Clare Bridge across the River Cam, in Cambridge, England
Hi-
Pinch me, I live here. I’m looking for Harry Potter and his friends around every cobble-stoned corner.
Surprised (and annoyed) to find this town is a major tourist destination. I need to stop projecting the tourist vibe so that the guys in straw hats no longer me if I “fancy a punt” every time I enter the market to buy groceries.
Lots of love,
A
Roman Baths and Bath Abbey, in Bath, England
Hi-
Another beautiful town ruined by tourist traps. The proliferation of High Street shops is nauseating. (Zara and H&M are the CVS & Starbucks of Europe.)
We’ve opted to skip the shopping and are instead running the risk of pickling ourselves by trying to fit in as many spa treatments and thermal bath time as possible in 48 hours.
Lots of love,
A
Rebuilt Bombe at Bletchley Park in Milton Keynes, England
The ancient preserved structures in Europe are so abundant that they are almost easy to take for granted. “Another Gothic church from the 13th century …. another Roman ruin from the 1st century … another rock pile from 2,000 B.C. …”
Last weekend I stayed in a hotel in the Champagne region of France that dates its structural foundation to the 1100s. This past weekend I stayed in a former Welsh country home that was built starting in the 1500s. But sleeping somewhere old and beautiful wasn’t the highlight of either weekend. For two weekends in a row, quite unexpectedly, I experienced living history that was more interesting than the sum of all the castles and palaces I’ve visited. These people we met connected us to VE Day 67 years later after the fact. I’ve heard called them history bridges. In fact, they are living links to the past.
During our trip to Champagne, we visited the off-the-beaten-path cellars of Drappier. Our tour concluded with a tasting and two flutes into it, the patriarch of the Drappier family, Andre, joined our small group. His visit was unexpected to us, and even the staff seemed surprised, but we made room for him and were delighted with his first-hand accounts of his former neighbor and frequent customer, Charles de Gaulle. The champagne house sells a brut created to CDG’s taste preferences. So there we sat, discussing the upcoming French election and whether the voters would choose the Socialist candidate while drinking Drappier Cuvee Charles de Gaulle Brut. Our friend translated Monsieur Drappier’s observation that “Sarkozy is drinking more water than champagne these days.” Surreal.
Little did I know, our history lesson wasn’t complete. On our way back from Wales this weekend, we stopped in Milton Keynes to visit Bletchley Park, home of the famous World War II code breakers. I was a reluctant visitor; Nick’s enthusiasm overcompensated. In the end, I was the one who didn’t want to leave because we met a woman who spent the war years working in complete secret on an effort that helped end the war two years early. Chosen for her ability to reach the top rows – only the tall girls who were at least 5’4″ qualified – she set the dials and ran the machines that unlocked the German battlefield and maritime messages.
Looking these history bridges in the eye, hearing their personal accounts of familiar stories, and thanking them for rising to the challenges of the day so our freedoms could be preserved – that’s better than a pile of ancient Egyptian wine jugs.
Be sure to wish a happy VE Day to the history bridges in your life who breathed a sigh of relief and celebrated on the streets nearly 70 years ago today.
Angel in a cemetery in Savannah, Georgia
I love America. What I don’t love is our 75,000 page federal tax code, plus all the hangers-on that want a piece of my paycheck (I’m talking to you cities, counties and states).
I also don’t love the time it takes to prepare them, the stress they cause, or the related expenses of CPAs and alcohol.
One day out of 356 is reserved for conversations like: Where’s the receipt from last February when you sponsored your boss’ charity run? I thought YOU had it. Ugh, I’m locked out of that investment account we only look at once a year. How do we retrieve the password? Try your maternal grandmother’s middle name. Which grandmother is that? Are we putting the right number in that box? How would I know if it’s the right number when I don’t understand what they are asking.
And the question I ask every year: How is it possible that two highly functioning adults with this many years of education can’t figure out our tax return?
We’ve always done our own taxes and we planned for this year to be no different, despite the added complexity of living abroad half the year.
Nick devoted a full day to preparing our 2011 returns while I spent a girl’s weekend in London with a friend in town from NYC. He toiled all day before calling me just as we arrived at a wine bar. I should have let it go to voice mail.
Nick: Remember how I said either we’re going to owe nothing or we’re going to owe some hugely unfathomable figure.
Me: (sip of wine) Yah…
Nick: Um, we owe the big amount.
Me: (gulp of wine) How big?
Nick: $$$$$$$$$$$$$
Me: (wine glass stem perpendicular to the floor) Sweet.
And then I felt sick and it wasn’t from the chardonnay. Luckily, I was with my friend Carin, and since we were buds since before she became a professional life coach, I get her services for free, all to myself, for hours at a time. Carin, the wine flight, plus the aperitif and the bottle of pinot noir with dinner are probably the only things that prevented me from jumping in front of a double decker bus rolling through Piccadilly Circle.
Pleasantly, my agony was short-lived. By the time Carin and arrived in Cambridge on Sunday morning, Nick was perfectly calm. In fact, he was rather happy. One of the many wonderful things about Nick is that he always comes up with a plan, and plans make him smile.
In the 12 hours since we had talked, he poured himself a nice glass of bourbon and decided that it was official: our situation was complicated enough that for the first time we needed to hire a CPA to help us file our returns. This option gave us a glimmer of hope that Nick had made a terrible mistake. We ignored the face that Nick doesn’t often make mistakes and found some peace.
A couple of weeks later, while in San Francisco on business, Nick took a side trip to Houston (you know, because Houston and San Fran are so close to each other) to lay the groundwork for our move and also deal with our taxes.
The tax consultant was helpful enough, but it burns me – BURNS me – that I have to pay someone to calculate how much additional money I owe the government. What’s worse, and rather annoying, was that the CPA came up with roughly the same number as Nick. This news didn’t make me feel better, but at least I had confirmation that the check I wrote was the right one.
The other fun part about doing our taxes this year was the realization that in 2011, we paid taxes to nine – NINE – taxing authorities (not counting taxes added to rental cars, hotels or purchases in the places we lived of visited). Look who got some of our money last year:
Today, on Tax Day 2012, I should be able to relax. The checks are written. The paperwork is filed. Everything was completed honestly and before the deadline. But I can’t relax because still I worry. Three years from now, or maybe less, we’re could get a letter from one of these NINE taxing authorities saying we owe them more money. It’s always more, never less. This dread will weight on me every time I go to the mailbox.
I love my country, but this is the day for the spirits and I don’t mean festive celebrations or the dead. I’m talking about the kind only Kentucky makes. Pour me a bourbon.
Christmas Market in Lille, France
A year living abroad means a year’s worth of holidays away from my beloved traditions and family. Some people think we’re lucky, others find it sad that we’ve been away from home for the holidays.
However, we considered it an experience we never thought we’d have, but since it was offered to us, we decided to make our own European holiday memories. Here’s how we spent the holidays:
Independence Day: Shockingly, no one in England wished us a Happy 4th. Even a crack about how the ragtag colonists kicked the Red Coats’ butt would have been appreciated. We considered decking ourselves in American flag regalia and crashing the early July apartment complex cookout with sparklers in hand, but instead we let the holiday quietly pass by waiting for our Internet provider to work their way through the queue and flip on our DSL switch. Now that I understand English culture a little better, this actually seems like an appropriate way to commemorate an event in American-English history. After all, queuing is England’s great passion.
Labor Day: Bank holidays are so common in Europe and rare in the U.S. that the only odd thing about this holiday was that my American colleagues had a day off work and I didn’t.
Thanksgiving: I cooked a feast for two, but my little kitchen, equipped with dull knives, pots with uneven bottoms and only the most basic pieces of equipment, left me with few options for traditional dishes. I attempted an apple pie using a ready-to-bake pie crust from the grocery store, but like all British baked goods, it came out of the oven dry and tasteless.
Christmas: We went to Christmas markets in Lille, France and London, then stayed at a castle (o.k., really, it was a palace) in England for Christmas Eve through Boxing Day. My mom sent a box of her homemade Christmas cookies and we Skyped into the festivities at home.
New Years: We headed to Vienna,Austria to see the opera, watch fireworks and toast 2012 with champagne.
Girl Scout Cookie Season: Turns out, I missed this American tradition more than I thought. A Lent without Girl Scout cookies saved me some calories, but only an authentic Samoa can curb the annual craving.
Opening Day: I really missed being home for the start of the baseball season. Whether it’s snowing in Cleveland or a perfect Spring afternoon in Cincinnati, Opening Day is a hope-filled celebration of America’s favorite pastime. Being away for Opening Day made me realize what my favorite holiday is.
Easter: We headed to the Scottish Highlands for the four-day Easter holiday. A beautiful place to spend a weekend, but a terrible place to spend the most holy days of the liturgical year. The Highlands were the last stand for the Jacobites and when the revolts were quelled, the Catholics were eradicated. We could not find a church within 100 miles where we were staying.
Being away from home has made me realize that what I miss most are family, apple pie, Girl Scout cookies, baseball, and freedom of religion. What could more American than that?
The banks of the River Cam, behind Kings College, Cambridge, England
When I explain that I’m learning the language of my new home, most people who know I’m living in England exhibit surprise or confusion. The truth is, the language differences are significant and it’s foolish to assume otherwise, so I’m minding the gap and trying to be conscious of the words I choose.
Something as simple as throwing away the garbage for the first time meant we had to leave our flat (apartment) and take the lift (elevator) to the reception (lobby) to ask the porter (building superintendent or manager) for help finding the bin storage (dumpsters) in the car park (garage).
I picked up a couple of books on British slang before we left the U.S. and quickly learned not to point out fanny packs in public, but helpful tips like this aren’t enough.
The language differences impact my life daily, but most often when dealing with numbers. Everything you take for granted about numbers – how to read, say and write them – is different. March 15, 2012 is either 15 March or 15/3/12. The time 1:30 isn’t “one thirty,” it’s “half one.” Ninety minutes earlier isn’t noon, its midday. The phone number 07 4423… isn’t “zero-seven- four-four-two-three,” it’s something that I still haven’t figured out “ohseven doublefour twothree.” And three of the same numbers in a row? That’s treble, not triple.
Yet the BBC and most Brits blame Americans for ruining the language. From what I’ve heard, there’s plenty of blame to share.
Liberty and taxis in London
The top question I received from my American friends about our move to the UK, was ”Why do they drive on the wrong side of the road?”
Since obtaining a visa did not require a UK culture and history test, nor, thankfully, a driving test, I had to hunt down the answer. Using the auto fill feature on Google, I typed “Why do the British … ” and moved past the commonly queried question that ended “…have bad teeth” “…say zed” and “…hate America” to find the answer to my driving question.
Not only did I learn something, I also discovered a mnemonic device that has prevented me from being flattened by red double-decker buses and black taxis. The commonly accepted answer is that by driving on the left (note: never say ”the wrong side”), the hip where your sword is stored is closest to the people you are passing. In this arrangement, if danger comes your way, you can easily defend yourself. Same goes for crossing the street: the oncoming traffic is approaching you from the right, so if you needed to take out a bicycle messenger or a lorry driver, your sword is conveniently on the side of their approach. This is the case for 33% of the world’s population, but the number is on the decline. An Englishman recently informed me that Ireland is going to start driving on the right side of the road. In fact, cars are making the change this week. And lorries are switching over next week.*
Once I understood this reasoning, moving along the streets of England became easier. I just think “sword side” and make sure I can use my sword (or right hand) to clothesline or swat away any threats that come too close. It works. Now I know were to stand or walk and which way to look when crossing the street. Considering that this is a very safety conscious culture, it makes me feel just a little bit English every time I correctly maneuver the streets and sidewalks.
*This is like a Kentucky joke if you’re from Ohio, or a Pollock joke of you’re from anywhere else.
Augustinerbrau in Salzburg, Austria
This line from Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut popped into my head after following some travel itineraries suggested by my in-laws.
Upon retiring from a combined 65 years of teaching English in public high schools, my in-laws have taken to the road and air, visiting all the places they missed over the years because the obligatory family trips invariably were focused on Boy Scout camps, Disney parks, beach vacations and museum visits.
In the last few years they’ve taken several long international trips and frequent smaller excursions, each one painstakingly planned, researched and organized. While on the trip, every event is photographically recorded by my father-in-law (averaging +1500 pictures per week-long trip), while my mother-in-law uses a photocopied grid that looks eerily like a lesson plan to record information about every place they see in the columns labeled place/date/background/notes, etc. It’s systematic, thorough and adorable. For Nick and me, the careful documentation means that they can tell us in exacting detail the best places to go (and how to find them).
Thanks to them, we’ve tried Sally Lunn’s buns in Bath, England, and celebrated the last St. Augustine Day in Salzburg at a festival hosted by the Augustiner Brewery at Mülln. Tom and Becky are very good dance instructors.
