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.

Cashier Number One Please

I am aware of how ridiculous this is going to sound, and especially as I have just got out of bed where I was warm and comfortable to write this. I just couldn’t get bollards out of my head, and therefore sleep was out of the question until these thoughts were excised.

I have talked before, possibly at length, about the sorts of things I miss from home, mainly in regard to food. The ridiculous cravings we have for Angel Delight are nothing compared to other deep seated yearnings, for more well, bizarre phenomena.

The streets of America sound different. Obviously people talk in a different way, but that is easy to get used to. In fact now if I hear a non-American accent, my curiosity is instantly peaked as I try to work out where this intruder is from. It even takes me a while to work out that I am listening to a fellow country man. As much as I hate to admit this, I have indeed confused Brits and Australians. I know, I know…

As well as the accents, there are the sounds of big trains (notably different from a small train noises of course,) the distant hum of the Freeway and the squawk of various sirens in the distance, echoing long and loud down straight and wide streets. There is also of course my weekly world war two siren testing the emergency warning system, which I think I have just about got used to now.

But what does seem to be in short supply in the general din of this country are the familiar sounds of the likes of “Caution, Bollards in Motion,” “Cashier Number Two Please,” or the auditory treat “This vehicle is reversing.” I miss every one of those computer generated mildly smug and irritating phrases. Unconsciously, perhaps in order to comfort ourselves, Mike and I have started to say them out loud to each other, in the private of our own home, but tone, syllable, inflection, and pitch perfect. My particular favourite is the Post Office and possibly Argos, cashier beckoning instruction. I have become so accurate in my portrayal, you could be forgiven for thinking that you were in a post office in Huyton, Liverpool, in your lunch hour queuing to post a parcel watching your free time slowly ebb away.

Since meeting a man in Safeway who actually swooned when I spoke and who assured me that I should get a job in voice over work, I am seriously considering going into shops and trying out my new directional phrase. I think this will become a most profitable endeavour since we have noticed here that they actually employ people to stand at the front of the queue and tell you when the next cashier is free. Seriously. THAT much money is wasted. For, say a year’s salary, I could record my voice telling the soon to be overcome crowds which cashier was ready to serve them. It would be both more efficient and such a euphoric experience for some, that they would not consider shopping anywhere else. In fact, if they ever found themselves living in a different country, they will also rather curiously find I'm sure that they miss the comfort of my voice, and literally cannot sleep because of it.

Living in a Movie

A strange set of pictures of a small part of the huge campus of the University of California, Berkeley which I visited yesterday when Mike was in a meeting. It isn't even a case of all style, no substance. This place invites envy.

One of the libraries...

Sather tower, otherwise known as the Campanile. I was there too early to go to the top which is meant to afford amazing views, but it seems likely that I will return to find out myself.

Home of good but strong coffee, and some history.

They have even branded the soap dispensers.

Another world.

I even saw a group of small children lining up for summer school with their parents looking on about to embark on whatever children do in summer school, cared for only by students in matching t shirts.

I live in a 80's film. Please can someone pinch me occasionally?

Pigs, Pets and Pastrami

On Saturday we ventured down south to sunny San Mateo's county fair. We had intended to go last year, which seemed to offer much more, but for one reason or another we didn't make it. This year we weren't going to miss out and booked tickets well in advance. We had a great time and it was unlike anywhere we had ever been before and after walking round in an excited mesmerised trance, I now find it almost impossible to describe. I'll have a go though.

We got the train and then walked the remainder in the baking heat, remembering how lucky we are to live in San Francisco which is nicely warm but not too hot for my fair skin. We were the only pedestrians on the road which looked exactly like so many other American towns we have been through, and most people were sensible enough to be encased in their air conditioned cars. On route, we passed a so-called British pub, proclaiming food treats and darts. A quick peek in revealed darkness boarding on dingy, flock wallpaper, and a funny smell. Maybe it truly was a British pub after all, but today was not a day for Britishness, it was a day for embracing American culture, or at least for sneaking a peek at how a nation without a Women's Institute does their flower arranging.


Soon, we left any thoughts of Blighty behind as we stepped into an episode of the Simpsons. It was a strange and heady mix of farm animals, vomit-causing fairground rides, amazing community craft competitions, stalls selling things which people could never possibly need or want, or certainly wouldn't come to a fair to buy, like double glazing, but which seemed to be oddly attractive after an excess of either sugar or lard, also on offer in dizzying variety. As is typical, everything was proclaimed as the 'best ever', or 'all-American', which we now know is a form of short hand for this outlandish statement.

We didn't go into the 'Great American Petting Zoo' which did have a llama and Bambi to its credit, and we didn't visit the biggest pig in the world which had been sheltered in an enormous wind breaker and cost an extra dollar. We also didn't buy a Twister Dog, a hotdog on a stick with fried potato spiralled around it;

but we did visit all of the farm animals, and competition exhibits, marvelling at the skill and sheer audacity in turn, wondering at the categories and wishing that we had entered something. I probably would have gone for the table laying because I think it needed an injection of taste. Things were seemingly haphazardly arranged with limited care, although I'm sure there must have been some sort of order. It also seemed to be missing what I like to call the all important twee and tweed factor. Sometimes you need it just to cut through the garish. A few Morris dancers wouldn't have gone a miss either.

With our free M&M ice creams melting down our hands, we happily contemplated our favourite category, the 'Produce Pet' for 'pet's' creatively made from fresh produce. This had been imaginatively placed next to the smallest mature fruit or vegetable competition which was another joy to behold. There seemed to only be two entries in produce pet corner; one involving corn strapped to a sad wilting sunflower, and one involving a cucumber with a tangerine head, mouth arranged in a silent scream, marooned on it's back with frankly useless mange tout arms which would offer it no leverage to get back up, and topped off with a largely redundant tiny carrot tail. Or maybe that is the colour of cucumber fear? Either way, it was a clear winner.

Road Trip California

Most of the time on the all-American road trip is spent in the car. Most of the journey out of the towns and cities is picturesque so I thought I would share some car-scenery with you.

Yosemite Dan

My brother Dan is going back home soon for a job in Plymouth. I will miss him a lot, and at first I was a teeny bit jealous, but as he tries desperately to cram in seeing as much as he possibly can in the two months he now has left, it has made me realise, again, how very lucky we are to be here.

As part of his efforts to see more of the country, he planned a road trip to Yosemite National Park last weekend and he asked us if we wanted to come along. No sooner had he asked, we were sitting in the car and driving over the Bay Bridge and out of San Francisco. We stayed in an old California Gold Rush mining town called Mariposa, an hour away from Yosemite. It was a tiny cowboy type place that took no longer than an hour to explore, which was lucky really as it was boiling hot, and we had plans to get up with the sun the next morning to get to Yosemite early.

It seemed that the sun had insomnia, as when we got up at 5.30am, it was already alive and kicking. In fact, at 6pm later that day it was still 33 degrees C, and reached 36 degrees on Sunday. Too hot to sleep, and certainly too hot to hire bikes without gears, and travel around Yosemite Valley. It was fun though, until goodness knows how many miles later, my bike muscles, stiff from a fourteen year hiatus, said no more please and refused to work. I sat my jelly legs down, mindful of my saddle sore and drank my own body weight in water reserving some to pour on my head like a real athlete. The park was now filling up quickly and as we had been there six hours already decided we should start heading off.

The next stop for the evening was Sonora, another old mining town, but with a lot more going on. We ate barbecued meat and cold beer for dinner and felt like rather full and very happy cowboys and girl. The hotel was full of motorcyclists and had an antique style wire cage lift which you had to propel yourself out of quickly lest it set off again, and the staff didn't seem to mind that three people were staying in a room booked, and possibly suitable only for one. Either they had seen much worse, they didn't care, or were too hot to care. The antique air conditioning wasn't as fun as the lift and kept us awake most of the evening, so the plan to get up really early again to see another part of the park wasn't quite realised.

We arrived a little later than planned at Hetch Hetchy Reservoir, a granite walled valley flooded in 1923 to create a water supply for San Francisco, following the 1906 earthquake. Incredibly, this reservoir is still the place that we get our water from today, a staggering 156 miles away. As well as being so useful (we had already drank 2 liters each of it's bounty), it was beautiful, peaceful compared to the valley which gets most of the tourists (largely due to the fact that Hetch Hetchy has no facilities) and just a pleasant place to be on a Sunday afternoon. We strolled across the bridge at O'Shaughnessy Dam and through the rock tunnel until we felt lethargic with heat, and decided it was probably time to head off home.

(Dan took a lot of photos and some of them can be seen here and here)

The journey back seemed to take forever and we fell foul of the usual US lack of signs and almost ended up in Los Angeles. Over tired and over heating, we had still managed to see a lot of the park, and certainly more than we saw last time we were there and staying slap bang in the middle of it; plus we got to see some real American small towns, the like of which are difficult to describe, or certainly to do justice and which just do not exist in the UK. All of this was possible in a weekend and if that doesn't make me one of the luckiest people alive, I don't know what does.

The Truth is Out There

Opened in a redwood forest just outside Santa Cruz in 1940, the Mystery Spot has been attracting visitors ever since. If last Saturday was anything to go by, in their dead eyed droves.

In order to imagine the Mystery Spot, picture if you will an all-American B movie, with the usual terrible dialogue, dubious special effects, bad acting and poorly constructed set, featuring a science museum run by the non-scientific with a penchant for the extra terrestrial, and staffed by seventeen year olds. But if you can't imagine that, the Mystery Spot is an area within a forest where the normal rules of gravity do not apply. Balls seemingly run uphill and people standing up straight lean at a 17 degree angle. At the centre of the spot is a tilted hut where the weirdness is intensified.

The place is run by timed guided tours and as such your experience entirely rests on the charisma of your tour guide. Unfortunately, our guide was bored, smug, and had the worse West Coast nasal drawl I have heard to date. He wasn't in the league of a teenage Alton Towers worker for sheer terrifying incompetence, but I'm soo better than this, where shall I go tonight?, and the occasional who with?, reeked stinkingly from his pores. I won't repeat what his limbs and worse, his eyes were saying. The pores were bad enough.

His scripted 'jokes' were delivered with the same blase and disinterested manner as every other snippet of 'fact' was. If the timbre of his voice hadn't been grating on my pain receptors I would have simply stopped listening and carried on my own conversation like most other members of my tour group. In fact, as soon as it was possible, we joined the next group along to see if their guide fared any better. She did, but that is no boast really.

Still enough about the tour guides. The place itself was interesting, as were the other members of the tour group. Our small party was dripping with cynicism as it consisted of three scientists and me, but lacking the actual skill to tell you why it was obvious that this was visual trickery, I won't. Simple as that. It was cleverly done and interesting whether you 'believed' or not. We were told that some of us may experience feelings of dizziness and nausea when inside the hut and whether it is because I am entirely suggestible, or that the claustrophobia and lack of a horizon simulated travel type sickness where my brain tried and failed to adapt to the tilt, or a bit of both, I did feel sick and had to leave the hut.

According to the spot's website, some of the speculations include there is a UFO / UFO parts buried underneath, or there is a hole in the ozone layer directly above the spot, which obviously explains everything.

The whole 45 minute tour is engineered well and at the end you get a free bright yellow bumper sticker, which is worth the $5 entrance fee alone. Sadly, we had to return the hire car and were running very late so whizzed right through to the end as quickly as we could. I actually know exactly what people must have thought of us, as they were embracing the spot and trying to work out how it works (or in some cases worrying about UFOs), as I went to the Falstaff Experience in Stratford Upon Avon once only to watch with amusement and some derision a group of people clutching their McDonald's Value Meals to their breasts and walking by every single exhibit at some speed. I now know that they had to return their hire car in time, or catch a bus, rather than as I had assumed at the time they had no interest whatsoever in Tudor England.

The bright yellow leaflet I picked up at some point during our almost an hour long wait for our Mystery Spot tour, after exhausting the gift shop wares, had many strap lines, from"It's crazy. It's Perplexing. It's Nature's Magic. That's why it's called The Mystery Spot" to my favourite "It's Unusual. It's Amazing. It's Wholesome, Interesting Entertainment!" which as it turns out was true, and apparently some promotional literature written in the 1950s never has to be updated again, which is somewhat more impressive.