“A pint of sweat, saves a gallon of blood.” – George S. Patton
Know how I can tell I spent my youth catapulting across continents and time zones? Apart from the various personality quirks it engendered, my ability to learn languages rather quickly, my fluid definitions of “home” and “family,” and the long-lost art of being able to keep in touch through letter writing? Because I am an obsessive move planner.
Does this make me a packing rat?
I’ve been collecting boxes for our eventual move for over a year now (our office is a tragic sight), and I’m continually going through old clothes, knick knacks, cosmetics, random collections of pillows, pictures, books, etc. Occasionally I send a box of things home to Snickers, or foist a bunch off on Margot when she comes by to watch movies, and at last resort I donate armfuls of stuff.
Occasionally I take it a step further. Such as this morning.
One of my health insurance company’s benefits is that you can earn cash back for participating in health challenges – eating a bushel of vegetables a day, jogging 20 miles before breakfast, etc. You can earn up to $200 a year per person. And call me crazy but a year from now, when we’re living Quetzacoatl knows where, I have a sneaking suspicion that $400 could come in handy. So J. was dragged awake and forced to endure a round of blood drawing for tests, long before we usually eat breakfast, all for $50 a year from now.
You be the judge, am I psycho or just extremely well organized?
“When abroad in hot climates she wore a great many white dresses, said very little, and all the men in the hotel fell in love with her.” – Stella Gibbons, Cold Comfort Farm
Naturally, just after I wrote a post yesterday praising Spring, we were graced with a snow flurry/rainstorm. And even more naturally it had all cleared off by 5pm and I walked to my car beneath blue skies and a crisp breeze. Living in the West subjects one to the most schizophrenic weather…
But snow flurry or no, I’m still doing my best to force the issue of Spring. Yesterday I wore a tangerine cardigan in defiance, and I came very close to actually working out for the first time in weeks – didn’t quite make it, but I will! No, honestly! Stop rolling your eyes.
In the meantime, I’m indulging my shopping bug by sticking to internet browsing and wishlisting – my birthday’s in two and a half months after all. Especially Shabby Apple’s new line “Roamin’ Holiday.” Shall we look at some pretty?
I wish I had (respectively) the figure and the aplomb/height to pull these beauties off! For some reason vivid greens like the top of the Gondola dress are calling to me these days (and paired with stripes!), and everyone needs the opportunity to wear a red Gypsy-esque dress like the Rosso at least once in their lives.
I am actually longing for someone to get married, pick me to be a bridesmaid and obligingly order me to wear this cream and coco appliqued Spanish Steps dress. And I’m belying my winter-imposed hatred of neutrals by admitting to being very fond of this cream jersey SPQR frock.
Isn’t this white Palatine Hill dress perfect for summer in the office? Growing up I remember getting a new Easter dress and hat to wear to church every Easter Sunday, and I’m thinking about resurrecting (pun? Or too sacrilegious?) the tradition in my old age, and this purples La Vita E’ Bella pretty might just suit the bill!
Honestly, the whole line is making me want to go on vacation. I’m getting stir crazy in this office! If I could, I’d snatch up that daring red Rosso frock, grab J. and gallop off to the Cinque Terre region of Italy to lay in the sun, eat good food, and go sailing to all the terra cotta colored villages tucked into the coast.
How about you, ducklings? You suddenly inherit a small fortune with the proviso that you go on holiday at once, where do you go?
The town is one street long and almost all of the buildings look as if they were built in a previous century.
The children’s clothing store in town is called “Sugarbritches.”
Mail is delivered by Land Rover.
Half an hour away are some of the most gorgeous Georgian colonial era homes I’ve ever seen, each still with massive tracts of land attached.
One of our neighbors is named William Luck (not William, not Mr. Luck, he is always addressed by his full nomenclature) and he is utterly incomprehensible – my parents have to lip read to try and make out his conversation – but he’s welcome to hunt on our land whenever he wants.
The local barbeque joint is called Smokin’ Eddy’s, and apparently it’s to die for.
Strangely enough there is also a Portuguese resteraunt in town (who’da thunk it?).
Driving through the woods, is a surreal experience because, as Peregrine pointed out, it genuinely looks like someone with a chainsaw is going to leap out at you at any moment.
There is a hyperactive neighbor boy who is a pathological exaggerator (he has played in the NFL, trained with the marines, runs forty miles each morning before breakfast, and parachuted out of an airplane because teenage girls were chasing him in a lust hazed frenzy. Etc.).
It takes three people nearly a whole day to clear our lawn of leaves.
“My outer child is holding my inner adult hostage.” – Unknown
I have this problem. Going home to see family. Desperate for my family to think of me as a Real Live Grownup, before every visit I agonize over what to wear, debate whether or not I should get a more mature looking haircut to make me look older, and lecture myself very firmly to avoid bratty behavior, and so forth.
"Where's C.?" "Drat! We must have left her in Calais! Should we go back?" "Nah. We'll see her at Christmas."
See, a couple of weeks after I turned 18, my parents shot off to Belgium leaving me with my grandparents to fend largely for myself. I got myself off to university in the States and all settled in needing only rides to and from airports. I didn’t see my family for six months until Christmas. And then not again until I went home to work for the summer. Ditto the next year. My junior year I stayed in the States for most of the summer except for a two week holiday home to England and didn’t go home for Christmas at all.
My point? Lots of people, like J., leave near enough to their families that they grow up (fully) with them. All the major milestones are covered and both child and parents can transition through the chrysalis stage and watch the child-butterfly emerge into adulthood pretty seamlessly. (This is in ideal circumstances, I know it’s not as easy for everyone, but bear with me).
Alternatively, I go bumbling along more or less on my own gumption for huge stretches of time, growing up and developing into an adult, but largely out of view from my parents. Then, when I do finally get to see them, I’ve none of the requisite adult child skills or abilities to interact maturely with them. I slip into bad habits from six years ago, ones that (I could have sworn) I’d outgrown.
The real irony is that my parents do think of me as a Real Live Grownup, this inadequacy I feel is strictly in my head. My parents are fantastic, they’ve never treated as if I were younger, stupider, or less capable than I am. The problem is me. When I go home, I’m seized with the desire to wrestle with my siblings, pout when I don’t get my way, and roll my eyes at individual family members. An exact copy of me as a snotty 17 year old. Because I literally don’t know how to act 24 around them. It’s disgraceful.
I imagine there is some disconnect for them as well. After all, in one year I graduated, got a job, and got engaged, and planned a wedding completely apart from them. They were great sports about it all, but I wonder if they ever feel like they’re scrambling to catch up on me too?
Note: not six and eight anymore.
It’s getting better, but I’m really still an idiot in a lot of ways. See, this disproportionate view of development goes in the opposite direction as well. When I moved out, my sister was six, she’s now 13. Gio is a freshman at university right now, both he and Buddy are several feet taller than me and eat acres of food just to keep alive. When I moved out, my father was still in the midst of a nice, international career, my mum was mostly still raising kids. Now Dad is retired and Mum is teaching Western Civilization at university.
Where my family is concerned, I will probably never be a Real Live Grownup. The sense of constant vertigo is too strong. In my head, my brothers are still shorter than me, my sister is practically an infant, and my parents are at very different places in their lives. Coming home and looking two feet up into Buddy’s eyes or sharing clothes with my sister or visiting a new house (usually in a completely new country) is just too much to keep up with.
It’s just as well. Being a kid in my family isn’t too bad!
“…until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard.”
– Sheryl Crow
We went to LA for the weekend to celebrate the finalized adoption of my brother-and-sister-in-law’s son. Hurrah, he’s ours! Back off LA county!
They live right off Santa Monica Blvd so we walked the pier, shopped 3rd street, and took in an installation art show on the beach. We went to Universal Studios, rode all the rides, and did the studio tour which went right through Wisteria Lane, as they were filming Desperate Housewives. I had a massive migraine, more on that later, but we soldiered on! We also had a celebrity sighting, some actor from Lost who I’ve never heard of.
Meanwhile, my little brother Gio started university, and Mum was hired to teach Western Civilization at a college back on the East Coast. J. had an interview with Firm #3 on Friday, and has a job interview today along with a couple of exams. I couldn’t find half of my things getting ready for work this morning.
“The oracle says Spain over Germany. Discuss.”
“I’m sorry but I have to say German over Spain. Spaniards eat a lot of octopus…the animal is afraid of saying they will lose, as it might end up on a barbecue.”
“True. I had not sufficiently taken into account culinary pressures.”
– C. and Francois, Facebook conversation
The Romans used to slash creatures open and observe their livers and kidneys to tell the future. By comparison, Paul the Oracle Octopus is less gruesome. I’m sort of hoping Spain trounces Germany just so his status as a prophetic cephalopod is confirmed.
Unfortunately for the tentacled sucker in question, I have an everlasting hatred of the name Paul. On a train ride from Holyhead, Wales to London, AbFab, Elizabeth, Kiri, Marie and I were seated with an odd couple. They smoked like chimneys, drank like fish, and swore like sailors. They both had saggy skin covered in tattoos while she had mad, frizzled hair and he was horrifically bald. Apparently she was married to another person but the man with her, named Paul, was her lover. There’s no accounting some people’s taste.
When we changed trains at Crewe the girls and I were happily esconced in our new car when Paul passed us coming down the corridor. Suddenly something landed in my lap. I looked down and saw a twisted up piece of paper and thought he’d dropped it, but he moved on before I could hand it back. Unfortunately when I unfurled it, it was his name and number.
Commenced five women gagging enthusiastically and shuddering all the way to London. They teased me to no end.
“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only a page.”
– St. Augustine
Sorry for the hiatus, darlings, J. and I went on a roadtrip with parents, brother, sister, brother-in-law, and five assorted nieces and nephews and a partridge in a pear tree. The purpose for this jaunt was to celebrate J.’s grandmother’s 90th birthday.
Let's not dwell on the grossness that is the unnamed Small Dog and focus rather on my nice husband and his awesome grandmother!
And she is well worth celebrating! She was a nurse in WWII and was stationed in Wales, but made it all over the place, including France, Luxembourg, Ireland, and England. She brought her uniforms for the kids to try on and dozens of books filled with pictures and memorabilia. Apart from that she raised a large family by herself after her husband, a police officer, was killed in action. And she is one of the happiest people I have ever met! I’ve never seen her without a smile. And she manages to make it to ever family function in spite of age, distance, or inconvenience.
In case you can't tell, that's a horse's, er, bum as it's grazing by the local salon.
Now, as to the vacation itself, it was a novelty. My family hasn’t done much in the way of small trips. We’ve either been living on a forsaken island in the Pacific that required a dozen hours flying to escape, or in Europe where if you drive an hour you’re in another country. My parents just had a trip to Sicily (where they were waylaid by a volcano). In the past few years we’ve gone to Australia, China, Italy, Austria, and my parents also got Thailand squeezed in there while J. and I visited England for Christmas. Plus a rather lot of traipsing back and forth across the Atlantic. But short roadtrips to and through towns with a population of less that 600 are foreign!
Atticus tries on his old high school jacket...and it fits!
One of the uncles made homemade root beer with dry ice that bubbled away like witches brew, another made cotton candy. An aunt was in charge of the whole thing and sent everyone out on treasure hunts, got the entire clan to play dress up (and in some cases, Cross Dress, which in less capable hands is normally an awkward game…), and organized enough food for everyone.
Sidenote: people pronouncing this sort of sign "Yee old" anything drives me absolutely up the wall. It's an Anglo-Saxon character pronounced "th." Nerd rant over. You may be seated.
Which was good, because other than that almost every meal we ate was deep fried in some capacity and my internal workings have not yet recovered. I mean, deep friend bread! I thought that was just in the South…I was so wrong. These foolish Americans actually call such things scones! And while I remain adamant that scones are something of a more biscuit variety to be consumed with tea, eating something (anything) deep friend and slathered in honey butter is not something to turn one’s nose up at.
And finally, despite living here for years, I’ve not actually seen a lot of the American West. Las Vegas, some parts of Colorado, fin. And while it will never convert me away from trees and lush grass…the mountains, rugged emptiness of it, and the oases of vibrant life are quite lovely!
We stopped to watch this go off a couple of times, and even ate dinner at a turn of the century hotel overlooking the site. It smelled of eggs and spattered the car with minerals, but isn't it fun?
“To keep your balance you must keep moving.”
– Albert Einstein
Small Dog is not coping well.
Venice, leaving in just a week (cue fits of rage and denial), is in the process of packing up and getting rid of things. It’s stressful. I have personally benefited in the form of several pairs of pants which she wanted to get rid of…which does nothing to lessen the approaching pain.
My family, hopping the world as we did, got really good at moving. The formula is very simple: keep the necessities and get rid of half of your personal belongings each time you pack up. To explain: books stay, your old T-shirts acquired from work, community events, and concerts must go.
The funny bit about moving is when you are going through your things and sorting your treasures from the expendables. You will inevitably come to the realization that half of the clothes in your closet haven’t been worn in months, a third of your shoes have ragged heels, give you blisters, or are too ludicrously high/colored/pinching to be kept, and you have a wealth of old garbage (shopping bags, boxes, receipts, hair pins, loose change) taking up an inexplicable amount of space.
And thus, The Great Purge. You sit down in the piles of the stuff you had utterly forgotten you owned and have a candid talk with yourself (which can border on the schizophrenic to outside observers). The end result of which is that several large garbage bags are stuffed with the things you don’t use, don’t want, or can admit you don’t need. These items are either claimed by friends, donated, or unceremoniously chucked. The remaining items are lovingly horded because, after all, you have carefully and considerately come to the conclusion that you absolutely need them.
"What do you mean, Kyrgyzstan? I said Kazakhstan, you fool!"
And a few years later when NATO, the UN, James Bond’s M., etc. tell you that you’re off to Zanzibar, Tokyo, or Belgium, you go through the same harrowing, soul wracking process all over again. And invariably, all of the things you saved previously will be looked over with disdain (“Why on earth did I keep this?”), and end up in a garbage bag by the front door.
And, depending on the country you’re off to, a good portion of your household belongings will have to go as well. All of your electronics, for example, because for some reason the world cannot get it together on matching plugs to outlets, much less voltages. In our area of Suffolk, the building codes demand four houses per quarter acre, an unthinkable thing for the US, which meant that when Dad left NATO and Brussels, a good portion of the house went into storage in Switzerland, or something.
Soon the things we’ve left in small hordes all over the world will converge on our new US doorstep. Mum, already thinking of decorating, will have boxes, bins, and whole trucks of tables, chairs, bookshelves, books, antiques, artwork, and knick knacks to contend with. I’m willing to bet the entire family will be surprised to see what turns up. I certainly don’t remember half of it.
People don’t need nearly as much as they think they do.
“It is better to travel well than to arrive.”
– The Buddha
Eyjafjallajokull Volcano (say it three times fast!)
You know your family’s lifestyle is a bit unusual when you get an email from your father saying that they are stuck in Sicily and can’t fly home to England because of a volcanic explosion in Iceland. And that to get home they will have to go through Rome to get to Paris to get to London. Oh that’s just Mum and Snickers, by the way. Dad is going to Germany.
Now, although I’m grateful enough to know that they won’t get lost flying through a volcanic ash cloud and crash into the Matterhorn, or get hit by a fossilized coelacanth flung high into the atmosphere, or get a chunk of igneous rock sucked into a jet engine…I’m still having some trouble dredging up any sympathy for them being stuck in the Mediterranean.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,—
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
– Shakespeare
So! Flew in to Heathrow on the morning of Christmas Eve, met at airport by Dad and Snickers, drove home to Suffolk. Day spent hugging, talking, and trying to stay awake. Christmas Eve feast was superb. Went to bed. Woke up Christmas morning (siblings showed infinite patience and let us sleep in longer than I’d ever imagine they’d be able to) and tore into both presents and breakfast. Rest of day spent in rest and relaxation.
The adventures begin on December 26th, also known as Boxing Day. It’s part of the Christmas holiday in England and most people keep holiday hours on it, but this was the day chosen to go to London to show J. the sights. We checked online and it appeared some things would be open, so off we went.
Mum, left in red. Me, middle in red. Gio, right of me in red. Dad, right of Gio in red. Buddy...in black. Snickers, hidden. J., behind camera.
Never trust the internet. The Tower, which really is the historical base of the city (thanks, William the Bastard/Conquerer) was closed. Luckily Westminster Abbey was open. Some of you may recall my raptures at visiting it two years ago? Well, it was nothing compared to this time. I was so obnoxiously happy to be back in England that I had a hyper litany of sheer enthusiasm trilling through my head as I forced myself to walk somberly through its hallowed naves. The Shakespeare alone was particularly thrilling, I may or may not have muttered the St. Crispin’s Day speech as I meandered past Henry V. Anne of Cleves got a nod and a, “Well done. Better off without him. Much,” Congreve got a cheeky grin, Elizabeth I another critical glance over (still not as pretty as she thought she was).
After Westminster we tried for the Tower but that as you know was a fruitless effort. So we traipsed across the city! I didn’t make it over to Kensington where I lived but I did stare longingly at the High Street Kensington and Gloucester Road stops on the Tube for a while. We walked through Trafalgar Square (scene of many a late night revel with Marie, Elizabeth, and AbFab so long ago), made our way to Leicester Square where, completely out of other ideas, we massacred three hours by watching Avatar. An observation: don’t see this movie in 3D from the second row of the theatre. Your inner ear thanks me. After that we saw Stomp and made our way home at a ridiculous hour of the evening.
Sunday we tried to recuperate a bit and celebrated Buddy’s birthday with a quiet family evening at home. The next day we celebrated it by scampering around the misty wet fields with nearly fifty people, shooting each other with paintballs. I had only been paintballing once before and been shot in the mouth, so I didn’t have a high opinion of the activity (this time I was shot at point-blank range while guarding a little girl, but it was during our mad dash for glory in a game of capture the flag and we were welcomed to the splotched sidelines like heroes). The boys loved it.
No, it's not the camera angle, the house really looks like that.
Tuesday we went to Lavenham, which is without question the most charming country village outside of the Lakes District. I’ve written about it before, but allow me to gush a little bit more! It’s just delightful, the crooked Tudor houses always make me grin like an idiot. I rummaged through my favorite antique store (trying on an Edwardian hat, drooling over Victorian jewelry, and rifling through letter boxes and cupboards) and we ate lunch at The Swan.
Wednesday J. and I basely ditched the family and hopped on the train from Cambridge back down to London so he could actually see things. The train was a necessity because, according to the news, a truck of pigs had gotten into a wreck on the M11 and, far from turning the passengers into bacon, a dozen or so had escaped and were wandering across the highway, grazing on things, and generally causing a bad time of it for the drivers who were backed up for hours waiting for the porcine perils to be rounded up.
We hit the Tower and the British Museum. Going through it was like visiting an old friend. J. seemed to especially love the awful imperialism it represented. “I mean, these guys just showed up and said, ‘I like that wall. I think I’ll take it!'” he said going through the Parthenon exhibit. During the evening we walked from Tottenham Court Road to Oxford Circus so I could get in some much needed shopping before we made our way back to Liverpool St. and hopped back on the train to Cambridge. Then, the next day, back to the States.
I’m going to be honest and admit that as we were driving back from J.’s parents house and I was looking across the valley and snow-covered mountains…I burst into homesick tears. When we got home I was absolutely howling with misery (or lack of sleep, one of the two). “I want to live two hours outside of London!” I sobbed, “I want to live where it’s green even in the winter! I hate the desert! I don’t want to go back to work on Monday! I don’t want to live here for two and a half more years while you finish school! I want my dog!”
J. just hugged me and promised to get me back there someday if he could, and he meant it. I calmed down, went to bed, and woke up feeling alright about leaving England behind for a while. In the meantime, I’ll just be here. Missing it.
Small Dog Syndrome 