My son and I are leaving for Italy a week from today.
I'll stay for a couple weeks to get him settled in and then I have to get back here to my freelance job -- if I want to have a freelance job. I'll have been off a month by then.
My husband will join us for a long weekend. (Flights really are cheap now.)
My eldest boy-child, 24, will then stay.
We've been joking about it for the past few days.
"Next Wednesday is the beginning of your new life," I've said to him, laughing. "All starts next Wednesday."
So far all he'd done was laugh back, with some riff on Wednesday.
Last night, his face lit up at dinner and he answered: "I'm so excited. I cannot wait."
He has no idea what it's going to be like for him.
None of us really do.
He knows it's going to be a big challenge though, which he relishes.
We don't know what the internship/job will be like, if he'll like it, if they'll like him, if he'll be able to perform all in Italian. If it'll lead to anything.
What the social environment at the job will be like. Will everyone be married with kids?
What life out of work will be like for him alone in a small town by a lake in central Italy, a place he's only visited on vacation over the years.
I do know one thing though.
I moved to Italy when I was 24 too.
And then six months later met my husband and life partner at a Thanksgiving party. I had just recently graduated from college in the U.S. too.
Ohmigod. Isn't that kinda freaky?
I stayed six-and-a-half years then. We could've stayed forever. Why do I always want to move? It's so damn hard.
Back to my son.
He's off.
Last night, we speculated how long he might stay.
Nobody knows.
Wednesday 30 December 2009
Monday 28 December 2009
Downsizing?
I think we downsized too early.
Or maybe the whole concept of downsizing when you have kids -- even if they're 24 and 22 -- is outdated nowadays.
Or maybe you just have to time it better.
I'm learning something pretty quickly: You need a big enough living space for you -- and your kids -- to stay comfortably. A family home. Forever.
Don't you? Help me with this if you have thoughts.
If you've left the house where you raised your children, like we did, you still need a big enough home for everyone to be able to stay comfortably -- for quite awhile, it seems to me.
We're squeezed in here, although we have found a way to accomodate everyone.
We have three bedrooms, so we're all in our own rooms. But the smallest room, where my youngest is staying, is tiny, with no closet, so he's on the floor on an inflatable bed we bought.
His suitcase and clothes are also on the floor, overflowing from the case. Since it's the office, we need to move the bulky office chair out at night onto the landing so we can shut the door for him.
It's fine for a couple weeks -- which is all it is. We're having a good family bonding time, which is the important thing, right?
But, but, but.
Shouldn't you have a place that's big and comfortable enough -- with a room for everyone?
I want one. Is that spoiled? I used to have one.
We do have one in Italy. But that's far for everyone to come.
Maybe next year there. Who knows?
Can that be the family home?
Back to here.
It's too small for my family.
Does that matter?
My family's only together for two weeks now for the next few months.
And then who knows. My family is growing up.
My eldest son is going to live in Italy. For awhile anyway.
We live here.
My youngest isn't sure what he's going to do when college wraps up in Charleston, South Carolina this coming spring.
If we still lived outside of Washington, he'd probably go back there, he admitted the other day. That's what all his friends are doing.
We're all in different countries, even if two of them are a cheap(ish) flight away. Is this what we had in mind?
Can't be.
Or maybe the whole concept of downsizing when you have kids -- even if they're 24 and 22 -- is outdated nowadays.
Or maybe you just have to time it better.
I'm learning something pretty quickly: You need a big enough living space for you -- and your kids -- to stay comfortably. A family home. Forever.
Don't you? Help me with this if you have thoughts.
If you've left the house where you raised your children, like we did, you still need a big enough home for everyone to be able to stay comfortably -- for quite awhile, it seems to me.
We're squeezed in here, although we have found a way to accomodate everyone.
We have three bedrooms, so we're all in our own rooms. But the smallest room, where my youngest is staying, is tiny, with no closet, so he's on the floor on an inflatable bed we bought.
His suitcase and clothes are also on the floor, overflowing from the case. Since it's the office, we need to move the bulky office chair out at night onto the landing so we can shut the door for him.
It's fine for a couple weeks -- which is all it is. We're having a good family bonding time, which is the important thing, right?
But, but, but.
Shouldn't you have a place that's big and comfortable enough -- with a room for everyone?
I want one. Is that spoiled? I used to have one.
We do have one in Italy. But that's far for everyone to come.
Maybe next year there. Who knows?
Can that be the family home?
Back to here.
It's too small for my family.
Does that matter?
My family's only together for two weeks now for the next few months.
And then who knows. My family is growing up.
My eldest son is going to live in Italy. For awhile anyway.
We live here.
My youngest isn't sure what he's going to do when college wraps up in Charleston, South Carolina this coming spring.
If we still lived outside of Washington, he'd probably go back there, he admitted the other day. That's what all his friends are doing.
We're all in different countries, even if two of them are a cheap(ish) flight away. Is this what we had in mind?
Can't be.
Sunday 27 December 2009
Be Italian
So excited today that my younger son isn't leaving.
He was supposed to go back to the States today, which was way too early for all of us. He's only been here nine days -- and that just wasn't enough for anyone.
He was due to fly out this morning and then go skiing with two college buddies and spend New Year's Eve with them in upstate New York.
But those plans fell through.
Yey! We immediately changed his ticket to Jan. 2.
Truth is, we were all crushed a couple months ago when he announced that he'd be leaving before New Year's, but we were all good, understanding of his desire to spend time with college friends this last year of school.
But still upset.
My eldest son, particularly, wanted his younger brother -- his lifelong sidekick -- to be here as long as possible. For New Year's here with him in this big new city. Don't blame him.
And so did we.
The nine days have gone by in a flash, of course. But now we've got a week left.
It takes awhile for everyone to settle into the family again.
Especially in a new place.
Where you have no favorite things to do or places to go.
Last night, we went to see Rob Marshall's new musical, Nine, which is all about Italy. And then had pizzas.
Italy.
Italia, the name of the movie Daniel Day-Lewis, brilliant as director Guido Contini, is trying to make in Nine.
Part of the movie was filmed on the lake near our side of the hill.
We were floored when the name of the town came up on the movie screen.
Be Italian.
That's one of the movie's big numbers.
That's what my eldest son is off to be soon. I hope it all works out for him. I'm worried, of course. Much more than he is.
We're leaving for Italy soon, he and I, right after my younger son goes back to the States. I'm going for a couple weeks to settle him in for his new internship. Which we hope will turn into a job.
My son has a lot of Italian in him. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it's true.
The person he looks like the most is my Neapolitan father, Luigi -- who he actually resembles a lot. My husband has always said he's the Iacono male of the family, my maiden name. No argument there.
They say it skips a generation, right?
Can he do this?
Work in Italy, all in Italian, live by himself on the side of a hill, drive in an hour every day to what we think will be a high-powered environment and then an hour back?
Be Italian?
He was supposed to go back to the States today, which was way too early for all of us. He's only been here nine days -- and that just wasn't enough for anyone.
He was due to fly out this morning and then go skiing with two college buddies and spend New Year's Eve with them in upstate New York.
But those plans fell through.
Yey! We immediately changed his ticket to Jan. 2.
Truth is, we were all crushed a couple months ago when he announced that he'd be leaving before New Year's, but we were all good, understanding of his desire to spend time with college friends this last year of school.
But still upset.
My eldest son, particularly, wanted his younger brother -- his lifelong sidekick -- to be here as long as possible. For New Year's here with him in this big new city. Don't blame him.
And so did we.
The nine days have gone by in a flash, of course. But now we've got a week left.
It takes awhile for everyone to settle into the family again.
Especially in a new place.
Where you have no favorite things to do or places to go.
Last night, we went to see Rob Marshall's new musical, Nine, which is all about Italy. And then had pizzas.
Italy.
Italia, the name of the movie Daniel Day-Lewis, brilliant as director Guido Contini, is trying to make in Nine.
Part of the movie was filmed on the lake near our side of the hill.
We were floored when the name of the town came up on the movie screen.
Be Italian.
That's one of the movie's big numbers.
That's what my eldest son is off to be soon. I hope it all works out for him. I'm worried, of course. Much more than he is.
We're leaving for Italy soon, he and I, right after my younger son goes back to the States. I'm going for a couple weeks to settle him in for his new internship. Which we hope will turn into a job.
My son has a lot of Italian in him. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it's true.
The person he looks like the most is my Neapolitan father, Luigi -- who he actually resembles a lot. My husband has always said he's the Iacono male of the family, my maiden name. No argument there.
They say it skips a generation, right?
Can he do this?
Work in Italy, all in Italian, live by himself on the side of a hill, drive in an hour every day to what we think will be a high-powered environment and then an hour back?
Be Italian?
Wednesday 23 December 2009
Merry Christmas?
I've decided I hate Christmas. Anybody with me there?
C'mon, you can tell the truth. I know there's plenty of us out there, even though nobody wants to admit it.
I read a story in a British newspaper this morning all about how Christmas is just so hard for so many people -- and not just people who don't have money. Everybody basically.
And that everybody thinks everyone else is having a great time -- but the truth is, not that many people are, almost every study shows.
Suicide rates go up, calls to the British marriage counseling service Relate soar, hospital admissions go through the roof.
How can anything that inspires all that be any kind of merry?
Christmas is hard because of the expectations we all have -- even if we don't want to have any -- because of the baggage we all bring to it with the memories of our own childhood Christmases, because of family dynamics, step-families, intact families, singletons, all kinds of things.
A lot more Brits are just opting to go on holiday at Christmas -- and forget the whole thing, the article said.
That's what my one London friend did -- just high-tailed it outta here to a beach in Egypt. She admits it: She hates Christmas.
That beach is sounding kinda good just about now.
Anyway, my youngest son is here, and it's so lovely to see him. And all be together again.
But still.
We don't have room for a Christmas tree and that makes me sad. Our small flat is a total mess most of the time with everyone here and that makes me stressed.
Those may be the two most pathetic statements I've ever uttered.
When I was a kid, Christmas was all about a big beautiful Christmas tree and reading in the living room with my beloved father, while my mother made delicious Italian meals in the kitchen and made everything lovely.
She was a perfectionist, my mother. Used to stay up until 4 in the morning ensuring all the packages were as pretty as she could make them.
She admitted to me once, when I was older, how much she dreaded the whole thing, how hard it all was for her. And my Neapolitan father had at least one very memorable blow-up on Christmas Day.
Sigh.
All my kids want for Christmas is money -- to be used how they want when they want. My youngest said clearly he didn't want any random presents this year.
So we're dispensing with presents pretty much.
Which I'm happy about, I guess, because it certainly makes it easier.
But it also makes me sad.
There is just no winning at Christmas.
C'mon, you can tell the truth. I know there's plenty of us out there, even though nobody wants to admit it.
I read a story in a British newspaper this morning all about how Christmas is just so hard for so many people -- and not just people who don't have money. Everybody basically.
And that everybody thinks everyone else is having a great time -- but the truth is, not that many people are, almost every study shows.
Suicide rates go up, calls to the British marriage counseling service Relate soar, hospital admissions go through the roof.
How can anything that inspires all that be any kind of merry?
Christmas is hard because of the expectations we all have -- even if we don't want to have any -- because of the baggage we all bring to it with the memories of our own childhood Christmases, because of family dynamics, step-families, intact families, singletons, all kinds of things.
A lot more Brits are just opting to go on holiday at Christmas -- and forget the whole thing, the article said.
That's what my one London friend did -- just high-tailed it outta here to a beach in Egypt. She admits it: She hates Christmas.
That beach is sounding kinda good just about now.
Anyway, my youngest son is here, and it's so lovely to see him. And all be together again.
But still.
We don't have room for a Christmas tree and that makes me sad. Our small flat is a total mess most of the time with everyone here and that makes me stressed.
Those may be the two most pathetic statements I've ever uttered.
When I was a kid, Christmas was all about a big beautiful Christmas tree and reading in the living room with my beloved father, while my mother made delicious Italian meals in the kitchen and made everything lovely.
She was a perfectionist, my mother. Used to stay up until 4 in the morning ensuring all the packages were as pretty as she could make them.
She admitted to me once, when I was older, how much she dreaded the whole thing, how hard it all was for her. And my Neapolitan father had at least one very memorable blow-up on Christmas Day.
Sigh.
All my kids want for Christmas is money -- to be used how they want when they want. My youngest said clearly he didn't want any random presents this year.
So we're dispensing with presents pretty much.
Which I'm happy about, I guess, because it certainly makes it easier.
But it also makes me sad.
There is just no winning at Christmas.
Wednesday 16 December 2009
Heavy Drinking
The Brits are the nicest people on earth, seriously. As a group.
Taken all together, they're lovely: funny, polite, charitable, knowledgeable, interesting.
But -- and this is a big one -- they've got a serious, collective, nationwide, age-irrelevant, drinking problem.
Everybody knows it. It's in the papers all the time. All kinds of stories.
Every other week, there's some study out showing drinking is higher and more widespread here than in any other country -- and that's saying something. Stories about young drunken girls pulling their panties down in the street, profiles of middle-aged women and how much they drink, business stories about how supermarkets lure customers in with cheap alcohol. It's constant.
The Brits just love their booze. It's an important part of life here, whatever your age bracket. And they all seem to have a huge capacity for it, at least from where I'm standing.
Conversations tell it all.
This morning, a Wednesday, a thirty-something couple on the Tube on their way to work were discussing last night's drinking.
"I just peaked too early," the guy said to the woman. "Ahead of everybody else."
"I hate when that happens," she replied. "You really gotta time it."
And then the two friends on Monday. (Monday's a big day for this kind of conversation).
"I couldn't get out of bed until Saturday night," one giggled to the other.
"I just got so pissed at that party," she went on. "But then we started all over again later."
"Yeah," her friend replied. "I cannot believe it's Monday. I'm still hung over from Friday!" Peals of laughter.
One day at work, I started not feeling too well in the afternoon, felt a cold coming on. Nose started running.
As I was leaving, red-nosed and runny-eyed, a British colleague advised me, laughing, to just drink my way through it.
She was serious.
Not go home, have soup, take some aspirin, watch TV, read, be grateful it was Friday night, rest for the weekend.
Exactly what I was aching to do.
No way. Just go out and get drunk, man.
What else?
Taken all together, they're lovely: funny, polite, charitable, knowledgeable, interesting.
But -- and this is a big one -- they've got a serious, collective, nationwide, age-irrelevant, drinking problem.
Everybody knows it. It's in the papers all the time. All kinds of stories.
Every other week, there's some study out showing drinking is higher and more widespread here than in any other country -- and that's saying something. Stories about young drunken girls pulling their panties down in the street, profiles of middle-aged women and how much they drink, business stories about how supermarkets lure customers in with cheap alcohol. It's constant.
The Brits just love their booze. It's an important part of life here, whatever your age bracket. And they all seem to have a huge capacity for it, at least from where I'm standing.
Conversations tell it all.
This morning, a Wednesday, a thirty-something couple on the Tube on their way to work were discussing last night's drinking.
"I just peaked too early," the guy said to the woman. "Ahead of everybody else."
"I hate when that happens," she replied. "You really gotta time it."
And then the two friends on Monday. (Monday's a big day for this kind of conversation).
"I couldn't get out of bed until Saturday night," one giggled to the other.
"I just got so pissed at that party," she went on. "But then we started all over again later."
"Yeah," her friend replied. "I cannot believe it's Monday. I'm still hung over from Friday!" Peals of laughter.
One day at work, I started not feeling too well in the afternoon, felt a cold coming on. Nose started running.
As I was leaving, red-nosed and runny-eyed, a British colleague advised me, laughing, to just drink my way through it.
She was serious.
Not go home, have soup, take some aspirin, watch TV, read, be grateful it was Friday night, rest for the weekend.
Exactly what I was aching to do.
No way. Just go out and get drunk, man.
What else?
Monday 14 December 2009
Lessons from the Next Generation
My son is now officially having the time of his life in London.
He's got social engagements pretty much every night he wants, mostly with the half-dozen other interns -- and their circle of friends -- who he met while working, but also colleagues from work (all pretty close to his age) and out-of-hours work functions he keeps volunteering for.
I remember that first Sunday after he arrived in early October when he put on his Redskins jersey and the three of us watched the Redskins game in our kitchen on the computer.
I just ached for him that night, thinking what has he gotten himself into by coming here?
He seemed so alone. Like me.
Forget that.
Of course now I'm worried that Italy will be a real let-down after this. He'll be living an hour from Rome on the side of the hill there in a little town by himself, no ready-made group of young people to get to know around him like what happened here.
And the company -- and job -- will be a helluva lot more serious than this was. Much older colleagues, I would guess, Italians with families. We don't know.
All in Italian.
Ohmigod.
I mean here, he was working on a movie show, for chrissakes, in central London. Do I need to tell you anything else?
He's not that worried, though.
Says he's gotta start making some money now. So this is it. Which is true. His dad and I agree with that statement wholeheartedly.
I could learn a lot from my son.
What an admission. Because he still often doesn't make his bed in the morning.
But he's so in the present. Like they tell you to be. But like I'm not.
He just seizes it all, open to everything life has to offer, always.
The other night he had been invited somewhere to do something.
But it was already 8:30 p.m. The appointment -- at a sports pub -- was at least 45 minutes away on the Tube -- and it was raining.
And he had to go to work the next day.
He hesitated for a second when he looked outside and realized it would be a late night -- and take a long time to get there.
Then he jumped out of his chair like a stick insect and announced, "I'm going. What else am I gonna do tonight?"
(Uh, go to bed early? Get horizontal and read or watch TV, like yours truly?).
"Gotta go to things, Mom. Gotta get out there in life."
Came home late. Went to work as usual the next day.
Had a great time.
I went to bed early.
He's got social engagements pretty much every night he wants, mostly with the half-dozen other interns -- and their circle of friends -- who he met while working, but also colleagues from work (all pretty close to his age) and out-of-hours work functions he keeps volunteering for.
I remember that first Sunday after he arrived in early October when he put on his Redskins jersey and the three of us watched the Redskins game in our kitchen on the computer.
I just ached for him that night, thinking what has he gotten himself into by coming here?
He seemed so alone. Like me.
Forget that.
Of course now I'm worried that Italy will be a real let-down after this. He'll be living an hour from Rome on the side of the hill there in a little town by himself, no ready-made group of young people to get to know around him like what happened here.
And the company -- and job -- will be a helluva lot more serious than this was. Much older colleagues, I would guess, Italians with families. We don't know.
All in Italian.
Ohmigod.
I mean here, he was working on a movie show, for chrissakes, in central London. Do I need to tell you anything else?
He's not that worried, though.
Says he's gotta start making some money now. So this is it. Which is true. His dad and I agree with that statement wholeheartedly.
I could learn a lot from my son.
What an admission. Because he still often doesn't make his bed in the morning.
But he's so in the present. Like they tell you to be. But like I'm not.
He just seizes it all, open to everything life has to offer, always.
The other night he had been invited somewhere to do something.
But it was already 8:30 p.m. The appointment -- at a sports pub -- was at least 45 minutes away on the Tube -- and it was raining.
And he had to go to work the next day.
He hesitated for a second when he looked outside and realized it would be a late night -- and take a long time to get there.
Then he jumped out of his chair like a stick insect and announced, "I'm going. What else am I gonna do tonight?"
(Uh, go to bed early? Get horizontal and read or watch TV, like yours truly?).
"Gotta go to things, Mom. Gotta get out there in life."
Came home late. Went to work as usual the next day.
Had a great time.
I went to bed early.
Saturday 12 December 2009
Long Live the High Street
They say Britain is a country of shopkeepers.
Long let it be so.
There are so many cute little shops near my house here in west London -- just one after another.
And they're especially adorable now in the run-up to the holidays, their wares just so stylishly displayed behind gleaming windows.
The high street is lined in Christmas trees, and the flower sellers' baskets are overflowing with gorgeous wreaths, poinsettias, big red berries, tall red lilies.
Today was crisp and sunny.
Stunning.
I love the way couples were buying their Christsmas trees on the high street and then carrying them home together the few blocks home. With the baby in the pram.
I love the whole high street thing.
My son says I'm getting boring with it.
Anyway, I hope it's not under threat.
Because the truth is, even though I love all the little shops, and adore walking the quaint streets looking in the cute windows, I've hardly bought a thing.
And that's a problem, I know.
You can see it.
Sometimes it's hard to distinguish one shop from another.
But I still love them all.
Many shops are hanging on by their fingernails. The recession's been hard here, and credit tough to come by. They're predicting lots of closures of small high street businesses after Christmas.
I can see already, that in the nine months we've been here, quite a few places have turned over.
Some shops, I can tell, have been here forever, and are popular -- and busy.
Others not so much so.
But then, when a place closes down, so far, something else takes its place pretty quickly.
At least around here. Which is an affluent area.
Another shop seems to take up where the last one left off, because well, Britain is a land of shopkeepers.
Long let it be so.
Long let it be so.
There are so many cute little shops near my house here in west London -- just one after another.
And they're especially adorable now in the run-up to the holidays, their wares just so stylishly displayed behind gleaming windows.
The high street is lined in Christmas trees, and the flower sellers' baskets are overflowing with gorgeous wreaths, poinsettias, big red berries, tall red lilies.
Today was crisp and sunny.
Stunning.
I love the way couples were buying their Christsmas trees on the high street and then carrying them home together the few blocks home. With the baby in the pram.
I love the whole high street thing.
My son says I'm getting boring with it.
Anyway, I hope it's not under threat.
Because the truth is, even though I love all the little shops, and adore walking the quaint streets looking in the cute windows, I've hardly bought a thing.
And that's a problem, I know.
You can see it.
Sometimes it's hard to distinguish one shop from another.
But I still love them all.
Many shops are hanging on by their fingernails. The recession's been hard here, and credit tough to come by. They're predicting lots of closures of small high street businesses after Christmas.
I can see already, that in the nine months we've been here, quite a few places have turned over.
Some shops, I can tell, have been here forever, and are popular -- and busy.
Others not so much so.
But then, when a place closes down, so far, something else takes its place pretty quickly.
At least around here. Which is an affluent area.
Another shop seems to take up where the last one left off, because well, Britain is a land of shopkeepers.
Long let it be so.
Wednesday 9 December 2009
A Royal Wedding?
Good news, folks!
We might get a Royal wedding here soon.
Speculation is mounting that Prince William, Princess Diana's oldest son and second-in-line to the throne, and his long-time girlfriend Kate Middleton could announce their engagement soon, maybe even over the Christmas holidays.
There had been rampant speculation about it last year, but then it died down, the beautiful young couple very briefly broke up, but then got back together, and now rumors are starting up again.
Maybe the Royals think a grand Royal wedding would be well, just a grand old way to break the grimness of the recession, which has hit this country particularly hard. Not to mention the grimness of the rainy British winter.
I watched a great five-part BBC series on Queen Elizabeth II last week on television, called The Queen, and it was really eye-opening, how much the British sovereign cares about her public and her image -- and how the family's very existence is largely based on their popularity.
One segment was about the Queen's "annus horribulus," when Diana died in a Paris car crash and the queen was widely criticized for her cool and delayed reaction to it, while the country went into deep paroxyms of grief. Another was about her relationship with Camilla Parker Bowles, the woman Diana accused of being a third party in her marriage to Prince Charles and who is now in fact, the prince's wife. The first segment was about the queen's coronation as a young woman; Camilla Parker Bowles ended the series.
All riveting stuff.
The TV critics largely panned the week-long, prime-time show, in which a different actress plays the queen in each segment as she ages, saying there was not that much new in it.
Hell, I learned a lot.
But then I'm American.
Or Italian.
Anyway, this dazzling new couple -- Prince William (who's got a lot of Diana in him) and his striking, willowy girlfriend Kate, could become the new young Diana and Charles, in terms of worldwide interest.
They're certainly photogenic enough.
And the Brits have been dying to love a Royal, any Royal, since Diana died.
Shoot, the whole world has.
But nobody could even light a torch to Diana.
But now, maybe, just maybe, this couple could.
Cool. I'm ready!
Bring it on!
We might get a Royal wedding here soon.
Speculation is mounting that Prince William, Princess Diana's oldest son and second-in-line to the throne, and his long-time girlfriend Kate Middleton could announce their engagement soon, maybe even over the Christmas holidays.
There had been rampant speculation about it last year, but then it died down, the beautiful young couple very briefly broke up, but then got back together, and now rumors are starting up again.
Maybe the Royals think a grand Royal wedding would be well, just a grand old way to break the grimness of the recession, which has hit this country particularly hard. Not to mention the grimness of the rainy British winter.
I watched a great five-part BBC series on Queen Elizabeth II last week on television, called The Queen, and it was really eye-opening, how much the British sovereign cares about her public and her image -- and how the family's very existence is largely based on their popularity.
One segment was about the Queen's "annus horribulus," when Diana died in a Paris car crash and the queen was widely criticized for her cool and delayed reaction to it, while the country went into deep paroxyms of grief. Another was about her relationship with Camilla Parker Bowles, the woman Diana accused of being a third party in her marriage to Prince Charles and who is now in fact, the prince's wife. The first segment was about the queen's coronation as a young woman; Camilla Parker Bowles ended the series.
All riveting stuff.
The TV critics largely panned the week-long, prime-time show, in which a different actress plays the queen in each segment as she ages, saying there was not that much new in it.
Hell, I learned a lot.
But then I'm American.
Or Italian.
Anyway, this dazzling new couple -- Prince William (who's got a lot of Diana in him) and his striking, willowy girlfriend Kate, could become the new young Diana and Charles, in terms of worldwide interest.
They're certainly photogenic enough.
And the Brits have been dying to love a Royal, any Royal, since Diana died.
Shoot, the whole world has.
But nobody could even light a torch to Diana.
But now, maybe, just maybe, this couple could.
Cool. I'm ready!
Bring it on!
Monday 7 December 2009
Robbed Again?
I got robbed on Saturday night. I think that's what happened anyway.
Whatever happened, I lost my purse. All my cards, my U.S. driver's license, money, British debit card (with husband in Brazil and me not on the account yet), the whole shebang.
Cried for about an hour.
Could hardly handle it, if truth be told. I mean, it hasn't been that long since I had my Mac stolen in Italy. And my son had his wallet stolen in Barcelona.
Anyhoo.
I was on the platform at my tube stop at about 6 p.m., heading to my London friend's house for dinner. In a good mood.
Looking forward to the evening; had had a good time at the Christmas party I told you about the night before.
Sitting on the platform, waiting for the train.
Had my purse with me, my umbrella, a lemon tart I was bringing (bought at Marks & Spencer's Food, which is quite good), and a magazine to read in a bag.
When I got onto the train, I had everything except my purse.
I noticed immediately, within seconds of getting on the train.
Did I leave it on the platform? Or did someone swipe it from me while I slipped it off my shoulder for a few minutes, waiting for the train?
Don't know for sure, but think the latter.
I got off at the next stop and ran to the office at the station and told them. They called back to my station and had someone go look for my bag on the platform, i.e. about five minutes after I had left.
Nothing.
I went back to my stop and ran up to the platform.
People were sitting at every seat. Nothing underneath the bench.
Started crying.
Had nothing.
No money, no Oyster card (to get out of the train), no phone, no house keys, everything gone.
Stood there crying for awhile, trying to figure out what to do, how to get into my house, how to contact my friend to tell her I wasn't coming, how to support me and my son until my husband gets home in 10 days with no money or cards.
My husband and I had gone to his bank to put me on his account just two weeks ago. We had just gotten around to making it a joint account, but it just hit me, while standing there crying, that nothing had come in the mail yet about it. And it should have.
I had his debit card, he's gone, so I hadn't really thought about it.
Until now.
Thankfully, my son was only about a half-hour walk away, seeing a movie not that far from our house. (He could've been anywhere in London). And he had his keys, and £40 I had given him that day.
So I ran to the movies to get the keys -- and some money.
Walked all the way there and all the way home (an hour) in the drizzle, without putting my umbrella up.
Too busy feeling sorry for myself to care about getting wet.
Pretty drenched by the time I got home. And still upset.
Called my friend and cried to her for a few minutes.
While we were talking, someone called her on her cell.
They had found my phone lying on the floor of a train (nowhere near where I had been) and were calling the last person I had texted. Which was her.
So I got my phone back.
Yey!
Spent an hour at the bank this morning trying to sort everything out. Got a friendly guy who took pity on me.
Helped me re-file the application for the joint account (which technically he shouldn't have, since my husband isn't here). It had gotten held up because of some silly thing.
Sent out a replacement card to my home address, which I should get in a few days, even though I wasn't officially on the account yet, and my husband, who's the account holder, is literally in the Amazon jungle. They wouldn't do that when I reported it lost on Saturday.
So hopefully, this week, I'll have a new debit card so I can access the account.
Sometimes I wonder if I can keep writing to you.
Don't mothers say that if you can't say anything good, you shouldn't say anything at all?
(My mother never said that. She was Italian. Italians don't agree with the above statement).
But I bet Brits do.
Anyway, I would like to just tell you nice things, make you laugh, entertain you.
But shit just keeps happening to me.
Is it my fault?
Bad karma?
Whatever happened, I lost my purse. All my cards, my U.S. driver's license, money, British debit card (with husband in Brazil and me not on the account yet), the whole shebang.
Cried for about an hour.
Could hardly handle it, if truth be told. I mean, it hasn't been that long since I had my Mac stolen in Italy. And my son had his wallet stolen in Barcelona.
Anyhoo.
I was on the platform at my tube stop at about 6 p.m., heading to my London friend's house for dinner. In a good mood.
Looking forward to the evening; had had a good time at the Christmas party I told you about the night before.
Sitting on the platform, waiting for the train.
Had my purse with me, my umbrella, a lemon tart I was bringing (bought at Marks & Spencer's Food, which is quite good), and a magazine to read in a bag.
When I got onto the train, I had everything except my purse.
I noticed immediately, within seconds of getting on the train.
Did I leave it on the platform? Or did someone swipe it from me while I slipped it off my shoulder for a few minutes, waiting for the train?
Don't know for sure, but think the latter.
I got off at the next stop and ran to the office at the station and told them. They called back to my station and had someone go look for my bag on the platform, i.e. about five minutes after I had left.
Nothing.
I went back to my stop and ran up to the platform.
People were sitting at every seat. Nothing underneath the bench.
Started crying.
Had nothing.
No money, no Oyster card (to get out of the train), no phone, no house keys, everything gone.
Stood there crying for awhile, trying to figure out what to do, how to get into my house, how to contact my friend to tell her I wasn't coming, how to support me and my son until my husband gets home in 10 days with no money or cards.
My husband and I had gone to his bank to put me on his account just two weeks ago. We had just gotten around to making it a joint account, but it just hit me, while standing there crying, that nothing had come in the mail yet about it. And it should have.
I had his debit card, he's gone, so I hadn't really thought about it.
Until now.
Thankfully, my son was only about a half-hour walk away, seeing a movie not that far from our house. (He could've been anywhere in London). And he had his keys, and £40 I had given him that day.
So I ran to the movies to get the keys -- and some money.
Walked all the way there and all the way home (an hour) in the drizzle, without putting my umbrella up.
Too busy feeling sorry for myself to care about getting wet.
Pretty drenched by the time I got home. And still upset.
Called my friend and cried to her for a few minutes.
While we were talking, someone called her on her cell.
They had found my phone lying on the floor of a train (nowhere near where I had been) and were calling the last person I had texted. Which was her.
So I got my phone back.
Yey!
Spent an hour at the bank this morning trying to sort everything out. Got a friendly guy who took pity on me.
Helped me re-file the application for the joint account (which technically he shouldn't have, since my husband isn't here). It had gotten held up because of some silly thing.
Sent out a replacement card to my home address, which I should get in a few days, even though I wasn't officially on the account yet, and my husband, who's the account holder, is literally in the Amazon jungle. They wouldn't do that when I reported it lost on Saturday.
So hopefully, this week, I'll have a new debit card so I can access the account.
Sometimes I wonder if I can keep writing to you.
Don't mothers say that if you can't say anything good, you shouldn't say anything at all?
(My mother never said that. She was Italian. Italians don't agree with the above statement).
But I bet Brits do.
Anyway, I would like to just tell you nice things, make you laugh, entertain you.
But shit just keeps happening to me.
Is it my fault?
Bad karma?
Saturday 5 December 2009
The Christmas Party
Went to the Christmas party at my freelance company last night. My son went too, with his group of half-a-dozen interns.
At first, before I got there, I felt like kind of a traitor -- and an interloper.
How many Christmas parties had I done at my last company? A dozen? I mean, that's the Christmas party I went to for years.
And then, do I really belong at this company's Christmas party? I'm only guaranteed a couple days of work a week these days, although this month because of vacations, I've gotten twice that.
Is that Christmas Party-worth?
But it's a friendly, young office, and everyone was asking who was going, encouraging people to go. And the interns were definitely going -- free drinks on a Friday night? -- so yeah, why not?
What a fun party.
So much better than the mostly dreary affairs at my old newspaper, where careers were more on the agenda than fun.
Maybe it's because I don't really care anymore. Not sure.
Or maybe they just know how to throw a good party here.
Anyway, it was a d.j.-hosted event with a dance floor in central London -- and I think the bar was free all night.
First good thing.
Dancing and drinking in a cool bar near work on a Friday night.
At my newspaper, the Christmas party was always held on a Sunday afternoon right before Christmas at someone's house.
Can you imagine a worse time?
Two Sundays before Christmas, you gotta give over a Sunday afternoon to work?
And then, it was almost always pot-luck, so you also had to bring something too -- and worry about that.
They divided it up -- some people brought appetizers, some desserts, main course dishes, drinks, the whole thing.
And then stand around and talk to each other for a couple awkward hours when everyone wanted -- and actually needed at that time of year -- to be somewhere else doing something else.
Lots of career-tuning going on, too, since the big bosses always showed up.
And then everyone encouraged to bring their spouses, all of whom felt pretty out of place, usually knowing no one.
Not that much fun usually.
Back to this Christmas party.
Started right after work on a Friday night. Good time. Everyone in the mood.
Still three weeks until Christmas. Nobody gave a shit about Christmas. Also good.
Free bar, and some finger food, so restricted to company employees. Spouses and significant others not invited. Also good, although dangerous with enough booze. But definitely entertaining to watch.
Lots of very attractive young girls work at this television company I'm freelancing at. I'm talking some real beauties. And the men, much much fewer in number, seem mostly to be married.
And British Christmas parties, I'm learning, are all about getting drunk -- and verging over into the inappropriate.
So, especially for a voyeur like me, REALLY entertaining to watch.
It was good to have my son there, so I could go and hang out with him and his intern group now and again. They're all a gas, all in their mid-twenties, all fresh, cute and smart.
Weird, though, too, in a way, to have him there. Have never been to a dancing/drinking party with my son actually. Fun to watch him too.
Everyone danced. Drank. Some did karaoke. All fun.
At one point, I was standing around with my son and his group, standing next to my son at that point (I didn't hang out with him much, but at that moment, I was), and he had his arm casually on my shoulder and I was looking up at him (he's really tall). We were all laughing.
One of the key women at the company came up to me later, a bit tipsy, put her arm around me, and whispered, conspiratorially: "Daniela, don't go the intern route. It doesn't lead to anywhere good."
It took me, also tipsy at that point, a minute to figure out what she was saying.
Then it hit me. She thought I was hitting on my son. Had no idea he was my son.
Most people in the big room that is the office there know by now, but this woman hadn't been around much lately, traveling probably, and had just come back that day after a few weeks, I had noticed. She's someone you notice.
Her comment: Priceless. Pee-in-your-pants funny.
Especially after a few drinks.
At first, before I got there, I felt like kind of a traitor -- and an interloper.
How many Christmas parties had I done at my last company? A dozen? I mean, that's the Christmas party I went to for years.
And then, do I really belong at this company's Christmas party? I'm only guaranteed a couple days of work a week these days, although this month because of vacations, I've gotten twice that.
Is that Christmas Party-worth?
But it's a friendly, young office, and everyone was asking who was going, encouraging people to go. And the interns were definitely going -- free drinks on a Friday night? -- so yeah, why not?
What a fun party.
So much better than the mostly dreary affairs at my old newspaper, where careers were more on the agenda than fun.
Maybe it's because I don't really care anymore. Not sure.
Or maybe they just know how to throw a good party here.
Anyway, it was a d.j.-hosted event with a dance floor in central London -- and I think the bar was free all night.
First good thing.
Dancing and drinking in a cool bar near work on a Friday night.
At my newspaper, the Christmas party was always held on a Sunday afternoon right before Christmas at someone's house.
Can you imagine a worse time?
Two Sundays before Christmas, you gotta give over a Sunday afternoon to work?
And then, it was almost always pot-luck, so you also had to bring something too -- and worry about that.
They divided it up -- some people brought appetizers, some desserts, main course dishes, drinks, the whole thing.
And then stand around and talk to each other for a couple awkward hours when everyone wanted -- and actually needed at that time of year -- to be somewhere else doing something else.
Lots of career-tuning going on, too, since the big bosses always showed up.
And then everyone encouraged to bring their spouses, all of whom felt pretty out of place, usually knowing no one.
Not that much fun usually.
Back to this Christmas party.
Started right after work on a Friday night. Good time. Everyone in the mood.
Still three weeks until Christmas. Nobody gave a shit about Christmas. Also good.
Free bar, and some finger food, so restricted to company employees. Spouses and significant others not invited. Also good, although dangerous with enough booze. But definitely entertaining to watch.
Lots of very attractive young girls work at this television company I'm freelancing at. I'm talking some real beauties. And the men, much much fewer in number, seem mostly to be married.
And British Christmas parties, I'm learning, are all about getting drunk -- and verging over into the inappropriate.
So, especially for a voyeur like me, REALLY entertaining to watch.
It was good to have my son there, so I could go and hang out with him and his intern group now and again. They're all a gas, all in their mid-twenties, all fresh, cute and smart.
Weird, though, too, in a way, to have him there. Have never been to a dancing/drinking party with my son actually. Fun to watch him too.
Everyone danced. Drank. Some did karaoke. All fun.
At one point, I was standing around with my son and his group, standing next to my son at that point (I didn't hang out with him much, but at that moment, I was), and he had his arm casually on my shoulder and I was looking up at him (he's really tall). We were all laughing.
One of the key women at the company came up to me later, a bit tipsy, put her arm around me, and whispered, conspiratorially: "Daniela, don't go the intern route. It doesn't lead to anywhere good."
It took me, also tipsy at that point, a minute to figure out what she was saying.
Then it hit me. She thought I was hitting on my son. Had no idea he was my son.
Most people in the big room that is the office there know by now, but this woman hadn't been around much lately, traveling probably, and had just come back that day after a few weeks, I had noticed. She's someone you notice.
Her comment: Priceless. Pee-in-your-pants funny.
Especially after a few drinks.
Wednesday 2 December 2009
Running out of Time Already
It's almost 11 p.m. here now and I'm finally getting down to writing you.
Amazing how working just takes all your friggin' time.
Eight or more hours in the working day. And then here, I gotta leave an hour each way to get there, although today, luckily enough, we got there in about 45 minutes and snagged two seats the whole way.
You just never can tell with the Tube.
My son says it's all about how many trains come.
Duh.
Anyway, so that's ten hours at least.
Then we got delivery Chinese for dinner tonight. So didn't even cook.
But we called my youngest son -- and talked to him for quite awhile.
Ate dinner.
Had a couple errands to tend to.
Watched an episode of a television series on Queen Elizabeth II that I'm enjoying.
And that's about it for today.
Time for bed.
And start over tomorrow.
This is the problem with working.
It's about all you can fit in really.
But then, you don't have time to dwell on anything else. Or do much else.
You get up, go to work, work all day, come home, and that's your life.
So you don't need to get a life.
Because that is your life.
Amazing how working just takes all your friggin' time.
Eight or more hours in the working day. And then here, I gotta leave an hour each way to get there, although today, luckily enough, we got there in about 45 minutes and snagged two seats the whole way.
You just never can tell with the Tube.
My son says it's all about how many trains come.
Duh.
Anyway, so that's ten hours at least.
Then we got delivery Chinese for dinner tonight. So didn't even cook.
But we called my youngest son -- and talked to him for quite awhile.
Ate dinner.
Had a couple errands to tend to.
Watched an episode of a television series on Queen Elizabeth II that I'm enjoying.
And that's about it for today.
Time for bed.
And start over tomorrow.
This is the problem with working.
It's about all you can fit in really.
But then, you don't have time to dwell on anything else. Or do much else.
You get up, go to work, work all day, come home, and that's your life.
So you don't need to get a life.
Because that is your life.
Tuesday 1 December 2009
Keep the Home Fires Burning
My husband left London today on a long work trip.
That in itself isn't unusual. He's traveled extensively for work throughout our marriage.
But he hadn't traveled from here yet.
Because he had traveled so much the year before we moved here, and because we had just moved here, he told them he didn't want to travel for awhile.
But now, 10 months later, it was too good of a trip to pass up.
And the time has come.
I didn't used to care that much when he traveled back in the States. I had so much to do -- my newspaper job, my teenagers, my house, my aging mother, my beloved dog. I went to bed early when he was gone. Felt good.
I remember the British wives of the guys who worked with my husband would hate it when their husbands traveled out of Washington, though, especially if they had no kids.
They were out of their element, and alone there, without a life. I felt sorry for them.
I guess I'm them now.
Even though my son is here with me now. Thank God. For another few weeks.
And I do have a sorta job. Which I sorta like.
Nothing like my old job though.
Nothing like my old commute.
Nothing like my old life.
This evening, as my husband was jetting off to South America, and I was jamming onto the packed Tube train after work, I could see myself on his next trip, maybe a couple months from now, who knows. Without my son.
There's always another trip to go on.
And me, at this job, I guess. They've given me four days a week for the next three weeks now. So I've got lots of strap-hanging coming now.
I'm lucky to have anything, though, in this shitty economy.
Even though everyone is at least 20 years younger than me there, in experience too. Which kinda hurts. I could've done the job 25 years ago too.
But we need the money, like most people nowadays. Not finished paying for college. Not old enough to retire. Even though I retired from the one job that meant the most to me in life.
This gig here will keep me from going to Italy, I can see that.
Because I'll feel I have to work. Because my husband is working. Because we need the money to live in this expensive city.
Tonight, I just felt tired.
I want to go to South America.
Or somewhere.
Do something fun.
This move has been no fun at all.
Is that my fault? I'm willing to take responsibility if it is.
I guess I'm supposed to keep the home fires burning.
Like I always did.
Not sure I want to.
Without him here, I really don't know what I'm doing here.
That in itself isn't unusual. He's traveled extensively for work throughout our marriage.
But he hadn't traveled from here yet.
Because he had traveled so much the year before we moved here, and because we had just moved here, he told them he didn't want to travel for awhile.
But now, 10 months later, it was too good of a trip to pass up.
And the time has come.
I didn't used to care that much when he traveled back in the States. I had so much to do -- my newspaper job, my teenagers, my house, my aging mother, my beloved dog. I went to bed early when he was gone. Felt good.
I remember the British wives of the guys who worked with my husband would hate it when their husbands traveled out of Washington, though, especially if they had no kids.
They were out of their element, and alone there, without a life. I felt sorry for them.
I guess I'm them now.
Even though my son is here with me now. Thank God. For another few weeks.
And I do have a sorta job. Which I sorta like.
Nothing like my old job though.
Nothing like my old commute.
Nothing like my old life.
This evening, as my husband was jetting off to South America, and I was jamming onto the packed Tube train after work, I could see myself on his next trip, maybe a couple months from now, who knows. Without my son.
There's always another trip to go on.
And me, at this job, I guess. They've given me four days a week for the next three weeks now. So I've got lots of strap-hanging coming now.
I'm lucky to have anything, though, in this shitty economy.
Even though everyone is at least 20 years younger than me there, in experience too. Which kinda hurts. I could've done the job 25 years ago too.
But we need the money, like most people nowadays. Not finished paying for college. Not old enough to retire. Even though I retired from the one job that meant the most to me in life.
This gig here will keep me from going to Italy, I can see that.
Because I'll feel I have to work. Because my husband is working. Because we need the money to live in this expensive city.
Tonight, I just felt tired.
I want to go to South America.
Or somewhere.
Do something fun.
This move has been no fun at all.
Is that my fault? I'm willing to take responsibility if it is.
I guess I'm supposed to keep the home fires burning.
Like I always did.
Not sure I want to.
Without him here, I really don't know what I'm doing here.
Monday 30 November 2009
Rainy London
It's been raining. Along with that wind, we had a helluva lot rain this weekend.
Pouring really.
It ruins stuff when it just keeps raining.
We were going to walk to the movies on Saturday night. It's a nice, half-hour walk to our local cinema, all flat, all along the high road.
London's pretty much all flat, which is really good for walking and cycling.
Anyway, couldn't do that, had to drive and hassle for a parking space, because it was just coming down in buckets when we went out to go.
And then it proceeded to come down pretty much all night long.
The last two mornings when we've woken up it's been pouring too. Rain pelting our attic bedroom windows.
This morning, not wanting to get up and not having to work, I worried about my son walking to the Tube station since all he has is one of those small black, collapsable umbrellas (the kind I keep losing ) -- and he's a big guy.
But then it actually stopped raining for a few minutes right when he had to walk to the station, so he was good.
And then it finally cleared up this afternoon. After two solid days of rain.
That's the thing here.
You give up hoping that it will clear up.
You don't give it a chance really.
Once it starts raining like that, you just think that's it.
And giving up hope is never good.
Because at a certain point, it actually does stop raining.
Pouring really.
It ruins stuff when it just keeps raining.
We were going to walk to the movies on Saturday night. It's a nice, half-hour walk to our local cinema, all flat, all along the high road.
London's pretty much all flat, which is really good for walking and cycling.
Anyway, couldn't do that, had to drive and hassle for a parking space, because it was just coming down in buckets when we went out to go.
And then it proceeded to come down pretty much all night long.
The last two mornings when we've woken up it's been pouring too. Rain pelting our attic bedroom windows.
This morning, not wanting to get up and not having to work, I worried about my son walking to the Tube station since all he has is one of those small black, collapsable umbrellas (the kind I keep losing ) -- and he's a big guy.
But then it actually stopped raining for a few minutes right when he had to walk to the station, so he was good.
And then it finally cleared up this afternoon. After two solid days of rain.
That's the thing here.
You give up hoping that it will clear up.
You don't give it a chance really.
Once it starts raining like that, you just think that's it.
And giving up hope is never good.
Because at a certain point, it actually does stop raining.
Friday 27 November 2009
Wind
It's been blowing a gale here, folks.
Serious wind.
And it's changed our night life for the past few days.
Our bedroom is the attic of this old house. It's got three big windows carved into the roof.
It's our favorite room in the flat. It's what convinced us to rent the place. The room is big and flooded with light from the three windows.
I love having the windows open up there, and since it's generally the warmest place in the house, at the top there, that's not a problem. The windows are new and wooden and swivel all the way around, so they're easy to keep clean (gotta have clean windows here).
Out of the biggest of the three, while we're lying in bed, we watch the planes flying in and out of Heathrow -- and just the sky, really, which usually has quite a show going on here.
Out another, you see the gabled tops of the identical row of old houses across the street. And from the third, the back line of a row of brick houses from above, with their neat back gardens -- all tidy, symmetrical and equal.
When it rains, the rain plops right on top of the windows, right above you somehow. So you always know when it's raining if you're up there.
I like to have one particular window open at night.
But lately, it's just been too windy.
For the first time since we got here.
Blowing a gale.
The wind has been rattling the door of our bedroom, which one night, woke us up all night long until finally, we figured out we had to shut ourselves in to make it stop.
It also jars the two little trap-like doors to the loft, a big storage area, another reason we thought this flat wasn't too bad when we rented it.
I can feel the wind dropping now, after several days.
Good.
We can have the window open tonight.
Serious wind.
And it's changed our night life for the past few days.
Our bedroom is the attic of this old house. It's got three big windows carved into the roof.
It's our favorite room in the flat. It's what convinced us to rent the place. The room is big and flooded with light from the three windows.
I love having the windows open up there, and since it's generally the warmest place in the house, at the top there, that's not a problem. The windows are new and wooden and swivel all the way around, so they're easy to keep clean (gotta have clean windows here).
Out of the biggest of the three, while we're lying in bed, we watch the planes flying in and out of Heathrow -- and just the sky, really, which usually has quite a show going on here.
Out another, you see the gabled tops of the identical row of old houses across the street. And from the third, the back line of a row of brick houses from above, with their neat back gardens -- all tidy, symmetrical and equal.
When it rains, the rain plops right on top of the windows, right above you somehow. So you always know when it's raining if you're up there.
I like to have one particular window open at night.
But lately, it's just been too windy.
For the first time since we got here.
Blowing a gale.
The wind has been rattling the door of our bedroom, which one night, woke us up all night long until finally, we figured out we had to shut ourselves in to make it stop.
It also jars the two little trap-like doors to the loft, a big storage area, another reason we thought this flat wasn't too bad when we rented it.
I can feel the wind dropping now, after several days.
Good.
We can have the window open tonight.
Thursday 26 November 2009
Thanksgiving
Doesn't feel like Thanksgiving at all.
If we were home, the turkey would be roasting in the oven now, filling the house with its aroma. TV would be on, with football on its way.
The boys would be lying around the living room, waiting for the big chow-down, on their lap-tops, listening to their iPods -- the usual. Lots of Thanksgivings, we had guests. My husband and I would both be off work, in the kitchen.
Instead, I'm here alone in our kitchen, writing to you. My husband's at work. And my son's at his internship.
I could've done it myself, mind you. I mean I'm off, so I could've cooked a turkey and the three of us could've had it when they got home from work. My husband's coming home pretty early today, too, so he could've still done a lot of it, which he does brilliantly. (The Brits are amazing at roasting. That's their thing.)
But when my son said some young Americans from work had invited him to go out with them to a Thanksgiving do and did we mind if he went because he kinda fancied it, we really didn't.
But when he set off this morning in his football jersey (yes, he wore a Redskins jersey to work. But I think it's okay, because it is an American company, and Thanksgiving is nothing without football, as every American knows), the memories of Thanksgivings past came flooding back.
He was all excited though. At 23, you do not get bogged down by nostalgia. At least he doesn't.
And he knows people in the office will be talking to him just because he's wearing it. Which is always kinda fun. He can talk about the Redskins all day -- and how shitty they're playing this year.
My husband and I might go have sushi tonight.
It's our anniversary, if you can believe that. At least the one we celebrate. The day we met, and started dating.
31 Thanksgivings ago today.
My God. What we've been through.
He didn't know what Thanksgiving even was that day. He just got invited by an American woman we both knew and turned up in the evening, hours beyond when we ate, with a bunch of other people prepared for some big American "nosh-up," as he says.
Most of the food was gone by the time he got there.
But I was still there.
31 years.
An eternity.
Our entire lives.
And this has been our hardest year.
If we were home, the turkey would be roasting in the oven now, filling the house with its aroma. TV would be on, with football on its way.
The boys would be lying around the living room, waiting for the big chow-down, on their lap-tops, listening to their iPods -- the usual. Lots of Thanksgivings, we had guests. My husband and I would both be off work, in the kitchen.
Instead, I'm here alone in our kitchen, writing to you. My husband's at work. And my son's at his internship.
I could've done it myself, mind you. I mean I'm off, so I could've cooked a turkey and the three of us could've had it when they got home from work. My husband's coming home pretty early today, too, so he could've still done a lot of it, which he does brilliantly. (The Brits are amazing at roasting. That's their thing.)
But when my son said some young Americans from work had invited him to go out with them to a Thanksgiving do and did we mind if he went because he kinda fancied it, we really didn't.
But when he set off this morning in his football jersey (yes, he wore a Redskins jersey to work. But I think it's okay, because it is an American company, and Thanksgiving is nothing without football, as every American knows), the memories of Thanksgivings past came flooding back.
He was all excited though. At 23, you do not get bogged down by nostalgia. At least he doesn't.
And he knows people in the office will be talking to him just because he's wearing it. Which is always kinda fun. He can talk about the Redskins all day -- and how shitty they're playing this year.
My husband and I might go have sushi tonight.
It's our anniversary, if you can believe that. At least the one we celebrate. The day we met, and started dating.
31 Thanksgivings ago today.
My God. What we've been through.
He didn't know what Thanksgiving even was that day. He just got invited by an American woman we both knew and turned up in the evening, hours beyond when we ate, with a bunch of other people prepared for some big American "nosh-up," as he says.
Most of the food was gone by the time he got there.
But I was still there.
31 years.
An eternity.
Our entire lives.
And this has been our hardest year.
Tuesday 24 November 2009
I admit it
Okay, it's official. I'm depressed.
Why else would I be sitting here writing to you at the crack of dawn? And often awake and panicked at the first break of light?
And anyway, if a guy says it, it must be true, right?
Read a moving first-person story yesterday in one of the British newspapers about a successful writer, husband and father of four kids who fell into a deep depression after moving to a big house in the country. (Not another country, folks, just THE country. I bet he still kept his car and his sofa.)
Anyway, it was a lovely, poignant story, because he told the truth. How he was embarassed to admit it, because so many people are dealing with huge economic issues now (like getting kicked out of their houses) and life-threatening illnesses.
I know exactly what he meant. That's how I've been feeling.
Not wanting to admit how I feel to anybody, making it feel even worse and more isolating, because, yes, people are dealing with life-threatening illnesses.
And I know my life-threatening illnesses. I buried two elderly parents not that long ago (by myself, pretty much) and saw my husband through one. I was on a first-name basis with my local hospital for quite awhile back in the States.
So yeah, that's such a hard battle, I know.
So I apologize to anyone who's reading this who has a life-threatening illness. I'm so sorry for your pain.
But then he wrote about his symptoms.
How he felt he had lost his moorings, how the rug of stability and comfort had been pulled out from under him.
Yep. That's my flying carpet that's never gonna land feeling.
How he woke up panicking every morning, and crying.
Yep. Yep.
How his heart raced in anxiety and fear for the future, particularly in the early morning.
Check.
How he felt there was no escaping it, no out.
How he withdrew from people he knew who probably wanted to help.
Check. Check. Check.
So. Now what?
The guy in the story had a complete collapse one night and his (loving and supportive) wife took him to the GP, where they put him under the care of a psychiatrist, and got him on the happy meds.
And then slowly he began to feel better. And now he's much better, seeing the joy in his life again. And that's why he was writing the story.
I could feel a book coming as I read. Why is it that millions of women are depresssed and it's just normal everyday shit and then when guys admit it, you can feel the six-figure book advance check landing as you read?
Is male depression somehow more dramatic? Or is it just that when they admit it, just that fact in itself is book-worthy?
Anyway, he was advocating the meds, to help one get over the hump, just for awhile, to jump-start your brain.
Don't want to go on any meds.
Think that my problem is situational.
Gave up too much.
For too little in return.
Don't like it here enough.
Too old to waste time living in places I don't like that much.
Want to get going with creating my next life in a place I want to create it. In my own house that I can make nice, like I like to do.
That's got a living room big enough for a Christmas tree -- and my two sons.
Get a car. Get a comfy sofa. Get a life.
I don't know. Stop feeling like this.
Why else would I be sitting here writing to you at the crack of dawn? And often awake and panicked at the first break of light?
And anyway, if a guy says it, it must be true, right?
Read a moving first-person story yesterday in one of the British newspapers about a successful writer, husband and father of four kids who fell into a deep depression after moving to a big house in the country. (Not another country, folks, just THE country. I bet he still kept his car and his sofa.)
Anyway, it was a lovely, poignant story, because he told the truth. How he was embarassed to admit it, because so many people are dealing with huge economic issues now (like getting kicked out of their houses) and life-threatening illnesses.
I know exactly what he meant. That's how I've been feeling.
Not wanting to admit how I feel to anybody, making it feel even worse and more isolating, because, yes, people are dealing with life-threatening illnesses.
And I know my life-threatening illnesses. I buried two elderly parents not that long ago (by myself, pretty much) and saw my husband through one. I was on a first-name basis with my local hospital for quite awhile back in the States.
So yeah, that's such a hard battle, I know.
So I apologize to anyone who's reading this who has a life-threatening illness. I'm so sorry for your pain.
But then he wrote about his symptoms.
How he felt he had lost his moorings, how the rug of stability and comfort had been pulled out from under him.
Yep. That's my flying carpet that's never gonna land feeling.
How he woke up panicking every morning, and crying.
Yep. Yep.
How his heart raced in anxiety and fear for the future, particularly in the early morning.
Check.
How he felt there was no escaping it, no out.
How he withdrew from people he knew who probably wanted to help.
Check. Check. Check.
So. Now what?
The guy in the story had a complete collapse one night and his (loving and supportive) wife took him to the GP, where they put him under the care of a psychiatrist, and got him on the happy meds.
And then slowly he began to feel better. And now he's much better, seeing the joy in his life again. And that's why he was writing the story.
I could feel a book coming as I read. Why is it that millions of women are depresssed and it's just normal everyday shit and then when guys admit it, you can feel the six-figure book advance check landing as you read?
Is male depression somehow more dramatic? Or is it just that when they admit it, just that fact in itself is book-worthy?
Anyway, he was advocating the meds, to help one get over the hump, just for awhile, to jump-start your brain.
Don't want to go on any meds.
Think that my problem is situational.
Gave up too much.
For too little in return.
Don't like it here enough.
Too old to waste time living in places I don't like that much.
Want to get going with creating my next life in a place I want to create it. In my own house that I can make nice, like I like to do.
That's got a living room big enough for a Christmas tree -- and my two sons.
Get a car. Get a comfy sofa. Get a life.
I don't know. Stop feeling like this.
Another umbrella?
How many umbrellas can one person lose?
I mean really.
I'm up to about half a dozen now.
All little, collapsable black ones -- the ones that slip in your handbag.
Because you've got to have an umbrella here. Because you never know when it's going to be raining.
And despite what I said about it not raining that much (which it actually hasn't, in British terms), it still feels like it's rained a helluva lot. For me anyway.
But then I'm Italian.
Where it's hardly rained at all.
I keep leaving them on the Tube mostly. Or at the station, I guess, when I'm reading my free paper.
Even though I always tell myself when I put the dripping thing down, that this time, I'm just not going to forget it.
But then I do.
Geez.
And no way can you carry a big umbrella around all day.
So gotta get another one, just like all the other ones.
Before I realized that they sell them everywhere -- and that the price fluctuates madly -- I paid £14 for one, which is about $20. Lately, I was down to about £4.
When I got off work today, it was raining. Well, drizzling really. And it's a 10-minute walk to the Tube either way. So I got wet.
When I stepped outside the building and noticed it was raining, I told another woman standing there bundling up about how I keep leaving umbrellas everywhere.
And how I was friggin' sick of it.
She said I gotta go to the lost and found at the Tube station and tell them I've lost a black collapsable small umbrella.
They'll have hundreds of them, she said.
No problem.
I mean really.
I'm up to about half a dozen now.
All little, collapsable black ones -- the ones that slip in your handbag.
Because you've got to have an umbrella here. Because you never know when it's going to be raining.
And despite what I said about it not raining that much (which it actually hasn't, in British terms), it still feels like it's rained a helluva lot. For me anyway.
But then I'm Italian.
Where it's hardly rained at all.
I keep leaving them on the Tube mostly. Or at the station, I guess, when I'm reading my free paper.
Even though I always tell myself when I put the dripping thing down, that this time, I'm just not going to forget it.
But then I do.
Geez.
And no way can you carry a big umbrella around all day.
So gotta get another one, just like all the other ones.
Before I realized that they sell them everywhere -- and that the price fluctuates madly -- I paid £14 for one, which is about $20. Lately, I was down to about £4.
When I got off work today, it was raining. Well, drizzling really. And it's a 10-minute walk to the Tube either way. So I got wet.
When I stepped outside the building and noticed it was raining, I told another woman standing there bundling up about how I keep leaving umbrellas everywhere.
And how I was friggin' sick of it.
She said I gotta go to the lost and found at the Tube station and tell them I've lost a black collapsable small umbrella.
They'll have hundreds of them, she said.
No problem.
Monday 23 November 2009
Spin it dry, baby
America is the land of dryers.
Dryers. Just the word could make me orgasm.
If you don't have a dryer in the States -- and you're 55 years old like me -- boy, are you down on your luck.
Even some of the shittiest rentals have dryers in the States. And people always have access to a dryer somewhere -- at the laundromat, their apartment building's communal dryers, their mommy's house, wherever they're doing their laundry.
Because a dryer is fundamental to doing laundry in the States.
Not here.
Some people I know here have dryers -- but choose not to use them.
Imagine that. In a damp country like this.
Unthinkable where I come from.
In Italy, people don't have dryers either. But there, they have sun.
We've got what they call a washer-dryer in this flat.
Does both. Sure.
When I told one of my American friends, she said, "yeah, a washer-dryer. Doesn't wash; doesn't dry."
Ha ha ha.
Tried the drying cycle once. It involved water, as far as I could tell, which seemed counter-intuitive. But what do I know?
Clothes came out like shit. Didn't use it again.
Wash everything on the delicate cycle. That seems to come out the best.
And then hang it up on a clothes dryer in the spare room.
Need to do a load almost every day with the three of us.
One, because some of the stuff takes a couple days to dry.
Two, because there's not a lot of room on the clothes dryer. (Or the spare room).
I also drape jeans and sheets and towels and bathmats all over the banisters for all those steep steps we've got. You should see the place when I wash the sheets. Looks like a gypsy camp.
Would love to stay and chat with you.
But just heard the washer click off.
Gotta hang today's load.
Dryers. Just the word could make me orgasm.
If you don't have a dryer in the States -- and you're 55 years old like me -- boy, are you down on your luck.
Even some of the shittiest rentals have dryers in the States. And people always have access to a dryer somewhere -- at the laundromat, their apartment building's communal dryers, their mommy's house, wherever they're doing their laundry.
Because a dryer is fundamental to doing laundry in the States.
Not here.
Some people I know here have dryers -- but choose not to use them.
Imagine that. In a damp country like this.
Unthinkable where I come from.
In Italy, people don't have dryers either. But there, they have sun.
We've got what they call a washer-dryer in this flat.
Does both. Sure.
When I told one of my American friends, she said, "yeah, a washer-dryer. Doesn't wash; doesn't dry."
Ha ha ha.
Tried the drying cycle once. It involved water, as far as I could tell, which seemed counter-intuitive. But what do I know?
Clothes came out like shit. Didn't use it again.
Wash everything on the delicate cycle. That seems to come out the best.
And then hang it up on a clothes dryer in the spare room.
Need to do a load almost every day with the three of us.
One, because some of the stuff takes a couple days to dry.
Two, because there's not a lot of room on the clothes dryer. (Or the spare room).
I also drape jeans and sheets and towels and bathmats all over the banisters for all those steep steps we've got. You should see the place when I wash the sheets. Looks like a gypsy camp.
Would love to stay and chat with you.
But just heard the washer click off.
Gotta hang today's load.
Friday 20 November 2009
British stairs
Are the knees the first to go?
My knees feel creaky. It can hurt to walk up the steep stairs in our flat here.
We have two sets of steep steps, one as soon as you walk in to get to the main level of the apartment and then another set leading to our attic bedroom.
This morning, before dawn, I slipped down the stairs from our bedroom as I was coming down to turn the heating down. I was hot.
And I slipped. And I'll get bruises on the back of my thighs.
Anyway, I may be getting too old for steep steps.
The house we were lucky to have sold in the States was all on one level -- a rambler. Our bedroom, the kitchen, the living room, dining room, kids' rooms -- all on the same floor. Downstairs was the basement and the laundry room. After the boys' left for college, days would go by without us going down there.
I remember when we bought it, 12 years ago, my husband liked it because it was all on one floor, saying it's easy to be all on one level.
I remember thinking that was absurd at the time, considering we were in our early 40s with school-aged boys. And then I kinda hankered after a Colonial, with its stairs right when you walk in.
Now, that we've sold our house, and we live in a flat with not one, but two sets of steep steps (why?), I know what he means.
It was really nice to be on one level.
I miss it.
And I think it's my future.
My knees feel creaky. It can hurt to walk up the steep stairs in our flat here.
We have two sets of steep steps, one as soon as you walk in to get to the main level of the apartment and then another set leading to our attic bedroom.
This morning, before dawn, I slipped down the stairs from our bedroom as I was coming down to turn the heating down. I was hot.
And I slipped. And I'll get bruises on the back of my thighs.
Anyway, I may be getting too old for steep steps.
The house we were lucky to have sold in the States was all on one level -- a rambler. Our bedroom, the kitchen, the living room, dining room, kids' rooms -- all on the same floor. Downstairs was the basement and the laundry room. After the boys' left for college, days would go by without us going down there.
I remember when we bought it, 12 years ago, my husband liked it because it was all on one floor, saying it's easy to be all on one level.
I remember thinking that was absurd at the time, considering we were in our early 40s with school-aged boys. And then I kinda hankered after a Colonial, with its stairs right when you walk in.
Now, that we've sold our house, and we live in a flat with not one, but two sets of steep steps (why?), I know what he means.
It was really nice to be on one level.
I miss it.
And I think it's my future.
Thursday 19 November 2009
Don't Know Anything
Today I feel the exact opposite about working.
I feel tied down now, like I can't go to Italy anymore for very long, because I have to work two days a week here at a freelance job in London, a job that really is a helluva lot worse than the job I used to have in the States.
But I guess I'm lucky to have anything, right? And I need the money, right?
But two days a week is hardly anything.
But then maybe it's too much.
I don't know.
I don't know anything.
I used to know stuff.
Every since I moved here, I know nothing.
I don't know what to do.
I don't think I'm happy here.
But I have no idea what to do about it.
I don't know anything anymore.
I feel tied down now, like I can't go to Italy anymore for very long, because I have to work two days a week here at a freelance job in London, a job that really is a helluva lot worse than the job I used to have in the States.
But I guess I'm lucky to have anything, right? And I need the money, right?
But two days a week is hardly anything.
But then maybe it's too much.
I don't know.
I don't know anything.
I used to know stuff.
Every since I moved here, I know nothing.
I don't know what to do.
I don't think I'm happy here.
But I have no idea what to do about it.
I don't know anything anymore.
Wednesday 18 November 2009
Working
I've said it before. I'm going to say it again.
Working makes you feel good.
It gives you a purpose. And if work is good, it makes life better, fuller.
But if you work too much, or if work isn't good, it takes over. And stresses you out. And makes you sick. And leaves no time for anything else.
Not good.
So it's all about getting the right balance. And maybe not caring that much.
This may be my chance to get it right. If I play it right.
Maybe.
I just finished my two day's work this week. Work was good, but the Tube journey was hard both days. Trains delayed, lots of squishing and waiting for the next train.
This morning, my son and I got there late after our train died. And they had to send another. Commuting is often hard.
So I've had actually had enough for this week, if truth be told. Even though another day's money would certainly come in handy.
Tomorrow, there's old ladies yoga at the same place that does the old ladies pilates. So may do that.
Nice to have the day off when everyone's working.
But then nice to work too.
You don't enjoy your time off if you're always off.
They want me to work a bit more the next month, to cover for a colleague who's going back to the States for an extended vacation.
So I'll average three days a week this coming month. Three days may be the magic number.
But then I'm going to take a month off, I told them.
My youngest is coming for 10 days at Christmas.
And then I'm going to Italy to settle my eldest in for his Rome internship.
Really want to spend some time in Italy now. Been away almost two months now, which feels like a lot. Left precipitously when my freelance job unexpectedly emailed.
Working.
Can't live without it. Can't live with it.
Working makes you feel good.
It gives you a purpose. And if work is good, it makes life better, fuller.
But if you work too much, or if work isn't good, it takes over. And stresses you out. And makes you sick. And leaves no time for anything else.
Not good.
So it's all about getting the right balance. And maybe not caring that much.
This may be my chance to get it right. If I play it right.
Maybe.
I just finished my two day's work this week. Work was good, but the Tube journey was hard both days. Trains delayed, lots of squishing and waiting for the next train.
This morning, my son and I got there late after our train died. And they had to send another. Commuting is often hard.
So I've had actually had enough for this week, if truth be told. Even though another day's money would certainly come in handy.
Tomorrow, there's old ladies yoga at the same place that does the old ladies pilates. So may do that.
Nice to have the day off when everyone's working.
But then nice to work too.
You don't enjoy your time off if you're always off.
They want me to work a bit more the next month, to cover for a colleague who's going back to the States for an extended vacation.
So I'll average three days a week this coming month. Three days may be the magic number.
But then I'm going to take a month off, I told them.
My youngest is coming for 10 days at Christmas.
And then I'm going to Italy to settle my eldest in for his Rome internship.
Really want to spend some time in Italy now. Been away almost two months now, which feels like a lot. Left precipitously when my freelance job unexpectedly emailed.
Working.
Can't live without it. Can't live with it.
Monday 16 November 2009
The British High Street
There's something about a British high street that can lift any mood.
At least our high street can.
It's always a bustle of people. Hurrying along, in and out of the many cute little shops, picking up dinner, dry cleaning, flowers, going to and from work -- it's always full of folks.
And colorful.
A lot of restaurants, cafes and bars have tables outside -- and it's not like they give up on it in the winter.
Far from it.
Brits still sit outside whenever they can. In Italy, they've long brought the tables in.
Here, they've just put the outside heaters on overhead.
I'm wondering how long the restaurant and cafe tables will stay out. All winter? Nobody seems to have brought theirs in yet. And we've had gales blowing a couple days.
Anyway, besides the tables, there's always the fresh fruit and veg shops and stands that always display their bounty beautifully in baskets outside. With big bunches of fresh flowers nearby.
The high street just goes on for miles.
London is just one high street after another, linked together, one little village after the other.
Ours is really cute. We have a lot of adorable shops (expensive though usually). I notice a different one every time I walk down it. Lots of chain stores and restaurants too, but cute nevertheless.
This afternoon I walked to a Thai grocery store about a mile away that sells all Asian produce. I've found yummy Chinese dumplings there that you can steam at home.
Picked up some of those.
I love that you can get everything you want just right outside on the high street. Convenient too, since don't have a car anymore.
So, had a lovely long walk. It's all flat around here, which helps.
Million people out. All doing their thing.
Makes you feel part of things.
At least our high street can.
It's always a bustle of people. Hurrying along, in and out of the many cute little shops, picking up dinner, dry cleaning, flowers, going to and from work -- it's always full of folks.
And colorful.
A lot of restaurants, cafes and bars have tables outside -- and it's not like they give up on it in the winter.
Far from it.
Brits still sit outside whenever they can. In Italy, they've long brought the tables in.
Here, they've just put the outside heaters on overhead.
I'm wondering how long the restaurant and cafe tables will stay out. All winter? Nobody seems to have brought theirs in yet. And we've had gales blowing a couple days.
Anyway, besides the tables, there's always the fresh fruit and veg shops and stands that always display their bounty beautifully in baskets outside. With big bunches of fresh flowers nearby.
The high street just goes on for miles.
London is just one high street after another, linked together, one little village after the other.
Ours is really cute. We have a lot of adorable shops (expensive though usually). I notice a different one every time I walk down it. Lots of chain stores and restaurants too, but cute nevertheless.
This afternoon I walked to a Thai grocery store about a mile away that sells all Asian produce. I've found yummy Chinese dumplings there that you can steam at home.
Picked up some of those.
I love that you can get everything you want just right outside on the high street. Convenient too, since don't have a car anymore.
So, had a lovely long walk. It's all flat around here, which helps.
Million people out. All doing their thing.
Makes you feel part of things.
English rain
So much for it not raining much. Made up for it this weekend.
We had 80 mph gales and lashing rain for about 24 hours.
The big windows in this old house rattled and the inside doors banged and strained against the wind. Big raindrops plopped on our bedroom attic windows all night long, sometimes in a torrent, other times slow and fat.
No wonder Turner, so good at painting gales and massive waves and horizontal rain, was British. (Saw the Turner show yesterday at the Tate gallery near Westminster).
What other nationality could he have been?
I don't mind big weather like that.
It sweeps over the British isles and then goes on its way somewhere else.
It's the drizzle that drives me nuts.
When you don't really know if it's raining or not.
Well you do. But you don't want to admit it.
After the big rain, the drizzle set in.
My son and I were out in it.
I only had a big umbrella, which is stupid, of course, but I had misplaced my little one (or my three little ones) that fit into my bag.
For me, it was definitely raining.
When your hair is getting wet, and you're a woman, it's raining. Pretty simple.
All the women on the high street were under umbrellas, although admittedly their umbrellas were about a third of the size of mine.
My son insisted it wasn't raining.
Fine.
All the men in the street seemed to not be under umbrellas, shielding themselves behind flimsyly-upturned collars or pulled-up sweatshirt hoods instead.
This is a basic difference between men and women. Umbrellas.
Anyway, since my umbrella was so huge, I had to walk significantly behind my son -- or risk putting one of his eyes out.
And my hair got wet anyway -- and so quickly looked like shit -- because it got wet before I put my umbrella up.
While I too was saying it wasn't raining.
We had 80 mph gales and lashing rain for about 24 hours.
The big windows in this old house rattled and the inside doors banged and strained against the wind. Big raindrops plopped on our bedroom attic windows all night long, sometimes in a torrent, other times slow and fat.
No wonder Turner, so good at painting gales and massive waves and horizontal rain, was British. (Saw the Turner show yesterday at the Tate gallery near Westminster).
What other nationality could he have been?
I don't mind big weather like that.
It sweeps over the British isles and then goes on its way somewhere else.
It's the drizzle that drives me nuts.
When you don't really know if it's raining or not.
Well you do. But you don't want to admit it.
After the big rain, the drizzle set in.
My son and I were out in it.
I only had a big umbrella, which is stupid, of course, but I had misplaced my little one (or my three little ones) that fit into my bag.
For me, it was definitely raining.
When your hair is getting wet, and you're a woman, it's raining. Pretty simple.
All the women on the high street were under umbrellas, although admittedly their umbrellas were about a third of the size of mine.
My son insisted it wasn't raining.
Fine.
All the men in the street seemed to not be under umbrellas, shielding themselves behind flimsyly-upturned collars or pulled-up sweatshirt hoods instead.
This is a basic difference between men and women. Umbrellas.
Anyway, since my umbrella was so huge, I had to walk significantly behind my son -- or risk putting one of his eyes out.
And my hair got wet anyway -- and so quickly looked like shit -- because it got wet before I put my umbrella up.
While I too was saying it wasn't raining.
Friday 13 November 2009
Friday night
The Tube is such a strange creature.
You never know what it's going to be like.
Are you going to be squished like a sardine, with your back up against the doors, like my son and I were going into town the other day? Or are you going to get to sit down and read your free paper in peace?
Hard to predict.
Do not see rhyme or reason to it yet. Depends on how quick the trains come basically, which is something way beyond knowing.
Here's one little guess on the situation: The Friday night commute home, which I just did, is less busy, because people stay in town and go to the pub to start their weekends. Central London is packed.
The Brits are nothing without their drink. More about that later.
Back to the Tube. Which is very pretty, really. Some of the stations are art deco gems. Love the way they light the brick archways at Gloucester Road station.
Anyway, yesterday afternoon and today up and back to work, the Tube was a delight. Sat down the whole way; enjoyed the free paper. Love the free Evening Standard.
That coming right after yesterday morning, though, when my 6'5" son was pinned against the sliding door for several stops. By the sheer crush of commuters.
With his neck bent over like a giraffe.
It was kinda comical.
At one point, a tiny woman managed to push in behind him at one stop, about half his height.
He couldn't turn around and his back-pack just grazed her head.
"Is there someone behind me?" he whispered at one point.
Yep. There is.
You never know what it's going to be like.
Are you going to be squished like a sardine, with your back up against the doors, like my son and I were going into town the other day? Or are you going to get to sit down and read your free paper in peace?
Hard to predict.
Do not see rhyme or reason to it yet. Depends on how quick the trains come basically, which is something way beyond knowing.
Here's one little guess on the situation: The Friday night commute home, which I just did, is less busy, because people stay in town and go to the pub to start their weekends. Central London is packed.
The Brits are nothing without their drink. More about that later.
Back to the Tube. Which is very pretty, really. Some of the stations are art deco gems. Love the way they light the brick archways at Gloucester Road station.
Anyway, yesterday afternoon and today up and back to work, the Tube was a delight. Sat down the whole way; enjoyed the free paper. Love the free Evening Standard.
That coming right after yesterday morning, though, when my 6'5" son was pinned against the sliding door for several stops. By the sheer crush of commuters.
With his neck bent over like a giraffe.
It was kinda comical.
At one point, a tiny woman managed to push in behind him at one stop, about half his height.
He couldn't turn around and his back-pack just grazed her head.
"Is there someone behind me?" he whispered at one point.
Yep. There is.
Thursday 12 November 2009
The NHS -- again
I hate to go on about the NHS, the socialised National Health Service, here, but it really does seem good to me.
A British girlfriend of mine called tonight to say her mother had fallen and broken her hip -- and her wrist -- a couple weeks ago.
The day after her 90-year-old mother fell, they gave her a hip replacement at the hospital.
The day after. And she didn't pay a dime. (Okay she did in contributions, as my husband keeps telling me).
They came and got her in an ambulance, like they do, and took her to the hospital, and bright and early the next day, a new titanium hip.
Because you shouldn't wait too long when you've broken a hip like that.
What?
My elderly mother broke her hip in the States a few years ago now.
It took us about a month to get a hip replacement for her. And the bills that came from the ambulance service the night she fell were overwhelming.
Ambulance service wasn't covered by Medicare.
I know several people who have returned to Britain from abroad because they have either chronic health issues that need taking care of, or their children do.
No other place to be, really, when you're in that position, and you're British.
The good 'ol National Health.
Nothing like it for what ails you.
A British girlfriend of mine called tonight to say her mother had fallen and broken her hip -- and her wrist -- a couple weeks ago.
The day after her 90-year-old mother fell, they gave her a hip replacement at the hospital.
The day after. And she didn't pay a dime. (Okay she did in contributions, as my husband keeps telling me).
They came and got her in an ambulance, like they do, and took her to the hospital, and bright and early the next day, a new titanium hip.
Because you shouldn't wait too long when you've broken a hip like that.
What?
My elderly mother broke her hip in the States a few years ago now.
It took us about a month to get a hip replacement for her. And the bills that came from the ambulance service the night she fell were overwhelming.
Ambulance service wasn't covered by Medicare.
I know several people who have returned to Britain from abroad because they have either chronic health issues that need taking care of, or their children do.
No other place to be, really, when you're in that position, and you're British.
The good 'ol National Health.
Nothing like it for what ails you.
Wednesday 11 November 2009
The Eldest
My son is starting to make a life here.
Baby steps, anyway.
He's been here about six weeks now.
This internship has helped a lot. There's been work to go to in central London every day, of course, and he's met a few people he likes there. It's a young, lively office.
He's enjoyed the actual work too. They've given him quite a bit of real work, for an internship, work he's enjoyed and been good at. He's gotten good feedback. He's learned new skills.
There's been some extra-curricular events to go to as well, in the evening, which has also been fun.
The busier the better. After a few weeks of not much.
They've asked him to stay on a couple weeks longer at the end, a chance he jumped at, since there were two dead weeks before his younger brother comes for Christmas.
Our youngest is coming, only for ten days unfortunately -- he's got late finals and then wants to be home by New Year's Eve with his friends.
But then, my oldest and I are planning on going to Italy.
To settle him in for this next internship that he's gotten, the one in his field of study, the one in Rome.
The six-month paid one that could, just maybe, lead to a permanent job. If he does well. If the economy picks up.
We haven't heard anything more from them, but we're staying confident.
Even in the midst of a deluge of stories about how recent college graduates are facing the toughest job market in years.
I still can't believe that my eldest son, 24 next month, who just graduated from college in May in the States, is going to go live on our side of the hill -- and commute to a job, okay internship, in Rome.
It's a hike. You have to leave an hour to be sure to get there on time. But he can drive the clunker I just bought.
But he has no friends there.
But he will be working in Rome.
I'll stay for a couple weeks, then I'll come back to London -- to be with my husband, to continue working myself. If I don't, my own freelance job will disappear.
And then he'll be there. Alone at our Italian house. In a little town, on a side of a hill in central Italy. While we're here.
Is this what we were hoping would happen if we moved back to Europe?
Is this going to work out?
Baby steps, anyway.
He's been here about six weeks now.
This internship has helped a lot. There's been work to go to in central London every day, of course, and he's met a few people he likes there. It's a young, lively office.
He's enjoyed the actual work too. They've given him quite a bit of real work, for an internship, work he's enjoyed and been good at. He's gotten good feedback. He's learned new skills.
There's been some extra-curricular events to go to as well, in the evening, which has also been fun.
The busier the better. After a few weeks of not much.
They've asked him to stay on a couple weeks longer at the end, a chance he jumped at, since there were two dead weeks before his younger brother comes for Christmas.
Our youngest is coming, only for ten days unfortunately -- he's got late finals and then wants to be home by New Year's Eve with his friends.
But then, my oldest and I are planning on going to Italy.
To settle him in for this next internship that he's gotten, the one in his field of study, the one in Rome.
The six-month paid one that could, just maybe, lead to a permanent job. If he does well. If the economy picks up.
We haven't heard anything more from them, but we're staying confident.
Even in the midst of a deluge of stories about how recent college graduates are facing the toughest job market in years.
I still can't believe that my eldest son, 24 next month, who just graduated from college in May in the States, is going to go live on our side of the hill -- and commute to a job, okay internship, in Rome.
It's a hike. You have to leave an hour to be sure to get there on time. But he can drive the clunker I just bought.
But he has no friends there.
But he will be working in Rome.
I'll stay for a couple weeks, then I'll come back to London -- to be with my husband, to continue working myself. If I don't, my own freelance job will disappear.
And then he'll be there. Alone at our Italian house. In a little town, on a side of a hill in central Italy. While we're here.
Is this what we were hoping would happen if we moved back to Europe?
Is this going to work out?
Tuesday 10 November 2009
Celebrity Sighting Number 2
I've had my second London celebrity sighting.
Not as big as seeing Colin Firth waiting around to pick up take-away at my local sushi place, for me, anyway, but pretty big in my 23-year-old son's eyes.
We caught a long glimpse of JLS, the cool British boy band that came out of X Factor, Britain's version of American Idol, on Sunday. They've had two UK chart-topping singles recently, "Beat Again," and "Everybody in Love."
So pretty cool.
And they were having lunch, like us, at the Wagamama noodle chain at Westfield Shopping Center.
Westfield is a story in itself, Europe's biggest mall, here in West London, just celebrating its one year anniversary, having opened its expensive doors right about the time Lehman collapsed last year. I'll tell you about that another time.
Back to Wagamama.
Two young British girls sitting near us tipped us off that someone important was amongst us. One of them suddenly stood up and snapped a photo with her cellphone of a far corner of the restaurant.
Then all of a sudden, like the dominos at the Berlin Wall celebrations yesterday, other people stood up and snapped photos too.
"JLS," the girl answered excitedly when we asked her who it was.
Later, the band left just as we left, even though we didn't plan it. So my son actually ran into one of the four of them near the door.
You do have more celebrity sightings here. I'm not sure why.
Washington doesn't have that many celebrities, of course, although some do breeze through town now and again.
It's mostly a government town.
Karen Hughes, one of President Bush's closest advisers, rented a house near me for awhile actually, and that felt celebrity-like. Before 9/11, I saw her sitting outside with her husband and teenage son having a beer after work a couple times. She moved after 9/11, I heard.
That's the kind of celebrities you got in Washington.
Here, Colin Firth lives in my neighborhood. Although I'm sure he's got "a pile", as they say here, or even two or three, in other places.
Anyway, he looked completely at ease when I saw him a couple weeks ago. No body guard or anything. Just on foot with an Italian friend.
These guys looked pretty normal too, just hanging out at the mall on a rainy Sunday afternoon. We saw two of them going up the escalator together a bit later.
Are there less paparazzi here?
Less crazies?
More celebrities living here? What is it?
Not as big as seeing Colin Firth waiting around to pick up take-away at my local sushi place, for me, anyway, but pretty big in my 23-year-old son's eyes.
We caught a long glimpse of JLS, the cool British boy band that came out of X Factor, Britain's version of American Idol, on Sunday. They've had two UK chart-topping singles recently, "Beat Again," and "Everybody in Love."
So pretty cool.
And they were having lunch, like us, at the Wagamama noodle chain at Westfield Shopping Center.
Westfield is a story in itself, Europe's biggest mall, here in West London, just celebrating its one year anniversary, having opened its expensive doors right about the time Lehman collapsed last year. I'll tell you about that another time.
Back to Wagamama.
Two young British girls sitting near us tipped us off that someone important was amongst us. One of them suddenly stood up and snapped a photo with her cellphone of a far corner of the restaurant.
Then all of a sudden, like the dominos at the Berlin Wall celebrations yesterday, other people stood up and snapped photos too.
"JLS," the girl answered excitedly when we asked her who it was.
Later, the band left just as we left, even though we didn't plan it. So my son actually ran into one of the four of them near the door.
You do have more celebrity sightings here. I'm not sure why.
Washington doesn't have that many celebrities, of course, although some do breeze through town now and again.
It's mostly a government town.
Karen Hughes, one of President Bush's closest advisers, rented a house near me for awhile actually, and that felt celebrity-like. Before 9/11, I saw her sitting outside with her husband and teenage son having a beer after work a couple times. She moved after 9/11, I heard.
That's the kind of celebrities you got in Washington.
Here, Colin Firth lives in my neighborhood. Although I'm sure he's got "a pile", as they say here, or even two or three, in other places.
Anyway, he looked completely at ease when I saw him a couple weeks ago. No body guard or anything. Just on foot with an Italian friend.
These guys looked pretty normal too, just hanging out at the mall on a rainy Sunday afternoon. We saw two of them going up the escalator together a bit later.
Are there less paparazzi here?
Less crazies?
More celebrities living here? What is it?
Monday 9 November 2009
Starbucks
I love that they give you your cappuccino in a real cup here.
Even at Starbucks.
Why don't they do that at home?
They don't ask you at home if you're staying, or taking your overpriced coffee out, because they always just give it to you in a styrofoam cup with a plastic lid whatever you're gonna do with it.
It's so much nicer in a real cup. It makes it an occasion. And you don't mind forking over $5 quite as much.
This morning, I stopped at Starbucks, for almost the first time.
There's a real anti-Starbucks thing here, and I understand it.
They're squeezing out, other, smaller chains. And that pisses people off.
In this recession, they've taken over leases of smaller coffee shops that have gone bust.
At home, I used to go to Starbie's all the time. It was really the only place TO go to get a reliable cappuccino. Or espresso.
Here, there's lot of coffee places.
But they're not all good, I've found. At all.
Not that I think Starbuck's is that good.
I think Italian coffee is good.
But this morning, hate to admit it, had a nice cappuccino -- right temperature, right amount of milk in proportion to coffee -- at Starbie's this morning. In a nice mug.
With a yummy almond croissant. On a plate.
Sitting at the window, looking out at the high street, reading my paper for half-an-hour.
Quite civilized.
Is is that hard to wash a few mugs?
Even at Starbucks.
Why don't they do that at home?
They don't ask you at home if you're staying, or taking your overpriced coffee out, because they always just give it to you in a styrofoam cup with a plastic lid whatever you're gonna do with it.
It's so much nicer in a real cup. It makes it an occasion. And you don't mind forking over $5 quite as much.
This morning, I stopped at Starbucks, for almost the first time.
There's a real anti-Starbucks thing here, and I understand it.
They're squeezing out, other, smaller chains. And that pisses people off.
In this recession, they've taken over leases of smaller coffee shops that have gone bust.
At home, I used to go to Starbie's all the time. It was really the only place TO go to get a reliable cappuccino. Or espresso.
Here, there's lot of coffee places.
But they're not all good, I've found. At all.
Not that I think Starbuck's is that good.
I think Italian coffee is good.
But this morning, hate to admit it, had a nice cappuccino -- right temperature, right amount of milk in proportion to coffee -- at Starbie's this morning. In a nice mug.
With a yummy almond croissant. On a plate.
Sitting at the window, looking out at the high street, reading my paper for half-an-hour.
Quite civilized.
Is is that hard to wash a few mugs?
Saturday 7 November 2009
The News from Home
To: President Barack Obama
From: An American Expat in London -- and the side of a hill in Italy (not much lately)
Re: Guns
Barack, you gotta do something about the gun situation at home.
Because we're always shooting each other there. In great numbers.
When we're crazy.
It's horrific.
And it's become our signature overseas, which is horrible. Stories about shootings in the States -- even a relatively small shooting, like yesterday in Orlando -- get huge play here, because it reinforces our stereotype.
Bunch of crazies. With guns.
But people are crazy everywhere, Barack. You know that. Despairing, barely getting through it. Don't know how people do get through it actually. And now especially, with so much sorrow around.
The difference is, in the States, you can just go get a gun and shoot people when you can't cope anymore. Which you can't in most places. Which you shouldn't be able to do.
Simple as that.
I covered the shootings at Virginia Tech University at my old newspaper job. The shooter there was simply crazy. No doubt about it.
The firepower he amassed was also simply shocking, someone as disturbed as that college kid was.
And now Fort Hood. Another horrific mass shooting.
By another crazy. At the end of his tether.
Barack, can we just try limiting people's access to lethal weapons used only to kill other people?
I mean, let's just try it and see if that helps at all.
Please.
From: An American Expat in London -- and the side of a hill in Italy (not much lately)
Re: Guns
Barack, you gotta do something about the gun situation at home.
Because we're always shooting each other there. In great numbers.
When we're crazy.
It's horrific.
And it's become our signature overseas, which is horrible. Stories about shootings in the States -- even a relatively small shooting, like yesterday in Orlando -- get huge play here, because it reinforces our stereotype.
Bunch of crazies. With guns.
But people are crazy everywhere, Barack. You know that. Despairing, barely getting through it. Don't know how people do get through it actually. And now especially, with so much sorrow around.
The difference is, in the States, you can just go get a gun and shoot people when you can't cope anymore. Which you can't in most places. Which you shouldn't be able to do.
Simple as that.
I covered the shootings at Virginia Tech University at my old newspaper job. The shooter there was simply crazy. No doubt about it.
The firepower he amassed was also simply shocking, someone as disturbed as that college kid was.
And now Fort Hood. Another horrific mass shooting.
By another crazy. At the end of his tether.
Barack, can we just try limiting people's access to lethal weapons used only to kill other people?
I mean, let's just try it and see if that helps at all.
Please.
Thursday 5 November 2009
The Lonely Commuter
Can you feel really alone when you're squished in like a sardine with thousands of other people?
In the Tube at the evening rush.
A huge crush. 'Cause my second train took about 15 minutes to come -- an eternity at that time -- and the people just stacked up a dozen deep waiting.
And then it came, packed to the sides with commuters.
Took more than an hour to get home.
It's a rickety old Tube line we're on. Everyone in London knows it.
Whew.
Is this my life now?
That's the end of my two days work, which this evening, as I waited on the cold platform, I was quite glad about.
But, I'm not working again until the last two days of next week, which is awhile away.
Financially. And otherwise.
I'll do too much housework in the meantime, which seems like a real waste of my life.
But someone's gotta do it. And who feels like paying for it now.
I could start on all the things I want to do with the rest of my life, of course.
What were they again?
Uh oh. They seem big. How do I get started?
I can write more to you, of course.
But you never write back.
So what is the point?
In the Tube at the evening rush.
A huge crush. 'Cause my second train took about 15 minutes to come -- an eternity at that time -- and the people just stacked up a dozen deep waiting.
And then it came, packed to the sides with commuters.
Took more than an hour to get home.
It's a rickety old Tube line we're on. Everyone in London knows it.
Whew.
Is this my life now?
That's the end of my two days work, which this evening, as I waited on the cold platform, I was quite glad about.
But, I'm not working again until the last two days of next week, which is awhile away.
Financially. And otherwise.
I'll do too much housework in the meantime, which seems like a real waste of my life.
But someone's gotta do it. And who feels like paying for it now.
I could start on all the things I want to do with the rest of my life, of course.
What were they again?
Uh oh. They seem big. How do I get started?
I can write more to you, of course.
But you never write back.
So what is the point?
Wednesday 4 November 2009
Where to Go
I still feel so disoriented here.
Been here just over eight months now, although I did spend a lot of time in Italy this summer.
Been working my freelance job a couple days a week now. That's what it looks like they'll want for now, a couple days a week. Not a week in a row, as I was thinking, and I guess hoping, but a couple days each week.
Anyway, it's something. Quite good, considering the shitty global job scene for journalists.
My son's working there too, as an intern, just for a few weeks, which is surreal.
Working with my son?
We go by Tube together there.
Lots of newfound togetherness for us. We haven't lived together for the past five years, since he went to college.
At work, we freelancers and interns, sit at different computers each day, "hot-seat", as they call it, which is disorienting in itself.
This afternoon, I found myself sitting across from my son for a few hours.
What?
What am I doing here?
I don't know. I've traded down in every aspect of my life -- my job, my house, financially.
Why?
I don't know. Italy was part of the reason. But when I'm here, and not there, it's hard to remember that. But my son is allegedly moving there at the end of this year. We hope anyway.
My job in the States was disappearing. They've had two buy-outs since I left. I'm hearing it's not that much fun there for those who are left. I could've gone to work somewhere else there though.
Do I want to stay here?
Really not sure.
We were going to look at it after a year. A year's not that far away now.
Don't like living in a rented flat. But not sure I want to buy anything here. Don't have the money for a deposit on a nice place. Even with the recession, property here is still really expensive. You get a better place renting.
Still need quite a big place -- if you call this big, which kinda it is -- because of the boys. Younger one is mulling over coming here after he graduates from college next spring. Only one can live with us at a time, my husband says, like having only one in diapers.
Do I even have a choice anymore?
Can I even leave? Or is this it for awhile?
Been here just over eight months now, although I did spend a lot of time in Italy this summer.
Been working my freelance job a couple days a week now. That's what it looks like they'll want for now, a couple days a week. Not a week in a row, as I was thinking, and I guess hoping, but a couple days each week.
Anyway, it's something. Quite good, considering the shitty global job scene for journalists.
My son's working there too, as an intern, just for a few weeks, which is surreal.
Working with my son?
We go by Tube together there.
Lots of newfound togetherness for us. We haven't lived together for the past five years, since he went to college.
At work, we freelancers and interns, sit at different computers each day, "hot-seat", as they call it, which is disorienting in itself.
This afternoon, I found myself sitting across from my son for a few hours.
What?
What am I doing here?
I don't know. I've traded down in every aspect of my life -- my job, my house, financially.
Why?
I don't know. Italy was part of the reason. But when I'm here, and not there, it's hard to remember that. But my son is allegedly moving there at the end of this year. We hope anyway.
My job in the States was disappearing. They've had two buy-outs since I left. I'm hearing it's not that much fun there for those who are left. I could've gone to work somewhere else there though.
Do I want to stay here?
Really not sure.
We were going to look at it after a year. A year's not that far away now.
Don't like living in a rented flat. But not sure I want to buy anything here. Don't have the money for a deposit on a nice place. Even with the recession, property here is still really expensive. You get a better place renting.
Still need quite a big place -- if you call this big, which kinda it is -- because of the boys. Younger one is mulling over coming here after he graduates from college next spring. Only one can live with us at a time, my husband says, like having only one in diapers.
Do I even have a choice anymore?
Can I even leave? Or is this it for awhile?
Tuesday 3 November 2009
Help
I used to have help. Boy did I.
I was the queen of having help. Anyone who knows me knows that.
I had the same woman work for me for almost 20 years. Helping me. In four countries.
How lucky is that?
She helped me raise my kids, bury my parents, work as a journalist. She cleaned my houses for all that time, too, did all my husband's ironing.
God, the things she did. Not cheap, of course, how could it be? But worth it.
God, I've missed her. It was like my left arm got amputated. Even though we both needed a break after all those years together.
She stopped working for us when we sold our suburban house last summer and I left my job. She was just coming a couple hours a week at that point, ever since my boys left for college, but still, she was still around.
But then we sold our house. And I left my job.
No job, no help needed, pretty much.
Not just because of the money, although you do think about that, if you're a woman, when you're not working.
Didn't really need any help though. We had moved downtown to a small apartment in D.C. for the last six months we were in the States. Most of our stuff was in storage.
My husband was traveling a lot those last few months in Washington, covering the presidential campaign. My boys were away at college. I was alone a lot in the apartment, not working. Not much got dirty.
And she didn't want to work for me there either. Both of us had had enough, I guess, which makes me sad.
And then here, it's taken us awhile to settle in. (Are we settled in now?) And it was just the two of us. And I was in Italy a lot.
Anyway, this morning, I spent half the morning cleaning the bathrooms here. Finally found a spray that removes the hard water stains on the shower glass door. That was driving me crazy. Never had that before.
With three of us living here now, you need to clean a good 45 minutes a day, I reckon, just to keep up.
There's always something, don't we all know it -- vacuuming, washing, the kitchen, the bathrooms.
With three adults, two of them male.
Perhaps I should get a cleaning lady now. Just a couple hours a week.
Don't know who to get. Feels like a chore to find someone.
People say you need a recommendation. Got to trust the person.
And does that mean you really live somewhere, when you get a cleaning lady?
The signs I've seen around are all Eastern European ladies looking for work.
Do I need to spend the money? Or can I just do it myself?
There's a part of me that would rather do it myself.
Because I know exactly what needs doing.
Like women do.
But I also hate doing it.
Like women do.
But I like it when it's done.
Like women do.
I was the queen of having help. Anyone who knows me knows that.
I had the same woman work for me for almost 20 years. Helping me. In four countries.
How lucky is that?
She helped me raise my kids, bury my parents, work as a journalist. She cleaned my houses for all that time, too, did all my husband's ironing.
God, the things she did. Not cheap, of course, how could it be? But worth it.
God, I've missed her. It was like my left arm got amputated. Even though we both needed a break after all those years together.
She stopped working for us when we sold our suburban house last summer and I left my job. She was just coming a couple hours a week at that point, ever since my boys left for college, but still, she was still around.
But then we sold our house. And I left my job.
No job, no help needed, pretty much.
Not just because of the money, although you do think about that, if you're a woman, when you're not working.
Didn't really need any help though. We had moved downtown to a small apartment in D.C. for the last six months we were in the States. Most of our stuff was in storage.
My husband was traveling a lot those last few months in Washington, covering the presidential campaign. My boys were away at college. I was alone a lot in the apartment, not working. Not much got dirty.
And she didn't want to work for me there either. Both of us had had enough, I guess, which makes me sad.
And then here, it's taken us awhile to settle in. (Are we settled in now?) And it was just the two of us. And I was in Italy a lot.
Anyway, this morning, I spent half the morning cleaning the bathrooms here. Finally found a spray that removes the hard water stains on the shower glass door. That was driving me crazy. Never had that before.
With three of us living here now, you need to clean a good 45 minutes a day, I reckon, just to keep up.
There's always something, don't we all know it -- vacuuming, washing, the kitchen, the bathrooms.
With three adults, two of them male.
Perhaps I should get a cleaning lady now. Just a couple hours a week.
Don't know who to get. Feels like a chore to find someone.
People say you need a recommendation. Got to trust the person.
And does that mean you really live somewhere, when you get a cleaning lady?
The signs I've seen around are all Eastern European ladies looking for work.
Do I need to spend the money? Or can I just do it myself?
There's a part of me that would rather do it myself.
Because I know exactly what needs doing.
Like women do.
But I also hate doing it.
Like women do.
But I like it when it's done.
Like women do.
Monday 2 November 2009
So Many People
One of the most striking differences between living in London and living in Washington is that here, you're living next door to all of humanity -- in all its life stages. In the States, you're much more segregated, always with your tribe of the time. In most places anyway.
In our neighborhood here, in west London, there's everyone pretty much. Suburban families, with kids in strollers up through secondary school. Older people, either couples or singles, living alone. Young people just starting out on their lives sharing flats.
Not to mention from every country. Americans. French. Polish. Italian. Middle Eastern. British, even. Colin Firth even. All right here. All ages of them.
In downtown Washington, where we lived for the last six months we were in the States, we were surrounded by young people. Our neighbors were mostly young adults in their late 20s or early 30s, just starting out on their careers, sharing apartments with others like them.
Washington has become THE place for East Coast kids just out of college to start their careers, since the job situation is better there than many other cities in the U.S. The federal government and all that.
And the neighborhood we were in attracted lots of young people, more and more each year.
It was nice -- lively, noisy, especially after the suburbs. But we felt old there. Didn't really fit in.
Before, for a dozen years while we were raising our boys, we lived in the quiet suburbs of Washington, where lots of other people were doing exactly the same thing as us. Raising kids in the suburbs.
Where the public schools were good. And there was room to play. And it felt safe.
But we outgrew that. Our kids grew up anyway.
New, younger families started to move in.
I like that there's such a mix of people and ages here -- that everyone lives together in the same neighborhood.
That's what American urban planners are trying so hard to achieve these days.
I just wish I had more of a connection to them.
In our neighborhood here, in west London, there's everyone pretty much. Suburban families, with kids in strollers up through secondary school. Older people, either couples or singles, living alone. Young people just starting out on their lives sharing flats.
Not to mention from every country. Americans. French. Polish. Italian. Middle Eastern. British, even. Colin Firth even. All right here. All ages of them.
In downtown Washington, where we lived for the last six months we were in the States, we were surrounded by young people. Our neighbors were mostly young adults in their late 20s or early 30s, just starting out on their careers, sharing apartments with others like them.
Washington has become THE place for East Coast kids just out of college to start their careers, since the job situation is better there than many other cities in the U.S. The federal government and all that.
And the neighborhood we were in attracted lots of young people, more and more each year.
It was nice -- lively, noisy, especially after the suburbs. But we felt old there. Didn't really fit in.
Before, for a dozen years while we were raising our boys, we lived in the quiet suburbs of Washington, where lots of other people were doing exactly the same thing as us. Raising kids in the suburbs.
Where the public schools were good. And there was room to play. And it felt safe.
But we outgrew that. Our kids grew up anyway.
New, younger families started to move in.
I like that there's such a mix of people and ages here -- that everyone lives together in the same neighborhood.
That's what American urban planners are trying so hard to achieve these days.
I just wish I had more of a connection to them.
Friday 30 October 2009
Working with My Son
I'm working with my son.
Can you imagine how odd that is?
Today, all of a sudden, he was sitting in my chair, after I went to the bathroom. He sits in a completely different part of the office from me, which is good.
He didn't have much to do there today. Other days have been busier for him. He's one of quite a few interns.
So, I guess he decided to come visit.
I had been writing. Was thinking about what I had been doing, which was getting good play.
Which always makes me happy. Pathetically happy.
So when I saw him there, it didn't fit, somehow.
Like, what is my son doing where I work? What is it, bring your kid to work day? It was odd.
'Cause they're always just your kids.
Anyway, it's been good for him. He's been there a week. I was only there the last couple of days.
Now, I'm not working until Wednesday, which is okay, I guess. A couple days this week. A couple days next week.
It might need to be more than that.
To keep me sane.
Can you imagine how odd that is?
Today, all of a sudden, he was sitting in my chair, after I went to the bathroom. He sits in a completely different part of the office from me, which is good.
He didn't have much to do there today. Other days have been busier for him. He's one of quite a few interns.
So, I guess he decided to come visit.
I had been writing. Was thinking about what I had been doing, which was getting good play.
Which always makes me happy. Pathetically happy.
So when I saw him there, it didn't fit, somehow.
Like, what is my son doing where I work? What is it, bring your kid to work day? It was odd.
'Cause they're always just your kids.
Anyway, it's been good for him. He's been there a week. I was only there the last couple of days.
Now, I'm not working until Wednesday, which is okay, I guess. A couple days this week. A couple days next week.
It might need to be more than that.
To keep me sane.
Thursday 29 October 2009
London Women
I know this may sound strange -- and I know you may not agree -- but the women in London are cuter than the women in Paris.
They're funkier, more inventive, more original.
They're wearing short-shorts with black tights and Uggs. Clingy black dresses with big wide belts and Doc Marten boots. Sharp suits with tights and stilettos. Lots of cute boots -- tall, short, ankle, over-the-knee. Lots of cute coats and scarves. Long blonde hair.
They make you want to try new combinations, give it a whirl, why not.
The women in Paris are classic, yes, but kinda monochrome too. They don't catch the eye in the same way.
And they can have a superior look.
Instead of a smile when you catch their eye.
In London, people are pleasant. They pride themselves on being nice. Polite. They're all about that.
They like to make you laugh.
I like that.
Paris is also full of Americans. Everywhere you go, every neighborhood, every market. Maybe it's because the language stands out more there. Maybe it's because Americans have always loved Paris.
In London, there are Americans too, of course. Lots of them. Hell, I'm one of them. So what am I talking about?
But it doesn't feel over-run in the same way. Because London's a lot bigger, so much bigger.
This is a huge city.
That's one of the problems.
It's too huge. Too spread out. A bunch of little towns, really, all connected.
Paris is compact, easier to get around. Take a cab. Walk over there.
It's easier to meet up with people there, because they don't live an hour and a half away on public transport, like they can in London.
London's little towns have their charms, though -- and the weather in the two cities is almost the same.
Even though they say it rains less in Paris.
But I'm not so sure.
Because it doesn't rain here as much as it did.
That's what everyone keeps telling me.
And it hasn't rained that much, at least recently. Which has been really nice.
They're funkier, more inventive, more original.
They're wearing short-shorts with black tights and Uggs. Clingy black dresses with big wide belts and Doc Marten boots. Sharp suits with tights and stilettos. Lots of cute boots -- tall, short, ankle, over-the-knee. Lots of cute coats and scarves. Long blonde hair.
They make you want to try new combinations, give it a whirl, why not.
The women in Paris are classic, yes, but kinda monochrome too. They don't catch the eye in the same way.
And they can have a superior look.
Instead of a smile when you catch their eye.
In London, people are pleasant. They pride themselves on being nice. Polite. They're all about that.
They like to make you laugh.
I like that.
Paris is also full of Americans. Everywhere you go, every neighborhood, every market. Maybe it's because the language stands out more there. Maybe it's because Americans have always loved Paris.
In London, there are Americans too, of course. Lots of them. Hell, I'm one of them. So what am I talking about?
But it doesn't feel over-run in the same way. Because London's a lot bigger, so much bigger.
This is a huge city.
That's one of the problems.
It's too huge. Too spread out. A bunch of little towns, really, all connected.
Paris is compact, easier to get around. Take a cab. Walk over there.
It's easier to meet up with people there, because they don't live an hour and a half away on public transport, like they can in London.
London's little towns have their charms, though -- and the weather in the two cities is almost the same.
Even though they say it rains less in Paris.
But I'm not so sure.
Because it doesn't rain here as much as it did.
That's what everyone keeps telling me.
And it hasn't rained that much, at least recently. Which has been really nice.
Wednesday 28 October 2009
The Connections of Life
Had a dream last night that two of my old book-club pals from Washington had moved to the UK.
I don't need Freud to help me interpret that one, do I?
Yearning for past connections. Already made, already solidified.
Got me thinking about the connections we make in life.
They're often just out of circumstance. If not always so.
I mean, who do we make friends with?
People we end up spending time with, for one reason or another, usually.
First of all, the people we work with.
Which is not surprising, considering how much time we spend with them -- and how much you have in common at that time (your entire work life, which is a lot).
I've had lots of dear work friends over my working life. I miss them all now.
Then for parents, there's the friends you make through your children.
Like my book-club pals. All mothers of boys, like me, who played sports in middle and high school in the States. Same age as mine. We met -- and became friends -- on the school bleachers basically, watching games. I loved those school games. It's hard to beat a good high school basketball game on a Friday night. When your son's playing. And you're surrounded by people you know and like. At the same life stage as you.
I've still got friends, too, from other periods of my boys' childhoods -- when they were toddlers and elementary schoolboys in Hong Kong. Made some great friends then. I miss them all now too.
Connections.
They come and go.
Because jobs come and go.
Because kids grow up.
Because people change their lives.
Because people move.
Because some just get lost along the way.
I don't need Freud to help me interpret that one, do I?
Yearning for past connections. Already made, already solidified.
Got me thinking about the connections we make in life.
They're often just out of circumstance. If not always so.
I mean, who do we make friends with?
People we end up spending time with, for one reason or another, usually.
First of all, the people we work with.
Which is not surprising, considering how much time we spend with them -- and how much you have in common at that time (your entire work life, which is a lot).
I've had lots of dear work friends over my working life. I miss them all now.
Then for parents, there's the friends you make through your children.
Like my book-club pals. All mothers of boys, like me, who played sports in middle and high school in the States. Same age as mine. We met -- and became friends -- on the school bleachers basically, watching games. I loved those school games. It's hard to beat a good high school basketball game on a Friday night. When your son's playing. And you're surrounded by people you know and like. At the same life stage as you.
I've still got friends, too, from other periods of my boys' childhoods -- when they were toddlers and elementary schoolboys in Hong Kong. Made some great friends then. I miss them all now too.
Connections.
They come and go.
Because jobs come and go.
Because kids grow up.
Because people change their lives.
Because people move.
Because some just get lost along the way.
Tuesday 27 October 2009
Il Sole
The sun makes everything good, doesn't it? Makes almost everywhere beautiful.
That's why people flee to places with sun -- to retire there, vacation there, just GET IN THAT SUN for awhile.
There's a show on TV here called Places in the Sun, which features a British couple each episode who are considering buying a property in a sunny place -- usually in the Mediterranean -- or one in England.
They say what their budget is, and where they're considering, both here and abroad. Then a real estate agent in each place shows them three properties in each locale -- and they decide by the end of the half-hour.
They're always lured by the sun, these folks, but they often decide to stay at home.
The comfort and familiarity of home. Versus the soothing and healing powers of the sun. Makes for good television.
What makes the show interesting to me, besides seeing all the properties and how much they cost of course, is watching the couples, often retirees, work through their dilemmas, their desires, their life plans, and then coming to their conclusions. And why they decide what they do.
Back to the sun.
It's so damned important.
It's been sunny the last two days here, just clear and bright and sparkly autumn. And it's supposed to stay sunny and warm all week.
How gorgeous. London is so beautiful in the sun.
I wish it was always sunny. It's so much easier to be happy.
Yesterday, before my old ladies Pilates class (which is really quite good), a group of us were standing around talking about the weather. As one does here.
I was saying how gorgeous it was.
A woman chimed in, saying, yes, but where's the rain? We haven't had enough of it. It's gotta come at some point.
Bummer.
Another woman remarked that she thought the weather had actually changed in Britain.
Liked that.
She said that when she came to London from Croatia 17 years ago, she didn't see the sun for the first two years. That she was so depressed, she could barely leave the house. She comes from the sunny Croatian coast, she explained.
Didn't like that.
She said it's been changing though. It just doesn't rain anywhere near as much as it used to.
I thought back over the past eight months. There hasn't been a huge amount of rain, she's right.
We had a gorgeous spring, I remember that.
The summer wasn't that great, but I was in Italy for a lot of it, thank god.
So far, autumn hasn't been too bad.
I'm scared of winter, I won't lie.
But maybe my new Croatian Pilates-buddy, who sounds more British than anything else (I guess she got over her depression), is right.
Maybe the weather in Britain has changed.
I like that, even though, I know any weather change is scary.
Anyway, gotta go out for a walk in this dazzling afternoon sunshine.
Before it becomes a distant memory.
Monday 26 October 2009
The NHS
To: Barack Obama
From: An American Expat in London (and the side of a hill in Italy)
Please stay with health-care reform, Barack. I beg you.
It's such a worthy goal.
I'm not convinced you'll be able to really change anything in the States -- the forces against you are so rich and powerful -- but please just keep trying. For all of us. Please.
If you've got a minute (I know you don't, but what the hell), can I tell you my nothing health-care story?
I went to my first appointment with my National Health Service doctor here in London this morning.
It was a delight, Barack. Such a difference from back home, in so many little, but important, ways.
Although I signed my husband and I on with an NHS doctor walking distance to us just as soon as we got here (had to so I could get coverage for us back in the States under my retirement plan if we decide to go back), I hadn't needed to actually go to the doctor yet.
I mean, I guess I could've gone, seeing as I had the swine flu and all, but that was in Italy (although it lingered on) and I'm not a huge run-to-the-doctor type. Especially for the flu.
And I was a good girl, Mr. President.
I had a lot of routine tests with my doctors in the States before I left. So I wouldn't have to go right away here.
But I do have a condition that needs monitoring once every six months to a year or so, so it was time.
First difference: I used to go to a specialist in the States for this routine monitoring -- an endocrinologist -- which I knew even then I didn't need to see. And first, before seeing the specialist I didn't really need anymore, I had to go to a lab to have blood drawn in a completely different place from my doctor -- and then to my endocrinologist afterwards.
This used to cost me a bit in co-pays -- about $50 -- even though we had two insurance policies through our employers.
But it really used to cost my insurance company quite a bit. I saw it on the bills.
Here, I just went to the regular GP. She said I can just have my blood drawn there.
And I don't need to see an endocrinologist now.
We save our specialists for when there's something wrong, she said, when there's something to treat.
Boy did that make sense.
It was all really straight-forward -- and friendly -- and efficient.
She was an Indian woman, about my age. Really warm.
I liked her a lot.
Good job, since she's my doctor.
She wrote me a prescription for something I used to take in the States.
It wasn't covered on my insurance, so I used to pay for it there -- and it was really expensive.
Here, it was £7 for two months worth.
I told her quickly about my husband, who had a life-threatening illness six years ago.
He had a full scan before we left the States, again so we wouldn't have to immediately get one here. His doctor in the States said he wouldn't be checking him again for a year there either.
So soon, it'll be time for him to go in as well.
Bring all the medical records with you, she said.
Yeah, will do.
Nice warm smile.
So far, so good.
Barack, I know our medical system is cutting-edge. I saw that when my husband was sick. I appreciate that so much. And I was so afraid to leave it, precisely because of my husband's illness.
But it's all just so expensive at home -- and so inefficient really. And lining pockets that don't need lining.
I know we can do better than that, Barack.
And I know you know that too.
From: An American Expat in London (and the side of a hill in Italy)
Please stay with health-care reform, Barack. I beg you.
It's such a worthy goal.
I'm not convinced you'll be able to really change anything in the States -- the forces against you are so rich and powerful -- but please just keep trying. For all of us. Please.
If you've got a minute (I know you don't, but what the hell), can I tell you my nothing health-care story?
I went to my first appointment with my National Health Service doctor here in London this morning.
It was a delight, Barack. Such a difference from back home, in so many little, but important, ways.
Although I signed my husband and I on with an NHS doctor walking distance to us just as soon as we got here (had to so I could get coverage for us back in the States under my retirement plan if we decide to go back), I hadn't needed to actually go to the doctor yet.
I mean, I guess I could've gone, seeing as I had the swine flu and all, but that was in Italy (although it lingered on) and I'm not a huge run-to-the-doctor type. Especially for the flu.
And I was a good girl, Mr. President.
I had a lot of routine tests with my doctors in the States before I left. So I wouldn't have to go right away here.
But I do have a condition that needs monitoring once every six months to a year or so, so it was time.
First difference: I used to go to a specialist in the States for this routine monitoring -- an endocrinologist -- which I knew even then I didn't need to see. And first, before seeing the specialist I didn't really need anymore, I had to go to a lab to have blood drawn in a completely different place from my doctor -- and then to my endocrinologist afterwards.
This used to cost me a bit in co-pays -- about $50 -- even though we had two insurance policies through our employers.
But it really used to cost my insurance company quite a bit. I saw it on the bills.
Here, I just went to the regular GP. She said I can just have my blood drawn there.
And I don't need to see an endocrinologist now.
We save our specialists for when there's something wrong, she said, when there's something to treat.
Boy did that make sense.
It was all really straight-forward -- and friendly -- and efficient.
She was an Indian woman, about my age. Really warm.
I liked her a lot.
Good job, since she's my doctor.
She wrote me a prescription for something I used to take in the States.
It wasn't covered on my insurance, so I used to pay for it there -- and it was really expensive.
Here, it was £7 for two months worth.
I told her quickly about my husband, who had a life-threatening illness six years ago.
He had a full scan before we left the States, again so we wouldn't have to immediately get one here. His doctor in the States said he wouldn't be checking him again for a year there either.
So soon, it'll be time for him to go in as well.
Bring all the medical records with you, she said.
Yeah, will do.
Nice warm smile.
So far, so good.
Barack, I know our medical system is cutting-edge. I saw that when my husband was sick. I appreciate that so much. And I was so afraid to leave it, precisely because of my husband's illness.
But it's all just so expensive at home -- and so inefficient really. And lining pockets that don't need lining.
I know we can do better than that, Barack.
And I know you know that too.
Sunday 25 October 2009
The Color of Cities
Paris, maybe more than any other city, has its color.
It's so distinctive. Such an unique look.
But what color is it exactly?
I've been trying to name it for the past two days.
And I invite you all to weigh in. Since I'm no Paris expert.
It's grey, but then it can be almost the color of a magnolia, or is it sand? Even at times off-white, or even white. But never white-washed, like something in the Mediterranean, god forbid, no.
That's not elegant enough.
And then the buildings are often flat-fronted, six or seven stories high, all with black wrought iron window railings. Not balconies or terraces like in Italy -- not the weather for that -- just faux balconies, really, just the railing outside the window, often with a splash of red geraniums on top.
And then there's the terracotta chimney tops, all lined up on the flat rectangular stone chimneys on every building.
Street after wide street the same in harmonious elegance.
Stunning.
And so unique.
Rome has a color too -- and I've struggled trying to name that one. Please help me there as well.
Rome's a burnt sienna, with a bit of pumpkin, some faint orange maybe, with some brown. More earth-colored; less austere.
More faded, though, too. Needs a paint job.
Paris doesn't need a paint job.
London's easy -- it's the color of brick, row upon row of little brick houses in tidy little brick streets. Endless little brick streets with rectangular signs with big black round lettering.
Do the big cities in America have a color too?
I'm not sure.
What color is New York -- in my view, America's most glorious city?
Is it a color?
It's so distinctive. Such an unique look.
But what color is it exactly?
I've been trying to name it for the past two days.
And I invite you all to weigh in. Since I'm no Paris expert.
It's grey, but then it can be almost the color of a magnolia, or is it sand? Even at times off-white, or even white. But never white-washed, like something in the Mediterranean, god forbid, no.
That's not elegant enough.
And then the buildings are often flat-fronted, six or seven stories high, all with black wrought iron window railings. Not balconies or terraces like in Italy -- not the weather for that -- just faux balconies, really, just the railing outside the window, often with a splash of red geraniums on top.
And then there's the terracotta chimney tops, all lined up on the flat rectangular stone chimneys on every building.
Street after wide street the same in harmonious elegance.
Stunning.
And so unique.
Rome has a color too -- and I've struggled trying to name that one. Please help me there as well.
Rome's a burnt sienna, with a bit of pumpkin, some faint orange maybe, with some brown. More earth-colored; less austere.
More faded, though, too. Needs a paint job.
Paris doesn't need a paint job.
London's easy -- it's the color of brick, row upon row of little brick houses in tidy little brick streets. Endless little brick streets with rectangular signs with big black round lettering.
Do the big cities in America have a color too?
I'm not sure.
What color is New York -- in my view, America's most glorious city?
Is it a color?
Thursday 22 October 2009
Taking the Eurostar
So excited today! Gonna take the Eurostar to Paris.
To visit a girlfriend for the weekend. The one who divides her time between London and Paris.
Never taken the Eurostar under the English Channel before. And it's already 15 years old.
Everyone says it's cool. Only takes two-and-a-half hours to get to Paris. Leaving this afternoon, will be there in time for dinner with her. At her local cafe, she suggested, downstairs from her flat.
Yes!
This is the kind of weekend I imagined myself having when I thought about living in London.
But it's the first time I've done anything like this. And we've been here 8 months already. (that long?).
I mean, I've been to Italy a lot, certainly over the summer, but I never just ran off for a long weekend somewhere, somewhere close, yet far (like Paris). All my trips to Italy were long, really long by anyone's standards. More like living there.
This summer was all about trying to get comfortable there, make it home. And then make this home too. And look for work here. And run all the administrative errands that come with moving (no, I still haven't changed all my addresses -- don't even know how long I'll be at this address really).
And all the mind traps.
And then my son. Stress about what he was going to do -- trying to help.
But now that's sorted for awhile.
So it's time for a fun little jaunt like this. For myself.
I need to have a little bit of fun now, just a little.
Even though I haven't worked that much (in a traditional sense), over the past 14 months, I feel like I've worked myself to the bone. In my mind. I'm exhausted. From the stress of it all. From the anxiety.
That may sound ridiculous.
So I beg your forgiveness in advance.
My husband and son will spend the weekend together here in London. My husband's off work. My son has four more days until his internship starts.
Ciao for awhile!
Or shall I say, "bon voyage!"
To visit a girlfriend for the weekend. The one who divides her time between London and Paris.
Never taken the Eurostar under the English Channel before. And it's already 15 years old.
Everyone says it's cool. Only takes two-and-a-half hours to get to Paris. Leaving this afternoon, will be there in time for dinner with her. At her local cafe, she suggested, downstairs from her flat.
Yes!
This is the kind of weekend I imagined myself having when I thought about living in London.
But it's the first time I've done anything like this. And we've been here 8 months already. (that long?).
I mean, I've been to Italy a lot, certainly over the summer, but I never just ran off for a long weekend somewhere, somewhere close, yet far (like Paris). All my trips to Italy were long, really long by anyone's standards. More like living there.
This summer was all about trying to get comfortable there, make it home. And then make this home too. And look for work here. And run all the administrative errands that come with moving (no, I still haven't changed all my addresses -- don't even know how long I'll be at this address really).
And all the mind traps.
And then my son. Stress about what he was going to do -- trying to help.
But now that's sorted for awhile.
So it's time for a fun little jaunt like this. For myself.
I need to have a little bit of fun now, just a little.
Even though I haven't worked that much (in a traditional sense), over the past 14 months, I feel like I've worked myself to the bone. In my mind. I'm exhausted. From the stress of it all. From the anxiety.
That may sound ridiculous.
So I beg your forgiveness in advance.
My husband and son will spend the weekend together here in London. My husband's off work. My son has four more days until his internship starts.
Ciao for awhile!
Or shall I say, "bon voyage!"
Wednesday 21 October 2009
Work Again
Amazing how much self-worth we get from our jobs.
I hate that though. The reliance on that.
But it feels so good when things go right.
Which they often don't in the workplace.
The work I did over the past three days at my freelance job got validated today. Good play, compliments.
First time that's happened to me since I left my old job uh, more than a year ago now.
My old job wasn't always good, like a lot of jobs, it went up and down, but at the end, it was the best it had ever been.
I was on a roll right before I left -- writing for different sections of the paper, writing, writing, writing. My kids had left home; my parents had died. I had time for the first time in two decades. And my newspaper was full of places where a reporter with time could express themselves.
It was all good.
Until it all went bad.
Because the newspaper industry is dying. Which is so sad.
Everyone involved with it knows it though.
So I took the buy-out. Even though things were going good.
Next buy-out -- they've had two more since mine -- I probably wouldn't have had a choice. Didn't have great choices even when I took it.
More reason to look towards the future. Not stay mired in the past. Like my girlfriend said.
And today, I am.
Because they liked what I wrote. Gave it good play. Told me about it.
Aaah...
How pathetic is that?
I hate that though. The reliance on that.
But it feels so good when things go right.
Which they often don't in the workplace.
The work I did over the past three days at my freelance job got validated today. Good play, compliments.
First time that's happened to me since I left my old job uh, more than a year ago now.
My old job wasn't always good, like a lot of jobs, it went up and down, but at the end, it was the best it had ever been.
I was on a roll right before I left -- writing for different sections of the paper, writing, writing, writing. My kids had left home; my parents had died. I had time for the first time in two decades. And my newspaper was full of places where a reporter with time could express themselves.
It was all good.
Until it all went bad.
Because the newspaper industry is dying. Which is so sad.
Everyone involved with it knows it though.
So I took the buy-out. Even though things were going good.
Next buy-out -- they've had two more since mine -- I probably wouldn't have had a choice. Didn't have great choices even when I took it.
More reason to look towards the future. Not stay mired in the past. Like my girlfriend said.
And today, I am.
Because they liked what I wrote. Gave it good play. Told me about it.
Aaah...
How pathetic is that?
Tuesday 20 October 2009
Italy-bound
Ohmigod. We heard from the Italian company today.
They're going to offer my son a paid internship in Rome starting in January.
He's so excited. We're so excited for him.
He said he woke up this morning, thinking, 'I want to go to Italy.' Maybe that's because neither his dad nor I were home. We were both at work when he got up.
He had another long day to himself here, poking around on the Internet, looking for work. Or not. Trying not to spend any money.
He was feeling discouraged.
Then this afternoon, the email from Italy came. A six-month internship at an American accountancy firm in Rome. With the possibility of a job offer depending on how that goes. A decent possibility.
In Rome.
He can live on our side of the hill for awhile.
Use the car I bought to get back and forth to work.
It's about an hour by car.
Which is almost what it is by Tube to my job here in London.
Ohmigod.
What a day. A momentous day.
My son is going to live in Italy.
At our house.
After Christmas.
What does that mean for us?
They're going to offer my son a paid internship in Rome starting in January.
He's so excited. We're so excited for him.
He said he woke up this morning, thinking, 'I want to go to Italy.' Maybe that's because neither his dad nor I were home. We were both at work when he got up.
He had another long day to himself here, poking around on the Internet, looking for work. Or not. Trying not to spend any money.
He was feeling discouraged.
Then this afternoon, the email from Italy came. A six-month internship at an American accountancy firm in Rome. With the possibility of a job offer depending on how that goes. A decent possibility.
In Rome.
He can live on our side of the hill for awhile.
Use the car I bought to get back and forth to work.
It's about an hour by car.
Which is almost what it is by Tube to my job here in London.
Ohmigod.
What a day. A momentous day.
My son is going to live in Italy.
At our house.
After Christmas.
What does that mean for us?
Monday 19 October 2009
Learning English
My son and I walked out yesterday afternoon to have an afternoon pick-me-up sweet. Decided to go have a nutella crepe at a place nearby.
It was Sunday and sunny, so there were hundreds of people out on our high street. On nice weekend afternoons, the high street here is simply packed with people, shopping, having brunch, walking hand-in-hand, picking up fresh flowers, kids on pedal scooters, kids in strollers, old couples with linked arms, women in short-shorts, women in veils -- all of humanity is there.
It makes you feel part of things to be out with them all.
So we strolled along, bought a Sunday paper, and then sat at an outdoor table in the sun at the French crepe place.
The waitress, cute, perky and thin with curly long brown hair, came up to take our order.
She could barely speak English, but I knew that accent well -- hell, I grew up with it.
"Are you Italian?" I asked her, in Italian.
Huge relief swept across her young face.
And we proceeded to have a quick get-to-know-you in Italian.
The young Roman girl, only 20, just got to London a week ago. Got the job at the French crepe place two days earlier.
She couldn't talk long. She was new. She kept looking over her shoulder to see if the boss was watching.
Came to London to learn English. Got a room nearby.
But it was hard.
Found this job, though, so that was good. Even though it was only part-time.
Missed Rome like hell. Big fat tears welled up in her huge doe-like eyes when I asked about home.
Used to work as a waitress at the Cavallieri Hilton in Rome, up in the Monte Mario neighborhood.
I know it well. Family friends lived in the neighborhood for years; I've spent a lot of time around there.
"I had to learn English," she said, in Italian. "Otherwise, I'll still be a waitress there when I'm 40."
"If I learn English, then I can go back to the hotel there and do something else, not be a waitress."
Go home, to Rome, of course. As soon as possible.
Big watery brown eyes.
As we walked back home, we noticed that another place on our high road, a bit more up-market, had a sign up asking for experienced waiters.
With good English.
Stressed that part.
My son eyed it.
May have to go that route after this internship.
Which thankfully, starts a week from today.
It was Sunday and sunny, so there were hundreds of people out on our high street. On nice weekend afternoons, the high street here is simply packed with people, shopping, having brunch, walking hand-in-hand, picking up fresh flowers, kids on pedal scooters, kids in strollers, old couples with linked arms, women in short-shorts, women in veils -- all of humanity is there.
It makes you feel part of things to be out with them all.
So we strolled along, bought a Sunday paper, and then sat at an outdoor table in the sun at the French crepe place.
The waitress, cute, perky and thin with curly long brown hair, came up to take our order.
She could barely speak English, but I knew that accent well -- hell, I grew up with it.
"Are you Italian?" I asked her, in Italian.
Huge relief swept across her young face.
And we proceeded to have a quick get-to-know-you in Italian.
The young Roman girl, only 20, just got to London a week ago. Got the job at the French crepe place two days earlier.
She couldn't talk long. She was new. She kept looking over her shoulder to see if the boss was watching.
Came to London to learn English. Got a room nearby.
But it was hard.
Found this job, though, so that was good. Even though it was only part-time.
Missed Rome like hell. Big fat tears welled up in her huge doe-like eyes when I asked about home.
Used to work as a waitress at the Cavallieri Hilton in Rome, up in the Monte Mario neighborhood.
I know it well. Family friends lived in the neighborhood for years; I've spent a lot of time around there.
"I had to learn English," she said, in Italian. "Otherwise, I'll still be a waitress there when I'm 40."
"If I learn English, then I can go back to the hotel there and do something else, not be a waitress."
Go home, to Rome, of course. As soon as possible.
Big watery brown eyes.
As we walked back home, we noticed that another place on our high road, a bit more up-market, had a sign up asking for experienced waiters.
With good English.
Stressed that part.
My son eyed it.
May have to go that route after this internship.
Which thankfully, starts a week from today.
Saturday 17 October 2009
The Youngest
The one person missing from this domestic equation at the moment is our youngest son, who's the only one in the immediate family still in the States. In his final year in college.
It's odd for him not to be with us now. We all feel his absence.
Our family unit has always been the four of us -- the two of them, and the two of us. Since they're two boys, and only 21 months apart in age, they were always a unit -- and we were the other unit. They got along well too, which we know is a blessing.
And when we moved, which we did a few times -- to Hong Kong, to Italy, to the U.S. -- they always went through the upheaval together, had each other to lean on.
Now, my older son has moved, yet again, but he's missing his life-long sidekick.
For us, too, it's harder, because you don't worry when there's two of them as much. They entertain each other. They go out together. They wile away hours playing games. All alone is a different story.
He's been feeling it too, I think, all the way across the Atlantic in Charleston.
We've been calling him a lot, all three of us, all wanting to talk to him.
He remarked the other day on how he was the only one left in the States, wondering if he should come here too after he graduates next May.
Because that's the way it always was. The two of them -- and the two of us.
We've been planning his Christmas break visit. He's coming for two weeks in December.
But he wants to be back by New Year's, to spend with his college friends, which makes sense.
My oldest is so excited that he's coming. And I know he wishes he was staying more than two weeks.
We're going to be squished in here like sardines.
But it doesn't matter -- to them, anyway. I, instead, yearn for my old space.
I overheard my oldest telling his brother on the phone last night how much he was looking forward to him coming.
It's still two months away though.
It's odd for him not to be with us now. We all feel his absence.
Our family unit has always been the four of us -- the two of them, and the two of us. Since they're two boys, and only 21 months apart in age, they were always a unit -- and we were the other unit. They got along well too, which we know is a blessing.
And when we moved, which we did a few times -- to Hong Kong, to Italy, to the U.S. -- they always went through the upheaval together, had each other to lean on.
Now, my older son has moved, yet again, but he's missing his life-long sidekick.
For us, too, it's harder, because you don't worry when there's two of them as much. They entertain each other. They go out together. They wile away hours playing games. All alone is a different story.
He's been feeling it too, I think, all the way across the Atlantic in Charleston.
We've been calling him a lot, all three of us, all wanting to talk to him.
He remarked the other day on how he was the only one left in the States, wondering if he should come here too after he graduates next May.
Because that's the way it always was. The two of them -- and the two of us.
We've been planning his Christmas break visit. He's coming for two weeks in December.
But he wants to be back by New Year's, to spend with his college friends, which makes sense.
My oldest is so excited that he's coming. And I know he wishes he was staying more than two weeks.
We're going to be squished in here like sardines.
But it doesn't matter -- to them, anyway. I, instead, yearn for my old space.
I overheard my oldest telling his brother on the phone last night how much he was looking forward to him coming.
It's still two months away though.
Thursday 15 October 2009
More Working for the Man
I hate to admit it, but working for the man gives you a purpose in life.
It's as simple -- and as stupid -- as that.
Just gives you something to do. Something to get up for. Get dressed for. Go out for.
Unexpectedly got a few more days work at my freelance job. Trying to build it up to at least two weeks a month -- half the time. That may not be enough financially -- especially since my son lives with us now and is unemployed.
He's got the six-week (unpaid) internship coming up soon, and then after that, he'll have to get anything he can find to make some money.
But back to me.
Working half the time, two weeks a month, sounds kinda nice time-wise, if we can swing it financially.
Or do I need more?
London is so damned expensive. I hate that.
It's a great city, but just chock-a-block with places where you want to spend money. Like New York, you need money to live well here. And like New York, a lot of people look like they have serious money here.
Besides the cash, I just feel better, more energized, on the days I have to get up and go to work.
Gotta get dressed. Do my hair and make-up.
Ride my bike to the Tube, run up the stairs at the station, walk to the office at the other end.
And the office is in a cool part of town, just off Regent and Oxford Streets, at the top of Carnaby Street, that old sixties hang-out.
Today, it was brilliantly sunny -- like it can oddly be here at times -- so I walked the old narrow streets full of shops, pubs, cafes and people at lunchtime.
And then being at the office, you end up having a half-dozen interesting conversations with people during the day.
One woman told me about a fabulous weekend she just had at a resort in Egypt. Really cheap deals to great hotels in Egypt now, apparently. Only a couple hours by plane.
Not to mention the exercise your brain gets stringing words together all day long.
Got on the Tube at night. Even managed to snag a seat. Which does not happen often in the evening.
The Evening Standard, the afternoon paper, is free now (amazing), so they just hand it to you at the station as you're walking in. Much better than the old free rag.
So yeah, I'll have a Standard. Thank you kindly, sir.
Commuting. With the throngs.
It can be a slog here.
But it's probably worth it. In every way.
It's as simple -- and as stupid -- as that.
Just gives you something to do. Something to get up for. Get dressed for. Go out for.
Unexpectedly got a few more days work at my freelance job. Trying to build it up to at least two weeks a month -- half the time. That may not be enough financially -- especially since my son lives with us now and is unemployed.
He's got the six-week (unpaid) internship coming up soon, and then after that, he'll have to get anything he can find to make some money.
But back to me.
Working half the time, two weeks a month, sounds kinda nice time-wise, if we can swing it financially.
Or do I need more?
London is so damned expensive. I hate that.
It's a great city, but just chock-a-block with places where you want to spend money. Like New York, you need money to live well here. And like New York, a lot of people look like they have serious money here.
Besides the cash, I just feel better, more energized, on the days I have to get up and go to work.
Gotta get dressed. Do my hair and make-up.
Ride my bike to the Tube, run up the stairs at the station, walk to the office at the other end.
And the office is in a cool part of town, just off Regent and Oxford Streets, at the top of Carnaby Street, that old sixties hang-out.
Today, it was brilliantly sunny -- like it can oddly be here at times -- so I walked the old narrow streets full of shops, pubs, cafes and people at lunchtime.
And then being at the office, you end up having a half-dozen interesting conversations with people during the day.
One woman told me about a fabulous weekend she just had at a resort in Egypt. Really cheap deals to great hotels in Egypt now, apparently. Only a couple hours by plane.
Not to mention the exercise your brain gets stringing words together all day long.
Got on the Tube at night. Even managed to snag a seat. Which does not happen often in the evening.
The Evening Standard, the afternoon paper, is free now (amazing), so they just hand it to you at the station as you're walking in. Much better than the old free rag.
So yeah, I'll have a Standard. Thank you kindly, sir.
Commuting. With the throngs.
It can be a slog here.
But it's probably worth it. In every way.
Wednesday 14 October 2009
Sleep-overs of the past
My son has had his high school friend, who's touring England with his band, over to spend the night the last two nights. With the other members of the band.
All three of them in our tiny living room. With my son in the spare room.
Yesterday, before I went to work, I heard the alarm ring in the living room, so I knew my son's friend, who I wanted to say hello to, was up. I knocked on the door after a few minutes, when I heard rustling, before getting ready to leave the house. To say a quick hi, good luck with his London concert, and bye.
I wasn't expecting the other two guys there too. Two of them on the futon mattress, which they had put on the floor. The other one stretched out on the sofa, huddled under a little throw we have. All crowded in, sandwiched in between the too much furniture we have in there.
It was like something out of middle school. But with a lot less room.
They came in at about 2 a.m. both nights, my son said, and then stayed up in the living room talking for awhile, before crashing.
One of my neighbor's bedrooms is right under our living room. I hope they didn't bother them. Never had to worry about bothering anyone when my sons had all their friends over in our basement.
It was great to see my son's friend -- and his friends too. I'm so proud of him, that he has a band, that he's touring the UK. He's a very talented young guy.
And it was like the old days, having him spend the night.
Our house was always the house the boys came to.
I just wish I had the room I used to have.
But most of all, I wish they weren't leaving today.
My son's had a lot of fun with them the last couple of days, I can tell.
Last night, he went to their concert up in Camden, in north London, which he said was really cool.
I bet.
I wish this boy, now a man, but to me always one of the little boys who used to hang out in my basement, wasn't leaving the UK tomorrow.
He's got one last concert tonight in Brighton, and then that's it.
Maybe he'll get another tour next year, he told my son.
Maybe he'll come back to London next year.
That seems like a long way off.
It made my son happy to have him around.
And it felt like the old days, when he had friends -- and a full life.
The easy old days.
All three of them in our tiny living room. With my son in the spare room.
Yesterday, before I went to work, I heard the alarm ring in the living room, so I knew my son's friend, who I wanted to say hello to, was up. I knocked on the door after a few minutes, when I heard rustling, before getting ready to leave the house. To say a quick hi, good luck with his London concert, and bye.
I wasn't expecting the other two guys there too. Two of them on the futon mattress, which they had put on the floor. The other one stretched out on the sofa, huddled under a little throw we have. All crowded in, sandwiched in between the too much furniture we have in there.
It was like something out of middle school. But with a lot less room.
They came in at about 2 a.m. both nights, my son said, and then stayed up in the living room talking for awhile, before crashing.
One of my neighbor's bedrooms is right under our living room. I hope they didn't bother them. Never had to worry about bothering anyone when my sons had all their friends over in our basement.
It was great to see my son's friend -- and his friends too. I'm so proud of him, that he has a band, that he's touring the UK. He's a very talented young guy.
And it was like the old days, having him spend the night.
Our house was always the house the boys came to.
I just wish I had the room I used to have.
But most of all, I wish they weren't leaving today.
My son's had a lot of fun with them the last couple of days, I can tell.
Last night, he went to their concert up in Camden, in north London, which he said was really cool.
I bet.
I wish this boy, now a man, but to me always one of the little boys who used to hang out in my basement, wasn't leaving the UK tomorrow.
He's got one last concert tonight in Brighton, and then that's it.
Maybe he'll get another tour next year, he told my son.
Maybe he'll come back to London next year.
That seems like a long way off.
It made my son happy to have him around.
And it felt like the old days, when he had friends -- and a full life.
The easy old days.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
