Retail Therapy

    Starting to get that flying carpet that'll never land again feeling. Today is our last full day here.   

    Our older son left yesterday afternoon and my husband and I literally fell apart after he drove away.

    We retreated to our hotel room in shock -- and sadness. He was as bad as me, and that doesn't happen very often. In fact, that may be the first time it's happened since this whole adventure started. He's always the strong one.     

    You just get so used to having them around again, he said. Ohmigod, yes. And then they're gone again. Yes, yes.  

    We never felt like this before when he went back to his college town. But now it's different. Because we're so far. Because it's a big production involving trans-Atlantic flights to see them.

     We lay on the bed together hugging. It actually physically hurts, he said. Yes, yes, yes.

     We are now officially on the same page. At least briefly. 

     My younger son's girlfriend called and asked if I wanted to go shopping with her. We had mentioned that we wanted to look for a new bathing suit together, two girls out shopping. I had been looking forward to it. But now, I just felt destroyed.

     She came and picked me up.

     I told her I was feeling a bit fragile since my older son had left. She listened and then turned to me and asked, "Why did you move to England anyway? It's so far."

     I looked at her, I'm sure grimacing. I wasn't sure what to say. No reason I could give her could possibly make any sense. So I didn't say anything right away.

     "I know a great bathing suit store downtown," she said, quickly changing the subject.

     "Sounds good, honey. Let's go there," I replied. 

     No wonder people shop 'till they drop here.

     

          

                

       

     

          

                  

Land of the Free and Home of the Shopping

    The U.S. wins one contest hands down: It's by far the best country I know of to go shopping. Is that enough to just call it home forever and end it there?

    Might be actually.     

    We went to an outlet mall near here over the weekend because the boys needed some clothes -- and so did my husband and I. 

    The place was full of brand-name stores selling good quality, affordable clothes. I felt like a kid in a candy store. We bought all kinds of stuff for everyone for about the price of dinner for two (or one, depending on the restaurant) in London. 

     I've bought precisely one thing for myself since we moved to London -- a pair of flat black ballet slippers to replace a pair I had worn out. They were at least twice as much as what I would've paid in the U.S. for a similar pair -- and they were in the cheap rack at the store where I bought them.  

    My one old London friend was with me at the time and she asked the saleslady if there were any cheaper shoes -- or sale shoes or anything. She replied that most people would consider the shoes we were looking at cheap. Uh, okay.   

   If you ask me, the Brits are just getting ripped off left and right. And frankly, I just DO NOT understand how they are making it. I mean, the salaries are low, the taxes are high and everything, I repeat everything, is really expensive. Are they all just secret trust fund babies?

   I've been afraid to even get my hair cut in London. You need to take out a second mortgage to get your hair colored, cut and blow-dried. It's almost three times what I used to pay in the States. (By the way, I really miss you, Dee, my lovely Vietnamese hairdresser of old.) 

   The shops are adorable in London, don't get me wrong. And they have really cute stuff. But when you look at the price tags, everything in an American's body just screams, "no way, Jose!" What, am I funding your second home in Spain with this purchase?  

   But then, I guess that's the reason for all this over-consumption here. You feel like you're an idiot NOT to buy here. You go broke saving money here.    

   Everyone walking around the outlet mall was weighed down with several shopping bags each. You never see people in London walking around with several shopping bags on each arm. They might have to hail a cab then -- and really, who can afford that AND go shopping?  

   I got into a state though. I felt like I had to buy all the clothes I might need for the next several years, so I never have to buy anything at all in London. 

   But it's not that easy to buy a leather jacket when it's almost 100 degrees outside, no matter how high the air-conditioning. But gosh, they were nice -- and just so reasonable. 

    Anyway, I stopped myself. Only bought a few summer things. Besides being already cheap, they were all on sale too.  

    Last night, we went to a restaurant here that was doing Sunday oyster night -- a dozen of the freshest, plumpest oysters for $6.00. 

    Six dollars? For a dozen oysters? That's about the price of a bottle of mineral water in London.

    Anyway, gotta go. Gotta get my hair done today.

          

       

   

                             

Blasting the Air-Con

    Could someone please turn down the air-conditioning? I'm freezing. Even though it's sweltering outside. I have to bring a sweater with me everywhere I go in case I step inside anywhere.

    It's just ridiculous really. It's not even funny. It's just a huge squandering of resources.

    Ah, that feels good. 

    When you're actually from a country, you can just criticize its ways without any worry of offending anyone. I'm allowed to say this because I'm American.

    You got that? I'm American. And I want someone to just turn down the air-con in this country before we've gobbled up all the resources this world has. We're using more than our fair share here, folks.  

    I saw in the paper yesterday that the Indian government banned air-con in government buildings to save money. And I know it's hot there.

    Here, though, we just crank it up so high that everyone makes jokes about it. Things like, the supermarket is the worst. You actually need your coat on to go in there.

   What? Why? People don't even like it. 

    There seems to be so little talk here of what humans are doing to our planet compared to the UK. 

    In Britain, it's constantly at the forefront of discussion -- in newspaper stories, television documentaries and movies.

    A documentary about the shocking depletion of fish in the world's oceans is huge now in Britain. Several supermarket chains and restaurants banned the sale of bluefin tuna after the movie came out.

    Here, grocery stores have the air-con on so high you can see your breath while you're shopping for bluefin tuna.

    Something's gotta give.      

Whose Life is it Anyway?

     We had an impromptu sleep-over last night, prompted by the fact that my younger son lost the key to his house -- and his roommate was out. But who cares about the reason.

     My older son is sleeping on cushions on the floor in our hotel room right now as I write this. And even though I'm in the dark trying not to disturb him (and jet-lag woke me up a long time ago), there's something cozy -- and homey -- about that. Kinda like when he was little. And I used to tiptoe around because I wanted him to sleep more. My younger son spent the night at his girlfriend's apartment.  

     Ran some errands for them yesterday. Both their cars needed major help, so we dropped one off to be fixed yesterday and today we'll take the other one in. 

     Even though we're supposed to be on vacation here (and we are), all I ever seem to want to do is write up a to-do list of what they might need -- and cross things off one by one.

     I feel like they still need us to get through life. Or is it that I need them to get through life?

     My younger son needs a new power cord for his computer and I suggested we go get one. "I can do that when you're not here, Mom," was his reply. Even though they're appreciative of the help, they don't want this week to be just about what they need.

    My younger son, especially, wants this to be a fun week for us. He knows that the other times we've come to the vacation spot that is Charleston, it was always about him -- setting him up in his dorm, and then his house.

    This is just about us seeing each other -- and spending some time together after being apart so long.

    In the afternoon, we went to the beach for awhile. Friends of my younger son's drifted to where we were, everyone knowing exactly where to meet. My older son went off for awhile to take a personal call on his cellphone. Lots of stuff happening with his group of friends where he lives. 

    They both have lives. 

    It's me that needs a life now.       

Back in the U.S. of A

     Need to add another country to the list of countries where I don't feel I belong anymore, I guess -- the good 'ol U.S. of A. Where the hell do I belong these days?

     Feels oddly strange to be back here now. Geez.  

     Charleston was never home, so that's understandable. It's not like we went back to where we lived for a dozen years.

      My husband is having fun with this confusion. He's been humming Springsteen's "Born in the USA" at me with a knowing little smile.

     We had trouble getting in, and missed our connecting flight from Atlanta, which didn't help. 

     Usually, the immigration officer welcomes you home, smiling.

     But yesterday, it was all business and "go wait to talk to the officer in that office over there."

     My husband lost his green card once years ago and had to apply for another one, so that comes up on the computer when we go through Passport Control. By the time we had sorted it out, we ran like hell to the connecting gate only to see the door shutting as we panted up.

     I didn't like that my husband had trouble getting in. Made me feel nervous. When the officer asked him how long it had been since he was here and he replied mid-February, the officer looked at him warily and asked him when was the last time he filed U.S. taxes. 

    Just the other day actually, sir. June 15 deadline for overseas filers.

    Can we be allowed back home now, please? Or whatever this is.

    We went and had a cappuccino while we waited for the next flight to Charleston.

    My husband remarked on how many large people there were around, so many more than in Europe, he said. I pointed out five or six people who weren't large. He replied that at least two of them didn't look American. 

     I said the cappuccino was actually really good, better than the average one in Britain, where they often tend to be too hot and bitter for my taste.

     He said something about how I shouldn't just write off all the cappuccinos in Britain. And did I notice how massive the cookie we ordered to share with our cappuccinos was?  

     I hate it when we divide down country lines like that. 

     Neither of us wanted to take it any further though, so we picked up a stray copy of USA Today, divided it up and started reading.

        

The Boys

    Going to visit the boys tomorrow! Flying to Charleston, South Carolina for a week, where my younger son is a senior in college. My older son is driving down to meet us for a few days.

    We're so excited to see them. It's been since January, which of course, is the longest we've ever gone without seeing them. 

    Charleston is a charming U.S. city in the south, near the water. It's got historic architecture, a true walkable center (like London), hot weather and nice beaches nearby -- pretty ideal spot for an American vacation.

     It's weird to think we're seeing our kids like this on vacation. Usually, college kids come home, flop on the couch, open the fridge door half a dozen times, and soon, it's like nobody ever graduated from high school. Everyone just back to old patterns. 

     This is going to be different. We're going to be in a hotel and our sons are going to stay together at our youngest's apartment. They're really looking forward to seeing each other too, since it's been awhile for them as well, and they've always been close.  

     So how have they been without us? Has it been terrible for them that we've abandoned them?

     Actually no.  

     I think I'd have to say that for our eldest son, 23, it's actually been better that we haven't been there. He took on responsibilities in the family's finances that he wouldn't have, had we stayed. That was good for him, he did it well, and it felt grown up all around. We feel more comfortable knowing he knows more about how everything runs for us as a family. 

    He's thinking more creatively about what's next for him now too. More than he would have had he had the option of going home, we think. And ultimately, that's better for him.

    He didn't want to go back and live in his old room, even temporarily. He was pretty sure about that. And now, he may decide he doesn't even want to go back to where we were, although he can. That's up to him. There's a whole world out there. It'd be nice -- for us and for him -- if he came this way somewhere, at least for awhile.  

    For my younger son, it's been more complicated. He hasn't been able to come home to flop on the couch, and that makes me feel terribly guilty. Lots of his old friends are home now. He just went back to where we were, just for a couple days, and stayed with a friend. I asked him if he had driven past our old house. He hadn't. Boys are less sentimental than girls. 

    He had already planned to stay in Charleston this summer, the last summer of college. And why not? Charleston is a great place to be in the summer, more fun than where we lived frankly, for a boy of 21 (and maybe an old lady of 55 too). And he's got a job -- and a girlfriend. A lot of his college buddies decided to stay too. 

    So I guess I have to admit that it's been much worse for me than it has for them. It hasn't even been bad for them, if I have to be savagely honest about it. 

    Anyway, it'll be so great to see them tomorrow afternoon! My god. They're going to pick us up at the airport. I cannot wait.  

    We've missed them so much. They've missed us a lot too.   

    Absence does always makes the heart grow a little fonder, doesn't it?

   

     

   American Expat Wife will continue from Charleston, with perhaps only a one-day hiatus on Tuesday for flying. Otherwise, every day, Monday-Friday.

   

A Bit of Oprah

      I've been in a crappy mood ever since the visit with my stuff. You could probably tell. And I can't think of anything witty (or stupid) to say about either the British -- or living in London. Or the side of a hill in Italy. Or anything.   

      Just holed up in this flat feeling sorry for myself. Which is really boring, self-destructive, stupid and any other adjective you can think of. I agree with it all. I'm sorry.

      I guess I'm just not that good at sitting around here, doing the laundry, cleaning the rented flat -- and trying to come up with things to do every day to entertain myself without spending too much money. 

      I'm lonely, but I've stopped reaching out to the few people I do know. 

      I miss my boys. I miss my book club. I miss my water aerobics class. My yoga class. My old colleagues. My old job. My old house. I haven't replaced any of that with anything. So I don't know what I'm doing here. Most of the time, I'm just plotting leaving.

     Last night, I watched Oprah on TV.  She's on at 11 p.m. on a cable channel. The way I'm feeling, I could do a 24/7 Oprah marathon for weeks without a problem.  

     Anyway, she had on a group of morbidly obese teenagers talking about the issues that got them where they were.

     At one point, a facilitator asked the teenagers one by one to angrily finish this sentence: "I'm angry that...." 

     For the exercise, their parents were made to just listen. They couldn't respond. The facilitator egged the kids on to answer the question as many times as possible, as emotionally as possible. At the end, the parents were allowed only to hug their children without comment.

    It was pretty powerful to watch. "I'm angry that my father left you," shouted one obese boy at his mother. "I'm angry that he left on my birthday." 

    "I'm angry that you're my only friend," one girl cried to her mother. And so on.

     Later, all the kids said they felt a whole lot better just getting it off their chests, just the act of being able to say what was really bothering them.  

     I lay in bed, thinking. Okay, why not. What are you angry about? Just say it to yourself.

     I'm angry that I'm so far from my boys. 

     I'm angry that most of my stuff is in storage.

     I'm angry that the newspaper job I loved went down the tubes.   

     I'm angry because I'm not sure I want to be here, but I don't know what to do about it.   

     I'm angry that there's no easy solution.    

     Okay, that's better. Now what?  

         

    

          

            

      

                     

Uggs and a cardy

    London women can be incredibly stylish too -- like Italian women, but in a different way.

    Italian women go for the classic, where London women opt for the funky. Both work.

    Here, because of the ever-changing weather, even in the summer you see women wearing boots (yes, even Uggs). Or sandals.  

    Doesn't matter. Layer it up. Or layer it down.

    Uggs with a summer skirt. Sandals with a long cardigan over a couple t-shirts. Leggings under short-shorts. Take your pick. Any combo goes.

    One essential item, though, both to get the look -- and to keep warm when it suddenly starts hailing -- is the "cardy" or cardigan sweater.

    Gotta have some of those. And as cute as possible please. Cropped, long, tied, swaying, straight, narrow, plain, decorated, purple, green, anything you want, just get some.

    Don't have a lot of cardys, me. Just a couple of plain black ones. Need some. 

    And my husband gave me a pair of Uggs for Christmas, but who thought I might be wearing them in late June with a summer skirt? So I've stuffed them to the back of some closet.

    I'm learning there's no such thing as winter and summer clothes here, though. 

    It's just, a coat on top of that cardy? Or perhaps another cardy on top of that cardy? Or is it just a one-cardy day? 

    And tights with those Uggs? Or none now, but maybe later?

                     

Storage to the Back Burner

     Do I even need to tell you that the storage move turned out to be a disaster? Or you guessed that already? 

     We were deep in grid-locked traffic on the ring road -- not moving in a single lane through a quaint little suburb -- when the storage guy called. I had talked to him already that morning, before we left, trying to coordinate his approximate arrival time so we wouldn't be stuck waiting there for hours like the day before.

     All okay, he had said. You're a priority today. Yep, noon, we'll be there. 

     And now, 45 minutes before we're supposed to meet there, nope, can't be there until the late afternoon. 

     But we're already on our way. 

     Another day, mate. Any other day. 

     Any other day? What about the past two days? 

    And the fact we've paid for this move already? You were insistent you needed to be paid before anything happened.

    No problem. We'll keep track. Just do it another day, mate.  

    My husband, who pulled a back muscle the first day of the storage move, was only too happy to give it all up. The traffic was already getting on his nerves. And he needed to rest his back so he could go back to work today. He made a quick U-turn.

    So that's that for awhile. Stuff still in two different storage facilities on opposite ends of London. Need to organize another move another day.

    I don't want to think about it for awhile though. Doesn't help.

    It just made me sad to see all my stuff again, to again be confronted with the fact that I'm just an unpacked box, as my old newspaper buddy described me (by the way, girl, wanna fly over for lunch?).

    And being sad doesn't help my situation here at all.

   So, all you unpacked boxes in our crammed-to-the-hilt containers: To the back burner, I banish you!      

Storage, Anyone?

     Nothing to kill a mood like a two-day visit to your stuff.

     We drove the hour and a half around London's congested (and often single lane) ring road yesterday to the other side of town to accept the delivery of our two pods of storage -- and move it ourselves to two other pods -- from the more expensive storage place closer to us.

     Not completely sure this move of our stuff was worth it. But as with everything in this venture, too late now. 

     Guy showed up two hours late with the first pod. And then proceeded to spend the next half hour eating a banana (I swear ... it was his "break time" the minute he got there) in an effort to not have to drive back around the chock-a-block ring road to get the second pod. Guy in the head office who I had talked to half a dozen times about the move this week suddenly not answering his phone.

     So, yep, right, after spending several hours there yesterday, we gotta go back and do it all again today. Soon actually, so I don't have a lot of time here.       

     But, back to the core questions. Why do we have so much stuff? Do we really have so much stuff? Or are we trying to unrealistically pare down to what, for what? And of course, the ever-present ultimate: What are we going to do with all this stuff?

    Have you noticed that there are storage places EVERYWHERE? I don't know how many facilities we passed on our way to ours, dozens upon dozens. And where we used to live in the States was littered with storage places too. It's a phenomenon, folks. 

    I used to laugh at people who had stuff in storage. I used to marvel when I would see a screened-in porch piled high with boxes in the States. Can't they just throw that stuff away, I would think. Or put it away? What a waste of space, I would judge, stupidly. 

    Now, I have more stuff in storage than I live with. And I guess I could become one of those people who store stuff for decades. So who's laughing now?

    The storage facility we ended up using -- in an industrial estate with lots of other storage places -- has 1,600 containers in it, the guy told us. It's just a big shed basically with containers. My husband and I worked out how much they were making per week -- staggering. 

    As we were closing our one repacked pod at the end of the afternoon, I said to the guy who worked there, "it's all just junk, I suppose. I should just throw it all away."

    "Yeah, we see people spending a lot of money storing stuff when they could just buy all new a hundred times over with the money they spend," he said.

      I nodded. And gulped. 

     "But it's because a lot of the stuff is sentimental," he went on.  

     "All this stuff is sentimental, I guess," he said with a dismissive wave back to the containers and a little chuckle. "Not that the people ever see the stuff."

     "Keeps us in business anyway," he said, slamming the pod door shut. 

            

Just Take That Top Off

    I felt like a real Londoner yesterday. Only briefly and half-naked, but still. That's progress.

    We went for a Sunday afternoon bike ride yesterday to a big park nearby. Riding our bikes is becoming our favorite leisure activity -- especially on these never-ending June days. (It just never gets dark -- glorious sunset at about 10 p.m. last night).

    We looked at the map and found a big green spot not too far from us and decided to head there. The parks are beautiful here -- acres of green often dotted with majestic old buildings and stone archways where you can loll around on the grass, ride your bikes, have your dogs off-leash -- really chill, as my sons would say.

     We laid down on the grass on a little hill to rest and the sun eased out from behind the clouds. It does that here, especially in the late afternoon and evenings, I've found. It can be overcast all day and then all of a sudden, a couple hours of just brilliant sunshine. 

     It felt so good lying there on the grass, face to the late afternoon sun after a good ride. 

     I looked around us. Nobody was very close. There was a cricket game in the distance, all the players dressed neatly in their whites. A group of friends having a picnic, laughing, drinking a few beers (you're allowed to do that here, I guess). 

    And further away, a couple sunbathing beside their bikes. Although they were lying down, I could see that the woman had either a bikini top on -- or was down to her bra, a pretty normal occurrence here when the sun comes out.

    We lay there for awhile. It felt so good to be outside. The sun felt so warm.

    Yep, you guessed it. Whipped off that t-shirt, got on down to the bra, and exposed some skin. Nobody's watching. Everybody does it. She's doing it over there. And nobody cares anyway. My husband took his shirt off too. 

    An hour later, our vitamin D intake topped up nicely, we got back on our bikes and rode home.

    And I even started to feel at home. Just by taking my top off -- like the ladies do here.    

    Can't go on about this too long, though. We've got an appointment to move our two expensive storage pods to the cheaper place this afternoon. All the way over in East London somewhere.

    I'm not looking forward to seeing my stuff.  

    Maybe later, though, the sun will come out and I can get down to my bra again.    

Glass of Water, Pretty Please?

   You cannot believe how hard it can be to get a glass of water here. I mean, if you collapsed on the street, people would be falling all over themselves to help you, any number of them wanting to bring you water, take you to the hospital, call your mother.

   But asking for a glass of water in a restaurant can make you feel as small as the drip coming out of your faucet.

   Take yesterday. I walked to my high street for a spot of light lunch. Gotta get out of the house somehow. I usually confine my paid daytime excursions to a cappuccino over the afternoon paper (they still have an afternoon paper here, amazingly) at one of my local cafes, but yesterday, I decided to splurge and actually have lunch sitting outside instead.

   I ordered a salad and then quietly, a glass of tap water. It's always a bit uncomfortable asking for water. They don't give it to you with your meal, like in the States, so you have to ask. Usually, they bring it happily enough, with only the slightest curl of the upper lip. Even though, of course, they'd always much rather you pay up to $4 for a little bottle of mineral water (I can get a case of mineral water from my Italian vendor for that price). 

   But yesterday, the waitress just openly gave me a dirty look when I asked. A grimace, almost. This from a young woman who spoke so little English she barely understood my order.

   She whipped out the specials menu, showing me the salad I had just ordered with a soft drink -- for only $2 more, not $4. "Good deal," she said twice, with a heavy Eastern European accent.

   Problem was, this wasn't about the money. I actually wanted water, (with ice even), not a soft drink, but who can stand the pressure? And the implication that you're just a cheap shit from the wrong side of the Atlantic?   

   So I caved, and ordered the special with a Diet Coke.

   Another upper lip curl. This time, her face saying, "I knew you were going to order that. Americans always order Diet Coke." 

   A furtive glance down at my hips. "You're not even that fat and you want Diet Coke," her face went on.

   Lunch might've been a bad idea. Cappuccino later is usually uneventful. All the Eastern Europeans who work at the place I get my cappuccino are nicer.    

      

        

      

The Fox Hunt

    I didn't quite believe it when I first heard someone say that the reason you have to keep your rubbish lids on your trash outside here is because otherwise, the foxes will rip your bags open.

    Right, I thought. That's a nice way of saying beware of the rats.

    Maybe it's because my last six months in the U.S. were, shall I say, rat-infested?

    After we sold our house in the suburbs (where there were no rats that I knew of), we moved downtown for six months until we left the States. It was great being downtown after the suburbs, lively, fun, all that, but putting our trash in the bin behind our building was not a highlight. Jokes circulated among residents that you could surprise a rat having dinner when you opened the lid. There was always a mad scampering when you went back there, which was gross. 

    So, yeah, sure, the foxes. Whatever. I'll be sure to keep the lid on tight.

    And then I met them. 

    I was looking out my kitchen window at my neighbor's garden downstairs (she's in the garden flat, we're in the top flat) when I saw him -- or her, I guess. Lying in a spot of sun on the top of her garden shed was a sleek auburn fox with black paws that looked painted on.

   Don't think I've actually ever seen a fox before, especially sleeping like a cat in the sun right in front of me. 

   And then not that long later, on a walk around my 'hood, I met another fox, sauntering around in an apartment complex off the main square here. Looked pretty at home.  

   I asked my downstairs neighbor, a tiny eighty-something Burmese woman who once ran a Buddhist center with her husband in Oxford (people are really interesting here), about the fox sleeping on top of her garden shed.

    She laughed and brought me back to show me a pile of tennis balls in her garden. 

   "He leaves these for me," she said, pointing to the heap of about a dozen identical green balls. "He collects these."

      

       

          

    

      

    

        

               

     

Sorry, guys

   To: The British People

   From: An American Expat living in London (and the side of a hill in Italy).

   It's not you. It's me. I'm sorry.

   You've got a lovely country here. Truly. There are so many things I love about it, and about London. The "high street" with its thousands of adorable shops that just go on forever. U.S. urban planners only dream of creating a downtown like yours.

   The cute little houses all in a row with their pretty little gardens and quaint window boxes. Wish I lived in one of those houses, a whole one even, like my next-door neighbors (that Tiffany lamp you guys have behind the stained glass window looks great, I've been meaning to tell you). Instead of the expensive, rented, upstairs part of one.

   The newspapers, the bookstores, the theatre, the telly, the hedges, the roses, riding my bike. I could go on and on. So much to like.

   Problem is, I'm looking for a home. I've got too much stuff not to. (God, is that it?). Or I'm too old not to. Too something anyway.  

   So try to take everything I say with a grain of salt, if you can. It's hard, I know. I've been taking lots of shit from you about America -- and my accent -- for years. (No, I'm not fat actually, but thanks for asking.).   

   Anyway, back to home -- and my so far futile quest for it.

   I know how to go about making this city home. And I guess that's what I should do, considering we've got one job here and all. Get out there and find a job myself (if I can.) Start commuting on the tube like the rest of the masses. Buy a house we can't afford to put all our junk in. And before you know it, you're home, like everybody else! 

    Or move to Italy. And move all the stuff there. But seriously, what does one do in a small town on the side of a hill in Italy in November? Those of you who know Italy know what I mean. 

    Too young -- and too many financial obligations still -- to retire. Even though, I wish I was in Italy now. (Going back soon. Overcast and rainy here. Beautiful there.)

    Or cut our losses now, or at the end of our lease. Go back to the States, the country where our kids are, the country of cheap shopping, lower taxes, higher salaries, cars -- and yes, even some fat people.

     

        

            

     

Stuff, stuff and more stuff

      One of the biggest things I need to figure out soon here in London, the top item on the to-do list as it were, is sort out what to do with all our stuff. At the moment, two-thirds of our earthly possessions are in two different storage facilities in London -- and that's as expensive as it sounds and needs to be consolidated, with an eye towards 'what the hell are we going to do with all this stuff' later, I guess.  

     You should've been here when that happened, the day the movers arrived with our shipment from the States. Or maybe not. 

     The container spewed boxes like a teenager who's had too much to drink -- with nowhere to put what just kept coming out. We quickly saw that even the furniture we thought MIGHT fit in this top-floor flat wouldn't make it around the bend in the stairs leading to the main level -- even after taking off all the doorways and any furniture appendages.

    Now, I know what you're thinking. Some dumb materialistic American with way too much stuff. Which I guess is valid, in a way. But not completely.

     Yes, I did come from a much bigger house in the States, but I knew that and had given a lot of my furniture to my boys, sold it, or donated it. I really only brought the equivalent of a three-bedroom apartment with me, in terms of furniture, which is what we have rented.

     Wasn't counting on it being so tight to get it up here. Underestimated how much room there was here, and how big my furniture is. Underestimated how much other stuff besides furniture, that I brought, that I couldn't throw away -- like some of the boys' old clothes and schoolwork, my dead mother's artwork, books, and anything else a fifty-something couple has amassed in three decades together.

     Since we knew we were going to have to store some stuff (we weren't that stupid), we had contracted with a London company to drop off a "pod" container that we would fill up and they would come take away when we were done.

     Filled that up in about an hour. Called for another one. Soon, that one was chock-a-block too. Asked for another one, but that's all they had.

     Ended the day on the pavement outside the house, crying, surrounded by bits of furniture and boxes. Moving guys took pity and made a late-afternoon arrangement to take the rest of the stuff that wouldn't go upstairs to their warehouse in east London. Moving guys really nice  -- tried to cram our sofa round the stair bend so intently for me that it dented the drywall (and no, it still didn't fit. And yes, we are going to have to fix the drywall.).  

     So that's how our stuff ended up in two different storage places in London. 

     Oh, and there's some here too, of course. There's at least a dozen boxes up in the loft, cooking nicely in the heat under the attic eaves. Not sure what's in them.

    And boy do we need a sofa.

    Anyway, need to call the first storage company today and get them to move the first two container pods to the cheaper place in east London, so it can all be together in one place that costs less.

    And then we'll have to decide what to do with it all.

     

       

    

                                  

      

Thank you, Mr. President

  To: U.S. President Barack Obama

  From: An American Expat living in London (and the side of a hill in Italy)

  Thank you for being you. You don't know how much easier you've made it for me to be me. 

  Not that long ago -- and for eight long years -- being American was just bad news over here.  

  Everyone pretty much hated President Bush -- and all his policies. And they felt railroaded into following U.S. positions, like supporting the war in Iraq, that they didn't agree with. At all.

  Now I could be exaggerating, I know. I was in the States during that time. And I'm sure there was the odd well-paid banker in the City -- London's now-credit-crunch-ravaged financial district -- who supported our former president. All I know is that whenever I  ventured across the Atlantic over the past few years -- to my side of a hill in Italy or here -- that's what I got. 

   And all I could do was agree. You're right, I would say -- sadly, solemnly. He can't string two words together. The war in Iraq has brought so much misery. And they didn't have weapons of mass destruction. You're right, you're right, you're right! But it's not my fault! And I don't want to answer for him! I would want to scream from the top of the tower of London.

   To tell you the truth, Barack, it was all just getting old.

   But now, my dear new president, you've changed all that. I can't even tell you how much.

   Now, instead of poking fun (or biting sarcasm), the Brits say they WISH they had someone like you, a Barack Obama, to pull out of their hats (where DID you come from, really?) in their time of need.

   Their prime minister, Gordon Brown, has got poll numbers that make Bushes look good after a never-ending scandal of member of parliament after member of parliament fiddling on their expenses. Considering the fiddled money comes from the heavily-taxed British taxpayer -- and the British taxpayer is suffering mightily here in a deepening economic recession -- the Brits are now nicely pissed off at their government. 

   And there you are, Barack, over on your side of the Atlantic, seemingly trying to fix things with compassion rather than letting your mates steal it all, I guess.

   Gordon Brown's been on YouTube lately too, in a bid to reconnect with his admiring public. He just came off weird. And everybody panned it.

   You, instead, Barack, my new BFF, floored everyone over here with your recent Middle East speech in Cairo. People are actually quoting bits of it to each other -- like what you said about our daughters contributing as much as our sons.

    You're giving people goose bumps over here, Barack. And boy do you know how to string two words together. Especially after that last guy.

     And then there's the Italians, who know how to appreciate a good-looking man in a nice-fitting suit.

     And that's you, Barack. You just look great in your suit. Even by Italian standards.

     And who do the Italians have to compare to you anyway? Their aging, permanently-tanned prime minister, Silvio Berlusconi, who's wife just filed for divorce, citing her husband's persistent admiration of young women? 

     Compared to you, placing your hand protectively on the small of Michelle's back to guide her, taking her out on "date" nights in Washington, listening to her advice? Oh, and by the way, she's just adorable, Barack. We can see why you love her so much. 

     And Barack, above all, it's just so special that you're the first black president. It's just all good. 

     So yeah, everyone, that's right, I'm American. No shit, Sherlock. Heard it in the accent, huh?

     And yep, Barack Obama. Yeah, that's our new president. 

    Got anything to say about that? 

                 

   

    

   

Why?

     Where the hell should I go to make myself feel whole again? Is there anywhere? Or is that a feeling that has to come from inside?  

     Nobody else seems to be grappling with all this. From the outside, it looks like they're all just living their lives. Going to work, seeing their friends, tending to their houses, taking care of their kids -- whether they're here, in the States, or in Italy. Everyone seems so settled. Day after day. Week after week. Life. Without thinking about it.

     Me, I feel like I'm on a flying carpet that doesn't ever land.

     Why did we uproot our whole life? At our age? For what? What did we gain by this tremendous upheaval? Can't think of much at this moment.  

     I know what we lost, what I lost anyway. My house, my job, my kids, my dog, my friends, my car -- pretty much everything.   

     To move to a more expensive country with higher taxes where it rains a lot more, although okay, it hasn't rained that much lately. To start over. Why?

     We said we wanted another adventure -- before it was too late. This doesn't feel like an adventure. Is that my fault? Am I too old for an adventure like this? We've moved around a lot, my husband and I. We lived in Asia, in Europe, and in the States. Moving was never this hard. We brought our kids. I had a job. We never downsized like this (we never downsized at all) -- everything in storage with no idea where it will ultimately go. I wasn't in my mid-50s. The world economy wasn't shit. The newspaper industry wasn't dying a sudden death.  

     Is it time to just admit we've made a mistake -- people do after all -- and just high-tail it back to the States? But to where? And how? And so then, is it time to just sell our house in Italy -- and give up on that dream too? 

     And does my husband even agree? (He's at work now. I heard him tell someone he's working with today on the phone last night: "We'll have fun." So I guess he's having fun at work. I hope so, for him.)

     I found out last night that he's told his job we're going to stay for quite awhile, even though I had extracted a promise from him that if I didn't like it, we could leave when our lease is up next spring. No wonder he doesn't want to talk about what we'll do if it doesn't work out.

     We certainly can't afford to give up the one job we've got between us at this point. We've still got one year of out-of-state college tuition to pay. And our older son, who just graduated, is going to need help getting launched too. 

     So I guess that's that.  So stop thinking about it.     

     Today is a typical London day: overcast and drizzly. My work euphoria is fading (how long can you live off five days work, seriously?). Our bank account is shrinking.  

      Made an arrangement to meet my one old London friend today to go to a gallery, thank god.

      Otherwise, I'd be trying to think of what to do with myself. 

      So got a day off from that. But hell, there's always tomorrow.

                   

   

Riding Along

     I have found something that I like better here in London than in Italy, or where I used to live in the States, something uniquely good right here where I live. That's got to be the first step toward settling, doesn't it? 

     Riding my bike. Simple as that.

     It's the same bike I had in the States. But in the States, I wasn't riding it. Where I lived was incredibly hilly, and Lance Armstrong I'm not. So the bike sat in my shed, unrode.

     In Italy, we've got a couple of bikes, which we've ridden a few times over the years. Since we're on the side of a steep hill there, riding down is magical, wind in your hair and all that. Riding up -- or rather walking your bike up -- not as good. Even walking up that hill requires stamina.

     But here, it's gloriously flat. Pretty much all over London. There's a couple of hills in the city but you don't need to go near them if you don't want to.

     And there are bike lanes. And British drivers are as civil as drivers can be -- letting each other in, waving to each other in thanks. I swear. It's a phenomenon. In Italy, all the drivers are saying unspeakable things about each other's mothers all the time.

     It helps that my bike is chained right outside our front door here, so I have to pass it to go anywhere. "Just ride me, it calls to me as I walk past. You know you'll like it."

     And then there's my husband, who can latch onto an idea and never let go like a bull with a red rag. 

     During my five days of work, he must've told me a dozen times that I should ride my bike to the Underground station rather than walk -- that it saved time and it felt good. 

     Finally, on the third day of my five-day stint, I caved. He was right, of course. It did save time. It did feel good. And it was easy to lock it up right outside the station, as he said. 

     Yesterday evening late, when it should've been dark already but wasn't yet, my husband suggested a ride. (All part of his plan). We had a lovely ride around a nearby park in the late evening sun.

     Okay, I'm hooked. So take a bow, and stop there.

     Oh no. He's just warming up for the final assault.

     You see how easy that was, he said, how much fun. 

     Yeah, okay, so?

     Riding a scooter would be easy too. You'd get the hang of it immediately.

     This is his diabolical plan. Me at the wheel of a Vespa in London -- an Italian in England.

     No longer complaining about having no car (an American without a car?), or moaning about how long it takes -- or how expensive it is -- to go anywhere on the Underground, or "tube."

     But I don't know how to drive a Vespa. So I'd have to learn. And I haven't driven on the left side of the road for 23 years, the last time I lived here. And I like being on the back of a Vespa when my husband is driving it, leaving the driving to him.

     But he will not let this go. It would be so good for me. Help me settle. Give me something new to learn. Give me a great way to get around. Fun.

     And think how cute I'd be riding along on a baby blue Vespa...

     Help.     

                  

     

          

Working for the man

     I don't want to believe that just working for the man can make a person feel so much more worthwhile. Is that it? All we have to do is work for someone for our whole lives (make them rich off our labor) and then everything's okay? Are we that weak? Or is just me? 

     I just finished my five days work here in London. It went well. Got paid to write again, like I used to. (Bliss). I worked hard. They liked it. I liked it. Felt great.

     Came home last night, feeling completely different. I felt like I had accomplished something. My work had been validated. Had something to show for my days. Brain tired from thinking of how to string words together nicely, rather than what the hell to do with myself.    

     My husband was so happy to see me like that again. We talked of where it might lead (maybe nowhere, but it didn't seem to matter), what I could do now, where I could look for more work on the back of this -- all hopeful stuff finally.

     We felt closer than we have in awhile because maybe, just maybe, we could start seeing the light at the end of this dark tunnel of mine. 

      But it's all reliant on others, this perhaps short-lived euphoria. And that just seems stupid -- and weak.

      When I was working my buns off for my big newspaper, churning out story after story for years, I yearned to be able to have time for myself, time to go to Italy at length, time to write what I wanted -- time, time, time.

     And now I've got time. And all I want is for someone to take it all away again. Please. I beg you.          

     I was talking to one of the bosses where I worked for the past five days. I told him basically that -- I need to work. Simple as that. And I'll work hard for you. 

     He laughed -- and looked at me knowingly. It's amazing how that works, he says. When we're working, all we think about is escaping. When we're not working, all we think about is working again.

     Yep. Nailed that. Is this just the working man's dilemma?

       

      

     

     

     

     

    

         

                

No Sleep

    Hardly slept last night. Sleep can be elusive for a middle-aged woman. Not to mention an anxious middle-aged woman.  

    Got some freelance work over the past few days, which was great (and lucky), but it's ending today. Not sure there's any more where that came from. Not sure what's next. Economy terrible here too. Competing with people who've lived here their whole lives -- and know everyone -- in a rapidly shrinking medium. 

    Don't know if I can settle here. I might be too old to settle without my furniture and my stuff, most of which doesn't fit here. I might be too old now to live in a rented flat with no outside space after having my own house. 

    Could settle in Italy, I guess. At least get my furniture out of storage and bring it down there. Can you really live in two separate countries and stay married?  

    Might just be too emotional to live in a different country from my children. I feel like I'm already starting to lose the close connection I had worked so hard to build up with them, especially with my younger son, who I haven't talked to nearly as much as I would have had I still been in the States. Nobody's fault. The time difference. His work schedule. His Internet hasn't been working. The reality of living this far away.

     Tired of apologizing for everything that I am.

     Don't know what I'm homesick for. Not the city where I was so much. I felt like a fish out of water there sometimes too -- the bane of the first-generation immigrant.

     What I'm longing for is a feeling of comfort, of knowing where I am, what I'm doing, why and what for. Don't know if I can find the answer here.     

      Maybe shouldn't have gone to Italy for a month. Set me back. I've come back disoriented. Hadn't been here long enough for it to feel even vaguely familiar.  

      Bad times aren't good for couples, we all know that. Couples break up when things get tough. This could end badly. 

       Everything scary. Can't think about it anymore now though (thought about it all night anyway, without getting anywhere).   

      Have to get ready for my last day at work. It's sunny right now. But what will it be like when the day is over?

      Gotta layer. Have got layers. Just don't know where they are.