In stark contrast to the charitableness I have experienced here, I tried to give away (for free) a pair of cinema tickets in York once, many years ago. I had bought them earlier in the day for an evening showing and as the day progressed, the more exhausted I became. I thought I would try to cut my losses and let someone else enjoy the film, so they wouldn't go to waste and thus securing myself an early night.
I approached lots of different people offering them the tickets, and those who even stopped treated me with suspicion and scorn. If I had been asking for money from them I would have been dealt with better. Eventually, after an exhausting afternoon of failed philanthropy, we joined the cinema queue. I thought we would try our luck with people who actually wanted to see a film, or failing that, would see if we could get our money back, or worse, actually see the film. The more I type, the more I realise how very revealing this memory is.
We asked a couple in the cinema queue what film they were waiting to see. Bingo, same one! I asked them if they wanted our tickets. I explained that we had bought them earlier but we really tired and would rather someone else used them. The female of the pair looked in my eyes and must have seen truth because they seemed to believe us, or at least took pity on us, and took the tickets. Only, they insisted they paid for them. I had long ceased to care about the money - after the first ten or twenty people declined cinema tickets FOR FREE, I was utterly resolute that they would be given away. I said they was honestly no need, but the proud Yorkshire people were unyielding in their desire to not receive this small piece of charity. They gave us the money. All of this was in full view of the cinema staff who eyed us sceptically but said nothing.
To this day, I remain astounded by that afternoon.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
A Sorry Tale of Total and Utter Incompetence
If you are of a sensitive disposition and care not for torrents of abuse and rage, possibly at length, please look away now. Try typing Banoffee pie into Wikipedia instead. It's a little bit interesting and may make your mind wander sufficiently to distract you from the nasty bad mouthing.
For those of you who relish a nice bit of bile, I want to tell you a tale of woe and incompetency involving Ikea and their inept friends, as we moved to a new country and tried to use this well known international brand to buy our furniture from. I know, its a crazy notion.
On 1st July, I looked at Ikea's website to assess how cheaply we could furnish our new apartment, which we were due to move into on the 11th. Decisions were made on what to get, some calls were made to the store to see whether they would deliver if we went to Ikea and made our purchases - they wouldn't; the store is no more than 5 miles away. We were informed we would have to place our order over the phone or via the internet. We don't have a phone (the subject of my next rant no doubt) so my husband called from work, to be told that the delivery of a bed, sofa bed, desk and chair would cost $329.92; pretty much half of the cost of the items and to my ears an outrageous sum of money. It seems here that delivery is priced by weight rather than volume.
We dithered, trying to find a cheaper alternative, to no avail. Craigslist was throwing up some very good alternatives, but without a car, transporting bulky furniture up and down hills seemed a little bit of a trial, particularly to 2 jet lagged people. All we needed was functional and relatively disposal furniture. We decided to go with the Swedish furniture giants and placed the order on 7th July. We expected to have to spend a couple of nights on an airbed, as we were moving in 4 days time.
We got an email from Ikea, saying that we would be informed of the date our goods would be delivered on or before 27th July. Several phone calls later, where we were told a variety of different information, we eventually received most of our furniture on 23rd July - a mere 16 days after ordering, which is 12 back breaking nights on an air bed and 12 spine crushing days eating and sitting on the floor. I say most of the furniture, as missing was a vital part of the bed.
In fact, the only thing that they were incredibly quick at, was taking the money from our credit card, the second that their dirty finger-nailed hands got the number, so that the interest could sit in their bank account, and we could wallow in our debt and misery it seemed. Or melodrama perhaps, but I'm still mad, however I choose to express it.
There were additional problems we faced [which I will generously admit were not Ikea's fault] all due to the fact that we don't have a phone and because of where we live. We don't have a door bell. The intercom system is linked to landlines or mobile phones, and as we don't have either, and as yet can't them [it's probably best that I don't get started on that one, it may be too much for my blood pressure], yep, that's right, we have no way of knowing whether we have a visitor or let's say, a furniture delivery. So, we came up with a cunning plan which involved using my husband's work number, meaning he had to stay glued to his desk all day, and I had to stay glued to the computer. The minute he got the call that they were outside, he emailed me - THEY ARE HERE!!!!! I was ready; keys grabbed, shoes slipped on, I ran to the entrance, looking like a rather crazed desperado. The 2 delivery men were lovely and bought everything (all but the missing bed part that is, of course) up and even put it in the right rooms. We don't know who's fault it was that the missing part wasn't now in our apartment along with everything else, but because those men were so nice, I am going for Ikea.
So, then we tried to get the piece of our bed back. Without a phone, this becomes a little farcical. When no one picks up a phone after around 4.30pm (we later found out they are on a different time zone), it becomes even more rage making. When my very patient, but becoming less and less so, and persistent husband eventually got through, he was told it would be investigated. Great, more time without a bed, and then we were told (not strictly true, as the phrase 'we were told' suggests that they had the decency to call us back, when in fact they had to be chased some more) that the bed post we required would be delivered in 3-5 working days.
I waited in on the day we expected it and heard nothing. Around 4pm they were called again. We were told it had been delivered the day before, and given the name of the person who signed for it. How receipt of parcels work where we live (in theory anyway) is that they are delivered to a central location, and you are sent an email asking you to collect. An oversized parcel has to be collected in 3 working days or it is sent back. There are strict sizes to dictate what an oversize parcel is. I imagine each parcel is measured as it is processed and logged. No wait, that would be the actions of someone who was competent.
So, I know how that I have wasted a day waiting indoors for an item of mine, which has already arrived, also meaning that I could have slept in a bed, an actual bed, for an extra night. I take a deep breath and go to the parcel collection point.
Me: Hello, I just wanted to check whether I have a parcel?
[There is no need to say my name, they know me. This is actually fairly impressive as we haven't lived here long and there are literally hundreds of others here. Impressive, but probably not surprising]
Idiot girl (who clearly doesn't care one jot, in fact, she doesn't even look at me): nope, sorry.
She isn't sorry at all, and I know that, and she knows that I know it. It is known.
Me: Ok, I haven't had an email but have it been told that it was delivered yesterday and signed for by someone called xxx.
Round one to me.
Idiot: oh, xxx but, it's not on my list.
She knows I've won, and so appeals to her safety blanket of bureaucracy.
Me: It will be addressed to xxx and it is long and thin.
I had already looked around and seen a long and thin package with my name on, which was in front of the desk.
Idiot: oh, is it this one? Rising briefly from her chair, to manhandle my precious bed part.
Me: yes, that will be it. Thank you.
Idiot: It's not on my list, but could you just sign for it?
Yes, we have established it isn't on your list, but if you are trying to shirk responsibility, it was actually under your nose, and this is where you sit, all day. In fact, it is your job to process the post, so you would think that even if it were not on your list, you could manage this simple task.
I'm trying to be nice, I really am, but I am not a tolerant person. It is a fact which I, and others around me, have had to come to live with (sorry others...) I have found out that my patience is stretched somewhat more what faced with people who are totally unable to think for themselves and lack the ability to question, and those who have deprived me of a bed for a further night, due to their total stupidity. I said the word incompetent under my breath as I was fake smiled at and wished a nice day. Please do not wish me a nice day when you are not even looking at my face. You will see I am not smiling, I am struggling with a bed post whilst trying to sign your proven- to- be- worthless list. My day will not improve by your good wishes, however much you don't mean them. When I say thank you to you I am just saying a word to which I have attached no meaning which is socially expected in this situation. Do not irritate me further by saying, you're welcome. It will only end in tears, and they won't be mine.
For those of you who relish a nice bit of bile, I want to tell you a tale of woe and incompetency involving Ikea and their inept friends, as we moved to a new country and tried to use this well known international brand to buy our furniture from. I know, its a crazy notion.
On 1st July, I looked at Ikea's website to assess how cheaply we could furnish our new apartment, which we were due to move into on the 11th. Decisions were made on what to get, some calls were made to the store to see whether they would deliver if we went to Ikea and made our purchases - they wouldn't; the store is no more than 5 miles away. We were informed we would have to place our order over the phone or via the internet. We don't have a phone (the subject of my next rant no doubt) so my husband called from work, to be told that the delivery of a bed, sofa bed, desk and chair would cost $329.92; pretty much half of the cost of the items and to my ears an outrageous sum of money. It seems here that delivery is priced by weight rather than volume.
We dithered, trying to find a cheaper alternative, to no avail. Craigslist was throwing up some very good alternatives, but without a car, transporting bulky furniture up and down hills seemed a little bit of a trial, particularly to 2 jet lagged people. All we needed was functional and relatively disposal furniture. We decided to go with the Swedish furniture giants and placed the order on 7th July. We expected to have to spend a couple of nights on an airbed, as we were moving in 4 days time.
We got an email from Ikea, saying that we would be informed of the date our goods would be delivered on or before 27th July. Several phone calls later, where we were told a variety of different information, we eventually received most of our furniture on 23rd July - a mere 16 days after ordering, which is 12 back breaking nights on an air bed and 12 spine crushing days eating and sitting on the floor. I say most of the furniture, as missing was a vital part of the bed.
In fact, the only thing that they were incredibly quick at, was taking the money from our credit card, the second that their dirty finger-nailed hands got the number, so that the interest could sit in their bank account, and we could wallow in our debt and misery it seemed. Or melodrama perhaps, but I'm still mad, however I choose to express it.
There were additional problems we faced [which I will generously admit were not Ikea's fault] all due to the fact that we don't have a phone and because of where we live. We don't have a door bell. The intercom system is linked to landlines or mobile phones, and as we don't have either, and as yet can't them [it's probably best that I don't get started on that one, it may be too much for my blood pressure], yep, that's right, we have no way of knowing whether we have a visitor or let's say, a furniture delivery. So, we came up with a cunning plan which involved using my husband's work number, meaning he had to stay glued to his desk all day, and I had to stay glued to the computer. The minute he got the call that they were outside, he emailed me - THEY ARE HERE!!!!! I was ready; keys grabbed, shoes slipped on, I ran to the entrance, looking like a rather crazed desperado. The 2 delivery men were lovely and bought everything (all but the missing bed part that is, of course) up and even put it in the right rooms. We don't know who's fault it was that the missing part wasn't now in our apartment along with everything else, but because those men were so nice, I am going for Ikea.
So, then we tried to get the piece of our bed back. Without a phone, this becomes a little farcical. When no one picks up a phone after around 4.30pm (we later found out they are on a different time zone), it becomes even more rage making. When my very patient, but becoming less and less so, and persistent husband eventually got through, he was told it would be investigated. Great, more time without a bed, and then we were told (not strictly true, as the phrase 'we were told' suggests that they had the decency to call us back, when in fact they had to be chased some more) that the bed post we required would be delivered in 3-5 working days.
I waited in on the day we expected it and heard nothing. Around 4pm they were called again. We were told it had been delivered the day before, and given the name of the person who signed for it. How receipt of parcels work where we live (in theory anyway) is that they are delivered to a central location, and you are sent an email asking you to collect. An oversized parcel has to be collected in 3 working days or it is sent back. There are strict sizes to dictate what an oversize parcel is. I imagine each parcel is measured as it is processed and logged. No wait, that would be the actions of someone who was competent.
So, I know how that I have wasted a day waiting indoors for an item of mine, which has already arrived, also meaning that I could have slept in a bed, an actual bed, for an extra night. I take a deep breath and go to the parcel collection point.
Me: Hello, I just wanted to check whether I have a parcel?
[There is no need to say my name, they know me. This is actually fairly impressive as we haven't lived here long and there are literally hundreds of others here. Impressive, but probably not surprising]
Idiot girl (who clearly doesn't care one jot, in fact, she doesn't even look at me): nope, sorry.
She isn't sorry at all, and I know that, and she knows that I know it. It is known.
Me: Ok, I haven't had an email but have it been told that it was delivered yesterday and signed for by someone called xxx.
Round one to me.
Idiot: oh, xxx but, it's not on my list.
She knows I've won, and so appeals to her safety blanket of bureaucracy.
Me: It will be addressed to xxx and it is long and thin.
I had already looked around and seen a long and thin package with my name on, which was in front of the desk.
Idiot: oh, is it this one? Rising briefly from her chair, to manhandle my precious bed part.
Me: yes, that will be it. Thank you.
Idiot: It's not on my list, but could you just sign for it?
Yes, we have established it isn't on your list, but if you are trying to shirk responsibility, it was actually under your nose, and this is where you sit, all day. In fact, it is your job to process the post, so you would think that even if it were not on your list, you could manage this simple task.
I'm trying to be nice, I really am, but I am not a tolerant person. It is a fact which I, and others around me, have had to come to live with (sorry others...) I have found out that my patience is stretched somewhat more what faced with people who are totally unable to think for themselves and lack the ability to question, and those who have deprived me of a bed for a further night, due to their total stupidity. I said the word incompetent under my breath as I was fake smiled at and wished a nice day. Please do not wish me a nice day when you are not even looking at my face. You will see I am not smiling, I am struggling with a bed post whilst trying to sign your proven- to- be- worthless list. My day will not improve by your good wishes, however much you don't mean them. When I say thank you to you I am just saying a word to which I have attached no meaning which is socially expected in this situation. Do not irritate me further by saying, you're welcome. It will only end in tears, and they won't be mine.
The kindness of strangers
Yesterday I secured a free ironing board via Craigslist. For those of you who don't know, Craigslist is a free online market place for jobs, accommodation, goods, services, small ads, local activities, in fact, you name it, it's probably there. It was created in 1995 by a man called Craig (in San Francisco actually) and is widely used, particularly in the US. There are always loads of freebies, ripe for the picking, but you have to be quick. It seems that most people leave their free stuff on a street corner (showing how little it rains here) and then post up a note to say what they have left, and then by the time you get there, by public transport anyway, it is gone. A bit like Challenge Anneka, without Dave the camera man, oh, or the helicopter, or the tight yellow jumpsuit, and my name isn't Anneka. It also isn't televised.
It actually bears very little resemblance to Challenge Anneka when you consider it for more than a split second, especially as I am thinking of Treasure Hunt, the forerunner to Challenge Anneka.
So, the ironing board. I saw the board advertised and sent a quick e-mail, not really thinking about where it was in the city and whether we could get there or not, so great was my desire to iron. The seller responded virtually immediately to say it was still available and I could collect it after 7, and gave me his address and phone number. I quickly worked out where it was, how I would get there and made arrangements to meet my back-up and ironing board carrier extraordinare. I, of course, have the ability to carry an ironing board, it was the back-up I needed. Safety in numbers when going to a strangers house is always my motto, but especially when they are going to give you something for free.
So, in another quick email to the seller, I confirmed the time I would be there. The lovely giving away an ironing board to the chronically crumpled replied thus:
"Works for me. Call me when you're at the building/corner. And I can just carry it down and do the hand off thing. Cool?"
[This has been included verbatim for British readers to enjoy as much as I did]
Of course, I don't have a phone, because this country won't give me one. They don't trust me you see. It is an ongoing issue, which I am sure will get resolved at some point, but only after my spirit has been well and truly crushed and my spleen has been vented a thousand times over. So, I replied to say, "Sorry, I'm from the UK" and don't have a phone. As an excuse, it is terrible, but it seems to work in the short term before anyone realises that it in fact makes no sense. I asked whether he had an intercom or doorbell, to which I received this reply:
"Wah. Actually, no. My building intercom won't connect to a non-land line. And I only have a cell phone. But how bout this? I'll be on the corner of xxx & xxx at 8:30. And just expect you around then?"
I have taken out the road names for the safety of the lovely man, which I guess is fairly insulting to anyone reading this, as it assumes that you have murderous or at least violent tendencies. Let's move on.
What does "wah" mean*? I read it as a small noise which conveys a mild exasperation at the fact that I just want to give away an ironing board and I have even proffered my address and mobile phone number for the taking, and here is a nuisance foreigner with all sorts of frankly ridiculous difficulties, excused away by feeble nonsense, making the exchange more complicated.
At this point, he could have just told me where to go, but no, he offered to stand waiting for a freak, near his home, holding an ironing board. That is just plain decent.
It took me just over an hour to get there, but luckily I left an hour and a half early as I didn't want to be late, to add insult to injury, and because I mistrust the public transport system. It really wasn't a long journey, and my mistrust was spot on.
At exactly half past eight as planned, a man emerged from a nearby building, carrying an ironing board. I approached him by saying his name, so he would know I wasn't just some freebie taker impostor. He shook my hand in greeting and said; "Welcome to San Francisco, have an ironing board." I laughed and thanked him very much, for surely that is hospitality at it's finest.
A new cover and a good disinfect later (for even the loveliest, most generous and accommodating of souls have germs, and cats apparently) we have ourselves an ironing board. The fact that I am as pleased as I am shows just how difficult and frustrating every other 'easy' transaction has been. Thank you lovely ironing board man for restoring my faith in the world, even if just for one evening.
* Answers on a postcard gratefully received.
It actually bears very little resemblance to Challenge Anneka when you consider it for more than a split second, especially as I am thinking of Treasure Hunt, the forerunner to Challenge Anneka.
So, the ironing board. I saw the board advertised and sent a quick e-mail, not really thinking about where it was in the city and whether we could get there or not, so great was my desire to iron. The seller responded virtually immediately to say it was still available and I could collect it after 7, and gave me his address and phone number. I quickly worked out where it was, how I would get there and made arrangements to meet my back-up and ironing board carrier extraordinare. I, of course, have the ability to carry an ironing board, it was the back-up I needed. Safety in numbers when going to a strangers house is always my motto, but especially when they are going to give you something for free.
So, in another quick email to the seller, I confirmed the time I would be there. The lovely giving away an ironing board to the chronically crumpled replied thus:
"Works for me. Call me when you're at the building/corner. And I can just carry it down and do the hand off thing. Cool?"
[This has been included verbatim for British readers to enjoy as much as I did]
Of course, I don't have a phone, because this country won't give me one. They don't trust me you see. It is an ongoing issue, which I am sure will get resolved at some point, but only after my spirit has been well and truly crushed and my spleen has been vented a thousand times over. So, I replied to say, "Sorry, I'm from the UK" and don't have a phone. As an excuse, it is terrible, but it seems to work in the short term before anyone realises that it in fact makes no sense. I asked whether he had an intercom or doorbell, to which I received this reply:
"Wah. Actually, no. My building intercom won't connect to a non-land line. And I only have a cell phone. But how bout this? I'll be on the corner of xxx & xxx at 8:30. And just expect you around then?"
I have taken out the road names for the safety of the lovely man, which I guess is fairly insulting to anyone reading this, as it assumes that you have murderous or at least violent tendencies. Let's move on.
What does "wah" mean*? I read it as a small noise which conveys a mild exasperation at the fact that I just want to give away an ironing board and I have even proffered my address and mobile phone number for the taking, and here is a nuisance foreigner with all sorts of frankly ridiculous difficulties, excused away by feeble nonsense, making the exchange more complicated.
At this point, he could have just told me where to go, but no, he offered to stand waiting for a freak, near his home, holding an ironing board. That is just plain decent.
It took me just over an hour to get there, but luckily I left an hour and a half early as I didn't want to be late, to add insult to injury, and because I mistrust the public transport system. It really wasn't a long journey, and my mistrust was spot on.
At exactly half past eight as planned, a man emerged from a nearby building, carrying an ironing board. I approached him by saying his name, so he would know I wasn't just some freebie taker impostor. He shook my hand in greeting and said; "Welcome to San Francisco, have an ironing board." I laughed and thanked him very much, for surely that is hospitality at it's finest.
A new cover and a good disinfect later (for even the loveliest, most generous and accommodating of souls have germs, and cats apparently) we have ourselves an ironing board. The fact that I am as pleased as I am shows just how difficult and frustrating every other 'easy' transaction has been. Thank you lovely ironing board man for restoring my faith in the world, even if just for one evening.
* Answers on a postcard gratefully received.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Grub, Nourishment, Diet, Nutrition, Nosh, Sustenance, Chow
I have begun to notice more and more that my life revolves around food. Having my 'life' here in one place, it is becoming frankly un-ignorable. Maybe a change in career is needed, or even, and this would be novel, a career.
I am missing my copy of Nigel Slater's Kitchen Diaries. We even considered re-buying it so we could have one copy in each country we have ever lived, but I dismissed it as a waste of money. After all, that's more money to spend on... food.
We have a dinner guest tomorrow night, and decided it would be nice to share some of our British fare. It's been given such a bad press over the years as being stodgy and bland and maybe a small part of me wants to prove that wrong. We searched our childhood memories for ideas and came up with the following suggestions and then, shortly after, dismissals:
Fish pie, yum yum - but alas, no suitable dish in which to cook this yet.
Roast dinner - just the thought of it made us eat one yesterday, so we couldn't possibly have another for at least 3 months (there is no direct law, but the decadence of a roast dinner for 2 people must surely be only a quarterly affair at most, for all except the very die hard) plus its too much faff for a school night (and plus we have the most sensitive of smoke detectors, cunningly placed on the wall directly in front of the oven, which likes to make itself heard if you merely open the oven door. Like in Mary Poppins when Admiral Boom fires his canon, we 'man the decks', one at the oven door and one, with a tea towel poised and ready to flap. At around 7pm every night, you can hear the cooking chorus of everyone's alarm in the block singing to each other. A beautiful moment).
Fish and chips - the fish here is marvellous, but we wouldn't be able to batter and deep fry.
Full English - for dinner? That's crazy talk, although considered. It would require afternoon boozing, a quick nap and then a midnight dinner to get the full effect.
Irish Stew or Scouse - one of my favourites, but not my husbands. Peasant comfort food at its best, served with some crusty bread and possibly a nice glass of red wine, elevating you from peasant to cobbler at the very least.
Chicken Tikka Marsala - the most English of dishes, but I lack the skill or spice in my cupboard to pull this one off.
Bubble and Squeak - I'm terribly sorry, I don't understand that recipe. What is a "leftover potato"?
Cucumber sandwiches, scones and afternoon tea? Too twee.
Lancashire hotpot, faggots (there is, I predict, a distinct lack of meatballs with 'pig heart, liver and fatty belly meat or bacon minced together' in San Francisco), Welsh rarebit (too disappointing for dinner), Shepherd's pie (see Fish pie for problem), Stargazy Pie (I've always wanted to make one; but its a little ambitious, for a Tuesday*) all failed to cut the mustard.
We could think of a thousand puddings we could make, all mouthwatering and wonderful to behold, but we finally settled on a classic; bangers and mash. This requires me finding some proper bangers in the English food shop that we spied on our recent tourist adventure! There is no Plan B so I will put my utmost faith in this shop's imagined stock.
Now all we need is plenty of cups of Rosie Lee, Chas and Dave singing in the background, followed by the Archers, some Royal memorabilia on which to serve our food, a nice spot of Morris dancing to wear off some of the calories, some cider, proper cheese, a howling gale and lashing, biting rain, and there we have it, our own British evening**. See, we don't need to actually be there at all...
* Tuesday is the worst day of the week. Fact. February is the worst month of the year. If anything is going to go wrong, the likelihood of this being on a Tuesday is 76% greater than any other week day and 92% greater than any other weekend day. Stat. "Because it is Tuesday" is therefore not a whinging and convenient excuse to not try anything new, rather, it is a considered response based on 29 years of 'The Problems of Tuesdays', a joint government and privately funded research project.
** I have Stereotypes-R-Us to thank for this sentence.
I am missing my copy of Nigel Slater's Kitchen Diaries. We even considered re-buying it so we could have one copy in each country we have ever lived, but I dismissed it as a waste of money. After all, that's more money to spend on... food.
We have a dinner guest tomorrow night, and decided it would be nice to share some of our British fare. It's been given such a bad press over the years as being stodgy and bland and maybe a small part of me wants to prove that wrong. We searched our childhood memories for ideas and came up with the following suggestions and then, shortly after, dismissals:
Fish pie, yum yum - but alas, no suitable dish in which to cook this yet.
Roast dinner - just the thought of it made us eat one yesterday, so we couldn't possibly have another for at least 3 months (there is no direct law, but the decadence of a roast dinner for 2 people must surely be only a quarterly affair at most, for all except the very die hard) plus its too much faff for a school night (and plus we have the most sensitive of smoke detectors, cunningly placed on the wall directly in front of the oven, which likes to make itself heard if you merely open the oven door. Like in Mary Poppins when Admiral Boom fires his canon, we 'man the decks', one at the oven door and one, with a tea towel poised and ready to flap. At around 7pm every night, you can hear the cooking chorus of everyone's alarm in the block singing to each other. A beautiful moment).
Fish and chips - the fish here is marvellous, but we wouldn't be able to batter and deep fry.
Full English - for dinner? That's crazy talk, although considered. It would require afternoon boozing, a quick nap and then a midnight dinner to get the full effect.
Irish Stew or Scouse - one of my favourites, but not my husbands. Peasant comfort food at its best, served with some crusty bread and possibly a nice glass of red wine, elevating you from peasant to cobbler at the very least.
Chicken Tikka Marsala - the most English of dishes, but I lack the skill or spice in my cupboard to pull this one off.
Bubble and Squeak - I'm terribly sorry, I don't understand that recipe. What is a "leftover potato"?
Cucumber sandwiches, scones and afternoon tea? Too twee.
Lancashire hotpot, faggots (there is, I predict, a distinct lack of meatballs with 'pig heart, liver and fatty belly meat or bacon minced together' in San Francisco), Welsh rarebit (too disappointing for dinner), Shepherd's pie (see Fish pie for problem), Stargazy Pie (I've always wanted to make one; but its a little ambitious, for a Tuesday*) all failed to cut the mustard.
We could think of a thousand puddings we could make, all mouthwatering and wonderful to behold, but we finally settled on a classic; bangers and mash. This requires me finding some proper bangers in the English food shop that we spied on our recent tourist adventure! There is no Plan B so I will put my utmost faith in this shop's imagined stock.
Now all we need is plenty of cups of Rosie Lee, Chas and Dave singing in the background, followed by the Archers, some Royal memorabilia on which to serve our food, a nice spot of Morris dancing to wear off some of the calories, some cider, proper cheese, a howling gale and lashing, biting rain, and there we have it, our own British evening**. See, we don't need to actually be there at all...
* Tuesday is the worst day of the week. Fact. February is the worst month of the year. If anything is going to go wrong, the likelihood of this being on a Tuesday is 76% greater than any other week day and 92% greater than any other weekend day. Stat. "Because it is Tuesday" is therefore not a whinging and convenient excuse to not try anything new, rather, it is a considered response based on 29 years of 'The Problems of Tuesdays', a joint government and privately funded research project.
** I have Stereotypes-R-Us to thank for this sentence.
Friday, July 25, 2008
The food parcel
Extract from Google chat earlier this afternoon:
him: hiya - Did you get my mail about the package?
me: got it. I could weep, big shuddering tears of joy
him: Thanks, that's great
me: It's from Siobhan
him: Reeeellly :) Did you open it?
me: no - but the contents are on the top. It has made me very, very homesick. It must have cost a bomb.
him: Oh goodness. She's lovely isn't she? What did she send?
me: We can open it together when you get home. I've never cried before after getting a parcel.
him: Red-Siobhan-Cross aid parcels are different. Crying's allowed.
I received a parcel today, from the kindest pair in the whole wide world. I have never been moved to tears by a brown package before (in this case a massive heavy box), but today was the day. I haven't open it yet because I am waiting for my husband to get home, but I know what is in it thanks to the customs declaration on the outside, which must have taken forever to type out alone!
I am salivating as I compile this list: Wholemeal bread mix, dairy milk, fruit and nut (how long can we make them last I wonder?), Marmite (I am rubbish at making that last - every day there is some new excuse why I should have some), Clotted fudge, Marmalade, Yorkshire tea (you really don't know how thrilled I am with this one - I didn't think I would have an issue with American tea. I didn't think I had a tea problem. I thought I could deal with it. The 'English style' teabags we have are OK but one cup a day is about my limit, but this sweet nectar will be savoured and cherished*), mushy peas, Angel Delight, (yipppeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!), Bird's custard, mini Jaffa cakes (I won't even pretend these will last longer than it takes to open the packet - curiously, my first craving was for a jaffa cake!), Jelly Babies, Heinz Baked Beans (truly marvellous - the US version is also made by Heinz and are in a can, and that is where the similarity ends), Jacob's Cream Crackers, KP Choc Dip, Hartley's Orange Jelly, Colman's Mustard Powder, Ginger Cake Mix (the sort of thing I should make up and share. I'll think about it), Roast Beef Gravy, Polos (cue massive smile as these remind me of the present giver anyway due to her childhood, and adulthood actually, sweet tooth), Terry's Chocolate Orange, (I'll see what the use-by date is and save for Christmas if I can, for a tiny festive taste of home), some coco pops, rice crispies and frosties, salted peanuts, spag bol mix, Malteasers hot chocolate, Horlicks, Galaxy hot chocolate, bread sauce mix and Caesar dressing mix.
I really couldn't have chosen better myself. My weekend has just started on a high. In the time it has taken to type it all out, I have opened it. I couldn't wait, showing you just how impatient I am...
A massive, public, thank you Siobhan and Richard so very, very much for your generosity!
* in fact, frugal as I am ( I deplore waste) we foolishly bought some American tea. I drank a sip and didn't touch it again. I would prefer to go without. We left them in our holiday apartment.
him: hiya - Did you get my mail about the package?
me: got it. I could weep, big shuddering tears of joy
him: Thanks, that's great
me: It's from Siobhan
him: Reeeellly :) Did you open it?
me: no - but the contents are on the top. It has made me very, very homesick. It must have cost a bomb.
him: Oh goodness. She's lovely isn't she? What did she send?
him: Red-Siobhan-Cross aid parcels are different. Crying's allowed.
I received a parcel today, from the kindest pair in the whole wide world. I have never been moved to tears by a brown package before (in this case a massive heavy box), but today was the day. I haven't open it yet because I am waiting for my husband to get home, but I know what is in it thanks to the customs declaration on the outside, which must have taken forever to type out alone!
I am salivating as I compile this list: Wholemeal bread mix, dairy milk, fruit and nut (how long can we make them last I wonder?), Marmite (I am rubbish at making that last - every day there is some new excuse why I should have some), Clotted fudge, Marmalade, Yorkshire tea (you really don't know how thrilled I am with this one - I didn't think I would have an issue with American tea. I didn't think I had a tea problem. I thought I could deal with it. The 'English style' teabags we have are OK but one cup a day is about my limit, but this sweet nectar will be savoured and cherished*), mushy peas, Angel Delight, (yipppeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!), Bird's custard, mini Jaffa cakes (I won't even pretend these will last longer than it takes to open the packet - curiously, my first craving was for a jaffa cake!), Jelly Babies, Heinz Baked Beans (truly marvellous - the US version is also made by Heinz and are in a can, and that is where the similarity ends), Jacob's Cream Crackers, KP Choc Dip, Hartley's Orange Jelly, Colman's Mustard Powder, Ginger Cake Mix (the sort of thing I should make up and share. I'll think about it), Roast Beef Gravy, Polos (cue massive smile as these remind me of the present giver anyway due to her childhood, and adulthood actually, sweet tooth), Terry's Chocolate Orange, (I'll see what the use-by date is and save for Christmas if I can, for a tiny festive taste of home), some coco pops, rice crispies and frosties, salted peanuts, spag bol mix, Malteasers hot chocolate, Horlicks, Galaxy hot chocolate, bread sauce mix and Caesar dressing mix.
I really couldn't have chosen better myself. My weekend has just started on a high. In the time it has taken to type it all out, I have opened it. I couldn't wait, showing you just how impatient I am...
A massive, public, thank you Siobhan and Richard so very, very much for your generosity!
* in fact, frugal as I am ( I deplore waste) we foolishly bought some American tea. I drank a sip and didn't touch it again. I would prefer to go without. We left them in our holiday apartment.
Things I Learnt Today
Names have been changed to protect the innocent.
Sue enjoys art and skateboarding.
Georgette enjoys tropical getaways to the Bahamas, the Mexican Riviera and Hawaii.
Peter is very close to his identical twin brother.
When Richard vacations, he ditches the city and takes up outdoor adventure travel. [A thousand apologies for the turn of phrase, which I am sure you understand, is not mine.]
Rob enjoys woodworking, Renaissance Faires and coin collecting.
Shirley has a 2 year old son who is the pride and joy of her life.
Phillip is a shameless self promoter.
Shaun collects toy trains and anything to do with old cars.
Jill can place her leg over her shoulder.
Sarah is an avid stamp collector.
Nathaniel enjoys the great outdoors.
Pearl loves to kick back with a good book.
Colin is a gamer who enjoys video games of all sorts.
Michele has an intense fear of flying.
Daniel raises goldfish and finches.
Elizabeth enjoys spending time with friends and dancing.
Steve is an avid skydiver.
Fred loves watching football games at home.
Hermione is a social butterfly.
Ron is a sports fanatic.
Ethel has a 2 year old daughter who is the sunshine of her life.
Harry will never turn down a nice bowl of gumbo.
I have drawn many conclusions from my findings; some of which I will share:
A 2 year old child enriches your life immensely.
Summing yourself up in a sentence sometimes is misleading, sometimes is all you need to get the measure of someone.
I need to get more hobbies, but I am not alone in this.
Most people in my list smile with their teeth.
My name picking ability is lacking and I had to resort to Harry Potter characters more frequently than is good for someone of my age.
Blues is quite frightened about going outside now.
Sue enjoys art and skateboarding.
Georgette enjoys tropical getaways to the Bahamas, the Mexican Riviera and Hawaii.
Peter is very close to his identical twin brother.
When Richard vacations, he ditches the city and takes up outdoor adventure travel. [A thousand apologies for the turn of phrase, which I am sure you understand, is not mine.]
Rob enjoys woodworking, Renaissance Faires and coin collecting.
Shirley has a 2 year old son who is the pride and joy of her life.
Phillip is a shameless self promoter.
Shaun collects toy trains and anything to do with old cars.
Jill can place her leg over her shoulder.
Sarah is an avid stamp collector.
Nathaniel enjoys the great outdoors.
Pearl loves to kick back with a good book.
Colin is a gamer who enjoys video games of all sorts.
Michele has an intense fear of flying.
Daniel raises goldfish and finches.
Elizabeth enjoys spending time with friends and dancing.
Steve is an avid skydiver.
Fred loves watching football games at home.
Hermione is a social butterfly.
Ron is a sports fanatic.
Ethel has a 2 year old daughter who is the sunshine of her life.
Harry will never turn down a nice bowl of gumbo.
I have drawn many conclusions from my findings; some of which I will share:
A 2 year old child enriches your life immensely.
Summing yourself up in a sentence sometimes is misleading, sometimes is all you need to get the measure of someone.
I need to get more hobbies, but I am not alone in this.
Most people in my list smile with their teeth.
My name picking ability is lacking and I had to resort to Harry Potter characters more frequently than is good for someone of my age.
Blues is quite frightened about going outside now.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
If it ain't frozen or in a can, we ain't interested
This post is especially for my mother in law.
To thank the Marmite purchaser (of post number one, keep up), we have decided to make her a Cornish pasty, and introduce her to the delights of British cuisine. Obvious, don't you think? To this end, I have just come back from Safeway. Among my purchases were some potatoes, onions, and a small swede. When I got to the checkout, the cashier looked at the swede in horror and incomprehension. She held it aloft and said "Turnip, right?"
I panicked and shook my head. It took a while for my mouth to supply the correct answer though as I know Americans don't call them swedes. In the end, I said "Well, I ... call it a ... swede, but you call it ....a...erm...rutabaga?" Phew, thanks brain.
She still looked doubtful, but said "Okay then...a rutabaga," talking slowly like she was talking to a small child indignant about some preposterousness, whilst looking up the code on the vegetable chart. It took a while. I was starting to think that I had called it the wrong thing, but she eventually found it. She stated "you know, I've never seen one of these." Now, this woman wasn't 21 shall we say, she'd been around the block and back.
Cashier: "How d'ya cook it?"
Me, dimly aware of how ridiculous this could get: "Well, you peel it, chop it up and boil it"
Now, didn't I make that sound appetising? I really wanted to sell the humble swede though, (for not the first time in my life, but that story is perhaps for another day) so I uttered words I was about to instantly regret, "but I am using it to make Cornish pasties."
I could have been talking Swahili. The rest of my items sat where they were, ready to be scanned. This woman was going to get to the bottom of this, and she was in no hurry. The bag packer at the end of the till just stared, open-mouthed throughout the whole exchange, and his eyes followed me out of the shop when it was mercifully finished.
[I'll tell you more about bag packers at a later date. I have lots to say on the subject frankly].
Cashier: "What's that?"
Me: (oh gawd, what have I started here) "It's swede, potatoes, meat, and onion wrapped in shortcrust pastry." I am now gesticulating the shape of a pasty with my hands, even silently miming a crimping effect, and failing in any way to explain what one is. A thought struck me that I could talk about the miners, but I thought that may confuse matters further, so luckily I kept that one in check.
Cashier: "So it's like a chicken pot pie?"
Me: "Erm, kind of." I have only a dim idea of what a pot pie is but I know that a Cornish pasty is nothing like a chicken pot pie. Having done a quick Google search, all the recipes I can find are made with pre-made pastry, tinned vegetables and, horror of horrors, canned soup.
Cashier: "Cos, y'know, I am trying to find new things to cook for my son - he's kinda bored of the same old meals."
Me: "Well, I know lots of different things." In print, I am aware of how rude this sounds and not a little condescending, but I assure you, this was not the meaning, or I think the tone in real life.
Cashier: "So, run it by me how you make it then."
Me: "First, you make some shortcut pastry..."
I stop, noticing that the cashier is looking quizzically at me.
Me: "Erm, can you buy frozen pastry here?"
Cashier: "Oh, yeah, sure. It comes in sheets and rises up."
Me: "It that puff pastry? This needs shortcrust. It's...heavier."
I must work on my descriptions.
The cashier's epiphany is visible all over her face, and she exclaims, loudly, unable to hide her disbelief, "you mean, you cook it from scratch?"
Me: Laughing now at her disbelief at such a normal thing to me "yeah, I cook a lot of stuff from scratch!" Then I said, as if this would explain everything away, "I'm from the UK."
Cashier, gleeful: "Oh well, if it ain't frozen or in a can, we ain't interested!"
With that, the scanning of items continued. Her son won't be getting a Cornish pasty for dinner tonight, or any other night come to think of it.
The purpose of my visa is to promote cultural exchange. So, this is what I am giving back today - a message to my cashier friend: tonight, defenestrate your microwave, liberate your oven; you and your son are welcome to dinner, bring a bottle, see you at 8pm. It would be my very, very great pleasure.
To thank the Marmite purchaser (of post number one, keep up), we have decided to make her a Cornish pasty, and introduce her to the delights of British cuisine. Obvious, don't you think? To this end, I have just come back from Safeway. Among my purchases were some potatoes, onions, and a small swede. When I got to the checkout, the cashier looked at the swede in horror and incomprehension. She held it aloft and said "Turnip, right?"
I panicked and shook my head. It took a while for my mouth to supply the correct answer though as I know Americans don't call them swedes. In the end, I said "Well, I ... call it a ... swede, but you call it ....a...erm...rutabaga?" Phew, thanks brain.
She still looked doubtful, but said "Okay then...a rutabaga," talking slowly like she was talking to a small child indignant about some preposterousness, whilst looking up the code on the vegetable chart. It took a while. I was starting to think that I had called it the wrong thing, but she eventually found it. She stated "you know, I've never seen one of these." Now, this woman wasn't 21 shall we say, she'd been around the block and back.
Cashier: "How d'ya cook it?"
Me, dimly aware of how ridiculous this could get: "Well, you peel it, chop it up and boil it"
Now, didn't I make that sound appetising? I really wanted to sell the humble swede though, (for not the first time in my life, but that story is perhaps for another day) so I uttered words I was about to instantly regret, "but I am using it to make Cornish pasties."
I could have been talking Swahili. The rest of my items sat where they were, ready to be scanned. This woman was going to get to the bottom of this, and she was in no hurry. The bag packer at the end of the till just stared, open-mouthed throughout the whole exchange, and his eyes followed me out of the shop when it was mercifully finished.
[I'll tell you more about bag packers at a later date. I have lots to say on the subject frankly].
Cashier: "What's that?"
Me: (oh gawd, what have I started here) "It's swede, potatoes, meat, and onion wrapped in shortcrust pastry." I am now gesticulating the shape of a pasty with my hands, even silently miming a crimping effect, and failing in any way to explain what one is. A thought struck me that I could talk about the miners, but I thought that may confuse matters further, so luckily I kept that one in check.
Cashier: "So it's like a chicken pot pie?"
Me: "Erm, kind of." I have only a dim idea of what a pot pie is but I know that a Cornish pasty is nothing like a chicken pot pie. Having done a quick Google search, all the recipes I can find are made with pre-made pastry, tinned vegetables and, horror of horrors, canned soup.
Cashier: "Cos, y'know, I am trying to find new things to cook for my son - he's kinda bored of the same old meals."
Me: "Well, I know lots of different things." In print, I am aware of how rude this sounds and not a little condescending, but I assure you, this was not the meaning, or I think the tone in real life.
Cashier: "So, run it by me how you make it then."
Me: "First, you make some shortcut pastry..."
I stop, noticing that the cashier is looking quizzically at me.
Me: "Erm, can you buy frozen pastry here?"
Cashier: "Oh, yeah, sure. It comes in sheets and rises up."
Me: "It that puff pastry? This needs shortcrust. It's...heavier."
I must work on my descriptions.
The cashier's epiphany is visible all over her face, and she exclaims, loudly, unable to hide her disbelief, "you mean, you cook it from scratch?"
Me: Laughing now at her disbelief at such a normal thing to me "yeah, I cook a lot of stuff from scratch!" Then I said, as if this would explain everything away, "I'm from the UK."
Cashier, gleeful: "Oh well, if it ain't frozen or in a can, we ain't interested!"
With that, the scanning of items continued. Her son won't be getting a Cornish pasty for dinner tonight, or any other night come to think of it.
The purpose of my visa is to promote cultural exchange. So, this is what I am giving back today - a message to my cashier friend: tonight, defenestrate your microwave, liberate your oven; you and your son are welcome to dinner, bring a bottle, see you at 8pm. It would be my very, very great pleasure.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Challenge answered, part four; Sunday pm
After lunch, we made our way to the bus stop to wait for a bus which would take us to the Golden Gate Bridge. The bus journey was amazing, travelling through the Golden Gate Park and the Presidio, yet another massive park in the north of the city. Wonderful smells and sights and all for free; or $1.50 without a pass, much better than an expensive tourist bus.
When we got to the bridge, it was as if we had just met one of the said buses as the whole place was rammed. In fact, from then on, wherever we went, we were followed by swarms of tourists; and not the nice kind.
Walking across the bridge was a really lovely experience. It was blowing a gale, the traffic was racing by and people walked across in droves. Essentially, we were just walking across a bridge, but it felt like you were getting a really good blow through - the wind whipping away any worries and leaving you utterly refreshed. The feeling didn't last long, but it was great while it did. The views were stunning. So stunning they broke my camera. The best part of all was the fact that a man proposed to his wife-to-be in a part of the bridge sheltered from the wind, and her face was a picture of purest delight. They asked a passer by to take a picture of them both, with her gleefully displaying her ring, and his chest puffed out in pride and probably relief, and the lucky picture taker was flushed with pleasure at being such a part of someones joy.
We only walked half way across and headed back. We knew there would be more walking to follow, and after all, Sunday is a day of rest. I don't know why I am justifying only walking half way across a 1.7 mile bridge. I walked half way across the Golden Gate Bridge, and I am proud. There!
Back on the bus to Fort Mason this time, a former army post, and now, a park. Three parks in one day isn't bad. An uphill stroll lead us back to Ghirardelli Square, with a nice symmetry.
I am not proud of what happened next, but warts and all, this was it:
Let's say no more about the matter, except $7.95 each [£4].
We were tired and decided to call it a day. To celebrate spending less than £30 each for a whole weekend of fun, we had a pint of the local steam beer, for $4 each in a horrible tourist bar. It was happy hour. I have never heard such a lie. Luckily, our total was still under £30 and we felt much better.
I should tot up now exactly what the money was spent on and maybe do a nice little chart, but I am not good at that sort of thing. No one who is reading this can possibly like charts, can they?
When we got to the bridge, it was as if we had just met one of the said buses as the whole place was rammed. In fact, from then on, wherever we went, we were followed by swarms of tourists; and not the nice kind.
Walking across the bridge was a really lovely experience. It was blowing a gale, the traffic was racing by and people walked across in droves. Essentially, we were just walking across a bridge, but it felt like you were getting a really good blow through - the wind whipping away any worries and leaving you utterly refreshed. The feeling didn't last long, but it was great while it did. The views were stunning. So stunning they broke my camera. The best part of all was the fact that a man proposed to his wife-to-be in a part of the bridge sheltered from the wind, and her face was a picture of purest delight. They asked a passer by to take a picture of them both, with her gleefully displaying her ring, and his chest puffed out in pride and probably relief, and the lucky picture taker was flushed with pleasure at being such a part of someones joy.
We only walked half way across and headed back. We knew there would be more walking to follow, and after all, Sunday is a day of rest. I don't know why I am justifying only walking half way across a 1.7 mile bridge. I walked half way across the Golden Gate Bridge, and I am proud. There!
Back on the bus to Fort Mason this time, a former army post, and now, a park. Three parks in one day isn't bad. An uphill stroll lead us back to Ghirardelli Square, with a nice symmetry.
I am not proud of what happened next, but warts and all, this was it:
Let's say no more about the matter, except $7.95 each [£4].
We were tired and decided to call it a day. To celebrate spending less than £30 each for a whole weekend of fun, we had a pint of the local steam beer, for $4 each in a horrible tourist bar. It was happy hour. I have never heard such a lie. Luckily, our total was still under £30 and we felt much better.
I should tot up now exactly what the money was spent on and maybe do a nice little chart, but I am not good at that sort of thing. No one who is reading this can possibly like charts, can they?
Challenge answered, part three: Sunday am
Now, $45 isn't a lot of money, but it really is too much. I was determined not to spend any more frivolous money on Sunday. There was no need for museums when all the best things so far had been free, a lesson I have learnt many times before, but there is frivolousness in my bones and I barely managed this.
So, packed lunch made, we set off for another day's adventure. Our limbs had seized up from the amount of walking we had done, plus the night on an air bed, so we also decided to get more buses and not do so much walking. I won't pretend, and I will go ahead and ruin the surprise, we didn't manage to achieve this goal in any way.
First stop was a ride on a cable car. The lines for cable cars whenever I have seen them have been ridiculously long, as 2 of the 3 cable car routes go to Fisherman's Wharf, but there is one route which goes east to west across the city, along California Street, which was going in moreorless the way we were going. Not to be put off by this directional detail, we boarded (although after this, I lost custody of the map). It was fun. My leg went to sleep because it was so uncomfortable, we almost broke down at the lights; going up hill was good, downhill was better, and best of all, the conductor didn't seem to want to take my extra dollar so I paid nothing, hurrah! I wanted to go again the minute we got off.
So, now we were somewhere in the city, heading for somewhere else, which basically meant another long walk. Ho hum. Our first goal was Alamo Square, home of the painted ladies, rows of Victorian houses in all different colours in a very nice part of town. So nice in fact that there was a pile of shiny things outside one of the houses and a sign which said 'free - help yourselves'; so we helped ourselves to a silver milk jug, because you never know, the Queen may fly out to visit us and we would have previously been embarrassed by our lack of silverware, but not now. Now the Queen can visit whenever she likes and we will be ready.
A quick photo opportunity, lots more hills and we arrived at Haight Street, home of the hippies. Haight seems like a lovely neighbourhood and full of quirky shops, but the tour became whistle stop as my bladder dictated the order of the day. A wee - stop at the ever popular tourist hot spot, the Moffit Hospital, then lunch in the UCSF students union where our packed lunch was looked at with horror, scorn and derision. Yes, we are English. All we were missing was a tartan picnic blanket and a flask of tea. As the people there scoffed down their strong coffee and food which proudly claims it contains MSG, I think we won that little battle, don't you?
Methinks, I am giving you too much information. I will nip that in the bud for the final part of the challenge.
Challenge answered, part two: Saturday pm
We arrived at Coit Tower, a bit sweaty from the uphill hike. Coit Tower is an Art Deco style 210 foot high tower which sits on top of Telegraph Hill and affords incredible views of the city. It was built in the 30s by a wealthy crazy lady with a fixation for firemen (this may or may not be the whole story), and the inside walls are adorned with murals from 1935, painted as part of a city art competition. They look like they have been painted in poster paints or pencil and laboriously coloured in, which adds greatly to their charm. They are very much of their era (the 30s Depression, rise of Nazism in Europe etc) and depict hard graft and farming, and, interestingly, I thought they looked quite similar to Lenin and Stalinist Russian propaganda posters.
So, we paid $4.50 to take the lift to the penultimate floor. It is 21 flights of winding stairs, the very cheerful lift operator hold us and the stairs used to be open to use but most people struggled (and also they could make more money this way - he didn't say that though). It was crowded but the views we were rewarded with, with the wind whipping our hair made the tourists bearable. We took a slight detour on the way down to go down the Greenwich and Filbert steps, where green parrots and wealthy San Franciscans live. We could hear the parrots but didn't manage to see any, but we were too busy concentrating in the pain in our knees from the steepness of the steps. A quick scan of the map revealed the quick detour now meant a long walk to China town. We popped into the famous City Lights bookstore (famous for the Beat generation - before my time, I could research this but I can't be bothered) on the way. More importantly to me, it was a proper bookshop, full of reassuring dark wood, and nooks and crannies filled to the rafters with books, and chairs dotted around here and there for you to rest your weary feet, and inhale the stories. No rest for us intrepid explorers though, as it was onwards to the Fortune Cookie Factory.
Factory is a word which doesn't describe this place at all! It can be located down one of busy Chinatown's many alleyways, and is a tiny pokey shop, seemingly guarded by an old man sat outside ushering people in. It is the sort of place which would be crowded with 4 people in it, and they brook no tourist nonsense. There is a prominent sign declaring a photo will cost you 50c and no sooner had the giggling teens in front of us entered, they were abruptly asked whether they were going to buy anything. They made a hasty retreat. I grabbed a bag of cookies in which to buy more time ($4.50 for a bag as big as my head). The production line consisted of 2 women, one who was doing something in the background, and the other making cookies in front of your eyes, by pulling a circle of cookie off a hot place, putting a fortune inside and shaping it with a metal rod thingy. It is all done at speed as as soon as the cookie hardens, it can't be shaped. There is a bucket of cookies that never were which are given out as free samples. Yum yum.
The number 30 bus took us away from Chinatown and to the Yerba Beuna Gardens, but we really stuck gold with the bus driver. He was a real old charmer, with a wonderful chatty demeanor that made the bus ride a pleasure, but woe betide the girls who got on and forgot to say thank you to him for their tickets. He was off with a rant on there being no excuse for not being polite, which he then skillfully, without drawing breath, turned into a debate on equality, urging the bus riders to join in; a man whose soapbox I would happily join any day.
A quick film at the cinema (Hell Boy 2 - the film was OK, but what I really enjoyed was being able to sit down, on. a. chair; heaven), then home for a glass of wine and a bowl of perfectly ripe mango.
Total spent: $45 [£22.50)
So, we paid $4.50 to take the lift to the penultimate floor. It is 21 flights of winding stairs, the very cheerful lift operator hold us and the stairs used to be open to use but most people struggled (and also they could make more money this way - he didn't say that though). It was crowded but the views we were rewarded with, with the wind whipping our hair made the tourists bearable. We took a slight detour on the way down to go down the Greenwich and Filbert steps, where green parrots and wealthy San Franciscans live. We could hear the parrots but didn't manage to see any, but we were too busy concentrating in the pain in our knees from the steepness of the steps. A quick scan of the map revealed the quick detour now meant a long walk to China town. We popped into the famous City Lights bookstore (famous for the Beat generation - before my time, I could research this but I can't be bothered) on the way. More importantly to me, it was a proper bookshop, full of reassuring dark wood, and nooks and crannies filled to the rafters with books, and chairs dotted around here and there for you to rest your weary feet, and inhale the stories. No rest for us intrepid explorers though, as it was onwards to the Fortune Cookie Factory.
Factory is a word which doesn't describe this place at all! It can be located down one of busy Chinatown's many alleyways, and is a tiny pokey shop, seemingly guarded by an old man sat outside ushering people in. It is the sort of place which would be crowded with 4 people in it, and they brook no tourist nonsense. There is a prominent sign declaring a photo will cost you 50c and no sooner had the giggling teens in front of us entered, they were abruptly asked whether they were going to buy anything. They made a hasty retreat. I grabbed a bag of cookies in which to buy more time ($4.50 for a bag as big as my head). The production line consisted of 2 women, one who was doing something in the background, and the other making cookies in front of your eyes, by pulling a circle of cookie off a hot place, putting a fortune inside and shaping it with a metal rod thingy. It is all done at speed as as soon as the cookie hardens, it can't be shaped. There is a bucket of cookies that never were which are given out as free samples. Yum yum.
The number 30 bus took us away from Chinatown and to the Yerba Beuna Gardens, but we really stuck gold with the bus driver. He was a real old charmer, with a wonderful chatty demeanor that made the bus ride a pleasure, but woe betide the girls who got on and forgot to say thank you to him for their tickets. He was off with a rant on there being no excuse for not being polite, which he then skillfully, without drawing breath, turned into a debate on equality, urging the bus riders to join in; a man whose soapbox I would happily join any day.
A quick film at the cinema (Hell Boy 2 - the film was OK, but what I really enjoyed was being able to sit down, on. a. chair; heaven), then home for a glass of wine and a bowl of perfectly ripe mango.
Total spent: $45 [£22.50)
Challenge answered, part one: Saturday am
Saturday, bright and early after a hearty American breakfast of pancakes, bacon and maple syrup, our first stop was the Bank of America, not an obvious tourist destination in anyone's books, but free, and the staff were most helpful with our query. We even got to see Jimmy, our friendly bank manager, in order to exchange cheery waves. [Compare that one, England]
Then, after spying the feet-achingly long queue for the cable car, decided to take the Muni to Fisherman's Wharf. A caveat to the spend as little as you can is the fact that I was already in possession of a weekly Muni pass, but for those of you who are counting my cents, it cost $15 [£7.50] (with a $1 extra payment to ride a cable car, as opposed to the usual $5). Happy?
OK, so our first proper stop was the tourist mecca: tacky, noisy, bustling, dripping with people, magpie like, ready to part with dollars for anything bright and glitzy, and preferably magnetic to stick on their fridges; you've guessed it, Pier 39 at Fisherman's Wharf. We passed droves of people trying on silly hats and eating chips (as in fries and not crisps, this all gets very confusing) despite the early hour. We weaved round the pier, taking in the views of Alcatraz and taking pictures of the more incredibly named shops. We fast found our first free sight, but smelt it long before, barking, boisterous, sea-lion show-offs doing the aquatic equivalent of strutting their stuff whilst the humans lapped it up. Nature's glitz and glamour and all for free - they weren't even selling fridge magnetics, and still the people loved them. Apparently they arrived at the dock after the 1989 earthquake, and as they are creatures of habit, keep coming back. Pier 39 is all the richer for it.
Feeling buoyant, we made the first mistake of the day and decided to go to Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum. We had a voucher for $3 off per adult so paid $11.95 [£5.98] each. Billed as a museum of the unbelievable, it was. A pseudo scientific freak show, and poorly executed at that. A pre-runner of Big Brother style voyeurism for those who come armed with no pre-knowledge of anything whatsoever. It had some highlights and would be more suitable for children, but of the weekend, it was our biggest single spend and biggest disappointment, especially compared to all that we saw for free.
Still, all this walking was making us hungry. A jaunt up to Ghiardelli Square, named after a big chocolate company, and now a San Franciscan landmark, led us to Loris Diner, a 1950s style hamburger joint. I had downloaded a 20% off voucher from their website which meant lunch for 2 (a club sandwich with coleslaw, and a BLT with chips, and 2 orange juices) came to $21 [£10.48]. The portions were huge and meant that we didn't need dinner. I imagine we wore off some of the many calories climbing the hill up to Coit Tower....
Friday, July 18, 2008
Challenge!
I like a good challenge. Many times I have indulged in the 'buy the worst gift possible for a fiver' game. When I lived in Leamington Spa (Warwickshire, UK), this pastime was made a whole lot easier because there was a Mosely Warehouse (the lack of punctuation here is deliberate - that costs extra). This sold the best worst-stuff in the world. I am still trying to find somewhere to better it. My best/worst gift so far has to be the English bulldog figurine, leg cocked, licking its doghood, which had been tastefully varnished, to suggest saliva.
Anyway, in the tradition of a nice good challenge, followed by a nice cup of tea and a sit down, I have decided to see how much touristy stuff I can stuff into this weekend for the minimum amount of money. Bear in mind, this city is expensive, and also bear in mind we have no furniture and are crying out for a nice sit down. Crying, literally.
I have this evening to plan and the weekend to execute. Cue more bad pictures.
Anyway, in the tradition of a nice good challenge, followed by a nice cup of tea and a sit down, I have decided to see how much touristy stuff I can stuff into this weekend for the minimum amount of money. Bear in mind, this city is expensive, and also bear in mind we have no furniture and are crying out for a nice sit down. Crying, literally.
I have this evening to plan and the weekend to execute. Cue more bad pictures.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Crate and Barrel Restored my Mojo
When you are living with no furniture and only the basic equipment you could carry home on the bus from Ikea, the arrival of crockery can be overwhelming. This is a copy of the email I sent to Mike upon receipt of our parcel.
I have never had so much fun unwrapping anything before in all my life, particularly something I knew the contents of.
The plates can only be used to serve truly beautiful food on so hopefully will change our lives.
The bowls are teeny tiny, not really suitable for cereal so hopefully these will again change our lives by altering pudding portions.
The box it all came in could be a home for a child.
The wine glasses, well, they will make terrible drunkards of us, leading to exportation in glorious poverty.
The cups are just cups, and everyone needs cups.
I have never had so much fun unwrapping anything before in all my life, particularly something I knew the contents of.
The plates can only be used to serve truly beautiful food on so hopefully will change our lives.
The bowls are teeny tiny, not really suitable for cereal so hopefully these will again change our lives by altering pudding portions.
The box it all came in could be a home for a child.
The wine glasses, well, they will make terrible drunkards of us, leading to exportation in glorious poverty.
The cups are just cups, and everyone needs cups.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
the wall of shame
Gelatin and milk shouldn't work, and it doesn't.
I don't see what is so funny.
Anything which advertises joy should deliver.
Anything which advertises joy should deliver.
Ahem. A low fat big hunk - but he's Annabelle's apparently.
The research continues.
Race for Life
Today I took part in the Knowsley Race for Life, a 5K walk for Cancer Research UK which took place in the 2,500 acre grounds of Knowsley Hall, outside Liverpool, UK. Except that well, since I joined up to participate, I have obviously moved, so I did my walk in the 1017 acre grounds of Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California, US. The race started at 7.30pm in Knowsley, which was 11.30am San Francisco time (except that I thought it started at 7pm so actually set off at 11am, oops) so the Rose's Revenge team (sort of) walked in tandem, across continents. Golden Gate Park was beautiful and I really enjoyed my walk. I had to leave my trainers in the UK due to lack of luggage space, so put on my stout doc martins instead. Shoes which mean business. The weather was on my side - it was the most miserable day I have seen her so far. It is warm again as I type this but as I had to re-enter polite company when the walk was over and sit on a bus with others, I was glad of the chill. I had my Ipod on and shuffle all tunes really delivered. To Jimmy Cliff's 'I Can See Clearly Now the Rain Has Gone' I began my stomp. As The Holloway's 'Generator' was drawing to a close, I had to catch my breath. I had seen photos of the entrance to the Japanese Tea Garden in my guidebooks but it was truly stunning in person. The tranquility of the place even cut through the noise of my tunes - so I took out my earphones in respect. I couldn't stop but I plan to go back for tea and look around the gardens properly, and at $4, that is a bargain in my book. I also had a quick look at the outside of the de Young (a Fine Arts Museum), a massive, gorgeous building flagged with palm trees. It was swarming with tourists, but has been highly recommended, so again, I will be back.
I tried to keep away from the tourist traps and instead joined the many walkers and runners on many different trails. I found Lake Stow and walked round it, inhaling the glorious smell of pine. I am not green fingered in any way and generally kill any plant I try to nurture, but it seemed to me that the number of different plant species was incredible, and the park was so well maintained. The lake was full of pedalos and a couple of rowing boats, which I will not be returning to do as I find bodies of water better to look at then climb into a small plastic or wooden bucket in order to propel yourself round. I digress. I was in search for the waterfall and I found it. It was small and cute, and manufactured rather than natural. Not that I am being picky.
I managed to get lost in the Botanical Garden as I hadn't anticipated its size. I didn't measure the distance but my legs told me when I had done my 5K and I had walked solidly for just over an hour and a half at a steady pace. I must have only covered about a quarter of the park and thought that it was beautiful, fragrant, peaceful and relaxing. I felt better after an hour an a half of park time than 8 hours sleep. Now I am refreshed and ready for my next adventure.
If you would like to donate to Cancer Research UK, please click HERE! There is still time (that statement is a bold one since it will obviously depend on when you are actually reading this). Well, it was worth a try.
My photos are bound to get much much better.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
3 Musketeers
Apologies for the terrible picture. I was just so excited I forgot to focus. I have been taking pictures of all the crazy named "candy" I have found (and invariably eaten, in the spirit of sociological and scientific research you understand; a marriage of disciplines from the very bowels of the underworld perhaps, but it works). They have all tasted disgusting thus far, but 3 Musketeers was one of the best.
Hershey's chocolate is the food of a scoundrel. I never ever want to get used to them. Ever, OK?
More pictures will follow.
Friday, July 11, 2008
happy thoughts, whenever the wind blows
I am feeling a little out of sorts today. We have moved into our new apartment as of yesterday morning and now have to furnish it and find an Argos or Woolworths equivalent for boring but necessary stuff and sadly this is proving to be a major headache. I am feeling sorry for myself and wishing I already had vast amounts of local knowledge so every easy thing wasn't made so difficult. This is not really the frame of mind to be in, and wallowing in my own self pity helps not a jot. So I have been focusing on my happy thoughts so I can beat the Dementors.
When my younger brother finished his A Levels, he decided to send all of his teachers thank you cards, but being an inarticulate hormone pumped seventeen year old, he struggled to know what to write to express his personal thanks for all the help his teachers had given him. The card he wrote to his Biology teacher Mrs Risby read as follows:
Dear Mrs Risby,
Thank you very much for all the help you have given me with my Biology A Level (there is some artistic licence here, it may have been slightly different, but you get the general impression)
So far so good (and normal which is a bonus), then it struck him that this formality did not do justice to the teacher / pupil relationship which they had formed and said nothing of the respect he had etc, so he finished with, what would become to me the immortal words….
Whenever the wind blows, I will hear your name, Risby.
To say we mocked him would be the understatement of all time. When I had explained to him at length and in between floods of mirth-tears (what a good expression, I’ll use that again) that she would actually be freaked out by this and may issue a court order against him, he was utterly, utterly mortified. They never spoke again. I like to think though that she would have in fact known exactly what he was like and probably be flattered, but it was important that he learnt this lesson. It has done him no good at all.
The list of his social misdemeanours rivals mine and that is my happy thought for today - I am in truly excellent company.
When my younger brother finished his A Levels, he decided to send all of his teachers thank you cards, but being an inarticulate hormone pumped seventeen year old, he struggled to know what to write to express his personal thanks for all the help his teachers had given him. The card he wrote to his Biology teacher Mrs Risby read as follows:
Dear Mrs Risby,
Thank you very much for all the help you have given me with my Biology A Level (there is some artistic licence here, it may have been slightly different, but you get the general impression)
So far so good (and normal which is a bonus), then it struck him that this formality did not do justice to the teacher / pupil relationship which they had formed and said nothing of the respect he had etc, so he finished with, what would become to me the immortal words….
Whenever the wind blows, I will hear your name, Risby.
To say we mocked him would be the understatement of all time. When I had explained to him at length and in between floods of mirth-tears (what a good expression, I’ll use that again) that she would actually be freaked out by this and may issue a court order against him, he was utterly, utterly mortified. They never spoke again. I like to think though that she would have in fact known exactly what he was like and probably be flattered, but it was important that he learnt this lesson. It has done him no good at all.
The list of his social misdemeanours rivals mine and that is my happy thought for today - I am in truly excellent company.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
It all comes down to bread
A Londoner by birth, I find myself a long way from home. My husband has a job in San Francisco for a year. I am along for the ride. Until that is I apply for a work permit, which may take some time. So, I thought I would try to record for posterity a few observations of my new home. (I will however say that my research into American culture thus far has gone no further than Bill Bryson books, Hollywood films, and countless stereotypes which tend to seep silently into ones pores, so I plan to enjoy my year, proving those typecasting pores of mine wrong hopefully - it kinda worked in Liverpool, but that's another story...)
So, everything is bigger.
People are friendly and people do wish you a nice day! Cute.
It's very clean on the whole, like the nation is run by OCD - which is frankly excellent, and after some of the public toilets I have visited in my life, I wish good old Blighty would take a leaf out of its American counterparts' books.
The telly is really bad, but the adverts are frequent and mesmerising. Pure comedy gold.
Noise is constant, but that just maybe where I live.
Food is too sweet.
Actually, food is proving to be an issue, for one who cares deeply about it.
I was led to believe that food (as well as general cost of living) over here was going to be so much cheaper. This is a downright lie. Sure, it is cheaper to eat out here than it is to eat in England, and I am guessing people eat out a lot more, but it still isn't cheap! For those who want to cook for themselves, it is challenging (at face value anyway). Supermarkets seem to be few and far between and half the size of ours; unlike the Tesco metro on every corner, with a Tesco Extra a mile away in any direction from where you live we have got used to of late. There are corner shops a plenty but the prices sky high. When you actually make it to a supermarket, the food is really expensive, especially anything healthy. Our first trip was to Calafoods, a supermarket sort of near where we are currently staying, as recommended by my Not for Tourists book. Pah! Then we plugged for Safeway as it was a name I recognised. 5 tomatoes cost me $8. Say no more. Then, glory of glory, we discovered Trader Joe's which is frankly, ace, but there aren't enough of them. It's worth the hike though. Supermarkets sorted.
Alas, next problem. The food is far too sweet for my palate (and I pride myself on my sweet tooth - my girth takes some beating let me assure you). Why did no-one tell me this important stuff before I came? No wonder they don't have what is surely the epitome of umami, Marmite. The bread is so sweet, you hear your teeth decay as you chew. No wonder dentistry here is good; born out of necessity methinks.
It was suggested to me that I try Anderson's the bakery and try to get my grubby little mitts on an English loaf. I felt like a fool going in and asking with what sounded like the Queen's accent (in contrast only!) for an English loaf. It cost $3 for what to me is half a white tin loaf. It was OK, but white. I knew granary was off the cards, but white bread is a thing of my childhood and that is where it is staying thank you very much. Still, it's early days and I shall find ways around it I'm sure, like quitting my whinging and making my own. It's only bread.
I have even acquired some Marmite, a gift from one who must be the most generous soul in the world - see I told you that San Franciscan's were friendly. Now we can add magnanimous to the list.
So, everything is bigger.
People are friendly and people do wish you a nice day! Cute.
It's very clean on the whole, like the nation is run by OCD - which is frankly excellent, and after some of the public toilets I have visited in my life, I wish good old Blighty would take a leaf out of its American counterparts' books.
The telly is really bad, but the adverts are frequent and mesmerising. Pure comedy gold.
Noise is constant, but that just maybe where I live.
Food is too sweet.
Actually, food is proving to be an issue, for one who cares deeply about it.
I was led to believe that food (as well as general cost of living) over here was going to be so much cheaper. This is a downright lie. Sure, it is cheaper to eat out here than it is to eat in England, and I am guessing people eat out a lot more, but it still isn't cheap! For those who want to cook for themselves, it is challenging (at face value anyway). Supermarkets seem to be few and far between and half the size of ours; unlike the Tesco metro on every corner, with a Tesco Extra a mile away in any direction from where you live we have got used to of late. There are corner shops a plenty but the prices sky high. When you actually make it to a supermarket, the food is really expensive, especially anything healthy. Our first trip was to Calafoods, a supermarket sort of near where we are currently staying, as recommended by my Not for Tourists book. Pah! Then we plugged for Safeway as it was a name I recognised. 5 tomatoes cost me $8. Say no more. Then, glory of glory, we discovered Trader Joe's which is frankly, ace, but there aren't enough of them. It's worth the hike though. Supermarkets sorted.
Alas, next problem. The food is far too sweet for my palate (and I pride myself on my sweet tooth - my girth takes some beating let me assure you). Why did no-one tell me this important stuff before I came? No wonder they don't have what is surely the epitome of umami, Marmite. The bread is so sweet, you hear your teeth decay as you chew. No wonder dentistry here is good; born out of necessity methinks.
It was suggested to me that I try Anderson's the bakery and try to get my grubby little mitts on an English loaf. I felt like a fool going in and asking with what sounded like the Queen's accent (in contrast only!) for an English loaf. It cost $3 for what to me is half a white tin loaf. It was OK, but white. I knew granary was off the cards, but white bread is a thing of my childhood and that is where it is staying thank you very much. Still, it's early days and I shall find ways around it I'm sure, like quitting my whinging and making my own. It's only bread.
I have even acquired some Marmite, a gift from one who must be the most generous soul in the world - see I told you that San Franciscan's were friendly. Now we can add magnanimous to the list.
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