Tomorrow marks three months since I first tried to close my bank account in the UK -- when I was still living in the UK. Since then, I've made at least five to eight phone calls -- always at midnight or later, thanks to the time zones. I've sent letter upon letter, completing increasingly ridiculous requests from the bank, including one which asked me to send a certified copy of my passport signature page because apparently I forged my own signature on the previous account closure letter. It's fantastic. Now, I'm being told I sent that to the wrong place, even though the last letter I received *and* the last person with whom I spoke told me to send it there. Oh, and apparently? I also have to cut my debit card into four pieces, shred my checks and return them to yet another part of the bank's nebula. And apparently? The fact that no one told me that once in the past three months, during which period I destroyed and threw out my checks because I didn't like having them lying around to tempt airport security checkers and passersby? That, apparently, is my own damn fault and means I need to write yet another letter explaning myself.
So, what do you do when your international bank refuses to close your account? Or when they try to send you to collections for mounting fees because your account no longer has money in it? (Hey, maybe because I was told to take it all out the first time I went to close it!) Anybody know a good lawyer out there? Hell, I'd settle for a consolation prize: a nice big bottle of whiskey to keep me company while I sit cradling the phone yet again tonight, trying not to think about how this might affect my credit, praying that just this once the person on the other end of the line actually has something useful to impart. If they don't, I guess I have to wait until next summer, when I fly back to visit CB and march into the nearest branch with my forty-fifth letter in hand and eighteen months of pent-up rage waiting to be unleashed on the nearest bank representative.
Seriously, this is ridiculous, isn't it? Or is it all happening because they can tell I'm American and want to make my life miserable? See, I know that's not true, but try waiting three months for an account to close and see how paranoid it makes you.
Showing posts with label England. Show all posts
Showing posts with label England. Show all posts
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Off for a few days
Tomorrow, I take the ever-wonderful 3.5 hour bus ride from Oxford to Cambridge for one final hurrah with the lasses. They better come visit me in Seattle, although I'm sure our cider selection will disappoint.
They've prepped well for my arrival. To paraphrase from an email today: "We drank a *whole* bottle of port between us after formal hall on Tuesday. But not before going to the Castle for other drinks first. What a clever idea. A lot of it ended up on X's floor and clothes, it appears ;)"
I've been assured that this floor, upon which I will be sleeping, became doused in port as a result of drunken drink spillage, not because the port made a second appearance later in the evening. The floor is now a bit "salty," but they've promised it will be clean enough that I won't stick to it tomorrow night.
If I'm well enough to get on the return bus, aka not in bed nursing a three-day hangover, I'll talk to you Sunday evening. Until then, it came to my attention that The Onion posted an incredibly un-funny story about domestic violence. Sure, they parody everything, but this one was handled in poor taste (and the mental images it conjures are disgusting). Crossed a line? Discuss.
They've prepped well for my arrival. To paraphrase from an email today: "We drank a *whole* bottle of port between us after formal hall on Tuesday. But not before going to the Castle for other drinks first. What a clever idea. A lot of it ended up on X's floor and clothes, it appears ;)"
I've been assured that this floor, upon which I will be sleeping, became doused in port as a result of drunken drink spillage, not because the port made a second appearance later in the evening. The floor is now a bit "salty," but they've promised it will be clean enough that I won't stick to it tomorrow night.
If I'm well enough to get on the return bus, aka not in bed nursing a three-day hangover, I'll talk to you Sunday evening. Until then, it came to my attention that The Onion posted an incredibly un-funny story about domestic violence. Sure, they parody everything, but this one was handled in poor taste (and the mental images it conjures are disgusting). Crossed a line? Discuss.
Vodaf--k
The joys of cell phone companies.
First, you must envision all of this taking place with call assistants who have such thick Scottish brogues that I can't understand every third word, no matter how hard I try or how loud I crank the volume on my handset.
Second, I think I popped a blood vessel in my eye after the third call.
DAY ONE
"Hello, I'm a current customer, and I'm unexpectedly relocating overseas next week. I need to find out how I can close out my account."
"You can't."
"Erm, what?"
"You can't. It's too early."
"Okay, well what if I pay a penalty?"
"You need to give us 60 days notice if you want to close your account."
"SIXTY days?!"
"In writing."
"Are you serious? Can't I give it to you over the phone, or by email?"
"No."
DAY TWO
"Hi there, I'm an existing customer and I have to move overseas next week. I know I can't cancel my account until January, which won't actually cancel it until March, but I'm trying to find out how I can make payments when I have to close my bank account."
"Hm, that is a problem."
"Yes...yes, I'm aware of that. It is my problem, after all."
"Tricky, that."
"But surely I can't be the first customer in the history of your company to deal with this?"
"Well. Let me put you on hold."
Long period of intermittent music and static. Two voices pick up the line.
"Hello?" "Hello?"
Apparently, he's brought in his supervisor/trainer.
"Yes?"
"You wanted to talk about making bill payments from overseas?"
There's now a lovely double-Scots/Southeast Asian echo going, in which I can no longer understand anything because she's literally feeding him every word, and I CAN HEAR TWO OF EVERYTHING.
"Yeah, that's what I said."
"Well, you can just put it in your husband's name, if he's staying here. Call back the day before you go and say you need to switch the billing info to his debit account."
I hang up, satisfied, then grow suspicious.
DAY THREE
"Hi, I'm relocating and need to confirm something I heard yesterday. I'd like to switch the billing info to my husband's debit account. He's a customer, too."
"Oh, sure. I'll just pop the form in the mail."
"Form?? Another form?"
"Yes, it takes 28 days from the time we receive this form for the change to go through."
Me, stammering furiously: "But I was told yesterday that..."
"Ah, well you were misinformed."
"But my bank account is closing in four days! What am I supposed to do? I have his information right here -- hell, I can have him CALL you and talk with me."
"Well, that won't work."
"WHY???"
"Because you have to send in the form."
DAY THREE, PART TWO
"Hi, look, I'm an existing customer, god knows why, and all I want to do is make a bloody bank account transfer without having to hand-deliver it to wherever the hell you are."
"Ah, you need to fill out a form...."
So the short of it is that I have to fill out a form! and make a "manual payment" by phone from the U.S. on the 20th, which in theory is supposed to work.
In theory, I'm going to be sent to collections before I ever get this right.
First, you must envision all of this taking place with call assistants who have such thick Scottish brogues that I can't understand every third word, no matter how hard I try or how loud I crank the volume on my handset.
Second, I think I popped a blood vessel in my eye after the third call.
DAY ONE
"Hello, I'm a current customer, and I'm unexpectedly relocating overseas next week. I need to find out how I can close out my account."
"You can't."
"Erm, what?"
"You can't. It's too early."
"Okay, well what if I pay a penalty?"
"You need to give us 60 days notice if you want to close your account."
"SIXTY days?!"
"In writing."
"Are you serious? Can't I give it to you over the phone, or by email?"
"No."
DAY TWO
"Hi there, I'm an existing customer and I have to move overseas next week. I know I can't cancel my account until January, which won't actually cancel it until March, but I'm trying to find out how I can make payments when I have to close my bank account."
"Hm, that is a problem."
"Yes...yes, I'm aware of that. It is my problem, after all."
"Tricky, that."
"But surely I can't be the first customer in the history of your company to deal with this?"
"Well. Let me put you on hold."
Long period of intermittent music and static. Two voices pick up the line.
"Hello?" "Hello?"
Apparently, he's brought in his supervisor/trainer.
"Yes?"
"You wanted to talk about making bill payments from overseas?"
There's now a lovely double-Scots/Southeast Asian echo going, in which I can no longer understand anything because she's literally feeding him every word, and I CAN HEAR TWO OF EVERYTHING.
"Yeah, that's what I said."
"Well, you can just put it in your husband's name, if he's staying here. Call back the day before you go and say you need to switch the billing info to his debit account."
I hang up, satisfied, then grow suspicious.
DAY THREE
"Hi, I'm relocating and need to confirm something I heard yesterday. I'd like to switch the billing info to my husband's debit account. He's a customer, too."
"Oh, sure. I'll just pop the form in the mail."
"Form?? Another form?"
"Yes, it takes 28 days from the time we receive this form for the change to go through."
Me, stammering furiously: "But I was told yesterday that..."
"Ah, well you were misinformed."
"But my bank account is closing in four days! What am I supposed to do? I have his information right here -- hell, I can have him CALL you and talk with me."
"Well, that won't work."
"WHY???"
"Because you have to send in the form."
DAY THREE, PART TWO
"Hi, look, I'm an existing customer, god knows why, and all I want to do is make a bloody bank account transfer without having to hand-deliver it to wherever the hell you are."
"Ah, you need to fill out a form...."
So the short of it is that I have to fill out a form! and make a "manual payment" by phone from the U.S. on the 20th, which in theory is supposed to work.
In theory, I'm going to be sent to collections before I ever get this right.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
proof (?) that leggings aren't the spawn of Satan
Look, when you live in the UK, you either purchase leggings or you have people mutter about you behind your back, or even to your face. ("I'd never wear what she's wearing!") So, I admit it: I caved. I caved knowing that I don't have the right skirt or ballet flats (aka, feet-destroyers) to pull it off, but I went willingly nonetheless...(I'm sorry, billygean! I know you hate them.)
...and the problem is, I kinda like it. So be honest: how bad is this? I wore them out in public already, so you're too late to save me there -- but you can save me from doing it again. Although, I warn you: the brown houndstooth with the green shirt? That's pure me, baby. It stays.
See what England does to you?
...and the problem is, I kinda like it. So be honest: how bad is this? I wore them out in public already, so you're too late to save me there -- but you can save me from doing it again. Although, I warn you: the brown houndstooth with the green shirt? That's pure me, baby. It stays.
See what England does to you?
Getting ready
Four suitcases down, one to go.
Hey, you try moving most of your worldly possessions overseas and back when you weren't expecting to do so for two more years. Just wait until I get to move our apartment fixings back if I actually find a place of my own this year, which of course depends upon a) being able to pay the rent and b) being able to find a pad in Seattle's ridiculously tight apartment market. Thanks a lot, all you migrating wealth-seeking tech people, turning my old buildings into condos and driving us into hovels on Aurora. Could you go home now?
It hasn't registered that I'm down to my last week in England. This time next Wednesday, we'll be on our way back to the States. There are so many things I'll miss -- Oxford on a crisp, clear winter day; friends in Cambridge; decent beer (yes, even warm beer can be decent). The number one thing, of course, is the part of me who's staying here. Monday night was fun, but it was the first of many events where we're going to be answering the same questions over and over again. Yes, we're living apart now. No, it's not because we particularly want to. Yes, we'll be fine. And you know? We will be. We knew going into this that we were marrying young, and that neither of us was the kind of person who would be able to drop their dreams when the going got rough. If I'd stayed with the Ph.D., I'd be abroad from now until next fall anyway -- and then I'd also have an extra year in the UK, while CB would be going wherever his postdoc takes him.
Is it going to be easy? I can't lie -- sometimes, I wish that one or both of us didn't feel such strong pulls towards the things we want to do. But most times, I'm just grateful that CB is the kind of feminist man who doesn't even ask whether I could resist those impulses. He's the one who's been telling me to follow them, all along. And the good thing is that, if it really came down to this, we would both walk away from it all to be with each other. I just have to have faith in that knowledge, to find the quiet sense of trust underneath the external turmoil. I'll be blogging a lot in the future about the joys of a long distance marriage, in the hopes that all of the other professional couples I know will find a little solace -- there's a lot more company here than you think.
Back to Seattle I go, hopefully a little wiser from living here. I feel like I have a more nuanced understanding of my country now, or at least of how others view us and what I can do to offer a more balanced perspective. I wish I could stay, despite the smoke-filled pubs and manic bus drivers. There's a song that always runs through my head when I'm going through a big transition, and it's playing again tonight.
High winds blowin' in the sky will carry you away
You know you have to leave here
You wish that you could stay
There's four directions on this map but you're only going one way...
You could walk a hundred thousand miles
and never find a home
You always knew someday you'd have to strike out on your own
You look up at the clouds and you can see which way the wind is blowing
Due South, that's the way I'm going
Due South
Saddle up my traveling shoes
I'm bound to walk away these blues
Due South
Okay, so I've never once actually gone south, per se, but so what. I think it conveys the wistfulness and the fortitude pretty well.
Hey, you try moving most of your worldly possessions overseas and back when you weren't expecting to do so for two more years. Just wait until I get to move our apartment fixings back if I actually find a place of my own this year, which of course depends upon a) being able to pay the rent and b) being able to find a pad in Seattle's ridiculously tight apartment market. Thanks a lot, all you migrating wealth-seeking tech people, turning my old buildings into condos and driving us into hovels on Aurora. Could you go home now?
It hasn't registered that I'm down to my last week in England. This time next Wednesday, we'll be on our way back to the States. There are so many things I'll miss -- Oxford on a crisp, clear winter day; friends in Cambridge; decent beer (yes, even warm beer can be decent). The number one thing, of course, is the part of me who's staying here. Monday night was fun, but it was the first of many events where we're going to be answering the same questions over and over again. Yes, we're living apart now. No, it's not because we particularly want to. Yes, we'll be fine. And you know? We will be. We knew going into this that we were marrying young, and that neither of us was the kind of person who would be able to drop their dreams when the going got rough. If I'd stayed with the Ph.D., I'd be abroad from now until next fall anyway -- and then I'd also have an extra year in the UK, while CB would be going wherever his postdoc takes him.
Is it going to be easy? I can't lie -- sometimes, I wish that one or both of us didn't feel such strong pulls towards the things we want to do. But most times, I'm just grateful that CB is the kind of feminist man who doesn't even ask whether I could resist those impulses. He's the one who's been telling me to follow them, all along. And the good thing is that, if it really came down to this, we would both walk away from it all to be with each other. I just have to have faith in that knowledge, to find the quiet sense of trust underneath the external turmoil. I'll be blogging a lot in the future about the joys of a long distance marriage, in the hopes that all of the other professional couples I know will find a little solace -- there's a lot more company here than you think.
Back to Seattle I go, hopefully a little wiser from living here. I feel like I have a more nuanced understanding of my country now, or at least of how others view us and what I can do to offer a more balanced perspective. I wish I could stay, despite the smoke-filled pubs and manic bus drivers. There's a song that always runs through my head when I'm going through a big transition, and it's playing again tonight.
High winds blowin' in the sky will carry you away
You know you have to leave here
You wish that you could stay
There's four directions on this map but you're only going one way...
You could walk a hundred thousand miles
and never find a home
You always knew someday you'd have to strike out on your own
You look up at the clouds and you can see which way the wind is blowing
Due South, that's the way I'm going
Due South
Saddle up my traveling shoes
I'm bound to walk away these blues
Due South
Okay, so I've never once actually gone south, per se, but so what. I think it conveys the wistfulness and the fortitude pretty well.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Feels like home to me
We're celebrating Thanksgiving tomorrow, since we had a longstanding, unavoidable conflict this evening (and who really wants to eat their biscuits at 10pm with bike grease on their fingers after a maintenance class?). I'm actually attempting to cook almost everything from scratch: the cranberry sauce, the biscuits, the rosemary and olive oil-drizzled potato medley, and the veg. We gave up and purchased a nut loaf, although now we're both wishing we'd just tried making it, too. Then again, our oven is very willing but also the size of a breadloaf. Hence, we're already demanding more of it than we should.
This is the first Thanksgiving that CB and I get to celebrate together, snug under the roof of our little apartment, sharing food and enjoying the peace. I can't imagine a better way to spend the day. We will not think about how it is also the last Thanksgiving we'll share for a couple of years. Or at least, I will attribute my misty eyes to onions.
Someday, some year, we'll all be under the same roof for Thanksgiving. Until then, to my family on the west side and my family on the east, and to all of our friends in your myriad places, have a peaceful day.
This is the first Thanksgiving that CB and I get to celebrate together, snug under the roof of our little apartment, sharing food and enjoying the peace. I can't imagine a better way to spend the day. We will not think about how it is also the last Thanksgiving we'll share for a couple of years. Or at least, I will attribute my misty eyes to onions.
Someday, some year, we'll all be under the same roof for Thanksgiving. Until then, to my family on the west side and my family on the east, and to all of our friends in your myriad places, have a peaceful day.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Fending off the wolves
In a delerium-induced dream, I was forced to interview for a job while surrounded by pointy-teethed, hissing versions of my old advisor and a boss I haven't seen in at least four or five years.
Sadly, I get the impression that finding a job here may be more difficult than confronting suddenly-rabid ex-advisors. I am actually putting off my final thesis edits because they will signify the official end of my program, or the point at which I am expected to find real work here. Of course, only Nobel Peace Prize-winning non-citizens are interviewed for positions here, let alone hired...maybe I could convince them with sheer pathetic humility? Somehow, I thought getting a second degree in something besides English would *improve* my employment outlook, rather than detract from it. Alas, now I seem to be slipping out of the realm of "overqualified admin assistant" to "highly overqualified but utterly useless coffee shop table busser." Who knew graduate school could provide such benefits?
Sorry. Too sick to be clever lately. Will resume intelligent postings (remember those?) when things improve.
Sadly, I get the impression that finding a job here may be more difficult than confronting suddenly-rabid ex-advisors. I am actually putting off my final thesis edits because they will signify the official end of my program, or the point at which I am expected to find real work here. Of course, only Nobel Peace Prize-winning non-citizens are interviewed for positions here, let alone hired...maybe I could convince them with sheer pathetic humility? Somehow, I thought getting a second degree in something besides English would *improve* my employment outlook, rather than detract from it. Alas, now I seem to be slipping out of the realm of "overqualified admin assistant" to "highly overqualified but utterly useless coffee shop table busser." Who knew graduate school could provide such benefits?
Sorry. Too sick to be clever lately. Will resume intelligent postings (remember those?) when things improve.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
A little unwell
I was going to blog about maps, but I have to admit: this whole security threat has me feeling incredibly freaked.
Maybe it's because they were planning to target services that GIS and I actually use on a regular basis. Maybe it's because my family is flying here in a few weeks and will have to fly back, too, or because we are going to visit friends in California this Christmas and might have to fly out of Heathrow into LAX...which means quite possibly on one of the routes that they were targeting.
I know I should just be grateful that British intelligence thwarted the whole thing, but instead I'm absolutely terrified. As bad as 9/11 was, it still felt psychologically distant: I didn't really know anyone in New York, and there were never plans that came within a whisper of my existence. Now, my fear of flying is going to get worse. I used to love planes, but I've been nervous about flying into and out of the UK since 9/11 -- even more so after 7/7...now, I'm just hoping I can drag myself onto the plane and recognize reasonable fears instead of mistaking them for premonitions. I already white-knuckled parts of the lonely flight to and from my fieldwork, even though I knew it was silly to worry. Somehow, it just makes such a difference when it's directed at the things you use. I know it's just letting them win to change my behavior (and what the heck could I do, anyway?), but I'm just so scared.
I hate this. I hate that anyone could be such an asshole as to target entire planes full of good people going about their own lives, people with families, people with dreams.
Suddenly, I'm beginning to empathize with the Cold War generation. Could one of you please tell me how you got through this? Because I'm having trouble feeling okay with the state of the world.
Maybe it's because they were planning to target services that GIS and I actually use on a regular basis. Maybe it's because my family is flying here in a few weeks and will have to fly back, too, or because we are going to visit friends in California this Christmas and might have to fly out of Heathrow into LAX...which means quite possibly on one of the routes that they were targeting.
I know I should just be grateful that British intelligence thwarted the whole thing, but instead I'm absolutely terrified. As bad as 9/11 was, it still felt psychologically distant: I didn't really know anyone in New York, and there were never plans that came within a whisper of my existence. Now, my fear of flying is going to get worse. I used to love planes, but I've been nervous about flying into and out of the UK since 9/11 -- even more so after 7/7...now, I'm just hoping I can drag myself onto the plane and recognize reasonable fears instead of mistaking them for premonitions. I already white-knuckled parts of the lonely flight to and from my fieldwork, even though I knew it was silly to worry. Somehow, it just makes such a difference when it's directed at the things you use. I know it's just letting them win to change my behavior (and what the heck could I do, anyway?), but I'm just so scared.
I hate this. I hate that anyone could be such an asshole as to target entire planes full of good people going about their own lives, people with families, people with dreams.
Suddenly, I'm beginning to empathize with the Cold War generation. Could one of you please tell me how you got through this? Because I'm having trouble feeling okay with the state of the world.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Fever pitch
The last time I watched the World Cup, I was 12 or 13 years old. I spent half my summer parked in front of the television, rabidly lapping up every game Italy played. Roberto Baggio was my hero, scraggly rat-tail hair and all. I spent my allowance on official Cup gear (I still have that somewhere), and I still remember being down on my knees about two feet from the screen, begging Baggio to hit that last penalty shot, sitting stunned when he failed and the Cup went to whoever the hell they were playing. I was still an aspiring defender myself, and I've always harbored a love for football that most people in the States don't understand.
It's happening all over again, except this time I'm addicted to all of it. Every game, every analysis, every single dribble, pass and shot. I realized this quickly on Saturday, when husband and I seriously contemplated ditching our anniversary plans to stay crammed into our smoky, spot at the Isaac Newton so we could finish up the Mexico-Argentina match. (Mexico lost, hijo de puta!) Fortunately, our stomachs won out because we've sadly learned that man cannot subsist on ale and stout alone -- but as we settled into our intimate, romantic meal at one of the town's nicest restaurants, I said it seemed perfect...and husband leaned over and said, "Now, if only we had the match on."
Yes, we are absolutely addicted. The bloody, bare knuckles Portugal-Holland game? Saw it. The somewhat boring English games? Check. The absolutely edge-of-your-chair Latin American matches? Oh yes. We caught all of America's brief three games, except the Czech Republic match which I think I'm glad to have missed. We spent our US-Italy match in the company of a good friend from back home, who in turn spent most of the match on his feet alternatively spewing invectives and screaming encouragement, slapping the table and egging on other viewers...all of whom looked completely bewildered to see some crazy tall American guy having fits over a football match. I think the Italians would have knifed him on the way out if he hadn't been so congenial after every insult. What do we talk about now over dinner preparations? Bad referees, the comparative styles of Latin American and European football, the hopelessness of the USA team...even my Scots friend says we're a bit off our rockers, but she's just annoyed that her British occupiers are still in it.
It also says something that I'm choosing to fill you in on my football fanaticism instead of talking about the much-anticipated May Ball or the ensuing week o'chaos. Naturally, I'll watch the England-Portugal match (and Germany-Argentina, and Italy-Ukraine and hopefully Ghana-Spain but probably Brazil-Spain) this weekend and scream my lungs out for gutsy, gritty Portugal, despite the fact that doing so in an English pub legalizes my immediate death. If I don't come back, the hooligans probably stuffed me into a pint glass and threw me at nearest goal post.
It's happening all over again, except this time I'm addicted to all of it. Every game, every analysis, every single dribble, pass and shot. I realized this quickly on Saturday, when husband and I seriously contemplated ditching our anniversary plans to stay crammed into our smoky, spot at the Isaac Newton so we could finish up the Mexico-Argentina match. (Mexico lost, hijo de puta!) Fortunately, our stomachs won out because we've sadly learned that man cannot subsist on ale and stout alone -- but as we settled into our intimate, romantic meal at one of the town's nicest restaurants, I said it seemed perfect...and husband leaned over and said, "Now, if only we had the match on."
Yes, we are absolutely addicted. The bloody, bare knuckles Portugal-Holland game? Saw it. The somewhat boring English games? Check. The absolutely edge-of-your-chair Latin American matches? Oh yes. We caught all of America's brief three games, except the Czech Republic match which I think I'm glad to have missed. We spent our US-Italy match in the company of a good friend from back home, who in turn spent most of the match on his feet alternatively spewing invectives and screaming encouragement, slapping the table and egging on other viewers...all of whom looked completely bewildered to see some crazy tall American guy having fits over a football match. I think the Italians would have knifed him on the way out if he hadn't been so congenial after every insult. What do we talk about now over dinner preparations? Bad referees, the comparative styles of Latin American and European football, the hopelessness of the USA team...even my Scots friend says we're a bit off our rockers, but she's just annoyed that her British occupiers are still in it.
It also says something that I'm choosing to fill you in on my football fanaticism instead of talking about the much-anticipated May Ball or the ensuing week o'chaos. Naturally, I'll watch the England-Portugal match (and Germany-Argentina, and Italy-Ukraine and hopefully Ghana-Spain but probably Brazil-Spain) this weekend and scream my lungs out for gutsy, gritty Portugal, despite the fact that doing so in an English pub legalizes my immediate death. If I don't come back, the hooligans probably stuffed me into a pint glass and threw me at nearest goal post.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Robins
If there's one thing I adore about England, it has to be their robins. They are the most vivacious, adorable, lively birds I've ever seen, and I've spent many an afternoon gazing out the window between note-taking as the resident pair scours my garden for the seed I scatter.
These robins are much smaller than ours and much more endearing. When the male in my garden found a mate, he engaged in typical courtship behavior: selecting the most appealing seed, raisin or mealworm and hopping back to his mate to place the food in her waiting beak. He sang to her on top of the garden wall, and she sat down and swayed back and forth slowly, as though completely entranced in his song. It was possibly the sweetest thing I've ever seen.
I'm not the only one to be smitten by these puffball-sized birds. Frances Hodgson Burnett was as well, and she tells her story here.
These robins are much smaller than ours and much more endearing. When the male in my garden found a mate, he engaged in typical courtship behavior: selecting the most appealing seed, raisin or mealworm and hopping back to his mate to place the food in her waiting beak. He sang to her on top of the garden wall, and she sat down and swayed back and forth slowly, as though completely entranced in his song. It was possibly the sweetest thing I've ever seen.
I'm not the only one to be smitten by these puffball-sized birds. Frances Hodgson Burnett was as well, and she tells her story here.
Monday, April 24, 2006
The joys of NHS
In theory, universal health coverage is a great idea. In pratice, it's actually not bad -- but there are some perks to HMOs (I know, an oxymoron) that I find myself missing.
Last week, my back decided it had tolerated enough bad beds, sorry excuses for desk chairs, constant walking, chronic stress and assorted preexisting structural problems. The result? I've discovered the joys of lower back spasms. Of all the issues I've had lately, this may be the one that has me the most upset (and, consequently, leads to *more* back spasms). I'm a voraciously active person. If I'm not biking, I'm walking. If I'm not walking, I'm jogging. Favorite things to do? Hike. Bike everywhere. Kayak ineptly. Horseback ride. Walk the length and breadth of a city to get the feel. Things I'm suddenly afraid will be curtailed? All of the above. What that would mean for my life? Really, truly, can't think about it yet. But stuff hurts A LOT that never used to hurt. I'm desperately hoping that it will improve after school ends and that somehow I'll figure out whether this is all related to a short leg, a screwed-up sacrum or a torqued pelvis and get it sorted for good...the alternative is too depressing.
So, I managed to see my GP today (general practitioner), per the suggestion of the college nurse. I brought a hefty load of reading material to the appointment; it is an established fact that surgery appointments here (not "knock you out" surgery) are always behind schedule. Today, for example, I had enough time to plow through an incredibly dry article on issue linkage and water resources management, even though I arrived about five minutes before my appointment. During the 20 minute delay, a host of patients filed in and out, spending about three quarters of their time in the waiting room and no more than a quarter in an actual doctor's office. I felt particularly bad for the middle-aged man to my right, who'd been sitting grumpily in a chair when I entered, who became even more disgruntled when I was called before him, and who was downright surly when I left the building.
I'm fortunate to have an incredibly nice GP, but doctor's appointments here are different than the ones back home. You don't really get to chat, or even to bring up questions about other health issues that suddenly occur to you. They are efficient to the point of making you feel sort of like you're on a medical assembly line: introduce, diagnose, prescribe. Next! If you're lucky, you'll get ten minutes with the doctor -- I seem to average somewhere in the neighborhood of five. This causes you to become incredibly skilled at spitting out your medical history and current problem in 30 seconds or less. For example, today's conversation went something like this:
"Well, how do I sum this up quickly? Um, the thing is..." Oh crap, she's already giving me that impatient, "get to the point" look. "Lower back pain. Knife-edge spasms. Two weeks. Couple months stiffness prior. Could be short leg. Might be ilio-sacral. Don't know. Acupuncture. Chiropractic. Massage. Ideas?"
Before I knew it, I was plopped onto the examining table for a 12-second exam that consisted of bending my legs in various positions, noting that my glut was tight (no, really??), and referring me to a physical therapist for "evaluation, advice and exercises."
Great. Sounded good. The problem? Oh, I have to wait for six months or more to see this therapist. At which point I will no longer reside in Cambridge and will have the delightful choice of either a) taking a frigging three and a half-hour bus ride to see some guy about back pain, which will have increased considerably after the roadtrip; or b) trying to transfer my place on the waitlist to the therapist in Oxford, with no guarantee that it will actually happen. I tried repeating the NHS mantra, "It's free, it's free, it's free," but my back knew better and tightened up another notch.
So, I asked, feeling a bit deflated, what should I do in the meantime? The answer? Keep moving.
I reiterated the whole problem with the knife-edge pain and the discomfort moving. "Yep," she said brightly, "Motion is very important."
Maybe if I go bang my head against the wall hard enough for the next six months, the pain in my skull will distract me from my aching back.
Last week, my back decided it had tolerated enough bad beds, sorry excuses for desk chairs, constant walking, chronic stress and assorted preexisting structural problems. The result? I've discovered the joys of lower back spasms. Of all the issues I've had lately, this may be the one that has me the most upset (and, consequently, leads to *more* back spasms). I'm a voraciously active person. If I'm not biking, I'm walking. If I'm not walking, I'm jogging. Favorite things to do? Hike. Bike everywhere. Kayak ineptly. Horseback ride. Walk the length and breadth of a city to get the feel. Things I'm suddenly afraid will be curtailed? All of the above. What that would mean for my life? Really, truly, can't think about it yet. But stuff hurts A LOT that never used to hurt. I'm desperately hoping that it will improve after school ends and that somehow I'll figure out whether this is all related to a short leg, a screwed-up sacrum or a torqued pelvis and get it sorted for good...the alternative is too depressing.
So, I managed to see my GP today (general practitioner), per the suggestion of the college nurse. I brought a hefty load of reading material to the appointment; it is an established fact that surgery appointments here (not "knock you out" surgery) are always behind schedule. Today, for example, I had enough time to plow through an incredibly dry article on issue linkage and water resources management, even though I arrived about five minutes before my appointment. During the 20 minute delay, a host of patients filed in and out, spending about three quarters of their time in the waiting room and no more than a quarter in an actual doctor's office. I felt particularly bad for the middle-aged man to my right, who'd been sitting grumpily in a chair when I entered, who became even more disgruntled when I was called before him, and who was downright surly when I left the building.
I'm fortunate to have an incredibly nice GP, but doctor's appointments here are different than the ones back home. You don't really get to chat, or even to bring up questions about other health issues that suddenly occur to you. They are efficient to the point of making you feel sort of like you're on a medical assembly line: introduce, diagnose, prescribe. Next! If you're lucky, you'll get ten minutes with the doctor -- I seem to average somewhere in the neighborhood of five. This causes you to become incredibly skilled at spitting out your medical history and current problem in 30 seconds or less. For example, today's conversation went something like this:
"Well, how do I sum this up quickly? Um, the thing is..." Oh crap, she's already giving me that impatient, "get to the point" look. "Lower back pain. Knife-edge spasms. Two weeks. Couple months stiffness prior. Could be short leg. Might be ilio-sacral. Don't know. Acupuncture. Chiropractic. Massage. Ideas?"
Before I knew it, I was plopped onto the examining table for a 12-second exam that consisted of bending my legs in various positions, noting that my glut was tight (no, really??), and referring me to a physical therapist for "evaluation, advice and exercises."
Great. Sounded good. The problem? Oh, I have to wait for six months or more to see this therapist. At which point I will no longer reside in Cambridge and will have the delightful choice of either a) taking a frigging three and a half-hour bus ride to see some guy about back pain, which will have increased considerably after the roadtrip; or b) trying to transfer my place on the waitlist to the therapist in Oxford, with no guarantee that it will actually happen. I tried repeating the NHS mantra, "It's free, it's free, it's free," but my back knew better and tightened up another notch.
So, I asked, feeling a bit deflated, what should I do in the meantime? The answer? Keep moving.
I reiterated the whole problem with the knife-edge pain and the discomfort moving. "Yep," she said brightly, "Motion is very important."
Maybe if I go bang my head against the wall hard enough for the next six months, the pain in my skull will distract me from my aching back.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
New visitors
I've had a couple of new birds come to visit, including these colorful finches:
These are chaffinches, which are apparently quite common here. However, it's the first I've seen of them. I had one elusive song thrush a week ago, but it seems to have moved on (they're quite rare now because of habitat destruction, so I was hoping it would linger a bit...). Naturally, of course, I also have the ubiquitous fiesty robins and dunnocks, as well as a bunch of blue tits (they look like our chickadees, but blue). I also have a mysterious burrowing creature that's taken up residence beneath one of the hedgerows. Whatever it is, it enjoys sunflower seeds. I'm guessing vole, judging by the size of the entry, but I keep holding out hope that it's actually a doormouse, just so I can say I have a doormouse. Or a hedgehog.
Side note: Ndugu points out that one can clearly observe the principles of evolution at work. Note the bird's ability to draw in its head, hunch its shoulders and glare at you with all the indifference of its reptile relatives. However, genetic ties aside, he notes that he would still have one for lunch if he were permitted.
It's definitely spring here -- the temperature climbed about 10 degrees overnight last weekend, and suddenly there are bees browsing among newly blossomed flowers, mating-crazed birds chasing each other around the holly, and an alarming number of large, squished frogs on the road...since there aren't really any permanent bodies of water near our stretch of road, we can't figure out where they came from (although the absence of water may explain their attempts to cross the busiest road in north Cambridge). I'm still disappointed because I haven't seen the mini-deer that supposedly populate the area (muntjacs), the foxes OR the badgers. Bryan, of course, has seen at least one deer in a field outside Cambridge, as well as a badger...although I don't think the badger counts if it's a flattened pelt on the highway shoulder.
The best part of spring in England? Thousands of baby lambs in the countryside, skittering about in the fields with disproportionately large ears and knobby knees. They are the epitome of adorable. Meanwhile, I'm stuck here with my papers, slowly plugging away at a beast about feminist methodology, situated knowledge and positionality. Yeah, 'bout as exciting as it sounds.
These are chaffinches, which are apparently quite common here. However, it's the first I've seen of them. I had one elusive song thrush a week ago, but it seems to have moved on (they're quite rare now because of habitat destruction, so I was hoping it would linger a bit...). Naturally, of course, I also have the ubiquitous fiesty robins and dunnocks, as well as a bunch of blue tits (they look like our chickadees, but blue). I also have a mysterious burrowing creature that's taken up residence beneath one of the hedgerows. Whatever it is, it enjoys sunflower seeds. I'm guessing vole, judging by the size of the entry, but I keep holding out hope that it's actually a doormouse, just so I can say I have a doormouse. Or a hedgehog.
Side note: Ndugu points out that one can clearly observe the principles of evolution at work. Note the bird's ability to draw in its head, hunch its shoulders and glare at you with all the indifference of its reptile relatives. However, genetic ties aside, he notes that he would still have one for lunch if he were permitted.
It's definitely spring here -- the temperature climbed about 10 degrees overnight last weekend, and suddenly there are bees browsing among newly blossomed flowers, mating-crazed birds chasing each other around the holly, and an alarming number of large, squished frogs on the road...since there aren't really any permanent bodies of water near our stretch of road, we can't figure out where they came from (although the absence of water may explain their attempts to cross the busiest road in north Cambridge). I'm still disappointed because I haven't seen the mini-deer that supposedly populate the area (muntjacs), the foxes OR the badgers. Bryan, of course, has seen at least one deer in a field outside Cambridge, as well as a badger...although I don't think the badger counts if it's a flattened pelt on the highway shoulder.
The best part of spring in England? Thousands of baby lambs in the countryside, skittering about in the fields with disproportionately large ears and knobby knees. They are the epitome of adorable. Meanwhile, I'm stuck here with my papers, slowly plugging away at a beast about feminist methodology, situated knowledge and positionality. Yeah, 'bout as exciting as it sounds.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Sometimes, the stereotypes are true
So, under the guise of “doing fieldwork,” I’m going back to
Okay, so I actually am doing fieldwork, too, for which I need about a thousand vaccinations (more on that later), but the significant bonus is that I get to visit a dentist.
I’m really not kidding.
If there’s one stereotype that’s true here (and there may be many), it’s the poor condition of anything pertaining to dentistry. You see, the health care system here doesn’t require that dentists practice under the NHS (National Health System). Instead, dentists can choose to be NHS dentists, or they can go into private practice. You have one guess as to which pays lucratively, and which offers the reward of feeling satisfied at the end of the day because you’ve fixed people’s teeth for little monetary compensation. But hey, you get to be an NHS dentist!
Consequently, because citizens have to pay out of pocket for private dentists unless they have expensive private healthcare plans, NHS dentists are in hot demand. As in, they are overbooked to the point where one friend recalls an episode where people lined up the night before a new practice opened, just to see if they could get on the clinic’s patient list before it filled. Most students here stay with their family dentists as long as they can, even if that means taking six-hour train rides to have their teeth cleaned. It is that hard to find a dentist here.
As you may imagine, this puts international students in an interesting spot. Most of us can’t hop on the next overnight flight home if we develop a toothache, yet every person I know was warned by our various colleges “not to waste our time” trying to sign up with an NHS dentist (we’re all covered by NHS here), because it would take months to be seen by one. One of my husband’s friends at
“Hi, I’d like to make an appointment for a cleaning…No, I’m an international student…uh-huh…uh-huh…really?...oh…Are you sure it would take that long?...Is there anyone else I can call? Really? No? Um…”
The friend wound up flying to Poland to have his check-up, something that I thought seemed a little extreme until I mentioned it to my British classmates, all of whom began exclaiming, “Oh yeah, yeah, that’s a great way to go!
Meanwhile, one of my friends, who’s plagued by bad teeth, cracked a molar last month and knew she probably needed a root canal. She called her dentist at home and received an over-the-phone diagnosis (they know her well). She then called the local dentist here and explained the emergency. They listened calmly and then replied that they could definitely work her into the schedule. Of course, she’d need to come in for a consultation first…would sometime around the end of April work? Then, she could come in for the root canal in early summer?
By this point, my friend is in agony, and the prospect of waiting two months to be told that she’s in agony doesn’t appeal. So, what’s a girl to do? At first she, too, thought about applying to a geography conference in the
It doesn't help that my teeth seem to have instinctively picked up on the generally poor state of oral hygeine here and seem hell-bent on trying to fit in with the crowd. I've never had tea stains in my life, but there's a telltale line showing up on the edges of my teeth that I can see if I squint in the mirror. I'm taking better care of my mouth than I ever have after being warned by a dentist, "Whatever you do, don't get anything fixed in England. Lie, tell them your parents want to pay for it, suck on an ice cube if it hurts, but just don't get it fixed there." Yet, despite all of the flossing, brushing, scraping and Listerine-ing, my teeth are being swayed by peer pressure. Consequently, when I knew I could a) go straight to California for my fieldwork or b) spend the same amount of money on a flight to Seattle first and visit the dentist, I choose option b. This might seem a little extreme...but try spending a night in a pub here looking at other peoples' mouths as they laugh, and then tell me you wouldn't hop on the first flight home, too.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
No-brainer
In the past three days, I've logged approximately 25-30 hours writing a paper. Consequently, my brain is pretty much beyond revival...which is why it seems like a perfect time to think of British foods I'll genuinely miss when I leave (no, really, they do exist):
1. Hobnobs. The best freaking cookies in the world. Except they're biscuits. Cookie isn't really a word here.
2. Hovis Digestives. While the name is off-putting, to say the least, these little breadloaf-shaped gems are like graham crackers, but slightly less sweet and infinitely more satisfying. Alas, they only come in variety packs of crackers (something to do with the fact that they're categorized as digestive biscuits), so I'm forced to buy giant cracker boxes for five freaking Hovis' (Not sure what the plural is: Hovii?).
3. Earl Grey Tea. I can't even tell you how good it is here. I may have to have the local tea shop ship its own kind to the States, because everything else just seems inferior now.
4. Good Guinness. Apparently, it's even better in Ireland - but it's pretty nice here.
5. Fish and chips with malt vinegar. The one meal that consistently rises above expectations. Although I'm starting to weird out the neighborhood pub with my propensity for using half a bottle of malt vinegar per meal.
6. Sticky toffee pudding. 800,000 calories, 2462 grams of fat, and worth every seam-splitting lick of the spoon.
7. Brie and tomato sandwiches...although they get a little old after the newness wears off and you realize they're one of two or three, tops, vegetarian options in most sandwich places.
8. No, there's really no eight. Seven's all I can muster so far, but I have to admit it's seven more than I anticipated finding. I realize that technically two of them are not food, but Guinness definitely has more calories than a Hovis, and I'd probably subsist off Earl Grey if I could just find a way.
I'd post the number of foods I miss, but it would just make me cry. ;-)
1. Hobnobs. The best freaking cookies in the world. Except they're biscuits. Cookie isn't really a word here.
2. Hovis Digestives. While the name is off-putting, to say the least, these little breadloaf-shaped gems are like graham crackers, but slightly less sweet and infinitely more satisfying. Alas, they only come in variety packs of crackers (something to do with the fact that they're categorized as digestive biscuits), so I'm forced to buy giant cracker boxes for five freaking Hovis' (Not sure what the plural is: Hovii?).
3. Earl Grey Tea. I can't even tell you how good it is here. I may have to have the local tea shop ship its own kind to the States, because everything else just seems inferior now.
4. Good Guinness. Apparently, it's even better in Ireland - but it's pretty nice here.
5. Fish and chips with malt vinegar. The one meal that consistently rises above expectations. Although I'm starting to weird out the neighborhood pub with my propensity for using half a bottle of malt vinegar per meal.
6. Sticky toffee pudding. 800,000 calories, 2462 grams of fat, and worth every seam-splitting lick of the spoon.
7. Brie and tomato sandwiches...although they get a little old after the newness wears off and you realize they're one of two or three, tops, vegetarian options in most sandwich places.
8. No, there's really no eight. Seven's all I can muster so far, but I have to admit it's seven more than I anticipated finding. I realize that technically two of them are not food, but Guinness definitely has more calories than a Hovis, and I'd probably subsist off Earl Grey if I could just find a way.
I'd post the number of foods I miss, but it would just make me cry. ;-)
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Big city beauty
Just returned from an evening in London - my god, to be in a city again! I feel like I'm in Pullman here, what with the cows roaming through the college grounds and all...I just about cried when we found shops open later than 5pm. London, beautiful, mobbed, psychotic, loud, over-the-top London...The Tube trains were littered with wine bottles in paper bags, we were accosted by street hawkers selling everything from magazines to seizure-inducing sparkly necklaces, and I couldn't have been happier. I think I'm sick.
More later. For now, yet another new search leads to my blog: "stepped on a sea slug." What kind of sick person are you?? On behalf of the slugs, I must now wreak vengeance upon you.
More later. For now, yet another new search leads to my blog: "stepped on a sea slug." What kind of sick person are you?? On behalf of the slugs, I must now wreak vengeance upon you.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
So SAD
Okay. All you Northwest folks who complain because Mr. Sun disappears before 5pm? Shut up. RIGHT NOW.
Do you know what time it gets dark here? Huh?? I came out of class at 3pm and thought the cloud cover had grown thicker...but by the time I pedaled home at 3:30, I realized the sun was fricking setting. It's almost pitch-black at 4:30 now.
AUGH!! Think you have trouble keeping a tan in Seattle?
Time to curl up in a little ball on the bed and pretend that I enjoy having 16 hours of darkness every day from November until god-only-knows-when. Yep, nothin' like spending a full day in the library and never seeing the sun! Heh heh...*sob*
Do you know what time it gets dark here? Huh?? I came out of class at 3pm and thought the cloud cover had grown thicker...but by the time I pedaled home at 3:30, I realized the sun was fricking setting. It's almost pitch-black at 4:30 now.
AUGH!! Think you have trouble keeping a tan in Seattle?
Time to curl up in a little ball on the bed and pretend that I enjoy having 16 hours of darkness every day from November until god-only-knows-when. Yep, nothin' like spending a full day in the library and never seeing the sun! Heh heh...*sob*
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
No, actually, the right side of the road is the RIGHT side of the road
I don't like to make sweeping generalizations about other people's cultures, but I've decided this one deserves a broad brush stroke.
Driving on the left is insane.
I realize I lack any sort of actual evidence or justification for saying so, but I don't care. It's borderline psychopathic.
Or maybe I'm the nut, the one who spaced out a little today test-riding a bike and executed a neat swoop into oncoming traffic. Oops. Luckily, most people here are used to inept international students, so the bikes swerved around me and the car ahead slowed down long enough for me to u-turn hastily. My husband helped by yelling, "Wrong way! You're on the wrong side!" as if the sudden apparition of headlights hadn't signaled a judgment error.
To his credit, he was also polite enough to tell the stricken bike shop owner that we really were fresh off the plane -- and, I assume, to promise that we'd pay for the bike should it become embedded in the bonnet of a Volkswagen.
Seriously, biking around here requires serious skill, attention, and a healthy dose of "to hell with it"-ness. Picture narrow, 10th-century roads now overrun with double-decker buses, top-heavy lorries and cars going at least several times the speed of sound. Add in even narrower, 10th-century sidewalks which frequently overflow with pedestrians, who unexpectedly step into the three-inch strip of bike lane. It isn't the pedestrian's fault; more often than not, he or she is being forced into bike-and-car traffic by someone coming the other way, as medieval Brits apparently failed to foresee the wisdom of walkways where people could pass shoulder-to-shoulder.
Consequently, one would assume, helmets and bike lights would be the rule of the road. However, this is not the case. The far more interesting reality was ascertained in a random sample conducted by my statistician husband and I as we staggered the length of town with new room supplies protruding ominously from plastic bags. By our calculations, approximately 10-20 percent of cyclists wear helmets, and perhaps 60 percent use lights. The bike shop clerk actually seemed pleasantly surprised when I asked if he sold helmets. Of course, people here also ride in anything: miniskirts, or long, flapping trenchcoats, or stiletto-heeled boots. I've seen Yorkshire terriers balancing on bike baskets, grannies slinging plastic bags of groceries over their handlebars, and more than a few students riding what looked like buckets of spare parts stuck together with twine. I'm not sure why there aren't hundreds of bikers lying dead in the streets, what with the swerving to avoid cars, pedestrians, dogs, stray chip vans, and a motley assortment of trash bags, but it defies reality.
We've also learned why 1 of 3 Camford students loses their bicycle to thieves. Yes, there are bike robber barons roaming the worn brick streets, but it probably has more to do with a very simple fact: no one knows how to use a lock. In general, bikes are locked in one of three ways: to themselves, freestanding on the street; to a finger's-wide railing, with only the frame secured; or not at all. Most people seem quite content to leave their bikes on the sidewalks with the locks coiled around the seatposts, then can't understand why they disappear. If I were a morally ambivalent person, I'd probably have amassed a collection of dozens of cycles by now -- I could walk down the street and scoop them up by the armload. It's hilarious, but a little disturbing, as this is the Mother Country for many of us and thereby should be a beacon of logic and wisdom. Makes me glad I'm just a Guinness-fed Irishman.
So, I realize I'm going to look ridiculous on my beater road bike with a helmet, two LED lights, a hefty lock and reflective clothing -- but somehow I think I prefer "dork" to "curiously squishy thing on the windshield."
Driving on the left is insane.
I realize I lack any sort of actual evidence or justification for saying so, but I don't care. It's borderline psychopathic.
Or maybe I'm the nut, the one who spaced out a little today test-riding a bike and executed a neat swoop into oncoming traffic. Oops. Luckily, most people here are used to inept international students, so the bikes swerved around me and the car ahead slowed down long enough for me to u-turn hastily. My husband helped by yelling, "Wrong way! You're on the wrong side!" as if the sudden apparition of headlights hadn't signaled a judgment error.
To his credit, he was also polite enough to tell the stricken bike shop owner that we really were fresh off the plane -- and, I assume, to promise that we'd pay for the bike should it become embedded in the bonnet of a Volkswagen.
Seriously, biking around here requires serious skill, attention, and a healthy dose of "to hell with it"-ness. Picture narrow, 10th-century roads now overrun with double-decker buses, top-heavy lorries and cars going at least several times the speed of sound. Add in even narrower, 10th-century sidewalks which frequently overflow with pedestrians, who unexpectedly step into the three-inch strip of bike lane. It isn't the pedestrian's fault; more often than not, he or she is being forced into bike-and-car traffic by someone coming the other way, as medieval Brits apparently failed to foresee the wisdom of walkways where people could pass shoulder-to-shoulder.
Consequently, one would assume, helmets and bike lights would be the rule of the road. However, this is not the case. The far more interesting reality was ascertained in a random sample conducted by my statistician husband and I as we staggered the length of town with new room supplies protruding ominously from plastic bags. By our calculations, approximately 10-20 percent of cyclists wear helmets, and perhaps 60 percent use lights. The bike shop clerk actually seemed pleasantly surprised when I asked if he sold helmets. Of course, people here also ride in anything: miniskirts, or long, flapping trenchcoats, or stiletto-heeled boots. I've seen Yorkshire terriers balancing on bike baskets, grannies slinging plastic bags of groceries over their handlebars, and more than a few students riding what looked like buckets of spare parts stuck together with twine. I'm not sure why there aren't hundreds of bikers lying dead in the streets, what with the swerving to avoid cars, pedestrians, dogs, stray chip vans, and a motley assortment of trash bags, but it defies reality.
We've also learned why 1 of 3 Camford students loses their bicycle to thieves. Yes, there are bike robber barons roaming the worn brick streets, but it probably has more to do with a very simple fact: no one knows how to use a lock. In general, bikes are locked in one of three ways: to themselves, freestanding on the street; to a finger's-wide railing, with only the frame secured; or not at all. Most people seem quite content to leave their bikes on the sidewalks with the locks coiled around the seatposts, then can't understand why they disappear. If I were a morally ambivalent person, I'd probably have amassed a collection of dozens of cycles by now -- I could walk down the street and scoop them up by the armload. It's hilarious, but a little disturbing, as this is the Mother Country for many of us and thereby should be a beacon of logic and wisdom. Makes me glad I'm just a Guinness-fed Irishman.
So, I realize I'm going to look ridiculous on my beater road bike with a helmet, two LED lights, a hefty lock and reflective clothing -- but somehow I think I prefer "dork" to "curiously squishy thing on the windshield."
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Smoking, snogging and snacks
Unexpected but interesting things about Oxford:
1. Everyone smokes. I'm not talking about the huddled masses who lurk in shadowy alleyways along Seattle's late-night hotspots; I mean, every freaking person in the restaurant, pub, bus stop and college. Apparently, they only banned smoking on trains two years ago! It's a little unsettling to find out that there's a single smoke-free restaurant in town. In most cases, the "non smoking" area (if it exists) consists of a cluster of tables separated from another cluster by a two-foot high railing. 'Cause, you know, the smoke doesn't rise above knee level after you spew it out into the atmosphere. On the bright side, it's made my resolution to keep running that much firmer, as I'd hate to return from three great years abroad with wrinkled lungs.
2. PDA is definitely more acceptable here. In three days, we've seen several couples smooching, groping, and slobbering in front of graveyards, outside libraries, and in the queue at the bookstore. I've never really seen so many hands obviously placed on butts in my life. I've also determined that our general stodginess towards public foreplay is actually a good thing; nothing makes you set aside your brie sandwich faster than a 30-something couple swapping spit in the grocery line. I thought England was supposed to be stuffy??
3. Tofu. Tofu. Tofu. Just writing it brings a tear to my eye.
No one knows what it is. I asked three clerks at Marks & Spencers, a major grocery chain, and each looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. "Toe-fooo?" one girl asked. I tried describing what it was, which instantly caused everyone within hearing range to cringe. "No, I don't think we have that." Another clerk looked at me and blinked, so I repeated my request. In a gentle voice reserved for the harmlessly insane, he asked me, "Toad food?" I tried again. "Oooh, todfud, well, we don't 'ave that 'ere, I'm sure." For some reason, he directed me to the spice rack, which consisted of salt, salt and chutney.
Finally, after traversing three separate stores in desperation, I swallowed my fear of stereotyping and asked an Asian clerk. He, too, repeated the word, but more in wonder than in confusion. "You're the first person who's asked me for it," he said, smiling, and directed me to a small Asian foods market "somewhere by the train station, I think." My new goal in life is to find that store, then purchase all of their stock and start my own restaurant called Tofu!, in which I shall convert thousands of tuna-mayonnaise-and-jacket-potato devotees to my way of life.
I WANT MY TOAD FOOD!!!
1. Everyone smokes. I'm not talking about the huddled masses who lurk in shadowy alleyways along Seattle's late-night hotspots; I mean, every freaking person in the restaurant, pub, bus stop and college. Apparently, they only banned smoking on trains two years ago! It's a little unsettling to find out that there's a single smoke-free restaurant in town. In most cases, the "non smoking" area (if it exists) consists of a cluster of tables separated from another cluster by a two-foot high railing. 'Cause, you know, the smoke doesn't rise above knee level after you spew it out into the atmosphere. On the bright side, it's made my resolution to keep running that much firmer, as I'd hate to return from three great years abroad with wrinkled lungs.
2. PDA is definitely more acceptable here. In three days, we've seen several couples smooching, groping, and slobbering in front of graveyards, outside libraries, and in the queue at the bookstore. I've never really seen so many hands obviously placed on butts in my life. I've also determined that our general stodginess towards public foreplay is actually a good thing; nothing makes you set aside your brie sandwich faster than a 30-something couple swapping spit in the grocery line. I thought England was supposed to be stuffy??
3. Tofu. Tofu. Tofu. Just writing it brings a tear to my eye.
No one knows what it is. I asked three clerks at Marks & Spencers, a major grocery chain, and each looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. "Toe-fooo?" one girl asked. I tried describing what it was, which instantly caused everyone within hearing range to cringe. "No, I don't think we have that." Another clerk looked at me and blinked, so I repeated my request. In a gentle voice reserved for the harmlessly insane, he asked me, "Toad food?" I tried again. "Oooh, todfud, well, we don't 'ave that 'ere, I'm sure." For some reason, he directed me to the spice rack, which consisted of salt, salt and chutney.
Finally, after traversing three separate stores in desperation, I swallowed my fear of stereotyping and asked an Asian clerk. He, too, repeated the word, but more in wonder than in confusion. "You're the first person who's asked me for it," he said, smiling, and directed me to a small Asian foods market "somewhere by the train station, I think." My new goal in life is to find that store, then purchase all of their stock and start my own restaurant called Tofu!, in which I shall convert thousands of tuna-mayonnaise-and-jacket-potato devotees to my way of life.
I WANT MY TOAD FOOD!!!
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Mission accomplished
We're here!
Sure, we slept until 4pm today (ah, the joys of jet lag), but we are safe and sound in Bryan's new town. Yesterday was exhausting, as we had to lug four suitcases, two severely bloated backpacks and one battered bike box from Heathrow to Oxbridge.
So far, we've managed to find an amusing assortment of products for his room (although we passed on the "Who's The Daddy?" t-shirt...do you think they know it's supposed to be "Your?")...Best new product? "Kleenex for Men", whose only attributes seem to be its needlessly large size and somewhat masculine black-and-red packaging. Second favorite so far has to be "Love Your Bum" toilet paper. Best find? A small shop in the town's covered market which sells Real Live Skippy peanut butter!! I hated Skippy back home, but it's a thousand times better than the godawful, paste-colored excuse for pb they offer in Sainsbury's.
England is less overwhelming than it was on the first go-round, which makes me very grateful for spending that frigid January week traipsing around the country. We still quail in our shoes whenever we have to cross a street; last night, someone actually did speed up when they saw us in a crosswalk. Maybe it's like Cuba: drivers would rather kill you than maim you, because then they don't have to worry about injury lawsuits or hospital bills.
In either case, students here are nice and pleasantly drunk, at least on the weekends, so that's much like home. It's amazing how many of their first-year functions involve copious amounts of alcohol. Perhaps it increases the palatability of the food? Although we discovered a decent Italian place tonight, so that's promising.
Internet access will be sporradic for awhile, but I will try to update at least a few times per week. Cheers for now!
Sure, we slept until 4pm today (ah, the joys of jet lag), but we are safe and sound in Bryan's new town. Yesterday was exhausting, as we had to lug four suitcases, two severely bloated backpacks and one battered bike box from Heathrow to Oxbridge.
So far, we've managed to find an amusing assortment of products for his room (although we passed on the "Who's The Daddy?" t-shirt...do you think they know it's supposed to be "Your?")...Best new product? "Kleenex for Men", whose only attributes seem to be its needlessly large size and somewhat masculine black-and-red packaging. Second favorite so far has to be "Love Your Bum" toilet paper. Best find? A small shop in the town's covered market which sells Real Live Skippy peanut butter!! I hated Skippy back home, but it's a thousand times better than the godawful, paste-colored excuse for pb they offer in Sainsbury's.
England is less overwhelming than it was on the first go-round, which makes me very grateful for spending that frigid January week traipsing around the country. We still quail in our shoes whenever we have to cross a street; last night, someone actually did speed up when they saw us in a crosswalk. Maybe it's like Cuba: drivers would rather kill you than maim you, because then they don't have to worry about injury lawsuits or hospital bills.
In either case, students here are nice and pleasantly drunk, at least on the weekends, so that's much like home. It's amazing how many of their first-year functions involve copious amounts of alcohol. Perhaps it increases the palatability of the food? Although we discovered a decent Italian place tonight, so that's promising.
Internet access will be sporradic for awhile, but I will try to update at least a few times per week. Cheers for now!
Monday, July 18, 2005
This is what happens to me when the husband leaves town
Apart from pulling dead leaves out of my tortoise's indignant jaws, I've been surfing the internet randomly for an hour only to stumble upon this literary gem: British Food, An Extraordinary Thousand Years of History.
I can only assume that by "extraordinary," the author means: "breathtakingly awful cuisine that could peel the tastebuds from your tongue."
Have you ever skimmed the titles of cookbooks at local bookstores? There's a notable dearth of texts on British cuisine. In a geography textbook on food, several English people said that they did not live in a food culture. That may be the understatement of the year, coming from a place where I ate eggs and freaking baked beans in a can for breakfast (and yes, every establishment where we stayed offered us this concoction...every person I know who's ever been to England has encountered it...). I'm more frightened by my dietary options in the UK than I am by their rigorous academic standards, and it does not encourage me to learn that they're in the midst of a national debate over whether cooking skills are important.
Seriously, if globalization has any benefits, it's that a vast array of foods can flow freely across borders. Note to UK: you are a wealthy country. You can afford to import fruits and vegetables. Cabbage should never be the summation of one's national produce. For the love of god, fix it before two very homesick former vegans wash up on your shores and spend the next three years subsisting off cheese and cucumber sandwiches.
I can only assume that by "extraordinary," the author means: "breathtakingly awful cuisine that could peel the tastebuds from your tongue."
Have you ever skimmed the titles of cookbooks at local bookstores? There's a notable dearth of texts on British cuisine. In a geography textbook on food, several English people said that they did not live in a food culture. That may be the understatement of the year, coming from a place where I ate eggs and freaking baked beans in a can for breakfast (and yes, every establishment where we stayed offered us this concoction...every person I know who's ever been to England has encountered it...). I'm more frightened by my dietary options in the UK than I am by their rigorous academic standards, and it does not encourage me to learn that they're in the midst of a national debate over whether cooking skills are important.
Seriously, if globalization has any benefits, it's that a vast array of foods can flow freely across borders. Note to UK: you are a wealthy country. You can afford to import fruits and vegetables. Cabbage should never be the summation of one's national produce. For the love of god, fix it before two very homesick former vegans wash up on your shores and spend the next three years subsisting off cheese and cucumber sandwiches.
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