A further thought on my earlier post: this time on the subject of tips, and so indirectly related.
In the U.S., tipping is an innate part of the culture, so much so that to offer anything less than a 15% tip ina restaurant signifies that you were actually mortally offended by the level of service you received. Accustomed as I am to the rather more stingy attitude of the Brits when it comes to tipping - i.e. 10% if they were particularly attentive or if you fancied the waiter(ess), this has come as a severe shock to the system.
Nowhere is the custom more adhered to than in restaurants. The common assumption is that this is to make up for the abysmal pay per hour - understood to be about $3. Tips, then, go some way towards making a pay packet that makes it worth taking home at the end of the day. So you are showered with the aforementioned blandishments, and, rage of all rages, enquired as to whether you require change when you leave your payment - to which the answer is generally understood to be no, you don't, but that you have left a generous tip for them.
However, in the interests of research, I have just discovered that the minimum wage in Kansas (it varies from state to state) currently stands at $7.25 per hour, or £4.50. OK, so it's not quite the £5.80 an hour that British workers over 22 enjoy, but it's significantly more than the £3.75 than under 18s are entititled to. Which means that either Kansan restaurateurs are paying their employees illegally low wages, or else said employees are actually cleaning up quite nicely, thank you. Given that eating out here is not all that cheap, it becomes quite galling to add an extra 20% on top of the already hefty bill one has been presented with.
One English friend simply ignores the custom, and tips as he would in Britain - i.e. not at all most of the time, and 10% if he feels like it. I am tempted to follow suit. Which means, having established British standards in one area, perhaps I can re-establish them in others - again, see previous post - ?
Sunday, 3 January 2010
The upbeat attitude of seemingly all Americans everywhere is beginning to seriously irritate me. A brief foray into a shop today to browse through the discounted lingerie in the hope of sexing myself up a little had me gritting my teeth with barely suppressed rage after about 10 minutes. All that "how are you today?", "can I help you with anything?" and, even worse, if I dare to mutter out a negative, "oh I love your accent" makes me want to swear ferociously and even spittingly, up close, and in their faces. Honestly, the next time someone comes out with some bland and patently false enquiry as to my general well being, I might actually punch them.
Back in England, I was able to sate my periodic (actually, make that pretty much permanent) bouts of hatred towards coyly gushing members of the human race, aka PRs, by dint of my job - as journalist and therefore necessary continuation of their livelihoods. On being asked by some hapless press officer if I had received their press release on, say, anti cruelty to hamsters week it gave me the greatest pleasure to ask them, in icy tones, if they had ever actually read the publication they were calling, and then to inform them, in even more glacial terms, that it was something we were not, and would never be, remotely interested, before cutting them off abruptly by putting the phone down. My inner bitch received lessons in the art of PR handling from an occasionally stunningly abusive colleague, whose put downs had reached legendary status in the office.
Out here, however, the inner bitch has had to be firmly leashed. Because, not only am I no longer in my previous position of power, but I am an ambassador for my country, a virtual flag-bearing embodiment of all that it is to be British. And while one could argue that a fierce bout of rudeness would not be an inaccurate representation of the standard Brit, I have to live here for the next two years, and feel that at this stage of the game, to earn myself a reputation as a foul-mouthed harridan would not do me any favours. Not to mention the fact that the Major gets cross with me when I'm rude, and as I am currently reliant on him for cash, I would do best not to irritate him either.
So I am stuck with grinding my teeth as quietly as possible, looking into anger management lessons and maybe trying to learn a few lessons from our friends across the pond about politenes...expect gushing blandismhments next time you see me.
Back in England, I was able to sate my periodic (actually, make that pretty much permanent) bouts of hatred towards coyly gushing members of the human race, aka PRs, by dint of my job - as journalist and therefore necessary continuation of their livelihoods. On being asked by some hapless press officer if I had received their press release on, say, anti cruelty to hamsters week it gave me the greatest pleasure to ask them, in icy tones, if they had ever actually read the publication they were calling, and then to inform them, in even more glacial terms, that it was something we were not, and would never be, remotely interested, before cutting them off abruptly by putting the phone down. My inner bitch received lessons in the art of PR handling from an occasionally stunningly abusive colleague, whose put downs had reached legendary status in the office.
Out here, however, the inner bitch has had to be firmly leashed. Because, not only am I no longer in my previous position of power, but I am an ambassador for my country, a virtual flag-bearing embodiment of all that it is to be British. And while one could argue that a fierce bout of rudeness would not be an inaccurate representation of the standard Brit, I have to live here for the next two years, and feel that at this stage of the game, to earn myself a reputation as a foul-mouthed harridan would not do me any favours. Not to mention the fact that the Major gets cross with me when I'm rude, and as I am currently reliant on him for cash, I would do best not to irritate him either.
So I am stuck with grinding my teeth as quietly as possible, looking into anger management lessons and maybe trying to learn a few lessons from our friends across the pond about politenes...expect gushing blandismhments next time you see me.
Saturday, 2 January 2010
Have just returned from the first genuinely delicious meal I've had since coming to America. By delicious I don't mean that initial, gorge yourself sugar rush of a crisply coated donut hole, or the satisfying first mouthful of a plate of bacon, eggs and home fries. I mean a meal where you come away having genuinely savoured flavours, rather than everything just being coated in a sticky, sugary, overly seasoned gloop.
The cause of the celebration? An Italian restaurant called Lidias. Lidia is the doyenne of Italian cookery around here, and her reputation is well deserved. Lightly seared octopus over a warm salad of potatoes, onions and olives, followed by delicious lumps of gorgonzola, the freshest, pepperiest rocket and the sweetest pears. Mmmm.... beats Wendys, Mcdonalds, brunch at the local cafe and everything else I've eaten out here into a cocked hat. And the portions weren't even too big. I'll be going back.
The cause of the celebration? An Italian restaurant called Lidias. Lidia is the doyenne of Italian cookery around here, and her reputation is well deserved. Lightly seared octopus over a warm salad of potatoes, onions and olives, followed by delicious lumps of gorgonzola, the freshest, pepperiest rocket and the sweetest pears. Mmmm.... beats Wendys, Mcdonalds, brunch at the local cafe and everything else I've eaten out here into a cocked hat. And the portions weren't even too big. I'll be going back.
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Buying a car in America is a tricky business.
Ric Gianino, "senior" (his quote marks) sales associate at Country Hill Motors is keen to sell us a vehicle. He shows us a Nissan, a Saturn and an awesome, retro, 1987 Jaguar. Unfortunately for Ric, none of them work properly. In fact he can't even get the Jag to start. This, my friends, is the seedier side of the American car industry.
We very nearly make a deal with Eric at Jay Wolfe motors, who wants to sell us a 1997 Acura - the upmarket Honda brand. Only one owner, pretty clean service history, black, sleek - a pretty pimp ride. It's on the forecourt for $5,700. We go in with a punchy offer of $4,000. Eric wants $4,800. No deal, unfortunately.
Joe's got cancer. Joe's mate, who's built a house in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in Kansas, wants to sell his MG, which has only done 20 miles in the last 20 years. So, he gives it to Joe to put on the front lawn of his apartment block, so as to get better attention from passers by.
Is any of the money from the sale going to help Joe pay for his cancer drugs? Who knows, but Joe, who's pouring liquid food down a tube directly into his stomach doesn't look as if he's going to live long enough to see the MG sold anyway. Thank God for the NHS.
Ric Gianino, "senior" (his quote marks) sales associate at Country Hill Motors is keen to sell us a vehicle. He shows us a Nissan, a Saturn and an awesome, retro, 1987 Jaguar. Unfortunately for Ric, none of them work properly. In fact he can't even get the Jag to start. This, my friends, is the seedier side of the American car industry.
We very nearly make a deal with Eric at Jay Wolfe motors, who wants to sell us a 1997 Acura - the upmarket Honda brand. Only one owner, pretty clean service history, black, sleek - a pretty pimp ride. It's on the forecourt for $5,700. We go in with a punchy offer of $4,000. Eric wants $4,800. No deal, unfortunately.
Joe's got cancer. Joe's mate, who's built a house in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in Kansas, wants to sell his MG, which has only done 20 miles in the last 20 years. So, he gives it to Joe to put on the front lawn of his apartment block, so as to get better attention from passers by.
Is any of the money from the sale going to help Joe pay for his cancer drugs? Who knows, but Joe, who's pouring liquid food down a tube directly into his stomach doesn't look as if he's going to live long enough to see the MG sold anyway. Thank God for the NHS.
Sunday, 27 December 2009
Oh so much to write in the last week! I feel dreadful for not recording everything as I have experienced it. My rather pathetic excuse is that everything has gone by in a whirl.
Following on from my last post, we made it to Washington, finally, and proceeded to head out for dinner with a friend. Well, my observation that all Americans were uber-friendly was swiftly dashed when we met one of the most unhelpful people I have ever encountered at the metro station. Not having used the metro before, we were both (my husband, the Major, and I) regarding the ticket machine like aliens from another planet, trying to work out exactly where to put our money in. Upon asking the man at the information desk how to get to Friendship Heights, he simply pointed at a handwritten sign. "The red line" he intoned impatiently.
"I'm sorry, I've never used the metro before, and I don't know what to do."
"The red line!" - this more impatiently.
"But I don't..."
Luckily help was at hand in the form of a nice lady who took pity on us, and proceeded to actually buy our tickets for us. Perhaps the majority of Americans are friendly after all.
The next day, after a briefing at the British Embassy (the Major is extremely important, natch), we took a little trip to the White House. Which was beautiful, in the snow, but remarkably small. Most surprising. Not quite as surprising as the police cars parked next to it, however. "United States Secret Service" they said on the side. Extremely secret, then.
Finally, on Monday evening, we flew out to Kansas. My first impressions of the natives - i.e. the other passengers on the plane - did not exactly fill me with confidence. Overweight, dreadful haircuts, high waisted blue jeans, sparkly white trainers. It was like stepping into a Wham video, but with less attractive characters. I'm a bitch I know, but that's how it was. It was a relief to finally get off the plane, three hours later (for some reason, the pilot was trying to get the air hostess to do the chicken dance - luckily she refused) and be collected by friends, who presented an oasis of normality in the maelstrom of foreign-ness.
Waking up the next morning (we're on to Tuesday now) was another matter. "For better, for worse" was the phrase running most clearly through my head. Wouldn't it be yours, when faced with a suburban scene straight out of Desperate Housewives, only with fewer white picket fences and hot gardeners? I donned my trainers and went for a run, which put me in a better mood. I saw deer leaping across the fields, and the trees reminded me of England. It was only when I got back that I was informed it was probably best not to walk or run in the fields out here - unless I wanted to be shot by a redneck farmer.
Luckily, Kansas City itself was something of a sophisticated relief. Having stocked up on Arm & Hammer toothpaste, Laura Mercier makeup and Marks & Spencers cardis (I was envisaging something like Stalinist Russia, I think) it was a joy to behold a Mac makeup store, Apple shop, Barnes & Noble bookshop and numerous others. I embarked upon spending the Major's money with glee.
All else - Christmas (major blizzard - for details, see the BBC website), Boxing Day (walk in the deep snow) and the rest I won't go into. Suffice to say there was much eating and drinking all round - so fairly standard. I'll endeavour to keep you all updated more regularly, so as to avoid having to wade through paragraphs of boredom. Next up - a road trip!
Following on from my last post, we made it to Washington, finally, and proceeded to head out for dinner with a friend. Well, my observation that all Americans were uber-friendly was swiftly dashed when we met one of the most unhelpful people I have ever encountered at the metro station. Not having used the metro before, we were both (my husband, the Major, and I) regarding the ticket machine like aliens from another planet, trying to work out exactly where to put our money in. Upon asking the man at the information desk how to get to Friendship Heights, he simply pointed at a handwritten sign. "The red line" he intoned impatiently.
"I'm sorry, I've never used the metro before, and I don't know what to do."
"The red line!" - this more impatiently.
"But I don't..."
Luckily help was at hand in the form of a nice lady who took pity on us, and proceeded to actually buy our tickets for us. Perhaps the majority of Americans are friendly after all.
The next day, after a briefing at the British Embassy (the Major is extremely important, natch), we took a little trip to the White House. Which was beautiful, in the snow, but remarkably small. Most surprising. Not quite as surprising as the police cars parked next to it, however. "United States Secret Service" they said on the side. Extremely secret, then.
Finally, on Monday evening, we flew out to Kansas. My first impressions of the natives - i.e. the other passengers on the plane - did not exactly fill me with confidence. Overweight, dreadful haircuts, high waisted blue jeans, sparkly white trainers. It was like stepping into a Wham video, but with less attractive characters. I'm a bitch I know, but that's how it was. It was a relief to finally get off the plane, three hours later (for some reason, the pilot was trying to get the air hostess to do the chicken dance - luckily she refused) and be collected by friends, who presented an oasis of normality in the maelstrom of foreign-ness.
Waking up the next morning (we're on to Tuesday now) was another matter. "For better, for worse" was the phrase running most clearly through my head. Wouldn't it be yours, when faced with a suburban scene straight out of Desperate Housewives, only with fewer white picket fences and hot gardeners? I donned my trainers and went for a run, which put me in a better mood. I saw deer leaping across the fields, and the trees reminded me of England. It was only when I got back that I was informed it was probably best not to walk or run in the fields out here - unless I wanted to be shot by a redneck farmer.
Luckily, Kansas City itself was something of a sophisticated relief. Having stocked up on Arm & Hammer toothpaste, Laura Mercier makeup and Marks & Spencers cardis (I was envisaging something like Stalinist Russia, I think) it was a joy to behold a Mac makeup store, Apple shop, Barnes & Noble bookshop and numerous others. I embarked upon spending the Major's money with glee.
All else - Christmas (major blizzard - for details, see the BBC website), Boxing Day (walk in the deep snow) and the rest I won't go into. Suffice to say there was much eating and drinking all round - so fairly standard. I'll endeavour to keep you all updated more regularly, so as to avoid having to wade through paragraphs of boredom. Next up - a road trip!
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Logan Airport, Boston. Three minutes to one on Sunday 20th December. Snow is falling outside. I'm in the Virgin upper class lounge, enjoying the free internet facilities and trying to forage for crisps. What happened?
Well, about 24 hours ago I should have been in Washington (long story - suffice to say I'm being eased into U.S life gently, going via Our Nation's Capital before being transplanted to the cornfields). But the biggest snow storm in decades (according to the BBC website) thwarted our plans, diverting us to Boston, where we're now waiting for a connecting flight. On the plus side, we were upgraded, which I could seriously get used to - flat beds, free champagne, aaahhhh.
First impressions of America? Well, snowy, obviously. Very clean (although that could be the snow). Very friendly. But all I've really seen so far is airports and the Sheraton hotel, so that's not a lot to go on. Further updates later. The fun really starts on Monday, when we get to Kansas. Bring it on!
Well, about 24 hours ago I should have been in Washington (long story - suffice to say I'm being eased into U.S life gently, going via Our Nation's Capital before being transplanted to the cornfields). But the biggest snow storm in decades (according to the BBC website) thwarted our plans, diverting us to Boston, where we're now waiting for a connecting flight. On the plus side, we were upgraded, which I could seriously get used to - flat beds, free champagne, aaahhhh.
First impressions of America? Well, snowy, obviously. Very clean (although that could be the snow). Very friendly. But all I've really seen so far is airports and the Sheraton hotel, so that's not a lot to go on. Further updates later. The fun really starts on Monday, when we get to Kansas. Bring it on!
Friday, 4 December 2009
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