me of England. It was only when I got back that I was informed it was probably best not to walk or run in the fields out here - unless I wanted to be shot by a redneck farmer.
Luckily, Kansas City itself was something of a sophisticated relief. Having stocked up on Arm & Hammer toothpaste, Laura Mercier makeup and Marks & Spencers cardis (I was envisaging something like Stalinist Russia, I think) it was a joy to behold a Mac makeup store, Apple shop, Barnes & Noble bookshop and numerous others. I embarked upon spending the Major's money with glee.
All else - Christmas (major blizzard - for details, see the BBC website), Boxing Day (walk in the deep snow) and the rest I won't go into. Suffice to say there was much eating and drinking all round - so fairly standard. I'll endeavour to keep you all updated more regularly, so as to avoid having to wade through paragraphs of boredom. Next up - a road trip!
Sunday 20 December 2009
Logan Airport, Boston. Three minutes to one on Sunday 20th December. Snow is falling outside. I'm in the Virgin upper class lounge, enjoying the free internet facilities and trying to forage for crisps. What happened?
Well, about 24 hours ago I should have been in Washington (long story - suffice to say I'm being eased into U.S life gently, going via Our Nation's Capital before being transplanted to the cornfields). But the biggest snow storm in decades (according to the BBC website) thwarted our plans, diverting us to Boston, where we're now waiting for a connecting flight. On the plus side, we were upgraded, which I could seriously get used to - flat beds, free champagne, aaahhhh.
First impressions of America? Well, snowy, obviously. Very clean (although that could be the snow). Very friendly. But all I've really seen so far is airports and the Sheraton hotel, so that's not a lot to go on. Further updates later. The fun really starts on Monday, when we get to Kansas. Bring it on!
Well, about 24 hours ago I should have been in Washington (long story - suffice to say I'm being eased into U.S life gently, going via Our Nation's Capital before being transplanted to the cornfields). But the biggest snow storm in decades (according to the BBC website) thwarted our plans, diverting us to Boston, where we're now waiting for a connecting flight. On the plus side, we were upgraded, which I could seriously get used to - flat beds, free champagne, aaahhhh.
First impressions of America? Well, snowy, obviously. Very clean (although that could be the snow). Very friendly. But all I've really seen so far is airports and the Sheraton hotel, so that's not a lot to go on. Further updates later. The fun really starts on Monday, when we get to Kansas. Bring it on!
Friday 4 December 2009
Tuesday 17 November 2009
Friday 13 November 2009
Absolutely nothing to do with Kansas or moving there, but in my current, slightly hungover and workshy state I thought I would amuse myself, and maybe you too, with a list of things that irritate me beyond belief:
- People who use a picture of their children as their profile picture on Facebook. It's ok if they themselves are in it but utterly irritating if it's just the spawn.
- Wires: because they always, always get tangled up into a huge, hellish ball that takes ages to get out. (We have a whole 'wire drawer' in our house. I think when we move I will just chuck the whole lot out, and not bother trying to untangle it).
- Baby on board stickers. I know it might seem as if I'm on a bit of an anti-parent rant, but it's not like that, I promise.
- Call centre people who refuse to divert from the script.
- Delivery companies who will only deliver something during working hours, and can only commit to a 'morning' or 'afternoon' slot.
- Nick Griffin. No explanation needed.
I will probably think of more. I get irritated very easily.
- People who use a picture of their children as their profile picture on Facebook. It's ok if they themselves are in it but utterly irritating if it's just the spawn.
- Wires: because they always, always get tangled up into a huge, hellish ball that takes ages to get out. (We have a whole 'wire drawer' in our house. I think when we move I will just chuck the whole lot out, and not bother trying to untangle it).
- Baby on board stickers. I know it might seem as if I'm on a bit of an anti-parent rant, but it's not like that, I promise.
- Call centre people who refuse to divert from the script.
- Delivery companies who will only deliver something during working hours, and can only commit to a 'morning' or 'afternoon' slot.
- Nick Griffin. No explanation needed.
I will probably think of more. I get irritated very easily.
Wednesday 11 November 2009
Does anyone have any advice on moving country? I've suddenly realised how much we have to do, and how little time we have to do it. The shipping people may be booked and the storage people alerted, but I still have to decide what to take with me and what to leave behind - not to mention packing everything up in the meantime.
Unfortunately, moving across the world is a fairly big job. Which means that if I leave my favourite casserole dish behind by accident I can't just pick it up next time I come home - several months wait aside, it would probably add considerably to the weight of my luggage. The only thing to do, I have decided, is to make a list.
I love lists. The satisfaction of ticking things off as you get them done - the knowledge that everything you need to do is on there. Trouble is, this one keeps growing. Not only do I have to write up the aforementioned lists of things to take and leave behind (take best china, I have decided, leave telly behind - sadly - US voltage means it won't work anyway), but there is all the admin to get through as well. Changing ones address at the bank, for example, or diverting post, or arranging to pick up six months worth of contact lenses from the optician, or getting the cat jabbed so we can take him with us. Then there's the deep cleaners to book for the flat, our own cleaner to alert, and get the spare keys back from, telling the Inland Revenue I'm moving country, arranging to pay my tax return from a US bank account. The fact that Christmas is fast approaching and we have to do the rounds of parties, not to mention dual early celebrations at both parents houses (arrgh, I'm going to hate the sight of turkey come December 25th) and get seriously organised when it comes to present giving, doesn't make life any easier.
Honestly, I think I'd rather be packed up and shipped off myself. In a box, no-one to know I'm going, someone else can do all the admin. Any takers?
Unfortunately, moving across the world is a fairly big job. Which means that if I leave my favourite casserole dish behind by accident I can't just pick it up next time I come home - several months wait aside, it would probably add considerably to the weight of my luggage. The only thing to do, I have decided, is to make a list.
I love lists. The satisfaction of ticking things off as you get them done - the knowledge that everything you need to do is on there. Trouble is, this one keeps growing. Not only do I have to write up the aforementioned lists of things to take and leave behind (take best china, I have decided, leave telly behind - sadly - US voltage means it won't work anyway), but there is all the admin to get through as well. Changing ones address at the bank, for example, or diverting post, or arranging to pick up six months worth of contact lenses from the optician, or getting the cat jabbed so we can take him with us. Then there's the deep cleaners to book for the flat, our own cleaner to alert, and get the spare keys back from, telling the Inland Revenue I'm moving country, arranging to pay my tax return from a US bank account. The fact that Christmas is fast approaching and we have to do the rounds of parties, not to mention dual early celebrations at both parents houses (arrgh, I'm going to hate the sight of turkey come December 25th) and get seriously organised when it comes to present giving, doesn't make life any easier.
Honestly, I think I'd rather be packed up and shipped off myself. In a box, no-one to know I'm going, someone else can do all the admin. Any takers?
Friday 6 November 2009
Further to my post of this morning I just read this very interesting article on the Guardian website:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/nov/06/penelope-trunk-tweet-miscarriage
For those of you who can't be bothered to click on the link it's essentially a riposte from a woman named Penelope Trunk, who last week tweeted that she was in a meeting, suffering a miscarriage "Thank goodness, because there's a fucked-up three-week hoop-jump to have an abortion in Wisconsin." Needless to say, there was a fairly horrified reaction to this when it hit the national press, courtesy of one of Trunk's 10, 135 followers.
One of the most interesting things about the article was reading the responses from readers below, which varied from justification of her actions - that anyone who signs up to someone's Twitter feed has no right to then complain about what is subsenquently tweeted to them - to disgust that anyone's reaction to a miscarriage could be so relaxed as to inform the world - or at least her "followers" - of it in less than 140 characters.
What I quite enjoyed was this one response:
"If hell is other people, then twitter is its roaring flames and freezing ice. Is everyone really so convinced that their own banalities are groundbreaking revelations?"
Which was basically what I was trying to say in that earlier post. Although at least Twitter means the Guardian can add to its features list every so often.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/nov/06/penelope-trunk-tweet-miscarriage
For those of you who can't be bothered to click on the link it's essentially a riposte from a woman named Penelope Trunk, who last week tweeted that she was in a meeting, suffering a miscarriage "Thank goodness, because there's a fucked-up three-week hoop-jump to have an abortion in Wisconsin." Needless to say, there was a fairly horrified reaction to this when it hit the national press, courtesy of one of Trunk's 10, 135 followers.
One of the most interesting things about the article was reading the responses from readers below, which varied from justification of her actions - that anyone who signs up to someone's Twitter feed has no right to then complain about what is subsenquently tweeted to them - to disgust that anyone's reaction to a miscarriage could be so relaxed as to inform the world - or at least her "followers" - of it in less than 140 characters.
What I quite enjoyed was this one response:
"If hell is other people, then twitter is its roaring flames and freezing ice. Is everyone really so convinced that their own banalities are groundbreaking revelations?"
Which was basically what I was trying to say in that earlier post. Although at least Twitter means the Guardian can add to its features list every so often.
Ok, so I'm not in Kansas yet, but in the meantime I want to keep my hand in, so you'll just have to put up with some inane mutterings until then. I'll try and keep it vaguely America-related.
That said, however, today I'm going off-message to get something off my chest, and that something is Twitter. For those of you who have been living in a hole for the past few years, Twitter is, according to the ever-accurate Wikipedia, a free social networking and micro-blogging service that enables its users to send and read messages known as "tweets". In March, the Nielson.com blog ranked Twitter as the fastest-growing site in its Member Communities category, with a monthly growth of 1,382 percent.
I'm ashamed to say I probably added to that percentage increase. Ashamed because Twitter really, really annoys me. I joined because I felt that, as a hopefully cutting-edge journalist up to date with the latest methods for getting my opinion out there, I should do so. However, as I am clearly analogue, when it comes to technology (as evidenced by the fact that I have only just started this blog), I just can't get to grips with Twitter. Every so often I log onto the site, in the hope that I might learn something useful - but no, the other 54, 376 followers of Stephen Fry received his erudite words of wisdom at exactly the same time I did. Moreover, despite trying to link it to my phone, I never know when people are tweeting, apart from when I log onto the site. And for goodness sake, it's bad enough trying to be witty and interesting using a blog, let alone when you're limited to 140 characters. The amount of crap that people come out with - "I'm off to the shops", for example - I mean, who cares? I have 25 followers on Twitter, apparently, which is 25 people who are going to be very disappointed that they decided to do so, seeing as my last entry was three months ago.
I know that this blog entry will probably come back to bite me, as the last time I was this anti-technology was when Facebook kicked off a few years ago - and I am now a devoted aficionado. That said, however, I do try and refrain from informing people of my every movement. Stephen Fry, take note...
That said, however, today I'm going off-message to get something off my chest, and that something is Twitter. For those of you who have been living in a hole for the past few years, Twitter is, according to the ever-accurate Wikipedia, a free social networking and micro-blogging service that enables its users to send and read messages known as "tweets". In March, the Nielson.com blog ranked Twitter as the fastest-growing site in its Member Communities category, with a monthly growth of 1,382 percent.
I'm ashamed to say I probably added to that percentage increase. Ashamed because Twitter really, really annoys me. I joined because I felt that, as a hopefully cutting-edge journalist up to date with the latest methods for getting my opinion out there, I should do so. However, as I am clearly analogue, when it comes to technology (as evidenced by the fact that I have only just started this blog), I just can't get to grips with Twitter. Every so often I log onto the site, in the hope that I might learn something useful - but no, the other 54, 376 followers of Stephen Fry received his erudite words of wisdom at exactly the same time I did. Moreover, despite trying to link it to my phone, I never know when people are tweeting, apart from when I log onto the site. And for goodness sake, it's bad enough trying to be witty and interesting using a blog, let alone when you're limited to 140 characters. The amount of crap that people come out with - "I'm off to the shops", for example - I mean, who cares? I have 25 followers on Twitter, apparently, which is 25 people who are going to be very disappointed that they decided to do so, seeing as my last entry was three months ago.
I know that this blog entry will probably come back to bite me, as the last time I was this anti-technology was when Facebook kicked off a few years ago - and I am now a devoted aficionado. That said, however, I do try and refrain from informing people of my every movement. Stephen Fry, take note...
Thursday 5 November 2009
In six weeks time I am moving to Kansas. How did that happen? Well, it's a long story, but suffice to say it wasn't where I'd imagine I'd spend the next two years of my life. However, after a period of time spent railing against the unjustness (of giving up my job on a national newspaper, leaving my friends and family behind and most importantly, potentially sacrificing all attempts to have an ironic conversation for the next 24 months) I am starting to get just a teensy bit excited.
Much of the excitement comes from actually having a place to live out there. Have you ever tried to rent a house without actually being in, or even having visited the place to which you are moving? It's a bit of a shocker.
Luckily for us, help was at hand in the form of a dear English friend, who, handily, happened to be an estate agent in her former life.
So there I was, trawling through endless lettings sites trying to find the potential home of our dreams. I don't know if you've ever been onto an American estate agents website, but let me tell you, Foxtons is a dream by comparison. Wonky photographs, taken of extraordinary parts of a room (one site had no less than 4 pictures of the same piece of skirting board), no floorplans, no map of where the property is - precious little at all, really. And when you've become quite accustomed, thanks very much, to nicely presented properties - neutral decor, decent kitchens, tasteful bathrooms - the reality of the midwestern taste in interiors hits pretty hard. Think pine kitchens circa 1982, complete with electric hob (I mean electric! Who uses that nowadays?), plastic bathtubs that look as if they would barely fit a mouse and the most hideous dark brown carpets. I was freaking out, I can tell you.
Luckily, thanks to the help of the dear English friend, who patiently drove out to locations far and wide and gave us her honest feedback on the various internet links I emailed to her, we seem to have landed ourselves with one of the only tasteful properties in the entireity of Kansas. I'm only going on the photos she sent here, but we've got a nice open-plan house, light interiors, wooden floorboards and a back yard that - get this - actually needs a ride-on mower to keep it tidy. Ok so there's still an electric hob and a plastic bathtub, but I'm looking forward to being able to spread myself around, if you know what I mean, in our new four-bedroom abode complete with wilderness lawn out back. Gosh I'm even starting to sound like an American. Sigh...
Much of the excitement comes from actually having a place to live out there. Have you ever tried to rent a house without actually being in, or even having visited the place to which you are moving? It's a bit of a shocker.
Luckily for us, help was at hand in the form of a dear English friend, who, handily, happened to be an estate agent in her former life.
So there I was, trawling through endless lettings sites trying to find the potential home of our dreams. I don't know if you've ever been onto an American estate agents website, but let me tell you, Foxtons is a dream by comparison. Wonky photographs, taken of extraordinary parts of a room (one site had no less than 4 pictures of the same piece of skirting board), no floorplans, no map of where the property is - precious little at all, really. And when you've become quite accustomed, thanks very much, to nicely presented properties - neutral decor, decent kitchens, tasteful bathrooms - the reality of the midwestern taste in interiors hits pretty hard. Think pine kitchens circa 1982, complete with electric hob (I mean electric! Who uses that nowadays?), plastic bathtubs that look as if they would barely fit a mouse and the most hideous dark brown carpets. I was freaking out, I can tell you.
Luckily, thanks to the help of the dear English friend, who patiently drove out to locations far and wide and gave us her honest feedback on the various internet links I emailed to her, we seem to have landed ourselves with one of the only tasteful properties in the entireity of Kansas. I'm only going on the photos she sent here, but we've got a nice open-plan house, light interiors, wooden floorboards and a back yard that - get this - actually needs a ride-on mower to keep it tidy. Ok so there's still an electric hob and a plastic bathtub, but I'm looking forward to being able to spread myself around, if you know what I mean, in our new four-bedroom abode complete with wilderness lawn out back. Gosh I'm even starting to sound like an American. Sigh...
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