Readers of my regular blog for the Lady magazine will know that I have prostrated myself upon the altar of the would-be family planners and am expecting a baby, due in April. Thus far, all has been well - no morning sickness, fatigue or any of the other discomforts that one is warned about. In fact, up until now I have pretty much been able to pretend I am not pregnant at all, as my 'bump' has just looked like the effects of eating a little too much. Now, however, it is starting to protrude - a fact that was made painfully obvious to me the other evening.
The Major and I were attending a Christmas extravaganza, and decided to fortify ourselves with caffeine beforehand. We bought our coffees, and were making polite conversation with the lady at the till, when she said, "so, you're expecting a baby."
We exchanged surprised glances and agreed that this was so.
It was most odd. I have grown so used to telling people I am pregnant and them expressing surprise and disbelief that this new evidence of my impending motherhood, despite being a natural process (pregnancy=bump after all) has come as a bit of a shock.
Now I am gearing myself up for yet more conversations centred around my stomach. I have been warned to expect random touching by strangers, comments as to the sex (we have decided not to find out) and unsolicited advice. Fine. But be warned, if anyone tries to stroke my belly without asking first, there will be hell to pay.
Sunday 12 December 2010
Monday 15 November 2010
On parading
Last Thursday was Veteran's Day, aka Remembrance Day, and there was a parade in Leavenworth. Naturally we went along to see what was happening.
I think, retrospectively, the key word was probably involvement. I don't know how many people were watching the parade, but I'm pretty sure more people were in it than observing. There were the army types in their uniforms, followed by the ROTC (junior army, scarily young some of them), then the Brownies and the Scouts and the Veterans of Foreign Wars, and the Mayor and the State Representative, then more Scouts, then the high school Marching Band, complete with cheerleaders, then more Scouts, then more veterans, then a couple of random people driving old cars, then some more cars with fat people waving from inside, then some more veterans, on a truck this time, then a helicopter being towed along on a float, then a Masonic Lodge or two, then the Daughters of Job (junior masons), more veterans, some horses and finally the Fort Leavenworth Hunt. The whole thing went on for several hours, in the cold, with lots of people waving and occasional cheers.
What amused me most was the homespun-ness of it all and also the number of people who felt the need to parade in cars. Surely the point of a parade is to sally forth on foot? Or perhaps on a float or maybe a horse, but just to drive very slowly, waving? It didn't seem very parade-like behaviour.
I also missed the solemness of the British remembrance spectacle, with its people in mourning colours wearing poppies and serious expressions, and the last post and the two minutes silence. Veterans Day here is much more of a celebration, and a chance for everyone to get stuck in. Apparently Armed Forces Day is the more solemn occasion here.
Nevertheless, the whole thing provided an amusing spectacle, and then we were able to go and warm up with beers and fajitas in the High Noon Saloon, which is always fun. Do post further thoughts on the nature of parading...
I think, retrospectively, the key word was probably involvement. I don't know how many people were watching the parade, but I'm pretty sure more people were in it than observing. There were the army types in their uniforms, followed by the ROTC (junior army, scarily young some of them), then the Brownies and the Scouts and the Veterans of Foreign Wars, and the Mayor and the State Representative, then more Scouts, then the high school Marching Band, complete with cheerleaders, then more Scouts, then more veterans, then a couple of random people driving old cars, then some more cars with fat people waving from inside, then some more veterans, on a truck this time, then a helicopter being towed along on a float, then a Masonic Lodge or two, then the Daughters of Job (junior masons), more veterans, some horses and finally the Fort Leavenworth Hunt. The whole thing went on for several hours, in the cold, with lots of people waving and occasional cheers.
What amused me most was the homespun-ness of it all and also the number of people who felt the need to parade in cars. Surely the point of a parade is to sally forth on foot? Or perhaps on a float or maybe a horse, but just to drive very slowly, waving? It didn't seem very parade-like behaviour.
I also missed the solemness of the British remembrance spectacle, with its people in mourning colours wearing poppies and serious expressions, and the last post and the two minutes silence. Veterans Day here is much more of a celebration, and a chance for everyone to get stuck in. Apparently Armed Forces Day is the more solemn occasion here.
Nevertheless, the whole thing provided an amusing spectacle, and then we were able to go and warm up with beers and fajitas in the High Noon Saloon, which is always fun. Do post further thoughts on the nature of parading...
Wednesday 3 November 2010
Dyed in the Red
Today I woke up to a state that is completely controlled by the Republican party. GOP candidates have taken all the major seats in Kansas, from the US Senate seat to the various house districts.
When I got to the University this morning, most of my colleagues were sunk into deep gloom at the news. Although, as one of them pointed out, at least now nobody can blame the Democrats when things go wrong. And we all took comfort from the fact that, while Kansas might now be dyed deep red, at least Sharron Angle, the Tea Party candidate in Nevada who referred darkly to citizens making use of their Second Amendment rights, wa beaten by Harry Reid, the longstanding Democratic incumbent.
Nevertheless, it seems strange, in a state that is largely blue collar, working class or agricultural, that so many people vote to the right. After all, the Democrats are ostensibly the party of this demographic, and their policies reflect the desire to help those less well off, with healthcare reform, tax cuts and so on.
But Kansans also like to be left alone, and don't like the thought of their actions being controlled by Washington, hence their love of 'no more big government'. As Sam Brownback, the new Republican governor of Kansas put it, "no more Obama way; now to the Kansan way" - whatever that means.
I've basically realised I can't talk about politics any more, unless I am in the liberal oasis of the KU environs. This was perfectly illustrated by a conversation with a friend the other evening, who describes himself as a "libertarian" and says that if government backed off, we'd all be in a better place.
The irony is, he works for the US Army, perhaps the biggest government-controlled machine out there. The base budget for defence spending in America currently stands at $533.8 billion. Adding spending on "overseas contingency operations" brings the sum to $663.8 billion. That's 19% of the entire federal budget. In fact, it's one of the biggest single expenditures of the US government. Surely reducing government involvement would have to involve cutting defence spending somehow - and then where would all these libertarians be?
When I got to the University this morning, most of my colleagues were sunk into deep gloom at the news. Although, as one of them pointed out, at least now nobody can blame the Democrats when things go wrong. And we all took comfort from the fact that, while Kansas might now be dyed deep red, at least Sharron Angle, the Tea Party candidate in Nevada who referred darkly to citizens making use of their Second Amendment rights, wa beaten by Harry Reid, the longstanding Democratic incumbent.
Nevertheless, it seems strange, in a state that is largely blue collar, working class or agricultural, that so many people vote to the right. After all, the Democrats are ostensibly the party of this demographic, and their policies reflect the desire to help those less well off, with healthcare reform, tax cuts and so on.
But Kansans also like to be left alone, and don't like the thought of their actions being controlled by Washington, hence their love of 'no more big government'. As Sam Brownback, the new Republican governor of Kansas put it, "no more Obama way; now to the Kansan way" - whatever that means.
I've basically realised I can't talk about politics any more, unless I am in the liberal oasis of the KU environs. This was perfectly illustrated by a conversation with a friend the other evening, who describes himself as a "libertarian" and says that if government backed off, we'd all be in a better place.
The irony is, he works for the US Army, perhaps the biggest government-controlled machine out there. The base budget for defence spending in America currently stands at $533.8 billion. Adding spending on "overseas contingency operations" brings the sum to $663.8 billion. That's 19% of the entire federal budget. In fact, it's one of the biggest single expenditures of the US government. Surely reducing government involvement would have to involve cutting defence spending somehow - and then where would all these libertarians be?
Sunday 31 October 2010
Leaves and things
I drove past a man today who was blowing leaves off his drive with one of those electric leaf-blowing things - the ones that look like vacuum cleaners but blow instead of suck. Anyway, he would patiently blow a pile of leaves off his driveway into a neat little pile - but the problem was, it was a windy day, and no sooner had he blown his pile into place than the wind would come and mess it all up. I never actually saw him do anything with the leaves, apart from push them around with his blowy thing. Meanwhile more leaves were coming down from the trees all the time because, as I said, it was a windy day. Apparently one of these leaf blower things emits as much energy in one year as 80 cars. Do these people have nothing better to do all day than blow leaves around and pollute the atmosphere while they're doing it? (and I know, I was driving a car when I saw him) Such is life in the suburbs of America.
Wednesday 20 October 2010
Psychotic American Politics
A colleague said to me this morning, "I wish our right-wingers were more like British Tories." He has a point. Whether you're a fan of Cameron and his government or not, we remain relatively liberal in our politics in England - we may be carrying out one of the biggest slash and burn exercises in public sector jobs for a long time but our government and its acolytes does not exhort people to turn to guns to protect themselves, or rail publicly against homosexuality, or denounce those of the Jewish faith as "the antichrist".
Sadly this is not the case in America. The papers and airwaves have been full, recently, of the crazy things that politicians do to get themselves elected, in the run-up to the American midterms, where election fever has once again swept the country. Most of the press has focused on those extreme right-wing individuals who do and say ever-crazier things in the name of politics.
Take for example Carl Paladino, who is gunning for New York governor. He's the one who circulated an email with a photo of an African tribal ritual captioned 'Obama Inauguration Rehearsal'and who has attacked gays for supposedly brainwashing children. Or how about Christine O'Donnell, the Tea Party favourite in Delaware, who doesn't appear to realise that church and state are separate in the US, or another Tea Partier, Sharron Angle, the Nevada candidate, proposing that citizens consider "Second Amendment remedies" to "protect themselves against a tyrannical government." And let's not even get started on Sarah Palin.
OK, so these are extreme examples, but these are ELECTED people, for goodness sake. I read something recently which pointed out that the British public, for all its ostensible stupidity at times, is not completely without savvy when choosing its politicans. Most know which candidate is going to best for their constituency, and elect people who, on the whole, do an OK job. Admittedly we're in one of the worst recessions for decades, thanks largely to the last government, but let's face it, we all like to borrow money cheaply and spend beyond our means - it wasn't just them doing it.
But that's enough defence of Gordon Brown et al, the point is, deluded though they may have been, they weren't (I think), actual psychos. In America, most politicans seem to have a dangerously psychotic streak. At least that's what it appears every time I switch on the radio or the TV, where I see would-be leaders denouncing their opponents strategy, character and moral standing with all the dignity of a bully in a playground. It disgusts me - but what disgusts me more is that people are taken in by it - indeed they lap it up. Frank Rich (from whom I confess I stole many of the examples in this article) has written a very interesting piece on the whole thing in the New York Times, which you can read here. He says it better than I, but one thing Rich and I appear to agree on wholeheartedly: America is on a dangerous path if it continues in this way. Goodness knows what will happen next.
Sadly this is not the case in America. The papers and airwaves have been full, recently, of the crazy things that politicians do to get themselves elected, in the run-up to the American midterms, where election fever has once again swept the country. Most of the press has focused on those extreme right-wing individuals who do and say ever-crazier things in the name of politics.
Take for example Carl Paladino, who is gunning for New York governor. He's the one who circulated an email with a photo of an African tribal ritual captioned 'Obama Inauguration Rehearsal'and who has attacked gays for supposedly brainwashing children. Or how about Christine O'Donnell, the Tea Party favourite in Delaware, who doesn't appear to realise that church and state are separate in the US, or another Tea Partier, Sharron Angle, the Nevada candidate, proposing that citizens consider "Second Amendment remedies" to "protect themselves against a tyrannical government." And let's not even get started on Sarah Palin.
OK, so these are extreme examples, but these are ELECTED people, for goodness sake. I read something recently which pointed out that the British public, for all its ostensible stupidity at times, is not completely without savvy when choosing its politicans. Most know which candidate is going to best for their constituency, and elect people who, on the whole, do an OK job. Admittedly we're in one of the worst recessions for decades, thanks largely to the last government, but let's face it, we all like to borrow money cheaply and spend beyond our means - it wasn't just them doing it.
But that's enough defence of Gordon Brown et al, the point is, deluded though they may have been, they weren't (I think), actual psychos. In America, most politicans seem to have a dangerously psychotic streak. At least that's what it appears every time I switch on the radio or the TV, where I see would-be leaders denouncing their opponents strategy, character and moral standing with all the dignity of a bully in a playground. It disgusts me - but what disgusts me more is that people are taken in by it - indeed they lap it up. Frank Rich (from whom I confess I stole many of the examples in this article) has written a very interesting piece on the whole thing in the New York Times, which you can read here. He says it better than I, but one thing Rich and I appear to agree on wholeheartedly: America is on a dangerous path if it continues in this way. Goodness knows what will happen next.
Monday 18 October 2010
Miami Beach
I went to Miami this weekend. It was so blissful: hot sun, palm trees, sea...
Admittedly Kansas is rather beautiful at the moment. The leaves are turning, the air has that glorious crispness to it and everything feels invigorating. But there was something rather lovely about being able to see the ocean, and not feeling totally trapped by land all around.
Plus, Miami is a very cool city. I don't know if I'm automatically predisposed to think everywhere else in America is cooler than Kansas (although it probably is), but Miami is especially rocking. I spent my first night there with some cousins; we cruised town in his 1978 Cadillac Eldorado before hitting the rooftop bar at the Gansevoort Hotel. Perfect.
The next day I chilled out on Miami beach, before hitting the road and driving down to Islamurada, in the Keys. Again, almost postcard-perfect, if you discount the sight of me in a bikini.
Could I actually live there? Well, yes probably. Ok, so it gets pretty hot in the summer, but you're on the coast, it's easier to fly to the UK, you can pop up to New York pretty easily, you get a great tan... And the people just seem to be a bit more on it than Kansans. They may not be as friendly, but they're bitchy, cool, smart and fun. Although I can't resist signing off with one particular comment which proves that even Floridians can be stupid - the conversation went a little like this:
Floridian: "So where would be your ultimate favourite place in the world - that you've been to or haven't been to."
Me: "Well, I've always wanted to go to India."
Floridian: "Oh no, you want to stay away from India. I mean, that's where the Taliban is, right?"
Admittedly Kansas is rather beautiful at the moment. The leaves are turning, the air has that glorious crispness to it and everything feels invigorating. But there was something rather lovely about being able to see the ocean, and not feeling totally trapped by land all around.
Plus, Miami is a very cool city. I don't know if I'm automatically predisposed to think everywhere else in America is cooler than Kansas (although it probably is), but Miami is especially rocking. I spent my first night there with some cousins; we cruised town in his 1978 Cadillac Eldorado before hitting the rooftop bar at the Gansevoort Hotel. Perfect.
The next day I chilled out on Miami beach, before hitting the road and driving down to Islamurada, in the Keys. Again, almost postcard-perfect, if you discount the sight of me in a bikini.
Could I actually live there? Well, yes probably. Ok, so it gets pretty hot in the summer, but you're on the coast, it's easier to fly to the UK, you can pop up to New York pretty easily, you get a great tan... And the people just seem to be a bit more on it than Kansans. They may not be as friendly, but they're bitchy, cool, smart and fun. Although I can't resist signing off with one particular comment which proves that even Floridians can be stupid - the conversation went a little like this:
Floridian: "So where would be your ultimate favourite place in the world - that you've been to or haven't been to."
Me: "Well, I've always wanted to go to India."
Floridian: "Oh no, you want to stay away from India. I mean, that's where the Taliban is, right?"
Thursday 7 October 2010
On freedom of speech - again...
I've been thinking a lot about freedom of speech lately. Yesterday, the US Supreme Court began to hear Snyder vs. Phelps, a case which has raised the issue pretty starkly over here. Briefly, Fred Phelps runs a church here in Kansas, and organises his followers to picket military funerals with signs like 'God hates fags', 'Thank God for dead soldiers', 'Thank God for 9/11' etc. Pretty gruesome.
Anyway, four years ago, Phelps and his gang staged a protest in Maryland at the funeral of a Marine named Matthew A. Snyder - not gay himself, but Phelps et al basically do things like this because they think America supports homosexuality, especially in the military (hmmm - not sure about that one, given that the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy is still firmly in place, but that's another issue). Understandably, Matthew's father was pretty aggrieved at this, and he has brought a case against Phelps, claiming that he invaded his privacy. It's more intricate than that, but they're the basics. You can read more detail here.
Part of the reason this has caused such a huge furore is because it brings into question the very nature of America's constitution. The First Amendment, which is oretty much sacred over here, states that "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances." There are those, in this case, who argue strongly in favour of Phelps and his right to freedom of speech - including many pretty major news organisations such as the New York Times, for example.
As I have said in this blog before, I'm not sure where one draws the line on this whole First Amendment thing. Then I was writing about Pastor Terry Jones and his proposed Koran burning on the anniversary of 9/11, now it's some psycho who thinks that picketing funerals is an acceptable thing to do. The attitude of both men disgusts me - that anyone, particularly someone calling himself a follower of Christ, thinks it is acceptable to behave in such a manner seems utterly unbelievable. But, freedom of speech - if you don't allow them to have their say, where do you draw the line?
I pondered the issue even more after reading a slightly out of date edition of the Spectator recently. This was the 'Thought Crime Special', which included various articles bemoaning the current state of affairs in Britain, where, at the other end of the spectrum, one can get the police turning up on your doorstep for merely asking whether they oould distribute Christian leaflets alongside a gay march. Which is better? I'm not sure. I, like many of the Spectator writers, despair of living in a country where so many things are now prosecutable, and agree with Matthew Parris, for example, that "without intensity or pasion, few great political or philosophical causes ever prevail." There is a place for righteous anger, I believe - as long as it does not descend into spittle-flecked, foaming-at-the-mouth, hatred-filled ranting.
But if you ban the latter, you come dangerously close to banning the former, and that is where the problem lies. Do I believe that people like Fred Phelps should be made to face up to the inestimable hurt and damage they have done to innocent people with their placarding? Yes. Do I, as Voltaire might have said, "defend to the death his right to say it"? Well, I'm not sure about defending to the death. And I'm not sure he should be allowed to say it in public. But, reluctantly, I have to agree that freedom of speech can't always be quantified. What the Supreme Court will decide remains to be seen.
Anyway, four years ago, Phelps and his gang staged a protest in Maryland at the funeral of a Marine named Matthew A. Snyder - not gay himself, but Phelps et al basically do things like this because they think America supports homosexuality, especially in the military (hmmm - not sure about that one, given that the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy is still firmly in place, but that's another issue). Understandably, Matthew's father was pretty aggrieved at this, and he has brought a case against Phelps, claiming that he invaded his privacy. It's more intricate than that, but they're the basics. You can read more detail here.
Part of the reason this has caused such a huge furore is because it brings into question the very nature of America's constitution. The First Amendment, which is oretty much sacred over here, states that "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances." There are those, in this case, who argue strongly in favour of Phelps and his right to freedom of speech - including many pretty major news organisations such as the New York Times, for example.
As I have said in this blog before, I'm not sure where one draws the line on this whole First Amendment thing. Then I was writing about Pastor Terry Jones and his proposed Koran burning on the anniversary of 9/11, now it's some psycho who thinks that picketing funerals is an acceptable thing to do. The attitude of both men disgusts me - that anyone, particularly someone calling himself a follower of Christ, thinks it is acceptable to behave in such a manner seems utterly unbelievable. But, freedom of speech - if you don't allow them to have their say, where do you draw the line?
I pondered the issue even more after reading a slightly out of date edition of the Spectator recently. This was the 'Thought Crime Special', which included various articles bemoaning the current state of affairs in Britain, where, at the other end of the spectrum, one can get the police turning up on your doorstep for merely asking whether they oould distribute Christian leaflets alongside a gay march. Which is better? I'm not sure. I, like many of the Spectator writers, despair of living in a country where so many things are now prosecutable, and agree with Matthew Parris, for example, that "without intensity or pasion, few great political or philosophical causes ever prevail." There is a place for righteous anger, I believe - as long as it does not descend into spittle-flecked, foaming-at-the-mouth, hatred-filled ranting.
But if you ban the latter, you come dangerously close to banning the former, and that is where the problem lies. Do I believe that people like Fred Phelps should be made to face up to the inestimable hurt and damage they have done to innocent people with their placarding? Yes. Do I, as Voltaire might have said, "defend to the death his right to say it"? Well, I'm not sure about defending to the death. And I'm not sure he should be allowed to say it in public. But, reluctantly, I have to agree that freedom of speech can't always be quantified. What the Supreme Court will decide remains to be seen.
Tuesday 14 September 2010
Do you have kids?
While I'm in a ranting mood, I might as well rant about another thing that particularly annoys me about the American psyche. Actually, I think it's specifically a Midwestern thing, and that is the assumptions that are made about children.
I recently met a (rather irritating) woman for the first time, who, after asking me whether I was married immediately followed it up with asking whether I had any children. No, I replied, whereupon she said "Are you planning any? Or have you decided no kids?" It was all I could do to smile politely and mutter something vague about not being entirely sure yet.
The fact of the matter is that I do want to have children, and hopefully in the next few years, but I find the outright questioning on the matter from complete strangers the ultimate in rudeness. I know it's meant as just an interested form of conversation, but for all this woman knew I could have been trying to have children for years, or I could have recently found out that I can't have children, or I might have just suffered a miscarriage.
What's more, when I gave my vague answer she went off onto a spiel about how if I wanted them, I really shouldn't wait too long, fertility rates being what they are. Now this REALLY gets my goat - I am perfectly aware that fertility drops off after 35, but quite frankly I don't feel it necessary to discuss (or defend) my childbearing plans with people who merely epxress an interest. Family planning is exactly that - family only, which means me and the Major in my book, or perhaps a couple of close friends to whom I might confess certain hopes and dreams. Basically lady, it's none of your f-ing business.
I recently met a (rather irritating) woman for the first time, who, after asking me whether I was married immediately followed it up with asking whether I had any children. No, I replied, whereupon she said "Are you planning any? Or have you decided no kids?" It was all I could do to smile politely and mutter something vague about not being entirely sure yet.
The fact of the matter is that I do want to have children, and hopefully in the next few years, but I find the outright questioning on the matter from complete strangers the ultimate in rudeness. I know it's meant as just an interested form of conversation, but for all this woman knew I could have been trying to have children for years, or I could have recently found out that I can't have children, or I might have just suffered a miscarriage.
What's more, when I gave my vague answer she went off onto a spiel about how if I wanted them, I really shouldn't wait too long, fertility rates being what they are. Now this REALLY gets my goat - I am perfectly aware that fertility drops off after 35, but quite frankly I don't feel it necessary to discuss (or defend) my childbearing plans with people who merely epxress an interest. Family planning is exactly that - family only, which means me and the Major in my book, or perhaps a couple of close friends to whom I might confess certain hopes and dreams. Basically lady, it's none of your f-ing business.
Healthcare - OUTRAGEOUS!
Sometimes I think that actually, I quite like America and might even be able to make it my home; at other times I am utterly baffled by it and realise how far from thinking like an American I really am.
One of the subjects that perenially raises this reaction is the issue of healthcare. The majority of Americans where we live think that 'socialised medicine' is a bad thing: that if you work, you can afford to pay healthcare, but why should you pay for anyone else's care? I had a long debate on the subject with it today with an acquaintance (a friendly debate, I hasten to add).
And yet every time I come across another example of the utter ludicrousness of the US medical system, I am flummoxed as to why anyone thinks the existing system is a good idea. A colleague of mine recently received a quote for health insurance. Not only would the deal include a $1,500 deductible (meaning that she would have to pay the first $1,500 of any treatment she received), but the insurance itself would cost her $600 a month AND she would have to then pay 20% of the cost of any treatment that the insurance would deign to 'cover'. Plus the cost of any prescription fees, of course. There were cheaper options - she could have opted to pay $110 a month - but that would have meant she would be liable for the first TWENTY FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS of any treatment. I mean, what is the point of having health insurance in that instance?
As the Major pointed out, the problem with healthcare here is that the providers have a monopoly, which means prices go up and up and up. And the actual costs are by no means cheap. Recently, I had some pain and went to hospital where I received a scan, a blood test, a urine test and eventually two Tylenol (self-administered). The cost? TWO THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED DOLLARS!!! It's absolutely outrageous. Personally, I don't care if every Tom Dick and Harry who doesn't have a job gets free healthcare thanks to my taxes, as long as it means I myself can walk into a doctor's office and get seen and treated for free. After all, in this climate we could all lose our jobs tomorrow.
One of the subjects that perenially raises this reaction is the issue of healthcare. The majority of Americans where we live think that 'socialised medicine' is a bad thing: that if you work, you can afford to pay healthcare, but why should you pay for anyone else's care? I had a long debate on the subject with it today with an acquaintance (a friendly debate, I hasten to add).
And yet every time I come across another example of the utter ludicrousness of the US medical system, I am flummoxed as to why anyone thinks the existing system is a good idea. A colleague of mine recently received a quote for health insurance. Not only would the deal include a $1,500 deductible (meaning that she would have to pay the first $1,500 of any treatment she received), but the insurance itself would cost her $600 a month AND she would have to then pay 20% of the cost of any treatment that the insurance would deign to 'cover'. Plus the cost of any prescription fees, of course. There were cheaper options - she could have opted to pay $110 a month - but that would have meant she would be liable for the first TWENTY FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS of any treatment. I mean, what is the point of having health insurance in that instance?
As the Major pointed out, the problem with healthcare here is that the providers have a monopoly, which means prices go up and up and up. And the actual costs are by no means cheap. Recently, I had some pain and went to hospital where I received a scan, a blood test, a urine test and eventually two Tylenol (self-administered). The cost? TWO THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED DOLLARS!!! It's absolutely outrageous. Personally, I don't care if every Tom Dick and Harry who doesn't have a job gets free healthcare thanks to my taxes, as long as it means I myself can walk into a doctor's office and get seen and treated for free. After all, in this climate we could all lose our jobs tomorrow.
Wednesday 8 September 2010
Freedom of speech?
The papers today have been full of the story of a pastor in Gainesville, Florida, who is planning to hold a ceremonial burning of Korans on Saturday, the anniversary of 9/11. Ironically, his church is named the Dove Outreach Centre. Hmmm. I'm not sure about his dodgy handlebar mustache either, but that's an aside.
Thankfully, the majority of people out there seem to condemn Pastor Terry Jones' actions. Hilary Clinton has publicly spoken out about it, and some in Gainesville are trying to thwart him, refusing him a burn permit. Half of his church has deserted him.
Needless to say, however, there are some nutters out there who support Jones. Some have apparently suggested he barbecue the Koran with pork, a meat forbidden by Islam.
It made me reflect, this morning, on the nature of free speech. America's constitution firmly defends it - the freedom of citizens to speak and believe what they want is written into the First Amendment. On the one hand, this is admirable: this is not a nation that represses its citizens or denies them the ability to speak out. On the other, however, there is the issue of respect - at what point does exercising ones' freedom of speech become an impingement of someone else's rights? Recently, there was the most almighty furore when Dr Laura Schlessinger, a 'self-help' (white) radio talk show host repeatedly used the word 'nigger' several times on air while giving advice to an African-American caller (who was actually calling to talk about her problem with racist terms including the word 'nigger'). Not particularly sensitive.
Unbelievably, however, there are those who support Schlessinger's insensitive comments and say she did nothing wrong. Well perhaps not in absolute terms - those of the first amendment, but surely to offend an interviewee in the way that she did is not at all right? You can read the full transcript of her rant here and decide for yourself. She has now resigned from her position, by the way.
In Britain, meanwhile, we have laws on 'hate speech' which arguably go too far the other way - even the mildest Irish joke could be said to fall under such laws. But I think, on the whole, that we should be aware that what we say may hurt others. Whether we legislate against it I'm not sure, but to allow people like Terry Jones and Laura Schlessinger to get away with their actions is surely not right in a modern, thinking society? Freedom of speech it may be, but burning the Koran smacks suspiciously of the very thinking which presumably inspired Jones in the first place - an intolerant attitude which allows for no deviation from its tenets. So who is right?
Thankfully, the majority of people out there seem to condemn Pastor Terry Jones' actions. Hilary Clinton has publicly spoken out about it, and some in Gainesville are trying to thwart him, refusing him a burn permit. Half of his church has deserted him.
Needless to say, however, there are some nutters out there who support Jones. Some have apparently suggested he barbecue the Koran with pork, a meat forbidden by Islam.
It made me reflect, this morning, on the nature of free speech. America's constitution firmly defends it - the freedom of citizens to speak and believe what they want is written into the First Amendment. On the one hand, this is admirable: this is not a nation that represses its citizens or denies them the ability to speak out. On the other, however, there is the issue of respect - at what point does exercising ones' freedom of speech become an impingement of someone else's rights? Recently, there was the most almighty furore when Dr Laura Schlessinger, a 'self-help' (white) radio talk show host repeatedly used the word 'nigger' several times on air while giving advice to an African-American caller (who was actually calling to talk about her problem with racist terms including the word 'nigger'). Not particularly sensitive.
Unbelievably, however, there are those who support Schlessinger's insensitive comments and say she did nothing wrong. Well perhaps not in absolute terms - those of the first amendment, but surely to offend an interviewee in the way that she did is not at all right? You can read the full transcript of her rant here and decide for yourself. She has now resigned from her position, by the way.
In Britain, meanwhile, we have laws on 'hate speech' which arguably go too far the other way - even the mildest Irish joke could be said to fall under such laws. But I think, on the whole, that we should be aware that what we say may hurt others. Whether we legislate against it I'm not sure, but to allow people like Terry Jones and Laura Schlessinger to get away with their actions is surely not right in a modern, thinking society? Freedom of speech it may be, but burning the Koran smacks suspiciously of the very thinking which presumably inspired Jones in the first place - an intolerant attitude which allows for no deviation from its tenets. So who is right?
Tuesday 7 September 2010
I can't believe I've neglected my blog so shamefully. This time last week I had just got back to Kansas, feeling strangely relieved after the hectic eight days that was my stint on the Ford Fiesta World Tour. I was full of good intentions to blog at length and in detail about some of the crazy things we had seen, and instead I unpacked, took a long shower and flopped into bed. And then got cracking with Kansas life again. Oh dear. Anyway, there were a few highlights, which I thought I'd share with you here:
Visiting the Heidelberg Project in downtown Detroit. This is basically a live-in art installation in one of the city's poorest areas, dreamed up 25 years ago by an artist called Tyree Guyton who wanted to make a statement. And so he applied himself, and his paintbrush, to a rundown empty house on his street, decorating it with everything from random paint swirly to stuffed toys. Now, the street is full of these decorated houses (one has polka dots all over it), as well as random piled of what looks like rubbish. Except it's not rubbish, it's 'found objects' that symbolise like, loss and stuff. Hmmm. I couldn't work out whether I loved it or hated it, to be honest. We met the absolutely lovely executive director of the project, who had given up her Sunday - which also happened to be her birthday - to meet us in the blazing sun. She was so gracious - but when she introduced us to the artist, who was sitting with his posse on a deckchair under a tree, he told her she wasn't being 'respectful' in doing so. Well sorry mate, but it's your art, why don't you explain it, rather than expecting someone else to give up their day? Honestly, it annoyed me, and made me feel that little bit less charitable towards the whol affair.
Anyway, after that I flew back home, which was lovely. This week has been about catching up with life again, and remembering random moments from the trip, such as when the taxi driver I got from the airport asked me about what Susan Boyle was up to. Who knew she was so big over here?
In the meantime, it turns out that my feature for essentialwriters.com has been posted. You can read it here. I will post more often after this, I promise!
Visiting the Heidelberg Project in downtown Detroit. This is basically a live-in art installation in one of the city's poorest areas, dreamed up 25 years ago by an artist called Tyree Guyton who wanted to make a statement. And so he applied himself, and his paintbrush, to a rundown empty house on his street, decorating it with everything from random paint swirly to stuffed toys. Now, the street is full of these decorated houses (one has polka dots all over it), as well as random piled of what looks like rubbish. Except it's not rubbish, it's 'found objects' that symbolise like, loss and stuff. Hmmm. I couldn't work out whether I loved it or hated it, to be honest. We met the absolutely lovely executive director of the project, who had given up her Sunday - which also happened to be her birthday - to meet us in the blazing sun. She was so gracious - but when she introduced us to the artist, who was sitting with his posse on a deckchair under a tree, he told her she wasn't being 'respectful' in doing so. Well sorry mate, but it's your art, why don't you explain it, rather than expecting someone else to give up their day? Honestly, it annoyed me, and made me feel that little bit less charitable towards the whol affair.
Anyway, after that I flew back home, which was lovely. This week has been about catching up with life again, and remembering random moments from the trip, such as when the taxi driver I got from the airport asked me about what Susan Boyle was up to. Who knew she was so big over here?
In the meantime, it turns out that my feature for essentialwriters.com has been posted. You can read it here. I will post more often after this, I promise!
Friday 27 August 2010
The craziness continues
So since I last posted, we've done Dallas (so to speak - not in the 'Debbie does it' kind of way), met a cowboy poet, recorded a song in Studio B in Nashville where Elvis recorded all of his Grammy Award-winning hits (I'll be storming up the charts soon, no doubt), lost one photographer (not by accident, he was flying home), gained a new one and have now wound up in Indianapolis.
This morning, through, we met a complete nutter. He was called Tom, and was convinced that he was one day going to turn the rusting hulk of what was once a plane into a house. This despite the fact that he's had it since 2003 and nothing much has happened. "We live in our imaginations," his slightly creepy non-paid work buddy Tim told us, with a strange high-pitched giggle. Too right you do mate. Let's not forget that this guy is working on a lot right in the middle of a military base, where just down the road is a rehabilitation centre for mentally damaged soldiers. Bound to be a bit of paranoia flying round there. Sure enough, after about five minutes, he said, "so there are 82 Sharia law courts in the UK now?" "Er, don't think so," I replied. "But they want Sharia law, don't they?" "Well, possibly, but there's a big difference between wanting something and getting it." "That's good," he muttered. Argh! As I said, a bit of a nutter.
But I warmed to him and his crazy ideas, and I wish him luck on his venture. I'd love to see a plane that was a house, mounted on a weathervane like he wants to do. I fear I never will, but I won't tell him that.
Then we got to Indianapolis. Petrol head city. Full of crazy drivers. One of the first we saw was a bloke reading the Koran, while talking on his cell phone...while driving. One side of his car was completely bashed in, perhaps not suprisingly. Then we saw a pimped up SUV with a sound system so loud the whole vehicle was actually shaking. Can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring.
This morning, through, we met a complete nutter. He was called Tom, and was convinced that he was one day going to turn the rusting hulk of what was once a plane into a house. This despite the fact that he's had it since 2003 and nothing much has happened. "We live in our imaginations," his slightly creepy non-paid work buddy Tim told us, with a strange high-pitched giggle. Too right you do mate. Let's not forget that this guy is working on a lot right in the middle of a military base, where just down the road is a rehabilitation centre for mentally damaged soldiers. Bound to be a bit of paranoia flying round there. Sure enough, after about five minutes, he said, "so there are 82 Sharia law courts in the UK now?" "Er, don't think so," I replied. "But they want Sharia law, don't they?" "Well, possibly, but there's a big difference between wanting something and getting it." "That's good," he muttered. Argh! As I said, a bit of a nutter.
But I warmed to him and his crazy ideas, and I wish him luck on his venture. I'd love to see a plane that was a house, mounted on a weathervane like he wants to do. I fear I never will, but I won't tell him that.
Then we got to Indianapolis. Petrol head city. Full of crazy drivers. One of the first we saw was a bloke reading the Koran, while talking on his cell phone...while driving. One side of his car was completely bashed in, perhaps not suprisingly. Then we saw a pimped up SUV with a sound system so loud the whole vehicle was actually shaking. Can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring.
Tuesday 24 August 2010
The road trip, continued...
I've been on the the road with the Ford Fiesta World Tour for three days now, and already I've lost all sense of time. Ask me where I am and I probably couldn't tell you. Today when I was doing a video blog I had to retake it three times because I kept forgetting where I was filming from.
Nevertheless, it's actually quite fun. OK, so the 6am starts and midnight bedtimes aren't great, and driving for seven hours in a Ford Fiesta doesn't rank as one of the world's most orgasmic experiences, but I like the people I'm travelling with and we're forming a fun little team. As the only girl, I am like a little pet for the boys, and they indulge my slight tardiness in the morning, my need to pee frequently by the roadside and my constant requirement to eat with ease. I've also discovered that Anthony, the photographer shares my slightly dirty sense of humour which makes the long journeys rather more entertaining.
Plus, when we have a good story it's always good for a laugh. Today, for example, we were interviewing a guy who makes art on dirty cars. As in, he doesn't just write 'wash me' on the back, he actually spends time creating intricate artworks - which inevitably wash off moments later, which happened today. But before that happened, he had created the most beautiful drawing of two Texas longhorn cattle on the back windscreen of one of the Fiestas - I personally was gutted when it washed straight off when the storm broke. I'll post pictures later. Anyway, we all felt pretty jolly after we'd done the interview and there was a general high, which was nice.
Now we're on our way to Dallas, where tomorrow we're touring the Dallas Cowboys stadium. Two hours to go until we get there. Bring it on.
Nevertheless, it's actually quite fun. OK, so the 6am starts and midnight bedtimes aren't great, and driving for seven hours in a Ford Fiesta doesn't rank as one of the world's most orgasmic experiences, but I like the people I'm travelling with and we're forming a fun little team. As the only girl, I am like a little pet for the boys, and they indulge my slight tardiness in the morning, my need to pee frequently by the roadside and my constant requirement to eat with ease. I've also discovered that Anthony, the photographer shares my slightly dirty sense of humour which makes the long journeys rather more entertaining.
Plus, when we have a good story it's always good for a laugh. Today, for example, we were interviewing a guy who makes art on dirty cars. As in, he doesn't just write 'wash me' on the back, he actually spends time creating intricate artworks - which inevitably wash off moments later, which happened today. But before that happened, he had created the most beautiful drawing of two Texas longhorn cattle on the back windscreen of one of the Fiestas - I personally was gutted when it washed straight off when the storm broke. I'll post pictures later. Anyway, we all felt pretty jolly after we'd done the interview and there was a general high, which was nice.
Now we're on our way to Dallas, where tomorrow we're touring the Dallas Cowboys stadium. Two hours to go until we get there. Bring it on.
Sunday 22 August 2010
Guns!
So, I totally abandoned my poor blog while I was in England, which was an absolute blast. Five days in Yorkshire, a lovely English summer wedding in Gloucestershire, five days in Cornwall and then three heady days in London, trying to pack in as many people as possible. I've come back to Kansas to relax - along with several commissions, which should help me pay the credit card bill I amassed.
Except unfortunately I can't relax, as I'm off on the next trip - a week's journey across Arizona, Texas, Tennessee, Indiana, Arkansas and Michigan as part of the Ford Fiesta World Tour. What? Well, basically Ford has just launched a new Fiesta, and I've been invited on part of an enormous global trek in one of them. A nes Fiesta is driving from LA to New York, another from Northern Ireland to Dubai, another across South East Asia and another across Australia. Along the way, meanwhile, there are many adventures to be had.
Mine started this morning when I got up at 4am to catch a 6.10 flight to Phoenix. By 7.30 I was cracking on with the first activity - learning to shoot a machine gun. Seriously. Arizona (although I had never realised it) is the gun state - one in 50 people carry one and they sure are trigger happy. We were introduced to Katie, the petite and perky marketing manager at Scottsdale Gun Club, who informed us that she carries her own weapon (a Glock 27 handgun) but that her favourite to shoot is an M249 SAW (semi-automatic weapon) - "it's a lot of bullets and a lot of fun." Argh. Five minutes later I am trying my own hand at it - shooting, variously, a Smith & Wesson handgun, an MP-5, an AK 47 and the aforementioned SAW, which is bloody terrifying - you have to lie on the floor to shoot it, it pings bits of hot metal all over you and hanging out of one side is a belt of bullets.
Having thought that perhaps, I felt more at home in America than I had previously thought (I now love country music, for example), I've realised that I'm never really going to fit in - I just don't love guns enough. In fact, they terrify me. I don't think they keep you safer, I don't know why anyone would willingly carry something that is designed to kill another person and the smell of cordite makes me feel sick. Ah well. It was an experience, to say the least....
Except unfortunately I can't relax, as I'm off on the next trip - a week's journey across Arizona, Texas, Tennessee, Indiana, Arkansas and Michigan as part of the Ford Fiesta World Tour. What? Well, basically Ford has just launched a new Fiesta, and I've been invited on part of an enormous global trek in one of them. A nes Fiesta is driving from LA to New York, another from Northern Ireland to Dubai, another across South East Asia and another across Australia. Along the way, meanwhile, there are many adventures to be had.
Mine started this morning when I got up at 4am to catch a 6.10 flight to Phoenix. By 7.30 I was cracking on with the first activity - learning to shoot a machine gun. Seriously. Arizona (although I had never realised it) is the gun state - one in 50 people carry one and they sure are trigger happy. We were introduced to Katie, the petite and perky marketing manager at Scottsdale Gun Club, who informed us that she carries her own weapon (a Glock 27 handgun) but that her favourite to shoot is an M249 SAW (semi-automatic weapon) - "it's a lot of bullets and a lot of fun." Argh. Five minutes later I am trying my own hand at it - shooting, variously, a Smith & Wesson handgun, an MP-5, an AK 47 and the aforementioned SAW, which is bloody terrifying - you have to lie on the floor to shoot it, it pings bits of hot metal all over you and hanging out of one side is a belt of bullets.
Having thought that perhaps, I felt more at home in America than I had previously thought (I now love country music, for example), I've realised that I'm never really going to fit in - I just don't love guns enough. In fact, they terrify me. I don't think they keep you safer, I don't know why anyone would willingly carry something that is designed to kill another person and the smell of cordite makes me feel sick. Ah well. It was an experience, to say the least....
Wednesday 4 August 2010
I am totally loving being back home, but certain things keep happening that jolt me and point out the difference between my new short-term home and the real one. Last night, for example, I went to the theatre with my parents and some friends, and we all met up for a Chinese beforehand. After we'd ordered a round of drinks, my father asked if we could also have a jug of tap-water. He was informed that if we wanted tap-water, we would be charged 50p a glass. Cue father getting outraged and me hiding my head in embarrassment.
Nevertheless, he had a point. In this day and age, it seems outrageous to charge for tap-water, particularly if you're eating a full-on meal and paying for it. And me made me realise how lovely it is in America, where whenever you arrive at a restaurant, they bring you a full glass of iced water the moment you sit down - and don't look at you as if you're some sort of inferior bug if you don't order anything else to drink.
Of course our Chinese was probably the exception rather than the rule; however it made me realise that sometimes, our friends across the pond do have it right.
Nevertheless, he had a point. In this day and age, it seems outrageous to charge for tap-water, particularly if you're eating a full-on meal and paying for it. And me made me realise how lovely it is in America, where whenever you arrive at a restaurant, they bring you a full glass of iced water the moment you sit down - and don't look at you as if you're some sort of inferior bug if you don't order anything else to drink.
Of course our Chinese was probably the exception rather than the rule; however it made me realise that sometimes, our friends across the pond do have it right.
Monday 2 August 2010
Back in Britain
The eagle has landed: I am back in good old Blighty. Air Canada was not the most luxury of experiences, but they got us in half an hour early. Oh but it was lovely to be on British soil again. I sailed through immigration at Heathrow (a first) and profusely thanked the passport man, whose flat London vowels sounded like music to my ears (I think he was a little confused by such effusiveness combined with an English accent). It was all so wonderfully, familiarly home – posters advertising things I had actually heard of, a WH Smith, a Boots! So comforting after Barnes & Noble and Walgreens. Heathrow was looking beautifully clean, and I jumped on the tube and steamed through the western suburbs of Greater London, feeling nostalgic as I saw terraced houses glide by. On an impulse I hopped off in Knightsbride – I had time to spare, and ended up having an impromptu lunch with an old girlfriend. I have known her since she was a gawky 11-year old with braces on her teeth; now she is impossibly glamorous and does a very worthy job raising money for the Royal Marsden. Refreshed, and in possession of an enormous pile of magazines and papers to read on the train, I hopped back on the tube and headed on up to Kings Cross, where I was catching a train to York, near where I grew up and where my parents still live.
Unfortunately, I had forgotten about the utter, pettifogging smallmindedness of British officialdom, a concept I was swiftly reminded of when I got to Kings Cross. In a fit of organisation, and an attempt to avoid the exorbitant costs of the East Coast mainline, I had booked my train ticket months ago. Because of Air Canada’s efficiency, I still had an hour to spare despite the impromptu lunch, so thought I would try and change my ticket to an earlier train. A mistake, as it turned out. I queued, reached the front, and was told to go and collect my ticket from the machine and then bring it back to them. Off I went. I put in my credit card, carefully punched in my reference number and...nothing. The bank, a while ago, cancelled my card because of fraud, so the numbers didn’t match up. Back I went to the queue. Got to the front, told the man what had happened. He told me I had to call East Coast and explain the situation. I got hold of a nice Geordie girl, who said that, just this once, she would put a note on the system to allow me to collect the ticket I had already paid for, “as a goodwill gesture”. If there is anything guaranteed to get my blood boiling, it is that phrase. I told her, very politely and assuring her that i knew it was not her fault, that this was ridiculous. Surely people must change their cards all the time? What would happen to them? There was an option on the web page to make changes if that happened, she explained. But what about me – who’s been living in America, landed this morning, has no immediate access to the internet and now just wants to collect a ticket? She had nothing to say to that. Eventually, I managed to get hold of the damn thing. I decided not to change to the earlier train, which would have cost me an extra £56, even with my railcard. The whole procedure took me 45 minutes. Good thing I wasn’t in a rush. I am resolved to write a letter of complaint.
The whole experience recalled a similar incident in America recently, which happened with very different outcomes. The Major had to fly unexpectedly up to Wyoming, to rescue his parents. They are out on holiday, and had gone up to Yellowstone, experimented with horseriding and fallen off. My father in law spent several days in hospital with a few cracked ribs and a very bruised hip, and both p's-in-law were rather shaken. Valiantly, the Major volunteered to fly up and drive them in their hire car back down to Kansas so they could recuperate at our house. I took him to the airport, where we stopped off at the car rental office to add him onto the insurance. We explained the situation to the kind man in the parking booth, who took us straight to the front of the queue to talk to the supervisor. “I’m not really supposed to add you on without the main driver present,” she told us confidentially. “But I’m going to do it anyway. Clearly you need to be up there and sometimes the rules need to be broken.” Quite.
British trains are much smaller than America trains. We took the train to St Louis once; it took five and a half creaking, whistling hours with many stops, but the seats were as wide as armchairs and there was plenty of room, because no-one with any sense travels by train in America – to drive the same distance to St Louis, for example, takes a mere four hours in the air conditioned comfort of your own car. East Coast trains are invariably packed to the gnunwhales, no matter what day of the week or time of day, and I’m typing this on a fold out table that’s smaller than my (very miniscule) laptop, elbows tucked in. They’re also prohibitively expensive – if it was £56 to change my ticket with a railcard (Forces, there are some benefits to being an Army wife), goodness knows how much it is if you don’t have one. The whole notion of flexibility comes at a cost. But for all their faults, the trains do run regularly, travel swiftly, and are generally roughly on time. Of course you have to put up with the overheard conversations of your fellow passengers – at the moment I am listening to an old man in a tweed cap twittering (not in the telephonic sense) about his journey to his hapless seat mate. Mine is due to get on at Peterborough – selfishly I hope he or she misses the train so I get the whole seat to myself. In a mere two hours I will have completed my epic journey (Kansas to Toronto, Toronto to London, London to York) and already America seems like a million miles away (which I suppose it is, but I mean metaphorically as well as physically). I feel as if I have woken up from a dream and it's wonderful. Whether I will be ready to get back after two weeks I'm not sure. I'll keep you posted.
Unfortunately, I had forgotten about the utter, pettifogging smallmindedness of British officialdom, a concept I was swiftly reminded of when I got to Kings Cross. In a fit of organisation, and an attempt to avoid the exorbitant costs of the East Coast mainline, I had booked my train ticket months ago. Because of Air Canada’s efficiency, I still had an hour to spare despite the impromptu lunch, so thought I would try and change my ticket to an earlier train. A mistake, as it turned out. I queued, reached the front, and was told to go and collect my ticket from the machine and then bring it back to them. Off I went. I put in my credit card, carefully punched in my reference number and...nothing. The bank, a while ago, cancelled my card because of fraud, so the numbers didn’t match up. Back I went to the queue. Got to the front, told the man what had happened. He told me I had to call East Coast and explain the situation. I got hold of a nice Geordie girl, who said that, just this once, she would put a note on the system to allow me to collect the ticket I had already paid for, “as a goodwill gesture”. If there is anything guaranteed to get my blood boiling, it is that phrase. I told her, very politely and assuring her that i knew it was not her fault, that this was ridiculous. Surely people must change their cards all the time? What would happen to them? There was an option on the web page to make changes if that happened, she explained. But what about me – who’s been living in America, landed this morning, has no immediate access to the internet and now just wants to collect a ticket? She had nothing to say to that. Eventually, I managed to get hold of the damn thing. I decided not to change to the earlier train, which would have cost me an extra £56, even with my railcard. The whole procedure took me 45 minutes. Good thing I wasn’t in a rush. I am resolved to write a letter of complaint.
The whole experience recalled a similar incident in America recently, which happened with very different outcomes. The Major had to fly unexpectedly up to Wyoming, to rescue his parents. They are out on holiday, and had gone up to Yellowstone, experimented with horseriding and fallen off. My father in law spent several days in hospital with a few cracked ribs and a very bruised hip, and both p's-in-law were rather shaken. Valiantly, the Major volunteered to fly up and drive them in their hire car back down to Kansas so they could recuperate at our house. I took him to the airport, where we stopped off at the car rental office to add him onto the insurance. We explained the situation to the kind man in the parking booth, who took us straight to the front of the queue to talk to the supervisor. “I’m not really supposed to add you on without the main driver present,” she told us confidentially. “But I’m going to do it anyway. Clearly you need to be up there and sometimes the rules need to be broken.” Quite.
British trains are much smaller than America trains. We took the train to St Louis once; it took five and a half creaking, whistling hours with many stops, but the seats were as wide as armchairs and there was plenty of room, because no-one with any sense travels by train in America – to drive the same distance to St Louis, for example, takes a mere four hours in the air conditioned comfort of your own car. East Coast trains are invariably packed to the gnunwhales, no matter what day of the week or time of day, and I’m typing this on a fold out table that’s smaller than my (very miniscule) laptop, elbows tucked in. They’re also prohibitively expensive – if it was £56 to change my ticket with a railcard (Forces, there are some benefits to being an Army wife), goodness knows how much it is if you don’t have one. The whole notion of flexibility comes at a cost. But for all their faults, the trains do run regularly, travel swiftly, and are generally roughly on time. Of course you have to put up with the overheard conversations of your fellow passengers – at the moment I am listening to an old man in a tweed cap twittering (not in the telephonic sense) about his journey to his hapless seat mate. Mine is due to get on at Peterborough – selfishly I hope he or she misses the train so I get the whole seat to myself. In a mere two hours I will have completed my epic journey (Kansas to Toronto, Toronto to London, London to York) and already America seems like a million miles away (which I suppose it is, but I mean metaphorically as well as physically). I feel as if I have woken up from a dream and it's wonderful. Whether I will be ready to get back after two weeks I'm not sure. I'll keep you posted.
Sunday 1 August 2010
In limbo
I'm sitting in Toronto airport, having completed the first leg of my journey back to the UK. It's very peaceful here. Canada seems generally calmer than America, less brash, not so in your face (I have been here more than once before - Canada that is, not just Toronto airport; I'm not making a sweeping statement based on my experience of an airport). I quite like it, especially at 9pm on a Sunday evening with a seven hour flight ahead of me. But I do feel somewhere again, rather than nowhere. I am a little bit anxious about going back to the UK - home of work, friends, family.... I won't be able to hide any more. But I'm hoping to hit some editors with good features ideas and secure a few commissions. Bring it on!
Thursday 29 July 2010
Home sweet home
I'm going back to England on Sunday, and am feeling rather in turmoil about the whole affair. On the one hand, I'm uber-excited about seeing friends and family, whom I miss; on the other, I almost feel as if I am already suffering from London-homesickness in anticipation of leaving. I always did tend to see the negative side of things...
I'm also anxious about going back to the place where, before I left, I lived and worked hard - compared to now, where life is really rather easy and relaxed. Will it make me mourn my old life even more? Who knows. In the meantime, I'm sending emails, arranging coffee meetings and focusing on the getting excited part!
I'm also anxious about going back to the place where, before I left, I lived and worked hard - compared to now, where life is really rather easy and relaxed. Will it make me mourn my old life even more? Who knows. In the meantime, I'm sending emails, arranging coffee meetings and focusing on the getting excited part!
Thursday 22 July 2010
Furore?
No comments yet on yesterday's post detailing the conversation between myself and a KC store owner who thought Australia was in the UK. However, I also posted it on Facebook and it seems to have caused something of a storm - whether one in a teacup I have yet to see.
I did wonder, when I posted it, if I would begin to offend my American FB friends (I posted another comment a few weeks ago, describing a group of Americans who said to a Kiwi friend who also moved here in December 'you know, your English has really improved since you moved here'). And sure enough one, my dear friend Olga (who is highly intelligent by the way) has retaliated. Herewith I reproduce the debate/various comments (excluding names, for privacy)...
That is amazing.
I too have occassionally been assumed an Aussie, but thankfully canadians are a bit more geographically blessed!
Genius. Your response?
Classic!
wow
My sister once got her haircut in an american salon, and her conversation went as follows:
Hairdresser: So you speak, like, really good English, where are you from?
Sister: England
Hairdresser: Oh, so do they, like, speak English there?
Sister: No, a variant of Russian.
My Grandmother lived Stateside for a while. After having her hair done one week she said to her Hairdresser that she would see him in a Fortnight. Hairdresser: Whats a fortnight? Grandmother: 2 weeks. Hairdresser: Cool! see you in a couple of forts!
aaaaa ha ha ha ha!!!!!!!! keep em coming!
I've got a good one. When I told a girl in America I was from England, confused, she asked, 'how come you speak such good English?'.
You asked for cutlery yet? Good luck with that one.... when we were last visiting Chicago a year ago, I accidently got out a £20 note to pay for some fudge, then realised I had made a mistake - the guy was genuienly perplexed that in other countries they use different money!
Hey! I'm offended, we're not ALL morons! I can see you're getting annoyed Luce with the area, Kansas is Kansas.
Please don't be offended Olga, It's a very bad British trait but we tend to mock every nation so pelase don't take it personally!
ha i was wondering when the americans would begin to fight back. I do think 'Fall' is a lovely name for Autumn - sort of basic but beautiful. That's it though. Oh and popsicle is good too. The rest is utter slaughter of our lovely tongue.
Haha, no I'm not truly offended, being facetious does not translate well on FB but thank you for the polite apology. That's why I love you Brits.
From me: Ok, so I was wondering at what point my transcriptions would start to appear rude... in the spirit of fairness, I think all Brits should equally post comments of anything thick fellow Brits have said!
I'll see if Private Eye's Dumb Britain is online as well... it's astounding the level of stupidity they unearth... mainly from the weakest link
ARE YOU SMARTER THAN A TEN-YEAR-OLD?, SKY ONE
Dick or Dom: What is the suffix in this sentence? "Milhouse was hopeful that he would get top marks in his exam."
Contestant: I’m not exactly sure what a suffix is. This is embarrassing. I work for a national newspaper.
Dom or Dick: Which one?
Contestant: The Guardian. I think it’s “exam”.
Quote myself when reading a list of speakers attending a conference. "Wow, Panel (pronounced 'Pan-elle') must be a really famous speaker, they're know by just one name. I wonder who it is" (I then googled who 'Panel' was). I love America and love Americans so much. I think they are gorgeous people. I also am regularly outsmarted and educated by the ones I know.
Olga So glad you are not really offended, should have read your facetiousness in the inflection of the ALL. By the way I am not actually even British. I Zimbabwean .....cue the American question. How come you're white? And Do you have lion's in your back garden?
So... you can see that the Brits are now trying to make up for it - glad to have provided such entertainment!
I did wonder, when I posted it, if I would begin to offend my American FB friends (I posted another comment a few weeks ago, describing a group of Americans who said to a Kiwi friend who also moved here in December 'you know, your English has really improved since you moved here'). And sure enough one, my dear friend Olga (who is highly intelligent by the way) has retaliated. Herewith I reproduce the debate/various comments (excluding names, for privacy)...
That is amazing.
I too have occassionally been assumed an Aussie, but thankfully canadians are a bit more geographically blessed!
Genius. Your response?
Classic!
wow
My sister once got her haircut in an american salon, and her conversation went as follows:
Hairdresser: So you speak, like, really good English, where are you from?
Sister: England
Hairdresser: Oh, so do they, like, speak English there?
Sister: No, a variant of Russian.
My Grandmother lived Stateside for a while. After having her hair done one week she said to her Hairdresser that she would see him in a Fortnight. Hairdresser: Whats a fortnight? Grandmother: 2 weeks. Hairdresser: Cool! see you in a couple of forts!
aaaaa ha ha ha ha!!!!!!!! keep em coming!
I've got a good one. When I told a girl in America I was from England, confused, she asked, 'how come you speak such good English?'.
You asked for cutlery yet? Good luck with that one.... when we were last visiting Chicago a year ago, I accidently got out a £20 note to pay for some fudge, then realised I had made a mistake - the guy was genuienly perplexed that in other countries they use different money!
Hey! I'm offended, we're not ALL morons! I can see you're getting annoyed Luce with the area, Kansas is Kansas.
Please don't be offended Olga, It's a very bad British trait but we tend to mock every nation so pelase don't take it personally!
ha i was wondering when the americans would begin to fight back. I do think 'Fall' is a lovely name for Autumn - sort of basic but beautiful. That's it though. Oh and popsicle is good too. The rest is utter slaughter of our lovely tongue.
Haha, no I'm not truly offended, being facetious does not translate well on FB but thank you for the polite apology. That's why I love you Brits.
From me: Ok, so I was wondering at what point my transcriptions would start to appear rude... in the spirit of fairness, I think all Brits should equally post comments of anything thick fellow Brits have said!
I'll see if Private Eye's Dumb Britain is online as well... it's astounding the level of stupidity they unearth... mainly from the weakest link
ARE YOU SMARTER THAN A TEN-YEAR-OLD?, SKY ONE
Dick or Dom: What is the suffix in this sentence? "Milhouse was hopeful that he would get top marks in his exam."
Contestant: I’m not exactly sure what a suffix is. This is embarrassing. I work for a national newspaper.
Dom or Dick: Which one?
Contestant: The Guardian. I think it’s “exam”.
Quote myself when reading a list of speakers attending a conference. "Wow, Panel (pronounced 'Pan-elle') must be a really famous speaker, they're know by just one name. I wonder who it is" (I then googled who 'Panel' was). I love America and love Americans so much. I think they are gorgeous people. I also am regularly outsmarted and educated by the ones I know.
Olga So glad you are not really offended, should have read your facetiousness in the inflection of the ALL. By the way I am not actually even British. I Zimbabwean .....cue the American question. How come you're white? And Do you have lion's in your back garden?
So... you can see that the Brits are now trying to make up for it - glad to have provided such entertainment!
Correction
Just had a call from the Major's father. Apparently his father (the Major's grandfather) wasn't sent out to Fairmont during the war, but just after it. Apologies. At least someone reads my blog....
Wednesday 21 July 2010
Conversation with man in a shop today
Man in shop: So where are you from?
Me: the UK
Man: So when you say UK, where do you mean exactly?
Me: London
Man: No, I mean the UK - does that include Australia?
Me: the UK
Man: So when you say UK, where do you mean exactly?
Me: London
Man: No, I mean the UK - does that include Australia?
Monday 19 July 2010
A weekend in Minnesota and the search for Amalgam
Bill Bryson, in his book The Lost Continent (it's brilliant, and very insightful - I recommend it) talks about his search, on his travels through America, for the town Amalgam - not a real named place, but some small town which is the perfect little small town of his past. He comes to realise that it doesn't exist, but he picks a piece of this town and something from somewhere else to try and create it.
Well, I think I might have found a contender for Amalgam. The Major and I spent this last weekend in Fairmont, Minnesota. The Major's grandfather, who was sent there during the war, is now buried there, and we were having a sort of family reunion around his newly planted gravestone. In the meantime, we got to explore the place, and very nice it was too.
Fairmont is centered around five lakes, which make a pleasant sort of hub for the town, the main part of which is pretty compact, if you discount the ugly sprawl that has started to leach from the edges in the form of Pizza Huts and Travelodges. There's an old-school high street, a fine county courthouse, complete with cupola'd roof, and streets full of pretty houses, many of which face onto one of the lakes. We spent Saturday lazing by the water, baking ourselves then jumping in to cool off. In the late afternoon, we moseyed to the Channel Inn, a modest sort of place on the water's edge, where we saw a bridal party straight from the wedding. The bride, still in her white dress, had donned cowboy boots and was knocking back a beer on the jetty. It was that sort of place. We stayed for dinner, and had burgers and fries and set the world to rights.
I'm aware I probably sound as if I'm drifting off into some kind of idyllic daydream where I'm imagining relocating to Fairmont and sitting on my back porch watching the sun go down. But back to reality: as one distant relation put it, Fairmont is a three-day town. It's fun for the first 48 hours; after 72, you're pretty much ready to get out of there. Because once you've sunbathed, swam, possibly had a boat trip and eaten at the Channel Inn a couple of towns, you're pretty much done. The nearest big city, Minneapolis, is a two and a half hour drive away, and the only big stores are a strikingly ugly JC Penney and a Wal Mart. We all wondered where everybody worked: the answer is that the majority of the population are retired. Most of them are Iowa farmers.
So... not the Amalgam for me. Perhaps I'll start searching for my own. I think my criteria are a bit different from Bill's though. For a start, my Amalgam, at this stage, is probably a city rather than a town. It needs to be walkable (and have residents who walk), have nice architecture and a sense of history. Good restaurants - they don't have to be fancy, but just with decent food - a smattering of independent boutiques as well as the high street stores (I need Gap), a few coffee shops, hosts a decent farmer's market. On water would be nice, and a university or some other intellectual centre is a plus. Culture - an art gallery, theatre, cinema. As I'm writing this, I'm picturing Seattle (still my favourite American city), although admittedly Seattle is rather cold. I'm not averse to rain - I consider it rather good for the soul, in fact, but I'd like it to warm up in the summer if possible. Accessible without being super-expensive. Not too hectic - but not too laid back either. The people need to be nice - without simultaneously being simple. I'd rather not be asked whether I'm from Australia every other day (happens more than you might think), so a sprinkling of cosmopolitanism is a definite bonus.
I'm going back to the UK in two weeks and know I'm not going to be able to check out any potential Amalgams before then - unless you count Toronto, where my plane goes via, which you can't as it's in Canada. Anyone with any suggestions, please make a comment. I'll keep you posted...
Well, I think I might have found a contender for Amalgam. The Major and I spent this last weekend in Fairmont, Minnesota. The Major's grandfather, who was sent there during the war, is now buried there, and we were having a sort of family reunion around his newly planted gravestone. In the meantime, we got to explore the place, and very nice it was too.
Fairmont is centered around five lakes, which make a pleasant sort of hub for the town, the main part of which is pretty compact, if you discount the ugly sprawl that has started to leach from the edges in the form of Pizza Huts and Travelodges. There's an old-school high street, a fine county courthouse, complete with cupola'd roof, and streets full of pretty houses, many of which face onto one of the lakes. We spent Saturday lazing by the water, baking ourselves then jumping in to cool off. In the late afternoon, we moseyed to the Channel Inn, a modest sort of place on the water's edge, where we saw a bridal party straight from the wedding. The bride, still in her white dress, had donned cowboy boots and was knocking back a beer on the jetty. It was that sort of place. We stayed for dinner, and had burgers and fries and set the world to rights.
I'm aware I probably sound as if I'm drifting off into some kind of idyllic daydream where I'm imagining relocating to Fairmont and sitting on my back porch watching the sun go down. But back to reality: as one distant relation put it, Fairmont is a three-day town. It's fun for the first 48 hours; after 72, you're pretty much ready to get out of there. Because once you've sunbathed, swam, possibly had a boat trip and eaten at the Channel Inn a couple of towns, you're pretty much done. The nearest big city, Minneapolis, is a two and a half hour drive away, and the only big stores are a strikingly ugly JC Penney and a Wal Mart. We all wondered where everybody worked: the answer is that the majority of the population are retired. Most of them are Iowa farmers.
So... not the Amalgam for me. Perhaps I'll start searching for my own. I think my criteria are a bit different from Bill's though. For a start, my Amalgam, at this stage, is probably a city rather than a town. It needs to be walkable (and have residents who walk), have nice architecture and a sense of history. Good restaurants - they don't have to be fancy, but just with decent food - a smattering of independent boutiques as well as the high street stores (I need Gap), a few coffee shops, hosts a decent farmer's market. On water would be nice, and a university or some other intellectual centre is a plus. Culture - an art gallery, theatre, cinema. As I'm writing this, I'm picturing Seattle (still my favourite American city), although admittedly Seattle is rather cold. I'm not averse to rain - I consider it rather good for the soul, in fact, but I'd like it to warm up in the summer if possible. Accessible without being super-expensive. Not too hectic - but not too laid back either. The people need to be nice - without simultaneously being simple. I'd rather not be asked whether I'm from Australia every other day (happens more than you might think), so a sprinkling of cosmopolitanism is a definite bonus.
I'm going back to the UK in two weeks and know I'm not going to be able to check out any potential Amalgams before then - unless you count Toronto, where my plane goes via, which you can't as it's in Canada. Anyone with any suggestions, please make a comment. I'll keep you posted...
Tuesday 13 July 2010
The complications of living abroad
I'm in the middle of a phone call to my father about our flat in London. He's rung off to find a bit of paper and I thought that in the meantime I'd update my blog.
Just occasionally, running what is still basically a British life from the other side of the world gets a bit complicated. There are the postal addresses to be changed, the British credit card bill still to be paid - and, like today, the flat to be dealt with.
We rented out our London flat for the two years we are over here, to a very nice couple of about our age who seem to be happy living there. We've got a nice handyman on speed dial who has a set of keys and comes round to fix things when they need fixing, and on the whole it all works well.
Except for today, when it transpires that my father has received (and paid) a bill for something that I know nothing about. He is the on the ground manager of these affairs, you see, and the bills get sent to him and he keeps me posted. So at the moment, he's trying to find whatever it is he's paid, and I'm gearing myself for a long and complicated telephone battle, to be conducted by Skype over the next few days with whoever it is who is mucking us around.
Of course, it might be a perfectly legit bill that needed to be paid and is all fine. But I have a feeling it's not going to be. Sigh. Whoever said living abroad would be easy?
Monday 12 July 2010
Mosquito bites and fun blogs
Spent most of today generally doing nothing very much/drinking tea and browsing the internet, not even reading anything in depth but jumping from one web page to the next. I'm distracted by the insane number of mosquito bites on my legs and feet, deposited there on Saturday night, which was mostly spent at various friends' houses drinking wine outside, far too near rivers, from whence the mosquito came. The Major took pity on me this afternoon and conveyed me to CVS, where I piced up hydrocortisone cream and antihistimane, which the pharmacy lady said would help. Time will tell. Even she was impressed by my lumpy legs. They are truly gross.
Anyway, I came across some fun sites when I was browsing, which made me determined to make this blog better and more linkable etc etc. So that is my new mission. Fingers crossed. In the meantime, I was enjoying reading the shoe ramblings of an old acquaintance I studied with at Cardiff University's postgraduate journalism school - Tiffany Wright blogs about wearing a different pair of shoes every day. Quite fun. Then I found this site, which I am going to join and hopefully it will provide inspiration. Then I chanced upon this one, which is lots of fun and I am going to send them a recipe for courgette cake, which is the latest recipe in my attempts to use up the enormous number of courgettes that my vegetable patch has produced. For more on this, click here to read my Lady blog on the subject!
Anyway, I came across some fun sites when I was browsing, which made me determined to make this blog better and more linkable etc etc. So that is my new mission. Fingers crossed. In the meantime, I was enjoying reading the shoe ramblings of an old acquaintance I studied with at Cardiff University's postgraduate journalism school - Tiffany Wright blogs about wearing a different pair of shoes every day. Quite fun. Then I found this site, which I am going to join and hopefully it will provide inspiration. Then I chanced upon this one, which is lots of fun and I am going to send them a recipe for courgette cake, which is the latest recipe in my attempts to use up the enormous number of courgettes that my vegetable patch has produced. For more on this, click here to read my Lady blog on the subject!
Wednesday 7 July 2010
Forced to make a firm phone call to the British Embassy in Washington this morning. I have a subscription to the Spectator, you see, which gets sent out, via our BFPO account, to Washington. They do postings twice a week, so in theory, I should receive my mag weekly - albeit perhaps a week out of date. But no, this morning a package arrived containing not one but two Spectators, dated the 19th and 26th June. It is now July 7th. I accept that, if I am too cheap to pay the inflated overseas subscription fee, I can expect to receive my reading matter a little tardily. But for the Embassy to simply save up my post and send it off in one go slightly defeats the point of reading a news magazine. Any suggestions?
Tuesday 29 June 2010
Scaremongering
So now I'm on a roll, and I have to write about a TV programme I found myself watching last night. It was after the Simpsons, the telly was still on and I was painting my toenails. The host of the show, a Dr somebody (I'm pretty sure the Dr was a spuriously gained title) was busily engaged in putting the fear of God into a incredulous audience who should have known better. Not literally the fear of God, as in, I wasn't watching a televangelist, but this guy was talking about all the terrorist threats out there against ordinary, hard working, God fearing Americans.
Anthrax is the biggest scare, he told us, in hyperbolic tones. Easy to manufacture, easy to drop. Wipes out whole cities. The US military are vaccinated against anthrax, but the general population needs to be too. Forget the recession, this is a matter of the highest urgency.
Then he brought on the rats. Two of them, big brown ones in a cage. The audience shuddered. "Bubonic plague!" he pronounced dramatically. "Wiped out half the population of Europe in the 17th century! It's us next!" It's the government's fault, of course - they are putting sufficient time or money into developing a vaccine. And on it went.
Now, this was prime time TV. I actually couldn't believe that they would schedule this kind of stuff to appear at all, let alone then. It was pure scaremongering, delivered by an opportunistic presenter to an audience who were lapping it up and should have been at home. If I were a terrorist contemplating an attack and watching that programme I would have been tempted to drop a load of anthrax on the studio. I'll probably get taken out for saying it, but there we go. The Land of the Free, right?
The humblest of apologies and a few thoughts
Oh my poor blog. I am so ashamed of how I have neglected it. There I was, fully intending to update it every day with tales of my travels, and I was utterly useless. But, I am not going to give up. So, a few succinct thoughts on California in general and the differences between California and Kansas:
California is an unbelievably cool state. I always knew I would enjoy going there; I hadn't realised quite how much. It's so varied - in its terrain, in the cities, in the landscape. You can be in San Francisco or LA one moment, then a couple of hours later driving through the arid desert, where the temperature's 112 and there is literally no life, apart from the eerie Joshua Trees, winding up through the sand. We wound the coastal highway through towering redwoods and misty fogs that rolled in off the Pacific, and we hammered along baked highways where the sun shimmered off everything and it seemed as if we were underwater. Incredible.
The people are so refreshing. We struck up a few conversations with strangers - in bars, by the side of the pool - and almost immediately were talking politics, international relations, gay rights... out here (in Kansas), most of the time I am trying to keep my mouth firmly shut on any of the above, because I know that a) the person with whom I am talking is quite likely to hold a diametrically opposed view and b) that they are unlikely to even listen to an opposing point of view and accept that person might have a point. Not so in California, where we had genuine debates on topics with utter randoms. Of course I'm being sweeping in my generalisations, but it definitely made an impact.
The food.... oh the food. A farmers market in every small town you went through, often on a Thursday night when the whole street would be closed off and families would stroll along in the gathering darkness, eating from stalls, doing their weekly shop and hanging out with friends. Restaurants serving right from the sea seafood. A choice in restaurants - not just burgers and grilled chicken sandwiches, but fresh, flavourful, seasonal food, made from local ingredients. The most amazing wine. Not cheap, mind you, but delicious. And available.
The sea - or rather, the ocean. California's got it, Kansas 'aint. Can't beat that I'm afraid....
Sunday 23 May 2010
British Columbia: strangely like England
So...there's quite a lot to catch up on from my last blog, which documents a time which already seems far more than just five days ago. I'm writing this sitting in a Seattle coffee house, drinking exceptionally good cappucino, surrounded by hot, intellectually bearded men (apologies to the Major at this point, but they are). All around me are my goods and chattels, which have mysteriously expanded over the past few days. The bearded man to my left (mac laptop, ipod, book, fedora next to him on the table, making complicated looking calculations on a piece of paper) just looked over and raised his eyebrows as I pulled off my outermost layer to add to the general chaos.
I've just got off the boat after an overnight stay on Vancouver Island. A solo trip, characterised primarily by my overwhelming exhaustion, brought on by a 6am start and one of the worst nights sleep I've ever had in the stinking fetid hole of a dorm room in the Green Tortoise hostel. Olivia, you see, had skipped town to attend the wedding which was her primary reason for coming out here, and I was left on my tod for a few days.
So, after an afternoon spent in this very cafe, enjoying the atmosphere, the warmth and the men, followed by a whistlestop tour around Seattle's underground and a quick trip to the art gallery, I eventually laid my plans. I would get up early on Saturday morning, tootle down to the docks and try and get on the 7.30am journey to Victoria, returning on Sunday.
Accordingly, I staggered to the ferry port and hopped on.
British Columbia is totally unlike Seattle, and more totally unlike America than I would have expected. Admittedly I was only there for a day. But other than the cars on the right of the road and the dollar currency, it was almost exactly like being back in England. I spoke to the Major on the way over and told him where I was going. "Oh right, what's that like?" he asked. "I'm not entirely sure," I admitted, "but I'm expecting it to be a bit like going to the Isle of Wight."
And I was pretty much right. There was the harbour, filled with sailing boats bobbing perkily in the breeze. There was the imposing grand hotel, the Empress, overlooking the harbour. The weather was about the same as a nice British summer's day: sunny but cool. There were union jacks everywhere (British Columbia, remember). And later on that evening, walking back from the cinema (Robin Hood, moderately ok), it was just like any British high street on a Saturday night. All most peculiar: not entirely unpleasant, but made me realise how little, actually, I miss England.
Anyway, tonight we're off to Portland, and I still have to write about the bears but that will have to wait, as we've got to go and pick up our hire car. Over and out....
Friday 21 May 2010
California here we come
I wrote this blog four nights ago, but haven't had a chance to post it yet. So here it is!
It’s 10.30pm. I’m not sure what the exact temperature is, but I can’t feel my left forefinger and I can see my breath. I’m sitting up in bed, wearing my leather jacket zipped right up to my neck, pyjamas and thick woollen socks. The only thing protecting me from the elements is a canvas roof and a tenuously strung canvas curtain. Outside, my food: cheerios, milk and tea, bread and peanut butter, is locked into a bear proof cabin.
I am in Yosemite National Park with my friend Olivia. We are possibly the worst prepared campers ever. All around us are groups of people bundled up in high tech outdoor gear, sitting around campfires which they have kindled themselves, probably by striking a flint on a rock. Mostly, they are sitting at special camping tables, eating hearty meals with proper cutlery.
We have the aforementioned bag of breakfast provisions, and two plastic spoons, which we nicked from a petrol station at the bottom of the mountain. We have no special camping gear. We have no frying pans, no bowls, no kettle in which to boil water for our tea. We don’t even have enough clothes to keep us warm, which is why we are currently huddled up together in the quite small double bed.
Nevertheless, we are on day one of an exciting road trip, which will last two weeks and take in the sights of northern California. I hope to be updating my blog daily with our exploits. That’s if I don’t die of hypothermia overnight.
It’s 10.30pm. I’m not sure what the exact temperature is, but I can’t feel my left forefinger and I can see my breath. I’m sitting up in bed, wearing my leather jacket zipped right up to my neck, pyjamas and thick woollen socks. The only thing protecting me from the elements is a canvas roof and a tenuously strung canvas curtain. Outside, my food: cheerios, milk and tea, bread and peanut butter, is locked into a bear proof cabin.
I am in Yosemite National Park with my friend Olivia. We are possibly the worst prepared campers ever. All around us are groups of people bundled up in high tech outdoor gear, sitting around campfires which they have kindled themselves, probably by striking a flint on a rock. Mostly, they are sitting at special camping tables, eating hearty meals with proper cutlery.
We have the aforementioned bag of breakfast provisions, and two plastic spoons, which we nicked from a petrol station at the bottom of the mountain. We have no special camping gear. We have no frying pans, no bowls, no kettle in which to boil water for our tea. We don’t even have enough clothes to keep us warm, which is why we are currently huddled up together in the quite small double bed.
Nevertheless, we are on day one of an exciting road trip, which will last two weeks and take in the sights of northern California. I hope to be updating my blog daily with our exploits. That’s if I don’t die of hypothermia overnight.
Friday 14 May 2010
I believe I have blogged on these pages about the High Noon Saloon: Leavenworth's premier night out, complete with micro brewery and karaoke. Anyway, it was my birthday two days ago, and what better place to celebrate? I will say at this point that I never meant to get up on stage three times; once should have been enough - but give me a microphone and a stage and I'm off.
There are always some interesting acts at the Noon. It has its regulars - some good, some not so. There's the skinny Elvis impersonator, who always turns up in a full-on, rhinestone encrusted white Elvis suit, apparently oblivious of the fact that, at approximately 90 pounds, he's not really beefy enough to fill the King's shoes. But he croons away, and isn't too bad, actually. Then there's the sweet older lady, who must be well into her sixties, who clutches the microphone as if she were drowning and warbles out old time favourites in a slightly off-key manner - endearing, but painful. Last night we saw one of my favourite performers. He seems to be channelling a mixture of Jesus and anarchist for his look: he is immensely tall, immensely skinny, and has a moustache and beard and long hair which he always wears tucked up into a slouchy beanie. He usually sports jeans and a hoody which hang off his lank frame, although last night he appeared in a full suit: charcoal grey, complete with waistcoat and brown shoes. His girlfriend, meanwhile, is generally in some kind of retro getup from around the 1940s - last night she was wearing a floor-length ballgown, with a long evening coat over the top. Her breasts always spill abundantly out of whatever she is wearing.
Anyway, the beardy one, after mooching round the bar for however long, will always, when it gets to his turn, leap athletically onto the stage, grab the microphone and start bellowing out some hardcore heavy metal song. Last night it was something which had the lyrics "fuck the president, fuck the president" repeated many times. His girlfriend, meanwhile, stares adoringly from the floor, mouthing gently along with whatever lyrics her love is belting out. Afterwards, they repair to a side room where they play cards - I like to think it is some old-fashioned, Victorian-style game. They are quite adorably in love, and have, on occasion, performed a duet, clutching each other all the while, and singing something retro and schmaltzy. I believe he is the son of some Army major out here, who obviously kept far too tight a rein on his son, who has now broken free of the parental chain and is pursuing his own path. And good on him, say I. I don't feel scared around him: he's clearly getting all his anger out on stage which is much healthier than taking a gun and shooting people.
Having neglected my blog for several days, we have now got to the point where David Cameron is the new PM. Nice. Even nicer that he is supported by Nick Clegg, my personal politician of choice. I think.
Anyway, it is interesting to see the American reaction to the British election. While most of my Facebook friends seemed to be bemoaning the ridiculousness of the British system, hung parliament, it'll never work, etc etc, I heard a news report yesterday, from a political commentator holding up our system as an admirable demonstration of democracy: two parties working together and "quietly getting on with it". It made me quite proud to be British.
Friday 7 May 2010
Woke today, groggy, to a hung parliament. Stayed up until after midnight last night watching the BBC, hoping to go to bed to a new governmental situation. Needless to say, we didn't.
Yesterday was a fairly eventful day. We had decided to hold an election party and invite various Brits, plus interested Europeans round for a barbecue and to watch the elections via iplayer plugged into the TV. At 12 noon, we arrived home from a provisions shop to find a note stuck in our front door informing us that our electricity had been switched off because we had apparently failed to pay our bill (n.b the backwardness of the situation here means that even if you make an online bank transfer, it doesn't go straight through - instead, the bank sends a physical cheque to the intended recipient for them to pay in. It's not exactly a swift process). Cue a long, frustrating telephone call involving not being able to speak to a human being and having to hand over my credit card details to an automaton. The Major took over the situation, and eventually managed to make human contact. Would our electricity be switched back on today? Only if they could manage to get someone out, he was told. This was unlikely, and we would probably have to wait until tomorrow afternoon (i.e. today). 17 people coming for dinner and no electricity. Mon dieu.
Luckily, I am married to a quick-thinking man who spun them a story involving untruths I won't detail here. At 4.45pm, someone turned up and switched it back on. Ad hour later, the first of our guests arrived.
We were hoping, as I said, to be able to watch the whole thing and toddle off to bed. But when, by 12.30am, no definitive result had been made, we gave up.
This morning I am feeling a) exhausted and b) increasingly irritated that I am apparently one of the many overseas voters 'denied' their vote. I sent off for my ballot paper weeks ago - a fact I wrote about here - but didn't get any sort of communication through until the end of last week - far too late to get my vote in on time.
If the powers that be want a genuinely democratic government, they're going to have to get a bit more organised. Be prepared for queues, for one thing, and organise some sort of system for Brits abroad that doesn't involve relying on the vagaries of international postal systems. We have secure online banking, surely there must be some way of setting up online voting? It might help at home too - the so-called apathetic youth of today might simply find it too complicated to take half a day - or an entire day - off work to go and queue at their local polling station. Open to fraud yes, but at least everyone with an internet connection could vote, and the wonks would have to think of some way round the fraud aspect.
Most Americans round here seem to be oblivious of the furore currently going on in the UK. They're more concerned that the Dow dropped almost 1000 points yesterday because of the Greek fiasco. Interesting times.
Yesterday was a fairly eventful day. We had decided to hold an election party and invite various Brits, plus interested Europeans round for a barbecue and to watch the elections via iplayer plugged into the TV. At 12 noon, we arrived home from a provisions shop to find a note stuck in our front door informing us that our electricity had been switched off because we had apparently failed to pay our bill (n.b the backwardness of the situation here means that even if you make an online bank transfer, it doesn't go straight through - instead, the bank sends a physical cheque to the intended recipient for them to pay in. It's not exactly a swift process). Cue a long, frustrating telephone call involving not being able to speak to a human being and having to hand over my credit card details to an automaton. The Major took over the situation, and eventually managed to make human contact. Would our electricity be switched back on today? Only if they could manage to get someone out, he was told. This was unlikely, and we would probably have to wait until tomorrow afternoon (i.e. today). 17 people coming for dinner and no electricity. Mon dieu.
Luckily, I am married to a quick-thinking man who spun them a story involving untruths I won't detail here. At 4.45pm, someone turned up and switched it back on. Ad hour later, the first of our guests arrived.
We were hoping, as I said, to be able to watch the whole thing and toddle off to bed. But when, by 12.30am, no definitive result had been made, we gave up.
This morning I am feeling a) exhausted and b) increasingly irritated that I am apparently one of the many overseas voters 'denied' their vote. I sent off for my ballot paper weeks ago - a fact I wrote about here - but didn't get any sort of communication through until the end of last week - far too late to get my vote in on time.
If the powers that be want a genuinely democratic government, they're going to have to get a bit more organised. Be prepared for queues, for one thing, and organise some sort of system for Brits abroad that doesn't involve relying on the vagaries of international postal systems. We have secure online banking, surely there must be some way of setting up online voting? It might help at home too - the so-called apathetic youth of today might simply find it too complicated to take half a day - or an entire day - off work to go and queue at their local polling station. Open to fraud yes, but at least everyone with an internet connection could vote, and the wonks would have to think of some way round the fraud aspect.
Most Americans round here seem to be oblivious of the furore currently going on in the UK. They're more concerned that the Dow dropped almost 1000 points yesterday because of the Greek fiasco. Interesting times.
Saturday 24 April 2010
One man's trash...
Final post for today, and this concerns our morning activity: the great Yard Sale. In the next month or so, our litle community will see great upheaval as this is the major personnel-moving time, where families shift around the States to new postings. So every year at about this time there is a huge yard sale (read car boot sale, only from your garage instead of your car) where everyone sells all the stuff they won't be able to take with them to their next posting because of weight restrictions. They have it on the military base, where hundreds of people live, and visitors come from as far as Nebraska, hiring coaches and coming in parties to try and get their hands on the stuff people want to be rid of: everything from washing machines to furniture. Although it officially started at 6am this morning, some eager beavers were on the hunt last night poaching the best stuff - we have British friends who were selling things at one of their friends houses and got there at 6am this morning to discover they were already about $20 up.
I was hoping for some nice outdoor furniture for our litle garden, but we didn't arrive until 8am, by which time most of the vultures had swooped. I did, however, manage to pick up some DVDs and a pair of brand new riding boots for $5 - bargain! It was highly entertaining to watch - people driving around in their enormous Kansan trucks with the flatbed part full of random things, like blow up boats and pushchairs. Our friends only had a couple of boxes worth of stuff to get rid of - books and some clothes and things - and they made $120. Brilliant. This time next year I'll be out there with a stall of my own.
I was hoping for some nice outdoor furniture for our litle garden, but we didn't arrive until 8am, by which time most of the vultures had swooped. I did, however, manage to pick up some DVDs and a pair of brand new riding boots for $5 - bargain! It was highly entertaining to watch - people driving around in their enormous Kansan trucks with the flatbed part full of random things, like blow up boats and pushchairs. Our friends only had a couple of boxes worth of stuff to get rid of - books and some clothes and things - and they made $120. Brilliant. This time next year I'll be out there with a stall of my own.
A murderous night
I'm not over for the day yet. Because yesterday (and today) were eventful. After buying my chickens and cream and milk and eggs from Dana, I went home to prepare for a dinner party.
It might sound frightfully old school and 80s, but dinner parties are pretty big out here - in fact for us and our friends, they are pretty much the entertainment staple. There are several reasons for this:
1) Going out to eat round here is a) not that cheap and b) not that tasty (unless you trek into Kansas City and frankly, who can be bothered?). It's much easier to all get round to someone's houe, crack open a few bottles of vino and enjoy some good chat and good food.
2) If you go out, someone's got to drive. If you go round to someone's house, you can usually stay over if you have too much to drink (we all live in ridiculously large houses, so there are plenty of spare beds). If you host, you can just roll into bed at the end of the night.
3) We've pretty much exhausted the options of properly going out locally. There's always the High Noon Saloon, but Thursday nights are the best (karaoke night) and you've still got the driving problem.
So we all pretty much pile round and take it in turns. Last night I decided to mix things up a little. Lingering on our bookshelf was a Murder Mystery party kit that I had been given as an 18th birthday present (yes, it really has been hanging around for 11 years). What better time to make use of it than on a rainy night in a strange place with a bunch of good mates? So I issued invitations and everyone duly turned up in full costume. It was great fun - we solved the murder adequately enough, everyone had plenty to eat and drink and we all retired happy. Roll on the next one.
It might sound frightfully old school and 80s, but dinner parties are pretty big out here - in fact for us and our friends, they are pretty much the entertainment staple. There are several reasons for this:
1) Going out to eat round here is a) not that cheap and b) not that tasty (unless you trek into Kansas City and frankly, who can be bothered?). It's much easier to all get round to someone's houe, crack open a few bottles of vino and enjoy some good chat and good food.
2) If you go out, someone's got to drive. If you go round to someone's house, you can usually stay over if you have too much to drink (we all live in ridiculously large houses, so there are plenty of spare beds). If you host, you can just roll into bed at the end of the night.
3) We've pretty much exhausted the options of properly going out locally. There's always the High Noon Saloon, but Thursday nights are the best (karaoke night) and you've still got the driving problem.
So we all pretty much pile round and take it in turns. Last night I decided to mix things up a little. Lingering on our bookshelf was a Murder Mystery party kit that I had been given as an 18th birthday present (yes, it really has been hanging around for 11 years). What better time to make use of it than on a rainy night in a strange place with a bunch of good mates? So I issued invitations and everyone duly turned up in full costume. It was great fun - we solved the murder adequately enough, everyone had plenty to eat and drink and we all retired happy. Roll on the next one.
Eating healthily...or trying to
If you're a fan of my blog on The Lady website, you may have read my latest blog for them, which details the difficulty of eating healthily out here - despite living in one of the major agricultural states (Kansas is the number one wheat producer in America). Not only is it difficult to find organic meat and un-messed about with milk (unless you go to Whole Foods) but I'm convinced that the alternative - artificially altered dead animal and 'vitamin enriched' milk - is actually making me fat.
So I was overjoyed when a friend emailed me about Bryant Family Farm, which strives to produce "Christ-centered service in all areas of our lives and business." The bit I was excited about was the organic, free range chickens, beef, milk and eggs that they sell - not to mention goats milk and local honey.
So I took a trip. And it was so fun.
We (I took a friend along) were greeted by the garrulous Dana, a rosy-cheeked, smiley woman who is the matriarch of the Bryant family and mother to Sarah (18), Nathan (14), Jonathan (12), Rachael (10), & Samuel (8), all of whom are home-schooled and carry out the chores, which including feeding the baby goat kids, making pens for the chickens and collecting the eggs. We saw the baby kids, their mothers, chickens in various stages of development and happily munching cows. Then I bought three chickens (dead, to eat), a gallon of goats milk, some honey and some eggs. And Dana, bless her, threw in some home-made goats milk feta (powerful stuff, good on baked sweet potatos) and an enormous jar of cream, half of which was whipped into a pavlova and the other half of which is sitting in the fridge, waiting for me to make butter with. Yes, butter. Apparently it's really easy and all you need to do is bung it in the food processor and blend it for a bit, and it turns into butter. Dana gave me a piece of muslin to rinse it out in afterwards. Then you salt it and shape it and presto, homemade butter.
I left feeling inspired and hopeful. My total shop at Bryant's cost me less than $50 - significantly cheaper than it would have been to buy the same amount of food in the local supermarket, and worth ten times more for knowing that what I was buying hadn't been messed about with in any way. There are people out there doing it, you just have to find them. And then you go home and make butter. Simples.
So I was overjoyed when a friend emailed me about Bryant Family Farm, which strives to produce "Christ-centered service in all areas of our lives and business." The bit I was excited about was the organic, free range chickens, beef, milk and eggs that they sell - not to mention goats milk and local honey.
So I took a trip. And it was so fun.
We (I took a friend along) were greeted by the garrulous Dana, a rosy-cheeked, smiley woman who is the matriarch of the Bryant family and mother to Sarah (18), Nathan (14), Jonathan (12), Rachael (10), & Samuel (8), all of whom are home-schooled and carry out the chores, which including feeding the baby goat kids, making pens for the chickens and collecting the eggs. We saw the baby kids, their mothers, chickens in various stages of development and happily munching cows. Then I bought three chickens (dead, to eat), a gallon of goats milk, some honey and some eggs. And Dana, bless her, threw in some home-made goats milk feta (powerful stuff, good on baked sweet potatos) and an enormous jar of cream, half of which was whipped into a pavlova and the other half of which is sitting in the fridge, waiting for me to make butter with. Yes, butter. Apparently it's really easy and all you need to do is bung it in the food processor and blend it for a bit, and it turns into butter. Dana gave me a piece of muslin to rinse it out in afterwards. Then you salt it and shape it and presto, homemade butter.
I left feeling inspired and hopeful. My total shop at Bryant's cost me less than $50 - significantly cheaper than it would have been to buy the same amount of food in the local supermarket, and worth ten times more for knowing that what I was buying hadn't been messed about with in any way. There are people out there doing it, you just have to find them. And then you go home and make butter. Simples.
Thursday 22 April 2010
Flying the Flag
I think I may have put my foot in it last night. The Major and I were round for dinner at a new friend's house. She runs a stables, he is something to do with defence - lovely people, lovely place.
Anyway, post-dinner and over coffee we got talking about 'yard art' - how some people seem to think it's really classy to fill their gardens with life-sized sculptures/statues of all and sundry (c.f. the giant, malevolent-looking blowup Grinch I spotted in one yard over Christmas). All very funny and we were having a good laugh, but then I said - "and round us, some people have full-on flagpoles with spotlights to light the flags up at night!"
Silence.
It turns out that in America, if you fly a flag outside your property (which most people round here do, mainly being the patriotic ex-military types), you either have to lower it at sundown or make sure it is lit - legally. If your flag gets old or tattered meanwhile, or accidentally gets dropped on the floor, you have to burn it.
America is serious about its flag. You have the pledge of allegiance in schools, the aforementioned legalities concerning the flying - and of course, those who fly the flag upside down if they're protesting against something, which always causes a great furore.
I find it all faintly amusing, not to mention quite ridiculous, but think from now on I'd better shut up on my views about flags. Along with religion, politics, sex.... Not a lot I can talk about these days.
On blame and recriminations
My mother didn't make it, but the aeroplanes are at least starting to fly again. As I write, hundreds of stranded passengers are being returned to the UK and Europe by means of through the night flights and 24-hour train services.
But inevitably, the recriminations have already begun. You would have thought that an erupting volcano was truly an Act of God - and admittedly no-one as yet seems to have come up with any conspiracy theories (it was Al Quaeda what dunnit, innit?) - but nevertheless, the blame has already started to fly in earnest. It chiefly seems to be aimed at governments, for failing to get everyone flying again soon enough. Many airlines are saying they will be asking for compensation.
Understandably the airlines are pissed off. After all, the aviation industry was losing some £150m a day while planes were grounded, and some airlines are apparently now perilously close to bankruptcy as a result.
But governments were only following the instructions of plane manufacturers, which specifically said if there's ash, don't fly. Imagine if they ignored this advice. Imagine if they'd just said, hang it all, let them fly - and a plane had gone down? Then we'd be in a whole lot more trouble.
It's a tricky situation - human being always want someone to blame. But this is a crazy situation. When I first heard on the news that Ryanair was planning to fly in the face of EU law and not reimburse passengers for anything more than the cost of the flight, my first reaction was disgust at Michael O'Leary's penny pinching ways. But on reflection, although I feel nothing but pity for those who were stranded, it's not the airlines' fault either. And if you get on a plane, you accept you are taking a risk. Hmmm. tricky one.
Wednesday 21 April 2010
Competitive Hospitals: Good or Bad?
One of my greatest pleasures out here, and a small link to the motherland, is a subscription to The Spectator, given to me for Christmas. I don't consider myself a raging Tory, but there are always some thought provoking articles to be found, and although I sometimes shudder at the overtly partisan nature of the politics, I forgive it nevertheless. Of course we are grossly behind because the magazine gets sent out, via our BFPO address in Washington, from England, which means I am currently reading the April 10 edition, which is a little frustrating. But getting it sent out is a lot cheaper than paying international subscription rates.
Anyway. Despite usually taking the more strident political articles with a pinch of salt, I was a little disturbed by something in an article in the aforementioned April 10 edition by Michael Heath entitled The Case for Cameron. Heath refers to the Tory offer of independent education for all, specifically allowing anyone to set up a school. "...it is encouraging that Mr Cameron would adopt this model more generally," writes Heath. "Under his government, public sector workers would be allowed to stage what is, in effect, a management buyout of their own division. They could operate for a profit, offering services to companies as well as government. There are increasingly hopefully signs that this will be adopted in health, too. As Oliver Letwin recently put it, 'Hospitals compete for patients, schools compete for pupils, welfare providers compete for results in getting people out of welfare and into work.' Such a vision is nothing short of revolutionary."
Well actually, it's not entirely. Because the one part of that statement that worries me the most already exists here in America: the part about hospitals competing for patients. Over here, it is not uncommon to see giant billboards at strategic intervals along the motorway, advertising, say, Lawrence Memorial Hospital as the place to go for cardiovascular experts, or Children's Mercy Hospital as the best place to take your sick child. On the radio there is a particularly odious ad featuring a syrupy sounding woman talking about how much she loves playing with her grandchildren - but how she nearly didn't get a chance to after a heart attack several years ago. Luckily she was taken to the Blah Blah Hospital with its expert cardio care and her life was saved, etc etc etc.
I find such adverts distasteful in the extreme. Perhaps it's my NHS upbringing (my father is a doctor and yes, he does do private work but the bulk of his patients are NHS) but I have a firm belief that a certain level of care should exist at all hospitals, and that the most important thing in an emergency is to get to the nearest one, not worry about telling the ambulance men as they load you up that you want to go to xxx Hospital please, because it's got the best surgeons. Of course there are some doctors who are more skilled in their particular field than others, but to advertise the fact seems unnecessary, somehow - not to mention playing on the fears of the often worried well - because after all, if it really is an emergency you probably don't care where you go. But over here, healthcare is a business - and a pretty dirty one at that. To contemplate the NHS going the same way is fairly horrific, not least because it is a slippery slope to some of the horrors that exist within the American healthcare system: doctors recommending surgery because it means they can charge a higher fee, or inducing babies so they can get back onto the golf course. I exaggerate, of course, but there's a truth to it. Oliver Letwin should watch what he says about free markets when it comes to healthcare.
Monday 19 April 2010
Frustration, frustration, frustration
It's a beautiful sunny day here in Kansas, I've been to the gym already and am all set for a day of goodness. Except I'm all of a twitter, and can't settle my mind to anything.
This is because tomorrow, my mother is due to fly out to the U.S. to come and stay for a week. Except she might not be able to, because a volcano in Iceland is currently spewing ash into the air and all UK airports are on complete shutdown.
Naturally this has caused chaos - for those of you who have been living in a black hole for the past five days, the airline industry is losing some £130m a day and there are roughly 150,000 Britons currently stranded abroad, according to the BBC.
Of course my mother is only one of those facing travel chaos, and her situation is relatively unstressful - she is still at home, at the time of writing her flight has yet to be cancelled and she is not about to get married, attend a funeral or be at the birth of a baby, like many of those stuck. But it is frustrating nevertheless - and I cannot settle to anything until I know for sure whether she is coming or not. Cue frantic scouring of the web to see if I can find any sort of definitive information whatsoever.
There is a part of me that simply holds up my hands and shrugs. Because there is nothing that we can do about all of this. Despite the desire to point the finger at someone (note the rising chorus of airline bosses pointing the finger at Europe's governments for continuing to allow airport shutdown when they say it is actually safe to fly), but in reality, we cannot stop the volcano spewing and nobody actually wants to risk passenger safety without very good reason.
So I sit and wait, unable to settle and checking, checking, checking. I'll keep you posted....
Sunday 11 April 2010
On Vehicles
Not long after we arrived here, the Major and I concluded that we needed two cars (you'll remember our search for a vehicle back in January which involved test driving ex-police cars - we finally settled on a fairly ancient but serviceable Acura). Let me explain: he goes to work every day; I go to work two days a week and the other three working days don't really fancy being stuck at home with only a bike for transportation (anyone who tells you that Kansas is flat is lying). Eventually, after a week or so of me grumpily getting up at 6am to drive him to work in order to have the car, we were given an antique Chevrolet which a fellow Brit and his wife had bought for their daughters to learn to drive in. Her name was Marge, and she coughed and spluttered and farted like an old woman; her brakes didn't work properly, her windscreen wipers were even less reliable and the handbrake was null and void. Nevertheless, she did for us, and although after one particularly hair-raising drive down the I70 at night I would never take her on a highway again, she got us around.
Alas, however, Marge eventually became too decrepid to even get the Major to work and back. We were left vaguely muttering about getting another car and desperately coaxing Marge to life every morning when one day, the Major came back from work in a zippy little Jeep. Looked pretty good from the outside: a nightmare to drive. You could feel every bump and pothole, and cornering faster than 10mph would have had you tipped over onto the side. I was not a fan.
But guess what? The Jeep is now ours. Marge has disappeared (I think the Major just left her somewhere) and we now have the choice of smooth Japanese engineered comfort or rough and ready American bumpiness (did you know that Jeep stands for Just Enough Essential Parts? I've been longing to use that little gem of a fact for ages). Initially, I picked the former over the latter any day, but now the sun has come out, and the Jeep's true potential is beginning to emerge: because the doors and the roof come off. Bring on the summer tan.
Friday 9 April 2010
Growing things!
Spring has sprung! It is delightful. The sun shines almost every day (apart from when it's thundering), and suddenly there are people everywhere - walking their dogs, mowing their lawns, waving at me when I go by. It's so Wisteria Lane. I love it.
So, now that everything is in bloom, I have vowed to grow myself a garden. I am not a natural gardener. In fact, most plants I touch seem to die. The only thing I have success with are those peace lilies, the virtually indestructible ones, which droop terribly and then you water them and they perk immediately up again. However. Despite my obvious lack of green fingered-ness, I'm going to give it a go.
I've already started, in fact. Last week I planted a bunch of sees - courgette, tomatoes, coriander - in little pots, ready to transplant, and they have sprouted! It is very exciting. Now I just need to remember to water them.
Alas, with gardening comes hard work - I need to dig over the soily bit and also do a fair bit of weeding. But I hope to become almost entirely self sufficient this summer (cue visions of me wafting outside to pluck a few sprigs of mint in order to whip up the perfect mint-flavoured something). Whether this will, in fact, work out, remains to be seen. I'll keep you posted.
So, now that everything is in bloom, I have vowed to grow myself a garden. I am not a natural gardener. In fact, most plants I touch seem to die. The only thing I have success with are those peace lilies, the virtually indestructible ones, which droop terribly and then you water them and they perk immediately up again. However. Despite my obvious lack of green fingered-ness, I'm going to give it a go.
I've already started, in fact. Last week I planted a bunch of sees - courgette, tomatoes, coriander - in little pots, ready to transplant, and they have sprouted! It is very exciting. Now I just need to remember to water them.
Alas, with gardening comes hard work - I need to dig over the soily bit and also do a fair bit of weeding. But I hope to become almost entirely self sufficient this summer (cue visions of me wafting outside to pluck a few sprigs of mint in order to whip up the perfect mint-flavoured something). Whether this will, in fact, work out, remains to be seen. I'll keep you posted.
Monday 5 April 2010
Just returned from a weekend in NYC. Arriving there on Thursday evening, straight into the heart of the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, was like waking up from a drug-induced haze. It was so cosmopolitan. So alive. There were people walking, running, talking, shouting, laughing. No-one asked me where I was from, or commented on how much they loved my accent. Nobody looked at me strangely when I strolled down the street. We sat outside in the sunshine, at cafe tables on the edge of the pavement and people-watched. It was fascinating. So many different shapes, sizes, colours, races. It was wonderful.
Would I want to live in Manhattan? Yes, yes and yes again. Although only if I had enough money. The friend we were staying with lives in the heart of Soho - in a one-bedroom apartment that is about the size of our bedroom, bathroom, walk-in wardrobe combination. His sitting room window looks onto a wall. His kitchen is almost small enough to be able to touch all four walls at once. And it's bigger than his old apartment. I found myself feeling almost smug about our enormous bedroom, plentiful spare rooms and spacious garden.
But I did love just being able to pop out - to a cool bar, or a great restaurant - and being able to walk around the city and explore. Not once did I wish for the car. Not once did I miss the slow pace of life.
We arrived back to a flooded kitchen floor (the tap had been knocked by something propped against it) and a clean--up operation that lasted until midnight. My brain was buzzing when I finally flopped into bed, so I did pop a sleeping pill. Today I'm back into the drug-induced haze again. How much of it is drug induced I'm not sure. But it is rather restful to be surrounded by green fields again (in our absence, the world seems to have turned green), and to hear birds, rather than cars. Am I turning into a country girl after all?
Friday 26 March 2010
So, that hot tub...
... Well what can I say? There I was expecting my life in America to be all housework and homesickness, with everyone expecting me to grow up and cease being childish. But then I found myself last night line dancing, microphone hogging and hot tubbing. How did that happen?
The line dancing was an 'International Wives' event. Sounds terrible on paper; the most fun without alcohol I've almost ever had in real life. Our teacher, a lady in middle years with more than a bit of a bulge got onto that microphone and worked her booty showing us how it was done. She really knew how to move. Two hours later, we were all yodelling, swinging our hips and sashaying round the dancefloor.
Onto the High Noon Saloon, possibly Leavenworth's most dodgy establishment (primary clientele: soliders and prisoners), but definitely one of the most fun. Several beers and a massive burger later we were on the dancefloor showing off our newly learned moves and dancing dangerously close to a 60-year od man with a long ponytail and a penchant for head to toe denim. Excitement. Karaoke. Shots. Back to Mrs Williams' house for more drinks. Into the hot tub. 'I have Never'. Champagne. Wrinkeld skin. Weeing on the lawn because we couldn't be bothered to go into the house. Finally we climbed out. 5.30am. The sun was about to rise. The Major must have been getting up as I finally flopped into bed. Today: massive hangover. Stinking of chlorine. Gearing up for the next International event tonight: the Spring Food Fair. Who knew Kansas would be this fun?
The line dancing was an 'International Wives' event. Sounds terrible on paper; the most fun without alcohol I've almost ever had in real life. Our teacher, a lady in middle years with more than a bit of a bulge got onto that microphone and worked her booty showing us how it was done. She really knew how to move. Two hours later, we were all yodelling, swinging our hips and sashaying round the dancefloor.
Onto the High Noon Saloon, possibly Leavenworth's most dodgy establishment (primary clientele: soliders and prisoners), but definitely one of the most fun. Several beers and a massive burger later we were on the dancefloor showing off our newly learned moves and dancing dangerously close to a 60-year od man with a long ponytail and a penchant for head to toe denim. Excitement. Karaoke. Shots. Back to Mrs Williams' house for more drinks. Into the hot tub. 'I have Never'. Champagne. Wrinkeld skin. Weeing on the lawn because we couldn't be bothered to go into the house. Finally we climbed out. 5.30am. The sun was about to rise. The Major must have been getting up as I finally flopped into bed. Today: massive hangover. Stinking of chlorine. Gearing up for the next International event tonight: the Spring Food Fair. Who knew Kansas would be this fun?
On the differences between American and English students
I write this, pondering, with a monstrous hangover. Last night was a lot of fun, and involved line dancing, karaoke and a hot tub until 5.30am. A separate post. But now I am in front of my computer and replying to anxious students' emails about the assignment they are due to have in by 5pm today.
Is it just me, or are American students a lot more conscientious than we Brits? One student had emailed me last night (when I was on the lash), hoping I would get back to her by a certain time as she was working most of today. Another of my students only has two evenings a week free, because she works every other night. I teach an 8am lecture. All the students are there. There are no obvious signs of hangovers and they all pay attention and participate. When I was at university, no lecturer would have been foolish enough to schedule an 8am lecture. Even when a lecture began at 10am, barely half the students would turn up because most of them were still in bed, sleeping off the effects of the night before - or getting back on it. Since arriving here I suspect I have had more hangovers than my students have.
Of course this is partly down to expectation. They get graded for their attendance record - so missing a few lectures could end up in being points down. They have several assignments to turn in per week, so have to keep on top of it. And of course they pay - thousands - which means they often have to work just to feed themselves after paying tuition fees.
But their expectations are different too. American students are graded on a cumulative GPA (Grade Point Average) score - and out here, a C is a fail. Which means they are all desperate to do well and can't rely, like we did, on cramming furiously the week before finals and scraping a 2:1.
I'm not sure what I think about all of this. On the one hand, I love how involved everybody gets at Americna universities. I spent four months on a study abroad scheme at the University of Illinois when I was a student and did more in that four months than in practically my entire three year university career: joined a choir, sang in an opera, wrote for the student newspaper, attended extracuricular lectures, voluntarily spent time in the library. At American universities it's not considered sad or geekish to get involved and work hard, which to me, with my geekish tendencies was a joy.
On the other hand, strange though it may sound, so many of my more formative university experiences were as a result of having a bit too much to drink - and I don't mean the 'hilarious' chundering stories and cringeworthy snogs, but the philosophical discussions, the morning after hangover bondings, the sense that, we would never be able to be this free again. I think it's sad that American students can't have just a little more taste of this - although out here, unless you're 21, you can't even get into a bar, let alone drink it dry.
Oh I'm sure I'm romanticising a little - there are tales of wild fraternity parties and outrageous fake IDs. But nobody seems to slope off down to the pub post-lecture, or enjoy the afternoon discussing the meaning of life over a few cheeky beers. And I think that's sad.
On the other hand, I'm 28 years old and still in my pyjamas at 2.30 in the afternoon. But I did spend until 5.30 this morning in a hot tub, discussing the meaning of life. Rock and roll.
Is it just me, or are American students a lot more conscientious than we Brits? One student had emailed me last night (when I was on the lash), hoping I would get back to her by a certain time as she was working most of today. Another of my students only has two evenings a week free, because she works every other night. I teach an 8am lecture. All the students are there. There are no obvious signs of hangovers and they all pay attention and participate. When I was at university, no lecturer would have been foolish enough to schedule an 8am lecture. Even when a lecture began at 10am, barely half the students would turn up because most of them were still in bed, sleeping off the effects of the night before - or getting back on it. Since arriving here I suspect I have had more hangovers than my students have.
Of course this is partly down to expectation. They get graded for their attendance record - so missing a few lectures could end up in being points down. They have several assignments to turn in per week, so have to keep on top of it. And of course they pay - thousands - which means they often have to work just to feed themselves after paying tuition fees.
But their expectations are different too. American students are graded on a cumulative GPA (Grade Point Average) score - and out here, a C is a fail. Which means they are all desperate to do well and can't rely, like we did, on cramming furiously the week before finals and scraping a 2:1.
I'm not sure what I think about all of this. On the one hand, I love how involved everybody gets at Americna universities. I spent four months on a study abroad scheme at the University of Illinois when I was a student and did more in that four months than in practically my entire three year university career: joined a choir, sang in an opera, wrote for the student newspaper, attended extracuricular lectures, voluntarily spent time in the library. At American universities it's not considered sad or geekish to get involved and work hard, which to me, with my geekish tendencies was a joy.
On the other hand, strange though it may sound, so many of my more formative university experiences were as a result of having a bit too much to drink - and I don't mean the 'hilarious' chundering stories and cringeworthy snogs, but the philosophical discussions, the morning after hangover bondings, the sense that, we would never be able to be this free again. I think it's sad that American students can't have just a little more taste of this - although out here, unless you're 21, you can't even get into a bar, let alone drink it dry.
Oh I'm sure I'm romanticising a little - there are tales of wild fraternity parties and outrageous fake IDs. But nobody seems to slope off down to the pub post-lecture, or enjoy the afternoon discussing the meaning of life over a few cheeky beers. And I think that's sad.
On the other hand, I'm 28 years old and still in my pyjamas at 2.30 in the afternoon. But I did spend until 5.30 this morning in a hot tub, discussing the meaning of life. Rock and roll.
Wednesday 24 March 2010
I've just realised this is a title bar...
...which is brilliant. Seriously I am the most analogue person ever. I really want a iphone, but know that if I had one, I'd never get round to actually putting more than about 10 songs on it, and would mostly use it to text and phone, just like I currently use my crappy, piece of plastic American phone which doesn't even have a camera on it.
I realised that I never wrote about a day last week where I was so ridiculously monstrously hungover that I didn't get dressed until 5.30pm. I just lay on the sofa all day, groaning quietly. Me and the Major, groaning together. He actually got up at 7am, showered, shaved, dressed and was just about to leave the house when he had to double back and be sick. It was horrible. I haven't felt that bad for years.
We'd been to a cocktail party at the Major's place of employment. I was expecting it to be grim, and for me to have to do Wife behaviour, and consequently drank far too large an amount of Pimms Number 1 (or whatever the vodka one is), on an empty stomach, while also shunning the canapes. A foolish mistake. The end of the cocktail party saw me making wisecracks to the Major's boss (moderately bad idea); the end of the evening had me doing karaoke, barely able to stand up, in front of 200 people in the High Noon Saloon (terrible idea, although also retrospectively makes me feel strangely cool and want to laugh). We left shortly afterwards. I went to sleep with one eye open, because to close both eyes made me feel as if I was about to vomit.
Obviously this post would have had more impact if I had written it actually in the throes of the hangover. But I wanted to mark the occasion a) to prove that, even though I am now a Wife, I can still have "fun" and b) to use it as an opportunity to talk about the evils of American alcohol. Seriously, they put some weird shit into the booze here. The beer all has strange preservatives in it, as does the wine, which is also so sweet (unless you fork out upwards of $15 for a bottle of something imported) that is gives you a major sugar high. All of which means terrible hangovers.
Sp I'm blaming it on the booze. Just for a change. Although I reckon if I'd had an iphone I would have been able to post photos of the night on this site. Yeah right, whatever.
Monday 22 March 2010
Yesterday, the Major and I took a trip to Cabela's, which is billed as one of Kansas's primary tourist attractions.
Yet Cabela's is not a scenic beauty spot, nor a historic site. It is a shop. A hunting, fishing and camping emporium to be precise. Nevertheless, round here, that is a major attraction. Despite heavy snow, when we went, the parking lot was almost full - mostly of trucks, drive by lumberjack-wearing farmers, eager to kill things.
As you go into Cabela's, you are confronted with three enormous statues of antelope. The Major whispered that if they were that size in real-life, the people around here would probably try to bomb them. And having visited Cabela's, I have to concur.
The first thing I saw as we walked in was an eight-year-old child with a dangerous-looking crossbow. The child was fat. He had a murderous gleam in his eye. His father was pushing a shopping trolley piled high with hunting and sporting equipment. He too was fat. Oh the irony.
We pushed on into the aquarium area. Bored-looking fish glided around in their tiny enclosures. One was an extraordinary looking specimen, with various bulbous protruberances emerging from his face. But he wasn't as extraordinary as the girl who was pointing at him and laughing. Bulbous is not the word. Or rather it is, but on a far larger scale than the fish. The horror.
And on it went. Through the speedboat section, where you could spend thousands of dollars on a state of the art model in which to go fishing. Into the apparel area, where camouflage junkies could get a serious fix - full body suit with built-in waders, anyone? Into hunting, which started off with decoys and hides and segued on to guns - lots of them - row after row of rifles, crossbows, shotguns - anything, in fact, that you could load up and kill with. They had quite a few pink models, presumably to cater for the female hunting population in Kansas.
To be fair, there were less killing-related sections - like homeware, where you could buy a toothbrush holder shaped like a labrador or a fake bearskin rug for the sitting room. But that area was fairly deserted. The main action was all in the killing sections.
It was an insight into the Kansas way of life. And don't get me wrong, I'm not against killing animals per se - I'm not a vegetarian and can appreciate the joys of a day out in the fresh air pitting your wits against a wild duck, or some grouse or whatever. But I do have a bit of a problem with the American way of doing things, which basically appears to be, lure the animals in with lots of food, sit in a hide and then blast the hell out of them. Where's the sport in that? And seeing an eight year old with a lethal crossbow is frankly, terrifying. Especially if shooting said instrument isn't even going to give him any exercise. Perhaps we should all start hunting fat children instead...
Wednesday 17 March 2010
We are looking after a friend's dog for a couple of days and it is amazing how British it is making me feel. I can go for walks now, and it almost feels like being at home. I'm trying to shun the lead, which means that admittedly there is still the terror that she will run into someone's garden and get shot or shouted at (no fences around here), but she's a well behaved little creature and comes when called. I think the cars that passed me were very impressed by the way she sat still at my feet when told until they had gone by. And I haven't seen the neighbour - or his cats - since she arrived...
Tuesday 16 March 2010
Our next door neighbour just let himself into our back garden to collect his cat from under the fir tree. Why do people have cats and not let them roam around outside, unless they live in a flat? So confusing. Poor cats. And poor me - I feel violated by his constant intrusions. I would rather have the cat than him.
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