A Yank in 'Brum'

One Year On--Reprise

2005-09-14T09:41:00.000-07:00

As of today, Tony and I have lived here one year, so this is the last blog for “A Yank in ‘Brum.’” We’re not the new kids any more.
I spent all day in meetings with my fellow faculty, going over students’ results from last term and planning for the next one. In the nanny state, everything you do—class schedules, exams, coursework, marking—has someone assigned to look over it. Maybe it all gets sent on to be approved by the Queen.
My Wonderful Boss and co-workers are a good bunch. A year ago we had only met once; now they are part of my everyday life. Considering that I plucked this job from cyberspace, it’s amazing how comfortable it is. We’re on the same wavelength when it comes to what and how we teach. And given the horror stories about politics in academic departments, let alone in shared office spaces like ours, I’m thrilled that we all get along.
Tony likes the people he works with at the Ramada as well, especially the ones closer to our age. “These young kids,” he says about the others, when he comes home knackered. “No sense of team work. We old poops have to run around and do everything. But—the young ones also call in sick a lot, so I get extra hours. God bless ‘em.”
It was the same at his job in Florida, and with my students in Florida, and with my students here. Some things never change: Old poops lamenting “These kids today!” But that’s why they need teachers, and so I’ll always have a job.
This has been a good year for us. We both have work we like, a great apartment and Wonderful Landlord, and two happy cats looking out the window at squirrels in the rain. We’ve taken little trips to explore our new country, and one big trip to explore being grandparents to a six-year-old. We’ve been back to visit friends in the States and family in Ireland. Some of you have visited us, but not enough. So c’mon over!
There are things we miss from home. Saturday Night Live and the “Car Guys.” The Daily Show and bizarre stories from Miami. Calling up friends at the last minute and girls’ night out. Walking on Hollywood Beach and just jumping in the car to drive somewhere. But not the Florida drivers. We miss sunshine sometimes, but not as often as we thought.
Relatives and friends have died while we’ve been here, and it’s been sad to not be there.
After our third big move (Dublin to Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh to Hollywood, Hollywood to Birmingham), we find it will be easier to pick up and move the next time. We’re planning to stay here for at least five years. Or maybe ten. Or maybe not.
There’s still a lot to write about. I want to tell you about the way they’ve gone nuts for cricket over here this past week, and our day trip to Manchester this week, and how we’re getting internet and cable installed next week, and the fight we’ve had with the “customer service” (and I use the term loosely) section of the bank for six weeks.
Blogs can go on for ever. And ever. It’s time to stop this one before it becomes tedious, for me and for you.
I’ve been posting things on H2G2 (www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/brunel ), a Wikipedia-type site started by The Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy author Doug Adams that is linked to BBC. Anyone can join and post, but they are running some of my pieces in their monthly newsletter, The Post, as “Explaining the British Isles to Americans.” Some are re-cycled blogs, but some will be new. I’m now linked to a link to BBC! Ever closer to being published.
During this year, Tony and I have learned that we’ve hit a good patch. We’ve had some bad times, some chronicled in this blog and previously at http://www.everywednsday.blogspot.com/, some before my blogging began. But probably not more than most.
We’ve learned that being creative in solving our problems is what got us this far, but some of it is just damned good luck.
We’ve learned that life is too short. Way too short.
But now, at 54, I have finally figured out why.
Because we get such a damn late start.
From my first blog I wanted a sign-off line to use every week. “Stay tuned” sounded forward-thinking, with that air of, What could happen next?! I stuck to it for the sake of consistency.
Now I’ve discovered a phrase that the Brits use to express the same thing, so that’s how I’ll end this one:
Watch this space.

Guest Blogger II Reprise—A Buckeye’s Diary

2005-09-07T11:57:00.000-07:00

Remember my niece, Erin? She came back to us again this past weekend at the end of her Intro-to-Europe summer.
My dream is to have my own column, but Erin, unlike every other college student I know, would rather do reporting. So her weekly “Buckeye Abroad” feature for the Ohio State University paper didn’t last long. But, like every good writer, she kept a diary, and so here are excerpts from the parts she let me read:

Friday, July 8, Cleveland, Ohio

Been sitting in the airport for nearly an hour and a half and will probably be here for another hour because my flight was delayed. Great start to my first international trip, not to mention my first time on a plane.
This long mess of airports, flight changes and delays will land me in England tomorrow morning. For weeks I’ve been so nervous and worried. Now that I’m actually going -- my bags are packed, my plans are made -- I’m really excited.

Saturday, July 9, Birmingham, England

My first pint at a pub. They serve beer warm over here but not as warm as I thought. I want to try all the beers that we can’t get in Ohio, but back at Aunt Kathleen and Tony’s, I had a Budweiser. Guess I’m missing home a little bit.

Sunday, July 10, Bath, England

Just got back from the pub. My professor, his girlfriend and three of the girls I’m studying with went. Sick of warm beer. It’s giving me a headache.

Sunday, July 24, Bath, England

Haven’t been writing because I’ve been doing so much lately. London was amazing. British Museum, British Library, Globe Theatre, Camden, Tate Modern Art Museum. I hate modern art. Anybody can paint a blue box and hang it on a wall. You would have to be an idiot to call it “art” and then find meaning in it. I could throw a fork in the middle of a room and call it modern art.
Sometimes you meet new people and when you meet them for the first time you already miss them. There’s no “getting to know you.” You just pick up from where you left off.

Friday, July 29, Bath, England

Last night was insane. Don’t know if I could top it. The students, my professor and some of his friends went to karaoke night. Four of the girls were singing a Madonna song and dancing accordingly. My professor has it all on videotape. One of the guys had my friend Eric wearing a wig and sunglasses. After the karaoke we went to a club and everyone was dancing. Even our professor!

Saturday, July 30, Bath, England

What is my life like here?
• Ghost hunting on the fifth floor of the dorm with Eric
• Talking to the security guard until four in the morning about absolutely everything
• Reading Roll the Dice by Charles Bukowski over and over again
• Falling in love with Cat Stevens on the streets of London (“Where do the Children Play?”)
• Having the Grateful Dead as a soundtrack (Thank you iPod.)
I’m pretty sure this is the best time of my life. It’s all-night craziness, non-stop insanity. It’s 3 a.m. conversations about the meaning of life and storytelling and ghost hunting. It’s about meeting people who will change my life and knowing I’ll never see them again after three weeks. This is awesome.

Tuesday, August 2, Bath, England

The trend continues. Everyday gets better and better.
Yesterday we saw a play in Stratford-upon-Avon – Sir Thomas More. Did not know what was going on. Fell asleep for most of it.
Big class discussion about feminism and feminist poetry. Decided I’m an anti-feminist.

Friday, August 5, Bath, England

Absolutely nothing like a cold beer, Jerry Garcia and Jack Kerouac to make a day change from just a day to an awesome, absolutely amazing day. Thank you Stella Artois, Jerry and Jack.

Sunday, August 7, Sion Hill, England

iPod (two)
Heineken (half full and warm)
Brown flip flops
Water color painting instructions
Charles Bukowski
Book bag (tobacco, lighter, matches, water bottle, folder)
Towels (one big, one small)
Wallet containing no money
Eric
That’s it.

Saturday, August 7, Bath, England

This guy we are sitting next to went to a Pink Floyd concert. Can you imagine? I told him he’s lucky. That’s not an option for me. (Pink Floyd!)

Tuesday, August 9, Sion Hill, England

“Blackbird singin’ in the dead of night…”

Friday, August 12, Dublin, Ireland

Excerpt from poem written by Eric and me on the flight to Dublin:
“forget dollars to euros
forget common sense
forget what you ‘should be doing’
life is ending tomorrow
and I want to spend my last night in a stairwell
with dave matthews, charles bukowski and a bottle of wine for three pounds”

Monday, August 15 (my 23rd birthday), Dublin, Ireland

I am in the Holiday Inn at the Dublin airport. Why? Because I drank way too much Guinness and Irish whiskey, fell asleep in the airport and missed my flight. It all started with the Literary Pub Crawl -- an innocent beginning.

Wednesday, August 17, Bath, England

Made it back to Bath. Amazing we survived. I’ve officially conquered Dublin, having done all the damage I can do in that city.
But missing my flight was not the only memory. Here’s the Dublin roundup.
1. St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It’s a cathedral. They’re pretty much all the same.
2. Dublin Castle. Our tour guide was so boring.
3. National History Museum. Tons of stuffed animals. Like a dead zoo.
4. National Archaeological Museum. How can anything be prehistory? They had prehistoric artifacts there but I will argue with anyone that prehistory does not exist.
5. Literary Pub Crawl. Aunt Kathleen said to go and I did. It was lots of fun -- too much fun.
6. James Joyce Museum
7. Temple Bar
8. Trinity College
And then, the moment I had been waiting for. The holy cathedral of beers, the Mecca of delicious drinking, the global center of high-quality drinking, the hometown of the best beer in the world: THE GUINNESS FACTORY
The anticipation, I promise you, was of no comparison. When Eric and I got close we ran, taking pictures of everything. The visitor’s center has seven floors, each with a different theme: How Guinness is made, history of Guinness, Guinness advertisements, Guinness Guinness Guinness. And at the end you get a Guinness! Not just any Guinness but THE BEST GUINNESS IN THE WORLD. So the anticipation is building and building until you just want to run upstairs and drown yourself in the deliciousness -- the absolute epitome of deliciousness -- of Guinness.

Saturday, August 20, Amsterdam, the Netherlands

This city is like nothing else. Who is running the show here? Who are these people!?
When we arrived at our hostel Eric and I saw the sign at the same time -- Christian Youth Hostel. This is what happens when we wait until the last minute to book on-line. A city of sin and we find God instead. Classic.

Monday, August 22, Paris, France

I almost got arrested by the French police. There was a check point in the metro and I had thrown my ticket away. My friend said they were worthless after you got on and to throw it away so it wouldn’t get mixed in with my unused tickets. A woman yelled at me in French and said to pay her 25 euros or pay 65 euros at the police station. Took about 15 minutes to figure this out. I had forgotten my passport and wallet but luckily Eric paid for me or I might be in a jail cell in Paris without anyone speaking English. I could have punched that French cop.
Paris Round Up:
1. Sacre Coeur. Amazing view of Paris if it’s not raining.
2. Notre Dame. Another cathedral. I’ve seen at least 800.
3. Rodin Museum
Didn’t get to go through the Louvre. Note to self: Louvre closes at 6 p.m. on Mondays and all day Tuesday. Who knew?

Wednesday, August 24, Venice, Italy

The most gorgeous city ever. Spent half my life on a train to get here.

Monday, August 29, Rome, Italy

An eight-year-old boy tried to steal from me on the streets. He unzippered my bag but I caught him before he could get my wallet. What the hell?

Monday, September 5, from Birmingham, England, to Newark, New Jersey, to Columbus, Ohio

Culture Shock Round Up -- Unforeseen Differences
• Restaurants. No free water, no free appetizers and smaller portion sizes, but no need to tip.
• Paying for a bathroom
• Public drinking is no problem, except in the city of sin (Amsterdam)
• Venice really has no cars -- at all
• No trash cans in London. I walked around with an apple core for half an hour. In Amsterdam all the garbage men were on strike and there was trash everywhere.
• Language. In England pants really means underwear. Very important to know.
I didn’t know it was possible to have so much fun. I thought every day was the highest point and then it would get better the next. Met people from all over the world and saw things I thought I’d never see. No doubt about it -- best summer of my life.
Stay tuned.

Take a Risk—Reprise

2005-08-31T09:58:00.000-07:00

Twenty-three months ago I flew from our home in Hollywood on the southeast coast of Florida to a job interview in Brighton on the southeast coast of England. I’d been applying outside the US because Tony and I had decided that we really liked Europe. And, hey, I needed a job.
Borrowing a friend’s credit card I booked a cheap airfare, assured that the university would reimburse all my expenses while I was in the UK. A subsidized, tax-deductible trip abroad? What the hell. Take a risk.
After the interview, as the department head ushered me into the taxi to my hotel, I thought, Gee, they liked me. During the taxi ride back to my hotel I thought, They didn’t like that part about how I would handle large classes. Getting out of the taxi at my hotel I thought, My teaching style is really a lot different from theirs. When I got to my hotel room, Tony called. “You got an e-mail. You didn’t get the job.”
They were right; it really wasn’t a good fit. But, after spending three days there, I did enjoy Brighton. In that week’s blog, “Quotidian,” I wrote:
“This week in Brighton I stayed at a hotel on the main street that runs along the waterfront, the English Channel…It’s a funky town and I walked, sat, and drank in the older areas with the cafes, nice restaurants and high end dress shops.
“In preparation for my interview, I rode the bus to the campus. Past the brown and gray shops, past the teens with the purple hair at the music store, past the local pubs and fish ‘n chip shops. I sat up on the second tier so I could see everything.
“The day of the interview I went early and walked around the campus…[From the] Xeroxed sheets of paper tacked up on the walls, you learn so much about rents, cars and living arrangements…I picked up the college paper, hung out in the cafeteria, walked through the bookshop.
“I didn’t get the job, but I did enjoy Brighton. I’d go back there in a minute, but preferably to visit someone living there, or to work for a short time, to experience everyday, commonplace life in an interesting multi-cultural European city.”
Eight months later I had my second interview in England, this time nowhere near the coast, in Birmingham. I had described my Brighton experience to the department head, and he felt my teaching style would not be a problem. Borrowing a friend’s credit card I extended my already-planned trip to the British Isles, assured that the university would reimburse all expenses while I was in the UK. Another subsidized, tax-deductible trip abroad? What the hell. Take a risk.
After the interview, I thought, Geesh, they hated me. I called Tony and said, “I didn’t get the job.” In the taxi leaving my hotel after only one day in Birmingham I thought, Take a risk, hell. I’ve got to quit paying money for the Brits to reject me. The day after I got home the department head called and offered me the job. So much for my gut instincts.
Three months later we moved to Birmingham and for the past year have experienced “everyday commonplace life in an interesting multi-cultural European city” every day.
This week Tony got two days off in a row. We figured that, once my fall classes start we won’t have a two-day stretch of vacation days and sunny weather, so let’s go to Brighton!
I researched cheap hotel rates and train fares on the Internet—we’ve had enough of driving English roads recently. Then at the ticket office I asked for the best routes to get to Brighton late Monday and back late Wednesday without going through London. This isn’t fear of terrorism; it’s fear of lugging a heavy rucksack through the Tube. The clerk planned a journey for us that avoided London and all the major engineering disruptions. Pack up Marks & Spencer sandwich fixins and chicken wings to eat on the train, and we’re off!
Brighton was just as I remembered. A good-sized funky city right on the water. The “sand” is really pebbles, but the waterfront is filled with pubs, chippers, and lovely beach chairs that rent for £1.50 a day.
We took a taxi from the old classic train station to the Hilton facing the beach. An hour later we were enjoying two different versions of fish ‘n chips (plaice vs. cod) at the restaurant on the 100-year-old Brighton Pier where I had eaten my first reimbursed meal almost two years before. The next two days were spent sitting on the beach in the hot—yes, hot!—British sun, walking the narrow 18th century “Lanes,” soaking up the history of the preferred seaside resort for the Prince Regent—Victoria’s uncle—back in the early 19th century, and drinking gin and tonic by the water.
The little things that were so foreign to me my first time are part of my everyday—“quotidian”—life now. News agents. Hand-lettered signs outside employment agencies (Do they really need a “lamb boner”?). BBC on telly. Full English breakfast—full of calories and cholesterol. “The brown and gray shops,…the teens with the purple hair at the music store,…the local pubs and fish ‘n chip shops. [Riding the bus] up on the second tier so I could see everything.”
Leaving Brighton the first time I thought, Was that a ‘dead end’? A ‘wasted’ trip? Great town, but when will I ever come back? Oh, well. I took a risk.
Leaving Brighton this time I thought, The first time was practice. Failing that first interview helped me pass the second one. And we now get to visit Brighton whenever we have two sunny vacation days.
There are no dead ends. And no experience is ever wasted. Take a risk.
Stay tuned.

Home Alone

2005-08-24T09:26:00.000-07:00

0700 What time is it? Fugh. Rain.
0800 I should get up. Fugh.
0900 Whoa. Awake. Where are the cats? Willie, are you up yet? Leave me alone, mom. I’m napping.
0913 Up. Tea. Newspapers. It’s pissin’ rain. I was right—work-at-home day. Where are the cats?
0945 What’s on? That learn-to-drive show. Well, I’ve had enough of BBCRadio4. Pick this stuff up. Fughin’ men. Socks, jacket, Odoreaters. Into his wardrobe in a pile. He vacuumed before he left Monday, and there’s little pieces of rug and things on the floor already. Geesus. It doesn’t need to be really clean, just so when the landlord walks in he doesn’t think, ‘What the hell did they do to the place?’
1000 ‘Money Spinners.’ Great. Another family of brats where mum does all the work. I’ll put the light green side of the duvet out so the room looks really spring-y when they come.
1015 Exercises. Damn. Feels good tho. Let me guess. One brat doesn’t have a job and won’t get out of bed. This family will never get to Australia at this rate.
1030 Second cup of tea. Mom! Could you feed us something pleeeese!? Get the papers together. Papers spread out on the floor doesn’t look bad. It just looks like I’m working. How’d they save that much money? £25 a week for groceries for a family of five? What are they going to eat?
1040 Aah! Mail. Willie can pull it out of the mail slot. A welcome break. No, we don’t need car insurance.
1050 I can’t believe they got the £3000. Dad gets a second job and mom works her butt off while the teenagers lie around all day? Good argument for contraception. At least the little red-haired girl pitched in and helped. Okay. Back to work. No need to shower. Put on a t-shirt so they can’t tell I’m not wearing a bra.
1100 ‘To Buy or Not to Buy.’ Good background noise. Thin blonde bitch. ‘Works in marketing.’ No wonder they have £250,000 to spend on a house. Will we ever be able to afford that? Maybe we should ask the landlord for financial advice. ‘Here’s the good news: We’re not going to move out. Can you tell us how we can afford to buy a cheap condo in Florida?’ He deals in million-euro deals, he doesn’t want to advise us.
1115 Gussie—you smell like litter deodorizer. Geesh, mom you could clean it out. That new lid on it just makes us smell bad. Well, better scoop it now. Willie! C’mon! She’s finally going to scoop it! Maybe I should open that window to air the place out before they come. Oops! Kitchen. Well, put all the dirty ones in the sink and it won’t look bad.
1130 Okay, this is going good. If I transfer the data onto these forms I can get rid of the folders. Hope Mr. Assistant Chair appreciates this when he gets back. Even if he thinks it’s useless, it’s a good way to spend a rainy day. And man it’s pissin’ rain again.
1145 Hey guys. Do you recognize the place? I really LIKE sitting around in a clean house. Note to husband: Pick up after yourself! If he would I would.
1200 Hooray! People! Oh—not the landlord, his wife and daughter. Good thing I did clean up. Hi! Be careful of the cats, they don’t go out. No, we brought them from the States. And it wasn’t easy. Do you need to measure here? Yeah, they had to be shot and chipped and wait it out in Florida for six months. No, they’re great now but we won’t let them out. Willie Yeats and Lady Augusta Gregory—Gussie. Say hi, Gussie. The little girl came to visit you. Did you come because I’m so pretty? Willie’s just sniffing. Willie really likes feet.
1215 That’s fine. No problem. Stop by any time. We’re planning to stay, you know. It’s up October 1st but we want to stay. Thanks. Okay. Lunch.
1230 ‘Cheers.’ Perfect. Tom Berenger—one of the last episodes. Burger, onion, cheese, mayo, last of the buns. C’mon guys, don’t you want lunch? There’s a squirrel outside! Napping, mom! She is sooo demanding.
1245 Go for it Rebecca. Who cares if he’s a sweaty plumber, he’s the love of your life. C’mon say it—‘I’m in love with a plumber—and he’s too good for me!’ You know what, kitties? ‘I’m in love with a waiter—and he’s too good for me!’ We’re busy, mom. We have things to do.
1255 Time to text. STAYING HOME ALL DAY CAN YOU CHECK BANK ACCOUNT ON LINE CALL ME.
1258 AT KERRIE’S. MONEY DIDN’T SHOW.
1301 OK CAN YOU CALL
1304 Hi! How are you? Oh—well, get a phone card later and call back. I’m great. Getting lots of work done. Will you get your ferry ticket back? Everyone okay? Tell them I said hi. Yeah, it’s pissin’ rain. What’s it like in Dublin? Call me later. I’m not goin’ anywhere.
1306 Okay. BBC News. Back to work. Dumb TV until 2:30. That’s good. Get a lot done. Where are the cats?
1415 Myra Seeral. She’s everywhere now. I want to be her. The writing and being funny part, not the being pregnant at 44 part. I get it—this is just like that Barbara Walters ‘The View’ show on ABC. White women sitting around talking.
1430 What’s that? Fred MacMurray as a lawyer? America after the war. Sons come back with brides and start families. Why are they showing this old movie? Fits in with the anniversary-of-World-War-II stuff. Well, good background.
1530 Okay. No TV even good enough for background. Move into the bedroom. Radio4. C’mon Gussie. That’s my spot. Move over. I’m the cat. I don’t move. You move. Better get a blanket so I don’t get ink on the good side of the duvet.
1540 Shoot. Forgot my chart. I know I’ll need it. Get up. What’s it like out? Sun. Still cold. This is August? It was hot and sunny yesterday. Okay. Got everything.
1610 Gussie, that is so sweet. You hardly ever come and curl up with me. You’re in my damn spot. Yes, we love you too. Sit there and hold these papers for me.
1713 Okay. That’s a good break. I’m taking a nap. Just 15 minutes.
1735 Back into the living room. ‘The Return of the Chef.’ Good background. Geesh it hurts to get up and down. C’mon guys. Don’t you want to come in here with me? Napping again? Is that what you do when we’re not here? No, we play poker and smoke cigars. I’ll finish this section and then break for dinner.
1805 Hi! No, I’m glad you called. You’re at Naomi’s now? You got the return ticket on the ferry confirmed, didn’t you? Friday? I thought you were going to leave Thursday? Oh, okay, Friday. But you told me you were going to leave Thursday. So 5 pm Friday, that’s good. Miss me? Good. You should go away more often. Tell everyone there I said hi. Oh—Tony? If you get lonely later, y’know, and you want to call, well, I’ll be here, y’know? Okay. Me too. Love you.
1808 Get through this pile then dinner. Wait—I’ll have all day Friday to do these because he won’t be here. So I can just finish this part and then do the rest Friday. Great.
1910 Dinner. News. Boil spuds. Saute chicken thighs and onions. Leftover green beans. Great. White wine. Cheap white wine. In a clean kitchen and a clean apartment. What a treat.
1930 Yummy. C’mon guys. You know, we didn’t go through all that to bring you guys over here just so you can sleep while I sit here and eat by myself. Geesh, mom, you keep waking us up. We need to rest so we can sleep tonight.
2000 Dishes later. Weight Watchers fudgsicle. ‘Rick Stein’s French Odyssey.’ The guy cooking in the canal boat through southern France. Eeeuw. Eels. Well, maybe not that. But I could make that. Where would I get fresh clams? He’s going to Toulouse. We could do this, y’know. Helen lives in Toulouse. She said we can come any time. We could start there and head up the canals to Burgundy. Can you rent a barge with other people you don’t know or do you have to rent the whole thing yourself? We know people who did it and hated it because their friend claimed he knew how to captain the boat but then he didn’t. So get a real captain. How much would that cost? Look at that butter. And crème fraiche. Maybe Helen and her husband would want to do it? Better to do it with strangers as long as we would have our own room.
2030 Time to write the blog. Only an hour and a half until ‘Lost.’ Red wine and Cadbury. Is it time for treats?
Stay tuned.

Villages and Towns

2005-08-17T06:56:00.000-07:00

This past week, Avis put a hold on our Visa for more than the cost of the rental, in addition to what Travelocity had already taken. The money sent to our bank in the US was either floating in cyberspace or already in an unsuspecting American’s account. And our bank here informed us that last week’s deposit was in the bag stolen from their courier when he was mugged.
Some things are the same wherever you live.
When we moved here, we thought most Brits would ride buses. But our co-workers were surprised that we wanted to live convenient to public transportation, and they all have cars. Even before the bombings, the biggest traffic jams in London were parents driving their little darlings to school. And paying the city congestion charge for the privilege.
The invaders have arrived. Here they’re called Multi-Use Vehicles, but, having lived and driven in Florida for years, we recognized them instantly as SUVs.
I have tried to determine what makes the English countryside different from America. I thought it was the absence of suburbia. But when we took the bus into the next county to visit Tamworth, a medieval town with a great castle, we passed through shopping centers, complete with ASDA (read Wal-mart) and Home Base (read Home Depot).
There are ‘estates,’ what we would call suburban developments, with look-alike houses in swirling street patterns. There are city centre luxury apartments in regenerated areas, and city centre high-rise ghettos in un-regenerated areas (‘Future slums,’ my father presciently called them back in the 60s). And these urban areas are sprawling.
But—there are villages and towns.
This past weekend, even though Avis, cyberspace and the mugger conspired to have a hold on our cash, we did rent a car and had a brief getaway in the country. As soon as Tony finished working Sunday breakfast, we tossed an overnight bag and diet Cokes in the blue Ford Fiesta, stopped at Wilkinsons (read ‘K-mart’) to pick up three heavy bags of clumping cat litter to avoid lugging them on the bus, and headed on to the M5 for the fastest route to the southwest. Two hours later, thanks to our trusty atlas, we were looking for parking in Burnham-on-Sea.
One of the British seaside towns that went to seed when everyone moved their holidays to Bristol and Brighton, Burnham regenerated and appears to be doing nicely. Bay-windowed guesthouses line up facing the water, next to ugly-eighties condos. As we walked along the strip of sand exposed by low tide, we realized we had just sailed by this very coast two weeks ago on Semester at Sea.
Our only commitment was to meet my niece in nearby Bath the next day, and we knew a lovely cheap hostel there. But the thought of having a seaside anniversary dinner minus wine and then negotiating country roads to find Bath before dark didn’t appeal. I asked at the tourist office if it was realistic to find a B&B for one night for under 40 pounds, what we knew we’d pay in Bath.
A few phone calls and they came up with a double bed, en suite, near the city centre, but a bit over budget. Damn that Avis. Their next try was a farmhouse with twin beds and separate bath, “a little outside of town.” Exactly 40 pounds. Sold.
We strolled around Burnham, plotting where we would return for dinner after checking in at ‘Burnt House Farm,’ then followed our excellent printed directions to take the ‘A’ and ‘B’ roads to the village of Mark.
‘M’ roads are Motorways, ‘B’ roads are the British equivalent of blue highways—with encroaching hedgerows brushing the car’s passenger side—and ‘A’ roads are everything in between. Sometimes wide dual carriageways with big roundabouts; sometimes two-lane twisty roads with mini-roundabouts, they always have roundabouts. And they wind through villages and towns.
English towns began long before suburban estates, SUVs and sprawl. Their streets seem too narrow now, and, although some survive because tourists love ‘quaint,’ most are thriving places where locals do business. And walk. You can walk from where you live, or, if you really live in the country, you can park once and then walk.
The town will have a news agent, a few pubs—some serving food, some not—a post office—although these are controversially and unfortunately disappearing—and a jumble of stores selling whatever is needed by the local market.
This is what American suburbs, built without town centres, are lacking. We loved our town Hollywood in Florida because it was laid out around a circle in the 1920s, went downhill in the 50s and 60s, but then was regenerated in the 90s with restaurants and shops added to the existing town centre. As Hollywood prospered, the newer suburbs, meticulously laid out on a developer’s drawing board, tried to add town centres to grids with no soul. Didn’t work.
The longer we drove to get to Mark, the more we realized we couldn’t drive back into Burnham-on-Sea for dinner and a drink. This was rural England. A sharp turn away from town and there was Burnt House Farm, a picture-perfect English farmhouse with views of yellow fields worthy of van Gogh.
When we checked in, the owner handed us keys to the front door and our room (never had to use them), and said, “Come and go as you please. Good food at the White Horse. You can walk if you want.”
After a day of wondering what would be coming at us from around the next hedgerowed bend, I was thrilled to walk. Ten minutes down the two-lane road was, indeed, Mark. The proprietor of the White Horse told us it wasn’t a town, but a village. In the old photos the White Horse and the building perpendicular were all there was of Mark. Now along the road were houses, a news agent, a church and another pub.
And a real estate office. The biggest social change is the arrival of Londoners snapping up second homes. We window-shopped a bit, and the prices in London must be truly catastrophic if these are bargains. The newbies don’t contribute to the local economy during the week, and only socialize in the White Horse on weekends.
The village had no ATM, but the pub gave cash back on our debit card, so after paying the owners of Burnt House Farm the next morning we took off with our trusty atlas towards Bath. Along the way we played ‘Village or Town?,’ categorizing each group of buildings and businesses. As we came around one stone-walled corner, we were right in a midday traffic jam. A huge truck—lorry—was stuck on the tight bend. Cars backed up and villagers (or townspeople) came out to offer advice.
“It’s a French truck,” Tony said. “Look at the writing on the side. And the steering wheel’s not on the British side. No wonder he got stuck.”
The driver unstuck himself and headed on down the ‘A’ road to the next village or town to deliver his European-Union-approved goods. We stopped near Cheddar to buy cheddar, and then inched our way through the narrow streets of Bath, finally finding a parking place in the Pay-and-Display lot near the Crescent of 18th century Georgian townhouses. On our way out during rush hour, sitting in a line of traffic heading for the M4 to take us to the M5, we determined that Bath is definitely a city.
Stay tuned.

What's Next?

2005-08-10T08:26:00.000-07:00

As we neared the end of our Semester at Sea journey last week, I began to look forward to having a stretch of time with no travel plans. For the last twenty months we have been either traveling or planning to—beginning with organizing the first “Such Friends” tour of Ireland. Twenty months is a long time to be saying, “After this trip…”
So, for the first time in a while, “We are experiencing a lull…” Of course we’ll keep moving. This weekend, to celebrate the 13th anniversary of when we met, we’re renting a car to drive around southeastern England and visit my niece in Bath for her birthday. But tossing an overnight bag and a few sandwiches in the back of Ford Fiesta is nothing compared to relocating to another country.
As I write these words I look behind me to see what blindside hit is on its way to shake our complacency. This scene from The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle has stuck with me since I was kid: After the Castles rush onto the train to begin their honeymoon, Irene (Ginger Rogers) turns to Vernon (Fred Astaire) and says, “Oh, darling. I’m so happy.” Outside the train window a newsboy begins hawking his special edition: “EXTRA! WAR DECLARED!”
What’s next? Premature death? Life-threatening illness? Job loss? Natural disasters?
Oh, wait. We’ve had all those in the past twenty months. And we’re still doing great.
So last Sunday Tony and I played a new creative thinking game I just made up.
We started with this assumption:
Our first priority right now is my current job.

Enjoying it and keeping it.
Added this fact:
By September 12, 2009,

I will have been at the university for five years.
And carefully worded this question:
What can we do between now and then
to insure an alternative means of support
—not just‘money,’ but ‘resources’—
doing something we like even more than this?
Tall order. We got out the cards—Roger von Oech’s Creative Whack Pack—and invented ways to brainstorm with random ones. Here’s some ideas we came up with, in no particular order.
* Live off royalties.
* Steal ideas from my students and sell them.
* Invest what assets we have in property.
* Get jobs on The World so we can cruise and work at the same time.
* Extra income from raising foster children.
* Serious beachcombing.
In brainstorming there are no bad ideas. Just bad decisions later.
If you want to play along, go to von Oech’s website, http://www.creativethink.com/ and click on “Give Me a Creative Whack.” It will randomly give you cards to use to develop your ideas. Here are the cards we ended up with, in alphabetical order, just for the hell of it:
Avoid Arrogance: What’s your blind spot? Where does ego adversely affect your performance?
Believe in Yourself: In what ways are you creative?
Change Its Name: What else can you call your idea?
Drop an Assumption: What can you let go of? What unnecessary assumptions can you eliminate?
Exaggerate: How can you exaggerate your idea?
Flex Your Risk Muscle: How can you exercise your risk muscle?
Focus on the Real Truth: What’s really important? Where should your focus be?
Imagine How Others Would Do It: How would someone else change your idea?
Imagine You’re the Idea: How would you feel if you were the idea you were developing?
See! Hear! Taste! Feel! Smell!: What other senses can you use to develop your idea?
Simplify: What can you edit out of a current project or idea to make it better? What can you streamline? What can you simplify?
Slay a Sacred Cow: What can you eliminate? What sacred cow can you slay?
Think Like a Kid: What would a six-year-old see if he were looking at your project?
You’ll find the stories behind these and how to use them for your own brainstorming on http://www.creativethink.com/. What’s next for you?
Stay tuned.

‘A Yank in Finglas’

2005-08-03T08:31:00.000-07:00

We arrived home today from Semester at Sea—me via Aer Lingus, Dublin-Birmingham, 1 hour; Tony via ferry to Holyhead and train to Brum, 9 hours.
Interport Lecturer is the best job ever. Four days in Antwerp, a week in Le Havre (including two days in Paris) when we were diverted from London because of the bombings, and four days in my favorite city, Dublin. Work, work, work.
Last Sunday, shortly after we moored in the ugly docks area of beautiful Dublin, Tony’s granddaughter saw her Auntie Kerrie, as promised, on the pier with a banner reading, ‘Welcome back, Erin. We missed you!’ A few hours later, her mam and dad arrived on board, and no flimsy rope blocking off part of the deck could hold back a six-year-old who had been away from home for more than two weeks. She ran into her mother’s arms and began her litany of all the things she’d seen and done. And how Papa was sooooo annoying.
While Tony and Erin rode a horse carriage around Antwerp, shopped in Le Havre, and drank hot chocolate by the ship’s pool, I really did work. Besides appearing in classes to discuss Virginia Woolf, William Butler Yeats, ancient Irish monks, blogging, Birmingham, international marketing, and The Commitments, my main job was to lecture in the ‘Global Perspectives’ course, mandatory for all on board when at sea. During our one-day sail after Antwerp I didn’t give my presentation about living in England because we were headed to France. But last Saturday, sailing to Ireland, I presented ‘A Yank in Finglas.’ So here it is. Blogger wouldn’t let me put the pictures in place, so use your imagination.
A Yank in Finglas
I’m not an historian, or anthropologist, or economist, or sociologist. I’m a ‘marketeer,’ as we say in England, and deal in perceptions. My plan is to share my perceptions of the changes in Ireland in the fifteen years I’ve been going there. I hope to put faces on the stats listed in your Global Studies book.
First, an overview.
My first time out of the United States, before I turned [unintelligible], was in 1990, to Ireland on the bus tour. So you all have a head start on me. In 1992 I did the B&B route, the best way, next to Semester at Sea, to see the country. I also went on the archaeological dig that I talked about in your class, and met Tony. Buy me a beer to hear that story [cf. October 8th, http://www.everywednesday.blogspot.com/].
In 1993-94 I went to Dublin City University in North Dublin for my Ph.D. in Communications and lived with Tony and his three kids. I went back in ’97 to defend my dissertation, timing my trip to coincide with the Steelers-Bears game. This had always been a dream of the Rooneys, the Steelers’ owners who are originally from Northern Ireland. And for you Chicago fans out there, Pittsburgh beat their butts.
In 1999 Tony was there, so I decided to celebrate the new millennium where my ancestors had celebrated the first. In 2002 Tony and I got married and went on Semester at Sea which docked in Dublin. Here’s us having a drink in Dublin. Or St. Petersburg. Or wherever. We looked like that in every port.
Back in the States, we really missed Europe. That sounds funny to our European friends, but we missed the feel of it and all the changes going on. So I began to apply for jobs here.
Last summer I led a tour—buy me another beer for that story—for the 100th anniversary of the setting of James Joyce’s Ulysses, ‘Bloomsday,’ and the founding of the Abbey Theatre, and interviewed at the University of Central England in Birmingham. I got the job and we moved to the UK last fall.
Our dream has always been to go back on Semester at Sea and bring Tony’s granddaughter, Erin. So dreams do come true. Hi, Erin! I hope you’re watching from the play room.
Let’s look at what has happened to Ireland in those years.
In the 19th century—long before I got there—the population of the whole island was about nine million. During the famine, 1/3 died, 1/3 left (including my great grandparents and maybe yours), and 1/3 stayed. On my 1990 bus tour, our guide said there were three million people: one million pensioners, one million young or unemployed, and one million who supported the others by working, including him, he pointed out. Mary Robinson was elected the first woman president and the economy began a ‘complete turnaround,’ as your book says, as a result of membership in the European Union from 1973.
When I returned in 1992, Ireland was a net debtor in the EU, taking more out than it put in: ‘Get a grant, build a wall,’ Tony told me. I heard that at one time unemployment among men in their early 20s in Dublin—your main workforce—reached 25%.
Tony had always worked. He was legally separated from his wife, because there was no divorce or hope of divorce. During the abortion referendum, on the evening news I saw cloistered nuns brought out of convents to vote. All elements of the referendum were defeated.
Tony had just bought his family house in Finglas from his siblings, for 25,000 Irish pounds or about $36,000.
When I moved there in ’93, overall unemployment was 16%, and I heard that the only way to dent it was for one full county to leave. There was an Emigration Office—that’s outward emigration—on O’Connell Street to help people leave, and we called them a lot. Tony immigrated to the States with his three kids and they all got Green Cards.
The government gave huge tax breaks to companies to come in and create jobs, particularly in the rural west; my university had ‘EU development’ signs all over it. According to your book, Ireland began having the highest growth rate in the EU.
I took these pictures of the new Finglas last month.. Didn’t look this good when I was there. From the top of a double-decker bus—the best cheap thrill in Dublin, so be sure to ride one when you’re there—you can see the lovely weather.
This is the ‘dual carriageway’ through Finglas; the cranes show new construction. Here’s the little shops and grocery store. There used to be a store called ‘Gimme Dat.’
There’s always a pub. This is one of several, but it wasn’t fixed up then. Look at the flowers! You couldn’t get a sit-down meal with a glass of wine as easily then. Food and drink have always been separate and most food was takeaway.
At the turn-off to our house you can see the mix of old and new. The two houses have been there for maybe 80 years. Right behind them are cranes for new ‘luxury apartments’—in Finglas!
Here’s the walk across a field to our place. The cab drivers would tell me, ‘You live on a ‘eight. There’s a lot of wind.’ Ireland is the westernmost part of Europe, so it gets the wind off the Atlantic first.
These houses were built in the 1960s to relocate families out of inner city Dublin. The Dixons moved there in 1964 with eight kids and two parents. The end house gets lots of wind. There are lace curtains in all the other houses’ windows.
I had to go to the Immigration Office—that’s incoming Immigration—for my work permit to teach at DCU. I remember talking to a friend of Tony’s at a pub and he said Ireland would never have the same problems as Britain. “They’ll never come here.” I told him that every time I was in the Immigration Office, there was an Indian family with a kid. A different family every time, but always a family. My impression was that they had come to London, been treated badly by the Brits, come to Dublin where everyone was friendly, and decided to stay. They were European citizens so they could stay.
When we left for the States in 1994 we sold that house to Tony’s niece for 34,000 Irish pounds, or about $50,000. There was no tax on houses under a certain amount—God bless socialism.
One of the advantages of Dunsink Road was my beautiful view over the Dublin Mountains.
When I came to defend my dissertation, in 1997, Tony’s niece had sold that house to the next door neighbor for 175,000 euros. Because of the Steelers-Bears game, Dublin was crawling with Pittsburghers and a lot of my friends were there. I was on a bus going down O’Connell Street and I saw a really big African-American guy carrying a lot of packages. He had to be a Chicago Bear because, if he’d been a Steeler, I would have recognized him. So I waved.
Divorce had been legalized through referendum, but few couples were divorced because no one knew how to do it. Seminars were held for attorneys on ‘how to divorce people.’ Mary McAleese had been elected, their second woman president, and she still is.
The major difference then was the Good Friday agreement in ’98. Peace in the North helped tourism and the economy in both countries. Because there were jobs, it was harder for the IRA to recruit young thugs to blow things up. Gerry Adams and his buddies were older with families and everyone was sick of the violence.
But the biggest changes were in 1999 when I went to celebrate New Year’s. Not only were there job ads in the newspapers and help wanted signs in the windows—unheard of before—there were also ads on the radio. My Irish husband will make fun of my Irish accent, but the ads said: “Aah you’re home for the holidays. Isn’t it great to be seeing the mam and the family? Wouldn’t you like to stay now that you have your degree from the States or Australia or Britain? Why not come back?” Absolutely unheard of before. The B&B owner we stayed with, Agnes, had grown kids with families living in the UK, Australia and the US—an attorney, an accountant. They came back. They hadn’t wanted to leave but there weren’t any jobs. Now there were jobs. Your book says that half the arrivals in the country at that time were returning Irish.
Since then there has been a 41% increase in asylum seekers from other countries, mostly Nigeria, Rumania and China. In late ’99 when Tony saw on TV a line outside my little Immigration Office. The crowd waiting to get in had grown too big, so the officials just shut down. “Go home! We can’t handle it!” That’s so Irish. Leaving these poor people standing in the rain. Social services brought food, blankets, etc. Which is also very Irish.
By 2000 Tony was divorced. The Catholic Church had said that divorce would ruin the family, but there were parents who had been separated for years and had new partners. You heard the term ‘partner’ a lot.
Unemployment was 4%; Ireland was averaging a 9% growth rate.
In 2002, when we came on Semester at Sea, the Euro had just been introduced. Your book says inflation was 5%, higher than the Euro zone. Ireland was almost as expensive as Norway, our next stop. You’ll find it still is.
For the weekly journal I wrote for my local Radio Reading Service, I interviewed Tony about immigration. He said, "For centuries, the Irish went everywhere else. Now it’s our turn to take people in." My university, DCU, had a tolerance march.
The Irish culture has always included hospitality and helping travelers, and it still does. But now? “We didn’t think you were going to stay.” The new immigrants aren’t going home. They move in next door, take a job and marry your daughter.
Last summer I brought a ‘tour.’ And for those studying environmental science, I got sunburned on the Aran Islands. Synge’s freezing cold Aran Islands and I was sitting there in a halter top in the sun. Yeats’ "Wild Swans at Coole"? Ha! No water in the lake at Coole Park, so no swans. We walked the streets of Dublin in the sun. I don’t care what your government scientists say, there is global warming.
We visited Tony’s family this past Christmas. On the day after, Boxing Day, we were at a bus stop in Ashbourne, County Meath, the next county north of Dublin. It used to be a little town with two pubs; now there’s a huge Tesco. About twelve people were waiting for the bus. I told Tony, “You and your daughter are the only Irish here.” I’m an American, his daughter’s husband is French, there were three Polish, three or four Chinese, a few Russians. We could tell because we heard them using the phone booth to call friends to pick them up. We found out buses don’t run on Boxing Day.
You’ve heard the statistics about the Ireland you are going to: Still a 3-4% growth rate. Still 92% Catholic in the secular EU, but it is now legal to divorce and also to travel and get information on abortion. Although abortion is illegal.
Unemployment is about 5% and Ireland is now an EU net contributor. 64% work in service industries. Ireland never had a real Industrial Revolution, so there isn’t much manufacturing.
So far, no Jean-Marie Le Pen has emerged, a politician to lead the right-wing, anti-immigration segment who call talk radio to complain.
But these changes are a real test of Irish hospitality. As my friend Willie Yeats would say, again, “All changed, changed utterly.”
You’re going to love Dublin.
Stay tuned.

A Conversation with Erin Dixon

2005-07-27T03:08:00.000-07:00

Last week we had a guest blog from Erin Donnelly, my niece studying journalism at Ohio State University. We’re halfway through our Semester at Sea voyage with Erin Dixon, Tony’s six-year-old granddaughter, so this is a good time to hear from her:
Gypsy Teacher: So Erin, we started last week when your Auntie Kerrie brought you from Dublin to Birmingham. Did you like meeting our cats?
Erin: I can’t talk about them. One ran away and one hissed at me.
GT: And so what do we call that kitty now?
E: Miss Hissy Pants.
GT: Right. Then we went to London on the train. How was that?
E: I liked London. I liked the taxi we took to the other train station.
GT: Then we took the ‘Chunnel’—the train under the English Channel.
E: The train underwater. It wasn’t long. Maybe 30 minutes under water.
GT: Did you have to hold your breath?
E: Huh?
GT: Then we went to Antwerp and got on the ship. What did you think of the ship when you first saw it?
E: I thought it was amazing. They gave me my own ticket, to get on and off the ship, and I couldn’t believe it.
GT: And what about our room?
E: It’s really big. I don’t actually mind the room because I’ve been in one before in Mallorca when I stayed with my Mam and Dad.
GT: And what else about the ship?
GT: The gangway. It’s kind of scary when it wobbles when you go up and down it. My friends are really nice. Rebecca and Eliana. They have their own room and we can play together. With no one else in there we can have some privacy.
GT: Tell me about it. What else about the ship?
E: The food is really good. The best food is the potatoes and the pasta. What’s bad about the ship is loads of steps.
GT: What about Antwerp?
E: We walked around the streets and then we saw Jack Jax. He was really nice sometimes but it was scary when he almost got on the giant unicycle with a kid on his shoulders. But otherwise he was really funny. And I liked the big statue of the guy who cut off the hand and threw it and I liked the horsey and carriage my Papa brought me in because it went fast and then slow. And I liked the ice cream.
GT: And what body of water were we on in Antwerp?
E: The Semestrual Sea.
GT: Right. Then we left Antwerp on the ship and I had to teach all day. What did you do?
E: Papa bought me a necklace in the gift shop so I could put my ticket on it. And I liked playing with the kids because we made cards for people, and that’s another thing Papa is good at.
GT: And then we went to Le Havre because we couldn’t go to London, right?
E: Right. So, no Legoland. Oh, and there isn’t a wave pool either.
GT: What happened the first day we were in Le Havre?
E: Erin threw a hissy fit with Papa and so we weren’t able to go to the internet place. And then Erin started crying but she said she was sorry.
GT: And then all three of us went into Le Havre and what did we do?
E: I bought a card for my friend Corky. At the playground I saw a girl hit her brother after he fell down. And there were loads of water fountains. When we came back to the ship I played with my friends.
GT: And what did we do yesterday?
E: We got up early because we were going to Paris!
GT: Right. We went in a car with our friends Milt and Betty and their grandson Daniel. How was the drive to Paris?
E: Boring. There was nothing fun for me to do. But when we stopped I got a key ring with Snow White on it.
GT: Just like Snow White on my watch. And we drove right to the Hotel Acropole. How was it?
E: I really liked it. I had my own bed and the TV right in front of me and my own desk. And there was a swivel chair.
GT: And we rode the Metro and had lunch with Milt and Betty and Dan and then walked over to Notre Dame.
E: And then I went to the Eiffel Tower with Papa and Dan and had ice cream. And we went to the first level, but Dan walked up the stairs to the second level.
GT: That’s when I took Milt and Betty on a walk to show them all the places where Hemingway and Fitzgerald hung out.
E: We walked a lot and then we had a fabulous dinner. The best I’ve ever had. With pasta. And Papa ate my tomatoes which I don’t like.
GT: And then the Bateaux Mouche.
E: We went on the boat. I kept running up and down the stairs and we saw the Eiffel Tower all lit up and lights coming out of the trees.
GT: And what did you say?
E: That I wanted to marry Paris.
GT: What about today?
E: Erin didn’t wake up. But then I had breakfast and took a bath. And we took the Metro to the Archical Triumph or Arcdale Triumph, whatever. And there were loads of steps. Then we went to the Champs a Leo.
GT: What do the Irish call it, Tony?
Tony: The Champs Eyelashes.
E: And we had a sandwich and Erin had a hot dog and we saw a grumpy lady. And Papa brought me a pretty hat that I love.
GT: And now we’re back on the ship in Le Havre.
T: Don’t I take you to the best places, Scobie?
E: Jaysus Mary Jane! Quit saying that Papa! And quit calling me Scobie! Kathleen, can I tell you something?
GT: You can tell me anything, Erin.
E: Papa is really annoying me and he’s making faces.
GT: But that is his real face, Erin.
E: Well tell him to stop it.
T: Look over here, Scobe.
E: No, Papa. I told you to quit taking my picture.
GT: We’ll be back in Dublin on Sunday. Who did you miss, Erin?
E: I miss my dog Chloe and Aunt Kerrie and my mam and my dad. And I miss James annoying me.
GT: James your uncle or James Cusack?
E: Both.
GT: You know Erin, when the trip is over next week you’re going to miss your Papa annoying you too.
E: I guess so.
Stay tuned.

Guest Blogger II: ‘A Buckeye Abroad’

2005-07-20T07:59:00.000-07:00

My niece, Erin Donnelly of Columbus, Ohio, came over to us last week to start a summer program at the University of Bath. She got on a plane for the first time in her life on the day after the London bombings. My brother and his wife were of course concerned about her, but glad they had taken my advice and flown her directly into Birmingham. I assured them we were not on the Tube line, so she would be safe.
The first night she stayed with us, Birmingham City Centre was evacuated, which we found out when my brother called us from Ohio with a hint of worry in his voice. We were all safely away from downtown, curled up in our living room, obliviously watching British comedy reruns.
In December Erin will graduate from Ohio State, where she has been news editor of the student paper, a step up from her aunt who only made it as far as theatre critic of the Lycoming College ‘Bell.’ During her six weeks studying in Bath and her European travels afterward, she is writing a weekly column for the paper called, ‘A Buckeye Abroad.’
Today Tony and I are traveling with his six-year-old granddaughter, also named Erin, to start Semester at Sea in Antwerp. So I have asked the other writer in the family if I could run her ‘Buckeye Abroad’ column about London for this week’s blog:
A Buckeye Abroad: London
I am walking down the streets of London. People from all over the world rush ahead and push past me. Cars fly back and forth on the streets; scooters dart between the lanes of traffic.
I am following my class to buy tickets for the Underground. Soon we will find our way through the maze of subway tunnels to our final destination, a Shakespeare play.
And then there it is: King's Cross Station. Where have I heard that name before? On the news every day since I woke up July 7.
Twenty-seven people died in that explosion and now I was going to walk where they had taken their last steps just a little while ago.
Down the street at Tavistock Square, just a few minutes walk from the hostel where we are staying, is the charred framework of an exploded bus. Terrorism is right in my face.
When I woke up on that Thursday—just one day before I was to leave for England—I thought how lucky my class was. Almost everyone was flying into London that weekend. We came so close.
If any of us had arrived just a day or two earlier we would have found ourselves in the chaos of a terrorist attack.
But it wasn't until I was in London, until I was saw the signs begging for information about those who were still missing, and I read the cards at the memorial sites—many were sympathy cards addressed to the country as a whole—it wasn't until then that it hit me for real. People had died. They weren't just numbers in a newspaper article.
And that's what the London trip did for me: It made me see the big picture. It burst the Ohio State bubble that I sometime hide in, seeking shelter from the real world.
From when I woke up—too early for my taste—until I went to bed—too late for my own good—I was immersed in the cultural experience that is London. We had traveled from Bath, a city three hours from London where we are studying, to see two Shakespeare plays and lose ourselves in a potent whirlwind mix of art and history museums, people from all corners of the world and all the typical tourist sites. The aftermath of terrorism was not originally on the itinerary but it was an important element of this crash course in culture. Terrorism is part of everyone's lives now, but seeing its actual physical remainders—and seeing it in the middle of a huge city—pulled it all together for me.
Erin Donnelly is a senior in journalism and is now safely back at Bath, England. She can be reached at donnelly.48@osu.edu.
Stay tuned.

How to Be Us

2005-07-13T08:33:00.000-07:00

Our friends Dick and Beverly are coming to stay in our place next week while we are off on Semester at Sea again. We had to leave them some tips and techniques for taking over our lives, so I thought you might be interested:
Getting Here
When you come into Birmingham airport, the ATM machines are to your left. No UK bank ATMs will charge you a fee, but those little stand-alone kiosks do and are really dodgy. Stick with a bank ATM in a wall.
The black cabs at the airport are supposed to take credit/debit cards, but the drivers don’t like to, so plan on cash. The trip will be anywhere from 16 to 22 pounds, although the distance is calculated on a chart, so I don’t know why it varies. You don’t have to tip, unless they do something extra, like help with luggage or tell good stories.
The airport bus will take you near us in Erdington, where you can transfer to a bus to our street. The airport train goes into New Street Station in city center, but from there you would have to take a taxi to our place—for about 14 pounds—or walk uphill to our bus stop. It’s your vacation; take a taxi.
Tell the driver the address and he will put it into a GPS unit and go directly there. To be helpful, you can say, “In Sutton Coldfield off Maney Hill Road, just past the Horse & Jockey.” They’ll know.
After the turn onto Maney Hill, bear right, and the next right is Sandy Croft. You’ll see the #7 at the bottom of the path to our door. Welcome home!
Our Neighborhood
Once you get settled in (Number One rule: Cats don’t go outside. More later.), take a stroll around Sutton Coldfield. Walk down Maney Hill, past the 100-year-old church, back to Birmingham Road. Up the hill you’ll see our local, the H&J. (See “The Pubs of ‘Brum,” December blogs). Lisa the manager said for you to tell her when you arrive, but she’ll figure out that you’re the Yanks who are friends of the Yank and Tony. The shops up there include our news agent, Mills, and wine store, Threshers, which are both open until 10 every night. Also the dry cleaners and an Indian restaurant we haven’t tried. Beeches Walk Chip Shop, is great, meaning big, fat, greasy, cheap fish and chips. Enjoy!
Walking downhill will take you into the Royal Town of Sutton Coldfield. Granted a royal charter in the 16th century, a few years ago some sell outs agreed to become part of Birmingham city and nothing has been the same since. They’re very proud.
You’ll pass our wonderful old movie theatre, the Odeon (on Wednesday mornings, two pounds including tea and a biscuit), and another news agent, who opens real early but doesn’t have much inventory which makes me wonder what he’s a front for. Iceland is the closest place for groceries, cheap wine, etc. Farther on is Save the Children (“Stop Me Before I Give More,” December blogs), Pizza By Goli (not cheap but real garlic-y), two good Indian restaurants, the closest ATM, and the Settlement Shop, the charity store that furnished most of our apartment.
When you come into the town, you will be on the “Parade,” so-named because the rich people would parade there in their finest on Sundays. Now it’s a pedestrianized mall with all the shops you’ll need, but no supermarket. Hidden in the passageway behind “Supercigs” is Wilkinson’s, great for good cheap crap, including bird seed and “Nuts in Nets” to encourage the cat entertainment in the back garden. Also the public library which has free internet access; just walk in, no library card or password required, and it’s rarely too crowded.
Getting Around “Brum”
To go into city centre, walk down Maney Hill to Birmingham Road, turn left uphill and wait in the little unmarked bus shelter. Half the buses that stop there go into town, for £1.10 exact fare, but drivers will make change if they’re in the mood. A day pass is £2.80, but a family—two adults and a couple of kids—can ride all day everywhere for £5, so that might be best for two of you traveling together all day. A week pass is available at the news agent for £11.50, good on all the Travel West Midlands buses. A 14-pound “Busmaster” pass also includes the “Joe’s Pretty Good Bus” companies. If you’re going to be around for any seven days in a row, it makes sense. Otherwise, get a day pass for your local outings.
Any downtown bus will terminate on Upper Bull Street. From there you can walk around the whole city centre, over to the theatres, museums and canals. One pedestrianized square leads into another, and the jumble of architectural styles makes it worth the price of admission. Catch the bus home from the same stop. If you need to ask whether it’s the right bus, say, “Does this go to Sutton Coldfield past the Horse & Jockey?” Coming back at night isn’t a problem, but some dodgy characters hang out at the news agent there, so, as they always said to me in Dublin, “Watch your purse.”
Of the other buses that pass our stop, the only one that goes to my campus, “the damn 107” as it’s known in our house, runs every 15 minutes (ha!), goes past the Tesco supermarket, and then into city centre. The others go past Tesco and then on to points unknown.
Our cheapest day out was to ride into Erdington, and transfer to the #11. The oldest continuous operating bus route in Europe, it travels in a circle around Birmingham. The 11C goes clockwise and the 11A anti-clockwise. For two hours and £1.10 each you get a fascinating tour of the whole area. We got off halfway for tea because the next one comes along in about ten minutes. Good for a rainy, non-walking day.
No matter what bus you’re on, I recommend sitting up top in the front seats. Best cheap thrill in the world. (Except late at night; Lord knows what they do up there.)
Getting Around the Area
One of the reasons we convinced you to base your British Isles trip here is because Birmingham is a good jumping off point for the rest of the UK and Europe. But we do recommend that you allow some time to explore our fair city.
Your best in-town excursion is Cadbury World. We haven’t done it yet because we’re waiting to go with someone who comes to visit. On the other side of town in Bournville, which the benevolent Cadbury Company built for its workers in the 19th century, you can buy a combined train-admission ticket. Book ahead.
The closest out of town literary day trip is Stratford-upon-Avon, about 45 minutes by train from Snow Hill Station, right across from our downtown bus stop. It’s always crawling with tourists, but still pleasant to walk around and have lunch (try the Dirty Duck pub across from the theatre). You can buy a train ticket that includes a play at the Royal Shakespeare or one of the other theatres. Not cheap, but worth the experience.
A great inexpensive day trip is Tamworth Castle to the north. The #110 bus on Birmingham Road costs about £2 each (passes don’t apply) and within minutes you are out in the English countryside, passing the fields, Tudor cottages and shopping malls. It’s less than an hour to Tamworth, a terrific medieval town for walking. The self-guided castle tour is about £5 and well worth it.
The other handy town is Warwick; because it is not part of the National Trust, the castle is pricier. However, this summer they are featuring a huge catapult, so that might make it worth your while. It’s a 20-minute train ride and an uphill walk, but there is a cathedral and a lovely town center in which to walk-sit-drink, our favorite occupation.
Of course, you really came here to go to London, and it’s easy. Chiltern Railways offers a £15 off-peak return fare. Just walk up and buy the ticket, and in two hours you’re in Marlyebone station. We’ve done it a few times and it’s a great day out.
However, recently the Tesco being built over the tracks in one of the wealthiest London neighborhoods, Gerrards Cross, collapsed. The anti-Tesco protesters are thrilled. There are shuttle buses around that part of the track, which might lengthen your journey. Virgin Trains offer a 90-minute round trip to Euston station that costs a bit more. There’s also a cheap bus, but, hey, take the train.
Use Nationalrail.co.uk to plan other trips around the area. Lincoln is two hours away and the medieval town is an easy walk from the station. We took my niece to Bath, and, although you have to transfer by train or bus, it’s a gorgeous Georgian town, littered with tourists. When we rented a car (“Drive She Said,” June blog), we went to Shrewsbury, Hay just over the Welsh border, and Coventry, worth the trip for the bombed cathedral. Edinburgh is spectacular, but any trip to Scotland is an overnighter.
Discount airlines offer cheap flights to the rest of Europe. Sometimes they leave from Coventry or East Midlands airports, but we understand that those are easy to get to. You can also visit Paris or Dublin easily by ferry, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog.
The Cats
The rest of this will be about your main responsibility, William Butler Yeats and Lady Augusta Gregory. Those of you who are non-cat lovers can quit reading now; you won’t miss anything.
As mentioned before, the Number One rule is that cats don’t go out. Willie will try; he loves to play, “Let’s make the grownups run around after me outside.” Gussie is more wary, but could surprise you. They don’t immediately race out when you open the door, but can move fast when they sense an opening.
If the inevitable happens, Tony has enforced a really good rule for me: Don’t panic! If you lock the other one in a room, and leave the outside door open, the escapee will return. If they get out the back into our lovely terraced garden, they will just sit in the sun and be amazed at birds. But eventually they’ll figure out how to get through the fence, so don’t encourage it.
From the beginning, we have made a point of NOT feeding them first thing in the morning. This cuts down on the fuzzy alarm clocks in your face at 5 am. Keep their dishes full of dry food and fresh water. When you head for the kitchen around 10 pm, two sets of eyes will stare hopefully up at you: Treats! We will leave behind pouches; any canned or wet food will do. One for the both of them.
We finally found clumping litter at good ol’ Wilkinson’s (see above), although it’s really heavy to carry home on the bus. Scoop each day; throw it all away and start over when it gets too stinky.
If you want to go away for one night, hide an extra dish of dry food under the peacock table in the living room. They’ll find it when they get hungry. For more than one night, contact our upstairs neighbor.
Willie really likes feet and will want to sleep on yours. Gussie likes chasing bugs and looking out the front windows. Brits have no screens, so if it gets hot and stuffy, just close the kitties in a room and open up the other doors and windows. To sleep with the bedroom window open, just close them out. They can take it.
Willie and Gussie will be thrilled to have you as company; just remind them that we love them very much and are coming back soon.
You have read this far so you are obviously not a cat hater. If you would like to come take over our lives for a few days or weeks in the future, just let us know. We’ll tell you where the keys are.
Stay tuned.

The Dublin Literary Pub Crawl

2005-07-06T05:36:00.000-07:00

Many of you know—and some have experienced firsthand—my love affair with The Dublin Literary Pub Crawl. I went for the first time in the summer of 1992 (pre-Tony) and have repeated virtually every time I have visited in Dublin. I highly recommend it to tourists; always entertaining, you get to see three or four pubs in the central part of Dublin in one night.
But the tradition goes beyond that. My first time, I won the quiz tie breaker (“Dublin is the only city that is home to three Nobel Prize for Literature winners. Name them.”), and therefore the Jameson’s duffle bag at the end. Since then, the number of Dublin Nobel Prize winners along with the prizes and the questions have changed, but either I or someone with me has always won a prize. The only evening which tarnished my record was when my Dublin-born husband came with me and didn’t know that Samuel Beckett had played cricket. Geesh.
This week I was at an academic conference back in my favorite city. My Wonderful Boss agreed to bring me along because I promised to be the best tour guide. Tonight, three of my teaching colleagues and I went on the Literary Pub Crawl, and took notes. So here are the questions, with the results at the end.
The Duke
The crawl starts at 7:30 pm (every night in the summer; weekends the rest of the year, in any weather) at The Duke, just off Grafton Street. The two actors—tonight, Dermot and Jessica—performed a scene from Waiting for Godot, and the quiz questions are:
“Beckett was born on a holy day near Easter and many critics have read a lot into his works because of this. On what day was Beckett born? Not the date, the day.”
“Beckett worked on the original script for Oh, Calcutta, but dropped out before it was produced. When he left, the Beatle who was working on it dropped out also. Which Beatle did Beckett work on Oh, Calcutta with?”
“The movie Michael Collins starred Liam Neeson in the title role and Julia Roberts as his fiancée, Kittie Kiernan. A relative of the real Kittie Kiernan was the owner of The Duke pub, back when it was called The Dive. What relative of Kittie Kiernan owned The Duke?”
Trinity College
At Trinity College, Jessica performed a letter by Oscar Wilde about his experience lecturing on ‘Art and Aesthetics’ to silver miners in Colorado. The quiz questions are:
“What topic did Wilde lecture on?”
“What sport was Wilde involved in while he was a student at Trinity?”
“When playwright Oliver Goldsmith was asked to edit the first book of children’s nursery rhymes, he was a few short. So he wrote two new ones. What two nursery rhymes did Goldsmith write?”
O’Neill’s
On to O’Neill’s pub where we wisely only had a half a pint each. Besides its grand interior and wonderful history, O’Neill’s also has the most surreal ladies’ room in Dublin. At 8:30 we gathered outside the Irish Tourism Centre, just across the street.
Irish Tourism Centre
Jessica read a scene from a short story about a young girl’s experience with nuns, and Dermot did a scene from a play about a madam and her brothel. The question is:
“In November 1974, Superman was defeated for the first and only time, by a real person who is still alive. A new biography of this person ends with the quote, ‘I want people to remember how pretty I was.’ Who defeated Superman?”
The Old Stand
At the Old Stand, where Michael Collins used to meet in the back room with his fellow rebels, we had another half pint each and Roger, John, Barbara and I conferred about the answers to the questions. When the bartenders rang the bell, we met outside for our walk to the last pub, right across from our starting point, The Duke.
Davy Byrne’s
In the alley next to Davy Bryne’s, which figures in James Joyce’s Ulysses, our actor-guides led us through the questions.
1. When was Beckett born? Good Friday. One point to Kathleen from Pittsburgh.
2. Which Beatle worked on Oh, Calcutta? John Lennon. One point to some lady from Virginia.
3. What did Wilde lecture on? Art and Aesthetics. Everybody got that one.
4. What sport was Wilde involved in at Trinity? Boxing. One point to Roger from Stratford-on-Avon.
5. What nursery rhymes did Oliver Goldsmith write? “Jack and Jill” and “Hickory Dickory Dock.” A point each to Barbara from Birmingham and some lady from Colorado.
6. Which of Kittie Kiernan’s relatives owned the Duke? Each person with a point gets a try. I guessed aunt, but Miss Virginia guessed mother, so she won the T-shirt.
7. Who defeated Superman? Each person with a point gets a try. Roger said “Muhammad Ali,” and won the bottle of Jameson’s, thereby keeping my record clean.
And, for the second bottle of Jameson’s:
“There are (now) four Nobel Prize for Literature winners from Dublin: William Butler Yeats, George Bernard Shaw, Samuel Beckett and Seamus Heaney. One was also the name of a horse which won a major race earlier this year. Which one?”
I said Heaney; Miss Colorado said Yeats and won the Jameson’s. Damn.
Stay tuned.

One Year On

2005-06-29T09:17:00.000-07:00

My blog one year ago (“Our Story Thus Far,” June 30, 2004, www.gypsyteacher.blogspot.com), ends:
“I agree to move Tony, myself, [our cats] Willie and Gustie to Birmingham to become a Senior Lecturer in the School of Business at the University of Central England [UCE]. I decide to begin keeping a weekly journal called ‘A Yank in Brum,’ to complete the trilogy to be known as Gypsy Teacher.”
And here we are. Willie and Gustie (“Cats vs. Kittens,” June 11, 2003, www.everywednesday.blogspot.com), who were packed up with our belongings in the middle of four hurricanes, left to wait out their quarantine in Florida, and then air lifted to Heathrow (“The Cats Are Fine,” February 16, 2005, www.gypsyteacher.blogspot.com), are now staring out into our English garden. Tony is on his way back from visiting his daughter in Dublin for her thirtieth birthday (“Thank You Notes,” August 6, 2003, www.everywednesday.blogspot.com). I’m finishing off my first academic year at UCE, still learning about second marking, moderating and external examiner boards (“Fitting In,” September 29, 2004, www.gypsyteacher.blogspot.com).
And, ticking off two more items on our ‘Fantasy Lists’ (“New Year’s Day,” January 1, 2003, www.everywednesday.blogspot.com, and “Our Fantasy List 2005,” January 5, 2005, www.gypsyteacher.blogspot.com), in three weeks Tony and I are going back on Semester at Sea, and taking his six-year-old granddaughter, Erin, with us.
This time, instead of having to work my butt off teaching for the whole voyage, I will be an Interport Lecturer, the best job in the whole world. We will board in Antwerp, I will guest lecture on topics about the upcoming ports, London and Dublin, and Tony will sit by the pool and smoke. Oh, and take care of Erin.
The academic dean for this voyage, Ron Linden of the University of Pittsburgh, was an Interport Lecturer during our European voyage in the summer of 2002. He has asked each of us to write a one-page bio to post on the Semesteratsea.com site, so here’s mine, to update “Our Story Thus Far.”
Kathleen Dixon Donnelly, Ph.D.
Currently I am Senior Lecturer, Public Relations, in the Marketing Department of the Business School at the University of Central England (UCE) in Birmingham, but don’t let that fool you.
Originally from Pittsburgh, my MBA is from Duquesne University where my thesis was, “Manager as Muse: A Case Study of Scribner’s Editor Maxwell Perkins and His Work with F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and Thomas Wolfe.” I operated my own public relations agency, K. Donnelly Communications, working primarily with small service businesses and arts organizations such as The Pittsburgh New Music Ensemble. After gypsy teaching throughout southwestern Pennsylvania, I settled down to teach advertising in the Journalism & Mass Communications Department at Point Park College (now University).
For my Ph.D. in Communications from Dublin City University, I researched early 20th century writers’ salons: W B Yeats and the Irish Literary Renaissance, Virginia Woolf and the Bloomsbury group, Gertrude Stein and the American ex-patriates in Paris, and Dorothy Parker and the Algonquin Round Table. My unpublished dissertation, “Such Friends,” has since turned into an unprofitable industry of multi-media presentations, newsletters, web postings, and late night pub conversations.
In 1998 my Dublin-born partner, Tony Dixon, and I moved to Hollywood, FL, because I accepted a position as Assistant Professor, Advertising & Public Relations, in the School of Journalism & Mass Communications at Florida International University (FIU). I took students on the Journalism School’s pilot study abroad program to London where they visited advertising agencies and rode public transportation for the first time. At the end of the second London trip, my now-husband Tony and I were thrilled to join the Semester at Sea Summer 2002 voyage, which I chronicled in Dixon Donnelly@Sea for my local Radio Reading Service. I taught while Tony sat with the smokers by the pool. Along with Ron Linden, we are founding members of the In-neptunes. (Here’s my part: “And now! The In-neptunes!”)
At the end of that year, my job at FIU ended, I re-activated K. Donnelly Communications, taught marketing in Florida, the Bahamas and the Middle East, posted a weekly blog, www.everywednesday.blogspot.com, and then a monthly newsletter, Hands on Creativity, at www.handsoncreativity.blogspot.com. Last summer, after leading the first (and last) “Such Friends” tour to Ireland for the 100th anniversary of the Abbey Theatre and James Joyce’s “Bloomsday,” I interviewed for and was offered my current position at UCE. So last September, Tony and I packed up the cats and moved to Birmingham (well worth a day trip from London), a journey being covered in my third blog, www.gypsyteacher.blogspot.com
We are thrilled to be asked back to Semester at Sea (actually, we blackmailed Ron). I am available to talk about any of the above topics during our two days at sea, in cafes in port, or while dragging any interested shipmates to sites where early 20th century writers “hung out.” See you in Antwerp!
Stay tuned.

A Conversation with Tony

2005-06-22T09:16:00.000-07:00

C’ mon out, hon. We’ll sit in the garden.
Wait, let me get my wine.
Here, you sit here. You’re the one who’s been traveling. You take the lounge. I’ll sit over here.
Aah, this is great.
Do you believe how warm it is? Was it this warm in Florida?
No, actually. It was pissin’ rain almost the whole time I was there.
So what did Pittsburgh look like?
It looked great, y’know. I took that bus from the airport in to town and I just had to walk up to the Oliver Building.
So you found the lawyer’s offices okay?
Yeah, it was her and these two guys and there was a lot of running around. But she told me to leave all my stuff and come back in a couple of hours so we could go over everything. And so I just walked around for a while.
And Pittsburgh was good.
Yeah, it was all ripped up. What’s that street that Point Park is on?
Wood Street.
Yeah. It’s all ripped up again. But you can see the new stadium and the rivers. It was good.
And so what about Valerie? What’s she like?
About our age, younger, I guess. And she went through all the information with me and asked me a lot of questions and told me what to say and what not to say, y’know.
So did you feel like it was worth it? Like you felt more confident because you went there to see her?
Yeah. She gave me all the papers to give them in an envelope, and she gave me another envelope with a big ‘X’ on it of stuff I shouldn’t give them.
Why didn’t she make copies for you?
She said it would be too expensive for her to make the copies for me. So I made copies later at Kinko’s.
And then you took the bus back to the airport.
Yeah, I got the bus back to the airport and had time before the flight to Atlanta, and then I changed in Atlanta, and then I flew to Fort Lauderdale.
And there was no problem with the rental car?
No. No problem. Gave them the debit card and they swiped it and I showed them my Florida driver’s license and no problem.
And then you went to Dick’s?
Then I went to Dick’s and I couldn’t find the fughin’ key and I rang the neighbor’s doorbell and he didn’t get up and I couldn’t find the key so I just said fugh it and went to Richard’s Motel and checked in.
Good ol’ Richard’s.
Yeah, but wait till you hear this. There was this woman there, right, when I checked in. And she said, ‘So do you know Richard?’ and I said, ‘Yeah, we know Richard. He’s the short French guy.’ And she said, ‘Aha! His name’s not Richard! So there! You don’t know him.’
But the very first time I talked to him, when we called him because his motel was in the Triple A book, he said, ‘I’m Richard!’
I know.
So what did you say?
I said, ‘Give me the fughin’ key,’ and I went to sleep.
So then the next morning you went to Dick’s?
Right. I went to Dick’s and the air conditioning wasn’t on but it wasn’t too bad because it was pissin’ rain. And then I had breakfast at Dunkin Donuts. And then I went up to Okeechobee to see Debbie.
And how’s Debbie?
She’s great, y’know. We had pizza and I helped her fix her chair. And I forgot the present—sorry—but I mailed it to her later from Hollywood. Her house looks great. She’s done a lot of work on it.
Then Sunday morning you drove back down to Hollywood.
I got up early because I didn’t want to wake her up…
She said for you to wake her up.
I know, but I didn’t want to wake her up and so I drove back down.
Did you go past our place?
I went past our place. It looks the same. And I went to see Violet at the Laundromat and ask her about Jimmy. She said she’d seen Jimmy and he was fine, so who knows.
And you didn’t go to Cancun?
No, I didn’t go to Cancun. I didn’t have a lot of money, and was tired so I didn’t go to Cancun. I went to Subway and got a sub.
And then Monday. I was afraid Monday that you had slept in. I thought, Oh no, this whole trip and then he’ll sleep in and miss his appointment. How did you get up without me nagging you?
Dick had an alarm clock.
Oh. So when did you leave for Miami?
I left about 6:30. I didn’t want to get stuck sittin’ in traffic.
So you drove down to the Immigration Office.
Yeah. And you have to pay $15 to park. So I had to go to the cash machine and get money and then pay to park.
And how long were you there?
About 90 minutes…
And did he ask you…
She.
Sorry. What did she ask you?
She asked me a lot about your job and were you working for an American company here.
Did you tell her I was working for a British university?
Yeah, but she kept asking if it was American. And she asked why I had gone back to live with my wife in Ireland back in ’99.
To live with your wife?
I told her, ‘She’s not my wife anymore. I was living with Kathleen. I was just back in Ireland to take care of my daughter.’ But she kept askin’ me.
So did you feel like you could answer all the questions because of meeting with Valerie first?
Yeah, I did. I answered them. Y’know. I did my best. There’s nothing else I can do. She said they’d send a letter within three months.
And then what if it’s no? What did Valerie say happens then?
She said we’d see. If I had to re-apply as your husband, instead of based on residence in the US, I would have to go over and live in the US for 18 months. And I said, ‘I don’t want to live here, I want to live with Kathleen.’ But she said that’s what would be involved.
And if it’s yes and you do get your citizenship, when will you have to go back for the ceremony?
She didn’t know. It depends. But probably not for months.
So a letter within three months. That gives us some time. You won’t have to go back right away.
I guess so. I can’t go back right away. This is costing too much money.
Yeah, but it’s worth it. It’s American citizenship.
But I just feel like it’s costing so much money.
So after it was over you went and saw Patty.
Yeah. I went to meet Patty on South Beach and we went to the Irish pub for lunch and then we called you.
And you bought her lunch.
Yeah, I bought her lunch and then went to her new place and got the chair we had lent her. And I went to our storage unit and put it in.
And what about Monday night. You didn’t go to Cancun?
No. I didn’t go to Cancun. I had some chicken and went back to Dick’s and fell asleep.
And so coming back was okay. There was no problem with the rental car.
No. No problem. Except I left my phone. But we’ll call them tomorrow and see if they’ve got it. But I think it’s at Dick’s. When’s he going to be back there?
August. We’ll get you another phone. So the flight back was okay?
Yeah, the food was crap. And we changed in Newark again. I know Newark airport now. We got in on time and so I took a taxi from the airport. And I was knackered. But I feel better since I had a sleep.
It was a big trip.
Yeah, it was. It was a big trip.
And you pulled it off.
I guess I pulled it off.
I think it was good that I couldn’t go. You did it yourself. I knew you could do it. I was just nervous. There was so much that could go wrong.
But it was okay.
On Saturday night I watched a show here about Live Aid twenty years ago. Remember seeing Phil Collins fly in the Concorde from here to Philadelphia?
I remember that. Watching Freddie and Queen. We watched all day, me and the kids.
I just caught part of it. Who’da thought I’d be living here in England? With my Irish husband, no less.
Or that I’d be flying over to America just like that? To get my citizenship.
And remember in 1968? ‘All You Need Is Love’?
I remember.
We were the only two people in the world watching that at the same time, in Dublin and in Pittsburgh.
Well, we weren’t the only two.
But no one else remembers it. The first live satellite transmission.
The Beatles, and a baby being born in Japan. Where’s that baby now?
And all I remember was my mother telling me to come to dinner. My brother probably doesn’t even remember. I was watching on that little crap black and white TV in my parents’ bedroom and I was thinking, ‘That’s England. There’s the Beatles, recording live. And my stupid mother wants me to come to dinner.’
And now we get pissed off if we can’t call each other all the time while we’re in two countries.
Well, honey, I hope it was worth it. It will be if you get your citizenship.
Well, like Valerie said. It’s 50/50.
But it wasn’t wasted.
No, it wasn’t wasted. It was a good trip. If I get it, it was good. If I don’t, well, y’know.
We’ll have a Plan B. It’ll be okay.
Yeah, it’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.
Stay tuned.

My Students’ Forecasts

2005-06-15T08:40:00.000-07:00

In my large Media Interface “module” for first-year students in the BA Marketing courses, their final assignment was: Choose one aspect of media and forecast how it will be used by marketers in three years and five years, using both primary (ask someone) and secondary (look things up) research. I thought you’d be interested in their thoughts about Television, Interactive Television, the Internet, Digital Radio, Music Downloading, Mobile Phones, Print Media, and Other Promotions. [This is really long. If you want to just read about one topic, put it in 'Find' with initial capital letters and go right to that section.] And for those of you familiar with the standard of American students’ written English, don’t feel bad. I did a lot of editing.
Television…
“Government departments will be [using more] images of disability in their advertising campaigns. [Currently] over 50% of new government advertising campaigns feature images of disability.”
…in three years…
“[My sister is] at the age of seven becoming concerned with her weight, which I know she has no problem with…From the television she watches she is seeing this as what she should be thinking. In three years time she will be…more interested in the makeup adverts and still preoccupied by food.”
“Cartoon characters and celebrities to promote junk food will be prohibited, [leading advertisers] to find new ways of making their products appealing to children. It will become a legal requirement to include all correct nutritional information…The challenge for marketers will be to convey…boring information in an interesting way.”
…in five years…
“The concern over childhood obesity will have abated due to parents and children being more informed…Advertisers will have accepted that the public will not tolerate the aggressive marketing of foods that are bad for their children’s health. [The emphasis will be on] education rather than the hard sell.”
“If the government does cut down on advertising of unhealthy products affecting obesity, the rise of sponsorship of cleaning products, travel agents and other large companies will take place.”
“Infomercials that are popular in America will [not] be popular in the UK. Generally the British do not like extroverted characters, such as [the] hosts in American infomercials (for example: car salesmen). [They] do not like to feel that they are being given a ‘sales pitch’ or a ‘spiel.’…American audiences are more likely to buy into the ‘spiel.’”
“Forrester Research Inc. estimates that…27.4 million US households will adopt the TiVo experience [and] skip around 92% of the commercials...Time shifting behavior will differ...Friends and Coronation Street are estimated to retain only 39% live viewership, where the Grammy Awards and live sports could expect to receive 75%. [It won’t] be so popular as in the US because to set up and plan out schedules of what to watch takes time; UK residents are seen to be cash rich but time poor…New technology [has] not caught on so quickly in the UK as a result of a higher ageing population and the price of adopting new technological products.”
Interactive Television (“the red button”)…
“Practically everybody in the UK owns a TV [but] not even half of the population are on line…The little red button is an awful lot less intimidating than a complex computer, especially for the older generation who are not too familiar with the internet and e-mail.”
“No point paying for a 20-second slot as no one will be watching. [You could] truly personalize the ads by using ‘password required content’ (http://www.graphicpush.com/). Adverts could say ‘Mrs. Kathleen Donnelly, buy the 9th series of Friends on DVD for just $10.’…Modern marketing is all about building relationships with consumers which I-ads contribute to, whereas product placement sees the consumer as passive and a product of the media…The creative agency must produce numerous versions of the same adverts [to] appeal to various types of people. [Visible World Software] analyses information stored about a household and airs the most suitable adaptation to increase the chances of the viewer pressing the red button…Three out of five people [I interviewed] would rather keep adverts impersonal than permit advertisers to hold vast quantities of information about their advertising preferences. However, a Mr. H. Bare stated that…he wouldn’t find the adverts intrusive.”
“One nine-year-old [I asked] felt the interactive button was fun because he liked playing all the games on there, and also his mother would vote for ‘I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here’…An 18-year-old woman…had never used it. She doesn’t believe it will be around in the coming years. A 23-year-old man said he uses the red button to find out about sport and entertainment; he thinks…we will be able to use the red button like eBay, by selling and buying other people’s products…A woman aged 43…said she would check the weather and local news [and interact with the TV] through typing with your remote control. [My survey showed] the most highly prized feature…was to put the consumer more in control. [57%] would be interested in movies on demand.”
…in three years…
“There will be a huge increase in so-called ‘participation TV,’ …also known as community TV, where viewers interact with each other.”
“Sky and Freevue will begin to charge large amounts of money [for] interactive attachments on adverts.”
“The digital set-top box will choose which advert should be interesting for some people, and the [best] time to put it on the screen.”
“My nine-year-old sister…suggested that…we might see ‘Smellovision’ or ‘Taste-Vision’ [and] sample products via our TV. [There will be]…touch-screen technology [and] channels that take the form of chat rooms…Advertisers might [be] utilizing pop ups or adverts within borders around programs.”
“In the breaks of TV programs [you will] flick over to a gambling channel [to] put a bet on.”
“A message could come up in the middle of a program saying, ‘Don’t forget to pick up the kids.’…[BBC could] have an archive of educational programs…that can be done at any time…Television should not become a substitute for…meeting people, but some people may not have the time to go to an evening class but would like to learn a new skill. An archive of movies new and old, maybe even sports matches, could be available at the touch of a button, a cross between Sky movies and a movie rental store.”
“There will be certain game shows where the contestants play from home using the remote control, [even] certain channels that…offer the viewers chances to win prizes and play games 24 hours a day…Sky will develop…bingo, betting, gaming.”
“A 24-hour service [is] dedicated to raising money for charities on TV. They now intend to [add] other fundraising opportunities for charities like mobile ring tones and charity shopping. You can now apply for jobs online; maybe in a few years you will be able to take the interview and receive the job offer…by pressing that red button…You will be able to choose the storyline [in soaps] and choose the outcome for a particular character, maybe killing off the characters you don’t like.”
“[Research shows] that if people are told when to push the red button then they are 2-1/2 times more likely to do so…At [my] family party…everyone said that if they were told to push the red button on an advert that interested them then they most probably would. Even my 75-year-old grandparents said they would consider it.”
“Music companies could cooperate with I-ad makers so that their music will be in the background to an advert and then samples of this can be heard when ‘pressing red,’ along with information on the advertised product. This could lead to two products being advertised on one advert….By using census data, ‘press red’ will appear exclusively to the specified people.”
“Adverts for cars [will] offer the opportunity for the customer to request test drives…Products will be able to be looked at in more detail in 3D…The 30-second slot is pretty much dead. May this result in there being little interest in the interactive movement? I think not.”
…and in five years…
“The government want 100% digital television penetration in the UK [by 2012]; there may well be only 90% to 95% as there will always be people…in opposition.”
“Agile TV [predicts] voice control television will take over remote controls…There will be a talk button with a built-in microphone [with] no need for a remote control or keyboard entry.”
“Talk to your friends by video call on your television set, …show them what you are watching…instant messaging your friends whilst you watch…This will lead to remote controls becoming larger; but by 2010 maybe they will have begun to shrink in size [and] start to have similar features like that of a mobile phone…The screen will be your television set.”
“What would you think about, in a middle of a movie, an interactive link popping up and asking ‘Do you like this skirt? Do you feel like buying it, but you don’t know where you could find it? Just push the button!’”
“Whenever a person is watching a certain channel then it is logged…For a wild example, if a viewer watches football every Sunday at 4 pm and switches the view by using the red button to a particular camera in the stands, then…the viewer could be offered a ticket in that area of the stand.”
“B&Q [will have] their own television channel where…they will have DIY programmes on using all their products….Consumers will have the chance to purchase the product or even win it…The gaming industry will flourish…with the option to download games and play them with others across the country.”
“If a member of the family was [away] with an interactive television in their hotel room, then a message could be sent from a palm top…to the interactive television in the hotel room.”
“A message could appear allowing viewers to jump out of the schedule and watch another ‘sample’ or ‘episode’ from the series, with a link to purchase the product on DVD. ’Pressing red’ could also allow you to bring up a box saying, ‘If you like this program you will like…’”
“I doubt there will be an advert on the TV without an option to press the red button…Adverts will become shorter so that if you want more information you will have to press the red button, [with] more adverts in between programs…There may be a separate channel with all the adverts listed.”
“TV and computers will combine into one, allowing you to interact with the TV as well as playing on the computer [and] run your whole life from just sitting in your lounge.”
The Internet…
…in three years…
“Print media will be based more on commentary and opinion rather than containing exclusive stories…The websites that do break expose stories will be used by marketers a lot more…At present The Smoking Gun and The Drudge Report websites do not contain advertisements…[These websites will be] exposing more stories, making it harder for journalists to give audiences exclusives.”
“Adverts will become more entertaining, funny, inspiring and intriguing, allowing them to enter people’s lives, …to enjoy them and not to despise them….Online advertising will become…only affordable by the top brands...The Jupiter Report suggests web users will be able to see over 950 messages a day…, double that of now.”
“Broadband will become accessible and free…and use an everyone-to-everyone connection…Developing countries that are currently not connected to the internet will become reachable by marketing…New forms of money will be commonly used [www.admedia.org].”
“In about 15% of transactions on eBay, the buyer and seller are in different countries. I’d be surprised if that’s not 20% to 30% three years from now…Connecting the Third World with the industrialized world would mean huge commercial expansion…eBay should move quickly…to offset the impact of the new VAT laws that will sweep across Europe next month [by] providing warranties.”
…and in five years…
“The ‘ScreenFridge’ [coming from Electrolux is] a fridge and freezer that…emails a shopping list to your local supermarket and coordinates a convenient delivery time with your schedule.”
“Banner advertising will be less common as consumers are finding it increasingly intrusive and more annoying…Adverts may involve the sense of touch [and] will have to…contain different options, for different languages for example.”
“The next big surge in online shopping will occur…as today’s Generation Y consumers begin their prime spending years” [www.zones.advisor.com].
“eBay needs to [acquire] consignment or ‘drop off’ stores, which take goods and sell them on eBay. [Paypal] will become a finance company making loans to buyers, similar to General Motors. eBay listings…will eventually have sound and video…Services like Friendster could also form a commerce network…A level of trust between buyers and sellers would already exist due to peer referrals. eBay spends a significant amount of time on disputes and keeping the reputation of sellers high. A commerce network of ‘friends of friends’ could be powerful [and] would in theory eliminate the need for that.”
Digital Radio…
…in three years…
“In the [words] of my grandmother, ‘Why change anything when everyone is happy listening to the radio as it is now?’…A radio loyalty card…‘would give listeners loyalty points according to the amount of time they listened to a station and its advertising’ (Ofcom). [With] webcasting…the listener can go online and actually watch the radio being broadcast or listen to it.”
“According to the Digital Radio Development Bureau [DRB]…the forecast for 2008 is…household penetration of 29%.”
“Digital radio is capable of transmitting data as well as sound, which can be presented as graphics, [so you will] buy a radio with a screen that shows graphics. For example, a song which plays on the radio will be accompanied by an image of the artist singing it. Stand alone podcasting companies are…offering shows that are only available for podcast (not available on standard radio) for a cost. [Whether] people will be willing to pay…will clearly depend on how exclusive the shows will be. The shows that are currently available for podcasting often have the adverts taken out of them [and] compiled as ‘best bits,’ which means that advertisers won’t be receiving any airtime.”
“Marketers [will] adopt a more product placement approach, by having their company mentioned here and there, included in the news. Listeners will pick up on this without it bombarding them.”
…and in five years…
“Companies will soon be able to sponsor a specific song and when this song is downloaded then the company’s advert will be sent too.”
“Podcasting [will be] commercial-free music in almost any genre plus news and specialty programming plus the ability to take it anywhere plus the ability to capture it so you can play it back (http://www.radioabout.com/)….‘Virtual social contact’ will be created that enables us to interact with the broadcasters as well as other people tuned into the same station.”
“’We could use the radio to drive listeners to the web, drive a sign-up process for membership that enables a consumer to receive promotions, use radio to send coupon art to the audience’s wireless phone at the same time my 60-second commercial is airing, then…track the sale by station. That’s either really relevant multimedia or a pipe dream! Ask me next year which one it was’ (http://www.imediaconnection.com/).”
Music Downloading…
…in three years…
“Rhapsody service lets people subscribe for 9.95 pounds per month…to download as many tracks as wanted…This is obviously great news for us but not for Apple.”
“CDs will still be around but they will continue to see declines in their sales…One person I asked thought that CDs had already been replaced. An opposing view was that you pay more for CDs because you get the CD case which contains information about the music or band and…lyric sheets.”
“Music stores such as HMV and Virgin may see a drop in their profits, and…decrease in size or shut down…Artists may decide to only sell via the Internet and not use CDs at all as the majority of people download music anyway.”
“Record companies will [be] forced to…create record labels via the internet….Mobile phones…will have more memory and battery life so that they can also face the market of MP3 players.”
“A new iPod will be on the market which enables movies to be watched on the go…The iPod will have taken over most items. For example, why manually change the channel or have three different remote controls—[televisions, video player and DVD player]—when your iPod can be used for all three? [In] Mobile magazine there is huge section about the different type of speakers and therefore by 2008 there will be no need for CDs or stereos.”
“Consumers [will be] telling their multi-channel megabit wireless PDA-with earphones to play Mariah Carey live in concert…for pennies.”
…and in five years…
“The official chart is now compiled of 85% single sales and only 15% downloaded music; …the entire chart will be downloaded music.”
“[Programs] will select music that you would like…so you don’t have to trawl through thousands of tracks…According to [The Future of Music], ‘We will be able to download onto any portable media such as memory flash cards.’”
“Customers carry a portable USB port and top it up with credit, then purchase their music from USB port sites…in High Street record stores. Another possibility is seamless integration between mobile, TV, car and home stereo, computer, radio and personal hi fi.”
“Authentication codes will be needed to enable the [downloaded] music to play…Customers will surf to get the best possible prices for their tunes.”
“A device about the size of a deck of playing cards…contains at least 2000 hours of your favorite music, has a wireless interface that communicates with your computer and your home and car audio systems, has a battery life of at least 90 days, and costs no more than a PDA or a mobile phone.”
“Universal mobile devices (UMD)…will give us anytime anywhere access to music, films, books and online banking. It’s a global telephone, a digital communication and data transfer device. You will also be able to record, have film storage and a personal computer…iPods will be a thing of the past.”
Mobile Phones…
…in three years…
“The mobile phone is rendering the payphone box [and its advertising] unnecessary.”
“My mum works in…marketing…She already has a Nokia camera phone; she has no current need for a phone with better capabilities. Also she knows of no other people at present who have camera phones and so even if she had a 3G phone, she couldn’t use it to interact with anyone!”
“[Phone] cameras and videos will be much clearer and the mega pixels will be of the same standard cameras and videos are today. The phones will probably have good zooms and the sound quality will be excellent. [Marketers] can use their creativity to produce good quality messages…The BBC is intending to show consumers video clips and programs via their mobiles [and] add a function…to schedule television sets and PCs to record.”
“Via your smart phone you will pick up your e-mails or text messages, read your newspaper or watch your favorite soap. [They] will soon interact with television [to] allow customers to buy products when they are advertised during commercial breaks…The smart phone will become every tourist’s dream because they will translate languages.”
“Partnerships with entertainment services such as TV, radio, band promoters and public sector agencies will increase…Big Brother and Fame Academy…already pull in millions of votes via text and interactive TV.”
“[In Japan the] electronic wallet service, called Mobile Suica Services, has been operated as a pilot test at Ueno station, Tokyo. [It lets you] zap the train gate by putting the mobile on the reader…instead of inserting a paper ticket….Buy [products in] cafés, restaurants, CD shops, vending machines and coin lockers by putting it on the reader…like a debit card…Put it on the reader in the poster, and receive the message of the advertisement by mail or ring tones...Show the user’s history of train rides and that of purchases at different stores. [My friend] who participated in using [it in a test], said that she passed through the train gate, but it only worked half the time…The customers’ data obtained by touching the reader will be sent to each company and will be analyzed…Discount coupons [will be] based on segment data and histories of which gates or stations they went through at what time (http://www.ubiks.net/).”
…and in five years…
“[In 2000], I was at school with an absolute ‘brick’ of a mobile phone, huge aerial and a battery, with which I was lucky if it lasted the whole school day! I can’t imagine what I would have predicted then for 2005…Businesses may be able to market products over video calls very much like how now we get annoying salesmen calling.”
“Customers may get irritated by text messages as intrusive and personal, a bit like with e-mail.”
“Children getting mobile phones—and yes, at the age of seven my sister does have one—[will be] subject to spam texts including…words that a seven-year-old shouldn’t be reading.”
“Our phones will be full of branded games and personalized texts from businesses. [Saab] sends people an SMS when their car is ready to be picked, [and] they are planning to have a mobile online booking service and buying warranties online. Universal Music have started creating WAP (internet pages) for their bands…They are hoping to be able to supply whole music videos on line. Globe Telecom are planning to set up vending machines which supply the user with drinks when they text it.”
“’3G mobile phones will…look like a credit card with an antenna’…Scientists in Scotland are looking to make a folding screen, [using] ‘thin-film technology to produce low-cost, paper-like display screens. The result could be roll-up screens and computer monitors, full 360-degree screens for simulations, and flexible and robust mobile phone screens…controlled through the detection of fingerprints’ (http://www.edesigns.co.uk/)…‘Using mobile phones and handheld computers to teach basic skills could help a generation of youngsters turned off by traditional education’ (http://www.bbc.co.uk/).”
“Mobile phones will be…like MSN Messenger with an Instant Messaging tool…Mobile messaging throughout Europe will grow by 92% over the next five years (‘160 Characters’)…with most of it coming from 10 to 15 year olds…Text messages will be spoken into phones rather than typed in because phones will be so small.”
“Memory of a camera phone will not be as big as a stand-alone camera’s…Mobile phone consumers may therefore need to buy data cables or Bluetooth attachments to send information such as pictures to their personal computers.”
“Your mobile will be used as your phone, your camera, your video recorder, your watch, your calculator and your wallet…The product or service will be charged on your phone bill…You will be able to book cinema tickets, football games and pay for a range of items from a can of Coke out of a vending machine to a new car…‘David and Haley go to the theatre…After the show, they pass their local Chapters bookstore. David’s [phone] receives a message…He can purchase the book of the movie they have just seen at a considerable discount by using the m-coupon that has just been sent to his phone’ [www.worldcongress.mcmaster.ca]…4G is expected to make connections much quicker, tighten security and enable the same quality of sound whether it is a voice call or a video call [www.wiki.media-culture.org.au].”
Print Media…
“[As] newspaper advertising moves to the net we could see the decline in the print newspaper industry…The price of a print newspaper will be set to rise once the advertising that used to subsidize the copy has gone…The Tribune and the New York Times have put money into companies like food.com…and TheStreet.com.”
…in three years…
“The advert could actually speak to you, like talking birthday cards…The number of adverts featuring famous models and celebrities will rise.”
“Expenditure and volume of direct mail is expected to decline [but] the creative content of direct mail can play a major part in ensuring that the medium is not forgotten and maybe even expand the market share…3D direct mail will become popular.”
“We may become like the US and have government-owned mailboxes on our front garden…The government is currently concentrating on a greener country and may see direct mail as waste…This could be solved by using recyclable materials, or by making the direct mail pieces into reusable products e.g., magnets, stickers, etc.”
“Postcomm will have the power to grant licenses to other companies to deliver post…Better technology [will] bring more personalized material to potential customers more…cost effectively…http://www.clickz.com/ suggests that whilst telesales is becoming extinct due to new regulations in America, most companies (86%) who telemarket said they would channel the funding into direct mail and email…Mailing lists can be cross-referenced against email lists to provide a better profile of clients. Using cookies…will show what sort of sites a customer looks at; paired with demographics a company would be able to target email to the exact customer.”
…and in five years…
“Audio books would be a good…future capability for the iPod…Instead of buying a paper, consumers will buy a chip from their newsagent or supermarket and insert it into their iPod for immediate audio news.”
“Many marketers say…direct mail will disappear completely, [but] 61% of direct mail users say it will be more important (http://www.dmis.co.uk/)…It can appeal to sight, taste and touch. Emails cannot do [all] this and I very much doubt that they ever will.”
And Other Promotions…
“[A] futurologist stated that ‘in 10 years’ time 100% of the programming on US television networks will be paid for by product placement.’ Ofcom have also revealed that restrictions for product placement in the UK are soon to be loosened.”
…in three years…
“Filmmakers will be coming up with more subtle ways to advertise to avoid being branded as ‘sell outs’…Though prominently placed in the US version [of Spiderman 2], Dr. Pepper doesn’t really have a big overseas market. The solution was to sell overseas placement rights to the beverage maker Mirinda and digitally overhaul the necessary scenes.”
“Advertising and entertainment industries have not yet developed a universal standard to scientifically quantify and valuate product placement…We can expect even more films that feature products and more whose plots depend on them.”
“Bluetooth technology will mean…interactive billboards…Advertisers can choose the specific time of a specific day the adverts are run, …to regularly interact with consumers who have an interest. [This] will become the industry standard in areas away from natural sunlight such as tube stations and lower areas of shopping malls.”
“In Poland it is only 15 years [since billboards were first used, and] already…regular people [are] using billboards as a CV to promote themselves.”
…and in five years…
“Soap opera actors [will be] wearing sponsored clothes or driving sponsored cars.”
“iTVX [software] evaluates how integrated the brand is into the scene, how clearly visible the logo is, and how seamless the placement is.”
“Fahrenheit 9/11 included around 54 brands…Supersize Me also had more brands than most movies. Jackass the Movie also contained 35 brands. [They] were all films shot out of the studio in the ‘real world.’ So it is arguable that most films today don’t have enough brands in them to make them realistic…A PP (Product placement) logo [may advise] the audience how much PP is apparent…People could begin to boycott…certain director’s films. Maybe we will have the chance to view the movie in two different formats, paying less for the one filled with adverts and more for a promotion-free film…Artists dropping big brands in to their songs will more than likely lose a lot of respect from their fan base.”
“Product placement [will] begin to invade other sensory areas, such as smell and touch…A bathroom scene in a film may soon result in the smell of the brand name deodorant wafting through the cinema.”
“[At sponsored festivals] they could offer discounts on the songs from bands you are watching by purchasing…direct to your on-line account, which you can…download direct to your MP3 phone.”
And Finally…
My only American student chose “next generation displays,” video screens as flexible as cloth or paper.
…in three years…
“Sharper pictures could be put into the newspapers along with advertisements that continually update. Color images would become cheaper for advertisers…TVs [will] be placed in more areas, like outside, in floors, on walls, and possibly in the side of a bus.”
…and in five years…
“Advertising will…look like actual paper but with the ability to change what’s being displayed…[A] professor at the University of Sheffield says that…we will be able to see wallpaper television. Using nanotechnology, wallpaper could be rolled out onto a wall with patches that can be used for television...Stores could have walls that show products and how to use them…Most [places] will begin to look like New York’s Times Square except not as flashy…Buildings will have walls with projected images of products on them…College students who want to market themselves will be able to wear shirts with advertisements scrolling across them.”
Stay tuned.

Sir Bob and Us

2005-06-08T09:20:00.000-07:00

Last month I saw a listing in The Guardian announcing a reading of Lytton Strachey’s letters at the British Library in London. Lytton was one of “my writers,” so I checked the train schedules, did the math, and quickly computed that the tax-deductible day trip would be worth the time. At the Library I picked up a flyer about an upcoming reading of William Butler Yeats’ poetry by Irish actress Sinead Cusack. I tucked it into my diary for future reference.
Still debating whether to go, I saw in The Guardian that Sinead would be joined by two other readers: The actor Rupert Graves and the activist/singer/Irishman Sir Robert Geldof. Now THAT is worth a tax-deductible trip. Even the hubby decided to go.
When booking our tickets by phone, I asked if Sir Bob was really going to show. “He has been a bit busy, hasn’t he?” laughed the operator, understating his ubiquitous presence on British media this past week promoting his “Live8” concert. “Will there be protesters?” I asked, hopefully. “I don’t think so. He’s done things for us before and it’s always fine,” she added.
So after packing up turkey sandwiches and mini-Snickers, Tony and I hopped the bus to the train today, using tokens from the Birmingham Post to buy two return tickets for ten pounds each. We ate our lunch on the Chiltern Railway special to London Marylebone and I corrected a few papers to assuage my guilt. We arrived two minutes ahead of schedule at 3:59.
Having done this same trip just a few weeks before, it was easy to catch the right Tube to King’s Cross/St. Pancras, and make our way through the construction of the new Euro tunnel station to the British Library. We had a light supper at a nearby bistro, and then soaked up the rare English evening sun outside the Library’s conference centre.
Tony saw him first. There was Sir Bob, walking alone, talking on his mobile, heading into the building for his next gig. Black cotton top, white cotton pants. Does he own a comb?
From our vantage point in the last row we had a good view of the crowd, a mix of little old lady book club members and young groupies. Were they here for Sir Bob or Rupert?
The hostess introduced the three well-known participants, but not herself. Because it was billed as the “Josephine Hart Poetry Hour,” we were supposed to recognize her as Josephine. She introduced Geldof by saying, “We called him because we felt sorry for him. He seemed to have nothing to do this week. So we said, ‘Come along Bob and read some Yeats.’” He looked down at his black binder modestly, laughing along with the crowd.
Having her name above the title also gave Josephine the right to inform us, between readings, about Yeats’ life in relation to his poetry. She intimated that all her information came from just one recent biography. Ha! Amateur.
From up in peanut heaven we could see lovely Sinead’s dark roots. Her light Irish accent was the perfect touch for the brief early love poems—
“That only God, my dear,
Could love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.”
Rupert’s upper class British whine was suitably sombre for “Friends”—
“And what of her that took
All till my youth was gone
With scarce a pitying look?”
But Sir Bob’s low-key, south-Dublin, nasal tones gave the perfect emotional intensity to Yeats’ paeans to his life-long unrequited love, Maud Gonne:
“I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread upon my dreams.”
And…
“How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you.”
And…
“O she had not these ways
When all the wild summer was in her gaze.”
But I’m partial to Dublin men falling hopelessly in love with their women anyway.
Then came the section devoted to Yeats’ political poems. Geldof gently mourned,
“Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone.
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.”
And lamented,
“But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyes
As though they’d wrought it.”
Then, leaning forward, elbows on knees, he repeated, slowly, intensely,
“All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.”
You could feel Yeats’ passion for the rift that turned Ireland from one of the “Lesser Colonies” of Britain into an independent, intense, emotional republic.
As they left the stage, Sir Bob graciously gestured to allow the ladies to exit first, and Tony said, “C’mon. I want to see this guy.”
I assumed he would be surrounded by hangers on and groupies, and we didn’t have anything for him to sign, but I followed my Irish husband’s lead. There was Bob, over in a corner, just one or two people around him. As soon as the blonde guy monopolizing him moved away, Bob went to leave, and Tony moved in.
“Bob. I’m from Dublin.”
Smiling, more grizzled and grey than we are, even though about the same age, Sir Bob stopped and shook our hands.
“I thought that was fabulous. Congratulations,” Tony said.
I added, unnecessarily, “I did my research on Yeats. Your ‘Changed utterly’ was perfect. I could hear old Willy rattling in his grave.”
“Well, thanks,” he said. And moved on.
As we walked out, I said to Tony. “When Pope Benedict canonizes him, you can tell your granddaughter that you shook his hand.”
On the train back tonight I asked Tony for some background about his fellow Dub.
“He went to Blackrock College in South Dublin.”
“So is he uppity?”
“Yeah. Well, I think he actually was expelled from Blackrock College.”
“What did he do before he started saving the world?”
“He hung around a lot of clubs in Dublin and started the Boomtown Rats in 1978, ‘79. They were punk, sort of. They had two number one hits.”
“Hum them.”
“’I Don’t Like Mondays,’ and I can’t think of the other one. Then he went to London and hung around with other guys. And then he saw this documentary about the starving in Ethiopia and so he decided to do Band Aid.”
“Bono is from north Dublin. Did they know each other before?”
“In his book Geldof says that Bono came over to him at an event and said, ‘My name is Bono…’ back before anyone had heard of U2.”
“So what do the Irish think of Geldof?”
“Well, y’know. Secretly we’re really proud of him. But we’re a nation of begrudgers. So we always have to say, ‘Aaah, y’know, he’s just a bollocks.’”
When we got back to Birmingham, Tony texted his son in Galway to tell him that he’d met Bob Geldof.
Stay tuned.
FYI: If you would like to read more Yeats, I recommend, W.B. Yeats: Selected Poetry, edited by A. Norman Jeffares, who died recently. It’s all the best stuff and the introduction is a good overview of the poet’s life and loves. To find the full poem for any of the quotes above, just Google it. What a world.

Drive, She Said

2005-06-01T09:36:00.000-07:00

We debated. We did our internet research. Could we justify the expense? We finally decided. What the heck.
So last Saturday we took the loooong bus ride (free, thanks to bus passes) out to Birmingham International Airport, and walked up to the Hertz desk. “He’s got a driver’s license; I have a debit card,” I confessed to the woman behind the counter. £115, including all insurance. For another £35, we got a full tank of gas so we could bring it back empty. (This would avoid the mad search for a petrol station near the airport that I had finally resolved last time when the rental agent volunteered to drive there for me.) Yes, that is the going rate—almost $70 for a tank of gas for a baby Fiat Punto. Put that in your tank and swill it, you gas-guzzling $2/gallon whiners.
So with Tony driving and me, with an expired Florida driver’s license, sitting in the passenger seat with my hands over my eyes around every roundabout and blind corner, we were off.
To Coventry
We chose Lady Godiva’s hometown, just east of the airport, because parts of the “Fierce” Arts Festival were being staged there. I had already seen a Belgium performance artist hanging from a birds’ nest outside Birmingham’s tallest condo, and Tony and I had attended a play in an empty retail space that incorporated live video from sites in Colchester and London. Weird art needs someone to support it, especially for free.
Weaving through roundabouts brought us into Coventry city centre and we parked at the huge modern mall. The Information Lady had actually heard of the “Wall of Light” performance where participants would text messages to be instantaneously projected onto a wall. She gave us good directions to go through the mall to the Wall, but we got hopelessly lost. Wandering through the winding expanses of brand name shops and fast food, weird art in its own way, we gave up on the “Wall” and headed for the university part of town where the “Ghost Train” was to depart every 10 minutes.
On the way, we passed some of Coventry’s oldest buildings, Tudor shops with sagging lines, visibly weary from standing since the 17th century. Tourist map in hand, we thought it might be interesting to see Coventry’s cathedral.
As we walked up the small steps, Tony said, “Oh, it’s a ruin.”
At that moment I remembered.
“No,” I said. “It was bombed.”
We stepped through a medieval archway into the standing outline of a church, an expansive park in the middle, its roofless top wide open to the sky. Plaques on all the sections carried brief histories of their creation and destruction. One reminded us that even if the space was “empty,” it was still a church and quiet was appreciated. The plaque describing the 1940 bombing referred to our now-EU partners only as, “the enemy forces.”
On the wall next to the altar was the poignant description, “Built in the 14th century, destroyed in the 20th.”
Pictures can’t communicate the experience of walking into this gutted sanctuary, and I haven't figured out how to get them into Blogger. Connected directly to the skeleton is the new cathedral Coventry has erected in the same red sandstone, to keep the chain unbroken into the 21st century.
We stopped at a post-modern pub for snacks and drinks—mostly Diet Coke for the sole driver—and then found the “Ghost Train.” After £4 each and a 20-minute wait in line with punk-dressed university students, we strapped ourselves into seats in a Tunnel of Love-style train. For ten minutes in pitch dark, to the sounds of crashing music and female wailing, we were driven through an emotional recreation of the emigration of eastern European women throughout the last century. One in acrobatic costume floated threateningly just above our heads, one was preoccupied cleaning up outside a brothel, and, most disturbingly, one grabbed us at the waist. We staggered out.
More frightening was figuring out how to get into the parking garage now that the mall was closed. After finding our car and our way out of Coventry, we wound back to Sutton Coldfield on highways we’d never seen before. Tony did a better job than I had [See “The Cats Are Fine,” February blog] of driving to the local grocery store, parking, pulling out, and then getting us safely home.
To Shrewsbury
Sunday morning Tony drove to and from work, saving the usual £6 taxi fare he has to pay when he starts work before the buses do. That was one justification for spending £150 to rent a car for the weekend. Another was to save on the taxi fare to lug a big monthly shopping order from Tesco. After we drove home with bags of cat litter, litres of soda and bottles of wine, we got out the atlas bought in preparation for our trip. “North,” said Tony.
But how do we go north? The only times we had driven here—just the day before and the weekend we brought the cats, we had come and gone from the south. North was uncharted territory. We wove around until we saw signs for the M6 and then took off.
Tony chose Shrewsbury as our destination because he had heard it was an old industrial city that had been revitalized. We got off the main highway and followed the roundabouts through quaint towns and beautiful farms, now weekend getaways owned by rich Londoners. As we approached Shrewsbury, brown tourist signs pointed to “Victoria Quay.” There is something about sipping a lovely beverage near water, so we headed that way.
Winding around 16th and 15th century buildings on one-way streets brought us to the banks of the Severn River. While we tried to figure out how much time our coins would buy us in the Pay-and-Display parking meter, a friendly local pointed out that on Sunday at 5 we needn’t worry. He also recommended an old pub nearby where we could get “a good bit of food.” We walked across the first bridge we saw, strolled along the other side of the river, talking to the swans, crossed back over another bridge, and ended up at our new friend’s recommendation, The Armoury. One banana-toffee pie and one apple crumble later, we twisted back through Shrewsbury and out onto the highway, directly back into Birmingham in about an hour and a half.
To Wales
Besides buying big things without the cost of a taxi, our main justification for renting a car was to save the round trip train and bus fare to visit the book festival in Hay-on-Wye, just over the Welsh border. One of our favourite people from our Semester-at-Sea voyage, the art historian Kate who is currently living in Amsterdam, commits to the full festival each year with her mom from Pennsylvania. The possibility of spending a day with Kate, meeting her mom, and driving around Wales was too much to resist. After weeks of e-mailing our plans back and forth, we hadn’t heard from her in the past few days. “Screw Kate,” I said. “Let’s go anyway.”
Using the trusty atlas, I carefully plotted a route that would take us quickly down the M5 to the south eastern tip of Wales, across an interesting bridge into Cardiff, and then leisurely up north on the British equivalent of “blue highways,” winding through the countryside to tourist-filled Hay.
“Quickly down the M5” was great. But lots of cars sporting black and white streamers passed us.
“Oh,” said Tony. “The game.”
“What game?”
“They’re coming from Preston Northend for the championship. But it doesn’t affect us. They’re going to Cardiff.”
“We’re going to Cardiff!”
“I thought we were going to Hay?”
“But the route I planned takes us through Cardiff!”
Time to reconnoitre. Pulling into the rest area we found ourselves smack in the midst of the soccer equivalent of a Steeler tailgate party. Lines to get in the facility, lines to get in the rest rooms, lines to get coffee, lines to get out of the facility. Wearing my Steeler sweatshirt, which wouldn’t be mistaken for either team’s colours, I began to sing out, “We’re from the town with the great football team…” Tony told me to get back in the car.
“At the next exit we can pick up the M50 directly into Wales and then take little back roads to Hay.”
“The fans definitely won’t be taking little back roads to get to Cardiff.”
“Who will win?”
“Probably West Ham United.”
“I thought Preston Northend was playing Cardiff?”
My Irish husband looked at me with disgust.
“It’s the championship; it’s always played in Cardiff. Preston Northend is playing West Ham United; they’re coming from London.”
Go figure.
We took the M50 to its end and then romantically abandoned the “A” roads for the smaller “B” roads. After three miles of skimming along hedgerows—with me leaning away from the door saying, “No, honey. You’re a great driver. I’m just not used to hedges coming at me from the wrong direction”—we came to an intersection.
“Which way?” he asked.
“Straight ahead.” I pointed to the two-lane strip of asphalt barely visible through the overgrown grass.
“Oh. Maybe we should stick with the A roads.”
After about an hour or so winding the wrong way—but an interesting way—on “A” roads, which range from four-lane highways to barely two-lane lanes, we were headed directly for Hereford, the big city.
To Hay
There was a bit of a bank holiday clog up in Hereford, but we made it through the roundabouts and into the gorgeous scenery of western England. Chasing the English-Welsh border, we caught the left turn at Clyro downhill into Hay on the Wye River, the Welsh village famous for having 1300 residents and 39 bookshops. This week the tourists outnumber both.
We expected a Woodstock-reunion crowd scene, with aging hippies yelling at each other from the cabs of their SUVs. Instead an easy turn away from town got us a £3 all-day parking space, and from there we could walk uphill among very pleasant people into the city centre and later downhill into the festival. We kept an eye out for Kate from our window seat in the pub, washing down our fish and chips and baked ham sandwich with cider and beer. Not too much beer.
The tourist office directed us to Kate’s B&B, saying “Walk east and cross back into England.” We decided to call first; the proprietor explained that “the American ladies” had already left for the festival, so we headed there.
Walking into the big white tent gated by larger than life-size book sculptures was like entering the heart of the Miami Book Fair, but outdoors. The less than perfect weather was not bad for an English-Welsh bank holiday, so the lounge chairs in the common area were all taken. We commandeered part of a centrally-located picnic table, snapped up free samples of organic apple juice, and pored over the program to see what was worth seeing for free and what was worth paying for. After only a few minutes, Tony pointed, “There’s Kate!”
Swathed in purple, her blonde hair twisted on top of her head just as we remembered her from our Paris walks two years ago (See “Every Wednesday” for July 23rd, 2003, www.everywednesday.blogspot.com), Kate rushed forward, hugging us and introducing mom at the same time. They were getting in line to see that star of NPR’s “Fresh Air,” Temple Grandin. Kate, like me, had assumed that Terry Gross’ favourite guest would be a little-known choice here. But the autistic friend-to-animals was appearing in the big tent with a £7 admission fee. Tony and I decided to watch the Guardian newspaper put together its photos and illustrations for the next day’s issue, meeting Kate and her mom afterwards for a chat and a drink. Wine for them, soda for us.
Not only did we spend time with one of our favourite people, and hear one of our favourite newspapers’ favourite illustrator and photographer discuss their work, we also experienced the best bathrooms anywhere, indoors or out. Maybe because festivalgoers pay to attend some events, unlike the free Miami Book Fair, the Hay Festival goes all out with its portable loos. For the ladies, six trailers, each holding four stalls with sturdy doors and handles that work, toilets filled with thick blue chemicals, and lavish sinks with running water. Best of all, very short lines. Tony reported that the gents’ were the same. But of course, no lines.
After inviting Kate and her mom to Birmingham for our expatriate Thanksgiving this year, we found our way back to our car, back to the A438, and back to the M50. At the same rest area, the crowd from Cardiff was now quite subdued. Preston Northend, heading in our direction, had lost. It made for a safe and quick drive home.
To the airport
The next morning we re-arranged the kitties’ vet check-up so we could save more taxi fares by taking them that day in our car. We tried to think of other things to use it for, but the time had come to figure out the route to the airport and the car rental return. We patted our blue Fiat Punto on the hood, and then got out our bus passes.
Stay tuned.

Euro Vision

2005-05-25T04:10:00.000-07:00

How to explain the Eurovision Song Contest? (a) One of the thrills of being in Europe in May. (b) The cause of disco because it spawned ABBA. (c) The salvation of PBS because it spawned “Riverdance.” Answer: All of the above.
I managed to miss ABBA. But in 1994 I was living in Dublin when Ireland hosted the Contest because they had won the year before. And the year before that. And the year before that, I think. They hold the record right now with seven wins.
All of Ireland and most of Europe was tuned in that Saturday night, but I was on the ferry to France. The next morning Tony told me that the Irish had taken Western Europe by storm with the “interval show” they put on as hosts, an energetic combination of traditional Celtic dancing and sensual choreography pulled off splendidly by two Irish-American dancers, a pretty girl with lots of hair and Michael something. Legend has it that by the end of the evening the producers were contacted about re-staging it as a London West End musical. “Riverdance” was born.
Oh, and by the way, Tony added, Ireland’s entry had won again. The winning song, “We Were the Rock ‘n Roll Kids,” impossible to sing without quite a few pints in you, went on to sell thousands of copies; the videotape, “Riverdance for Rwanda,” raised millions of Irish pounds (in those days) for African relief.
So each May Europe tunes in again, hoping that another live phenomenon will leap from the screen. Two years ago it was a transsexual singer from Israel. Imagine! How did Israel get into Europe? Don’t ask.
This year the 39 entrants didn’t even include all 25 countries officially in the European Union. To narrow the field, semi finals were held the night before, which weren’t broadcast on channels we get. And get a load of this—Ireland didn’t make the cut! They long ago came to grips with not making it in to the World Cup, but, because every Irish citizen is convinced he can sing, with or without a few pints, this was a real blow to their national culture.
Worse yet—the United Kingdom DID make it in. Javine, consistently described as “Girls Aloud reject” (a group put together by a Pop Idol-type competition), famously popped out of her dress during the UK finals, which we did watch. If you see her performance of “Touch My Fire,” and think that 8 million Brits were on drugs when they voted for her, that’s because you didn’t see her biggest competitor, the “model” Jordan. Picture a singing Pamela Anderson, extremely pregnant and barely dressed.
So last Saturday night Tony and I curled up with microwave popcorn and watched the whole damn thing. I took notes and woke Tony up with background questions.
The voiceover on BBC was provided by Ireland’s favourite son, Terry Wogan. He made it good as a presenter in Britain years ago and is still ranked number one in London breakfast radio drive-time. BBC viewers tune in to hear his wry, disgusted comments each year because he HATES the Eurovision Song Contest. I was fool enough to ask, why does he do it if he hates it? “That’s the point!” explained Tony.
Last year’s winner Ukraine was thrilled to host in Kiev and show off their new democracy. The show began with their winning entry, Ruslana, a Ukrainian-Amazon all dressed in white. When the Ukrainian hosts entered, Wogan referred to it as “the entrance of the unfortunates.” They read their lines phonetically in English, leading the attractive brunette woman to develop a loud screech that Wogan berated all evening. During the first half we assumed that the video montages between each performance were scenes from the upcoming competing country. But when the next entrant was Cyprus and the people in the video were all wearing parkas, we realized the pictures were all from Ukraine.
Tony liked Malta, represented by a big Sophie Tucker-woman singing a lovely ballad. Bat’s chance in hell said I. The smart money was on Maldova with a folk/rock combination called, really, “Grandma Beats the Drum.” Grandma sat in a rocker with her babushka and drum while the young painted rock singer sang, “Let’s make love.” And then Grandma did indeed beat her drum. And appeared to really enjoy it.
I liked Denmark’s sweet blonde guy in red shoes singing “Talking to You” with terrific white teeth, who was introduced as a teacher of autistic children to encourage sympathy votes. This year Ukraine’s entry was presented by the group Green Jolly, famous for keeping everyone singing while camped out in Kiev’s town square during their recent revolution. The lyrics were changed to make them less political because Eurovision just doesn’t do that. (Different lyrics wouldn’t have helped.)
To begin the call-in and text-in voting, Ukraine brought on the Glitchko brothers (honestly). Did they inspire Dan Ackroyd and Steve Martin’s Sistrunk brothers, the “wild and crazy guys”? Or vice versa? The results were announced in both English and French. Javine and her British breasts had “Null points!” until Ireland threw eight to their former masters. In similar vein, Turkey gave 12 points to Greece, who was the ultimate winner with a totally forgettable song performed by a really big-haired woman. Because all the unimportant and relatively eastern countries scored high, and the big time countries were at the bottom, the whole event is viewed in “Old Europe” as political backlash for years of imperialism.
I stayed awake for the whole thing, and so did Wogan, although halfway through he declared, “I have to find consolation in drink.”
So Europe all got together for a “knees up.” But the real “Euro vision” took place tonight on the playing fields of Istanbul. Liverpool came back from 3-nil at halftime to equalize with Milan in the United European Football Association (UEFA) Cup Final. After 30 minutes of overtime play, the championship came down to five players from each team taking penalty kicks. Tony refused to watch, joining the purists who believe that matches of this stature shouldn’t be decided this way. He’s probably right; however, it would be an excellent way to decide the Eurovision Song Contest.
P.S. Liverpool just won. Tony and all of England went nuts.
Stay tuned.

I Didn’t Know There Would Be a Quiz!

2005-05-18T03:49:00.000-07:00

Lynn, one of the women who works with Tony at the Ramada, asked if we would join her and her husband, Shane, for “Quiz Night” at our local, the Horse and Jockey. Most pubs have these, and Tony and I had watched one at another pub a few weeks ago. Thank God we didn’t pay to participate, because we did miserably. So after warning Lynn and Shane that we wouldn’t be winning team members, but we agreed to meet them at 8.
The guy in charge of the quiz came around to the tables and we bought four “The Essential Quiz” answer forms for one pound each. When asked what our team name would be, Shane said, “We’ll think of something.” So we became the “Something” team.
Below are the answers, with explanations. For the few you Americans might get, I left the questions in boldface and put those answers at the end. See how you do.
“1. Pictures.” This round is a Xeroxed sheet of 10 black and white photos of celebrities who look vaguely familiar.
1. Chris de Burgh. Wrote “You Look Wonderful Tonight” for his lovely wife, and then started bopping their nanny while wife-y was in traction in the hospital. The Irish have never forgiven him.
2. Sandra Howard. Wife of the recently defeated Conservative Party leader. Used to be a professional model, so she looks a lot better than he does.
3. Kiera. A Black American singer. Never heard of her.
4. Rhys Ifan, pictured with his BAFTA award. Won for his amazing portrayal of legendary comedian Peter Cook in a telly bio pic.
5. Abi Titmuss. This month’s Paris Hilton, without the multi-million head start. And yes, that is her real name. All over the tabloids, but we didn’t recognize a picture of her from the neck up.
6. Sir Geoff Hurst. Scored three goals for England in the 1966 World Cup Final.
7. Stefan Dennis. An Australian soap opera star.
8. Heather Graham. From the “Austin Power” movies and others. Still didn’t recognize her.
9. Billy Baily. Comedian; looks a lot like Sam Kinison.
10. Alan Hanson. Former Liverpool football star, now obnoxious TV presenter.
“2. Read All About It.” Items in the news. I’m a news junkie, but only thanks to my team members did we get nine right.
1. 7. Number of weeks the revival of Tony Christie’s “Show Me the Way to Amarillo” has been assaulting our ears as Number 1. Seems longer.
2. 1940. The year the Nazis invaded the Channel Islands. Who knew?
3. Millwall. The football club Dennis Wise resigned from.
4. “The Farm.” TV show with Erik Estrada, Tammy Faye Baker and porn star Ron Jeremy.
5. Matthew Flintoff. England cricketer.
6. Bush and Putin. Sittin’ in a car. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Refers to the news photo of them that week.
7. Mandela. Who most British school kids thought was the “Nelson” commemorated in Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square. They were wrong. Who is it really?
8. Prince Harry. Just entered Sandhurst Military Academy.
9. Dave O’Leary. Aston Villa coach who was recently revealed as having had phone sex with a young waitress. Tony met him years ago in Dublin.
10. Tory. The party that elected its first Black MP; from Windsor, no less.
“3. Top 5.” Two questions that require lists of 5 items.
a. What 5 rooms, besides the Conservatory, are in the game “Clue,” but don’t have the word “room” in them?
b. What 5 actors won more than one Academy Award for Best Actor?
“4. Trivia Trail. REMEMBER: The LAST letter of the previous answer is the FIRST letter of the next answer! All answers are ONE word answers!” C’mon, you can do these. Well, most of them.
1. What word can precede each of these three words: Work Trick Linen.
2. Silverstrand Falls is in what US National Park?
3. What company produced the “Chicken Run” computer game?
4. What is the most common surname in England?
5. What fictional town is “Juliet Bravo” set in? Hartley. I knew you wouldn’t get that one, but it’s your clue for Numbers 4 and 6.
6. What is the yellow part of an egg called?
7. What TV series featured a detective sucking a lollipop?
8. What is a smoked mackerel?
9. What town and sport have the same name?
10. What was voted the most popular Beatles song?
“5. Connections.” What connects the following? You won’t know Numbers 1 and 2, but can figure it out with the other two.
1. Gerard Houiller.
2. Russell Harty.
3. D. H. Lawrence.
4. Billy Crystal.
“6. Wipe Out. REMEMBER: Answer ALL questions correctly and get 5 bonus points, but get one wrong and you lose all your points in this round! If you’re not sure, leave the question blank, and get 1 point for each correct answer.” No pressure there.
1. What pig starred in his own movie?
2. What do Brits call the treat Americans call “cotton candy”?
3. Who was the last German to win Wimbledon?
4. Where did Princess Anne get married?
5. What British race car driver was arrested for speeding?
6. What US Senator met with Robert McCartney’s family?
7. What city did the Tom Cruise movie “Collateral” take place in?
8. What was the name of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”?
9. Arthur Dailey. The character in “Minder” who stole the show.
10. Toya. Character in “Coronation Street.”
Answers: Harder than you thought, huh? Here they are.
“2. Read All About It.” Number 7. Lord Admiral Nelson who was killed at the Battle of Trafalgar.
“3. Top 5.”
a1, Hallway; a2, Kitchen; a3, Study; a4, Library; a5, Lounge.
b1, Jack Nicholson; b2, Tom Hanks; b3, Gary Cooper; b4, Dustin Hoffman; b5, Marlon Brando.
“4. Trivia Trail.”
1. Dirty. Don’t feel bad; we were thrilled when we finally came up with “party.”
2. Yosemite. We picked Yellowstone.
3. Eidos. Thank God Shane is a computer freak.
4. Smith. We picked Jones because we didn’t know Number 5, Hartley.
6. Yolk.
7. “Kojak.” Who loves ya, baby?
8. Kipper.
9. Rugby. Not far from us.
10. “Yesterday.”
“5. Connections.” They were all teachers.
“6. Wipe Out.”
1. “Babe.”
2. Candy floss.
3. Michael Stich.
4. Westminster Abbey.
5. Sterling Moss.
6. Kennedy.
7. Los Angeles.
8. Melos. The only article I have ever had published was about D. H. Lawrence, and I still couldn’t remember this one.
The winning team, “Cheese,” with 56 points, split the take on the quiz. We got 41, but the runners up, Dynamo Carrots, had 48, so I guess we didn’t do badly. The second from worst, the “Whatever” team, won a bottle of Sangria.
How did you do?
Stay tuned.

Decisions

2005-05-11T09:41:00.000-07:00

We had an election here last week. Everyone knew it would be called for 5/5/05, because local elections were already scheduled for that day. The Prime Minister decides the timing, and has to officially dissolve parliament 30 days before so everyone can campaign. Four weeks and it’s over. How refreshing.
My Irish husband Tony was eligible to vote. As a European Union citizen signed up for National Insurance, he received a poll card in the mail. No need to register or have his signature on file. He stopped by the 100-year-old church at the end of our road and placed his X by…well, it’s a secret ballot.
The knowledge that he would help choose our Member of Parliament for Sutton Coldfield gave Tony a feeling of empowerment. He watched the news with more interest, treating his choice as a momentous decision. I never saw him vote in Ireland, and he lived in the US for 10 years before even applying for citizenship.
During the campaign we were treated to the usual escalation of negative advertising. The only break in the tough questioning and fierce name-calling came when Charles Kennedy, the Scotch-accented leader of the Liberal Democrats, took time out when his wife gave birth to their first child. He seemed more relaxed afterwards.
On polling day, the media are prohibited from reporting anything political until the polls close, so there were a lot of TV news stories about the effect of the weather on the turnout. Despite the sunshine it was only 60%. At 10 pm the second string reporters disappeared and the big guns came out. We had duelling Dimblebys; the two sons of legendary broadcaster Richard Dimbleby, who you hear on old British newsreels describing events such as Churchill’s funeral, are now on ITV and BBC. With only one time zone to consider, exit polls and final results were reported as soon as they came in. Sunderland raced to be first again. This year they made it in 45 minutes, even though all the paper ballots are hand counted.
To no one’s surprise we awoke on Friday to a Labour majority, a Conservative re-appraisal of their losing strategy, and a thrilled third party, Kennedy’s Lib Dems, who did better than even the exit polls predicted. The full news coverage continued all morning as Labour leader Tony Blair, along with his attorney-wife, Cherie, was driven to Buckingham Palace to be asked by the Queen to form a government. It was his 52nd birthday; the same day as my Dad’s.
On arrival back at 10 Downing Street, the only Labour PM ever elected for a third term faced the microphones. With his family loyally lined up on the doorstep a ways behind him, he looked alone. He sounded humbled. He spoke of what he had learnt by meeting face-to-face with voters throughout the UK, referred to as his “masochist strategy.” Lacking his usual glibness, Blair kept repeating, “I, we, the government…” He appeared frightened. Had the enormity of what he had been working towards for the past four weeks—the past eight years—begun to sink in? Was he finally taking in this momentous responsibility for making decisions that affect millions of lives?
After he repeated the points of the well-known Labour five-year plan, the shiny black door with the big number 10 opened. The youngest Blair, Leo, the surprise baby born with the millennium, came out to join the family for the third photo to mark the start of a Blair Prime Ministership.
Before the day was over, unhappy back-benchers were saying publicly and privately that Blair should resign now and turn the party leadership over to the most successful chancellor in the UK’s post war history, blustery Gordon Brown. But if Blair was just elected, how can he step down and let someone else take over?
Well, Blair was not elected, except by his constituents in Sedgefield, where his only opposition was a father who holds the government responsible for his son’s death in Iraq. Brits elect their local MP by choosing a party. The majority then forms a government. Last time, Labour humiliated the Tory leader William Hague with billboards picturing Margaret Thatcher’s hairdo superimposed on his bald, grinning head. Blair won a 160-seat majority and, some say, a mandate to do whatever he wanted. This time, with dirty hospitals, immigration and disorderly public behaviour as the hot issues, Labour was reduced to only a 66-seat edge. Their historic victory is therefore seen as a defeat. Welcome to parliamentary politics.
By coincidence the election ended just a few days before the V-E Day 60th anniversary celebrations began. The airwaves and newspapers were filled with interviews of anyone still breathing who remembers when the war in Europe ended. On Sunday Tony and I headed into downtown Birmingham to take part in the festivities and pick up free stuff.
We arrived a little late, so missed out on the food you could get with complimentary “ration cards” that were handed out. The crowd was a sea of Brits, young and old (mostly old), sporting Union Jack bowler hats and flags. In front of the big stage in Centenary Square, two old comedians were singing, “Who Do You Think You’re Kidding Mr. Hitler?” The oldest vets, in wheelchairs or using canes, were telling their stories to anyone who would listen. Some people came dressed in uniforms or vintage clothes from 1945.
Look, over there. That man reminds me of my Dad. He actually spent some time in London during his four years in Europe with the US 2nd Armored Division (“Hell on Wheels”). And that woman, with the dark upswept hair and round face. She looks just like my mother. She spent those four years working in Pittsburgh, waiting for her new husband to come home so they could start a family.
Like a lot of American couples, they got married a few months after Pearl Harbor, on my Dad’s first leave. Tony and I got married a few months after September 11th, ending 10 years of procrastination. How much does insecurity on the world stage affect our decisions? How much will Tony Blair’s decisions affect our lives now?
As the crowd broke up, I tried to find a discarded bowler or flag we could take home. But hardly any souvenirs were left lying around; the British are really anal-retentive. On our way to the bus stop, Tony finally spotted a plastic flag lying on the ground, and rescued it for me. When we got home, we turned on the memorial concert broadcast live from Trafalgar Square and sang along to “I’ll Be Seeing You in All the Old Familiar Places.” Just like my parents had, 60 years ago.
Stay tuned.

The Weekly TV Listings

2005-05-04T03:49:00.000-07:00

Sundays
Tony gets to sleep in a bit and leave at 6:45 for work because he has to take a cab; the buses aren’t even running then. I fall back asleep, wake up around 8 and read The Observer in bed with cats and a cup of tea. If I roll out early enough, it’s for Breakfast with [Sir David] Frost. The news junkie’s ideal way to start the week.
Except for The Heaven and Earth Show, which takes an interesting secular look at religious topics, there’s not much for the rest of Sunday morning and afternoon. We avoid Songs of Praise but tune in at 5:30 for The Time Team. The actor Tony Robertson, whom we only knew as hapless Baldric from four years of Blackadder, digs up the English landscape with a team of archaeologists looking for ancient Romans, Saxons or Celts. Their ‘geophys’ and really cool computer graphics recreate the daily lives of our previous neighbours.
No 6 pm news on Sunday, so for dinner we have a choice of Last of the Summer Wine (one of Tony’s favourites), odd nature programs or The Simpsons. Sunday nights usually feature some big American movie we missed the first time around, a compilation of nostalgic British culture (‘The Funniest British Sitcom Moments’) that helps us catch up, and soccer highlights in Match of the Day.

Mondays
Weekday mornings BBC Breakfast is my companion while I exercise and get ready for work. Because I listen to BBC Radio 4 on my headphones even before I get up, there are few surprises, but the 5-minute local cut-ins are a welcome change from the media’s ubiquitous London focus. The evening news is on our five terrestrial channels around 6 pm; but programs don’t stop and start on the half hour, so we pick whichever fits at dinner time. After news, Antiques Roadshow or interesting documentaries, but lately, a whole lot of snooker.
For the past four weeks we have obsessively watched an incredibly colourful BBC series, Casanova, from beginning to end. With Peter O’Toole as the aging Casanova telling his story to a young chambermaid, it was the funniest, most interesting, most exciting piece of history we’ve seen in a long time. The costumes and sets alone were worth the price of admission.
10 pm is BBC evening news, but sometimes we’re awake enough for some weird sex documentary on Channel 4.

Tuesdays
A new conman drama called Hustle stars former Man from U.N.C.L.E. Robert Vaughn, but we haven’t gotten in to that. We pick a good documentary or one of the many programs showing British couples buying and remodelling homes in France, Spain or other exotic locations. They always screw up something and we like feeling superior.
Tuesday was the night for our favourite, Shameless. The first time we tuned in was like a flashback to when I first saw Hill Street Blues: You couldn’t tell who everyone was. The characters are well-drawn three-dimensional people, not easy stereotypes, and the acting is only surpassed by the writing. Mixing drama and surreal humour, Shameless focuses on a family in the ‘projects’ of Manchester surrounded by a neighbourhood of characters you could never make up. They are Gallaghers and remind us so much of the Irish back in Finglas. The sole writer, Frank Abbott, swears that no single incident is fiction. We eagerly await season three, and will rent the DVD of season one to catch up.

Wednesdays
The Brits have created their own ‘Apprentice,’ with Sir Alan Sugar in the Donald Trump role. He certainly has better hair, but I only watched the episode about advertising out of professional curiosity, and have felt no need to watch again. (The Nice Black Guy won.) So we make do with intellectual documentaries, just killing time until red wine, Cadbury and Desperate Housewives at 10. We both love shouting back at the screen, seeing Frasier’s satanic agent Bebe again, and savouring the ending voiceover that ties all the plot threads together. We’re a few months behind you, so don’t tell me!

Thursdays
My big teaching day doesn’t end until I thank my guest speaker at 6 pm. By then I’m really tired, so we like to meet at our local, The Horse and Jockey, for dinner. By the time we get home, all that’s on is Footballers’ Wives, too much beyond trash for my taste. I tuned in once to see what the fuss was about, but gave up when the rich guy’s illegitimate baby died because the dog sat on it.

Fridays
We’re starting to understand more of the jokes and cultural references on the satire current events quiz, Have I Got News for You. For the past few weeks we have also watched The Two Ronnies, a look back at a legendary sketch show starring Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett. The now-aged Ronnies introduce each classic full-length sketch and clip from decades of programs. The writing is so well-crafted and nuanced, it exposes most of today’s comedies as mere first drafts. For a while I was watching weekly repeats of musical bits from French and Saunders’ variety program. If you have only seen Jennifer Saunders as the brunette half of Absolutely Fabulous, you have no idea how incredibly talented she is. Her usual comedy partner, Dawn French, now appears as the great big husband-seeking Vicar of Dibley.
Comedian Jonathan Ross’ weekly late night BBC chat show is mostly the usual blather, but he can be quite a good interviewer when hosting someone like Martin Scorsese or Robert Downey. You can catch his classic interviews of creative people on your personal TV during Virgin’s transatlantic flights.

Saturdays
The strangest old American movies are broadcast on weekend afternoons. Sometimes a John Ford classic, but more often a totally forgotten 1940s snorer. We are out most of the day, and often fall asleep late with a good film—recently, the entire James Bond series—but for the past few weeks our guilty pleasure has been Strictly Dance Fever.
When we didn’t have telly last fall, the rest of Britain spent Saturday nights mesmerized by Strictly Come Dancing. Non-dancing celebrities, like the BBC Breakfast presenter, were matched with professional dancers for a Pop Idol-type competition. Turned out Miss BBC Journalist had legs that wouldn’t quit and talent to match. She won!
Now over-the-top Soooo Graham Norton is hosting this variation. BBC held open auditions for amateurs throughout the UK, picked five couples from each region, and coached them on their routines and homemade Spandex costumes. I watched the first instalment when Tony was working one Saturday, and fell in love with the chubette and her boyfriend from the north. Tony got hooked too and each week we have texted our vote for James and Claire to be combined with the rankings of the professional choreographer judges—one meany and three softies. In the current rounds, one couple a week is eliminated after they have performed a specialty dance like the hustle, the tango, the lambada or the Charleston. This week, as part of the nationwide VE-Day celebrations, swing dances from the 40s will be featured. We watch the live competition from 6 to 7, and then wait for the live results at 9:25. James and Claire are still in!
In between, Tony usually naps while I switch to BBC2 for my own guilty pleasure, The Private Life of a Masterpiece. Each week a different classic painting is analysed, dissected, and set in the context of its time and, best of all, its creator. I break out the Cadbury, Gussie climbs up on my lap to purr, and we lose ourselves with Georges Seurat on La grand jatte or Gustav Klimt and The Kiss. It’s the best hour of the week.
Stay tuned.

Our Heather’s Back!

2005-04-27T06:17:00.000-07:00

Seven years ago, after living in Florida for just a few months, I saw a Xeroxed sign posted on that universal communication channel at every university, the bulletin board: “Do you want extra money?” This person knows how to write a headline, I thought. Did anyone have a room and a shower that a commuting nursing student could rent two nights a week? “Call Heather.”
My gut told me to call Heather, partly because Tony and I were new in town and needed friends. Mostly because instinct said that Tony and I needed an Other. A third person in the house who would see us as a couple.
The only Others we had lived with until then were Tony’s children. To them, he was Dad, or, annoyingly, Tony. I was the Outsider. To this Heather, we would be TonyandKathleen. So I called her.
When Heather first walked in the door of our house in Hollywood, we offered her a glass of white wine. She was home. She offered us $35 for each night she would drive over from her family’s Sarasota condo—a good four hours away—and get up early the next morning for the only class she had that summer. In fall she planned to enter the nursing program full time. With a bachelor’s degree in Spanish and International Relations, she had worked in Human Resources at a chicken packing plant back home in Virginia, but was drawn to nursing. I was drawn to the possibility of inside stories of life in a chicken packing plant. Turns out, there were more transsexuals than you would think.
After summer, Heather moved in with students closer to Miami and the action. Tony asked me, “Why wouldn’t Heather want to live with us?” “We’re old,” I said. “She wants people her own age.”
We saw Heather a few times that term, and spent one lovely Saturday canoeing in Lake Loxahatchee State Park. “Canoeing” meant Heather and Tony paddling with me sitting in the middle, gripping the sides.
During Christmas break we got a call from Heather, back in Virginia for the holiday. She sounded hesitant, upset. Her roommate for spring had finked out. Finally she blurted out, “If I paid rent could I live with you and Tony?”
Shouting into the living room I said, “Honey, that Heather wants to live with us.”
“Why didn’t she just live with us to begin with?” he said.
When I told Heather what one-third of the rent would be, she was thrilled. I think she was expecting to pay half.
Heather moved in that January until she finished her nursing degree two years later. She immediately hung up pictures of her travels and her family in the second bedroom. She paid her rent early and split the utility bills. At first she would eat with us, but eventually spent more time with her friends—mostly male, interestingly enough—from her nursing classes. But what made Heather a wonderful roommate was that all she knew how to do in the kitchen was dishes.
Best of all, Tony and I lived vicariously through Heather’s life. We heard the story of each new suitor, mostly Hispanic, who would stop by or call or e-mail. We became friends with Mike Dancing-on-Pizzas, who got so frustrated with a nasty customer on his pizza delivery route that he threw the Super Meat Feast on the ground and, well, you can picture the rest. We were fascinated by her travels to Peru and Costa Rica to visit her Hispanic friends, including her near-death experience as an Iberian flight lost its landing gear coming into Miami.
A blonde super-WASP, Heather was intrigued by our Catholic rituals. “Do you all get to elect the Pope?” she asked. As Black Irish we were intrigued by her lackadaisical attitude toward religion. She had been baptised, but couldn’t remember which faith. We hosted her parents for dinner when they came to visit. Lovely people. Although Tony and I were old enough to be Heather’s parents, we were relieved that we weren’t as old as Heather’s parents.
When Tony was back in Ireland for months, Heather and I had Girls’ Nights, but always made it home in time for Frasier. Upon his return, Tony was informed that he was required to join us at the telly at 10:30 pm. One summer I put Tony and this lovely young blonde in our Honda Civic to drive two days up north; one spring all three of us drove back and forth to Key West in one day.
When Heather graduated, an RN fluent in Spanish who will never starve, I went to her pinning ceremony and the luncheon where she accepted a scholarship. The champagne-and-chocolate reception we gave her was the first party to outlast me. I was passed out in my bed while others were still dancing in the living room.
Heather then moved in with a family closer to her placement at a hospital in Miami. She went to Honduras after the hurricane to help out with health education programs. She fell in love, forgot to send for an absentee ballot, fell out of love, and regretted her missed opportunity to be one more uncounted Florida vote. When it was time for her to get on with her life, Tony followed her up to the AutoTrain because she had heard her Honda Accord crack under the weight of her Florida belongings heading back to their home in Virginia. The trusty Accord finally died just as it was to drive off the AutoTrain to Heather’s new life. She replaced it with a Rav 4 and bought a tiny house in Falls Church.
Heather e-mailed us and sent clippings about her church trip to bring medical supplies to a mission in Rwanda. Out her window she had watched people from the Congo fleeing a volcano just across the border.
When we announced our wedding, Heather stole the e-mail addresses of our friends and pooled resources to fund a Key West honeymoon suite for us. She flew in for the wedding, stayed with Tony and his kids while I had a slumber party with my girlfriends, and did a last minute run up I-95 to pick up the flowers an hour before the ceremony.
That November we drove up north for a second reception our friends gave us in Pittsburgh. We stopped first for Thanksgiving with Heather’s family and her new beau, Don, but she was too exhausted from her job in the oncology department to come meet the Pittsburgh people she knew from our stories.
Last spring we got the e-mail and the invitation to her and Don’s wedding, for September 11th. I know; we warned her. But apparently that was the only Saturday that worked for everyone. We promised to come.
During the interview for my job here in Birmingham, they asked when I could start. Pointing out that being self-employed meant never having to give notice, I added, “We do have a friend’s wedding in Maryland first.”
So, during four hurricanes we packed up our lives in Hollywood, stored two cats in Okeechobee, and moved to the UK via Heather’s wedding in Baltimore. In the backyard of the frame cottage she and Don had remodelled, with a chuck wagon dispensing real barbecue and potato salad, we toasted our Heather off. Was this Heather the Bride, in an elegant white satin dress, hair piled high on her head, the same Heather who wore mostly cut-offs, t-shirts and ponytails when we knew her? (Except for one ill-fated Halloween as Xena the Warrior Princess.)
At the reception, her mother leaned over to me and said, “You know who will be the first one to visit you in the UK, don’t you?” I said no, our Heather is married now. She’ll be working at the hospital and tending to her husband and pumping out babies.
But last week HeatherandDon came to visit on a delayed honeymoon. They spent two days in London and then unpacked in our second bedroom. She gave us a bottle of the cheap white wine we drank in the States and more wedding pictures. We gave them a key to the back door and a map of City Centre. After a few days and nights of sightseeing, dinners and British TV, they took the train and ferry to Ireland. Their big rucksack is in our second bedroom so we know they will return, probably tomorrow. On Saturday they fly back to the States to continue their new life together.
But we know our Heather will always come back.
Stay tuned.

Diary of a Weekend Get Away

2005-04-20T10:27:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday
10 pm, Sutton Coldfield
Watch Desperate Housewives, feed cats, scoop litter, turn off heat. Drop keys in neighbour’s mail slot, walk to bus stop, grab 107 to UCE campus with one suitcase, one carry-on and one Irish husband. Along with 100 students and five other chaperones, board two buses. Off to Paris!
Thursday
4 am, Port of Dover
Drive by white cliffs, no blue birds. Wait on our bus while Driver collects passports of 50 students from Bangladesh, China, India, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka, three chaperones from European Union countries, the British Group Leader and her German Assistant, and me, the only American. Suggest to swarthy Muslim students that taking pictures here is not good idea. Suggest to Driver that steering a British bus in France is like walking in a mirror; he says you get used to it. Count to see how many EU countries are represented by trucks coming off and going on the ferries.
6 am, Port of Dover
Board ferry. Tea and croissant to get in mood, 4 pounds. Set watch ahead one hour to Paris time.
Noon, Montmartre
Get off bus near where Leader thinks hotel is. March with 50 students from Bangladesh, China, India, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka, who blend in with neighbourhood, following whiter-than-white Leader and Assistant across four lanes of traffic, trailing wheeled luggage up cobblestone hill. Wait while Leader converses with person in street. March with 50 students from Bangladesh, China, India, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka, following the two white chicks down cobblestone hill, trailing wheeled luggage across four lanes of traffic, to Hotel Pax, near makeshift mosque. Unpack in tiny, clean room; open floor-to-ceiling windows for view over rooftops of Paris.
3 pm, Montmartre
Meet Leader and majority of 50 students in lobby. Follow group uphill through African neighbourhood and three steep flights of steps to Sacre Coeur. Leave group in rain to walk downhill to café for red wine and cheese, 10 euros. Follow Leader on metro to Hotel Rex where the other 50 students and chaperones are staying. Wait while everyone decides how to get to recommended restaurant in pissing cold rain.
6 pm, Chartier restaurant
Share table with two married Indian students and one Hungarian student, translating menu because no one else speaks French. Listen to Indian couple explain how they first met 15 minutes before their engagement because she insisted on seeing him first, although he “didn’t really care one way or another.” Fabulous starters, roasted chicken, wine, dessert and conversation, 16 euros each.
8 pm, Pont d’Alma
Emerge from metro station near bateaux mouche. Duck into overpriced café to get out of pissing cold rain, but have to chug a 4 euro whiskey to follow Leader and 30 students across street and over bridge. Run after Leader in pissing cold rain to explain that bateaux mouche are back on the other side of the Seine. Walk back over bridge and down to boats, while Leader counts everyone to get group discount. Hand Leader 5 euros each. Freeze butt off on bateaux mouche while Irish husband takes pictures. Grab husband for hug as boat rounds the corner of Notre Dame. Walk back to overpriced café for red wine with Leader, 11 euros total. Share taxi back to hotel.
Midnight, Hotel Pax
Drink cheap brandy with Leader.
Friday
9 am, Hotel Rex
Meet up with group for sightseeing with Driver and Tour Guide. Wait for bus while small groups of students set off to find other small groups of students who have been misplaced.
11:30 am, Palais de Chaillot
Stay on warm bus and chat with Tour Guide while others get off to take pictures of Eiffel Tower.
Noon, Eiffel Tower
Leave group for lunch in restaurant we know around the corner. Onion soup, croque monsieur, red wine, dessert and friendly waiter, 18 euros each. Wander through Left Bank in bright sun and chilly wind.
3:30 pm, St. Germain des Pres
Have Coca while waiting to see if anyone from group shows up for my personal tour of hangouts of American writers who lived here in the 1920s. Find Leader, Assistant and three other chaperones just as heavens open. Set off with umbrellas. Lead first “Such Friends” Paris Walk—past the original Shakespeare & Co., a Hemingway apartment, a Fitzgerald apartment, Michael and Sarah Stein’s apartment, ending at 27 rue de Fleurus where Gertrude Stein held her salons—without losing a soul.
6:30 pm, Louvre
Meet up with group; but head back to hotel, leaving Leader and students with free tickets to see Mona Lisa in her new setting.
8 pm, Hotel Rex
Meet chaperones for dinner. Follow British chaperone seven blocks around Folies Bergere and seven blocks back, to restaurant just around the corner from hotel. Call hotel to see if any students showed up at 10 pm to meet Leader to go clubbing. Starters, grilled salmon, desserts, wine and great conversation, 30 euros each.
11 pm, Montmartre
Take taxi back to hotel, leaving Leader to go clubbing with students. Post sign on elevator reminding everyone to check out in morning and store suitcases after breakfast. Fall asleep watching Sherlock Homes movie in French.
Saturday
8:30 am, Hotel Pax
Convince desk clerk to stack students’ suitcases in hallway until after breakfast. Console Assistant after pregnant Bangladeshi student threatens to complain to Dean because no one knew they had to check out in the morning. Finish packing while Tony and Assistant knock on doors telling everyone they have to check out. They all knew.
10 am, Hotel Pax
Send 15 students off to Eurodisney; walk those coming with us to Versailles across four lanes of traffic to metro.
10:30 am, Hotel Rex
With other chaperones, walk students coming to Versailles back to metro; buy cheese and bread for picnic. Collect 5 euros each to reimburse chaperone who bought discount metro-train tickets on his credit card. Take metro to train and train to Versailles.
12:30 pm, Versailles
Walk up to Chateau de Versailles, past McDonalds and Internet cafe, to shiver in Queue A with students. Too cheap to rent audio guide, roam through Versailles trying to remember everything we learned about French Revolution. 7.50 euros each.
2:30 pm, Versailles
Have Cocas in “Let Them Eat Cake” Café, overflowing with tourists, including two Indian men here on contract work, and two Texas women who had to be talked into using their friend’s Paris apartment.
3 pm, Versailles to Seine
Eat picnic lunch on train.
3:30 pm, Left Bank
Wander streets trying not to eat dinner yet. Duck into store selling Aga cookers to get warm. Walk to current Shakespeare & Co. and browse. Have chocolat and coffee in café, 4 euros each. Get slug coin from waiter to use bathroom stall.
5 pm, Notre Dame.
Wander through during Mass, but incense causes too many flashbacks. Decide to find souvenirs. Consider Eiffel Tower picture frames which go up one euro in price from store to store on Rue Renard. Leader comes by and thanks Tony for knocking on doors this morning. Buy perfect photo for Debbie that Tony found when trying to hide from Leader.
6 pm, Les Halles
Stroll around Pompidou Centre reading menus on cafes. Look for Irish bar I discovered on my first trip. Choose restaurant with jazz. One starter, two big beef and frites dinners, one dessert, red wine and intimate conversation, 20 euros each. Get directions to Irish bar from friendly waiter. Closed.
8 pm, Montmartre
Stop two American women on street when Tony hears them say “Pittsburgh.” Go to café for coffee, whiskey and discussion of advantages/disadvantages of living in Pittsburgh, State College, Miami, Birmingham, Amsterdam or Paris. Decide on Paris.
10 pm, Montmartre
Share taxi back to their hotel, three blocks from our hotel in same African neighbourhood.
11 pm, Hotel Pax
Board bus with 50 exhausted students from Bangladesh, China, India, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka, Leader, Assistant and wide awake Driver.
Sunday
12:30 am, French countryside
Point out to asshole who thought it was a good idea to play Arabic music on the bus loudspeaker that some people are trying to sleep.
4 am, Calais
Get off bus at duty-free warehouse to buy bottles of wine, one pound each; two bottles of Freixenet with two glasses, 10 pounds; buy-one-get-one Ferrero Rocher for girls in office, 4 pounds.
4:30 am, Port of Calais
Get off buses for passport check of 100 students from Bangladesh, China, India, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka, and one American while Leader, Assistant and three other chaperones from various EU countries are waved through. Sit on parked bus for two hours because 5 am ferry was cancelled. Fall asleep to Nicholas Cage car crash movie on VCR.
6:30 am, Port of Calais
Board ferry. Force way through clumps of British teenagers returning from school trip. Teas and muffin, 3 euros and 1 pound. Set watch back one hour to Birmingham time.
7:00 am, Dover to Birmingham
Fall asleep watching wide awake Driver to make sure he isn’t falling asleep.
10:30 am, outside Birmingham
Call 999 after small white car decides to come to a complete stop in the middle of M42 directly in front of bus. Check on students while Leader takes Driver’s pulse, determines that he didn’t have a heart attack, covers him with blanket, and puts her hand on his shoulder while waiting for EMTs.
11 am, outside Birmingham
Give contact information to police after EMTs pry Driver out of seat wedged into steering wheel.
Noon, Birmingham
Give new driver directions to get to UCE in Perry Barr.
12:30 pm, Perry Barr
Hug Leader and Assistant, take taxi home with one suitcase, one carry-on, two boxes of cheap wine, and one Irish husband.
1 pm, Sutton Coldfield
Turn heat on, scoop litter, feed cats. Collapse. Dream of Paris.
Stay tuned.
PS. Ken, our Driver, was released from hospital the next day and apparently is doing well.

Cultural Differences—Reprise

2005-04-13T10:25:00.000-07:00

Uni. University, as in “When you go on to uni…,” as opposed to college which you go to before uni.
FE and HE. Further Education, what you go on to that isn’t “uni,” like technical training, and Higher Education, which is “uni.”
Module. A course. When I ask my students for feedback about the “course,” they tell me their opinions of the degree program that they are in—BA Marketing, MBA, etc.
Revision. Studying your notes, not revising your notes.
Assessment. The course work that is graded to give the students their marks, or grades.
Marking. Correcting student papers. A pain by any name.
Invigulation. Proctoring an exam. The first time my Wonderful Boss asked me if I could invigulate, I wondered what exactly this job would entail.
Co-opted. A memo announced that a faculty member had been co-opted on the Board of Trustees and was going to be replaced. I thought that was a pretty nasty thing to say without evidence, but the next paragraph explained that someone else would now be nominated to be co-opted on to the board. My Wonderful Boss explained that it just means to be voted on to the board, so no major scandals here yet.
Cuttings. Press clippings.
A PR. A public relations professional, as in “She’s studying to be a PR.”
Ticking boxes. Going through a checklist. As in, “All we really have to do is tick the right boxes.”
Diary. Your calendar book where you record your meetings.
Midday. Noon.
Till. The cashier.
Custom. Your business, as in “Thanks for your custom.”
Nicked. Stolen.
Knickers. Girls’ underwear.
Jab. An injection or vaccination, as in a ‘flu jab.’
Cervical cancer. Pronounced ser-VI-cul on the BBC, more than once.
Cot death. Crib death.
Semi-detached. A duplex.
Maisonette. One fourth of what Americans would call a double duplex, usually two bedroom; what we live in.
Garden. Yard.
Ladybirds. Lady bugs.
Patch. Your own territory or responsibility. As in, “He had better look to his own patch.”
Pitch. The playing field for soccer or any sport.
League tables. Originally the rankings of how sports team in a league are doing, but refers to any published ranking. UCE is ranked in the university league tables, but not very high because the rankings are based on research, not teaching.
Relegation. What happens to the football (soccer) teams that fall below the top 20 in the league tables. They are relegated down to the lower league for the upcoming year, but if they move up far enough in rank, they will be promoted back up to the major leagues the following year.
The Claret and Blue. The colours of our local team, Aston Villa. As revered here as the Black and Gold in Pittsburgh.
Brummies or Brums. People from Birmingham.
Jasper Carrott. A native Brummie comedian, who, despite his goofball look, is very funny. No relation to Carrot Top. As I said, he’s funny.
The future Princess Consort = The Duchess of Rothsey = the Duchess of Cornwall = “the Rottweiler.”
Shambolic. In chaos. As in, “The plans for Charles and Mrs. Parker-Bowles’ wedding were shambolic.”
Stephen Fry. You might have seen him in some British comedies, like Wooster and Jeeves, but he is everywhere here, hosting awards, endorsing products, playing Oscar Wilde. The chubby half of Fry and Laurie.
Hugh Laurie. Now a big hit in the US as the star of House, which will start running here soon. But if you can watch the old series Blackadder, you will see him in totally different roles as the Prince Regent and Officer Darling. The skinny half of Fry and Laurie.
Terrestrial stations. The five broadcast networks (BBC 1 and 2, ITV, Channel 4 and five), which people like us without cable can get.
The red button. On the remote control; lets cable viewers interact with ads and programs on their telly.
Horizontal credits. They run across the bottom of the screen at the end of a documentary or feature program.
Stay tuned.

The News This Week

2005-04-06T10:07:00.000-07:00

The big news this week, of course, was the death of Pope John Paul II. Even in this traditionally anti-Papist country, it was quite upsetting. Charles and Camilla had to change their wedding date!
Who cares? Go ahead and get married. But when you’re the heir to the throne, a Pope’s funeral has more immediate implications. (1) You have to represent Mummy at these things. (2) The PM has to go, and his wife’s Catholic, so she’ll go too. And (3) even the Archbishop of Canterbury has to go!
Was this wedding jinxed? The Anglican Church won’t dignify it with a marriage, so there has to be a civil ceremony before a ‘blessing’ (the reverse of all those Catholic annulments) by the aforementioned Archbishop. Then they discovered that, if the civil ceremony is at Windsor Castle, it becomes legal for ANYONE to get married there. So the actual wedding was moved down the hill to the Registry Office, but Mummy and Daddy won’t go there. Too much fuss, doncha know. Then lawyers ruled that Camilla will be Queen whether she wants it or not, and then some recalcitrant Anglican priests insisted that it’s not legal anyway, because she’s a divorcee. Then other lawyers said, ‘Oops! Even though back in the fifties we said Princess Margaret couldn’t marry divorced Capt. Peter Townsend, we lied! It is legal!’ And then the Pope died.
So the caterers and musicians and hair dressers had to re-arrange their calendars and all the tea towels with the wrong date will show up on e-Bay. The moral is: Marry the one you love the first time and you won’t have to go through this.
In the middle of plans for a wedding and a funeral, Tony Blair, as expected, announced plans for an election on 05-05-05. Usually this triggers an instant stampede from Westminster into the marginal districts to begin campaigning, but with typical British decorum, all electioneering has been delayed until one institutional head is buried and another is married.
This will be the second time that I’m in England for a general election, but this won’t be as big a rout as last time. Labour is actually losing points to the notoriously weak opposition Tories. The Iraq war is a factor—everyone believes Tony lied—and the shutdown of MG Rover right outside of Birmingham is a factor—couldn’t Labour have done more for labor? But one of the biggest factors will be Jamie Oliver.
America knows him as The Naked Chef, but he is now St. Jamie to parents and nutritionists across the land. Owner of a trendy London restaurant, entrepreneur-with-a-conscience Oliver took on a tougher project than his training program to turn the hard-core unemployed into gourmet chefs: School lunches. His own kids are not yet school-aged, but Jamie became aware that English youth are fed a steady diet of chips, crisps and fizzy drinks. Not just from vending machines, but from the ‘dinner ladies,’ transformed by budget cuts into re-heaters of processed patties and ‘Turkey Twizzlers.’ His project began last spring, but the implications weren’t clear until the four-part ‘Jamie’s School Dinners’ ran on Channel Four last month.
Enlisting the support of Nora, a hard-ass dinner lady in middle-class Greenwich, [Nora’s husband: ‘You either love her or you hate her, y’know?’], Jamie started serving the little darlings ratatouille, margharita pizzas and baked chicken. He was a little above the 37p (about 70 cents) per-entrée budget that is the UK average, but worse than that, the little brats threw it all away and ran for the vending machines. So their parents started packing them lunches of chips, crisps and fizzy drinks! As a non-parent, I say don’t give them a choice. Make the little buggers eat the good stuff.
After tears all around the kitchen, Jamie switched from forcing changes in behavior to cajoling changes in attitudes. He dressed up as an ear of corn and went into classes to teach kids about gardening and cooking. He showed them what reconstituted meat looks like in a blender before it becomes chicken nuggets. He put 20 dinner ladies through summer Boot Camp to teach them to cook his dishes using only their limited budgets and equipment.
Watching this unfold, I was thinking, did anyone know this was going on? Are these people really letting their kids eat deep-fried crap every day? Even St. Elizabeth’s School gave us ‘American pizza,’ a hamburger bun with a slice of Velveeta and ketchup on top. Did anyone else notice the school nurse who commented that after the kids started eating Jamie’s diet, she didn’t have to pass out any asthma inhalers? Won’t politicians want to do something about this?
Slowly the media buzz began. Why does the ‘Nanny State’ spend only 37p per entrée? Why did Scotland raise its minimum to 50p two years ago? Why do Turkey Twizzlers have more fat than a Big Mac? Who decided to turn school kitchens into computer labs and order out every day? Why are these kids literally throwing up on camera when they are forced to injest healthy food? (Although personally, as a kid, I refused to eat anything that someone shoved in my mouth saying, ‘Just try it…’).
In the last episode of the series, Jamie invited the Education Secretary, Charles Clarke, to have a typical 37p per-entrée meal. Secretary Clarke has had too many trips to the buffet table himself, but even he couldn’t stomach the grey slab of processed meat put in front of him. He promised a full review and a budget increase.
Literally, the day after this triumph, Charles Clarke was moved to the Home Office because the Home Secretary was forced to resign for fast-tracking a visa for his married lover’s nanny (you gotta love this place). The Education post was given to the youngest female cabinet member ever, super-Catholic Ruth Kelly, an economist from the Treasury Department. There went that budget increase. At her first appearance before the National Teachers’ Union, Secretary Kelly was booed. The Celebrity Chef was prematurely referred to as ‘Sir Jamie.’
Last week, on the morning that Oliver showed up at #10 Downing Street, more nattily dressed than he ever was on telly, to deliver 270,000 signatures demanding increased funding for school dinners, Secretary Kelly announced that the government had found money to do just that. Go figure.
To distance himself from the political hype, Jamie was smart enough to meet with both Conservative and Liberal Democrat party leaders as well, ensuring that healthy eating will be on the plate for this election. Check out his website, www.feedmebetter.com.
Jamie Oliver is my new hero for coming up with a creative solution to a truly important problem—the future health of a country—working within the limited resources available, and taking the action necessary to get it done. Eat your heart out, George Bush.
Stay tuned.

Release/Rebirth

2005-03-30T08:59:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday was pay day. Coming out of a month of paying off bills and spending money that won’t be reimbursed for weeks, extra cash in the account made me giddy. More wine! Dinner at the Horse & Jockey! Clothes at the charity store!
Tony had the day off so he went about transferring money into accounts that needed it, here and in the US. At lunchtime I treated myself to a new office mug. When we first moved here, I visited Poundland—‘Yes! Everything’s a Pound!—every day to furnish our apartment with whatever I could carry home. Time to renew my acquaintance with the cashier. (What is their training like? Everything’s a pound!)
Energy surged through me, like coming out of a long tunnel into the light. How shallow is that? Having ‘a few bob in my pocket,’ as the Irish would say, lifts my spirits this much?
But I felt an urge to buy something. A door had opened, a cloud had lifted. I was thinner. Walking back from One Stop Shopping, the East Liberty-like mall near campus, I noticed Brits wearing short sleeves and no sweaters. A revelation. It wasn’t just pay day. It was…spring.
The first crocus had already appeared in our back rocky garden, but within a few hours it was lying sideways, dead. Now, for the first time in a long time, the air wasn’t cold. Not exactly hot, surely not Miami, but not cold. In Florida, the seasons do change, from hot to really hot. What you notice is how the tourist traffic patterns shift. We hadn’t experienced real spring in a while.
And even during winter here, we had had sunny days. There wasn’t as much pissin’ rain as in Dublin. But this day felt different. It wasn’t just sun. It wasn’t just lack of rain. It was…spring.
A familiar smell lingered in the air, eau de March in Pittsburgh. I didn’t feel the need to wear black. Or my winter coat. Or even—dare I say it—long sleeves. The temperature was probably the same as in November. But coming out of winter feels a whole lot better than heading into it.
Tony and I both had Good Friday off; for the first time in months we felt as though we were allowed to go outside. We opened the front door. No wall of cold air hit us. We headed down the hill. No blast of icy wind slammed into our faces. We wanted to walk. A lot. Outside. Downtown. Like when we first arrived in September.
Time for a mini-shopping spree in downtown Sutton Coldfield. First, the charity shops. Two blue shirts for him for £6. Then to Wilkinson’s, the UK’s K-Mart. Gardening tools! One of the attractions of our new apartment is the tiered rocky garden in the back, but every time we have ventured out to empty the garbage, we raced back in from the cold. Now we bought gardening gloves and clippers for Tony the Gardener, and a plastic bird feeder to entertain the cats.
Then we hopped on the bus and sat up top so we could look down on Wylde Green, Erdington, and Aston, childhood home of Ozzy Osbourne, into the City Centre. At the open markets we bought fresh fish, and then stopped by the train station to pick up schedules for a day trip on Bank Holiday Monday. We were released.
By the time we got home, I was bushed. But Tony used his new gloves and clippers to clear away dead wood. Literally. Our previously unseen neighbor was replacing the wooden fence between the properties and revealed that he is a tree surgeon. Not only is the willow beginning to sprout, tiny colorful tips are appearing on the great big brown clump of twigs that I assumed was a long dead bush. Tony swept up the debris and I dug out the oddly shaped box in the closet—‘You’ll see! We’ll use it for something!’—to put all the branches in.
Easter Sunday was cold and pissy, and Tony had to work the breakfast shift. We had changed the clocks that morning, so at 7 pm it was still light out. We pored over our brochures and train schedules, as we had done when we first arrived, plotting a compact day trip.
Warwick—perfect. A big castle in a medieval market town a short train ride away. After a lie-in Monday morning, we packed up chicken salad, crackers, chocolate, and a Diet Coke in the insulated bag, and took off. The trains run every 30 minutes for less than £5 each return. Following the crowd from the Warwick train station up hill through the ancient East Gate brought us directly to the Tourist Information office. Warwick Castle, not being part of the English Heritage network, has an admission fee three times your average castle, so we reverted to our ritual perfected throughout eight European ports on Semester at Sea: Walk, sit, drink. Walk, sit, drink. Between the museum and the church, for the cost of two big beers, we sat out in the sun, in front of The Tilted Wig, in the middle of the once-medieval market
Yesterday and today it was pissin’ rain, chilly and grey; I was back in the office, getting caught up. Only one bird has discovered the bird feeder, and Tony hasn’t had a been back out into the garden. I slogged home from the bus stop, swathed in my black and gold-lined hooded coat; my gold knit extra long scarf circling my neck, twice; my soaking wet bag wheeling through puddles behind me.
Last Easter, back in warm and sunny Florida, we were both unemployed and Tony was in the ICU recovering from a heart attack.
This Easter, it’s spring. The streets are wet, not icy. The forsythia is oozing off the branches, the crocuses are holding on for more than a day, and we’re coming out of another winter.
Stay tuned.

Academic Conference

2005-03-23T07:18:00.000-08:00

This past week my fellow academics—those who, like myself, teach Public Relations, and those who, unlike myself, research Public Relations—descended on the unsuspecting medieval town of Lincoln for our bi-annual conference, sponsored by the Chartered Institute of Public Relations (CIPR). Lock up your daughters!
Lincoln barely noticed. About 100 of us buzzed around the University of Lincoln, in the modern, all-glass Student Union building on the ‘Pool,’ the body of water in the middle of town, fed by the local river. Pleasure boats were docked in the marina, outside cute fish restaurants and the Marriott Courtyard where some of us stayed. The walk over the bridge to the meetings was pleasant each day and safe each evening. And, as always, there’s something about being near water.
Academic research and I have never gotten along well. I understand its importance in advancing a field, I understand how to do it—I’ve written a thesis and a dissertation for cripe’s sake—and I have great admiration for those who do it well. But—zzzzzzz. As a former business owner, my reaction is: Tell me something I can actually do tomorrow.
When I showed the detailed conference program to Tony, I confessed, “The sad part is, I actually find some of those topics interesting.” In this job I teach PR theory but—My Wonderful Boss knew this when he hired me—have never actually studied it. This conference would be my crash course in the subject.
Day One
The two-hour train ride through rolling English countryside was right on schedule, and I had really clear directions to walk from the station to the campus, trailing my wheeled suitcase. But I arrived after the keynote session had started, and made my first appearance in front of my new colleagues, thanks to one of those badly designed lecture halls, at the doorway behind the speaker. Entering is like shouting, “Hello! I’m here! I’m late!”
Slipping into the closest empty seat, I was just in time to hear the second speaker discuss visual language, without using one visual. The balding professor in front of me, Dr. Theory, was first to jump in, saying that he disagreed with everything the speaker had said. And we’re off!
Caroline, who teaches PR practice at my university, was already there, and I sought her out at the first tea break. I was interested in her interpretation of the dynamics of the group, but didn’t want to attach myself to her for the three days. Searching the list of attendees, I tried matching the names and affiliations with the name tags and faces I had met at a CIPR ceremony in London last fall.
Our lunch of finger sandwiches and tea was spread out in a section of the student union blocked off with little orange signs: “CIPR conference.” My, aren’t we special?
For the afternoon parallel sessions I chose those most relevant to projects my students are working on. Most of the professors were really good presenters, but others were walking academic caricatures: Shirts hanging out of their pants, oblivious to their surroundings, referring to the internet as “new media.” Do these people teach the same students I do?
The sit-down dinner that night featured the author of the standard PR textbook in the UK. I slipped my paperback copy, supplied for free by the publisher, into my purse, figuring I might get Mr. Author to sign it.
Wandering the campus looking for the dinner, I came across Dr. Theory, who had no clue how to find the building we had been directed to. As we wandered together, he talked about his impressions of the conference. “I really feel that we should be spending more time asking, ‘What is a relationship? What is an organization?’” he said.
“Oh, look!” I interrupted with relief. “Here they are.”
Rows of trestle tables, covered with white tablecloths and good cutlery, were set up in the atrium of the Architecture School. Most academics won’t win prizes for fine dining, but at least PR people know how to throw a party—drinks included. The student waiter even found ice for me to sneak into my white wine. (Sorry—a bad habit I developed in Florida.)
I struck up a conversation with a fellow course director whose area of expertise is sports PR, and we commandeered seats near the window. Two grey-haired, pot-bellied Brits sat across from us, and it became apparent that one was Mr. Author. He was interested in our whining about students, but, mentioning that he gets two thousand pounds to show up anywhere, he implied that the fee would apply to a classroom visit as well. By the end of the dinner, however, he commented that he should probably get back on campus. Ms. Sports PR immediately began her campaign to convince him to come speak to her students.
For Mr. Author’s talk we moved from the overly stuffy atrium into a nearby frigid lecture hall. Even after he started, some professors came reeling in, clutching bottles of wine they had swiped from the dinner tables. A familiar voice from the back asked, “Shouldn’t we be asking, ‘What is a relationship? What is an organization?’” A ripple of giggles went through the crowd. Maybe I wasn’t the only one here who was not caught up in purely theoretical questions. After a couple of glasses of wine. At the end, one audience member congratulated Mr. Author on his ability to mesmerize a group of drunks sitting in a refrigerator (well, not in those words exactly).
Back in the atrium for tea, after waiting out a boring Swede monopolizing Mr. Author, I got him to sign my copy of his book. He started explaining his newest theory and, when he searched for paper to sketch out his latest diagram, I opened the book to the blank pages in the back. He quickly moved to a table and started drawing his ideas, and the value of my copy in the market of signed textbooks skyrocketed. When I made an analogy between his diagram and Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, he looked up and said, “Oh, I never thought of it that way.” Score one for the kid from Pittsburgh.
Mr. Author, Ms. Sports PR and I headed over the bridge, back to the Marriott. She tried to talk him into one more drink, but I had had enough academia for one evening. The thought of my own hotel room with cable and my own bottle of red wine was more enticing.
Day Two
In the morning I played hooky to walk around town, but made it to the conference by lunch, which this day was our choice of anything from the student cafeteria. Always determined to make the most out of any free food offering, I grabbed a fresh baguette and some packaged cheeses, stuffing them into my bag with the packaged muffins snitched from the hotel buffet breakfast. When traveling, I live in fear of being trapped somewhere with no food.
By the end of day two, I was knackered. Caroline had ducked out early, saying to me, “Text me to let me know where everyone is going tonight.” The Group Leader invited those of us staying over for the course directors’ meeting the next day to meet at the other hotel, a short taxi ride from the Marriott. I seriously contemplated an evening of BBC and cheese shoved in a baguette. But back in my room, after calling Tony, I got my second wind. Besides, it was my birthday. An evening with academics was preferable to one spent alone.
With nine of us in the other hotel lobby, the negotiating began. Prof. Northern Ireland wanted curry because he can’t get good ones back home. In Birmingham we eat great curry every week, but I decided to go with the flow. Someone wanted Thai, and someone else had noticed a Mexican restaurant nearby. Mr. Former Journalist had already scouted out nice pubs that could fit us in.
The march of the academics snaked through the medieval part of Lincoln, the perfect movie set for Shakespeare, with only a few Ye Old Shoppes which were “Pseudor Tudor.” Clomping over the narrow cobbled streets, we followed Mr. Former Journalist to the Wig & Mitre, right out of central casting. As the serving wench pushed two tables together to accommodate us, I commented, “Who’s going to tell them we want separate checks and individual receipts?” Apparently it hadn’t occurred to anyone else that would be a problem.
Mr. Former Journalist began ordering bottles of wine, and Dr. Theory picked them up at the bar, paying with his credit card. Who am I to question? Chardonnay and some ice, please. From the varied menu, I picked the risotto, the only entrée that appealed to me, and also the cheapest. Would it slip through on my credit card and still leave enough room for the hotel bill the next day?
The food was great, and my nearby dinner companions were interesting, intelligent people. Prof. Northern Ireland was enjoying being a house-husband, and Mr. Singapore reminisced about the donuts he’d tasted in San Francisco. I looked for an opportunity to drop the “It’s-my-birthday” bomb, hopeful of at least a free drink, but none opened up. When bill time came, Dr. Theory gallantly offered his credit card (how much do most academics here earn anyway?!), and divided it equally among us. He agreed to accept cash or checks, and the waiter provided a handful of blank receipts.
Caroline and I walked down the 16th century hill to the Marriott, our conversation alternating from ways we could team up back at UCE to our brilliant solutions to all American and British political problems.
Day Three
The last day was spent in one big meeting with my fellow course directors from universities throughout the country. Being the observer, I tried to piece together the back stories of everyone around the table. When I noticed that the administrative assistant was either braiding her hair or eating an apple, I passed a note to Caroline: “Who is taking minutes?”
“You’ve hit on it!” she said to me at the break. “That’s why we’re having the same discussion we’ve had for the past three years! She hardly writes anything down!” I was really getting into the background of all the issues; Caroline was experiencing deja vu.
After another lunch of finger sandwiches, I grabbed the early train back. A brief stop-off in Leicester to meet my office mate, Jonathan, for a drink, and then back on to the train for the last leg of the journey back to Birmingham. I had to stand, but I’d been sitting for three days, so it felt great.
Stay tuned.

Peer Observation

2005-03-16T08:41:00.000-08:00

As part of the course I’m doing for a Postgraduate Certificate in Higher Education (the “PG Cert”), we had to observe someone’s teaching and be observed. Because I had to write up the experience, I decided to cheat and use an edited version for my blog this week. I took out the boring parts.
What were the details of the two observations?
When we were asked to team up, I raced over to the table with the teachers from the Birmingham Institute of Art & Design (BIAD), much to the chagrin of my own office mate, Jonathan, who wanted to be in a group with me. Two reasons: (1) If Jonathan and I had to work and share an office together, we’d kill each other. We get along great, so let’s keep it that way. (2) Since I came to the University I have wanted to find out more about the BIAD department because My Wonderful Boss and I feel that there are things we can do with them. The Deans of both schools don’t see it this way—yet.
George Hart, lecturer in Visual Communications, agreed that I would observe his first-year Illustration Reportage module, and he would come to one section of my third-year Public Relations module. Both classes are at about the same point in the process of working on projects that are 100% of their grade. We would both understand what the students were doing and how we needed to guide them at this point.
What were you feeling at different parts of the process?
As the Observer
For my first time on the BIAD campus, I felt lost, but comfortable in the familiar art school environment. The student work on the walls reminded me that there’s not much I can teach these students about creativity—their creative muscles are well-oiled. However, it reinforced my belief that our left-brained business students can learn a lot from BIAD.
During my observation, I felt that George’s five students, because they had submitted portfolios to be accepted into this program, are more committed than mine. “Volunteers, not conscripts,” as we say in the PG Cert. They instinctively understand the creative process, so when George made suggestions to look up a particular artist’s work, or watch a certain film, they didn’t question how it would help their project. When I give my students the same suggestions, they look at me as though I was asking them to learn Latin.
One of the students had chosen the Starbucks where she worked as her location to document for the assignment, and I was entranced by her marketing instincts. Starbucks did an excellent job of training her, because she really enjoys her job after five years. When George and I talked afterwards, he was concerned she would be doing a promotional piece for Starbucks instead of a personal reflection on her surroundings. That’s why I teach marketing and he teaches illustration.
The Most Vocal Student in the group presented sketches for her project on Manhattan, which she had just visited. Explaining that she was also planning to sketch the Tube and Piccadilly Circus, she said, “After all, they’re all the same.” The exact opposite of the assignment, to create a unique representation of a unique place! George caught it too, but I think he decided to discuss it with her at the individual meetings next week.
As the Teacher
The morning George was coming, I started to get nervous. I don’t know my students very well yet; would they be well prepared? Would a lot stay away because they knew it was presentation day? Should I be more nervous about someone coming to observe me? Do I take this teaching thing seriously enough? In the past when people have visited my class—including a Dean who was there to check on accusations that I needed “more levity”—I have always been perfectly comfortable. But this day my Catholic guilt-trained mind was saying, “Yeah, well, this time you’ll screw up.”
George is a big, grey-haired bear of a man; there was no missing him in the classroom, so I explained why he was there. When the first student asked if she could use overheads for what only needed to be an informal presentation, I was relieved that at least some of them would come prepared. Most turned out to be better than I had expected, but now that I’m correcting their written versions, the gaps are showing.
“Hygiene factors” in the classroom really concern me, including temperature—this room is way too cold—and where I place myself physically in relation to the students. To get more feedback from them, I sit on a table. This day most of the students decided they wanted to present from the front, instead of just standing by their chairs. I’ve learned that students always present to me instead of to the class, and, because I was sitting next to where they stood, they kept turning towards me. I had a running argument in my head about whether I should move to the back, but decided that would be too disruptive.
When I had put my mind teasers up on an overhead at the beginning of class, I had forgotten to draw enough attention to them. As the class was breaking up, I said, “Wait! Who got any of the exercises?” George got most of them! I was glad he had been working them out (I’m very proud of my creative exercises), but wished he would have held back his answers. I focus on the process of getting the answer, rather than jumping to it. That threw me off a bit, but otherwise I was comfortable having an Observer there.
When George and I talked afterwards, I was disappointed that he didn’t have more criticisms. He said my students seemed to know what is expected of them and what they had to do next. But tell me something I can change! I want to get more response out of this group, although they are the best of the three sections. I’m an American—aren’t I doing something that annoys them? Maybe George was annoyed but didn’t want to tell me?
What did you encounter that was new or challenging?
As the Observer
My biggest challenge was keeping my mouth shut. Before the class, George and I were supposed to discuss, “How the Observer should behave…,” but we forgot. When the Most Vocal Student talked about struggling to portray New York City without using stereotypes, I leapt in. “Have you seen Woody Allen’s Manhattan?” Those who had seen it nodded, and when the student said she hadn’t, I recommended that she only watch the first 10 minutes when New York wakes up to Rhapsody in Blue. I just assumed that she wouldn’t want to sit through a two-hour, old, black-and-white movie. Who knows? Maybe she’d love it. Maybe my students would too.
As the Teacher
As one of “those…cursed with self-awareness,” as Susan Sarandon said in Bull Durham, I’m always watching myself teach. Moving around the classroom, informal and nonchalant, I am conscious that it is a performance designed to convince my students that I’m their new best friend. Having an Observer there inserts a new dynamic into that relationship, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
What did you think of the peer observation process?
I love it. As a member of the Awards committee at my previous university I was assigned to observe three professors who were nominated for teaching honors: One who did a fabulous job teaching teamwork became my good friend; one gave me a whole new insight into the World War I period I had already studied in depth; one actually made chemistry interesting. It was great.
Watching George interact with his students, I was jealous that he had the luxury of 90 minutes to spend with just five of them, talking to each individually while the others listened attentively.
In conclusion, I would like to propose a law that all teachers have to, at least once a year, sit in a classroom and be taught. The seats are uncomfortable, the room is too cold, what the hell is she talking about, and when will this be over?
What have you learnt from the experience?
That my students are not that far off from the others.
That I need to find more time to meet with them individually.
That I don’t mind having someone watch me teach.
And that I really like BIAD and would like to do more with them.
What is your action plan?
To spend our three-week Easter break getting organized so when we start up again in April I can teach the pants off these kids.
Stay tuned.

The Day I Failed My Gyne Exam

2005-03-09T09:22:00.000-08:00

It’s true. I failed. For an overachiever, this is a difficult thing to admit.
Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t fail in the health sense. I’m healthy as a horse. But as of right now we have no proof that I am cervical-cancer-free, because…
I failed my gyne exam.
The “nanny state” here takes good care of us, even though we are recent immigrants. Tony gets the same medication that cost him $300+ a month in the States for the equivalent of about $45 a month here. Seriously.
A few months ago we had our first appointments at our local Vesey Medical Center, which we can comfortably walk to. They have called Tony back for his blood pressure and blood tests, and consistently reminded him to stop smoking.
A few weeks ago I got a letter telling me that it was time for my annual cervical cancer smear—what we call a “pap smear” in the US—tied to my birth month. Tony made an appointment for me, for this morning. I decided not to think about it until—this morning.
I haven’t had this done for six years. When we moved to Florida, I dutifully went to a gynecologist recommended by a friend. And then he retired. His office staff told me where they sent my records, but, shortly after that, my periods stopped. Really. I got hot flashes, but, as Rose on Golden Girls said, “I lived in Florida. I thought it was just the weather.” If I didn’t need a pill prescription once a year, why bother to go through that torture?
Today, as I walked through the doors of the Vesey Medical Center, I remembered the Cosmopolitan cartoon I saw years ago with two women sitting in a doctor’s waiting room, and one saying, “No, I just like the exam.”
The Young Attractive Nurse, with a Hint of a Moustache, called me into the exam room and, because they had previously taken my medical history, she said she would only do the cervical smear. Strip, up on the table. Wait—where are the stirrups?
“We used to have them,” she said. “We got rid of them a few years ago.”
No woman on earth would miss the stirrups. But the alternative is putting the soles of your feet together while lying half naked (guess which half) on an exam table. From a holistic standpoint it makes sense. From a comedy standpoint, it is just too much.
Anyway, to spare you the gruesome details, she couldn’t do it. She tried. Twice. She was very nice about it.
“Just relax,” she said to me.
Yeah, right. Who ya kidding? Sitting like this?
“The door is locked; no one will come in.”
“I know,” I said to her. “It’s purely a physical problem.”
The Young Attractive Nurse with a Hint of a Moustache said that she would talk to the physician, “the female physician,” she said helpfully, and they would either call me in to try again or refer me to someone else.
Who, I wondered? Does this particular physical problem have a specialist?
“So it’s just ‘watch this space,’” she said. “You’ll get a letter.”
I left in humiliation. I didn’t have to be at work right away, so I walked into downtown Sutton, just to kind of think it through. I’ve always had trouble with this damn exam, but I never totally failed before! In the interest of full disclosure I will confess that for years I have been unable to have a complete glaucoma exam. Even when the optometrist was a good friend of mine, he gave up in disgust. And the dentist! Don’t go there. I need Novocain to sit in the waiting room.
My first gynecologist was Dr. Clever, who was also my mother’s and looked just like Menachem Begin. The first time he examined me he kept the nurse in the room, probably afraid I was a virgin who would sue him.
Afterwards he seemed surprised that I asked for a birth control pill prescription, but said, “Well, I guess you just don’t love me.” I mentioned that I assumed he wouldn’t share any of this with my mother.
So once a year I would endure it, because it was necessary to get the pills that effectively kept me from ever giving birth, thank God, thereby exacerbating the problem. But today was the first time I had ever failed!
When I got into Sutton, the house wares chain that is going out of business, Allder’s, was having a big sale and I figured that would distract me. I wandered in and, even at “Up to 75% off!,” there was nothing we could afford. When leaving, I saw a huge display of—I’m not making this up—a corkscrew shaped exactly like a speculum. Talk about combining two vices in one simple instrument. I bolted out of the store and headed for the bus stop.
When I arrived at work, my office mate Helen, with a face full of pain, described to me how her migraine had come on after yet another nightmare of cancelled flights from her weekend home in France where she had endured an entire day in the hospital going through tests. She didn’t want to hear about my physical inadequacies.
Tony called me when he got off work.
“How did it go?”
“I failed.”
“What do you mean you failed?” “They couldn’t do it.”
“Oh. How come?” “I think we need to have sex more often.”
“Oh.” (Pause.) “Did they give you wine?”
“Cute. We’ll talk at dinner.”
As I was standing around the tea-and-sandwiches reception for our guest lecturer, my mobile rang. The Young Attractive Nurse with a Hint of a Moustache was on the other end.
“Oh, yes, I sure remember you,” I laughed.
“Oh. I guess I could take that a couple of different ways,” she said, perplexed. “I’ve spoken to the doctor and she would like you to come in next week and try again.”
We made an appointment for next Tuesday. That night at dinner, in the spirit of marital exchange, Tony told me about the denouement of his constipation problem. Aren’t we the fun couple?
And when I told him that the next attempt is scheduled for Tuesday, he looked at me lovingly and said, “Tell them to kiss your knees.”
So, in the interest of medical science and my good health, my wonderful husband and I are going bite the bullet, so to speak, and, yes, have sex this weekend. There’s no reason why we can’t. But most nights we just get tired and fall asleep in front of the telly drinking red wine and eating Cadbury.
It’s time to rev up the ol’ engines and start stretching those muscles.
If that isn’t love, what is?
Stay tuned.

Teachers Teaching Teachers—Reprise

2005-03-02T03:25:00.000-08:00

Gypsy Teacher: A Yank in ‘Brum’

Wednesday, March 2, 2005

Well, I got here early. Geesh, glad I didn’t have the taxi driver rush. Tea. Any bikkies?
No assignment due today. The next thing we have to turn in is a peer observation of another teacher, and I’ve got it scheduled, so there’s plenty of time to draft it before the due date.
What’s for lunch? Same crap? Maybe we’ll get out early if it keeps snowing.
This would be a good time to read through all the good articles they give us. None of the other colleges where I taught ever made me go to courses like this about how to teach . I attended workshops at FIU, but did we talk about reflective learning? Bloom’s Taxonomy? Any of these teaching techniques?
Ooops. Time to start. Take the same seat. Who are these other people at our table? Were they here before? I never remember any of these people until we’re all in this room again.
Let’s see, the agenda. Not bad. “The influence of assessment on student learning.” That will be helpful. I can use that to write an assessment for my Media class by tomorrow.
First break at 11. About an hour and a half from now. I can last that long. Should I call Tony then?
“Herzberg’s theory of motivation by Elton.” John? Probably not. That’s what I really need to know more about, motivating students. All those sleepy faces dreaming about what they did last night instead of Public Relations theory. Who can blame them?
What will lunch be? The offerings don’t sound horrible, although traditionally British; curries and pies and chips and veg. But whatever I choose never lives up. Brought my own Diet Coke. Even warm it beats yet another cup of tea.
“Using assessment to promote deep approaches to learning.” There we go. What exactly can I do to get them—not all of them, you never get all of them, but more of them—involved and interested?
Second break at 2:45. Geesh. Not much after that. Maybe we’ll get out early.
Oh, good, Alvin. He’s the best presenter. I wonder if he’s gay. But I can picture him coming home in a mini-SUV to the wife and kids in the semi-detached. One of those “yuppie” Brits that Americans only see on PBS. Donald will be doing some of the sections today. He’s always good. Jessica—well, she tries.
Can’t she do her hair? The perm is growing out, but she could push it along a bit for the days she teaches. Geesh.
This is good stuff. Makes sense. I can use that. Oooh, I can use that tomorrow.
Not another ‘activity.’ You mean I have to stand up? Just let me sit and drink my tea. Teach me, dammit.
What’s the “Lecturer’s Toolkit”? I’ll write it down and try to find it. Will I ever really take the time to find it and read it?
Who is that buzzkill sitting at the end of the table? What a piss face. She hasn’t cracked a smile once. I think she teaches Law. Go figure.
Okay, so the assessment I have written is fine, but maybe we really have to spell out to the students why we are doing things.
Could I take more than one bikkie at tea? Is that piggy? How many do the others take?
So should I point out to the Public Relations students that we’re starting with knowledge but they’ll move to comprehension? Will they understand that? Maybe they’re used to this stuff here. Is this the way the Brits have always done it or is this new?
Look at that snow! It is really coming down. Not sticking yet. Will we get out early? Jack and I can share the cab to town and then I’ll take it on home. If they let us out at 2, I could pick Tony up in the taxi. Do I really need to hear this part? Maybe this is a good time to call Tony.
I can use that with the Media class. They’d love that.
I’ll just sneak out now and text him. He’ll have the message when he goes on break before lunch. Want to catch him before he gets a ride home.
So those three-hour exams are not the best way to grade. I knew that. What are you really testing? How to write an exam. Is that a marketable talent? Projects—much better. But you have to structure them right. How can I change the PR project to motivate them more?
Lunch! Pizza. And chips. Just like in Ireland.
Alvin is sitting with us. Certainly more interesting than the others here. Does he really want to talk to me? Am I doing well? Did he like the assignment I turned in? Did he get my little jokes?
Yucch. And tastes as bad as in Ireland, too. More tea? I’ll float away in a sea of tea. Finish off the diet Coke instead. It stopped snowing. And it didn’t stick.
Donald! Great. Love him. What I’m doing with my classes is right in line with what he’s telling us because he has already convinced our whole department that this is the way we should teach. Are other departments doing it differently? Jack said that the teacher he observed was just awful. Are we actually that much better than the rest of the university?
Donald. Exactly the guy I would have made a fool of myself over ten years ago, before we could all tell who was gay. Maybe I feel this connection with him because soon after Tony and I arrived, we went out for a drink with My Wonderful Boss and Donald and his partner. Is it possible we just like each other a lot? What a concept—liking a guy you’re not attracted to and don’t want to get into bed. Maybe it’s called growing up. During my interview for the job, his smiling face stood out from the group of faculty who watched my presentation. He was the only one who ‘got’ my creative exercise. He liked me! Geesh—is that my only motivation? Just getting anyone in front of me—students or teachers—to like me? How much did he have to do with my getting hired?
Pick me! Pick me! Pick my module to work on in the group activity! On the other hand, will they think I’m an American trying to take over?
Donald’s rushing to the next agenda item because we might get out early. Would I rather stand up and move to another table or be in a group with that piss-face? Oh, well. There’s five of us. I can ignore her.
They picked mine! Now I have to explain it. It’s Media, for Chrissake. What do you mean you don’t understand what I teach, buzzkill? Newspapers, magazines, TV. It’s not brain surgery. (Does anyone here teach brain surgery?)
We’re all looking out the big windows behind Donald and calculating the odds on whether we’ll get out early. How distracting. Stopped snowing. I guess we’re here until 3:30.
Well, I’m not sure that diagram really tells anyone what I am actually doing. Oh, hell. Who cares. Put it up. Let them try to figure it out. The other way around, nimnul.
What time is it? Is Donald really going to spend 15 minutes on that last thing on the agenda? Everyone will already have their coats on and be halfway to the door.
Is there an assignment? I’ll revise my assessment tonight after dinner. Or maybe get up early tomorrow and do it before class. This weekend I’ll read through all these handouts they gave us. Can we do extra credit?
Over! Let’s blow this popsicle stand.
Stay tuned.

Snowbound

2005-02-23T09:41:00.000-08:00

Can’t do it. Won’t do it.
One look out the window confirms yesterday’s decision. Today is a work at home day. My Wonderful Boss says it’s okay.
The rest of Birmingham and the UK are out there gliding to work, sliding to work, slipping to work. Not me. Can’t do it, won’t do it. It’s my own personal snow day.
We thought the weather here would be like Dublin. The good news—it isn’t. Not as windy, not as rainy. More days with sun.
But I also assumed there would be little or no snow. In Ireland it’s rare. When they get an inch they requisition snow-clearing equipment from colder EU countries. We had a white Christmas in Dublin this year, but everyone was surprised. And I spent the whole day inside with Dixons (cf. “A Very Dixon Christmas,” www.gypsyteacher.blogspot.com).
Last fall, on a business trip to London in cold, pissy rain, Tony texted me: “It’s snowing in Birmingham.” My worst nightmare. Cold is one thing, but how could I walk the five blocks from the bus stop uphill to 7 Sandy Croft on ice-patched streets in the dark? Tony agreed to meet me at the bus stop, but by the time I got there, the streets were just wet, so I faced them alone.
The second appearance of winter arrived as we were leaving for Florida. I decided it would all be over when we got back.
So this is the first true week of winter. Monday night it started to snow. And snow. By Tuesday morning there was almost an inch. Just enough to make it dangerous. Here are the strategies I had already planned for a day like this:
Hold on to Tony walking to the bus stop, which meant getting up early to leave with him at 6:15 am. Yeah, right.
Get a taxi to the bus stop. Five blocks? I’d feel like a fool and the driver would be angry that it was such a small fare.
Get a taxi to a bus stop halfway to school. Still feel like a fool, and, as long as I’m halfway there, why not…
Get a taxi to school.
I called early, figuring that’s what a lot of other car-less Brummies would be doing. I told the dispatcher that the driver would have to come to the door and help me down the path. She probably thought I was 75 years old. The driver was reluctantly helpful, but, not hearing my directions, dropped me at the campus entrance farthest from my building. Luckily, any ice had melted under the footprints of hundreds of students. Eight pounds. About $15, what I expected. Well worth the cost. Cheaper than knee surgery.
Safely on campus, My Wonderful Boss mentioned that there wouldn’t be a department meeting on Wednesday. That meant the only reason for venturing outside my door would be a scheduled meeting with a student. I tracked her down and got her to come right away.
So here I am on Wednesday, having a work at home day.
Freed from the fear of having to walk on ice, I sleep in until 8. The newspapers arrive and I crawl back under the duvet with them, two cats and a cup of tea. It doesn’t get any better than this.
But this is not a laze at home day, it’s a work at home day. Having made a living working at home before, I resort to routine. BBC1 keeps me informed through my daily stretching exercises. Anticipating my imprisonment, I brought home papers to correct, material to plan for upcoming classes, reading to catch up on. What an opportunity! Tony is working until at least 4. If I’m going to wimp out and not leave the house, at least I’ll get work done.
With a burst of energy I whip through a stack of papers. I go over my instructions for tomorrow’s special sessions with high school students—6th formers as they are known here. I organize my files to plan brilliant upcoming sessions on the importance of media in today’s society. And that’s all before lunch.
My mobile buzzes. Oh no. I had told the department secretary to call me if our meeting re-appears on the schedule. Was this the call I dreaded?
“No, not today,” she says.
“Oh, good. Because I don’t want to go out in all that.”
“It’s dry here,” she tells me, implying that the rest of the world has dealt with this—what makes me so special?
Lunch! Time for a break. I healthfully add frozen peas to a package of macaroni and cheese. Back on the couch, I lick the bowl while watching the national and local news, circled by curious cats.
Willie and Gussie have been looking for new entertainment since they arrived a week ago and now—mom’s home! They’ve discovered the world outside our sliding glass doors, but the birds and squirrels I promised have yet to materialize. Snow interests them, but they’re not sure what it is. The lid from the newspaper box, covered with the white stuff, sits in the hallway so they can watch it melt. Endlessly entertaining.
How long is a lunch break when you’re working at home? At least an hour. Surf up and down the five terrestrial channels, looking for something mindless. Gilligan’s Island reruns; stupid Japanese game shows; old black and white movies; anything that doesn’t involve thinking. Not a one. Damn British television. Daytime is filled with interesting, challenging documentaries; the only crap scheduled are old series that I don’t get.
4 pm is a convenient time to stop work. Tony will be home soon and A Place in the Sun comes on, one of the myriad reality shows about British couples re-locating to warmer climes only to learn that there’s no place like home. I assume some are produced by real estate agents to give their potential clients a dose of reality; I suspect others are supported by the government to discourage potential wanderers.
I look out the front window at the frozen path. Tony helpfully threw cat litter on it. The first few steps would be okay, but there is nothing to hold on to until the parked cars at the end of our cul-de-sac. The downhill slope from there to Maney Hill Road has no wall, no cars, just ice. 150 feet of absolute terror. Followed by three more ice-patched blocks until the main, ploughed, well-traveled, Birmingham Road and my bus stop.
Can’t do it; won’t do it. I rationalize my fear by deciding the only alternative is knee surgery. One slip the wrong way, one misplaced step. Bang. Down on the ice with a dislocated knee, I’d have to figure out how to explain to the “A & E” (Accident & Emergency) team how to re-locate it. How do you call A&E? What’s the number? 911? What good would it do to call Tony, a few miles away by bus?
Nope. Can’t do it. Won’t do it. Too scary. How will I get through a winter like this? Today is a work at home day. Tomorrow I’m scheduled to teach from 9:30 am until 6 pm, so I have to be there. Another taxi.
Just like my mother. Trapped. Afraid to and/or unable to go out. Her rheumatoid arthritis left her barely able to walk, and she never learned to drive. She made sure we knew when she’d been “cooped up” for days at a stretch. When the weather was good, she would clean the house in the morning, then make her way painfully three blocks to the bus stop so she could go into town. Sometimes she could persuade the bus driver—most of whom knew her—to let her off at our doorstep. In the fall of 1975, in the weeks before she went into the hospital, she would say, “I don’t know how I’m going to make it through another winter.” She didn’t have to.
In the fall of 1997, which turned out to be our last in Pittsburgh, that phrase kept going through my mind, “I don’t know how I’m going to make it through another winter.” The other voice would respond, “Well, you are going to go through another winter. What’s the alternative? Do you think you’re going to die? Don’t be silly, Kathleen.”
Instead, I was offered a job in Florida. Deus ex machina. No more winters. We got on the Pennsylvania Turnpike at 6 am on January 1st and didn’t look back.
Seven years later, here I am in Birmingham looking out the window at the snow and thinking about my mother. How am I going to make it through another winter?
One day at a time.
Stay tuned.

The Cats Are Fine

2005-02-16T09:33:00.000-08:00

When we first realized we’d have to go back to Florida for Tony’s immigration hearing, we thought about getting our belongings out of storage and shipping them here to England. It soon became clear the process would be too expensive and too much trouble, and where would we put all that stuff anyway? But there were two possessions we knew would have to bring back with us: William Butler Yeats and Lady Augusta Gregory. The cats.
Taking a job in another country would mean eventually moving the cats, and a job in the rabies-free islands of the United Kingdom or Ireland means a six-month quarantine for any animal entering the country for the first time. Trying to entice me, my Wonderful New Boss, definitely not a cat person, pointed out helpfully that the UK had made some change in their quarantine rules.
As our moving plans proceeded last July, I thought maybe it was time to check out the UK’s new cat rules on-line. Fifteen minutes before our vet closed for the Independence Day weekend I discovered that the kitties had to be micro chipped and vaccinated six months before they could even think of joining us in our new home. The main change in the quarantine rule was that they could wait in Florida instead of in a pen at Heathrow airport. My panicked phone call to the vet got them an appointment for the following Tuesday to begin the long strange trip that ended with Willie and Gussie sitting here, staring out our back glass doors at English birds in an English garden.
It ain’t easy. And if you think I’m going to tell you how to do it in this blog, ha! Buy me lunch. We knew no one who had done it and were operating on a limited budget, some of which may or may not be reimbursed by my employer. But we had wonderful friends, sympathetic employees at many agencies and airlines, and a firm belief that, if other people could do it, so could we. And they are our cats, dammit.
Ever since we left Florida between hurricanes last September, Willie and Gussie had been serving out their sentence in air-conditioned comfort with Terry, a friend of a friend in Okeechobee. We had really tried, but hadn’t found anyone to house them before we left. In a hurricane emergency, temporarily adopting them didn’t seem like too much of a sacrifice to Terry, who already had cats in the rest of her house. Once ensconced in her en suite bedroom, they crawled into her heart and we were happy to reimburse her what we would have paid the vet to keep them locked in small pens.
The cats were fine, but now the time had come to move on. After spending weeks on line and on the phone with airlines and agents and vets, I will tell you this: Virgin Atlantic is the best. Don’t know if Sir Richard Branson is a cat person, but he is definitely our new best friend.
The journey began last Wednesday when we took them to the Okeechobee vet to be wormed and have their paperwork completed. We kept telling them they were going on a great adventure, and Willie protectively sat on Gussie’s back during their ordeal at the vet’s. The cats were fine, but we had to go back later in the day to pick up the reams of paperwork that the vet’s assistant, who, thank God, had experience doing this, obsessively filled out in every detail.
One document had been faxed to us from the vet who had done their vaccinations, but all the instructions from the airline and the two governments involved referred to this as an “original document.” On Wednesday afternoon, Olga, who handles these things for the USDA in Miami, gave her conditional approval for us to show up with really clear faxes instead.
That night Willie and Gussie slept in the same room with us at our friend Debbie’s house, protected from her cats’ curiosity. On Thursday morning, we were all up bright and early to begin our two-day trip. The cats were fine.
We set off on the road from Okeechobee to Miami International Airport, armed with directions supplied by ever-helpful Virgin Atlantic. The kitties were in the back seat in their separate carriers, angled so they could see each other. They have never been apart since birth. (Except for the time Gussie crawled out our bedroom window and was found four hours later cringing under a parked car. That cured her wanderlust; Willie kissed her on the nose when she was safely back in the house.) The airline requires them to be in separate cages, so it was best to get used to it. Subdued and not particularly happy, basically, the cats were fine.
Olga had given me directions from the Turnpike instead of the dreaded I-95. Her tips, combined with our previous experience driving around Miami, got us to the correct street in record time. Only someone who has gotten lost in Miami would understand that the directions to get from the first office we had to go to, 5600 NW 36th Street, to the second, 6300 NW 36th Street, said: “Do not go to NW 36th Street.” Why? It’s Miami!
We found 6300 NW 36th Street first, and someone there directed us back to 5600 NW 36th Street. Tony went into the building to search for “Suite 506—USDA Certificate,” while I waited in the air conditioned car. The cats were fine. He came back to report that the sign on that office said it had closed and all inquiries were referred to 6300 NW 36th Street, where we had just been. Why? It’s Miami!
We drove back to 6300 NW 36th Street—piece of cake this time—and I went in with all the paperwork clutched in a folder against my chest. Just inside the door of the office that clears pets to leave the country, a large red and white sign announced: DO NOT BRING PETS INTO THIS OFFICE. Why? It’s Miami!
After another fax, another credit card, and a signature from Saint Olga, we were on our way to Virgin cargo, where we would hand our precious cargo over to beefy men in sleeveless t-shirts. Waiting in front of the shipping counter, watching fork lift trucks maneuvering around the area where Tony was standing with the carriers, I was a nervous wreck. But the cats were fine.
Willie and Gussie had every piece of paper necessary, but, because Virgin has only recently been approved by the UK government to offer this service out of Miami, they don’t have many pet passengers. A lot of time was spent looking for the C-500 form which, it turned out, wasn’t necessary. Why? It’s Miami!
The men in sleeveless t-shirts turned out to be incredibly well-trained in how to handle traveling pets and their anxious parents. They took us to the pet waiting room where Willie and Gussie had fresh water in their separate carriers, placed close enough together that each knew the other was there. The cats were fine.
Then we fought our way through traffic to return the rental car, and grab the shuttle to Miami airport, eager to have a well-earned leisurely lunch accompanied by one last tropical drink. Checking in with Virgin, I informed every employee along the way that we were traveling with cats, just in case. By the time we arrived at the gate, the only lunch and drink we could wolf down were Personal Pan Pizzas, two $5 beers, and a $2 Diet Coke. Why? It’s Miami!
While waiting to board, I saw our favorite sleeveless t-shirt guy walking towards me. My heart skipped a beat, but then he showed me digital photos he had just taken of Willie and Gussie in their carriers, firmly bolted to the floor of the specially heated cargo hold. The cats were fine.
Crawling into our Economy class seats, Tony and I realized that the cats, in their regulation-size carriers, had more legroom than we did. When the plane took off, and the engines roared, I was convinced that Gussie had probably just shit a brick. I hadn’t noticed before how loud an international flight can be. Were the cats still fine?
Friday morning at Heathrow, I informed more Virgin employees that we were traveling with cats. One called the cargo handlers and, after a crackling of British accents over her walkie-talkie, assured us that the cats were fine.
Our written instructions said that we would have to find our own way from the terminal to the Animal Reception Center (ARC); there was no bus. After a 30 pound taxi ride (including a stop at an ATM), we found the small brick building with the sunny waiting room that already held other nervous waiting parents. One couple was told that they had timed their worming incorrectly and would have to wait 24 hours until their animals would be released. How awful for them!
When the woman waiting by herself was told that she could take her cat now, I turned to congratulate her. That’s when I saw two Virgin employees coming towards us with handfuls of paper. Our obsessively meticulous vet had used a non-EU approved chemical in the worming. It would be 24 more hours before Willie and Gussie would see their new home.
Tony and I strategized about the best way to get him to work the next morning and the cats from Heathrow to Birmingham the next afternoon. The ARC staff helpfully told us that we could grab a bus a few blocks away that would take us to any terminal for a pound. Why had we paid 30 pounds for a taxi? It’s not Miami.
The staff vet gave her approval for us to visit the kitties and we were escorted to large, glass-doored pens where animals wait to become legal residents of the UK. A pile of sheets and towels in the back corner of one pen moved, and Gussie was under them! We picked her up and hugged her and asked if Willie could be switched to that pen. The staff said we had to sign a release form—they can’t assume animals traveling together like each other—but then the siblings could spend their first 24 hours in the UK huddled together. We left behind their favorite dry food from America, assured that the cats were fine.
So instead of leaving Heathrow on Friday afternoon with the car and driver we had reserved, we did exactly what I was trying to avoid: Rented a car and drove, for the first time ever, two hours to Birmingham, on the wrong side of the rode, jet lagged, catless, and without a decent map until we stopped at the Welcome Break rest stop.
Our apartment had never known cats, but now it seemed too quiet. While Tony napped, I decided to take advantage of having a car to pick up heavy groceries. But, too afraid to make right turns through the tight intersections that bothered me as a pedestrian, I had to come up with a circuitous route that was all left turns.
On Saturday morning, well rested, I picked Tony up when he was finished work—using mostly left turns—and we headed out to reverse the trip of the day before. We found the ARC again without too much trouble, only screwing up one of about ten roundabouts on the way.
The vet was paid, Virgin Atlantic was paid, the paperwork was signed, and the cats were released into our waiting rental car, where they were reunited in one carrier. We drove back the now familiar route to Birmingham, only stopping once—to fill the smallest car we have ever driven with 29 pounds (almost $60) worth of “petrol.” We arrived at 7 Sandy Croft tired and relieved, but flushed with a sense of accomplishment. The cats were fine.
Stay tuned.

We Are All Americans

2005-02-09T09:32:00.000-08:00

Tony received the notice from the Immigration & Naturalization Service (INS)—now officially called the US Citizenship & Immigration Services as part of the Homeland Security Department—much sooner than we expected. After applying for his citizenship last March, he received a letter saying that he would definitely be called for his interview within the next 730 days. How precise the US federal government is!
Apparently they are also running ahead of schedule, because the notice he received this January required him to appear in Miami for his interview on February 7th. This was not the most opportune time for us to travel to the States; it’s only the second week of my semester. But you don’t mess with the INS, so off we went.
Weeks before we left, Tony put his passport and other documents on top of his dresser and checked them every day. We dug out his good blue suit jacket, and packed the black pants and blue ties he wears to work at the Ramada. New socks, good shoes. If he would be rejected by America, it wouldn’t be on looks.
To be safe, we arrived in Florida on Saturday, two days before the Monday afternoon interview, and we didn’t plan anything else for that morning. Having spent six years navigating our way around Miami, we allowed plenty of time to drive down there from Hollywood in our rental car, get lost, drive around swearing, and finally find our destination.
We left early enough that we had time to go by all the places we used to see every day along US 1. Not much had changed, but it seemed a long time ago. Weaving our way through downtown Miami, trying to follow the signs, we crossed the Brickell Avenue Bridge and turned right, away from the Miami Circle where native tribes had first staked out the town, before there even was an America. We found the correct street, but it was filled with construction, blocking the sign that announced we had found the right building.
I drove on, following my getting-lost-in-Miami instincts, looking for some place we could kill time with a snack and then easily meet up again when Tony was finished. His notice said, “Allow two hours for the interview and don’t bring anyone with you,” so I intended to take off for lunch with our friend, South Beach Patty.
Burger King! The perfect American landmark. Easy to find and easy to park. We squeezed into a space in the adjacent strip mall, afraid that the Hispanic cop would tell us we weren’t allowed to park there and walk to Burger King a few feet away. Instead, he directed us into the space. Tony got a burger, but I just had an all-American apple pie. We tried to act calm, knowing he was nervous.
We needed cash so I would have change for parking meters on South Beach and he could call Patty’s cell phone when he was finished (what we miss most when traveling: our mobiles). Following one of my creativity rules, “You will find what you are looking for,” I scanned the surrounding neighborhood. There was a sign for a bank! But how to get there? Hidden steps took us down from the parking lot over to the huge office tower with the bank’s name on it. The security guard directed us through the loading dock and back door, and, sure enough, there was an ATM and a bank branch to change the $20 bill. Well worth the walk.
I sent Tony off to the INS, and drove over to South Beach. Finding a parking spot less than a block from the Irish pub where I was meeting Patty, I had enough time to wander through the crowds on Ocean Drive, something tourist-y we never did when living here. I stopped in a tacky tourist shop and bought an American flag, something else we never did when living here.
When Patty arrived at the pub she said, “He already called. He’s finished. It went great.” We quickly gulped down the potato skins I had ordered, and, waving the plastic stars and stripes, made our way back to Miami and the Burger King where America’s most recent almost-citizen was waiting.
A celebration was in order. Miami native Patty—using the parameters of easy to park, easy to get out of, and then easy to drop her at a bus stop—suggested Tobacco Road, a legendary Miami tavern we had never been to. Sitting outside, sharing pork sandwiches and nachos, and toasting with beer, wine, and gin-and-tonic, we announced to the friendly but uninterested waitress that we were celebrating Tony’s next step on the road towards American citizenship. The semi-legal black and Hispanic kitchen staff looked on, bemused.
Tony and I dropped Patty at her bus stop and merged into the waves of rush hour traffic heading north on I-95, the number one thing we haven’t missed while living in England.
Because this trip to Florida would be short, I had e-mailed anyone who might want to see us announcing that, on Monday evening, from 6:30 on, we would be at our favorite place, Cancun Mexican restaurant in downtown Hollywood. If they wanted to come to celebrate Tony’s achievement, great; if not, “catch you on the flip flop.” Who knew how many might show up?
We got there early and asked for a large booth away from the main restaurant so we wouldn’t bother other tables. One by one, familiar faces appeared. Some of the women from my writer’s group came; one another Miami native, one a “snow bird” who spends summers in the Northwest, one an African-American who writes about her early memories of segregation. My former boss and two former students showed up. We talked about Patricia’s Cuban-American husband’s upcoming retirement, Alex’s plans to visit her parent’s hometown in Greece when she graduates this spring, and Julie’s memorable presentation about her Native American roots in my Multi-cultural communications class.
Even though most of them had never met before, it was a great melting pot. As mementos from our new home in Birmingham, we gave out Balti curry and Cadbury chocolate.
Two Mexican pizzas and not too many margaritas later, the check arrived. People were eager to say their good byes and head home, so they all estimated their share and just dropped bills onto the table. This is what it really means to have an MBA: You get to figure out the check. But when I counted it up, and added a 15% tip, it came out exactly right! Are there better friends in the whole world? Tony and I threw in some extra so there would be more tip.
We hung around to chat with the owner, Pat, from Taiwan, and his partner, Sue, from mainland China. They told us about what they had gone through to get their American citizenships. It was a complicated maze to navigate, but the destination was worth it.
Sue said, “Mostly I remember, the judge who did the ceremony, he told all of us, ‘It is very important that you know, from this day on, no one can say to you that you are different from any other American. From this day on, you are all Americans.’”
We gave Pat a jar of Balti curry. Maybe his next venture will be an Indian restaurant.
Stay tuned.

First Day of School—Reprise

2005-02-02T10:09:00.000-08:00

A lot of you have asked about my students, and I realize that not many of the blogs have been about them. It’s not from lack of interest, it’s just that I haven’t come in contact with them very much.
My Wonderful Boss gave me a dream schedule this past fall because he knew Tony and I would need time to settle in. One of my primary responsibilities is to coordinate the diploma program we run for public relations professionals, and he wanted me to concentrate on that. So, besides teaching two weekends in that program—theory, yucch, I dislike teaching it even more than I dislike reading it—the only other classes I taught were two-hour seminars of about 20+ first-year Marketing majors. I incorporated some of my infamous creativity exercises at the beginning of each session and they were a big hit.
This term I am teaching three sessions of a Public Relations course—that means one preparation repeated three times—to undergraduates in their final year. By Tuesday afternoon I’m done with that. On Wednesdays I either attend our weekly department meeting, or the all-day sessions for the Certificate in Higher Education the University is sending me to. This is the first teaching job I’ve had where they require me to learn how to teach better. Thank God.
Thursday is my heavy teaching day; but it is a new course, Media Interface, that I am designing myself, always a treat. For reasons too complicated to explain, I teach four, one-hour seminars—one preparation repeated four times—to first year Marketing students, and then end the day with a one-hour lecture to the total group of 100+ whom I have just seen all day. I know—I couldn’t believe it either. So I’ve come up with a creative solution: Guest speakers.
Friday is work at home day, which the Wonderful Boss heartily encourages. Not bad, huh?
So this past Monday felt like my first real day of school. The two PR sections I teach on Mondays are scheduled from 10 to noon and noon to 2. The entire grade is based on the PR projects the students will turn in at the end—I think that’s stupid, too, but it’s the British system—so in the second hour of each session I will meet with them in small groups to check their progress. For this first class session, my plan was to spend about 90 minutes getting organized, going over the syllabus, reviewing basic Marketing concepts they should be familiar with, and discussing what they think PR is. Starting off with one of my infamous creative exercises, of course.
To arrive at 9, an hour before class starts, I need to catch the 107 bus at 8:35. A lot of buses go through our neighborhood, Sutton Coldfield, but only the Damn 107, as I have named it, goes to our campus.
Tony, God bless him, is up and out by 6:15 almost every morning. He can catch any one of four or five buses that take him up to the next neighborhood, Wylde Green. But from there he is dependent on the rather erratic 115 to take him down the long hill to the entrance of the Ramada resort where he works the breakfast buffet shift. If he misses that bus, at least it’s a downhill walk, but it’s a long cold one.
After he’s off, I drift back to sleep with BBC Radio 4 in my ears. Because this Monday I had to leave at about 8:25 to catch that bus, I crawled out of bed after the 7 am newsbreak. Some days our newspapers aren’t delivered until 7:45 or 8, and this really throws me off. I like to ease into the day, curled up under our dark green duvet with a cup of tea, the Birmingham Post and The Guardian. I am always at a loss what to do until they come, so I made sure my clothes are ready, straightened the place up, made tea. Busy work.
Finally! Newspapers. I rushed through them, but it’s still worth the time. I stayed in our synchronous shower as long as possible, really enjoying the hot water pouring over my head and back. Each time I have to reach up and turn it off, I feel a sense of loss.
I chose a matching black dotted Swiss skirt and top with a formal black blazer for my first day of school outfit. Black is the new black here, and it projects the right austere image to hit them with on our first encounter. I usually wear my black and white dotted cat pins with this outfit, but—no pussy cats today. They are replaced by a white and gold lavaliere that communicates, “Don’t mess with me.”
Monday was the debut of the white stockings my friend Debbie included in the provisions we had her send us from the States. Yes, they have stockings here—tights, they are called. But their sizes confuse me, so each day last fall that I had to wear them, the crotch was down around my knees. On my instructions, Debbie sent me a multi-pack of No Nonsense Size B Nudes, as well as two packs of black and one ivory.
But this day, when I put on the ivory ones for the first time, I discovered that they are “control top,” the biggest fantasy of the hosiery industry. Debbie had mentioned that they were the only ivory ones she could find, but it didn’t sink in until now. I pulled them, I stretched them, I slipped them on one foot, then the other, and then dragged them reluctantly up over my knees and stomach. Thank God Tony was at work. Seeing his wife like this would be grounds for divorce.
I finally got them pulled up and decided I would be able to breathe in them until class was over. Just in case, I threw a pack of the Nude Size Bs in my bag, because I knew they would be comfortable. As I walked around the apartment gathering everything I needed for the day, the ivory control tops started to ease a little. Then I sat down on the couch. Sprong! The waistband flopped down under my belly. Too much Cadbury! I pulled ‘em back up determined we would get through the day together.
I checked my pockets: mobile phone, bus pass, keys. Out the door, down the path, and off on the five minute walk to the bus stop. Right on schedule, the 107 pulled up. Carrying my LL Bean bag full of papers, and inhaling to keep my stockings from attacking me again, I ruled out the upper deck. When I sat down—Sprong! again. The entire first day of class would be spent surreptitiously pulling up my waistband in front of students who I am supposed to impress with my wisdom
When I arrived at my office, neither of my office mates was there. Helen has been out for a few weeks for some minor surgery, and I didn’t know if Monday would be her first day back. Not sure whether Jonathan would burst through the door any minute, to be confronted by the sight of me changing pantyhose, I took my dirty tea mug to the freezing cold ladies’ room, Nude Size Bs tucked into my blazer pocket. I gave up on the ivory control tops, put on the Nude Size Bs, washed out my mug, stopped in the department office to check my pigeonhole for mail, and then headed back to my office. Tea, check e-mails—first office, then personal—get all the handouts and materials ready for my first class.
I found the classroom with four students already sitting in it. An intimate class. In walk a few more. Each filled out an index card and took a syllabus. They didn’t think my creative exercise on the board was for real: “Communicate to me what ‘love’ is.” I told them to write it out for me on a piece of paper. They came up with a mix of dictionary definitions and poetry. I counterattacked with “Love is a battlefield,” demonstrating how creatively communicating a message succinctly is a key skill for PR people. Then I summarized their entire first year Marketing course in 20 minutes. They left happy.
Muffin! With no time for lunch, I had brought a chocolate chip muffin and a small bottle of juice with me to eat in the break between the two sections. Students were milling about in the hallway, but not until the crack of noon did one of them ask, “Can we come in?” “Of course,” I said, ready for a repeat of the previous successful, intimate session.
In surged the Mongolian hordes. Almost more bodies than the room is meant to hold. Did students from all different programs in the business school decide that they are passionate about having a career in PR? Yeah, right. In reality, this is the option that fits best in their schedule, and about a third of them don’t even have the right prerequisite. I spent the next few days culling the herd to make sure they are all supposed to be there.
We covered the same material, but a large group is harder to manage. I warmed to the crowd, playing to the back corners. Those two on the right kept chatting so I walked the room as I talked. When I asked why they are interested in PR, one says he is going into politics and wants to know what PR people can get away with. Just the bait I needed. We discussed ethics and potential topics for their projects. Like the previous group, I could only keep them interested for about 90 minutes and then I released them.
So my first four hours of the term were a qualified success. My pantyhose didn’t sprong!, I was able to wolf down a muffin, and I got through all the material important for the first day. All I know about my students is that some get there early, some come late, some can follow directions and some don’t have a clue. All they know about me is that I talk fast in an American accent, tell jokes, ask them to do goofy exercises, and let them out early. But it’s only the first day.
Stay tuned.

Football

2005-01-26T10:48:00.000-08:00

Q. Which? “Football” as in, the number one sport in America, or “football” as in, the number one sport in the world, which Americans call soccer?
A. Both.
Q. Are you a fan of “American football” or “football” as in “soccer”?
A. Both.
Q. You come from a football town, Pittsburgh. How does Birmingham stack up?
A. Actually, they were sister cities, and not just because they were both regenerated after their industrial bases disappeared. When I first saw the ad for this job on the internet, I said to Tony, “Honey, how about Birmingham?” and he said, “Aston Villa.”
Q. He thought you’d live in a villa?
A. No, Aston Villa is one of the original Premier League teams. And even though Tony, like many Irish, is a huge Manchester United fan, he respects the long and glorious history that is Aston Villa. Although not this year, but that’s another story.
Q. So how does “American football” differ from “football”?
A. Well, I heard a comedian once say that Americans will NEVER appreciate soccer. Because when Americans watch soccer, all they can think is, “Pick up the damn ball! Why don’t you just pick up the damn ball and take it to the goal?” But even if you start as a Pittsburgh Steeler fan, like me, after you watch soccer, you realize the incredible artistry and finesse of the “beautiful game.” American football starts to look like a bunch of overgrown guys on steroids banging into one another. And they’re wimps because they wear so much padding. When I watch soccer I see a lot of exposed kneecaps banging into one another, and it makes me cringe.
Q. So, have you become an Aston Villa fan?
A. We haven’t made it to a game yet. I’m waiting for warmer weather. But one of my colleagues took his students on a tour of Villa Park last week, the home of the claret and blue, and I went along.
Q. Tony must have been thrilled.
A. He couldn’t come. Had to work. Nyaah nyaah.
Q. Cruel bitch.
A. Yes, but I managed to enjoy myself anyway. Although Tony would have recognized more of the legendary footballers in the historic photos lining the hallways, and the directors’ lounge, and all the corporate boxes that they showed us. Nyaah nyaah.
Q. But do you really like soccer?
A. Yes! When I lived in Dublin, the Irish team played to a draw which meant they could go to the first round of the 1994 World Cup—held in the USA, by the way. Ireland went crazy—and they had only tied! We marched around singing “Ole ole ole ole…”
Q. Isn’t that Spanish?
A. It’s an Irish thing. Work with it.
Q. So you became a fan of Irish soccer...
A. Not only Irish. We used to watch the Italian soccer highlights on Monday nights, and it sort of gave you a feel of how the game should really be played.
Q. So the teams are all sponsored by each country….
A. No! Those are just the national teams that compete to play in the World Cup every four years. The Irish, for example, scoured the world for anyone who could kick who had an Irish parent or grandparent, making them eligible for an Irish passport. As a result, there were more Blacks on the Irish soccer team than on the American soccer team.
Q. Then who plays on Manchester United and Aston Villa and all those other teams with funny names?
A. The same players. But they get paid huge bucks to play for those teams, so the highest bidder wins. So the infamous Beckham…
Q. …Okay, even I’ve heard of him…
A. …played for Manchester United until his equally infamous wife, “Posh” Spice, decided she liked the shopping better in Spain, so he managed to get bought by Real Madrid. But, because he is English, he is still captain of the English national soccer team, which will vie to go into the World Cup.
Q. But how do all those teams from different countries play against each other, outside of the World Cup?
A. I haven’t a clue. Too complicated. But in Britain, the major teams compete in what is known as the Premier League for the FA (Football Association) Cup.
Q. Like the Super Bowl?
A. Well, kind of. But there are—hey, Tony, how many teams are there in the top rank of the Premier League?
T. 20
A. And three get relegated down to the lower league?
T. Right. At the end of every season, three are relegated down to what is now called the Coca Cola League, which has, like, 20 some teams in it. And three from there get promoted up to the Premiership League.
Q. So in that 20 in the Premier League, the weaker play the really big ones like Manchester United and Aston Villa?
A. And Arsenal and Chelsea. The other teams near here are in the Coca Cola League, Birmingham City and—the longest name in the British football—Wolverhampton Wanderers.
Q. I thought Aston Villa was the home team?
A. They’re the oldest and most well-known. But each has its own stadium, and when they play each other…Well, you can imagine. It’s like the Pitt-Penn State game.
Q. Okay, these 20 teams play each other, but the big ones that we’ve all heard of must always win, right?
A. Not necessarily. It all depends on the Third Round.
Q. What is the Third Round?
A. The Third Round is what we had last week. In the first and second rounds, the weaker teams slug it out, and then in the Third Round the strongest of the weak ones in the 20 end up facing the big guys. It’s the Cinderella week. And there is always at least one upset.
Q. And? This year?
A. Exeter City TIED Manchester United!
Q. Oh my God! Who’da thunk it?
A. No one outside of Exeter City.
Q. So if they tied—sister kissin’—what happened?
A. They had to have a playoff. A do over. And the winner progresses to the fourth round.
Q. Did you get to watch it?
A. Yes! The really interesting games are usually carried on Sky TV, which we don’t get. But this one was Match of the Day live on BBC1 last Wednesday. Exeter City was goin’ fughin’ nuts. The game was played on their territory, so you can imagine what the city was like. And the owners decided to keep the ticket prices the same as a regular game—about ten pounds—so the average fan could attend. Because of where the stadium is located, people were hanging out of their windows and cheering from balconies.
Q. But if Tony is a Man United fan, who did you root for?
A. We figured it would be such a great story if Exeter City won. The Man United star, Wayne Rooney, is such an overpaid, thick-headed, too-rich-too-soon cry baby, and all the commentators acted as though it was such a shame that poor big bad Man United was forced to play this silly little team, Exeter City, that we were kind of hoping….
Q. And?
A. Oh, Man United won of course.
Q. Why is Manchester United?
A. Two teams merged back in 1904 and ever since, they were united. The other night on TV we saw recently discovered film of a Man United game from 100 years ago. Amazing. There is also Manchester City…
Q. Too confusing. What about American football?
A. I don’t want to talk about it.
Q. But you said you wanted to talk about both kinds of “football.” What about American football?
A. I don’t want to talk about it.
Q. But why not? I thought…
A. I said, I don’t want to talk about it.
Q. Oh, wait a minute. I get it. The Steelers.
A. Don’t go there.
Q. The Steelers almost made it to the Super Bowl.
A. Tony and I went to bed clutching the Terrible Towel. My brother called me at 3 in the morning and held the phone up to the TV so I could listen to the Jets miss the field goal in overtime...
Q. And then…
A. And then the next Saturday at 4 in the morning my brother texted me “NE 41 PIT 27.” It was all over.
Q. So?
A. So, no Super Bowl this year. And Tony and I are going to be in South Florida on Super Bowl Sunday. But, no Steelers. We still need “One for the Thumb.”
Q. Stay tuned?

Aunt Helen

2005-01-19T07:59:00.000-08:00

When families get together for weddings and funerals, they usually say, “We only get together for weddings and funerals.” But one of the things you give up when you choose to move overseas is the ability to show up for even those events. Thank God for e-mail or it would take forever to get the news of who got married and who died.
One of the things I missed last week was the wake for my Aunt Helen. She was the last of the Gallagher girls—my mother’s four sisters—to stay in Pittsburgh. My mother, the youngest, was the first to die, back in 1975. Aunt Florence, the oldest, died in California just as Tony and I were re-locating from Pennsylvania to Florida in 1998. I think she had just passed 90. Jeanne had also died in California, but was brought back to Pittsburgh for burial. I went to her sparsely attended funeral and got re-acquainted with my visiting cousins.
Noreene is way past 80 and as feisty as ever in California, with her gorgeous Irish face and pure white hair.
I come from good stock.
In addition to being closest in age to my mother, Helen also looked the most like her. We didn’t notice this as we were growing up. But after my mother died, my Dad gave Helen my mother’s turquoise suede coat with a grey fur collar. It was gorgeous, and also relatively new, so we weren’t going to toss it in the clothing bin. I was waiting in line in a downtown department store one day and I heard someone call my name. When I turned around I thought for a moment that my mother had come back from the grave. But it was Aunt Helen. Not only was she wearing my mother’s distinctive coat, but she looked just like her. The round smiling Irish face, the red-brown hair—all the women in my family get redder as we get older, doncha know? It was an eerie moment.
When my mother told stories about her large Irish Catholic family growing up on the South Side of Pittsburgh, Aunt Helen always featured as “the wild one.” “Helen got her new shoes wet and so she dried them in the oven and they were ruined. Grandpap was furious.” “Helen took the money Grandpap gave her for school clothes and spent it on black lace underwear.” My mother didn’t share her priorities; I admired them.
Years later when I would repeat these stories, Helen said she didn’t remember them. But after she was widowed, she would go on senior citizen bus trips and pick up the bus driver. Single myself, I asked her how she pulled this off. “I left a bottle of whiskey and a note outside his hotel room door,” she told me. My Dad, who always got along well with Helen, said, “It’s a good thing she didn’t leave him a casserole. She could never cook.”
Helen was one of the Gallagher girls—and lots of girls at that time—who “ran off to West Virginia” to get married, the chosen venue for young Western Pennsylvanians. She was only two years older than my mom—who didn’t give birth until she was past 30—but growing up I knew Helen as a very young grandmother. Her own three children—Lynne, Charles and Suzanne—had married and reproduced prolifically, including twins! Not a common occurrence among our overly Catholic relatives; we grew families one at a time. My mother was always amazed by how nonchalant Helen could be about raising children. Watching Helen going about her business, ignoring the importuning two-year-old tugging at her, mom would say, “Nothing bothers her.” Whereas everything bothered my mother.
After my mother died, Helen and I became more friendly. She never drove, so I would pick her up at her apartment and take her to the family weddings and funerals. She would escape the Pittsburgh winters by going to see the Gallagher girls in California, as I did, and we would keep up with gossip. She knew I had gone back to the old sod and brought back an Irishman, and got to meet Tony at her 80th birthday party, hosted by her 90-year-old boyfriend in the party room of her apartment complex. “Hey, Irish, get over here,” she called to Tony, and put him to work serving food for the party. That was the last time I saw her and she looked great.
Last week I got an e-mail from Cousin Cathy on the West Coast saying Helen was in the hospital and it didn’t look good. I dug out an e-mail address for Cousin Charles, and he explained his mom had refused chemotherapy for her cancer, feeling it was better to go through death than go through that hell on earth. She had once told me that she was the exact same age as my father—who had always lied about his age—so she would have been 86. Not a bad run. Charles and his sisters had visited with her at Christmas and said their good byes, so last week they all came back to Pittsburgh for the funeral and memorial service, an Irish wake. I would have loved to have been there.
I would have told them about the shoes in the oven and the black lace underwear. But I also would have told them the story that summed up Helen best for me.
She was very politically active and fought hard to get something on South Side, where my grandfather had raised seven kids as a single parent, named after him. Grandpap had risen from being the uneducated son of an immigrant Irish glass blower, through the unions, to become the longest serving member of Pittsburgh City Council, and, for one glorious year in our family’s history, 1956, Mayor.
Helen always got her way, and she had finally persuaded city government to name one of the new river rescue boats that left from the South Side dock the Thomas J. Gallagher rescue boat. I planned to attend the ceremony, but drove around looking for the dock (not having been raised on South Side myself), until it was too late and then gave up and headed back to my office.
In the car I had the local 24-hour news station on, and to my surprise, they were covering the launching ceremony of my grandfather’s boat. As I drove, I heard my Aunt Helen’s voice coming out of my radio: “They told me that you always launch a boat with a bottle of champagne. But my Dad started as a poor boy on South Side and he never drank champagne. So I’m going to christen this boat in his name with a bottle of Iron City beer, because he drank a beer every day of his life.” With that I heard a big crash of glass and boat and beer.
So here’s to Aunt Helen. If you’re in Pittsburgh, get out a bottle of Iron City (they don’t make the Gallagher-Donnelly preferred brew, Duquesne, any more) and toast one to Aunt Helen. If you live anywhere else, any drink will do. Because she wasn’t picky.
But she was a great broad.
Stay tuned.

Telly

2005-01-12T05:53:00.000-08:00

We decided to buy ourselves a television as a Christmas present this year. We’d been here since mid-September and had our own wonderful apartment since October 1, so the time had come. It’s a tribute to our relationship that through the months without one, spending most evenings at home together, Tony and I still have something to talk about. However, we had spent enough evenings saying, “Wow! Eight o’clock already.”
My research on the Internet and in the stores showed that the best deal was £179 from Dixons (no relation; although I told Tony he should walk in and demand a job), if we brought it home in a taxi (£5) as opposed to having it delivered (£20). I told the dispatcher that there was a large heavy box to carry so they would send me a big strong driver, and, on the way home, I explained to him that my husband had had a heart attack, so I didn’t want him carrying the telly up the small hill to our door. “Really?,” he asked. “Did he have a bypass?” “No,” I said. “He just had a stent put in, thank God.” “Oh. I had quadruple bypass surgery in January,” he told me. So much for help bringing it up the walk.
But when we got there, he just picked up the 21 inch with built-in DVD player and carried it up to our door. Tony came out to help, but the driver just kept going right into the living room. I gave him a big tip.
We got it set up with no problem because we had been advised by friends to buy an antenna--“rabbit ears,” remember them?--so we could pick up the five “terrestrial” channels here. This apartment isn’t wired for cable yet, so we’re putting that off for now.
The five channels are BBC 1 and 2, and the three commercial ones, ITV, Channel 4, and five. When you buy a telly you also have to buy the TV license—£121 per year. That’s what pays for commercial-free BBC 1, 2 and lots of others we don’t get, as well as the great BBC radio stations. [N.B. To those of you who are well traveled and are thinking, “I saw commercials on BBC,” BBC World is brought to you non-license payers by advertisements.] Of course we considered just waiting until they found us, assuming that stores have to pass on the name and address of everyone who buys a telly. But before we got around to turning ourselves into the Post Office, we received a letter addressed to Occupant pointing out that there was no TV licensed at this address, and it would be really convenient—and more legal—to sign up for direct debit so the fee would be spread out over a year. That was the clincher.
So we now have a legal telly and were eager to start watching all the intellectually stimulating documentaries listed in the newspaper. The first night we indulged ourselves in an investigative Whitney Houston biography.
Even with telly we are still absorbed with the British newspapers. There is so much good stuff to read in them, not just because we are catching up on a lot of British culture, but also because they devote so much space to really in-depth features and profiles. Our daily ritual of stopping at the newsagent on the way home has been replaced by the morning delivery service from Mills. We get The Guardian and the Birmingham Post (replaced by The Observer on Sundays). I bought a covered plastic tub for the paperboy to put them in, after I found him struggling to squeeze the huge Saturday edition, including the TV Guide-size entertainment booklet, through our tiny mail slot. (The box can also hold any huge expensive presents you’d like to mail to our home address, saving us a trip to the Post Office. Thank you.)
For all their license fees and high standards, however, the British media still wallow in the American journalism style of picking one lead story and flogging it for days. First it was the paternity of two kids whom the Home Secretary, David Blunkett, claimed to have fathered during an affair with the newly married American publisher of The Spectator magazine. A politician proudly insisting that the kids are his! Then the editor of The Spectator, who had already been caught in his own extra-marital affair, said nasty things about Liverpool over-reacting to the beheading in Iraq of one of its native sons. Then, as the Home Secretary finally resigned because it was revealed that he had fast-tracked a visa application for his illegitimate children’s nanny, we learned that the kids’ mom had also had an affair with one of her columnists who also writes for our Guardian. Geesh! How did that team ever have the time to turn out a magazine?
We followed this soap opera last fall mostly in the newspapers and on radio, so it took us two weeks to figure out that the disgraced Home Secretary was blind. It was that long before anyone published a photo of him that included his guide dog.
I’ve developed a system of holding on to the newspapers that have longer articles I want to spend time reading. The pile is about three feet high and two months old, but I’ll get through it. As soon as I stop watching telly.
I mean, c’mon, the other night, just when we wanted to go to bed and curl up with our newspapers, Flashdance came on! How could we not watch Pittsburgh? And the next night—Body Heat! This was the first time we’d seen it since we actually lived in all the places where it was filmed, in Hollywood, Florida. We fell asleep during Night Shift, although I will always welcome a chance to see Pittsburgher Michael Keaton in anything. (In the movie of my life—he’ll play my brother). Before we had a telly, we had to plan how to kill time until we went to bed; now we have to figure out how to cram in all our viewing before we pass out on the couch, remote in hand.
This past week the biggest controversy was over BBC2’s decision to broadcast Jerry Springer: The Opera, despite vocal objections from many Christian groups. Although Britain does not have a First Amendment, free speech is protected to some extent. The musical has been selling out in the West End for months, apparently with very little protest. However, some Christian license payers were not happy that their fees were going to fund that.
Since Tony was working that night, I got my red wine and my Cadbury and curled up under our blue cotton throw on the couch to watch the whole thing, preceded by two 15-minute programs about the making of the musical and its controversy. They also sandwiched in a repeat of a half-hour BBC show from a few years ago, where the presenter, Ruby Wax, Britain’s version of what American women are like, went to visit the actual Springer TV show in Ohio. Ruby is so much more entertaining than Jerry, and, although the Opera would make an interesting evening in the theatre—only if you had a discounted ticket—it really wasn’t “art” or worth getting so upset about. After the broadcast, BBC received about a third as many protest calls as before they had shown it, and an almost equal number of calls in support. I almost called to protest about how bad the music was.
This week we caught Tribe, wherein this British honky films “primitive tribes” in Africa and insists on living just like them. Although there are subtitles for most of the comments by the Africans, I’m convinced they are really saying, “Who the hell is this stupid white guy in khaki shorts?” We decided that watching him drink cow’s blood and talk to women with the plates forced into their lips was better than watching Celebrity Big Brother.
“Celebrity” is a bit of a stretch. The only ones we’ve ever heard of are Brigitte Nielsen—and they surprised everyone by adding her former mother-in-law, Sly Stallone’s nutso mom Jackie—and Germaine Greer. Yes, the academic feminist, author of The Female Eunuch, Germaine Greer, not some stripper who uses that name. Okay, I confess, I did tune in the night that she walked out, just to see if they explained why she could leave while the others were stuck there with the big obnoxious gambler who keeps picking his nose. I still haven’t figured out the rules, but Germaine admitted it was one of the stupidest things she’d ever done. Well, duh.
We’ve enjoyed the programs chronicling families who decide to buy a place and either move out to the country or all the way to another country—usually one with a lot of sun. But our guilty pleasure this week has been, Vote for Me, a political American Idol. People who think it would be fun to be a Member of Parliament submitted their own political manifestos, and eight were chosen by a panel of three “celebrity” judges, none of whom we’ve ever heard of. The eight are grilled with questions, put in front of the media, forced to canvas for votes door to door, and then tossed out one by one based on votes from the British viewers. Two nights we texted our votes for Julie, the single mom who wants to get rid of the red tape in the nanny state. However, we’re afraid that in the current climate, the arrogant white guy, who is a lawyer convicted of fraud, will win with his totally anti-immigration platform. Go Julie!
So license fee or not, you could argue that television the world over slips down to the lowest common denominator. But for the past few weeks, our new telly has also spewed forth riveting pictures of tsunami floods, devastated towns, and people vying for relief services. In the first few weeks, the British people collectively pledged more money than their government did. Will the images of middle and upper class British tourists being buried in mass graves with inhabitants of their former colonies make a positive difference for the future?
Stay tuned.

Our Fantasy List 2005

2005-01-05T04:40:00.000-08:00

On New Year’s Day 2002, when Tony and I knew that my teaching contract would not be renewed at the end of that year, we took ourselves to lunch at one of our favorite Irish pubs, The Field in Dania Beach, Florida. We drew up a list of our wildest fantasies; not resolutions, not goals for the year, but “someday I really want to…”
As I wrote the next year in my first entry in my first blog, Every Wednesday: The Journal of a Teacher in Search of a Classroom: “As we got up to leave, I said, ‘We will come back here one year from today and we will be amazed—not only at how many of these we did accomplish, but that we accomplished the ones we thought were wild and crazy fantasies.’”
Within six weeks we were planning our wedding and our voyage on Semester at Sea. Two down.
Each New Year’s Day since then we went back to the Field and came up with another list, which we then stored on the computer so we wouldn’t lose them like we did the first one. When making our plans to move here to Birmingham, I predicted we would find another Irish pub named The Field where we could continue our tradition. I’ve searched, but there isn’t one.
This year Tony was scheduled to work at the Ramada on New Year’s Eve and then for New Year’s Day breakfast, so we just got a room there, brought our own champagne and celebrated in style. When he got off work at about 2 pm on January 1st, we decided to go home first, chill out, and then head up to our local—not Irish, but comfy—and make our list.
The moment we stepped off the bus at the stop near our house it started pissing rain. Big fat drops that hit so hard they felt like hail. We came home, had brandy in our tea, and kept looking hopefully out the window. Yucch. It sure ain’t Dania Beach, Florida.
So this year our tradition shifted to January 2nd and an English pub, but the idea is the same. We had printed out the last two years’ lists and checked off what we have done and what we haven’t—yet. It’s always an interesting exercise. One of our wildest dreams was “three months in Europe”; now we live here! I still haven’t done stand up comedy, and we didn’t take a barge through the French wine country, but I do have something in a savings account, I did win an award (First Place in the Florida chapter of the American Association of University Women’s Creative Writing competition, for Non-fiction Writing) and I did get a piece published nationally (“D H Lawrence’s ‘Sons and Lovers’” in the November issue of Mental Floss). We did take a picture of Tony’s kids all in one place and he is working in a new job. “More organized” and “less clutter” showed up for the past two years; we partially solved that by moving to a smaller apartment. Oh—and we didn’t stop George Bush. But neither did anyone else.
I strongly recommend you try a similar exercise. It’s good for your creativity. Just putting down in writing what you would really like to do in your life can be the first step that propels you in that direction. We never look at the lists until the next year, and we are always amazed. So here are selective items from this year’s lists. They are only in the order that we think of them—no rankings, no priorities—and we do one for me, one for him, and one for us. By the way: The simplest thing to accomplish from last year’s list? “Clean the rug.” Never did it.
Fantasy List 2005

KD

1. A savings account that always has something in it.
2. See something new every week
3. Regular Girls Night Out
4. Hang out with Pittsburgh people again
5. Own property in Hollywood, Florida
6. Teach on each continent (Asia, Australia, Africa, and South America are left)
7. Cheap weekend getaway to some city in Europe to visit someone we know
8. A book deal
9. Expand my culinary repertoire
10. Be asked to give a speech
11. Get a security deposit back from somewhere we rent (I cheated and added that the next day)

TD

1. Stand on the Great Wall of China on 05/05/05
2. Off the cigarettes
3. Take my granddaughter Erin on a trip with both of us
4. A new or an additional job
5. Join a club
6. Go to Villa Park to see Aston Villa play Manchester United
7. A house big enough for my whole family to stay with us
8. Restore Kathleen’s “doctor’s desk”
9. A day at Cheltenham races with John Maher and no money
10. Fly in the cockpit of a jet
11. Tour the West Country of England

US

1. A barge tour through the French wine country
2. Semester at Sea again
3. Spend a holiday near the Donnellys
4. Go through the Western US by train
5. Drink less wine
6. Give regular dinner parties
7. Re-do our wedding on Hollywood Beach for our 5th anniversary
8. Get a Eurail Pass and just go
9. Volunteer in a disaster area
10. Spend our 20th anniversary together in 2022, with our friends, healthy

What’s on your list this year?

Stay tuned.

A Very Dixon Christmas

2004-12-29T04:17:00.000-08:00

Pap pap! Can we go down and see what Santy brought me?
What did he bring you, baby?
I don’t know yet. Mam said we can go down if you get up.
Okay. I’m gettin’ up. C’mon, Kathleen, we’re goin’ down to see what Santy brought.
Bye.
Aaah! Look! It’s fughin’ snowin’. D’ya believe we’re havin’ a white Christmas? I don’t fughin’ believe it.
You jokin’ me? When was the last time we had a white Christmas in Dublin?
Oh! Eeyore!
Look Erin! Look what Santy brought!
It’s the biggest Eeyore ever! And Selection boxes for everyone.
Let’s do the Kris Kringle. Can we do it now?
Not yet. Wait till everyone is up.
Kathleen? Are ya comin’ down?
I’m comin’.
We’ll do the Kris Kringle now. Wait, Tony, ya bollocks. Don’t open yours until everyone’s here.
Okay, now. Open them all together.
Wow.
It’s lovely, Neil.
What did Kerrie get?
Oh, look at the sweater! It’s gorgeous, Kathleen. Thank you.
Alain—it’s beautiful. Look, honey. Look at my scarf. A flask! That’s perfect. We’ll be able to use that.
James! Brilliant.
It’s a book about all the corruption in Boston. You’ll fughin’ love it. It’s a great story.
Look what Neil got us! A week on holiday in Majorca. And they have a place for the kiddies, Erin.
Yeah, we’re going in May on holiday.
Are you goin’ back up to bed, Kathleen?
Just for a nap. Tony, wake me when there’s food.
Erin, should we call Niamh and see what she got?
Um—yes!

Come down for breaky.
The sausages are gorgeous, Naomi.
Who wants white puddin’?
Sit down, James. Erin, sit up right now.
There’s brown gravy for the mushrooms.
Rashers and puddin’?
Aaaah it’s Christmas, right, Tony?
Remember when I blew up the cooker on Christmas morning?
Aaah, right, Da. The whole fughin’ thing blew up.
We had an Aga cooker. No, a Stanley. I came down one Christmas morning, laid out the breakfast for the five of us, and opened the drafter on the cooker. And there was this major explosion in the kitchen which sent a film of black dust down on to the table that I had just set out on a yellow table cloth.
Yeah, Dad. And remember the Christmas you were sick in the hospital?
You don’t like puddin’, Kathleen?
No, I’m not a fan of pudding. Do you want my beans?
Is there more bread? Who needs butter?
Jaysus, they’re drinking beers already.
Well, for fugh’s sake. It’s almost noon anyway. You been lyin’ in bed all morning.
We’re on clean up for breakfast. Sit down, Naomi. Tony and I’ll do it.
The last Christmas we were together was 1991 and the turkey fell off the platter and broke its breast bone. Remember, Kerrie? Helena just came down for Christmas from Swords and brought Naomi and James, and we had this Christmas that was dreadful. I let the turkey fall off the platter. Me and Kerrie were takin’ it out of the oven and I let it fall on the floor. We always said the turkey was like the Christmas, it was flat.
Neil, you and yer family used to go over to Bennett’s every Christmas morning, didn’tcha? Bridge Bennett.
She said she’d stop by later.
All the Cusacks' cousins would go over to Bennett’s. They’d go over in the evenin’ time, Christmas evenin’.
Neil, do you remember when your grandfather and your dad and me and some other friend of yer dad’s was there and we set about puttin’ up this chain link fence. But it needed four holes to be dug. And Neil’s grandfather had been a builder and knew about foundations and was very precise about it. He was being the foreman or the boss and we were just the workers. He nearly drove us mad. Every couple a shovelfuls of clay he’d get the router out and put it down the hole and he’d say, ‘We need a few more shovelfuls of clay in there.’ He was walking backwards trying to get a sighting and he fell in a hole.
Jaysus. I remember, Tony. He was gas.
Aaah, she’s been talkin’ about it for months now. When we’re exercising at the gym, ‘…and Dad and Kathleen can sleep in Erin’s room, and you and Alain…’ It’s all I’ve heard about.
We were worried and then all of a sudden we cracked up laughin’ because he’d been so precise about diggin’ these holes. And then we had to mix up cement and put it in the hole and he was measuring the poles and sayin’, ‘I think that needs a bit, an inch to the right.’ It was like a major job for just a bit of chain link fencing. Which looks very nice at the moment, I have to say. I call it the Christopher Redmond fence.
Who farted? Was that you Neill?
It was Chloe. It was the dog. He farted.
She.
Get out Shep! Get out Chloe!
He’s after runnin’ out the door.
She.
Yeah, right. She’s after runnin’ out the door.
Can they do drug testing on you?
They did it to me when I worked at Boston Scientific because it’s an American company. I’d have to pee in a cup. And they wouldn’t tell you when.
They couldn’t do that here. They have to do it in America. But here they’d never do it.
Do you love that three-minute pasta, Tony? Isn’t that great? And the rice?
Yeah, the family business.
And did you see the label we put on it for you?
Yeah, ‘Love Neil Erin and Naomi.’
You did?
Yeah, honey. Didn’t you see that? I saved it for you.
Erin, it’s Sarah calling from Thailand. She’s on holiday. She wants to talk to you.
Hello, Sarah. Merry Christmas. I got the biggest Eeyore ever. And Cadbury Selections. And a princess mirror. And an elephant you can draw on with coloured pens and then wash and draw on again.
You don’t have to do that, Kerrie. Tony and Kathleen cleaned up.
That’s allright. I’m just finishing it off.
We’ll play Trivial Pursuit. Who wants to be blue? Kerrie, you and Alain can be a team, Kathleen and Tony, and Naomi and Neil with Erin. Here’s the kids’ questions for Erin.
Hello? The door was open.
It’s Bridget and Susan and Niamh!
Niamh! What a lovely dress! Look at the lovely dress I’m wearing too.
Take her coat, Erin. Take your boots off.
Who are they?
Susan is Bridget’s daughter. They’re neighbors.
Let me get you a drink, Bridget. Do you want some whiskey in that Coke?
How long’s it been Susan? About 15 year?. Jaysus. What have you been doing?
Well, I had Niamh for one thing, Tony. Her dad and me just broke up. He wasn’t good to me. I was workin’ down in Ashbourne but now I’m doin’ a course.
Where’s Tom, Bridge?
Aaaah, he won’t come out, y’know. He got me a lovely pant suit, red it is. But the sleeves are so long and the pants are so long and y’know I’ll just have to take it up.
Erin, do you want to put together your puzzle of the world we got you?
Yes. Let's do that.
There’s Ireland where you live. There’s Birmingham where we live. There’s Florida where you came to our wedding. See how far it is? There’s France where you went to Kerrie’s wedding. There’s Majorca where Neil is taking you and Mommy on holiday.
This guy goes parachute jumping and half way down he can’t open the chute. He panics, y’know, like, oh sheit! And he looks down and there’s a guy flyin’ up to him. And he shouts to the guy, ‘Do you know anything about parachutes?’ And the guy goes flyin’ by him and he fughin’ shouts: ‘No, I don’t. And I knew fugh’ all about gas boilers either.’
Me grandmother used to say, y’know, when I’d tell an Irishman-Englishman-Scotsman joke, she’d say, never make the Irishman look the fool.
Somebody’ll be comin’ to collect ‘em. I think it’s Sandra that’s comin’.
Aaaah, come on in and have a drink
‘It’s Christmas evening, in the drunk tank…’
‘An old man says, I won’t see another one…’
You been singing that song all day. How come I never heard it before?
The Pogues? Are ya sure you never heard it before, Kathleen?
And how’s uncle Tony Dixon? Liz said he’d been sick.
Nyaah, he’s fine.
The one who sings ‘Big Rock Candy Mountain’?
Liz’s is a fughin’ liar. She had me all worried that he had been sick.
‘So Happy Christmas, I love you baby. You took my dreams from me, when I first met you…’
‘Aaah, you’re a drunk, you’re a maggot, you’re a cheap lousy faggot,’
‘Happy Christmas me ass, I hope it’s our last!’
Who wants a menu? Kathleen, do you want a menu? Here.
Thank you, Erin.
Pap Pap, do you want a menu too?
Why don’t you make them for everyone?
‘And the boys from the NYPD choir, were singin’ Galway Bay,’
‘And the bells rang out for Christmas time.’
Who’s comin’ for dinner?
Corkey and her mother Mary and Lorna.
Who put together Erin’s puzzle? Did you do it, Erin?
No, we did it.
Ah geesh, James, I wanted Erin to put it together.
It fughin’ took us three of us adults to do it!
Alain, what do the French do at Xmas.
Eat.
I’m gonna go up and have a nap before dinner. Call me when there’s food.

I don’t care Kerrie. I said it and it’s done with. Now quit actin’ the bollocks. Quit bringin’ in all the dramatics. You’re not going home before dinner.
No, it’s not dramatics. I’m goin’ home. I won’t be treated that way and I won’t let Alain be treated that way.
How are you gonna get home? There’s no fughin buses and it’s fughin’ 50 quid in a taxi. Just sit down and have your dinner.
Kerrie, I flew 3000 miles to be here to see you and now you’re gonna to leave even before fughin’ dinner? No way. Don’t ruin it for everyone. It’s just Naomi. It’s just the way she is. Leave it alone.
You have to stand up. You can’t take it bein’ treated that way.
And I won’t be talked to that way in my own house. I said it and it’s done with and that’s it.
Naomi, can I talk to you outside.
I think the dog has to pee.
He’s looking at your newspaper real nervous like.
She.
I’ll take her out.
Erin, move Eeyore away from the heater. How come he looks so sad?
Because that’s Eeyore. He always looks sad.
Is he your favourite?
No, Pooh is my favourite. But Eeyore’s the biggest one.
Erin—look! It’s My Fair Lady on telly! Did you ever see My Fair Lady?
No.
We’ll watch the dresses. Wait till you see the dresses. They’re gorgeous.
Where’s Nat now?
She’s in London. She’s due in April. She’s huge. D’ya remember when she threw the rug down on the street in Drogheda and started dancin’, just for coins?
Nat? I remember she wouldn’ta said sheit if she had a mouth full of it. She was dancin’ on the street?
Doncha remember?
What time should we eat?
Oh great! They brought Baba!
Baba!
Who’s Baba?!
He’s a gentle giant. You’ll just fughin’ love him.
Baba’s here!
Has Baba met Chloe before?
Oh, sure. They get along just fine. Chloe’s learning how to be a dog from him.
And it’s a good thing because he could crush him in a minute.
Her.
Corkey?
Yeah, Courtney, but I’m Corkey. And he’s Peels.
Why do you call Neil ‘Peels’?
He calls me Corkey. My mother called him Scobey.
So that’s where it comes from! Tony calls everyone Scobey except me. Neil, do you want to try some sherry? We brought Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry because Tony said his mam would always have it at Christmas.
What is it? Is it wine?
I remember Nana drinking that at Christmas. She’d sit and just have a sherry.
When are you guys goin’ back to Birmingham?
We were gonna to fly back tomorrow. But then I found out that the Abbey theatre was having its 100th birthday party on Monday, and Tony won’t have to work until Wednesday, so we’re stayin’ over.
Naomi, can we take Erin with us in to town to the Abbey on Monday?
No, we’re going to Ardee. It’s the O’Reilly family reunion.
Should we do the potatoes roast or mashed?
Do both.
What are Rooster potatoes?
Roaster?
No, Rooster. See, on the package.
Oh, those are the big red ones.
Like the Eskimos. Instead of 20 words for snow the Irish have 20 words for potatoes.
And what do you want to drink, Kathleen? Do you want wine?
Do you love the puppy, Erin?
She’s a bit nippy. She nips a lot.
But she’s just a puppy. She’ll get over it.
We got her from a vet. They had put her in a foster home and she was already trained. We got adoption papers and everything.
I’m so glad to see Baba gettin’ along with Chloe and playin’ with him and that.
Her.
When we take Baba to the vet, we have to wait outside in the car until there’s no one in the place. When we go in he turns into fughin’ Mean Baba. I thought he wouldn’t be able to get along with any other dogs. But he and Chloe fughin’ love each other.
Let Tony mash the potatoes. That’s his job. He’s good at it at our house. We always put him in charge of potato mashing.
Is the turkey done?
I cooked it yesterday and it took fughin’ forever. But now it’s cooked. We’ve got ham and turkey and sprouts and carrots. And there’s stuffing.
That’s what they call stuffing?
C’mon, sit down. Everybody sit down.
A toast to Naomi!
Honey—Kerrie’s toasting Naomi.
To Naomi!
It’s a great dinner, Naomi. It’s fabulous.
There’s puddin’. You get a choice of trifle or puddin’ or Mary’s roulade.
What’s roulade?
Aaah, I make it myself, Kathleen. You take the chocolate cake and you spread it with cream and then you roll it together. I was just after makin’ them up this week and I brought one. You’ll have to try it.
We call it chocolate cake roll.
It’s roulade.
Where’d you get the liquor, Naomi? Did you go across the border to Newry?
Yuh. And they have a great store there.
Were you able to use euros?
Yeah, they take euros and you have great bargains. We spent about 100 euros and got two bottles of champagne, and a case of Carling, two bottles of whiskey…
It’s so fughin’ expensive here now. All the house prices are outrageous. Where we used to live in Finglas, it’s ridiculous.
And even a pint is too dear.
My sister Liz and her husband John came to see us in Birmingham—and he came just for the drink. It was his birthday, and he arrived and said, ‘I don’t want to see no museums. I don’t want to see the city. I just want to drink and have a bet.’ That’s all he did.
He kept saying how much cheaper it was, and we thought maybe he confused euros and pounds. That he didn’t know the prices were all in pounds. But then we figured it out at the rate, and he was right. It is cheaper there than in Ireland for a pint. And you can have a smoke in the pub there, which is why Liz came.
Are you going to bed now Erin? Are you taking Eeyore?
Yes. I’m gonna to use Eeyore as my pillow.
Good night, Erin. Give everyone a kiss goodnight.
Merry Christmas, Erin. We’ll see you in the morning.
Good bye, Corky. Bye, Lorna.
Mary, you said you’re doin’ a course in horticulture?
Yah, that’s right. Corky and I are doin’ it together.
Corky, come here. I want to tell you. I did my research on this writer, Dorothy Parker. Have you ever heard of her?
Yeah, I think so.
She had a lot of friends and they would get drunk and play word games. So I want you to remember this. When it was her turn they asked her to use the word ‘horticulture’ in a sentence. And she said, ‘You can lead a whore to culture but you can’t make her think.’
That’s brilliant, Kathleen! That’s fughin’ brilliant!
Good night! Be careful drivin’ home in the snow. Merry Christmas!
I can’t believe you’re smokin’, Tony. Didn’t you have a heart attack this year?
Yeah, I quit. But now I’m back. But I’m smokin’ less.
Why don’t all you help him and all quit?
Yeah, right.
But geesh, Tony, not after you’ve been in the hospital.
You’ve been in the hospital with a collapsed lung twice, haven’t you, James?
Well, yeah.
Since June and Shona Neil keeps askin’ me to marry him but I’m sayin’ no.
You don’t want to marry him? I remember at Kerrie’s wedding everyone was getting drunk and makin’ Neil sign a statement that he would marry you.
Nah, fugh ya. I don’t want to be marryin’ him. Why? And Neil’s fughin’ relatives said we can’t come to their house because we’re not married. Fugh ‘em.
You’ll marry him when you’re ready. You’ll know when you’re ready.
Did you see the pictures of Shona? Aaah, she was gorgeous. They give you the pictures and the footprints. I thought that was just lovely. They said that before they used to just take it away and women didn’t even get to see it. That’s awful. They didn’t have a burial or nothin’ like that for them. They had fugh’ all. I think that must be horrible.
I can’t imagine anything more horrible.
Yeah, but y’know, when I was pregnant it was okay sittin’ around takin’ care of Erin and all and workin’ just a bit here and there. But then after Shona, and I want to get back to be doin’ somethin’. I’m goin’ fughin’ nuts sittin’ around here. I’ve always wanted to be in the gardai.
Really?
Yeah, right, y’know. Orderin’ people around. I’ve been a failure at everything else.
You’re not a failure with Erin.
No, and I loved when I worked at the day care and they’d say, ‘Here comes Naomi!’ y’know and get all excited. But then I’d leave there and…nyah, that’s not what I want. I tried to do a course and that wasn’t good. I want to go for the police, but Neil doesn’t want me to.
Where youse goin’?
We’re goin’ down the block to Susan’s. Kerrie, you and Alain sleep in our bedroom with Erin. C’mon James. We’ll walk down and be back later.
Merry Christmas! See you in the mornin’.
Merry Christmas!
Jaysus, I’m knackered.
Me, too. Altho I didn’t have as much to drink as last night.
Stay tuned.

The Pubs of 'Brum'

2004-12-22T04:08:00.000-08:00

10. The Hare of the Dog. The only pub on campus, so we stopped in our first day here. It’s in a pleasant old building, but has very microwaved food. Like most of the larger pubs, it’s operated by a big brewery chain. They have a loyalty card (Let’s encourage the college kids to drink more!), large screen TVs, and, like many pubs in this constantly soggy climate, picnic tables outside. It was the only available food and drink close to our on-campus apartment for our first three weeks, and on the last night I nicked one of the small wine glasses with the royal seal indicating it was officially 175 ml.
9. The Duke. When moving into our new apartment, we asked the wonderful landlord about the big Tudor-style pub on the corner, and he said he thought it a bit price-y. Instead he recommended the Duke, on a side street a few blocks towards the main part of Sutton Coldfield. It has all the requisite character of an English pub, but it’s really narrow and with so many regulars, we felt like intruders. I’ve been told that it’s famous for being one of the few family-run pubs that held out against the chains. It has those ubiquitous outdoor tables, so maybe we’ll stop in again when the weather is better.
8. The Cup and The Oak Cask. Very impressive Tudor-style pubs just before Sutton town centre, but they are trashy inside with lots of pinball machines. We were told they were “too rough” by the well-dressed weekend bouncer at…
7. The Litten Tree. Directly across the street from those two, the Litten Tree is blatantly owned by a chain. Kind of a wide open TGIFridays, it has big windows facing the street, comfortable low tables and chairs, and a fairly diverse menu, but the food reeks of the microwave. When there’s a good game on, Tony and I will go to watch their big screen TVs, but if it’s a really important game for the locals, the place is just too crowded. Like many of the modern pubs in Sutton, it is packed with young drunks every weekend night. The girls wear mini-skirts, mini-tops, stiletto heels and no coats. The guys wear tight t-shirts and tighter pants.
6. O’Neill’s. Right in the centre of Sutton, I encouraged Tony to fill out an application here. Really grotty, it attracts a young crowd and we weren’t disappointed that they never called him for an interview.
5. JPs One afternoon we walked into this big old dark wood pub in Sutton town centre that advertised a lunch special, and as we set foot in the main room six men standing at the bar broke into loud laughter. Could it have been directly related to our entrance? Probably not, but we left anyway and refer to it as “that pub where they laughed at us.”
4. Wetherspoon’s Square Peg. Perfectly located in downtown Birmingham at the corner just before our bus stop, this huge pub has great bathrooms. The delights end there. The young noisy crowd and the old drunk crowd both stop in for a pint before heading home (it must be near everyone’s bus stop), and the Wetherspoon’s chain food is over-microwaved. Still, if I have to meet Tony at the bus stop, and I’m cold, tired and in need of a bathroom—see you at Wetherspoon’s.
3. The Green Room. My new boss promised that, soon after we arrived, he would take us out for a pint to meet one of the other Americans teaching in the area. We met at this pub/restaurant right in ‘Brum' City Centre, across from the Hippodrome. It has an extensive menu of well done food, and wooden picnic tables inside and out. Because it’s one of the few that Tony and I are familiar with in that part of town, we’ve stopped in a few times.
2. The Sutton Park. The only thing we have against the Sutton Park is that Tony interviewed for a job there and didn’t get it. But he got a better job at the Ramada, so we decided to try out this competitor one night before Christmas. It’s on my bus route home, and not too crowded. We were there for Trivia Quiz Night, but decided that, rather than pay to join in, we’d just listen and feel superior about all the questions we would have gotten right. Good thing we didn’t pay. I did okay on movies and Tony on sports, but everything else related strictly to British culture did us in.
1. The Horse & Jockey. Our landlord thinks it’s price-y, but a bottle of wine is cheaper than at the Litten Tree and it’s as warm and cosy inside as it looks outside. The small rooms with nooks and crannies lead in to one another and some have real fireplaces. Low tables with couches and stools are mixed with chairs and benches perfect for eating a dinner, and there are tall tables for standing when it gets too crowded. On weekends, some of the young people who will later be falling down drunk at the Litten Tree stop by, but there’s also a good mix of old poops our age.
It’s owned and operated by a chain called Ember Inns, and, like most pubs here, you order at the bar, pay, take your drinks, and they bring your food to you. The woman who appears to be the owner, Lisa, has gotten to know us; apparently our mix of American and Irish accents is memorable. The first time I ordered two large glasses of red, at almost three pounds each, she said, “You can have the whole bottle for just eight pounds.” “That seems like so much wine,” I said. “You can take it with you if you don’t finish it,” she replied. Sold.
So the H&J has become our local. It’s a good place to meet when coming back from work, because both our buses stop right across the street.
Thursday was my last day of class for the term and Tony was working late, so I decided to treat myself to dinner at the H&J on my way home. I found a table at a corner that had a good view of the cast of characters; it was in the smoking section but after I moved the stinky ashtray one of the waiters took the hint and removed it. I practically have their menu memorized, but read through it each time in case something appears more appealing than my “usual.” Nope, not tonight. Salmon in lemon basil cream, large glass of house white.
Using my coat and newspapers to save the table I went up to the bar to order. Ahead of me were at least six or seven women, all about my age. The first ones in line ordered the Chicken Caesar, the universal refuge of the dieting female. I turned to the woman behind me and said, “I guess it’s Girls’ Night Out. We’re all ordering our fish and salads.” “Not us!,” she said. “We’re out to have a good time!” Then she ordered four meals of fish—fried with chips. Aah! The guilty pleasure of the dieting female.
Setting up for the evening’s carollers, Lisa was down on the floor putting bright yellow electrical tape over the extension cord so no one would trip. Every employee who walked by felt the need to give her a playful kick in the butt. Maybe this is a holiday workplace tradition here.
I took my glass of wine, the obligatory glass of ice (a fetish of mine since living in Florida) and the big decorative beer bottle with a number on it to my table, and began to read the Irish Post and Financial Times I had picked up at the news agent near the bus stop. Across from me on a comfy couch there was a young-ish businessman reading a book. Your local is where you feel comfortable reading by yourself.
The carollers sang their little hearts out. Halfway through my meal, I asked the young waiter we call Keen and Eager Tom to get me a small glass of wine and he hopped to it. Later, Lisa came around to every table with small plastic glasses of Drambuie for everyone, the holiday “complimentary drink,” so I talked myself out of their scrumptious desserts.
When I started to leave, three younger women stepped in to ask if my table would be available. I turned it over to them and headed to the gorgeous ladies room upstairs. I stopped back at the table and handed the girls a two-pound coin. “Could you give this to Tom? He’s the really cute one. He’ll be stopping by your table—trust me.” They knew which waiter I meant, so I felt as though I had given him a double Christmas present—two pounds and a table full of appreciative young women his age.
Then I walked home, a block downhill to Maney Hill Road, along the flat block that passes the church, and then the final stretch up Sandy Croft to our door.
Stay tuned.

Stop Me Before I Give More

2004-12-15T09:08:00.000-08:00

My first “buy” was a car coat. Black and gold (Go Steelers!), winter lining and a hood, thank God. A few buttons missing. So what? 5 pounds. I was hooked.
Next, a platinum grey, polished silk jacket nipped in at the waist. I grabbed it and the brown and gold paisley silk scarf for less than six pounds total. There was no turning back.
I began to plan my route so I could get a fix on each trip down to Sutton Coldfield town centre. Save the Children came first. They rarely had what I really wanted, but who could resist saving the children? Sidling past the women’s clothing, then the men’s clothing, pretending to glance at the books, I was really aiming for the dishes and glassware in the back. One time I scored a glass casserole with a lid for a pound fifty. It filled the emptiness I felt after the blue one at Oxfam had slipped through my fingers. After all, three fifty? What did they think this was, Woolworth’s?
But Saving the Children was just starters. A few blocks down was my real destination. The big kahuna. The Resettlement Shop. The only local that had the hard stuff. Furniture.
Yes, there were clothes, and yes, that was where my habit had started, with the black and gold coat. But what had first lured me through the door was the furniture in the middle, cascading up three steps onto the stage in the back. Not as big as Goodwill back home, not as clean cut as IKEA, but this could be mine.
I justified my frequent trips based on the great clothing bargains. Look, don’t touch. I’d toy with some glass bauble. Or extra silverware for 20p each. Excuses to come visit my real quarry: The wood table in the back, with the hand painted peacock on the top. 25 pounds. Did I dare?
Who painted it? It wasn’t the work of a child, but an accomplished, yet non-professional artist. The dark green peacock is painted onto a burnt orange background, surrounded symmetrically by flowers and birds, and well varnished. Weathered, aged, but undamaged. The bird’s head turns sideways, in a Picasso stare, challenging, as if to ask, what am I doing here? On top of a non-descript table? If you put something on top of me, you won’t be able to see my plumage. The effect will be lost. A totally impractical artistic endeavour. I wanted it.
The price dropped to 15 pounds the day before our first dinner party. I swooped in for the kill, and also snapped up three wooden stack tables for 10 pounds. I handed the cash to the volunteer, asked her to hold the pieces until my husband could come by in a taxi to pick them up, and never looked back. The next night I proudly covered the peacock with a tray of crackers and assorted cheeses for our first guests.
My needs took me further afield. Erdington. A low class neighbourhood with even lower class shops. No hoity-toity oh-yes-we-take-credit-cards Oxfam stores here. But, another Save the Children. TWO Resettlement Shops, right across the narrow main street from each other; one mostly clothes, the other, more furniture. Scope—the organization for cerebral palsy. Marie Curie Cancer Research. British Heart Association. Pets in Need of Vets! All sprinkled among going-out-of-business stores featuring the latest new merchandise that just fell off a truck. I revelled in each opportunity to donate my fair share to the cause. Any cause.
On my first trip to nearby Boldmere, to get a haircut, the hairdresser trusted me to run to the ATM and be right back. I stopped at three charity shops along the way. Bigger than a breadbox? It was a bread box! Orange wood that exactly matched our kitchen walls. And besides, I had to get change for the 20 from the ATM. I went for it. The hairdresser could wait.
As November rolled around, we planned an American Thanksgiving dinner as an excuse to add to our growing collection of dishes, cooking and serving utensils, and minor furniture pieces not supplied by the already generous landlord. Would we have enough chairs? You could fake a lot of things, but people had to sit somewhere. The e-mail invitation made it clear that the evening was bring-your-own-chair, but would our guests (mostly male) remember?
Back to the Resettlement Shop. Just to look. Just in case. I circled the sofas and bookcases in the middle, rounded the corner, and there they were. Two perfect blonde wood chairs, with back spindles and legs painted the exact same shiny blue as our placemats and the rims on our dishes. Twelve pounds each.
I hesitated. The memory of the forever elusive blue casserole dish came rushing back. I brought Tony to look at them, just to make sure. He gasped when he saw them, they were so perfect. Okay, not perfect. The scrapes in the blue paint would definitely show. They were flawed. They needed to be touched up. They needed—us!
We glanced at each other and knew what we had to do. Giving 24 pounds and our name to the astonished volunteer behind the cash register, I said, “We’ll be back!”
Off to Wilkinson’s, the mini-K-mart down the street that has the best selection of Dulux paints. Tony’s previous painting experience helped us choose the closest match. To the taxi stand to enlist support. We shared our insiders’ knowledge with the driver: The back entrance, for junkies bringing or buying merchandise too big to drag across the front sidewalk in front of curious strangers. We pulled up, rang the bell, said the secret word and marched in to claim our chairs. We swooped them up along with a Pyrex baking dish and, for the perfect Thanksgiving, a relish tray. Back into the taxi, and we were off!
It was time to quit. We had enough furniture now. We’d proved that we could host a sit down Thanksgiving dinner for nine people, as long as two bring chairs and the one who forgot agrees to sit on an end table.
But last week, I was drawn back in. Unwittingly, Tony tossed me my greatest challenge: “I really need more clothes for work. I have to wear either a white or a blue shirt, dark pants, and a dark tie. Can we go shopping?”
Shopping? Shopping? Visions of pre-Christmas crowds at Birmingham’s premier city centre mall, the Bullring, danced in my head. Pay retail?! Who did he think we were?
My husband’s sizes scratched on a scrap of paper, a stop at the ATM, and I was off. I hit all three Sutton Coldfield stores, one right after the other, and came out with only a tie. But I wouldn’t be defeated. That was warm up. I had my sources. Bus pass in hand, I grabbed a 905 to Wylde Green. Down a side street from the Sainsbury’s, tucked between the Drink Store and Bedroom Suites, another Resettlement Shop. Smaller, more discreet; not as welcoming as my regular “local.” Only the pros knew it was there.
Emerging triumphant, I texted Tony: “2 blue shirts, one tie. 4 pounds. On to Erdington.” But first, the St. Giles Hospice. Nothing. (But nice furniture.) Across the street to the Scope store, advertising “Off catalogue clothing.” Another white shirt. Designer; four pounds. Brief stop next door to the Store for the Deaf, then the bus to Erdington. Two pairs of pants! Another tie! “Here’s your receipt,” the volunteer said, as I handed her my 50p. “In case he wants to return it,” she laughed. I laughed back. We shared the moment.
I had peaked. My husband had clothes for work, our apartment was fully furnished, our dinner parties were exquisitely outfitted. For about a hundred pounds in ten weeks. Time to stop for tea.
Stay tuned.

Cultural Differences:

2004-12-08T08:35:00.000-08:00

“Europe.” That’s where we thought we were moving. But they refer to it as though it is somewhere else. My students informed me that we moved to England, not Europe. Guess it will be a while before we can use those euros.
Traffic lights that blink yellow before they turn green. In South Florida this would be taken as license to zoom on through.
Zebra crossings. Crosswalks with lights, the only way I can cross the street without worrying that some truck or bus is going to blindside me. Think Abbey Road cover photo.
Asbo, or anti-social behaviour order. Yes, they can actually charge you with being anti-social. Of course this is aimed at young drunks falling out of the bars at 11:30, but it has recently been used against a farmer whose pigs were annoying the neighbours. And yes, there is an equivalent of the ACLU here, but obviously not as effective.
Students calling professors by their first names. In Pittsburgh, my grad students, closer in age to me, did this, but I reminded the undergrads that I was “Ms. Donnelly.” In Florida, almost all the students called me “Professor” or “Doctor,” perhaps related to the Hispanic respect for higher education. When anyone says “Mrs. Donnelly,” I freeze and look around for my mother.
Writing style. Besides the lack of capital letters on acronyms, and even in references such as “first world war,” stories in print always take a few paragraphs to get to the point. Often illustrated by tangentially related pictures and captions—“John Wayne exemplified the American macho attitude”—they start a mile away and wind around to the topic sentence. Then at the end of the article, a lot of really interesting information is shoved into the last few paragraphs. On the radio, a story often ends without a final i.d. on the reporter and location. Other than that, the writing and stories in both print and broadcast are absolutely fascinating; I’m more than a week behind on reading all the good stuff in the Guardian and even Birmingham Post.
Unseen exams, three-hour marathon essay tests, often the only “assessment” at the end of the course. Twelve weeks of class and it comes down to how you feel that morning. Think long study halls with silent scribbling students; think Educating Rita. I can’t even begin to explain the grading system. That will be a future blog.
The UK version of Spell check. I finally got my home laptop to convert; the computer at school only has that version.
Double letters and numbers. When I spell my name for someone, I’ve learned to say “D-O-Double N-E-Double L-Y.” The American accent throws them enough; I have to conform in some ways.
Double glazed windows, the most important feature to look for in a house or apartment. Not only do they reduce heating costs, the ones that haven’t been double glazed yet are pretty old crappy windows.
Conservatories, the most common visible home improvement, a hexagonal-shaped greenhouse-type addition to middle class houses. In Florida it would be a swimming pool; in Pittsburgh, a deck.
“Overstuffed” furniture, even the modern leather/fake leather new furniture—like the couch and chair our wonderful landlord bought us. Odd when the rooms and houses are not particularly spacious.
Santa’s grotto for the kiddies at Christmas. A charity organization has advised that children shouldn’t sit on Santa’s lap because he might be a paedophile. Surely there’s a better solution to this problem.
Christmas crackers. I thought it was some kind of seasonal snacky treat. Turns out they are little party favour tubes with tiny chintzy presents in them.
High street stores. Not necessarily high falutin’ and not necessarily located on a road called “High Street,” although most neighbourhoods here have one with that name.
The stated price is the price. There is no extra sales tax tacked on as the exorbitant VAT is already included.
Pounds per kilogram listed along with pounds per pound. It’s very confusing when you have to tell the person behind the fish or meat counter how much you want. We haven’t tried to figure out how much more petrol at 82p per litre is compared to gasoline at $2 per gallon.
No coupons. I’m a coupon-clipping fanatic, but here they are few and far between. Instead I take advantage of buy-one/get-one specials. Our local, the Horse & Jockey, does have a b.o./g.o. coupon in this week’s paper.
Fruiterers. Stores that sell fruit. Who’d have known?
Coronation chicken. A curry chicken salad that I’m told was created in Victorian times to cover up the taste of meat that was going bad in warmer climes such as India.
Coffee sugar, the granulated brown sugar usually in long brown tubular packets that is ubiquitous with the tea kettles, etc. It’s similar to the ‘Raw Sugar” in American restaurants, but not exactly.
Nescafe, also in long tubular packets, found with the aforementioned tea sets.
Sweets, also ubiquitous, almost as much as in Ireland. Like Pavlov’s puppies, I’ve taken to requiring one after every meal. And with tea. And red wine. Kit Kats and Twix are preferred favourites.
Ciabatta. A baguette sandwich, kind of the Italian version. But sometimes with Coronation chicken.
Bap. Basically a bun, kind of light, sometimes cheese-flavoured. Or filled as a sandwich.
Crumpet, not just a piece of toast. Hint: Ladies, don’t refer to “my crumpet…” in any context. Trust me.
Cliff Richard. Not Keith Richard of the Rolling Stones. Cliff Richard, of….who knows. But he sure was big hit. He’s now Sir.
Bespoke. Still haven’t figured that one out.
Stay tuned.

Unpacking Our Boxes

2004-12-01T06:17:00.000-08:00

Our boxes have finally arrived.
We last saw them eleven weeks ago when Tony drove them to the shipping agent in Miami between hurricanes. The final total was seven large boxes and a trunk.
I’ve gotten very good at this packing thing. From July when we started planning this move our lives have been sorted into “Take,” “Ship,” “Sell,” “Donate,” and “Store.” Unfortunately, “sell” became “donate.” Americans have finally realized that they have too much stuff and, despite my best advertising ploys (I teach this stuff, for cripes’ sake!), there were no takers. No calls, few friends of friends coming by to look for bargains, and definitely no buyers. We couldn’t give it away.
“Donate” became “ditch.” When the Salvation Army came to pick up the stack of stuff in our living room, despite our previous arrangements, they refused to take anything because only a neighbour, not the owners, were present. The owners were halfway to Birmingham, UK, by then. The very unhappy landlord got rid of it all. I don’t want to know.
“Take” fit into four suitcases—two large, two small—and four carry ons. Stuff I would need right away for teaching, important papers, clothes to teach in, a few jackets and cotton turtlenecks in case it got a little chilly. The plan was that “ship” would arrive around mid-October when it started to get cold, “store” would be safe and sound in our rented unit in Florida until we send it over after the first of the year.
That was the plan. Then came Charles. Then Frances. Two of the four hurricanes to ravage Florida in a record-breaking year. I was thrown off stride. The trunk shifted from “ship” to “take” and back again. Then Ivan threatened. The careful timing of our leave-it-till-last tasks was blown away. Time allotted to carefully sorting through cabinets and drawers disappeared into frantic drives throughout South Florida delivering cats, a wedding dress and a car. On September 9, as I watched Tony take off to deliver the last of the boxes to the shipping agent, I was wondering what had ended up in which category.
We got out after Frances and before Ivan and Jeanne. As the winds swirled around Miami, our stuff sat warm and dry with the shipping agent. We, however, got chillier, explaining to the Brits, as we stood shivering, “All of our sweaters and warm coats are in our boxes.” Why buy new warm clothes? Our stuff will get here soon.
On sunny crisp days, we didn’t care so much. Then it snowed. We began calling and e-mailing the shipping agent to determine the ETA of our boxes. After making their way across the Atlantic Ocean, our boxes encountered rough seas near their intended port of entry to the United Kingdom. Under company policy to keep things moving, our boxes sailed to Antwerp. One of our favourite cities—if we’d have known, we would have joined them. I broke down and bought a hooded jacket for me and a turtleneck for Tony.
Finally we received notice that our boxes had disembarked at Felixstowe, but then took off on a tour of the English countryside before settling into the West Midlands.
On the exact day my office mate, Jonathan, finally unpacked his seven boxes of only office things, shipped only from his previous university in Leicester—Ha! Amateur!—ours arrived.
Having alerted the university’s ground floor receiving department to hold on to all of them, I called a taxi (reimbursable relocation expense) and escorted the sturdy black trunk—which my parents had bought me to go away to college in Pennsylvania 35 years ago—home to our tiny British apartment. Tony set about undoing the screws he had put in almost three months before in Florida, and we carefully opened the rusty locks.
It was like Christmas! Except we didn’t have to buy anything for anyone. As I remembered, the Epson printer was in there, along with my jewellery box. There was at least one warm sweatshirt, wrapped around the hand-painted Colonial-style sign, “Dixon Donnelly, Est. 2002,” a wedding present from Heather. More t-shirts than sweaters, though. I’d forgotten that we used them to wrap up framed photos. What a nice surprise, but we were still shivering.
The next day I put the small wheeled suitcase inside the large one and dragged them to campus on the bus. The Maintenance Department delivered all seven boxes in two trips up to the fourth floor. Barely dented, they sat in our spacious office just waiting to spew forth their warm and woolly contents. Determined to finish the few work assignments that had to be completed that day before allowing myself to dig in, I’d peek at them over my computer. You’ve waited this long, I thought. Let them settle.
After 4 pm, when Jonathan and most everyone else had gone home, I closed the door, picked up the scissors and got to work. Sweaters! Jackets! Winter coats! Gloves and scarves! My Aran Island sweater! Everything we figured would arrive before the cold weather had set in.
And more t-shirts! Feeling a framed picture or two inside each one, I decided to leave them wrapped up until Tony and I could open them at home. There were plenty of other treasures to savour. The tweed cap I had bought my dad in Ireland, just before he died. The shoebox stuffed with bubble wrap and Florida newspapers, protecting the engraved Irish crystal champagne glasses Mary got us for our wedding. The two cat statues Caryl apologetically handed me at our going away get-together, following my invitation that said, “If we can’t consume it on the spot, don’t give it to us. There’s no more room.” We made room. (N. B. to cat lovers: Unfortunately Willie and Gussie didn’t leap out of the boxes. They are still sitting out their quarantine in tropical Florida.)
There were boxes of books and videos to use in my teaching. Boxes of file folders filled with handouts and tests for students. Large envelopes of yellowed papers with my early writings, my mother’s early writings. Mementos from former students, protectively wrapped in warm sock-slippers.
Another triage sorted all the desperately awaited winter clothing and the protectively wrapped pictures into the two suitcases and one not too heavy box. Another reimbursed taxi ride home (same driver; he knew a good thing when he found it) and Tony and I got to celebrate Christmas all over again.
We pulled sweaters and coats out of the box and suitcases and filled our rather ample hallway closet. For two people who lived in Florida for the past six years, we sure had a lot of warm stuff.
Then we started to unwrap the photos. There was my brother and I as two piss-faced teenagers. There was my Dad at my brother’s wedding. There was Tony and his 4-year old granddaughter, framed next to my grandfather and my 4-year old self in the exact same pose. There was our wedding picture, framed and matted with signatures of the friends who came to our second reception in Pittsburgh, two Novembers ago. We perched them on every available surface in the living room, bedroom and guest room.
One more taxi trip a few days later to bring home all the fancy dress clothes. The dress I wore for Liz’s wedding in Pittsburgh, and Kerrie’s in France. The first suit jacket Tony bought when we got to America, acceptable for job interviews. The antique beaded purses my mother had collected.
The most prescient possession I thought to “ship”: Poultry seasoning! That Sunday we made a full Thanksgiving dinner for nine people from five different nationalities—three British, two American, two South African, one Irish, one Hungarian. Our new friends and colleagues here mingled among the photos of our family and friends from elsewhere.
We used this occasion, our second dinner party, as an excuse to fill in the gaps in our slowly-growing collection of dishes, glasses, pots and pans. We’re choosing things that will mix well with what’s waiting in “store.”
We saved the two champagne glasses for just us. Sitting on our rented couch, wrapped in warm sweatshirts and long-sleeve t-shirts, surrounded by photos and mementos of family and friends, new and old, we celebrated our good fortune. “Ditch” was forgotten. “Take” had never left us. “Store” was yet to come. “Ship” had finally arrived. And finally, we felt as though we had arrived too.
Stay tuned.

Happy Thanksgiving from the Old World

2004-11-24T08:07:00.000-08:00

This week we invited some of our new friends to a traditional Thanksgiving dinner at our new place. Below is our e-mail invitation, which includes a blog I did last year about my Dublin Thanksgiving.

Happy Thanksgiving!

My fellow Americans and our new British friends

Thanksgiving is America’s best holiday because it is the only one that is all about food—no presents. And everyone is invited. Even the “Indians.”

No matter where I’ve lived, we’ve always celebrated Thanksgiving during this, the third week in November, and Tony and I have decided that this year will be no different.

Due to work schedules and the fact that you Brits still haven’t recognized what a great holiday this is, we are planning our feast for this Sunday, November 28, 2004, and you’re invited. Unfortunately, there will be no NFL or college “football” games to watch after the dinner.

Please feel free to bring your spouse, partner, housemate, whatever. The American tradition is that everyone contributes something to the meal. Here are your choices: Wine or other alcoholic beverage, sodas/soft drinks, light appetizers (“starters” to you Brits), cranberry relish, dessert (should be pie, pumpkin if available), or dinner rolls or vegetable. We will supply roasted turkey with my mother’s stuffing recipe, mashed spuds, some veg, and anything else necessary.

We are eager to show off our lovely new apartment, however, everyone except the first two guests responding to this e-mail must also contribute their own chairs! We feel confident that we can organize our furniture to provide a comfortable space for everyone, but we’re a bit short in the chair department.

In line with that, we have to say that this invitation is open to the first ten people who respond in the affirmative. If you snooze, you lose because we can only seat that many at dinner. So we would love to have you come, but if you can’t make it this year, you’ll be first in line for next year! And if we get fewer than ten—more turkey for us!

So e-mail back and let us know if you can be among our chair-toting brigade of friends who will help us celebrate our new home in the old world. So I won’t have to bore you with the story at dinner, below is a blog I wrote last year about the first Thanksgiving dinner we had in Dublin, which I sent to the Ft. Lauderdale newspaper for their “Thanksgiving disasters” feature. A snippet of it was published. Enjoy.

An Irish Thanksgiving:
Disasters Remedied
By Kathleen Dixon Donnelly

“AMERICAN WOMAN CRUSHED BY TURKEY”
That headline flashed through my mind as I crossed the “dual carriageway” (four-lane road), walking back to Tony’s North Dublin home, carrying the Thanksgiving turkey the Superquinn meat department guy had ordered for me.
Of course, Ireland doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. But when I planned my fall trip to visit Tony, the Irishman I had met in a pub that summer, I was determined to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for my new Irish friends. I had never made a Thanksgiving dinner for my old American friends, but I figured the Irish wouldn’t know if I screwed it up.
I brought pumpkin pie filling and canned cranberry jelly with me, assuming the rest of the ingredients would be available somewhere.
Turkeys are indigenous to North America, not North Dublin. So the Irish only eat them at Christmas and they’re not readily available year round. The day I arrived from America I ordered ours at the Superquinn. I said we were expecting seven or eight for dinner, and the Meat Guy recommended a twelve-pound bird that I could pick up Friday.
I had given up the idea of having our dinner on the real Thanksgiving day in the States. In Ireland, that would be a regular workday. So we picked Saturday and the bird would arrive a day early.
When I went to pick it up, the Meat Guy hesitated. “There’s a mistake in the order,” he said. My heart stopped. “Instead of a twelve-pound bird, they sent a twenty-pound bird. But I’ll let you have it for the same price.”
So we did indeed have a turkey we could afford. Turkey there is a lot more than 79 cents a pound. First disaster remedied.
He handed me this humungous bird, but—I had no car. By the time I walked to the bus stop with a huge turkey, waited for the bus with a huge turkey, got on the bus with a huge turkey, got off the bus with a huge turkey, and walked from the bus stop to the house, with a huge turkey, I decided I’d be better off just walking home with the darn thing.
Thank God I didn’t get crushed by it, which would have resulted in the headline I’d envisioned. Second disaster remedied.
When I got the monster into the house, and set it on the only available surface in the postage-stamp size kitchen, it was the largest thing in the room. Then I looked at the oven. The little, tiny oven. I hoisted the bird into a pan, moved the oven’s middle rack to the lowest rung, and carefully slid the bird inside. The top of its breast just kissed the roof of the oven. It fit! Third disaster remedied.
Tony’s mother had cooked meals for ten in that tiny kitchen every day for almost twenty years. If she could do it, I could do it.
Next I plucked the feathers off the turkey. The Irish like to know where their food comes from, so their potatoes have the dirt on them and their poultry have a few feathers.
The second most important ingredient was my Mom’s stuffing, the main thing my brother and I remembered from our holiday dinners. When I first lived on my own, I had called her for the recipe, written it down somewhere, lost the sheet of paper, but never forgot how to make it.
So Friday night I took two loaves of white bread and, as Mom had taught me, spread the slices out on the table so that by morning they would be partially stale with just the right crunch for stuffing. When we got up Saturday it was apparent I hadn’t allowed for one thing: Irish weather. Bread sitting out in that humidity doesn’t crunch—it becomes a sponge. You could wring the moisture out of each slice. Tony and I blotted them with paper towels to get them dry, then ripped them into bite size pieces. Fourth disaster remedied.
Tony had to go into work that day, so I had the whole house to myself to get ready.
I set to work chopping up lots of celery and onion for the stuffing, and I sautéed it in a pound of butter. Real butter. Mom used only Land o’ Lakes, but I had to substitute Kerrygold. No problem; the Irish have the best dairy products in the world.
After pouring the butter-celery-onion over the bread pieces in a couple of big bowls, I mixed it with my bare hands. I beat two eggs with a little water and divided that over the stuffing in the bowls. Next: Poultry seasoning. My mother would have my brother and I taste the stuffing as she was working on it, and we would always say, “More poultry seasoning.” Guess what. The Irish have never heard of “poultry seasoning.” And, when you think about it, what is it?
I called my sister-in-law in Pittsburgh and had her read me the ingredients from her poultry seasoning jar. I mixed thyme and sage and created a close approximation, but decided not to use as much of it as usual. Fifth disaster remedied.
Next, pumpkin pie. In our house, pumpkin pie was brought by Dad straight from the bakery. It never occurred to us that you could actually create such a treat from scratch. I followed the directions on the can of filling that I had brought, but it called for evaporated milk. I didn’t have evaporated milk. I had condensed milk. Oh, what’s the difference, I thought as I mixed it up and poured it into a pre-made pie shell. Thank God the Irish had those.
Potatoes. Aha! Common ground. However, in Tony’s motherless, wifeless house there was no potato peeler. Taking a sharp knife, a big bag of potatoes with the dirt still on, and a bucket of water, I moved my operation into the living room. Tony’s house had no central heating, so I sat wrapped in two sweaters peeling the dirty potatoes with a paring knife. I definitely heard a cosmic laugh from my great grandmother, whom I had never known nor met. She was saying, “You ‘tick. Why the fugh do you think we left?!”
When Tony came home we pushed two tables together in the dining room and borrowed chairs from Mrs. Cavanaugh down the street. She thought that celebrating this American tradition was a lovely idea, so we invited her to join us. That’s an American tradition too. With that turkey, there would be more than enough to go around.
Tony’s teenaged kids arrived, wondering what all the fuss was about. When our American friend, Pam, and her Irish husband and babies showed up she was thrilled to see canned cranberry jelly. We slid it into a bowl with all the ridges from the can still indented in it. The Irish couldn’t understand why anyone would eat cranberries out of a can when you can get them fresh and make them into a “loovely” sauce.
The dinner was Norman-Rockwell perfect—except for the pie. Evaporated milk and condensed milk are not the same thing. I showed the flat, BRIGHT! orange filling in the pie shell to Pam and she said, “I’ll never tell.” So we covered it with real whipped cream and told the Irish it was an American delicacy, just for Thanksgiving. Sixth disaster remedied.
We said grace under the picture of Sacred Heart, had a complete dinner with all the fixin’s, ate too much and nodded off on the couch in front of the TV.
The Irish heartily approved of all the food and traditions. The American Thanksgiving dinner is very much like what they eat all the time—carved meats, mashed potatoes, overcooked vegetables—and the flat pumpkin pie tasted so sweet, they just loved it.
So the story of my Irish Thanksgiving is that there were no real disasters. Only those remedied by American ingenuity.
Only one thing was missing: The Pitt-Penn State game on TV.

A Trip through 'Brum'

2004-11-17T02:52:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday, Tony was up and out early to work the breakfast shift at the Ramada and I had a lie-in and got caught up on the newspapers. After cooking myself some breakfast, I took the bus to my office to check e-mails and pick up some things I needed to have a ‘work at home’ day on Monday.
I called Tony when he was off work and we arranged to meet in Boldmere. It was a beautiful, sunny but chilly Saturday and we have a goal of seeing something new each weekend. As my American friend Pam used to say in Dublin, “We’re young! We have bus passes! Let’s go!”
So I met up with Tony outside the Sutton Park, a huge, old English pub on the main corner. He had interviewed there, but they never called him back. We walked down Boldmere Road because I pass it each day on my bus ride to work and wondered what was there. The usual British assortment of butchers, grocers, estate agents, video stores and other small businesses, as it turned out.
Once we were out of the business district, we hopped on the first bus that came by, knowing it would take us downtown but via a new route.
We climbed up to the top deck so we could get a better view as the bus wound through Boldmere and Gravelly Hill (gravely ill?), past red brick houses, grey brick schools, and green playing fields. Semi-detached (duplexes), maisonette apartments (double duplexes), and ugly high rises (the same). Lots of dark red brick and painted wood, just like Pittsburgh.
We stopped off in Erdington so I could show Tony where he would have to go for his interview to get his National Insurance number next week. I had been there a few weeks before and discovered that Erdington, not the finest part of town, is discount store heaven. High Street is narrow, one-way, and parallel to the main road, which is crowded with buses. Up and down its few blocks are a treasure trove of shops with cheap clothing and furniture that must have just fallen off a truck, and the bargain hunters’ delight of the British Isles, resale stores run by charitable organizations. The Resettlement House, Save the Children and, the most elite, Oxfam. You can shop till you drop and feel as though you’ve done a good deed.
I showed Tony where the Social Security office is, and where I had bought him that great navy turtleneck for only £3, and then we walked down a block or two to catch another bus south into town. We waited in front of the Balti take away I’ve noticed before from the bus window.
Balti is a curry unique to Birmingham. The poster in the take away window lists chicken balti, veg balti, beef balti, prawn balti, mutton balti, etc., all at the same price. The taste is very similar to curry—only connoisseurs could pass a blind taste test—and it’s often the cheapest thing on the menu at the beautiful Indian restaurants all over Birmingham.
Up on the top deck again, with the young people trying to sneak a smoke, we looked down on more red brick houses and then the expressway that took us into downtown. The buses from the north enter the city centre through the modern, tall buildings and parking garages of Aston University and a large hospital. We got off the bus at the terminus, Upper Bull Street, near a century old mall, and stopped in a Republic of Coffee shop for a slab of chocolate cake and a big mug of hot tea. Sounds like lunch to me. The day was still gorgeous and sunny, but the wind was cold.
We then walked over the narrow streets clogged with cars, taxis and double-decker buses and through the cobblestone pedestrian walkways to cross Victoria Square. The statue of Queen Vickie had her back to us.
Our first destination was the Birmingham Museum & Art Gallery. We had been there a few weeks ago to see the special exhibit, Art in the 60s, which was held in the Gas Hall wing. We wanted to come back and explore the rest—for free! God bless socialism; most of the British museums are free, supported by the Arts Councils and the Lottery Fund. The building dates from the 19th century and is centred around a second-floor domed room filled with turn of the century paintings. Pass through the gift shop and you’re in a long room with contemporary paintings and watercolours on the first floor, ringed by stained glass works from as early as the 17th century up to last week.
As we made our way through the last few centuries of British art, we heard chanting coming from a knot of people in an archway at the end of the room. When we walked up to the back of the crowd, an official-looking gentleman with an ID tag around his neck turned to me and whispered, “We’re having a ceremony for the new Buddha statues which have arrived.” Ahead of me, over the heads of the four or five rows deep crowd, I could see a life-size dark silver Buddha dominating the room. But the source of the chanting was invisible.
Tony and I went up the wide stairway to the catwalk that encircled the art room and followed it through until we were directly above the three Buddhist monks kneeling and chanting on a rug in front of a very small Buddha in a glass box. All three looked like the Dalai Lama who I had seen up close when he spoke at my university in Florida.
When the monks were done chanting, the museum curator stepped to the microphone to thank the crowd and explain the art in the room from the three religions—Buddhism, Hinduism, and Jainism—whose local communities also had representatives there today. As he explained the history of the Buddha statues, the three seated monks pivoted around to face the crowd. They remained cross-legged on the floor, but were able to manoeuvre their Gumby-like legs under their flowing saffron robes so that it appeared to be the most natural move in the world. They didn’t look any younger than I am, but I wouldn’t have been able to even stand up from that pose without help.
We followed the catwalk through and found ourselves looking down on a large Edwardian Tea Room. The style is copied in many museums in America, but this was restored from the real thing. We’d had enough tea, however, so we headed back out in to the cold.
The only other errand we had to keep us downtown was to visit the restored 19th century railroad station so I could check the times for my train trip down to London later in the week. Often we will go to the big markets, made up of indoor and outdoor stalls selling everything from clothes to food, and pick up some fresh salmon and halibut. But this week we skipped the market and walked back up to Upper Bull Street to catch a bus home.
The bus we caught goes right by my campus and even on Saturday is filled with students and their families who live nearby. Mostly Indian and Pakistani, they have deep black hair and dark complexions. The three students who I have gotten to know best are those whose projects I’m supervising, and all are non-British. Marios is a strikingly handsome tall man from Cyprus who is researching Coca-cola’s global positioning strategy; Sandra is looking into Sunglass Hut’s presence in her home country of Jamaica; Connie, Chinese, born in Hong Kong and raised in Holland, is earnestly searching to find out how Starbucks has managed to have a presence on every corner on the planet. They are among the last students in our International Business program, which is being phased out. All business is international now; why have a separate course?
We stop by the newsagent near home to pick up the newspapers, The Guardian for national, the Birmingham Post for local. The front page of the Guardian focuses on the fox hunters protesting the upcoming ban on their sport. The back page of the Post features “Post People,” a PR person’s dream: Smiling group shots from every business event, charity opening, and social get together. Invariably, 98% of the faces are white. Tony and I always wonder, where do they find those people?
Stay tuned.

Guest Blogger I: Living with a Yank in ‘Brum’

2004-11-10T02:15:00.000-08:00

I’ve asked my Irish husband Tony to sit in as a guest blogger this week, so you can get his perspective on our life here. He had writers’ block at first, (bloggers’ block?), but got over it and penned this entry:
We have adapted well to our new lives in Birmingham, England. The weather is always a topic here, as it was in Ireland when I lived there. It’s always either bad or not too bad.
There are of course other huge differences between here and the USA. The pace of everyday life is a stop or two slower than that of our previous country. More of the people will greet you with a “good morning” or engage you in conversation just for the sake of talking—being Irish, this is something I like.
Public transport! Another huge difference. We have both invested in bus passes and, although most of the people in Birmingham complain about their transit system, I refer them to the two most bizarre public transport systems I have ever encountered: Broward County Transit (BCT) and Miami-Dade Transit (MDT). Not knocking South Florida, you understand.
There is a lot I miss about the good ole USA. Being able to walk the beach in Hollywood, Florida, for one. Sitting on our porch on Washington Street watching all human life go by. There isn’t much human life that goes by our new home in Sutton Coldfield. This is due to the fact that we live in a cul-de sac.
I also miss Jimmy the boarder we had in the Hollywood, despite the fact that he got pretty pissed off at Kathleen and me for leaving him. It was time for him to grow up and I think it took its toll on him.
The biggest miss of all is Terry, a boy who I spent some time with as a Big Brother in Hollywood. Kathleen and I had some great times with Terry and his older sister Alexus.
From what we have done and where we have been, I am convinced we could live anywhere on this planet and fit in. I think we are very adaptable, Kathleen and I.
Who knows? Maybe in another 10 years we will start over again somewhere else. One of the ‘Stans perhaps, or Outer Mongolia. For right now, I just want to say, we actually enjoy this city, and love this city.
Thanks, honey. I agree
Stay tuned.

A Yank Abroad

2004-11-03T06:37:00.000-08:00

I have spent the past few days explaining and discussing:

How the electoral college works

Why the Founding Fathers wanted to protect the smaller states

Who lives in Wyoming

The relative powers of the upper and lower houses of Congress

The effect of a one-vote majority in the Senate due to the two-party system

How the Cuban American cabal in Miami works

How the electronic voting machines in Broward County worked last time

Butterfly ballots

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart

Blogs

The Heinz Family Foundation support of the arts in Pittsburgh

Pickles

The Patriot Act, the ACLU and John Ashcroft

Why some Americans have no interest in going abroad

Christian fundamentalists’ political power

Pat Robertson

The Supreme Court appointment process and what happens in case of a tie vote

Hurricane preparedness

Why we moved from Florida to here

Why we will be living here for at least four more years.

Stay tuned.

Bathing

2004-10-27T08:56:00.000-07:00

The only early memory I have of anything unusual happening related to bathing is when my mother would turn on the water in the sink and we would hear a scream from my father in the shower upstairs. Other than that, the plumbing in our suburban American 1960s house worked just fine.
My brother and I thought it was exotic that my dad took showers because as kids, of course, we were always bathed by mommy in the tub. Like the way he ate raw scallions at dinner, it seemed so knowledgeable, so masculine.
I switched to showers as soon as possible. Wash your hair while standing, it rinses itself. No more bending over the sink. A revelation. At one point I switched back to baths, deciding to read during the boring part, when the water is the right temperature and you’ve already washed. I leaned forward to turn off the faucet and my hand holding the book went instinctively down, into the water. Well, this is stupid, I thought; back to showers.
Never was I able to re-create the romantic image of the woman in a claw-foot tub with a long back brush, lots of bubbles, hair carelessly pulled up in a pony tail. Helen Hunt did a good job of it in As Good As It Gets. Once, in my living-on-my-own-in-the-big-city days, I did manage to relax in my tub with cut-out psychedelic rubber flowers on the bottom, but turned around to find a huge bug sharing the experience with me. "The size of a Cadillac"—Woody Allen, Annie Hall. Back to showers.
Traveling around Ireland, in every B&B at best we had one of those sorry-excuse-for-a-shower contraptions on the wall. That was quaint for about two weeks.
Then I moved there to live with Tony. No more B&Bs with pretend showers to keep Americans happy. Because we had no car and always rode buses, I had lost weight drinking beer and eating chips with everything. But when I sat in the narrow tub each cheek touched white enamel. Both the tub and sink had the ubiquitous separate faucets for hot and cold. WHY???!!! Even when they build them new, that’s the way they build them.
Tired of trying to out-guess the immersion heater, I took to ‘bird baths’ most mornings. Just wash the smelly bits. I saved baths for hair-washing nights. Tony would come rinse my hair with a pot of water from the kitchen and we would chat.
When we moved back to the States, Tony’s 14-year-old son asked the first time he went to take a bath in an American bathroom, “How do I turn the hot water on?” “The faucet that says ‘Hot,’” I told him. You just turn it on. No immersion heater. Turn the handle and out comes hot water. It’s not brain surgery! It’s plumbing!
Now here we are back in the British Isles, in the United Kingdom. It’s the 21st century. Our modern up-to-date landlord has spent countless pounds re-doing this ‘maisonette’ (2BR, LR, kitchen) with wall to wall carpeting, a washer/dryer combination, sliding glass doors on one full wall in the living room, and central heating (sort of).
My first shower, I was patient. Knowing what to expect from the contraption on the wall, I decided not to play the bitchy American asserting our superiority in plumbing. First, I figured out how to turn it on. Aha! The water was really hot. I got in. Driblets converged from the little holes in the showerhead and created a mini-stream down my back. I adjusted, I squirmed, I finally screeched to my Irish husband who had emerged from the same shower hours before pronouncing it just fine. No, sorry. Not my imagination. There’s something wrong with the damn thing.
The plumber said he’d come; he hasn’t come. We continue with baths. Wednesday night and sometime Saturday or Sunday is bath time. There’s a lot of planning involved, but I’ve mastered the art and the science. I play the ubiquitous separate faucets like a virtuoso. I get in when there is only an inch and half of perfectly temperatured water in the tub. I fill a plastic bowl with clear perfectly temperatured water and set it aside. I use the washrag to introduce the hot water to my legs, arms and face.
Then I duck. Down. Beneath the surface. Just my head. Get the hair wet, wet, wet. Then shampoo. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. But as soon as you rinse you are sitting in a tub of dirty water, filled with your own soap and…soap.
Then conditioner. Let it soak in while I wash the rest of me. Keep adding more water to the tub in the right temperature mix. Swirl it clockwise. This is the boring part. What to do. Enjoy? Relax? No reading material? No radio? No conversation? Get me out of here!
Duck and rinse again. Then the clear water from the bowl. Then fill it again with the separate faucets. Then rinse again.
I have even developed the category of 'interim underwear.' You can’t possibly get out of a tub, or shower, or bird bath, and put on the same clothes you had on before. But after bathing and changing at night, I would have to put on new badroobies after wash up in the morning. Thus, interim underwear, the uncomfortable ones I really would throw away if I had enough good ones. They do for one night, then I change in the morning.
I would kill to be in the bathroom in my suburban American home in the 1960s and be scalded in the shower when my mother uses the sink.
So what is America’s greatest contribution to western civilization? The semi-conductor? The MBA? Jazz? Imperialism? Plumbing!
Stay tuned.

An Interview with Kathleen and Tony

2004-10-20T03:17:00.000-07:00

GypsyTeacher.blogspot.com: Well, Kathleen and Tony, you’ve been living in Birmingham for over a month now, and in your own place for about two weeks. How’s it going?
Kathleen: So far so good. The weather stinks, but overall things are good. The last piece is that we need Tony to get a job, but he’s really close.
GT: That’s good news, Tony. How’s the job hunting going?
Tony: Well, it’s a bit of a pain in the ass, I have to tell you, at my age to be walking around looking for a job all the time. But I’ve gotten very good at it. This week has been very encouraging, so I’m expecting a call any day.
K: It’s like dating. We sit by the cell phone waiting for it to ring. Then I call his cell from my cell just to make sure it’s still working.
GT: Yes, I remember those days. What would you say are the biggest differences you notice, living here, as opposed to living in South Florida? Or even Pittsburgh?
K: I’d say the biggest difference in our daily life is that we take buses everywhere. It’s like being back in Pittsburgh, waiting in the cold and sometimes the dark for the 107 into work. But every time I get frustrated by it, I remember that it was a lot more dangerous driving down Interstate 95 in Florida, with all the nut cases. I don’t read on the bus as much, because there’s too much to process.
T: There’s a lot more walking involved. We live really close to the bus stop in Sutton-Coldfield, but we still spend a lot of time walking, carrying heavy bags from the store. And when we come home, the stretch of Maney Hill Road to our cul-de-sac, Sandy Croft, is a hill, and then the path to our house is another slight hill. It didn’t seem that steep when we drove here the first time. But when you’re walking with the messages…
K: I’m definitely going to buy wheels to strap on to the bag I carry to and from school, and we’ve started to take taxis more when we have packages. It’s still cheaper than having a car. I really miss my weekly four-mile walks on Hollywood Beach, but I don’t need them for exercise anymore.
GT: What about products in the stores? Have you been able to find everything you’re used to? Is there anything you miss?
K: The first time I went to Iceland, which is our nearest grocery store and specializes in frozen food, I didn’t recognize any of the brand names. How do you decide which to buy if you don’t know the brands? A great marketing question. I’m usually not a fan of ‘house brands,’ so I avoided the Iceland products. But a friend told us that their pizza is very good, so we’ve stocked up on cheese and onion pizzas. I’ve started to buy more of their things, because I figure they must know frozen foods: They’re Iceland!
T: We can’t find the large bottles of cheap wine that we used to get in the States for six or seven dollars. Here, even a small bottle is three pounds, which is almost six dollars. Maybe that’s giving away too much about our drinking habits.
K: One of the jobs Tony applied for was at the local wine store chain, Threshers. We figured he’d get great discounts. The application asked, ‘Why do you want to work for us?’ and he was going to write, “Well, the wife is a bit of a drunk and we thought the discount would come in handy…”
T: There aren’t as many of those fughin’ big SUVs around.
K: True. But I’ve read that the Brits are starting to buy them and the anti-SUV movement is growing. Most people I work with drive rather than take the bus. We thought they’d all use public transportation here, but they complain about how unreliable it is. They haven’t tried to ride a bus in Miami. Of course, the biggest difference financially is that I’m working full time.
T: And also that my medication, which cost almost $300 a month in the US is about 20 pounds—less than $40—a month here, thanks to National Health Service. And we don’t have a telly yet, so we read the newspapers all the time. I can’t get enough of the Guardian. But the way they write is very weird and I have to read things a couple of times before I can figure out what they are talking about.
K: I listen to BBC4 radio a lot; it’s very much like NPR. And we don’t have a shower. Well, we do. But our wonderful landlord, who has given us everything else, still hasn’t convinced his plumber to get here to figure out what’s wrong with it. So we have to take baths, which is a real time-consuming pain, and some days I just take a birdbath to wash the smelly bits. But I REALLY want a shower.
GT: Well, what have you…
T: And no internet at home! And we still don’t have PIN numbers from the bank so we can’t go to the ATM.
K: And of course we don’t have our cats. We miss you, Willie and Gussie! But Aunt Debbie has made sure they are well taken care of in Okeechobee. That’s one of the biggest differences when I wake up in the morning. A cup of tea, but no cats, and only yesterday’s paper because there’s no home delivery.
GT: I was going to ask what you have found that is the same.
K: Cell phone companies lie to you. When we first got cell phones through Cingular a few years ago, they told us what the monthly bill would be and it was that for a few months. But then it went up and they could never explain why. Then we got T-Mobile and the same thing happened. Here we went to Phones4U and talked to this lovely young man, and signed up for Pay-as-you-go service through T-Mobile. And all the charges are different from what we were told. We still don’t know how much it is to call Ireland. We text each other a lot because we know that is only 10p per minute.
T: We still have a patio out back, but it’s been too cold to sit out. We still get cooked chickens from the grocery store for dinner. We still drink a lot of wine and eat a lot of pasta. And I’m still looking for a job!
K: But you’re real close, honey. The leaves are changing color much more than I thought they would. And actually, the weather is a bit better than we expected, compared to Dublin. Because of my work permit, I can only have one job here, so that’s more relaxing. And I have a great boss who encourages all of us to take at least one ‘work at home day’ each week.
T: I feel safer here. We loved Hollywood, Florida, but here I don’t have to drive with crazy people, even just to go to the pub. Where we live is quieter. I haven’t seen any drug dealers, although they’re probably around somewhere.
K: Oh, and in the ladies rooms I’ve noticed fewer sprayers, if you know what I mean.
GT: Well, that’s a lovely note to end on. Thank you, Kathleen and Tony, for sharing your insights on what it’s like to live in Birmingham in the UK. We will be checking back with you from time to time to see how you are doing. Stay tuned.

Pictures!

2004-10-13T09:42:00.000-07:00

Sorry--just trying it out. We're going to figure this out by the end of the week, so come back later.

Moving In

2004-10-06T03:26:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, 1 October, we finally moved in to our own apartment. 7 Sandy Croft, Sutton Coldfield, West Midlands, B72 1JG if you want to write to us.
We’ve gotten so good at packing that we were able to get everything organized the night before, and by 9:30 am, 30 minutes ahead of deadline, had all of our stuff out of the campus room we had been renting and stashed in the kitchen down the hall. The four suitcases and four carry-ons we had taken with us when we left Florida (between hurricanes) exactly three weeks before had morphed into five suitcases and five carry-ons.
We walked to my office to check e-mails, ordered a taxi for noon, explaining that we had LOTS of luggage, and then walked over to the bank to get a draft to pay the new landlord for a month’s rent and month’s deposit. Surprisingly—no problem! Off for tea and bikkies, then back to Oscott Gardens, which we had called home for these past three weeks, to haul luggage down four flights of stairs (no lift) and wait for the cab.
Cab drivers should be given special training in sucking up to people who are hiring them for life changing experiences: Trips to the airport to travel to a foreign land, to the train station to meet a long lost loved one, to a new neighborhood and apartment. This guy had never had that training. The taxi was big enough, but he was no help, and halfway to our new life he pulled over to make a cell phone call to his kid’s school. No tip.
Of course we were early, so we lugged the suitcases in the drizzling rain over to the side door under the overhang, and I went off to the news agent to buy today’s papers. By the time I returned, our wonderful new landlord was there with the keys, going over the lease with my husband Tony in our new living room.
We love our landlord. We were torn between renting this two bedroom “maisonette” (a double duplex to Americans) or a bigger house closer to campus, but in a not-as-good neighborhood, for less money. I could hear my mother saying, “Kathleen, where do you think you are going to get this money for all this rent?” I’ve got a PhD and a new job, ma, we’ll have the money.
One of the deciding factors was Keith, who, as a private landlord didn’t charge the exorbitant upfront fees that the “letting agents” charged for “checking references”—anywhere from 35 to 125 pounds per person—and “legal fees”—85 pounds. For what?! A copy of a lease they have used for the past ten years? But were we being pence-wise and pound-foolish?
We told Keith our vision for the place, and he agreed to get us a new couch and chair in place of the two salmon colored couches with beige piping (a British specialty), a small table so we could eat in the living room by the sliding glass doors and look out at the garden, and a table/desk for the second bedroom which would become our workroom/study/den/guest room. His eyes lit up with the possibilities of re-arranging furniture among the properties he owns around the area. A man with imagination; I like him even better already.
Keith offered us a lift down to the shops, but we felt we needed to capture the place for ourselves by spending time unpacking what we could. We had been living out of these suitcases for almost a month. What a thrill to put clothes in drawers without fear of leaving them behind in a few days.
A quick glance around the place and it really hit home that, although this was a furnished apartment, we were starting from scratch. No dishes, no bedding, no towels. We had asked Keith to tell the previous tenants we would buy from them anything they wanted to leave behind, but they took it all with them. There were a few cleaning things, a low wood TV stand in the living room, two drinking glasses and a three-drawer cabinet on wheels in the bathroom. Only one thing to do: Shopping!
We have stuff coming in a few weeks in the boxes we shipped, and even more in the storage unit in Florida that we won’t bring over until later. We need to outfit this place a bit at a time. Our debit cards weren’t activated yet, so we did research throughout the Sutton-Coldfield stores, pricing sheets and towels and kitchen things, and then got enough cash to cover what we really needed to get through the weekend and a small celebration.
Our first purchase was four big bed pillows—we both really like lots of pillows—at British Home Stores for 20 pounds (a bit less than $30). After sandwiches and tea I sent Tony off to Woolworth’s to get the dish set we’d picked, along with a pot, a skillet, and the best appliance in the British Isles, a plug-in, automatic turn-off kettle. He had instructions to get no more than two mugs, because my theory is that mugs find you. We’ll have more than we can use within a few weeks. I stopped in at Roseby’s—50% off!—and found cheaper towels than we’d seen earlier. I was counting on lemon yellow blending with the fluorescent lime green paint on the bathroom walls. The sales clerks told me that lime green and lilac was a really popular combination a few years back, and when we got home I noticed that the white tiling had lilac flowers in it. It’s growing on me.
One last stop at Allder’s—also 50% off—for cream-colored go with anything sheets, and a throw that would do as a blanket until we knew what color bedroom drapes Keith would get us. I met up with Tony in front of Woolworth’s, smoking a cigarette out of the rain. Leaving the packages with him I went to find a cab. I couldn’t find the taxi rank someone had pointed me to, so I stopped an older woman on the street to ask her for the phone number for the cab company, figuring women like that always have to call cabs. After she realized what I was asking, her eyes brightened up and she said, “328 and all the 1’s!” God bless repetitive advertising. After a couple of false starts with coin phones, I got a dispatcher who asked me, “Are you by the Ha Ha Bar?” And I said, “We can be.”
So Tony and I and our new possessions got into a Star—‘Phone Bookings Only!’—taxi and moved into 7 Sandy Croft. A bit later we went down to the Iceland grocery store for frozen pizzas for dinner, two bottles of wine—‘Buy One Get One Free for 6 pounds 99’—and basics for morning.
After we finished our dinner that first night, eaten off our new dishes on the low wood TV stand in the living room, sitting on the pillows on the floor, we poured some more wine.
In the next few days Keith Our New Wonderful Landlord would bring us a settee that folds out into a bed for the guest room, a new microwave, a new Hoover, a new washer/dryer combination to replace the leaking one in the kitchen, and screws and tools to put up lace curtains.
But now, after eighteen months of looking for a new job, and three months of planning and packing and moving, with a kettle in the kitchen and lace curtains in the front windows, we leaned back against the salmon colored couches, and turned off the lights so we could watch the full moon shining on the trees and terraced garden in the back of our new home.
Stay tuned.

Fitting In

2004-09-29T07:31:00.000-07:00

Whenever you apply for a job, conventional wisdom has it that, if you make it to the interview stage you have all the qualifications; they just want to see if you “fit in” to their organization.
When I was packing for my trip to Ireland this summer, I had already applied for this job in Birmingham, UK, but didn’t yet know if I had been chosen for an interview. I brought along black pants with a matching jacket that I could wear for other events as well, just in case the big call didn’t come. Didn’t want to fit the interview skirt into the bag, only to return home feeling silly for having brought it along.
I wore the black pants and jacket for my interview and sample teaching presentation, with a cream-colored top, amber choker with matching earrings, and comfortable black shoes. I must have fit in, because I got the job.
Now that I’m here, I see why. Every woman wears variations on the same theme. I felt silly in Florida owning three different black blazers to wear for teaching; now I’m wondering how many more I’ll need to get through the term. The bright coral jackets and pants have been stashed away until I feel more comfortable wearing them. Maybe Halloween.
The week before we left was spent deciding what I should try to fit in our allotted four suitcases and four carry-ons. What would fit in the boxes we were shipping. What would fit in the storage space we rented. What would fit in a car to take to our friends’ South Beach apartment. What didn’t fit in was left behind for the Salvation Army.
Sweaters and winter clothes I packed in the boxes to be shipped. We’d have them in just a few weeks anyway, right? That was before four hurricanes hit Florida; nothing has yet been shipped anywhere. We’re hoping for mild English fall weather until our boxes arrive.
When I went to Paris one January with Debbie, my Florida friend, she stood in Place de la Concorde in a very attractive orange and purple winter coat and hat, saying, “How do they know I’m an American?” Believe me, the French could tell.
In Ireland I was told they didn’t know I was an American until I opened my mouth. Here, I’m not so sure. I wouldn’t be mistaken for English, and I’m definitely not from ‘Brum.’
By sticking to dark colors and muted tones I’ve managed to fit in visually. I don’t feel as though I sound particularly American when I talk, but the locals have a hard time understanding me on the phone. When I hear Americans interviewed on the radio they sound very bizarre, particularly Southerners. After six years of living in Florida, is that how I sound to my students? Thank God I’ve gotten rid of my Pittsburgh accent, or they’d never understand me.
Walking in a country where they drive on the wrong side of the road still feels like walking in a mirror. [NB: It is the wrong side. Most people are right handed; to drive a manual transmission car made in the British Isles you have to shift with your left hand. I rest my case.] I’m very careful crossing streets, but I still don’t naturally list to the correct side of the staircase or the sidewalk. There have been a lot of “to-fros” with locals, where we each step into the other’s path. It’s their country so I am the one out of step.
But yesterday, after two weeks of stumbling around campus, I walked into the main entrance, cut into the Cox & Dawson Building, up the spiral staircase to the edge of the Edge Building, along the walkway into the Feeney Building, took the short cut through the Computer Sciences Department, into the front door of the Galton Building, and up the stairs—on the correct side—to the fourth floor and right into my office.
And, after spending the past month or so drawing on our dwindling finances back in Florida, I was reimbursed by the university for all of our moving expenses and received my first paycheck. I bought a thank you card for the secretary who had pushed the paperwork along, and my husband Tony and I had fish and chips at the pub on campus.
We finally feel as though we are fitting in nicely.
By the end of the week we will be trying to fit all of our things in to our new British apartment, which is about as big as our former living room back in Florida.
Stay tuned.

First Day of School

2004-09-22T04:09:00.000-07:00

I have always loved the first day of school
New shoes. New pencil box. Figure out what time the school bus comes. However, I do remember being in tears the night before third grade, panicking about what this new Sister Mary Joseph would be like.
My first day of college I met Susie, who 33 years later was my matron of honor. My first day of graduate school I met Phyllis,whom I started a business with seven years later. My first day sharing a flat in Dublin I met Tony Dixon, whom I married ten years later.
Yesterday was the first day of school for the “freshers,” the first year students coming into the Marketing degree program at the University of Central England, and it was my first day of school here with students. I used that fact to elicit their sympathy when I couldn’t answer their questions.
About 80 of them gathered in the lecture hall for an introductory talk by the assistant department head. He explained the courses they would take, how they would be assessed, what kinds of wonderful jobs they would be qualified for at the end. Could they figure out any of it?
I looked over the sea of grey, brown, navy and dark green. Sweatshirts and low-slung pants on the boys, skimpy skirts and halter tops on the girls, nose rings and tattoos, gum. The universal student uniform. My South Florida students had a similar look, but brighter colors poked through. Hot pink and turquoise mixed with denim. The six women I taught in the Middle East dressed in the same Western clothes, but under their abayahs.
But here the students themselves are darker, even darker than the Hispanics at my last school. A lot of Indian and Pakistani looks, Muslim scarves and names. But British, born and raised here. They have the same eager faces, wondering what will happen to them. My new boss refers to them as a “tree of owls, pairs of eyes staring back at you.”
But then they open their mouths and out come thick, raw, Monty Python accents. Birmingham grows the English version of the Pittsburgh accent. Instead of “yuns” they crunch their words together and end with a question, erye elroight? I manage to grasp about 70 to 80 percent. Sometimes I tune out if it’s a conversation that doesn’t really concern me. Active listening takes a lot of effort here.
After about 30 minutes of the “Overview” talk I sense the real difference in this classroom. 80 young people, 18 or 20 years old, sitting in a huge, dark, uninspiring room, being lectured to by a spirited but older, balding white guy, and there is not a sound out of them. Not a peep. From the front I can see their faces. They are awake. There are no heads on desks, no sandwiches being unwrapped, no text messaging on cell phones. In another session a woman in the back gets up to leave the room and every head turns to look at her. They figure she must be dying.
What a difference from American classrooms! There they walk in and out, eat, drink, flirt. I caught one guy caressing the hair of the woman in front of him until I mentioned it and the rest of the class laughed. And it’s not just an age distinction. One older graduate student got up to leave in the middle of one of my lectures, walked in front of me, as they all do, and stopped to ask if I wanted a cup of coffee because he was going to get one. I pointed out that I was a little busy right now—“I’M TEACHING!”
Because we’ve been here a whole week, I was able to give the newbies a tour of the building, the classrooms, the bathrooms (“toilets”), where to get relatively healthy food to eat. We stopped at my office, I opened the door and said, “And this is my husband, Tony. He’s working at my desk looking for a job. Say hi, Tony.” Like all students, they are amazed that their teacher has a husband, let alone a life.
Some asked me questions I could actually answer. Others I had to point to the department office where the Lindas know a lot more than I do.
The university in its infinite wisdom has set up registration in a new building a good 30-minute walk or bus ride from where we are. Back in the lecture hall my colleague presents this to them as professional experience: “Marketing is full of challenges,” she explains. “There are strategic challenges within the organization, and operational challenges such as, ‘How do I get a case of product from Edinburgh to London for a photo shoot?’ Your first operational challenge is to get from here to the Sports Hall, register, and come back by 2 pm for orientation. Here’s a map. You’ll figure it out.”
They file out of the building in a sea of grey, brown, navy and dark green. Chatting, complaining, questioning, making new friends, chewing gum.
Should we have told them that the person next to them will still be their best friend 30 years later? That they’ll share an office with that person in the corner? That they’ll end up marrying the geek they have barely noticed today?
Should we have told them that their lives will change immeasurably, that they will never be the same again after this day, that they will learn so much in the next three or four years that it will hurt?
Nah. They’ll figure it out.
Stay tuned.

Bit by Bit, Piecing It Together

2004-09-15T07:45:00.000-07:00

It’s been a long week…

* To Kinko’s at 8 pm last Wednesday to FedEx my passport and original UK Work Permit to my new best friend, Josie, at the British Consulate in Los Angeles so she can miraculously make me legal before we leave for our new life in Birmingham on Monday.
* To the storage unit on Thursday morning with yet another load of stuff to be re-arranged and shoved in, by two people much too old to be doing this on their own, my husband Tony with a heart condition and recently operated on hernia, me with a recently-dislocated knee. Good news: Didn’t get stuck in the elevator this time.
* Me to walk to the post office to mail off stuff I have saved for months for friends elsewhere, to Publix for cleaning stuff to attack that filthy apartment, to Walgreens for key lime candies we promised to send to Tony’s Irish family, to Subway for lunch, to the bank to make a last deposit that will keep us solvent, to any travel agent I can find to pay for Tony’s ticket from Miami to Baltimore booked by phone the day before when we realized Amtrak would not be running.
* Tony to the shipping warehouse with our last load of stuff—papers, pictures, warm sweaters—to be sent over to the UK, arriving about four weeks after we do.
* To Okeechobee, Florida, three hours away, to deliver our ’96 Toyota Corolla to its new owner, and our cats to my friend Debbie who will keep them in her bathroom until her vet has electricity. Unless Hurricane Ivan, following on the heels of Frances, wipes out Central Florida.
* To West Palm Beach with Debbie so she can drop us at the Tri-Rail (the only public transportation in South Florida), which, as it turns out, like Amtrak in the wake of Frances, is not running from West Palm Beach.
* To Lake Worth, Florida, the first stop the Tri-rail will leave from, which Tony remembers is right near I-95, where we have to say a hurried good bye to Debbie after all she has done to make sure we get out of Florida intact.
* To Hollywood, Florida, where we arrive right on time on the Tri-rail at 9:19 pm, to be met by our friend Dick. Faced with making our last trip to the storage unit, which closes at 10 pm, or to Cancun, our local, which closes at 10 pm, we unanimously vote to go…
* To Cancun, where we buy our friend Dick a burger so he will lend us his car overnight for our last storage unit trip in the morning, but are trumped by Cancun’s owner, Pat, who picks up the whole tab by writing on the bill: “$0.00 Good luck Kathleen and Tony in England!”
* To home, where Tony cleans and I finish off packing while lamenting a cat-less apartment that we have lived in for six years.
* To bed, wondering if we will finally sleep tonight of all nights and miss our self-imposed wake-up call of 6 am.
* To the storage unit, at 6 am Friday in Dick’s car, with the last load, which fits perfectly.
* Tony to the bank’s automatic deposit, the dry cleaners’ automatic withdrawal, and then to Dick’s to deliver the car and walk home.
* Me to home to try to clean anything and makes sure everything we’re leaving is in the pile for the Salvation Army and everything we’re taking is shoved in one of our four overweight suitcases, four oversized carry-ons, or one overstuffed purse.
* To Miami airport surrounded by four overweight suitcases, four oversized carry-ons, and one overstuffed purse, in the Super Shuttle, which, despite our call and plea to arrive late arrives early,.
* To Baltimore surrounded by others fleeing Ivan, feeling as tho I should aplogize to everyone we knock in to with our great big bags by saying, “Sorry. We’re moving to Europe…”
* To the Comfort Inn at the Baltimore airport, after a 45-minute diesel-fume-filled wait for the free “courtesy van.” Nothing’s free.
* To dinner at the pub in the Comfort Inn with the woman at the piano with the automatic drummer playing “Blowing in the Wind,” where our friend Heather smuggles us two bottles of wine with her impending nuptials immortalized on the labels.
* To bed in the Comfort Inn where we collapse even before the Everybody Loves Raymond repeat at 10 pm.
* To our Heather’s wedding Saturday afternoon, in the van which her neighbor is providing for all the wedding guests staying at the Comfort Inn.
* Back to the Comfort Inn in the limo her neighbor is providing, after a beautiful backyard wedding, in a gazebo, with barbecue, wedding cake, and more wine. Good job Heather, thanks for the extra bottles.
* To downtown Baltimore on Sunday afternoon, on the Light Rail with my high school friend Janet and my college friend Melanie, who have never met before, but got together to spend the day with us on our last day in America.
* To the Baltimore Morton’s with Janet’s 50% employee discount, for one of the most extravagant, wonderful, farewell to meat-and-potatoes-America dinners we could ever have, generously paid for by Janet, Melanie and Morton’s.
* To the phones to call our other friends from Pennsylvania who came to the hotel to visit with us on our last day in America, but who didn’t call before we left so ended up visiting with each other in the lobby.
* To the airport in the same free “courtesy van” which pulls away from the hotel just as we struggle out the front door with our four overweight suitcases, four oversized carry-ons, and one overstuffed purse.
* To the Continental Airlines counter where the woman wisely switches us to an earlier connecting flight to Newark, which actually gets us in with only an hour to spare because, as the flight attendant announces, in response to the passenger who shouts, “Let’s get this flight moving! Some people have planes to catch!”, “Flights at this time are always backed up.”
* To Gallagher’s Steak House in the Newark airport, for a burger and a filet mignon with Roquefort appetizer, figuring it was a good omen because my mother was a Gallagher.
* To Continental Flight 26, Newark to Birmingham, curled up in the cramped seats in steerage, but with my sore knee sticking out in the aisle thanks to the young British passenger who agreed to take my window seat.
* To the ATM in Birmingham airport, praying that it will spit up cash for the cab ride.
* To Oscott Gardens, the student housing we have been allotted, where I convince the turbaned cab driver to help lug our four overweight suitcases and four oversized carry-ons (I’ll carry the purse) up four flights of stairs to Flat 8, Apartment 6, which is big and roomy but only has one bed.
* To the Accomodations Office to beg for another bed, bedding and towels.
* To my new office and new boss, half asleep, jet lagged, and dressed in what I assumed was the universal academic uniform, T-shirt and jeans, to be introduced to men in ties and women in suits.
* To the campus pub for a drink with the boss, where we find out they stop serving food in ten minutes, and if Tony doesn’t get his sleepy Irish ass over here we will have an evening with no food and nowhere to walk to get any.
* To bed and sleep at 9 pm, with Radio Four in my ears.
* To campus this morning, Wednesday, showered, toweled, dressed in matching jacket and pants, to meet with another faculty member, Catherine, who has been assigned to show us apartments (“I’ll pay your mileage!”—the new boss).
* To Kingstanding, One-Stop Shopping Center and Sutton Coldfield, to respectively look at a flat, open a bank account, and scout out a new neighborhood, all with Catherine as our wonderful tour guide.
* To the grocery store in Sutton Coldfield to buy wine and microwaveable dinners, and up the hill to get the bus to One-Stop Shopping to steal plastic cutlery from Subway, and across the campus to home where the codes on our keys have been changed and the security guard has to let us in our building.
* To the laundrette in Oscott Gardens, and then to the computer in my office to check e-mail, and then to the pub on campus for one last drink before coming back to write my blog.
Stay tuned.