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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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!"