Time Travel

Posted on July 23, 2010 by MAL

Time zones have finally caught up to me. Four in a week probably isn’t the most wise decision and never have I truly felt like I could consider myself a traveler until now. Four time zones – we are crazy. And I got up at 4:30AM with no sign of respite or back to sleep. Nope, tossing and turning had to stop otherwise a very unhappy Jock would follow today, so I come into the next room and write this blog.

Flights to Chicago from Las Vegas were uneventful – oh, except for that incredible warm, gooey deliciousness called Cinnabon. Now, THAT was an event. Ever since that sickly cinnamony smell entered my nostrils last week at the airport, I’ve been a-craving them and I finally tickled my fancy yesterday. I didn’t feel guilty, ashamed – I just felt calm like the days when Aunt Frona and Aunt Sheila would boost me up in their arms to help me pick the bun of my choice – until the sugar rush kicked in and I was bouncing off the cabin walls.

But don’t worry – you won’t find me using one of those automatic wheelchairs anytime soon with an oxygen mask attached to my face. Nope, I made sure to work out twice as hard today. But it was so worth it.

The day flew by yesterday – a quick lunch at Panera Bread in Naperville turned into a three hour discussion with the 19 year old cashier, followed by another hour of speaking with his aunt and cousins who happened to stop by. I have a feeling this might be a recurring theme for Jock and I. We seem to be entering a phase of approachability – or is that just our returning naivety to American culture?

Regardless, the 19 year old cashier/skateboarder/graffiti artist was one of the most refreshing young men we have spoken to in a long time. He had that refreshing candor and joie de vivre that perhaps comes from experiencing his best friend’s death at a young age – he set up a memoriam where they skateboard on the anniversary of his death every year and apparently over 80 people show up each time. He was so curious about life in England and how it was different from America. “Don’t hold back, I want to know what we do wrong or differently in this country. I’ve never been anywhere else,” he said. But oh, does he want to travel. Jock and he exchanged emails and unlike the days when I was younger (probably his age) and would exchange emails with just about anyone and never keep in touch – I would love to find out what he gets up to. I have a feeling he’ll do well.

Today we go into the city of Chicago and do some site seeing.

A few photos from our trip thus far:

USA versus England

Posted on June 14, 2010 by MAL

The day started beautifully. I had an amazing writing masterclass – they’re doing another one in October, for those who are interested – and then I headed to the pub for the England versus USA game. I was ready to show my American patriotism. Then, it all went wrong.

I wrote about it on my bi-weekly column for AND MAGAZINE. Click below to read all about it.

USA versus England
Attempting to Remain Patriotic While Abroad

The Barge

Posted on May 13, 2010 by MAL

Waking up on Saturday morning to the cold, cold rain was dismal. Even if we were on a boat.

The dry air of the heater blasted on our feet as we sat and drank our cups of tea.

One brother strummed on his newly-bought guitar trying to work out a verse of a song he was in the midst of writing. The youngest brother stood next to his father at the wheel; his father carefully maneuvering this large, vintage vessel across the eastern-most part of England.

The mother bustled around tidying the tiny kitchen, making us tea on a gas-powered stove and straightening the 1970′s curtains. I ignored my latest lactose-free diet and gratefully drank the black tea with milk, watching the swans, the reeds and the rain smattering on the deck.

Jock read the map, working out the best route, the amount of time it would take us to glide 10 miles.

I worried for the swans. They sat there in the middle of the river, not deterred in the slightest about the ginormous boat that was about to squash them to smithereens. I quickly learned they had lived on this river far longer than I. It was impossible to kill them.

By the end, I wished this wasn’t the case. Evil creatures those swans. Beautiful, but evil – snipping at Jock’s feet, rattling on our boatroom window, biting the necks of baby chick’s who dared to eat their morsels of bread.

The sky was glaring down at us, ensuring that we didn’t retreat outside the boat until we had enough practice driving four miles per hour on its river.

Sunday was another story. The sky agreed we were ready to take on narrower, curvier waters even with the distraction of the bright blue sky and hot sun.

The sky was wrong.

We weren’t ready.

Reaching the end of a narrow river, with no warning, it was time to turn around. I drove like I so eagerly wanted to. I didn’t turn quickly enough. I headed directly for the corner of the dock.

Jock grabbed the throttle and banged it in reverse. The boat revved its engine and became more powerful than it had ever let on before. Tricky, darn boat.

BANG. RATTLE.

The boat was longer than it appeared. It hit the back hard and loud. Tricky, darn boat.

Jock’s father flew across the living room, landing on the soft cushion of middle brother’s lap. The mother kept away from any windows, piddling about until the chaos had been handled.

There was silence. Where there was a lot of shouting before we hit the dock was now replaced with silence. After approximately eight to twelve turns, the boat was aiming at the other direction. It was badly injured.

I jumped off the wheel and refrained from steering the rest of the trip. Audible gasps were let out when we safely steered away from the end of the river.

The swans still appeared to get in out way.

The next stop was a small town named Horning. A beautiful, picturesque Norfolk Broads town. We moored at the longest space we could find, out of the way of other boats, animals, corners, houses, debris, people, anything that could be damaged.

We tied the boat to a lamp post and a tree and crossed our fingers that the tree wouldn’t fall down and the lamp post wouldn’t lose its screws.

The empty, dilapidated pub opposite the boat was a sign of the bad times. Another victim of the recession from last year.

The days since that day blended together. The sun was constant, whenever the puffy, cotton-ball clouds would let it be. My forehead is burnt. The swans were pesky, but dazzling to watch dash across the river. Many pints of beer drunk, hamburgers eaten and sceneries taken in. My belly is slightly swollen.

“Ahoy, shipmates,” – the phrase uttered each morning that never ceased to cause a ripple of laughter amongst everyone. Simplistic, beautiful joke.

Unfortunately, the only sailor quip I knew was lost on the English crowd – “Have you seen the latest pirate movie?” “It’s rated arrrrrrrr.” Their movies aren’t rated R.

My favorite thing to do other than watch the animals interact, mate and fly about was observing the brothers’ relationships. Clear, strong dynamics exist between them rooted in a lifetime of growing up next to each other, placement of birth, sharing beds, dinner tables, holidays and playing football; but amazingly, there is little competition between them and a boat-load of love.

Literally for hours we sat in a pub, on the boat, taking walks and talked. I was in awe of their patience with each other, their ability to listen to what they all had to say and the lack of fighting. How could a family get along this well?

“Lots of booze,” his brother joked. And, although that is true…there is more to it than that.

If it were my family, I think we would feel a bit antsy after the first day on a boat, anxious after the second, shaking by the third and just plain fuming by the last. There is bound to be coalitions that break down, alliances that are formed and groups that complain about the next one. Finding faults with everyone else is something we have aced, gotten down to a T.

No good showers, slow speed, nothing to do but talk to the other…

A living hell on water.

I’m now starting to wonder if we’ve had it all wrong. I wonder if secluding ourselves in a place where there is no phone reception, no internet, no way of escaping could do us good.

What if we just let it all go?

What if we were the strongest connection?

What if?

My pace is slower, my body is still swaying and I can’t wait to plan my next boat-trip…or perhaps a cabin in North Carolina? What do you say Grampy?

The Great British Lie

Posted on April 25, 2010 by MAL

It’s strange to be in a country that seems so proud to be British, and yet is chasing the same American dream that – well – Americans chase. We get blamed for a lot, but are copied more.

I’m going to just come out and say it – The Mother country of England wants desperately to be the rebellious teen that is America. (My British friends reading this will probably scream at my audacity, and I understand why. I won’t apologize (or even apologise), but I will say I did not want to come to this conclusion. I was in denial for a long time. And – obviously – it’s nothing personal.)

I’ve never said anything because it wasn’t completely evident at first – at least not to me. I mean, why would it be? When I move to another country, I assume that it will be me doing the assimilating, changing my patterns to fit in with them. I will be the outcast, and yearning to one day be able to soften my vowels. I have assimilated. There are huge differences in our two cultures.

It’s just, England always seemed so sure of itself. So goddamn – well, older and more wise.

I didn’t say anything even when I first began to notice because I was watching, waiting to be sure I wasn’t just seeing things. I’ll admit it: I thought the UK was bigger and badder than it actually is. I was deceived like so many others.

I utterly believed that Simon Cowell and his country knew everything there was to know about life. I mean, if they had a country full of Simon Cowell’s, why on earth would they need us? That’s the irony of it all – they need us. Simon Cowell needs us probably more than we need him.

And, we buy into it. In America, we’re bred to believe the the British are, in some ways, irrevocably more cultured and well-bred than we are. We watch in awe as actors take over our television screens, putting on better American accents than most of us as Americans can do. We are obsessed with the royal family. We giggle when we meet a man or woman with an accent, throwing our hair to one side. We automatically assume they are more intelligent than we are.

Most people think we are full of ourselves. In reality, I think many Americans are insecure about being American. We’ve been hated for so long. It might even be an epidemic.

But, let me let those Americans in on a little secret I’ve found out for myself…many British – not all and maybe not even the majority, but a big enough chunk for me to take notice – they actually wish they were American. (Or, they certainly wish they could live and work there.) Shhhhhhh. Don’t tell them I told you. They will deny it to their graves, and they will curse me to the heavens. But, below are a few things that have led me to this conclusion.

Sure, they complain about us. Sure, they curse us for polluting the Earth just as much as China. Sure, they hate most of our policies. But also, secretly, they love it. Jack Kerouac’s vision of a road trip is still blossoming in the British minds like a prepubescent boy’s first porno mag. Our ability to bear arms is disgusting to them and, at the same time, mesmerizing.

Some examples -

Their election process. It is taking place right now, and is eerily echoing many campaigns I have seen in my own country – more specifically the debates. I am told its because the Lib Dems demanded to have more of a voice against the shadow of the Labour Party and the Conservatives, and for the first time in the UK’s history, they are having staged debates. Actually, it appears that it was the Prime Minister’s idea (and more importantly, Peter Mandelson). The PM realized he needed to jump ahead in the opinion’s poll and therefore realized that a bit of “show biz” might do well for his image. That makes sense. (Ultimately, the UK is even more of a democracy than we are – they have had Question Time and the Prime Minister’s Questions every week since 1979 in which citizens can ask the PM and the people in charge straight forward questions about topics they want answers to. We have nothing of the sort. The most you can hope to question the top decision makers in the US is by writing them a letter, staging a protest (which will get shut down before it starts) or getting petitions signed. I really wish we had a Question Time.)

Normally, the UK’s election process is very different to America’s. (Read more about the differences at the blog, Pond Parleys, here.) However, this year, due to the Lib Dems, they are having American-style interviews and debates in which charisma matters! Its supposed to be all about the policies and yet the candidates and the news programs analyzing the candidates succumb to the pressure of discussing mainly: the candidate’s appearance, their gesticulations and how they eat ice cream with the grannies. (I seem to remember a certain Obama who did that same thing.) It is becoming more about the person, and less about the policies. Just like in good ole USA.

Celebrating the 21st birthday – We are celebrating a 21st birthday coming up, and I’m confused. I am told there are two big birthdays for a British person – their 18th and 21st. OK, I get the 18th one – they become an adult and can legally drink, vote and drive (although not in that order). But, the 21st? I have yet to have someone explain to me why the 21st birthday is a big deal. There was a vague explanation that it marks a British person’s adulthood, but how? What can they do when they turn 21 that is any different from when they were 20? In America, we can drink legally for the first time in our lives. I can only come to one conclusion – and that is, they are celebrating the ability to drink in America.

Celebrities – no matter what anyone says, it is the goal of every British celebrity to “crack America.” I hear it all over the news, in the newspapers and in interviews – “Oh, if only I could crack America.” In terms of profit, I get it, it’s a bigger market and many record labels and agents want their acts to rake in the most amount of money. But, Hollywood still has the same sexy allure it did back when Marilyn Monroe was alive, and Elvis Presley was topping the charts. America is the ultimate end-all for show business to this day.

Proms – I didn’t realize this, but apparently proms are becoming bigger and bigger over here. Mike from Postcards from Across the Pond makes a good point about these. You can read it here.

Halloween – Trick or treating? The appeal is traversing the pond. Dressing up and having big “fancy dress” parties – same. (Watch Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry’s take on this phenomenon sent to me by HBLX: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZITno-8HP9o)

I won’t even go into the effect that McDonald’s, chain stores, clothing stores, etc. has had over here. That happened a while ago, and everyone knows the impact of mass consumerism.

There are many more examples, but I’ll leave it at that.

Perhaps it’s just a mutual respect we have in this “special relationship”. After all, how many Americans wish they could live and work here in the UK? I know Smitten by Britain does for sure . I also realize that a big part of my opinion comes from what I see in the media, and the fact that my ears prick up whenever I hear my country being mentioned so perhaps that’s already a biased opinion. I just can’t stop thinking that people feel they are on the wrong side of the pond – on both sides of the pond.

Feel free to shower me with your comments – agreements? Disagreements?

Passionate Debates

Posted on April 18, 2010 by MAL

Last week Lindsey was in town. For those of you know Courtney, Lindsey is her older sister (therefore my oldest sister by default).

She was in the UK because she was the leader of a high school field trip from Connecticut. We snuck away where we could. First time was Saturday night in London.

Drinks along the waterfront of Canary Wharf. Chilly breezes, cold wheat beers, two years of catch up to do. Twenty two years of knowing each other makes the catch ups much shorter.

Cut straight to the business and we’re able to move on from our daily activities quite quickly to debating our views on politics, life lessons, feminist values, social constructs, astrological signs and our sisters. That’s generally the genres that we discuss, but the order is up for grabs. On average, we are able to dissect the world and all its problems in under three hours – the same was true on Saturday.

After a good twenty minutes of passionately debating the state of marriage today and its place in our society (more specifically the fact that there isn’t a conversation happening regarding women losing their identity in changing their name to the man’s), I felt refreshed. Frankly, we disagreed on many points – that’s not true. We didn’t disagree, but we challenged the other in their own viewpoints. Let’s be honest, Lindsey is firm in her views, and she challenged me. Nevertheless, it got heated at times, and to the average onlooker, it may have appeared that we were fighting. No, to the English, it would have appeared that we were full-on arguing.

But then, Lindsey had to go to the bathroom. She got up, left for a couple of minutes, came back, and sat down. We looked at each other and started cracking up. We laughed, and then moved on to something else, I don’t remember what- perhaps fashion in London.

It got me thinking about the last time I really was able to openly debate something. I learned quite quickly in my own relationship with Jock that he didn’t view disagreeing, debating or challenging someone on their views in the same way that I did. It happened one day when he said, “God, I can’t believe how often we argue. I’ve never argued with anyone else in my life.” I looked at him perplexed, and said “What are you talking about? I don’t think we argue much at all!”

It was as if we were having two separate relationships. You see, I get a kick out of those spirited disputes and always have done. I find I learn something about myself from them, about the world and usually just like the banter and sense of theatricality. He views it as a personal attack on him and sees it as muddying the waters for no reason. Now that I’ve lived in England for over a year, I get why he does. It’s not kosher to vehemently disagree with someone to their face – even if you just want to hear their reasons for it.

And, of course there are ways to go about it this debate. I like to think I’m not obnoxious in my approach.

Lindsey and I were able to look at each other and laugh because we both knew it wasn’t personal, that it wasn’t attacking the other. It simply felt good to get it off our chests. It was a sense of achievement when we finished the conversation with no outcome.

Perhaps as Americans we clear our minds through these debates? It helps us to figure out what we really think on the topic and by hearing it out loud, it sheds light on our true feelings? Or is it a woman thing? Or am I simplifying it completely and it varies on the person?

I know in the South of the USA, politically correctness and politeness is more the norm, but I’ve never met a Southern woman who didn’t stand up for what she believed in.

Either way, I miss those fiery tête-à-têtes. And, I don’t get why we can’t talk about religion, politics, etc – doesn’t that just make for a more interesting conversation?

I’ve learned to temper them, but be warned – when I come back to America – it’s on!