It's been a while, yes.
For those of you who check this page regularly, I'm sorry that I haven't been more disciplined about posting. And for those of you who are easily disappointed, I'm even sorrier for what you're about to read. But let's face it - you're an adult and it's not my job to keep you from being disappointed. So I'll say here, now, it's official, insofar as anything in the banking industry is ever official - we're moving back to the US.
This may change, and our children (whom, I would add, it IS my job to try to protect from a certain amount of avoidable disappointment, or at least from life's endless buffet of pain and prosternation) are unaware of this impending move. So please don't talk about it in front of them. I will also add now that I am not entirely pleased about this move. Our secret, yes?
By way of explanation, and just because I feel like it, let us consider some widely held misconceptions about my adoptive country, this place that I love:
1. "Taxes are higher". This may be true. In the UK, we have a very simple tax system. There are 9 deductions (mostly applicable to those are either blind or who were born before 1935) and 4 tax rates (source). While these rates may be slightly higher than thay are in the US, the taxes here are fair and do not lend themselves to cheating. The government does not offer a direct incentive to own a home or to bear large numbers of offspring who may later take up the cause of consumerist consumption. I filed my UK taxes in less time than it took the kids to pick up their Legos. I owed 50p. Compare this to the £600 I pay annually to have my US taxes compiled neatly into a stack of 30 or so A4 sheets to be sent to the local embassy.
2. "Nationalized healthcare is shambolic". This may also be true. To avoid using the UK National Health System, I pay £1888.80 per year for private health insurance. Even taken as a direct comparison this compares favorably with the $8000 or so that I paid annually for health coverage in the US; but to this, I must add that my coverage in the US was, in a word, shite. Even with Blue Cross I not only forked over a $30 copay for every office visit, but I also footed 20% of every medical bill. Here, I pay, um, NOTHING. I had £250 worth of bloodwork recently. I paid NOTHING. I had an MRI done of my head and spine, the bill for which came to £1600. If you are the sort of dullard who learns only through repetition - perhaps you are a hockey fan - I shall reiterate: I paid NOTHING. Had these tests been carried out in the US I'd have been out about $350 (assuming an oversimplified unit to unit currency conversion). OK, so you might say that this is not a valid comparison - private health insurance does not adequately represent the general experience in a nationalized system. And to you, dear detractor, I say in the nicest way, 'Bollocks, You Ignorant Tosser'. Several years ago, Michael had not one, but two injuries requiring professional medical attention, and we took him to the local NHS hospital. On both occasions, he was treated quickly and efficiently and with a degree of kindness and compassion that I've not seen in any US medical facility. I'll reiterate - we paid NOTHING. I'll be the first to admit that two data points may not be representative of an entire system, but, and I'll be perfectly forthright with you here, I don't really give a shit, let alone two of them, about whether my experience represents the entire system. I only present my personal experience of it.
3. "It rains a lot". This is a completely unfounded assertion. Philadelphia received, over the course of more than 100 years, 70% more annual rainfall than London (source). I rarely carry an umbrella in London, and although I can't say that I don't ever get wet, I get less wet here walking the 20 minutes or so to and from the train than I ever did while hatlessly navigating interminable suburban American carparks. It's also worth adding here that while London does have a somewhat lower average temperature - 50 degrees F versus Philadelphia's comparatively balmy 54 degrees - the temperature here falls within a 24 degree band while Philadelphia's fluctuates by 44 degrees on average. Put differently, the summers here may be cool, but the winters are warm. Yes, I enjoy the change of seasons, but while I don't even own a heavy coat, there's a good chance that you're wearing yours now if you live in the Northeast US.
4. "The transport system breaks down." Yeah, that one's probably true. On the other hand, London transport does actually GO to most of the places I need to get to. Even now, after several drinks, I can think of no fewer than eight ways to get to work from where I live. Some are more useful than others, but they all get me where I need to go, and the diversity of routes means that I have a fair few alternates when one is broken. By way of comparison, let's say that I wanted to get from Downingtown (where we lived before moving here) to West Conshohocken (where I worked before moving here) using only public transport. The website of SEPTA, the regional Transport Authority, offers the following helpful instructions: "Dear customer, nearby to the given address stations could not be found. Perhaps timetable data of local transport associations is missing. We hope for your understanding." OK, so public transport's out, let's drive. If I were driving between the same points in the US, there were at most four different routes, one involving a dirt road skirting a Chester County cow pasture, and even that one was prone to backups. I can find my way anywhere in London given a postcode. It might take me a bit longer and I might be jostled on a crowded platform or sweat through my clean shirt, but goddammit, I'll probably get there and if I don't, I can always pour myself into a cab. Oh, and by the way I pay £123 a month for this service. Again, this compares favorably to the monthly cost of a car - payment, interest, maintenance and fuel.
5. "There are no good restaurants". Again, patently false. Tonight, we ate at a Korean BBQ that opened around the corner from us. A Google search for "London and Restaurant" yields 701,000 results. A similar search for "Philadelphia and Restaurant" returns a comparatively lean 115,000 hits, despite Philadelphia's recent eatery renaissance. One need but scratch the vacuous surface of Philadelphia's restaurant listings to find a Stephen Starr establishment at one's corner, occupying a previously vacant lot or a former Bolshevik diner. Of course one can't compare these results directly, but the sheer magnitude of the difference in the numbers tells its own story.
London is not without its faults. The frequent altercations, both large and small, that I manage to get myself into at bus stops, tube stations and on the pavement outside my office are certainly examples of why this is not Utopia. Sometimes the restuarants are not fabulous, the lights are not terribly bright, the schools not all that good. But on balance, this city is where I live, it's where I feel comfortable, it's where I belong. Though my life here may be short of middling, I love it anyway.
And now, it's time to leave this, all beauty and conflict, behind. The Buddhists say that the path to happiness lies in letting go - of people, of places, of things. I may only aspire to such greatness, or even to littleness. I can't even let go of my morning commute without a struggle.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Wanderlust
I don't think I've travelled nearly enough. I say this because of an advertisement I saw on the tube today on the way to work. The ad was for STA TRAVEL (or STAT RAVEL, I couldn't really be sure as I broke my glasses some time ago and have either been too lazy or vain to have them fixed). I don't really remember much about the ad, but the tagline was "Before you turn 35". As a 40 year old, I found this frightening and disturbing and vaguely offensive.
I can just imagine the meeting of the STA Travel marketing department where they came up with that one - a couple of pimply twenty-somethings in baggy pants and baseball caps guzzling Coke and kicking ideas around.
"Yo, Tyler, how about 'Go before you're dead.'"
"Shu'up, Taylor, thas sum sick shit. Or, or, or 'Before you turn 35'"
"LOL. Yo mama's 35, beeyatch!"
Seriously, what's that supposed to mean? I'm pretty well travelled for an American, but there are still plenty of places I haven't been to, even in America. I pointed out to Caroline the other day that in her Brownies group there is a girl named Savannah and another named Georgia. She stared at me blankly until I explained that Savannah is a city in Georgia. She asked me what it's like but I have no idea. I've never been to Savannah, though I have been to Hilton Head just a few miles north, and I remember the stench of the Savannah paper mills like the devil's own flatulence wafting up the coastline. I hear it's lovely if the wind is right, though, so I'll put Savannah on the list, right along with all the others.
I don't like to brag (OK, yes I do) but I've got 144 cities in 11 countries tagged on my Facebook 'Tripadvisor Cities I've Visited' app. Fact is, though, that's not enough. I wonder if it will EVER be enough. I'm not sure what drives this need to travel, to see new places and experience new things. It's been a few months since I've been away and I'm getting itchy again. I have a friend who's got three or four hundred cities tagged and he's still travelling. It never gets old.
So the idea that you have to get your travelling in before you're 35? Well, as a forty year old with a need to GO, I can say with some certainty that that's just bollocks.
I can just imagine the meeting of the STA Travel marketing department where they came up with that one - a couple of pimply twenty-somethings in baggy pants and baseball caps guzzling Coke and kicking ideas around.
"Yo, Tyler, how about 'Go before you're dead.'"
"Shu'up, Taylor, thas sum sick shit. Or, or, or 'Before you turn 35'"
"LOL. Yo mama's 35, beeyatch!"
Seriously, what's that supposed to mean? I'm pretty well travelled for an American, but there are still plenty of places I haven't been to, even in America. I pointed out to Caroline the other day that in her Brownies group there is a girl named Savannah and another named Georgia. She stared at me blankly until I explained that Savannah is a city in Georgia. She asked me what it's like but I have no idea. I've never been to Savannah, though I have been to Hilton Head just a few miles north, and I remember the stench of the Savannah paper mills like the devil's own flatulence wafting up the coastline. I hear it's lovely if the wind is right, though, so I'll put Savannah on the list, right along with all the others.
I don't like to brag (OK, yes I do) but I've got 144 cities in 11 countries tagged on my Facebook 'Tripadvisor Cities I've Visited' app. Fact is, though, that's not enough. I wonder if it will EVER be enough. I'm not sure what drives this need to travel, to see new places and experience new things. It's been a few months since I've been away and I'm getting itchy again. I have a friend who's got three or four hundred cities tagged and he's still travelling. It never gets old.
So the idea that you have to get your travelling in before you're 35? Well, as a forty year old with a need to GO, I can say with some certainty that that's just bollocks.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Conversational French
We recently hosted some friends who are French. The youngest child, Romeo, an adorable three year old with floppy brown hair and big eyes, speaks no English.
After a few drinks, I, like most people, come to believe that I am smarter, funnier and better looking than I actually am. Ahh, the magic of alcohol. Too bad it doesn't make my French any better. The conversation between Romeo and I is recounted below, translated into English for those of you who either don't speak French or who aren't drunk right now.
"Sir," Romeo asks, his hair flopping down over his left eye. "May I play with this yellow car?" He calls me 'monsieur'. He calls Michael 'boy' and Caroline is 'girl'. I think it's very cute.
"Yes, of course," I reply in flawless French. I am now his best friend, having both given him permission to play with the yellow car and demonstrated that I speak his language. He is, poor child, completely unaware that I have exhausted the entire linguistic reserve of two years of high school French. I speak French in the way that a parrot speaks English - I repeat it, it sounds about right, and the words are sometimes marginally appropriate to the situation, but as often as not, I have no idea what I'm saying.
Some time later I am in the kitchen preparing dinner for the children, believing that I am a better cook than I actually am, when Romeo toddles down the hallway with both the yellow and the red cars in hand. The red and yellow cars require that you shake them vigorously and let them loose on the floor. While ridiculous to watch, if performed properly, this shaking will produce revving engine and screeching tire noises that are most satisfactory, especially to a small child.
"Monsieur, how does this car go?" His question is a bit of a challenge for me, but after a half a beat, I parse out the words for 'car' and 'go' and deduce his meaning.
"Relieve-her you," I reply. The French words for relief and shake are similar enough to confuse me. He stares at me blankly, but I hardly notice; I'm too busy trying to recall more French. "You relieve her and then put him under the stairs."
His bewilderment deepens. "I don't understand," he replies. It must be so difficult to be so young.
"Listen me," I command. I shake the yellow car and place it on the carpet. It races away, its engine roaring, and he shrieks with unbridled delight. He fetches the car and brings it back to me, holding it aloft so that I may shake it again. "No, you," I tell him. "Relieve!" I instruct emphatically, demonstrating with my hand. I have to get back to my boiling pasta, now frothing over, the starchy water hissing and popping evilly on the hot burner.
He shakes the car a few times and lets it go, but it only moves a few inches. He is crestfallen. "Monsieur, encore, s'il vous plaît?" he requests, a quiver in his voice. I shake the car and send it tearing down the hall, and he is happy once more.
There follows here a lengthy passage in his three-year-old French that is far better than mine and which I cannot possibly comprehend. It sounds like a question and it ends with please, so I assume he wants me to do the car thing again. I shake the car and let it go but his eyes well with tiny Gallic tears. Apparently I have misinterpreted his intentions. "No, no don't rain!" I implore, but he is howling and crying for his mère. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" his mother asks him, shepherding him into the front room as I return to my cooking.
A few minutes later, he's back, holding aloft two of Michael's small toy dinosaurs. "Monsieur, are these elephants?" I of course have no idea what he's asking so I smile and nod politely, the way you do when you've had a bit to drink and your dinner's beginning to weld itself to the stove top. "They don't look like elephants," he continues. "Elephants are grey and they have looong trunks. They are not elephants, I think. Have you ever seen an elephant?"
I am completely out of my depth. I think he's asking what kind of dinosaurs they are, but of course I don't know, and I admit as much. He seems puzzled that I am uncertain as to whether I've ever seen an elephant, but he lets it pass. "What are you cooking?"
"Stegosaurus, maybe?" I think he's still asking about the dinosaurs. He looks horrified and runs away.
He eats very little at dinner. When his mother presses him to finish his pasta, he protests violently in French and runs away. He does this a lot, it seems. I ask if everything is all right, but his mother shakes her head. "He has the, ah, the ideas crazy," she replies carefully in English. "He say the pasta is a dinosaur."
I can't imagine where he got that idea.
After a few drinks, I, like most people, come to believe that I am smarter, funnier and better looking than I actually am. Ahh, the magic of alcohol. Too bad it doesn't make my French any better. The conversation between Romeo and I is recounted below, translated into English for those of you who either don't speak French or who aren't drunk right now.
"Sir," Romeo asks, his hair flopping down over his left eye. "May I play with this yellow car?" He calls me 'monsieur'. He calls Michael 'boy' and Caroline is 'girl'. I think it's very cute.
"Yes, of course," I reply in flawless French. I am now his best friend, having both given him permission to play with the yellow car and demonstrated that I speak his language. He is, poor child, completely unaware that I have exhausted the entire linguistic reserve of two years of high school French. I speak French in the way that a parrot speaks English - I repeat it, it sounds about right, and the words are sometimes marginally appropriate to the situation, but as often as not, I have no idea what I'm saying.
Some time later I am in the kitchen preparing dinner for the children, believing that I am a better cook than I actually am, when Romeo toddles down the hallway with both the yellow and the red cars in hand. The red and yellow cars require that you shake them vigorously and let them loose on the floor. While ridiculous to watch, if performed properly, this shaking will produce revving engine and screeching tire noises that are most satisfactory, especially to a small child.
"Monsieur, how does this car go?" His question is a bit of a challenge for me, but after a half a beat, I parse out the words for 'car' and 'go' and deduce his meaning.
"Relieve-her you," I reply. The French words for relief and shake are similar enough to confuse me. He stares at me blankly, but I hardly notice; I'm too busy trying to recall more French. "You relieve her and then put him under the stairs."
His bewilderment deepens. "I don't understand," he replies. It must be so difficult to be so young.
"Listen me," I command. I shake the yellow car and place it on the carpet. It races away, its engine roaring, and he shrieks with unbridled delight. He fetches the car and brings it back to me, holding it aloft so that I may shake it again. "No, you," I tell him. "Relieve!" I instruct emphatically, demonstrating with my hand. I have to get back to my boiling pasta, now frothing over, the starchy water hissing and popping evilly on the hot burner.
He shakes the car a few times and lets it go, but it only moves a few inches. He is crestfallen. "Monsieur, encore, s'il vous plaît?" he requests, a quiver in his voice. I shake the car and send it tearing down the hall, and he is happy once more.
There follows here a lengthy passage in his three-year-old French that is far better than mine and which I cannot possibly comprehend. It sounds like a question and it ends with please, so I assume he wants me to do the car thing again. I shake the car and let it go but his eyes well with tiny Gallic tears. Apparently I have misinterpreted his intentions. "No, no don't rain!" I implore, but he is howling and crying for his mère. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" his mother asks him, shepherding him into the front room as I return to my cooking.
A few minutes later, he's back, holding aloft two of Michael's small toy dinosaurs. "Monsieur, are these elephants?" I of course have no idea what he's asking so I smile and nod politely, the way you do when you've had a bit to drink and your dinner's beginning to weld itself to the stove top. "They don't look like elephants," he continues. "Elephants are grey and they have looong trunks. They are not elephants, I think. Have you ever seen an elephant?"
I am completely out of my depth. I think he's asking what kind of dinosaurs they are, but of course I don't know, and I admit as much. He seems puzzled that I am uncertain as to whether I've ever seen an elephant, but he lets it pass. "What are you cooking?"
"Stegosaurus, maybe?" I think he's still asking about the dinosaurs. He looks horrified and runs away.
He eats very little at dinner. When his mother presses him to finish his pasta, he protests violently in French and runs away. He does this a lot, it seems. I ask if everything is all right, but his mother shakes her head. "He has the, ah, the ideas crazy," she replies carefully in English. "He say the pasta is a dinosaur."
I can't imagine where he got that idea.
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Last Time
I have to admit, I'm a little intrigued by the dead birds. And the dead fish. And all the other animals that seem to have decided to pack it in this week. They, the people who name such things, have dubbed it the aflockalypse. Is this really the beginning of the end of the world? Hmm. Probably not. I really believe that the Mayans ended the calendar on 12-12-2012 because it had to end _sometime_ and they got tired of chiseling the dates into the stones.
But it does make you wonder.
There's actually a pretty thin line separating me from the naked guy with the crazy hair wearing a sandwich board proclaiming 'The End Is Nigh'. I exist in a permanent state of impermanence. I expect that whatever is there now soon will be un-there'd. Yes, it's a somewhat taxing and depressing way to live, but the good news is that I'm rarely surprised when things DO end. But that's just the big stuff. What about the little things?
I was at a friend's house recently when he announced that he had to give his little girl a bath. Bathing the kids was a routine that I both loved and despised. Some days it was just a mundane chore; others, it was a welcome respite from the cares and worries of the adult world - you know, the one where you can't splash around.
I invented a tub game called squirty telephone when we first moved to London. The children, having left families and friends and cherished toys back in the US, were miserable. On the first or second night, while giving them a bath in the Savoy's commodious tub, to distract them from the misery brought on by having moved a quarter of the way across the world to a rainy, grey city where everyone seemed to be in a terrible hurry and the food was lousy, I hit on the idea of pretending that the hand shower was a telephone. Making a ringing noise, I put it to my ear and turned on the water, and squirty telephone was born. For the next two years I had to soak my head every time I gave them a bath. We finally moved into a house that has no hand shower and they soon gave up baths.
I honestly can't remember the last time I gave them a bath. It just stopped without warning. I suppose I thought I would be bathing them indefinitely. As much as it was a pain in the ass sometimes, I miss it.
The children have stopped waving to me from the front window. I don't know when, or why, they just have. I don't remember the last time they did, precisely because I didn't KNOW it was the last time. If I had, I'd have made a special effort to remember it.
A facile philosophy would suggest that you should live your life as if every day is your last. That's just not possible, I think. Life does, in fact, get mundane. Routine. Even boring at times. You take things for granted. You assume that your children will always be children. That your friends will always be around. That the things and the people that you love will always be in your life.
And then, swiftly and without any warning at all, they are gone.
When was the last time you gave your kid a bath?
But it does make you wonder.
There's actually a pretty thin line separating me from the naked guy with the crazy hair wearing a sandwich board proclaiming 'The End Is Nigh'. I exist in a permanent state of impermanence. I expect that whatever is there now soon will be un-there'd. Yes, it's a somewhat taxing and depressing way to live, but the good news is that I'm rarely surprised when things DO end. But that's just the big stuff. What about the little things?
I was at a friend's house recently when he announced that he had to give his little girl a bath. Bathing the kids was a routine that I both loved and despised. Some days it was just a mundane chore; others, it was a welcome respite from the cares and worries of the adult world - you know, the one where you can't splash around.
I invented a tub game called squirty telephone when we first moved to London. The children, having left families and friends and cherished toys back in the US, were miserable. On the first or second night, while giving them a bath in the Savoy's commodious tub, to distract them from the misery brought on by having moved a quarter of the way across the world to a rainy, grey city where everyone seemed to be in a terrible hurry and the food was lousy, I hit on the idea of pretending that the hand shower was a telephone. Making a ringing noise, I put it to my ear and turned on the water, and squirty telephone was born. For the next two years I had to soak my head every time I gave them a bath. We finally moved into a house that has no hand shower and they soon gave up baths.
I honestly can't remember the last time I gave them a bath. It just stopped without warning. I suppose I thought I would be bathing them indefinitely. As much as it was a pain in the ass sometimes, I miss it.
The children have stopped waving to me from the front window. I don't know when, or why, they just have. I don't remember the last time they did, precisely because I didn't KNOW it was the last time. If I had, I'd have made a special effort to remember it.
A facile philosophy would suggest that you should live your life as if every day is your last. That's just not possible, I think. Life does, in fact, get mundane. Routine. Even boring at times. You take things for granted. You assume that your children will always be children. That your friends will always be around. That the things and the people that you love will always be in your life.
And then, swiftly and without any warning at all, they are gone.
When was the last time you gave your kid a bath?
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Bleah.
I am thoroughly disgusted with myself right now.
It's now day 7 of my vacation and I've done almost nothing. I've slept late, stayed up late, overate, drank too much and generally allowed everything from my brain southward to atrophy. I haven't shaved in days, and, including time spent filling the recycling bin with empty wine bottles and a forest's worth of cardboard, I've been outside for a total of perhaps three hours in the past week.
Part of the problem is Christmas. Christmas is a cozy affair here. We don't have family around and, with no work and no obligation to go anywhere visiting, there's little incentive to get dressed in the morning. We spent Boxing Day in our pajamas playing video games and eating frozen appetizers. EA Create for the Wii is strangely addictive, but last year's goat cheese and parma ham canapes are, um, not so much.
After allowing the children to eat porridge for dinner and spending an embarrassing number of hours flinging myself around the living room to Katy Perry in Let's Dance 2 (Caroline and I are becoming quite competitive), I think it may be time to pick myself up, take a shower and actually DO something.
The trouble is, what, exactly, to do? Interesting things to do with the kids invariably seem to thrust themselves unbidden at me at precisely the wrong moments, say, while on the way to work. Conversely, on those rare occasions when I actually have the time to do something with the children (like now), every one with children below the age of 21 seem to have packed up and gone skiing in France and the children's activities in the city are limited to selling matchsticks and filching tourist's wallets.
Out of sheer desperation we went to the movies yesterday. I say 'desperation' because I generally like to do inexpensive activities with the children. In my mind, the authenticity of any experience is inversely proportional to its cost. Thus, my stinginess makes me feel that I'm giving them a real-life adventure rather than feeding them a packaged, artificial experience. This is why I prefer dodgy little cafes to glittering linen-clothed restaurants and Budapest's rusty little amusement park to Disney's plastic princesses. And, since it's difficult to predict what the children will enjoy and what they won't, doing something inexpensive relieves the pressure to try to cajole them into having a good time. I'm sure they will come to hate me for it later.
The only activities that I can find that are both 'child friendly' and free are the Christmas light shows on various shopping streets in London and the tree in Trafalgar Square. We went to see the tree last year. To say that it was something of a let-down compared to the tree at Rockefeller Center would be entirely accurate, albeit a gross understatement. I suppose that misses the point, really: the tree is meant as a simple commemoration of Norway's gratitude for Britain's role in World War II, not as a display of wealth and status. Still, when you slog through miles of week-old slush because the councils can't get their shit together and clear the walkways after even a minor snowfall, you expect to be rewarded handsomely for your efforts.
The only child-suitable movie showing yesterday in the whole of Christendom was 'Arthur and the Great Adventure'. Now, I generally consider myself a pretty intelligent guy, but honestly, I could NOT figure this movie out. It seemed to be set in a town in the Midwest in the 1950's, but some of the main characters were British. One minor character might have been South African. The purpose of the Aborigines living in the forest and making random appearances with their magic telescope was not entirely clear. Equally unclear was Snoop Dogg's role as a sort of Rastafarian spiritual guide/petty thug with bad teeth. It might have made more sense if I'd seen the first one or had taken recreational pharmaceuticals beforehand. A number of people walked out. The kids seemed to enjoy it, but they were strangely subdued for a while afterwards. Perhaps they, like me, were grappling with the subtext of the overbearing father and misunderstood son between the main villain and his nasty-looking offspring. Or maybe they'd just had too much junk food.
Speaking of junk food, the best thing about going to the movies here is that you're allowed to bring your own food. Well, maybe not ALLOWED exactly, but everyone seems to do it. You know, come to think of it, I've never really SEEN anyone else bringing their own food, so maybe it's just us. In any case, we were out of popcorn, having used the last bag on a previous evening sofa-bound evening watching Polar Express, so we brought Nik Naks. Nik Naks are a South African snack that I discovered accidentally while babysitting for a friend a few months ago. Inactivity makes me both peckish and exploratory. I think he was miffed that I'd eaten them. Sorry, mate, but it's a good thing I found them when I did, as who knows what I'd have dredged up if I'd kept looking.
As far as I know, Nik Naks come in two flavors - Original Cheese (very similar to, if not exactly like, American Cheetos) and Fruit Chutney (very similar to, if not exactly like, American Cheetos that have spent too much time in the kitchen of a mediocre Brick Lane curry house). Funnily enough, Michele and I both gave each other a bag of Nik Naks for Christmas. (No, of COURSE that wasn't the only thing we gave each other. I got biltong, too.)
And so, the day begins. My children are stirring sleepily overhead. Soon they'll be dragging themselves out of bed, and we'll begin another round of 'What are we Doing Today?', a game I have grown accustomed to losing. Maybe I'll drag them to see the tree. At least it's outside and it's free.
It's now day 7 of my vacation and I've done almost nothing. I've slept late, stayed up late, overate, drank too much and generally allowed everything from my brain southward to atrophy. I haven't shaved in days, and, including time spent filling the recycling bin with empty wine bottles and a forest's worth of cardboard, I've been outside for a total of perhaps three hours in the past week.
Part of the problem is Christmas. Christmas is a cozy affair here. We don't have family around and, with no work and no obligation to go anywhere visiting, there's little incentive to get dressed in the morning. We spent Boxing Day in our pajamas playing video games and eating frozen appetizers. EA Create for the Wii is strangely addictive, but last year's goat cheese and parma ham canapes are, um, not so much.
After allowing the children to eat porridge for dinner and spending an embarrassing number of hours flinging myself around the living room to Katy Perry in Let's Dance 2 (Caroline and I are becoming quite competitive), I think it may be time to pick myself up, take a shower and actually DO something.
The trouble is, what, exactly, to do? Interesting things to do with the kids invariably seem to thrust themselves unbidden at me at precisely the wrong moments, say, while on the way to work. Conversely, on those rare occasions when I actually have the time to do something with the children (like now), every one with children below the age of 21 seem to have packed up and gone skiing in France and the children's activities in the city are limited to selling matchsticks and filching tourist's wallets.
Out of sheer desperation we went to the movies yesterday. I say 'desperation' because I generally like to do inexpensive activities with the children. In my mind, the authenticity of any experience is inversely proportional to its cost. Thus, my stinginess makes me feel that I'm giving them a real-life adventure rather than feeding them a packaged, artificial experience. This is why I prefer dodgy little cafes to glittering linen-clothed restaurants and Budapest's rusty little amusement park to Disney's plastic princesses. And, since it's difficult to predict what the children will enjoy and what they won't, doing something inexpensive relieves the pressure to try to cajole them into having a good time. I'm sure they will come to hate me for it later.
The only activities that I can find that are both 'child friendly' and free are the Christmas light shows on various shopping streets in London and the tree in Trafalgar Square. We went to see the tree last year. To say that it was something of a let-down compared to the tree at Rockefeller Center would be entirely accurate, albeit a gross understatement. I suppose that misses the point, really: the tree is meant as a simple commemoration of Norway's gratitude for Britain's role in World War II, not as a display of wealth and status. Still, when you slog through miles of week-old slush because the councils can't get their shit together and clear the walkways after even a minor snowfall, you expect to be rewarded handsomely for your efforts.
The only child-suitable movie showing yesterday in the whole of Christendom was 'Arthur and the Great Adventure'. Now, I generally consider myself a pretty intelligent guy, but honestly, I could NOT figure this movie out. It seemed to be set in a town in the Midwest in the 1950's, but some of the main characters were British. One minor character might have been South African. The purpose of the Aborigines living in the forest and making random appearances with their magic telescope was not entirely clear. Equally unclear was Snoop Dogg's role as a sort of Rastafarian spiritual guide/petty thug with bad teeth. It might have made more sense if I'd seen the first one or had taken recreational pharmaceuticals beforehand. A number of people walked out. The kids seemed to enjoy it, but they were strangely subdued for a while afterwards. Perhaps they, like me, were grappling with the subtext of the overbearing father and misunderstood son between the main villain and his nasty-looking offspring. Or maybe they'd just had too much junk food.
Speaking of junk food, the best thing about going to the movies here is that you're allowed to bring your own food. Well, maybe not ALLOWED exactly, but everyone seems to do it. You know, come to think of it, I've never really SEEN anyone else bringing their own food, so maybe it's just us. In any case, we were out of popcorn, having used the last bag on a previous evening sofa-bound evening watching Polar Express, so we brought Nik Naks. Nik Naks are a South African snack that I discovered accidentally while babysitting for a friend a few months ago. Inactivity makes me both peckish and exploratory. I think he was miffed that I'd eaten them. Sorry, mate, but it's a good thing I found them when I did, as who knows what I'd have dredged up if I'd kept looking.
As far as I know, Nik Naks come in two flavors - Original Cheese (very similar to, if not exactly like, American Cheetos) and Fruit Chutney (very similar to, if not exactly like, American Cheetos that have spent too much time in the kitchen of a mediocre Brick Lane curry house). Funnily enough, Michele and I both gave each other a bag of Nik Naks for Christmas. (No, of COURSE that wasn't the only thing we gave each other. I got biltong, too.)
And so, the day begins. My children are stirring sleepily overhead. Soon they'll be dragging themselves out of bed, and we'll begin another round of 'What are we Doing Today?', a game I have grown accustomed to losing. Maybe I'll drag them to see the tree. At least it's outside and it's free.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Happy Christmas
Sometimes my kids are so sweet they make me cry.
Caroline's letter to Santa, left next to the cookies, tied with a ribbon and marked 'don't read unless you are Santa'.
Dear Santa
Has any one said thank you for the presents? Probably not! Well, I am, right here on this letter. So "thank you for the presents and the things in my stocking you give me"
From
Caroline
P.S. I hope you like the cookies and milk.
Caroline's letter to Santa, left next to the cookies, tied with a ribbon and marked 'don't read unless you are Santa'.
Dear Santa
Has any one said thank you for the presents? Probably not! Well, I am, right here on this letter. So "thank you for the presents and the things in my stocking you give me"
From
Caroline
P.S. I hope you like the cookies and milk.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
The Sleepover
I had the oddest dream last night.
Having recently purchased a large hotel with only the vaguest idea how to run it, I make a tour of the cavernous kitchen and its mysterious gleaming steel appliances. I discover a massive Lavazza coffee machine on wheels behind the industrial dishwasher, but it only makes coffee one cup at a time, using single serving capsules. Without a real sense of certainty, I am obliged to provide breakfast not only for the throngs of hotel guests who all present themselves in the dining room simultaneously, but also for our own hoarde of houseguests, who hover around in the kitchen, demanding pancakes and French toast rather than the eggs, fried or scrambled that I offer. I must go to the grocery store to buy loaves of bread while at the same time instructing the kitchen staff, whom I have inherited from the previous owners and who appear to have been previously engaged in a non-culinary activity, like bricklaying or prizefighting, and who are even more bewildered than I at finding themselves manning a professional kitchen on a busy morning.
I wake at 5.30, my aging bladder recommending itself to my urgent attention. Relieved that my grueling hotel management experience has been only a dream, I stagger, squinting and sleep-drunk into the bathroom. I hear a noise downstairs. And I remember. It's...The Sleepover.
Yesterday was Caroline's birthday and, in keeping with a tradition we stupidly started a few years ago, we have invited several of her friends to sleep at our house. From a distance, this appears to be a fine idea - the girls entertain each other, they whisper and giggle and mince about. They brush each other's hair. One has hair that reaches nearly all the way to her waist, or rather, she HAD such hair when she arrived. Most of it can now be found in clumps on the living room floor. She looks as if she's lost a fight with a lawn mower. I suspect she will be bald soon.
Up close, a sleepover is a plan fraught with danger. For starters, there is the need to provide sufficient entertainment to keep an unusually large number of children with divergent interests occupied. Some parents resort to bowling or the cinema, but these are for the weak hearted, and we choose no such facile routes. Instead, we provide 'activities,' usually in form of some type of craft. Fortunately, Michele is very good at this sort of thing, and these entertainments are undertaken by the participants with a relish and gusto that I have seldom seen outside of a German beer hall. This year, the children made bracelets and necklaces. I thought it would be fun to offer up these adornments for sale at the next opportunity, but my suggestion was not well-received. If it were up to me, they'd be learning useful life skills at our parties, like coal mining or how to make a really spicy Bloody Mary.
Then there is the fact that 'sleepover' is an ironic misnomer. I suspect that "sleepover" is a tongue-in-cheek corruption of the original term, "sleep's over", but I really have no way of knowing. I do know, however, that there is no 'sleep' at a 'sleepover'. There is bickering and cattiness and the inevitable complaints of the sensible few whose efforts at the 'sleep' part are thwarted by those who possess a seemingly inexhaustible capacity for middle of the night inane chatter. What the hell do these people talk about? They're nine years old for Christ's sake - they can't possibly have had enough cumulative experience to have something to say for this long. Perhaps they just repeat themselves, or put random words together without any real attempt at meaning, like stringing popcorn.
The last I remember it was 1.00 this morning and they were still going; a symphony whose movements all begins with a whisper, rise to a crescendo of crashes and bangs of unknown origin and end, falling all in a heap at a sharp but unintelligible paternal reproach. In the brief interlude which follows, all is quiet. Then someone coughs and the cycle begins again. After a perfunctory 'last, absolutely final' warning to shut their pie holes and go to sleep, I drift off myself and, blissfully, paid them no further mind.
I lie awake, simultaneously anticipating and dreading the first undeniable 'someone's awake' noise from downstairs. I am pleasantly surprised that it does not come until well past 7.00. While the whoops and laughter drift up the steps, I nudge Michele and drag myself from the warm nest of blankets. It is time to make the pancakes.
I am a free-range sort of a cook: I normally have a number of things going at once so I need lots of space and to be able to move about unimpeded, catching things just before they burn or boil over. Sometimes I get it wrong, but usually it works out, and, to the best of my knowledge, my cooking has never made anyone sick. This space hungry approach to cooking, however, is incompatible with a house full of nine year olds, all of whom want to 'help'. But I don't really NEED any help, thanks. In fact, dear little ones, I genuinely suspect you'll be more of a hinderance than a help. But of course I can't say that, not to my precious daughter's friends. They might shun her if they really knew what an anal retentive prick she has for a father. I put on the best smile I can manage at 7.30 on a Sunday morning and allow them to stir the batter. "I'm next!" "No me!" "No, MEEE!" The batter slops out of the bowl and I can feel my blood pressure mounting. Deep breath. Don't yell. "Ok, girls, that's enough stirring." "But I didn't get a turn!" More disappointed noises. I chase them out. "If you want breakfast, get out of my kitchen. Go play. Somewhere else. Go on, out." "Where?" they ask. "The street?" I suggest helpfully.
Dragging their feet, they leave the kitchen. The bacon, in the oven to warm so that I can peel the paper thin slices apart more easily, has now been in for too long and has begun to harden. Muttering to myself like a Times Square vagrant, I dump it in the rubbish and start over. About a third of the way through the pancakes, the smoke detector goes off for no obvious reason. Perhaps the downstairs neighbor, roused by the noise of what must surely sound like a zoo full of elephants overhead, has lit a cigarette. The smoke detector is sensitive. Except, apparently, when the kitchen is actually FULL of smoke, as it was later when I absentmindedly left an empty pan on a hot burner while I daubed impotently at the two glasses of orange juice on my dining room carpet. Although our entire kitchen might be burning merrily without our taking much notice, it's nice to know that we'll have adequate warning if the neighbors ever burn their toast.
Most of the girls have now left. One remains, though, and she and Caroline are surreptitiously coloring each other's noses with Sharpies and putting fairy wings on our son, who protests violently but eventually capitulates at the prospect of being promoted to Caroline's 'best friend'. There is a great deal of banging and thumping and cries of 'stretch him, STRETCH him!' I have neither the energy nor the inclination to intervene. He enters the living room, his skin red and blotchy, his eyes like two bruises. I am surprised to be saying this, but I hope this is makeup.
"Maybe this is a dream, too?" I think hopefully. But no. Now I have to make them lunch.
Having recently purchased a large hotel with only the vaguest idea how to run it, I make a tour of the cavernous kitchen and its mysterious gleaming steel appliances. I discover a massive Lavazza coffee machine on wheels behind the industrial dishwasher, but it only makes coffee one cup at a time, using single serving capsules. Without a real sense of certainty, I am obliged to provide breakfast not only for the throngs of hotel guests who all present themselves in the dining room simultaneously, but also for our own hoarde of houseguests, who hover around in the kitchen, demanding pancakes and French toast rather than the eggs, fried or scrambled that I offer. I must go to the grocery store to buy loaves of bread while at the same time instructing the kitchen staff, whom I have inherited from the previous owners and who appear to have been previously engaged in a non-culinary activity, like bricklaying or prizefighting, and who are even more bewildered than I at finding themselves manning a professional kitchen on a busy morning.
I wake at 5.30, my aging bladder recommending itself to my urgent attention. Relieved that my grueling hotel management experience has been only a dream, I stagger, squinting and sleep-drunk into the bathroom. I hear a noise downstairs. And I remember. It's...The Sleepover.
Yesterday was Caroline's birthday and, in keeping with a tradition we stupidly started a few years ago, we have invited several of her friends to sleep at our house. From a distance, this appears to be a fine idea - the girls entertain each other, they whisper and giggle and mince about. They brush each other's hair. One has hair that reaches nearly all the way to her waist, or rather, she HAD such hair when she arrived. Most of it can now be found in clumps on the living room floor. She looks as if she's lost a fight with a lawn mower. I suspect she will be bald soon.
Up close, a sleepover is a plan fraught with danger. For starters, there is the need to provide sufficient entertainment to keep an unusually large number of children with divergent interests occupied. Some parents resort to bowling or the cinema, but these are for the weak hearted, and we choose no such facile routes. Instead, we provide 'activities,' usually in form of some type of craft. Fortunately, Michele is very good at this sort of thing, and these entertainments are undertaken by the participants with a relish and gusto that I have seldom seen outside of a German beer hall. This year, the children made bracelets and necklaces. I thought it would be fun to offer up these adornments for sale at the next opportunity, but my suggestion was not well-received. If it were up to me, they'd be learning useful life skills at our parties, like coal mining or how to make a really spicy Bloody Mary.
Then there is the fact that 'sleepover' is an ironic misnomer. I suspect that "sleepover" is a tongue-in-cheek corruption of the original term, "sleep's over", but I really have no way of knowing. I do know, however, that there is no 'sleep' at a 'sleepover'. There is bickering and cattiness and the inevitable complaints of the sensible few whose efforts at the 'sleep' part are thwarted by those who possess a seemingly inexhaustible capacity for middle of the night inane chatter. What the hell do these people talk about? They're nine years old for Christ's sake - they can't possibly have had enough cumulative experience to have something to say for this long. Perhaps they just repeat themselves, or put random words together without any real attempt at meaning, like stringing popcorn.
The last I remember it was 1.00 this morning and they were still going; a symphony whose movements all begins with a whisper, rise to a crescendo of crashes and bangs of unknown origin and end, falling all in a heap at a sharp but unintelligible paternal reproach. In the brief interlude which follows, all is quiet. Then someone coughs and the cycle begins again. After a perfunctory 'last, absolutely final' warning to shut their pie holes and go to sleep, I drift off myself and, blissfully, paid them no further mind.
I lie awake, simultaneously anticipating and dreading the first undeniable 'someone's awake' noise from downstairs. I am pleasantly surprised that it does not come until well past 7.00. While the whoops and laughter drift up the steps, I nudge Michele and drag myself from the warm nest of blankets. It is time to make the pancakes.
I am a free-range sort of a cook: I normally have a number of things going at once so I need lots of space and to be able to move about unimpeded, catching things just before they burn or boil over. Sometimes I get it wrong, but usually it works out, and, to the best of my knowledge, my cooking has never made anyone sick. This space hungry approach to cooking, however, is incompatible with a house full of nine year olds, all of whom want to 'help'. But I don't really NEED any help, thanks. In fact, dear little ones, I genuinely suspect you'll be more of a hinderance than a help. But of course I can't say that, not to my precious daughter's friends. They might shun her if they really knew what an anal retentive prick she has for a father. I put on the best smile I can manage at 7.30 on a Sunday morning and allow them to stir the batter. "I'm next!" "No me!" "No, MEEE!" The batter slops out of the bowl and I can feel my blood pressure mounting. Deep breath. Don't yell. "Ok, girls, that's enough stirring." "But I didn't get a turn!" More disappointed noises. I chase them out. "If you want breakfast, get out of my kitchen. Go play. Somewhere else. Go on, out." "Where?" they ask. "The street?" I suggest helpfully.
Dragging their feet, they leave the kitchen. The bacon, in the oven to warm so that I can peel the paper thin slices apart more easily, has now been in for too long and has begun to harden. Muttering to myself like a Times Square vagrant, I dump it in the rubbish and start over. About a third of the way through the pancakes, the smoke detector goes off for no obvious reason. Perhaps the downstairs neighbor, roused by the noise of what must surely sound like a zoo full of elephants overhead, has lit a cigarette. The smoke detector is sensitive. Except, apparently, when the kitchen is actually FULL of smoke, as it was later when I absentmindedly left an empty pan on a hot burner while I daubed impotently at the two glasses of orange juice on my dining room carpet. Although our entire kitchen might be burning merrily without our taking much notice, it's nice to know that we'll have adequate warning if the neighbors ever burn their toast.
Most of the girls have now left. One remains, though, and she and Caroline are surreptitiously coloring each other's noses with Sharpies and putting fairy wings on our son, who protests violently but eventually capitulates at the prospect of being promoted to Caroline's 'best friend'. There is a great deal of banging and thumping and cries of 'stretch him, STRETCH him!' I have neither the energy nor the inclination to intervene. He enters the living room, his skin red and blotchy, his eyes like two bruises. I am surprised to be saying this, but I hope this is makeup.
"Maybe this is a dream, too?" I think hopefully. But no. Now I have to make them lunch.
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