Back to Blighty (25th January 2010)

I wrote the following just before we left. It has sat here for over a year unpublished, unfinished. When I just read it back I could see why, but hey, it was how I felt at the time, so I am publishing it now as part of the wrap up, but I intend to do a 2011 version too.

This time next week, we will be at the airport waiting for the plane to take us home to the UK, after 19 months in San Francisco. It is almost impossible to put into words how I feel about this, but hey I'll give it a go. It's about time I blogged something.

Our trip back to Blighty in October changed everything for me. I was actually dreading the trip, in case I enjoyed myself too much and didn't want to come back here, or in case I actually had a bad time and felt like I didn't belong anywhere anymore. I have been putting off writing about the trip home too because of everything that happened next. In short, despite being made zombie with jet lag and 'sleeping' in a different bed every night, we had an amazing trip home. One of the things it made me realise was the fact that living in San Francisco has made me lose some of my independence. At home, I was me, as an entitity in my own right, and not just Mike's wife. Just driving again was great. When we flew back here, this city seemed very small, which is curious as the first thing we thought when we landed was that everything was so massive. As we unpacked in our tiny flat, I couldn't help thinking that the next year and a half we imagined we would stay here, was going to be very very long.

Only, it didn't really turn out that way in the end and now, as I write this, I am sitting on the only peice of furniture we have left, and waiting, waiting, waiting for next Monday. Our belongings are currently somewhere on a boat, either already on the ocean blue, or in a dock waiting to sail. We have no idea what our future holds, other than going back to stay with my mum for a bit until we get ourselves sorted, and I could not be more thrilled. Ever since we got back, despite the fact that San Francisco is a marvelous city, we have met some great people here who I know we will keep in touch with, the last year and a half will probably turn out to be the most pivotal of my life, the hunger for my homeland has grown and grown.

S.O.M.E.T.H.I.N.G C.H.A.N.G.E.D; a postscript

It has been bothering me for a while that my last blog post before my creative endeavours petered off is a rant. Not because at the time it wasn’t rant-worthy but because if someone finds this blog they will think that it was all about the misery. Well, actually it wasn’t (and the eagle eyed among you will note that I am now using the past tense.) It, I hope, was about the joy and the wonder, and at times about the loneliness, the longing; about the mundane, the extraordinary; and, on occasion, the ordinary, but not too much of that.

What happened next, as often happens in life, became a little complicated. I couldn’t write it down at the time, mostly because, as those of you who know me can testify, I am a border line compulsive truth teller who doesn’t do so well when a situation calls for subtlety. I am not going to record everything, and I can't remember it anyway but it feels important that this tale gets 'finished' not least because it was only in the process of leaving, and having left, that crystallised my views, and gave this story a proper end. So what follows in the next couple of posts is basically about what happened when we left San Francisco, but via a trip to Blighty first.

Having said all that though, I am back in the UK having adventures of a very different sort and I am thinking about blogging again. I still have so much to say. I have a lot less time now, but I have enjoyed it, and some people have even enjoyed reading it, but this is the end of High Fructose Corn Syrup, a journey of one year, seven months and a few days spent in San Francisco.

Crying over split milk; or why the word 'inappropriate' will never be the same for me again.

On my birthday this year, I made someone cry. It wasn't pretty.

A week later, my outrage is at a mere simmer so I thought I could share my experience, calmly, and as fairly as a one sided monologue can be.

When Mike got a new colleague who was asking him about living options in the city, we offered our sofa bed for a couple of nights knowing that it is much easier to look for a place when you are in the city. Mike had given, let's call her Jane, information about getting on the waiting list for where we live and other cheap places in the city as soon as she got the job and the offer of staying here had been accepted; a little too readily actually. We later found out that she had been given relocation expenses so could have got a hotel only she decided to spend that money shipping her 10 boxes of clothes...

Months passed, we went to the UK and came back, which eventually I may even get to blog about, slept a lot and then Mike emailed Jane to see what her plans for arrival were. The reply came back to say that she had booked her flight for Thanksgiving as it was much cheaper. We groaned, knowing that this would mean a whole long weekend before she started work, and in our small flat, no time for Mike and I to ourselves. In reality, it was much worse than we could have anticipated, and I like to pride myself in my ability to imagine the worse case in any scenario.

We expected that she would go out and be hunting for a place to live or getting to know the city; envisioning an independent woman who has moved alone from her country to live in another. That takes a certain sort of person doesn't it? Apparently not.

So, we had our first 'American' thanksgiving hosted by some generous friends, who even generously picked up Jane from the airport in the middle of turkey cooking. If Jane knew how much bother everyone had gone to for her visit, she certainly didn't show it. It turned out that she was not an independent woman, but a spoilt self obsessed little girl who was used to people doing things for her and thoroughly incapable of doing anything without guidance, mess and irritation; one of life's takers. This was only my first impression, when I was still being kind. She never shut up, constantly ramming her opinions, hopes, dreams, in your face and as exhausting as a demanding toddler. In fact, any brain activity she had just spilt out of her mouth instantly. So, after the delicious turkey feast, she decided she was tired (it helped that people were talking about other subjects other than her now) and needed to go to bed. It was understandable given the travelling and change in time zones; however as we don't have a spare bedroom, it meant that we had to sit in our bedroom quietly reading for the next few nights while she slept but at 5am when she was waking up, she didn't afford us the same courtesy and even had loud phone calls at some ungodly hour in the morning.

We knew we had to put up with this for the weekend so we made the most of it and showed her around the city a bit. She made no movement to want to go out alone - I offered her my keys to go and explore but she wouldn't leave my side. She followed me when I went downstairs to the bins, sat on the end of the bed when I put my socks on and questioned me constantly whenever I did anything, like take a cup from the cupboard
'oooohhh, what are you doing now?'
'Getting a cup'
'Awesome.'

Yep.

For an educated woman, she couldn't understand some very basic things; so after both of us trying to explain what can be recycled, composted and what is rubbish, she would either try to compost everything (so I had to go through the used teabags and take the plastics out) or she would leave her rubbish on the side so that the magic fairy would deal with it. Yeah, well I look terrible in a pink tutu.

I showed her our grocery store and hinted that she could buy some food. She did; she bought a bag of rice, some nuts and frozen veg, then offered to cook for us, using most of the eggs and onions, raisins and other things I had just bought,and staining the cooker yellow with turmeric in the process, so that the next day I had to go back to the shops to replace everything she had used. It also took me forever to scrub the cooker clean. I genuinely can't remember the last time someone made me this furious.

Monday came which was the day she needed to be looking for a place to live. She made a half hearted attempt but was on Facebook whenever I looked at her laptop screen - she even cancelled one appointment as she said she was too busy. Yeah, busy being a parasite, paying for nothing, being ungrateful and getting in my way...so let's just say I was ready for her to leave at this point, by now she had been here 5 nights but it was awkward as obviously Mike would have to work with her but we agreed that we would ask her to be gone by Saturday morning.

However, as they tend to do, things took a turn for the worse. Tuesday (my birthday) arrived and I stayed in bed so I wouldn't have to deal with her in the morning but Mike left work early which actually meant we had some time to ourselves for the first time in days and it felt wonderful just to be able to relax, but our peace was soon interrupted when she returned accompanied by the usual ceaseless chatter about how difficult her life was. This was all addressed to Mike this evening, then after about half an hour she looked at me and wished me happy birthday, then as an afterthought, quickly wrote a card and handed it to be distractedly whilst talking to Mike, without licking the envelope or writing my name on the card. It would have been better had she not bothered but this was insulting. I left the flat for one minute and in that time, she had made herself some chai on the stove and as usual, as she had done every day she had been there, she had spilt it everywhere leaving me to clean it up because she hadn't watched the pan and it had boiled over. Today when I saw it, something snapped, and I went MAD. Properly shaking with rage, red eyed, furious. I went for her, shouting about how she was incapable of doing anything and I was sick of cleaning up after her, like a mum who has just completely lost it at her sullen waster of a teenager. I didn't even continue with all the list of many things but checked myself in case I exploded and left it. She didn't say anything, just sat there looking pathetically at me, seemingly stunned. Of course, she would not have been able to comprehend someone else's needs. Then she produced some crocodile tears presumably for Mike's benefit. I went to bed and didn't sleep a wink all night, still seething.

The next day, I got up calmer and ready for the show down but she had left really early, I imagine to avoid me, but leaving her dirty knickers on Mike's clean towel despite the events of the previous night. She got back really late that night and had avoided Mike all day at work. Now, apparently, we were just her doss house.
I told her that this situation was ridiculous and asked her to leave by the next day, shut the door and left her to her tears.

Mike caught up with her on the way to work and looked into her dumb blank face and asked her if she even knew why I was so angry with her. She had no idea and told Mike that my behaviour had been "inappropriate" so he told her in no uncertain terms that she was self obsessed, ungrateful, treated me like a slave, selfish and a thoroughly horrible guest and person. She was about to protest and he gave her example after example after example of what she had said and done, an inarguable essay of her faults, delivered admirably, with his usual steady eloquence and reasoning. The dirty knickers were the clincher. She said nothing, came to collect her bags later, didn't look me in the eye (she hadn't even packed properly so I had thrown the rest of her stuff she had everywhere - phone charger, razor which she left on the side of the bath (about the only toiletry she actually owned) etc etc etc into a plastic bag unceremoniously) and left without a thank you for the SEVEN nights she had stayed here free of charge with all meals, or a sorry for being the cause of so much stress.

Lessons learnt, at first I thought it was never to be kind to anyone ever again. But that isn't it at all. Idiot selfish princess types are in the minority. The lesson I learnt from this; I need to work on getting people who are never going to be my friends not to like me so ridiculously readily, so I plan to tell everyone exactly what I think of them from now on in, from the off. It should make life even more interesting ;-)

Chim Chim Cher-oo

It was Dan's last weekend in the States and it felt right to honour the occasional with something quintessentially American so we spent last Saturday in hot and foggy Silicon Valley, to enjoy what might be the end of the summer, picnicking at a beach in Half Moon Bay and then made our way to Stanford University for our American sporting extravaganza number three, an American Football game. Whole months had passed since we had last been forced to rise for the national anthem. My baseball hat to heart trigger arm was primed.

The usual pomp and ceremony of the football out shined that of the baseball and ice hockey combined, but the food was much worse and portions smaller. There may or may not be a link between the two; I'll leave you to decide. The cheerleaders were cheery and the costumes suitably spangly for the pantomime that is American sport. The players alone had cheesy glittery Gladiator-style Lycra and in the time honoured way of choosing a team based on colour alone, the gold helmets of Washington State got my vote. Too bad they lost.

We were, presumably, whipped up into a frenzy of excitement before the kick off by a college student dressed as Marilyn Monroe who kept flashing his red knickers leading a brass band of sweaty and overexcited youths of indeterminable age (to me, but possibly not to their parents) the whole way around the stadium and on to the pitch. After hours of marching in the burning sun dressed in what might have once been smart red marching band jackets the poor sweaty young ones then had to perform for us before the game began. Narrated by a man who had had his shame gland surgically removed, and replaced with extra razzmatazz, the band performed a homage to swine flu. It was truly awful. I wish you had seen it, as then I wouldn't have to try to describe it, and instead we could share knowing cringes and then never speak of it again. Through my fingers, the band formed a circle, representing the Stanford bubble, according to the cheery narrator, and then some nerdy in-jokes later, a pig appeared and it all culminated in the pig 'flying.' Really, that is the best I can do. I am aware that this sounds made up. I assure you it wasn't but more frightening of all was that fact that no one in the crowd even blinked or made any furtive fearful glances or any gesture which may have suggested that this was bewildering or abnormal to them, except of course the token Brits right at the back of the stadium, one of whom was cheering for the opposition team.

When I wasn't watching the game, I was watching the crowd in all it splendiferous glory. I really fail to understand why 'crowds watching something dull' are not televised. I could watch them for hours and never get bored, although I am a snooker fan so maybe that says more about me than crowds per se. Even though I don't understand the attraction, the pull of what is essentially some blokes playing with a ball on some people is fascinating, and in some cases, wonderful. I walked around during the match, spending some time in all of the various sections. The most crowded one was the section reserved for students. All of the people sitting there were in the team colours and literally moved as one, standing up at the same time, dancing with the cheerleaders and chanting in unison. It was scary. The opposition team end was fun; Washington State supporters being a whole lot more normal and refreshingly different from one another. Around the rest of the perimeter were families, die hard fans, others like me soaking up the atmosphere, and some just soaking up the chips.

My favourite sight of the day was a man, followed by his two small daughters, strikingly similar to him, leading them in a limb thrashing follow my leader type dance to the Stanford song, not dissimilar to the chimney sweep routine from Mary Poppins. It was executed as if there was no one else but them in the world, despite the fact they were in a crowded stadium, in that wonderful totally unselfconscious way that lots of Americans seem to have.

A letter from America

The Proclaimers were due to play a mere ten minutes walk from where we live. We booked tickets; it would have been rude not to. They are not really a band who I would necessarily have gone to see had we been back at home, but I think that just shows how much of a fool I can be.

They were fantastic. Awesome in fact, in the true sense of the word, and not the lazy Californian adjective way.

The venue was teeny tiny with a more European feel than anywhere I have been to so far in this city. It might have been because the bathrooms were disgusting (by American standards anyway, I've known worse) and the whole place was windowless and in need of a good scrub. I liked it immediately. It was like stepping into a old pair of shoes, falling apart but moulded exactly to the shape of your feet and so comfortable, you wonder why you switched to your newer and more painful shoes.

The crowd was eclectic with a sprinkling of kilts and tartan; the drinks were cheap and strong; the warm up act was hit and miss but sufficiently warming, and before we knew it there they were; Scottish twins in their 40s with guitars on the stage, singing their political tinged, pathos heavy poetry. Women of a certain age swayed misty eyed, but everyone was moved to some extent by the wisdom of the lyrics, or perhaps just a good rhythm. I think it helped that they were so few of us, and that the place had a strong community vibe, and that most of the songs were dedicated to someone. Their last gig on their US tour, they barely paused for breath, belting out song after song after song, with an incredible energy and total awe inspiring professionalism.

Warm Beer

Last weekend in the scorching heat we ventured over to the wilds of Oakland for a free sustainable local food festival. With the sweat running down my legs and my skin being lightly sautéed, we sat on the ferry which would take us directly to Jack London Square where the festival was being held, appreciating what would be the only cool breeze of the day.

When we got there, it was in full swing and all we had to decide was what to eat for lunch from the many delicious looking and smelling options. I decided to graze and try out a couple of smaller things I had never had before, whereas Mike leapt straight in for a spicy sausage. Both strategies had their individual merits.

We had bought tickets in advance for the beer tent which promised eight generous servings of local artisan beers with a souvenir glass for $20. On the day, this seemed to have been downgraded to four half pints or less, depending on the generosity of the server (they were largely hot and bothered and seemed to have left their generous shoes at home), and a souvenir jam jar cum glass with a logo on which after going through the dishwasher has now disappeared. Not the jar, the logo.

Value for money or not, it was a lovely day as we casually drank our beer from our logo clad jam jars and shade hopped our way around the square. In between eating and drinking we sat and listened to a lecture on growing your own food and I closed my eyes and dreamt of my own smallholding, collecting still warm eggs from my chickens, inhaling the peculiar smell of a perfectly ripe tomato and sitting down to a perfect meal most of which I had grown myself.

Then I woke up and found myself in a far too crowded car on a freeway in Oakland, probably breaking the law, and definitely a story for another day.

Thank you for allowing me to serve you

I've been meaning to write this post since just after we moved here but largely for reasons of dullness I haven't. Still, I am meant to be recording my observations, for me as much as for you (there, I've said it) so here goes.

Bag packers make me nervous and irritable.

The people who stand at the end of the standard less-than-spacious supermarket tills waiting to pack your shopping for you in theory sounds marvellous I'm sure. The truth is somewhat different. Supermarkets are set up for people with cars. Fact. They just pretend to be non-car people friendly by having doors in from the pavements. Tills are set up for people happy to stand around aimlessly while someone else packs their shopping for them. There has been room allocated for one person, one employee, at the end of the till to pack bags. The side arm of the till has actually been cordoned off with cunning use of a machine which gives you your coin change. Folded money change is dolled out in the standard way from the cashier, so you somehow have to negotiate collecting money with both hands - notes in one, coins in the other - whilst strapping your purse or wallet to your chin (I knew that unsightly Velcro patch would come in handy) and dropping anything else you may be holding on your toe. Usually a can of beans.

Paying by card is also fraught with trauma. The swiping card mechanism is much less forgiving than you would expect and I have stood there melon-like swiping and re-swiping five times before. Eyes have been rolled, however surreptitiously. Then you are asked questions before and after entering your pin number, which vary depending on which store you are in:
Do you want to donate to this particular charity today? Y or N
Do you want cash back? Y or N
Now are you sure because you might need it later for bus fare? Y or N
OK then if you are sure, are you happy with the amount for your shopping? Please note that if you press no, you will have to start again. Y or N
Have we asked you too many questions today? Y or N
Please come again soon. Bye. Love you xx

I have seen grown men weep in the face of the unrelenting questions. This isn't strictly true but I have actually seen people weaken under the pressure of the questions, stumble, fall and have to start again with the cashier cracking the whip and shouting 'faster, faster' the whole time. Wait, that isn't true either. I have seen people struggle through the whole process and I have even had to help people confused by which button to press at which time. True, but less dramatic.

Presumably while the customer is tangled up with the interrogation machine, the bag packer steps in and neatly packs all your food, frozen and fridge things all together, bread on the top of the bag, weight equally distributed, so when you emerge dazed and poorer from the instrument of doom, you are gently guided out of the door. There is a further service where the bag packer can take your items to your car and pack your boot for you. I'm sure more kindnesses will be rolled out soon like driving your poor bewildered body home, packing all your food away, heating some soup and spooning it into your face. A quick wipe up around the mouth you mucky pup, and the bag packer has left you sat on your sofa, cupboards and belly full and mercifully with no memory of the traumatic episode, ran back five miles to the store just in time to pack the bags of the next customer in line who is still struggling with the inquisition.

For those of us (me) who do not drive to the supermarket, but carry an empty backpack there in order to fill it to a certain point of just tolerable heaviness, known only to me owing to years of practice and almost back breaking episodes, the bag packing service is not required, thanks all the same. It is possible to give your own bag to the bag packer to pack for you but having once been intimidated into doing this, and suffering badly on the way home, and reduced to tears at the sight of the front door, I now wholeheartedly and firmly, sometimes rudely when all other nice options have failed me, refuse. You would literally be amazed at the added trauma this causes.

It's a tricky one. People have been employed to do this job and I don't want to seem ungrateful or portray that somehow I am superior in the back packing stakes, but at the same time, I am capable of packing my own bags quickly and simultaneously confounding supermarket staff by rolling off the answers to the ceaseless queries from machines and humans. Maybe I should list this as a talent on my CV? There are people who need this service for one reason or another, and luckily I am not one of them. But, some people insist I should have my bags packed for me, and that is where the trouble starts.

By now I moreorless know the people who will leave me alone and the ones who will help me to death. I avoid shorter queues if there is a helpful type at the end of it. Sometimes I am thwarted and the bag packers change on me mid-queue so I have to grit it out. There are two people in particular who even after a year just CANNOT comprehend my polite no thank you. One of them likes to wrestle my backpack from me and just WILL not take no for an answer. I have come up with a strategy for him which is to bring another bag for him to put some specific things of my choosing in, things that I already know will not fit in the big bag. This sounds so stupid to be even talking about. I am admitting that I have a special system up my sleeve for one belligerent man whose name I don't even know but whose sullen haughty face has been etched in my mind. He doesn't much like my special system because he wants to do it all and when I leave my bag to go to pay, he zooms over to it to do it up for me. He also doesn't like it when I thank him. He is as uncomfortable with that concept as I am with someone packing my bag - once he shrugged and said "It is my job." Next time I have decided that I will say "It is my bag."

The other bag packing chap is ridiculously friendly. He waves at me when he sees me in the queue. He turns me packing my bag into a game. Believe it or not, supermarkets are in the habit of employing grown ups and not toddlers. He knows I like the heavy things in my bag and he picks up the remainder. However as each item comes down from the cashier, he likes to check with me, loudly, grinning from ear to ear. Mine? Mine! Yours? Yours! And boy, is it fun and not irritating at all! Hey, everyone else in here, wake up from your comas. There are two people packing bags over there and it looks like fun! Maybe you could try packing your own bags, rather than standing there letting your cashier who actually has her arm in a sling pack yours? No, you didn't notice? There's a surprise.

Worse, far, far worse than all of this is the fact that every single time I pack my own bags, I am thanked. It really bothers me. It bothered me from day one and on day 406, I am still bothered. This is the dark side of the service industry as far as I am concerned. In Walgreens (sort of a strange hybrid of Superdrug and Woolworths) the end of the receipt is printed with the name of the cashier and the words 'Thank you for allowing me to serve you today.' As if they have been elected by the people to fulfill this function rather than be taken for granted as they carry out dull servile duties day in day out, smile never faltering, only for people on their phones to ignore them as they wait around for their bags to be packed. It seems to me that expectations of certain unimportant things are very high, and other far far more important matters, shamefully ignored.

My name is Karen. Thank you for allowing me to write this today.