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.