and with very little fanfare, the UK has a new prime minister from today. under the parliamentary system, gordon brown takes over from tony blair as the leader of the majority labour party, and therefore de facto becomes the head of the national government.

i’m still getting used to all this parliamentary stuff. there are certain aspects of it i really like. this isn’t one of them. i still have that deep-seated need to elect a person as opposed to a party. i need to know that i get what i signed on for – not that halfway through i’ll be provided a relief pticher in lieu of the person i actually wanted to lead the country. it feels like bait-and-switch. and while i vehemently disagreed with blair’s stance on many things, overall i was still a member of the fan base. this gordon brown character leaves me cold, and i haven’t been around long enough to know much about his views and priorities. so basically, we’re all supposed to take it on faith that he’ll stay true to the party line everyone bought at the polls just two years ago.

still, the lack of pomp and circumstance around the whole thing is rather refreshing. when my dad was here visiting this spring, he was surprised to learn that a former prime minister is not accorded the same exalted status as a former president. while they’re certainly granted privileges and honours, they’re seen much more as former-public-servants-turned-private-citizens. many even continue on in politics as members of parliament – something which would be unthinkable for a former president to do. having reached the pinnacle of political achievement, presidents don’t then go back to being a congressional representative – instead they build their libraries and visit their ranches, and continue to be surrounded by the secret service, and write their biographies, and take on the occasional public speaking event. they don’t go back to worrying about showing up for votes or stumping the campaign trail.

so it’ll be interesting to see what we get under gordon brown, but thus far he’s not been heaped with praise. to me he remains a largely unknown quanitity and his promise of “new priorities” has me a little unnerved. come next general election, will he get my vote?

the apples in stereo – same old drag

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tony blair, gordon brown, prime minister

second most expensive city in the world? london. i’ve never experienced king-of-the-mountain moscow, but i’ve visited a few of the top 50 and wholeheartedly agree with the assessment. hell, i live here and sometimes *i* don’t know how i afford it.

i also have the unique experience of having lived in the cheapest city on the list: asuncion, paraguay. talk about a study in contrasts.

related anecdote: asuncion is the friendliest place i’ve been and conversely, london is the least friendly.

(these lists seem to come out every few weeks, and each uses its own arbitrary criteria… but i trust this one, because it uses nyc as its benchmark – a place where i’ve often said you have to be either young and stupid, or old and rich to move to.)

hall and oates – rich girl

yes, i’ve just revealed my shameful secret love of hall and oates. go ahead: mock me. i don’t care.

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An investigation is under way after a Tube train entered a tunnel the wrong way, into the path of another train.

Hundreds of passengers were on each of the two Northern Line trains when the incident happened on Sunday.

The driver is believed to have slammed on the brakes when he saw the other train, which had stopped at a signal at Camden Town station.

yup – our tube service is first class. definitely worth the $8 ride

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the newest hairbrained voter-brown-nosing scheme? earning citizenship by points.

Applicants for British passports would face a points-based system linked to their employment and community work under proposals to be outlined by ministers.
…

The existing citizenship requirement that a person must have lived in Britain for five years, pass a test in English and demonstrate knowledge of life in Britain would be expanded to include points awarded for civic and voluntary work.

The ministers will propose that credits or points be awarded for the amount of money that a person brings with them, their employment record and for any voluntary or other work in the community.

i have no problem with every country determining for itself what constitutes citizenship (though the idea that how much money you have should have *anything* to do with citizenship is repugnant and classist in the extreme.) i may think it’s completely unfeasible and totally lacking in common sense (i mean, how many native-born brits do volunteer work?!), but they have the right to impose whatever arbitrary rules they want.

my ire is reserved for this:

Mr Byrne admitted that record numbers of asylum-seekers and the huge inflow of East European migrants had damaged public confidence in the immigration system.

in other words, it’s a response to backlash against the numbers of refugees and eu migrants (who don’t want or need uk citizenship anyway), neither of which they can easily control.

so those of use who’re most at the mercy of the home office have to pay the price. we’re already required to prove we can support ourselves, speak english, memorise british trivia, take a test, and pay taxes. (oh, and pay close to two thousand pounds along that celebrated road to citizenship.)

the irony is, you don’t *need* to become a citizen – once you have permanent residency, citizenship is entirely elective. disincentivising* citizenship accomplishes absolutely nothing.

oh well, it’ll generate savings for the passport office, i suppose.

*yes, i know it’s not in any dictionary, but it’s considered a real word over here.

billy bragg – waiting for the great leap forwards

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my name often feels like the bane of my existence.

as you may have surmised, jen is of course, short for jennifer. it’s a name i’ve never felt suits me particularly well. it’s overly formal, stuffy, uptight. there’s just something about it which has always chafed, to the point where i’ve given serious consideration to actually changing it. it’s just not “me”, and as such has always felt like something of a burden to endure. there is also the additional annoyance of having a name as common as dirt. as an american girl child born in ‘72, i grew up with a whole phalanx of jennifers around me – jennifer was the single most popular girls name from 1970 – 1984, finally falling out of the top five only in 1989. that’s nearly 20 years, with 3-4 million births per year – it’s jennifer madness.

my family have never even called me jennifer – as a little kid i was jenny, and from about 11 years old onward, i’ve always been adamantly jen. i don’t call myself jennifer, i don’t introduce myself as jennifer, and i don’t answer to jennifer.

here in the uk though, there is a refreshing dearth of jennifers. i personally, in my four years here, have only met one or two others. and i’ve never met anyone who goes by jen – i’ve heard of mythical jennies, but not yet spotted one of these elusive creatures. and whilst i’m thrilled to not be constantly surrounded by a swarm of people with the same indistinguishable name, it still manages to cause me consternation, even here.

a typically british trait is that almost all names are shortened to some sort of nickname, but yet almost no one seems to intuit that jen is a diminution of jennifer. and consequently, they almost never get it right. i don’t introduce myself as jennifer because i don’t want people calling me that, but “jen” without the context of my longer name seems to cause inordinate amounts of confusion. i am continually called jan/jane/jean by work colleagues i’ve known now for several years. over the phone, i have to spell out j-e-n innumerable times. i get post addressed to “jan” even when they’re replying to a letter sent by me with my name right on it. i sign all my emails jen, but still some people insist on replying to “jennifer” (from my assigned work email address), or even jenny (infuriatingly childish) because jen just befuddles them. it’s as if three simple letters were the equivalent of that indecipherable symbol that prince used.

so whilst i’m no longer trying to individuate myself from a sea of jennifers, i’ve now got the opposite problem. whereas before there were far too many jennifers/gennifers/jenns/jennies/jennys, now there are too few. i might as well have a name like condoleeza, for all the grief it causes me, or the number of times i find myself repeating it over and over.

what name would i want? well i’ve always loved my middle name – noël (the traditional french spelling) – but honestly, you try getting identification, filling out forms, etc. with a name that has an umlaut in it.

and over here, where noel is a common boys name, that’d just be opening a whole different can of worms.

so i’ll stick with jen for the time being, but it certainly lends creedence to the old chestnut: be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.

i’m from barcelona – jenny

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nothing pisses me off more in the mornings than hearing there are delays on the tube due to the all-too-frequent “staff shortage”.

in what kind of parallel universe is this an acceptable excuse?! they might as well say, “our staff (who already get 35 days holiday a year) are too lazy to bother showing up for work, and we’re too incompetent to have a backup coverage plan to make sure we can operate a service, so even though you’re paying the same full fare, tough tittie for you if *you’re* actually expected to show up to *work*.”

it’s beyond infuriating.

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the tourist season is in full swing, and to be honest, it always embarrasses me just a little. i know that, having an accent, i’m always somewhat notable once i open my mouth. but i’ve worked hard to fit in and make a life here – and while during the rest of the year i’m less likely to be mistaken for a tourist, when the weather starts to warm and the hoardes arrive, i cringe at the thought of being associated with so many of the crass americans flooding the capital city. during the rest of the year, i don’t feel self-conscious about who i am, or where i’m from, or how i sound. it’s when the stereotypically loud, fat, obnoxious, smug americans start clogging the pavements with their rubbernecking and gawking and incessant picture-taking, that i want nothing more than to be invisible.

that sounds horribly, incredibly snotty – as if i imagine myself somehow superior. i know i’m not. i don’t feel that way. and i know there are plenty of respectful, polite americans who holiday in europe.

but like any sore thumb, it’s the ones that i see standing out in the crowd that make me wish i was from a different country.

thank god for the horrible exchange rate this summer.

razorlight – america

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(and just because i love this kick-ass version)

david bowie and nin – i’m afraid of americans

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some days i’m reminded of why i love where i live. i love living in a majority non-white, non-christian neighbourhood. i love walking down the high street to the smell of spices. i love the markets full of interesting vegetables, the vibrant clothing, the different languages. i love the quiet side streets full of families and gardens. i love the shops selling exotic teas and sweets and music.

i feel at home here in a community of immigrants.

other people may knock it – but i wouldn’t live in any other part of london.

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spent the afternoon with my friend amity, scarfing lots of really good sushi, then a lazy afternoon floating through the v&a, my favourite museum.

and getting home, i find my beloved red sox on telly *with* the boston announcers! this day just gets better and better.

more photos here

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victoria and albert museum

as a kid, my favourite books were the mary poppins series, because they told stories of a world where *anything* could happen, a world where children’s fantasies and reality were inseperable and unpredictable. and somewhere in my travels through the realms of that literary fantasy, the idea of living in london became planted in my head.

more than 20 years later, i determined that i would turn my childhood dreams into a real-life reality. so i got rid of all my belongings, moved in with my mother to save money, took on extra jobs, sold my car, enrolled in night classes, and applied for a student visa. making my decision, to actually getting on a plane took 6 months of hard work and sacrifice. and there were innumerable times when i wondered just what the hell i was getting myself into. i worked 50 hours a week, took beginner college classes 4 nights a week, fought with my mother non-stop, had no social life, no belongings, no transportation – all to move to a city i hadn’t spent more than 48 hours in. to head off blindly into the unknown with no job, no friends, no security. it felt like madness a lot of the time. and it probably was. (i needn’t point out that most thought i had lost my marbles.) i wrote in my journal on the day that i landed, “i made this happen because i fixed my mind on it, and would not let go.” probably the most important lesson in self-determination i’ve ever experienced.

last year, as i was getting ready to leave, i reflected upon the 3 year anniversary of my arrival in london. the initial romance, the inevitable fade. the hard-fought truce i managed to broker between a city trying to best me, and the person i was determined to become. the tension between the fantasy life i thought i would lead, and the reconciliation with a new reality.

and today makes four years. leaving and returning has made me feel even closer to this city in many ways. i came because i felt i needed to. i stayed because i felt i had to. but i returned because i wanted to. i no longer believe in the fantasy – this isn’t mary poppins’ london. but i also no longer need it. the reality of living here, both good and bad, is something i choose every day. every day i don’t get on a plane to be somewhere else, is another vote of commitment to the weight of my life in london. that’s probably not a forever thing, but it’s been enough for four years worth. four years of deciding that even though the fantasy never lived up to the hype, the reality ain’t half bad.

but what i’ve learned about myself between getting off the plane and today… that’s the real dream come true.

i’m not a big dave matthews fan, but through all the hardest times of doubt – every time i thought i’d never get here, or wondered what the hell i was turning my life upside-down for, or felt like kicking out all the windows, or wondered why i had run across an ocean only to end up depressed, lonely, broke and scared – this song carried me through.

dave matthews band – grey street

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There’s a stranger speaks outside her door
Says take what you can from your dreams
Make them as real as anything
It’ll take the work out of the courage
…
There’s an emptiness inside her
And she’d do anything to fill it in
And though it’s red blood bleeding from her now
It’s more like cold blue ice in her heart
She feels like kicking out all the windows
And setting fire to this life
She could change everything about her
Using colors bold and bright
But all the colors mix together – to grey
And it breaks her heart

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so i’ve finally completed my marathon attempt at citizenship in under 2 weeks! put my application in today, and (fingers crossed) should hear something back in the next few days/weeks/months.

it’s all over but the crying. i’m running around the flat practicing the lyrics to “god save the queen“… because, lord help me, i *cannot* get “my country tis of thee” out of my head, and i don’t think they’d be very appreciative if i burst into a chorus of “land of the pilgrims’ pride” in the middle of the ceremony.

the smiths – the queen is dead

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One of the more mind-boggling traditions on this side of the pond, is the eurovision song contest. this is an annual event where all european countries are invited to put forward an unrecorded pop song, performed by amateur bands or artists, for competetive consideration. The “best song” (and I use that term loosely) is determined by public vote.

eurovision is just one of those baffling *european* things that, not having been born here, i’ll probably never fully appreciate. although the competition has been around since 1956, its biggest claim to fame is having launched the career of supergroup abba in 1972, and they’ve been trying to match that wild success ever since. abba won with their song “waterloo” – which is, in fact, a fairly indicative benchmark of the calibre of most of the groups and songs entered. each year, a new winner is chosen, gets their 15 minutes of televised fame… and then slinks off into obscurity forever.

the whole thing is pretty laughable. the general rule of thumb for entries seems to be the cheesier the better. the “controversies” which crop up from year to year include accusations of satanist lyrics from a finnish monster metal band called lordi (one of the notable exceptions to the abba-esque rule), and not-so-veiled references to iranian nukes in this year’s israeli entry (what israel is doing in a european competition, i could make an educated guess at – but i’m not touching *that* topic with a ten foot pole…) overall, however, it’s much more in the genre of entertainment-lite-lite. this year’s entry for the u.k. is artist scooch singing “Flying the flag (for you)”. to give you a gander of *exactly what you’re missing out on*, just click below.

bear in mind, this is the *winning* british entry. a song with exactly 2 lines of lyrics, whose best gimmick is dancing flight attendants. people spent their precious time and hard-earned money to vote for this tripe.

and now you understand my sense of utter bewilderment every year when the eurovision contest is trumpeted from television and newspaper headlines. the only phrase which accurately captures the reaction of my assaulted-and-stunned musical sensibilities?

“wtf!?!?”

scissor sisters – music is the victim

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eurovision

the other day I wrote about applying for my indefinite leave to remain.

then, this weekend, I found out about the massive visa hikes. double and treble the fees (which were fairly substantial to begin with) from 1st april.

if i run flat out, i might *just* be able to squeeze my applications in under the wire.

so now, my next two weeks look something like this:

15th: in-person application for my indefinite leave to remain (permanent residency), £500

15th-19th: dad arrives for visit

19th-21st: cram like crazy for my “life in the uk” test (rote memorization from the approved book, £10)

21st: take (and hopefully pass) “life in the uk” test, £35

21st-25th: complete application for citizenship and assemble documentation, references, etc.

25th: in-person application for citizenship,£200 + £35 administration fee

i hope i can pull it off. it’s madness, i tell ya’.

song of the day: the primitives – crash

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so i’ve spent the day filling out my “indefinite leave to remain” application. this is the last interaction with immigration i am legally required to have unless i elect to apply for citizenship (which i will, but not for another month or so yet).

as most of you know, i’ve had a few bad experiences with immigration in the past, which have left me traumatised. i no longer breeze through the queue at the airport with the confident assurance of someone with the right to enter the country. for the past 4 years, i have been but a visitor here, by the kind leave of the british government – a message which was driven home in the most direct way possible when i was physically escorted onto a plane home. yet even with those mental scars, i’ve always believed that a country has the right (and the duty) to impose whatever immigration restrictions they feel are necessary for the nation’s safety and well-being. they may not make *my* life any easier, but that doesn’t mean i don’t fully appreciate the need for them. and by any standard, the u.k.’s procedures are extremely reasonable and straightforward. even after my debacle, i was still allowed to come back and work and live – even if i did piss my pants every time i re-entered.

when i last visited the kind and lovely people at the immigration and nationality directorate in croydon, it was to apply for my spousal visa just after our wedding (i was here on a work permit prior to that, but a spousal visa gave me more job flexibility). i took jonno along for moral support, and lugged along a giant file full of documentation arranged and cross-indexed by any category they could possibly wish to see. and to be honest, i think the lady at the counter wanted to weep with joy for a customer who a) spoke english as a native language and b) came prepared to make her job easier. she took all of 4 minutes to photocopy and stamp her approval, sent us away to wait for the 2 hours to have the visa issued, and we were done by lunchtime. whew!

but “indefinite leave to remain” is a different kettle of fish altogether. where it is the last stop on the immigration train before becoming a permanent resident (with most of the same rights as a citizen except voting and passport), they tend to be a little more persnickety. when i last left the i.n.d. office, the woman reminded me that i should keep any and all documentation and post for the next two years. and so i have – that same file is about 3x bigger now. i have every bank statement, every phone bill, every pap smear reminder the doctor has ever sent… all in preparation for this day.

which is why i’ve spent the past 4 hours sitting crosslegged on the lounge floor, surrounded by a vast-yet-tidy sea of papers, trying to come up with the perfect combination of documents to satisfy the following criteria:

Evidence that you have the funds to maintain and accommodate yourself and any dependants
without recourse to public funds. The evidence must be formal documents such as bank
statements, a building society passbook, or wage slips for you and/or your partner (but please
don’t send us travellers cheques or credit cards). If a relative or friend is supporting you, the
evidence should be a letter from him/her confirming this together with formal documents
showing their financial situation (see Note 3).

Note 3: The documents showing the funds available to you should cover at least the last 3 months. We do not accept internet or
cashpoint statements as evidence of funds.

We need documentary evidence indicating that you and your partner are still living together as a couple and have done so during the past two years. Ideally, this evidence should indicate joint commitments in your finances, other responsibilities and social activities spread across the past 2 years/ 24 months.

Items of correspondence or other documentary evidence from sources of the kind listed below would be acceptable. These should be divided fairly equally between each of the two years, and be addressed jointly in both your names wherever possible. If you do not have any or enough in your joint names, items addressed to each of you individually may be acceptable, provided they show the same address and you provide roughly the same number of items in each of your names. The items of evidence should be from at least 5 different official sources. Ideally, a total of 20 items of evidence should be provided.

• telephone bills or statements
• gas bills or statements
• electricity bills or statements
• water rates bills or statements
• council tax bills or statements
• mortgage statements or agreement
• bank or building society statements/passbooks
• tenancy agreement
• insurance policies/certificates or other correspondence
• loan agreements
• AA, RAC or similar membership
• membership of sports or social clubs
• membership of a religious organisation
• correspondence from government departments or agencies (eg HM Revenue and Customs, Inland Revenue, Department for
Work and Pensions) including evidence that you have declared your relationship to the appropriate government bodies.
• correspondence from GP or local health authority

Mind you, this is not exactly *hard* – particularly since i paid attention, and therefore was warned well in advance (as opposed to other expats i know who were unpleasantly surprised!) but it is laboriously time consuming. boiling 2 years of marriage down to 20 documents is a depressingly robotic exercise. as far as the home office is concerned, my marriage is not the sum of the dreams and tears we’ve faithfully invested in making our relationship work, day in, day out. to them, it is nothing more than the sum of what can be proven through institutionalised behaviour – putting money in the bank, paying taxes, registering births. more depressing is trying to decide if i should go the cheap route (£335 by post – but entrusting the Royal Mail with my passports and application and original documents) or the in-person route (£500 and a day off work). I’m spoilt for choice, i tell ya.

still, after 3 work permit applications, one forced removal, one spousal visa, and several dreadful knotted stomachs at heathrow – after 4 years of stringing visa upon visa toegther, there is finally a light at the end of the tunnel. after this, i will no longer be a temporary tolerated guest, but an acknowledged permanent resident. after the years of mixed feelings, difficult adjustments, and nerve-wracking experiences, i will have earned through my persistence, my stubbornness, my sacrifice, the *right* to live here indefinitely.

should ease a few butterflies in the immigration queue at the airport.

song of the day: wilco – box full of letters

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british immigration

as amity was chatting on the phone to her family back in the states after the game, i was exploring her bookshelves, and stumbled across a book i’d been meaning to read for ages: “watching the english”, by kate fox. it’s a book that’s often spoken of amongst expats as an anthropological study on the unique customs and social mores of the english – recommended reading by way of imparting some insight. i’d never gotten around to picking it up, but was flipping through the pages last night and found myself intrigued enough to borrow it.

and though i am only about 50 pages in, i’m finding it really depressing. you see, after living and working here for 4 years now, i kind of felt that i’d achieved some semblance of integration. that i’d been around long enough not to stand out like a sore thumb. god help me, people back in the states even say i’ve picked up some british inflection to my words (not to mention adopted much of the vocabulary and spelling quite early on – a byproduct of needing to communicate clearly and write lots of reports for my job). i’ve never consciously set out to try to assimilate, but it’s only natural that after a certain period of time a lot of stuff has rubbed off on me. i’ve never deliberately set out to “fit in”. but i’d hoped that i did, just a little.

and now those hopes have been thoroughly dashed. the author’s insights and explorations of the “unwritten rules” of english society are so precisely accurate, yet so convoluted, that i despair of ever really hoping to successfully navigate them. so much of what i find intensely frustrating about being an outsider is a product of societal law so deeply ingrained, yet so unspoken, that a culture clash with my personality and modus operandi is inevitable. one must never appear too eager. one must never reveal too much. one must never openly disagree. one must never be overly informal or overly friendly. i can learn these rules, but i’ll never be able to live them.

but if i’m honest, none of this is news to me. in work situations, i find myself constantly trying to modulate between being too outspoken, and not piping up enough. i chime in at the wrong times, create awkward silences, inadvertently step on toes. i’m constantly second guessing myself and trying to tone it down, where “it” is my normal forthright manner of speaking/thinking/doing. i’m ever conscious of trying not to come across as the stereotypical “brash american”, but chafing inside at not being able to just be myself, no matter how others interpret that. i vacillate between trying to break free of the preconceptions that come with my accent, and just saying “fuck it – this is who i am. accept it.”

and in the end, i’m realising none of it really matters. that the way i come across won’t ever change much, because there’s a finite limit to how much *i* can change. or more accurately, i’m realising there’s a limit to how much i’m *willing* to change. i will never understand the mustn’t grumble ethos, even in the face of valid cause for complaint. i will never understand the national reservedness, or the impulse to conform at all cost. i refuse to buy into the class distinctions, and i will most likely never be able to distinguish a posh accent from a blue-collar one. it took me years to find confidence and assertiveness, and ditch the meek, awkward person i was until i hit my mid-20s. why on earth would i want to give that up just to blend in?

still, it’s discouraging to see people wince when i’m in a meeting and say something too bluntly. it’s disheartening to try to make friends yet not be able to break through the wall of reserve of people i otherwise really like. to know that no matter how regularly i say “toe-mahh-toe” people will still hear my accent and draw conclusions about me. all the studying in the world won’t get me past those obstacles, and they may never even get any better, no matter how long i am here. i just don’t know the rules. i’m not being a rebel, just a naif.

i can watch the english, observe the customs, study the rules – but it seems i’ll never learn.

song of the day: Califone – The Orchids

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british customs

woke up and looked out the window this morning to see this:

which just made me groan.

i really can’t wrap my brain around just how less than an inch of snow can cause so much chaos. other cities all over the world deal with snow for whole months of the year – perhaps someone from london’s city planners could go visit one of them and report back?

jimminy cricket – what a palaver for something that was completely melted away by midday! the exact same thing happened last time it snowed, too. i had a better sense of humour about it then, it seems.

i miss snow – but in london it’s far more trouble than it’s worth. : igh::

more predicted tonight – i’ll be lucky to make it to work tomorrow.

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a lot of the time, i’m a really sucky londoner – i rarely leave my little zone of work/home lately, and i almost never make it across the river into north london.

but there were two instances recently where i realised how much i’ve limited myself. first, we had dinner plans with friends down at gabriel’s wharf the other evening. they were a bit late arriving, and it was one of those really mild but windy nights that feel so invigorating your feet start to tingle. so we walked around the south bank, people watching, looking at all the lovely lights, listening to the water. i was so annoyed i didn’t have my camera with me because the christmas lights, and st. paul’s illuminated against the night sky, and the restaurants aglow were all so beautiful i just wanted to capture them. and i remembered other winter nights long ago, when i used to come down to the south bank, and how much i enjoyed it then. i’m not sure how or why i forgot to come down there anymore, but it made me sad that i let it drift away from me.

then again, today. i’d decided i needed to start taking my lunch hour and just get out of the office for some air (which i never do). so i walked across vauxhall bridge and wandered up past the tate museum, past gorgeous stately buildings and riverside gardens. i walked all the way up to the houses of parliament and westminster abbey, and it occurred to me that i hadn’t been near them in years probably. there was a shiny cold afternoon sun beaming down on the golden spires, and a stiff breeze coming off the water, and i had some amazing music playing on the ipod, and it struck me once again just how much i’ve taken london for granted lately. how little effort i put into taking part of this city i live in. the london eye was towering proudly and the graceful arch of bridges seemed to be keeping the two sides of the city from floating apart. there were buses and boats gliding by, and even the green monstrosity of the mi5 building and the looming hulk of the battersea power station seemed to claim their place in the landscape. i hadn’t bothered to pause and appreciate these things for ages – and it has been my loss. i’ve worked in the same location for a year, and never once explored what was at the doorstep.

i need to make the effort – because one day i won’t live here anymore, and you can’t miss what you don’t remember.

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in an effort to branch out a bit, i’ll be contributing on a weekly basis to “shortcut – a european city and travel blog”, writing about city life/events from a london perspective. check it out if you get a chance – should be interesting! (and feel free to mention ideas or events you think would make for good blogging!)

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i recently met up with a friend of mine for some drinks. it was the first time we’d caught up since my return from travel, and she had previously done a rtw trip herself, so there was a lot of reminiscing about places and experiences, comparing notes on memories and fun. eventually we got round to the topic of what it is like to come back to the u.k. after so long away, a process which, for lack of a better term i have been calling “re-entry”. like an astronaut coming back into earth’s orbit, readjusting to the weight of gravity, and having such an extraordinary experience but landing with a thump back into everyday life. in particular, getting used to being an expat again – a permanent foreigner rather than just a strange tourist passing through.

i’m eligible for british citizenship in just a few more months. it’s really astounding how quickly time has passed – seems only yesterday that i started this blog after finally getting a work permit that meant i could stay. but in march 07, i will have been here for 4 years – longer than i ever imagined, yet shorter than i could’ve thought possible. in particular, having this blog has enabled me to really explore my own experience, from a variety of different perspectives. but i’ve never stopped feeling like an expat.

the u.k. government says that i have proven myself sufficiently british to become a citizen. but even if i lived here 20 years, i’d never feel like a brit. is it right to avail yourself of the benefits of a system you don’t believe in?

what i have discovered, upon re-entry, however, is that i’ve entered a new phase in my london life. something i really never expected to feel – genuine affection for a lifestyle and culture which i can now claim as my own. in talking with my friend (whose husband is a kiwi) we came to the conclusion that there are several distinct phases an expat goes through.

first there’s the initial honeymoon phase – everything new is fascinating or quaint, exciting or curious. from learning to cross the street to becoming familiar with local brands, to figuring out the money and transportation, it’s all one big adventure where evry day you discover something new. my first trip to a grocery store was a revelation – all the novelty, all the choice! i thought i’d never tire of it.

the second phase is one of frustration – all the things you initially thought were charmingly quirky begin to grate on your nerves, and all the obstacles there are to surmount with living in a new country just wear you down. new lingo, new customs, new life – it’s all a lot to get used to, and constantly having to navigate your way in uncharted territory is so tiring. getting used to being paid monthly, trying to learn metric, not knowing where to buy pie tins or even if they have them here. you struggle to understand and be understood. the prevailing sentiment is one of “this country is so backwards/inefficient/confusing/generally stoopid” and it’s at this point you being to wonder just what the hell you’re doing here anyway when it would be so much easier to go home. and a lot of people do.

but if you make it through that phase, you enter into what i call “the uneasy truce”. sure some things about the country and its people are great, and some things will drive you mad. but you begin to see there’s real merit in how things are done on both sides of the atlantic, and you’ve decided, for better or worse, that this is where you will be for the forseeable future. you may not love it, but you’re part of it – and it becomes part of you. so you grumble about the weather and kvetch about the tube like a proper londoner. you settle in for the long haul and make your peace with the fact that there is no “dunkin’ donuts” coffee to be had, and that doing laundry takes 3 hours. you adapt and survive and even flourish where you’re planted. you make some friends and find yourself explaining to people back in the states that air-drying clothes *really is* more eco-friendly. you have your routine, you have your circle, you have your life. and it’s only when you find yourself surrounded by new people that you remember you are still a novelty, still have to explain your background and how/ why you’re here. you may fit into your everyday world, but the minute you’re out of your element, you are reminded you’re still a stranger here. and always will be. it’s a suspended state of tension, but you get used to it.

and finally there is (what i hope is) the final phase. one of a warm fondness and almost protective feeling toward those attributes and characteristics which you’ve come to embrace as a part of your home. it caught me off balance, this feeling of devotion upon returning. for all my moaning, it seems i have come to cherish this place in spite of myself. in hindsight, of course, it was bound to happen – you can’t voluntarily remain someplace without immersing in it, becoming permeated by it. or even more accurately, engaging with it as a part of your personality, as a friend, as a comfort. but that means acknowledging that it is a part of my happiness – and that brings a loyalty and responsibility to care for it. a willingness to give of myself, in return for what has been given. much like a marriage, i may always have a love/hate relationship with it – but i miss this place when i am not here.

to my utter surprise, i find i have an allegiance to this country, these people. and it took leaving to figure that out.

so i will take up british citizenship when it is offered. i may always be an expat, always an outsider looking in, but i have as much stake in this place as any “real” brit does. it’s become part of who i am, even without fanfare or ceremony.

really the oath and passport are just secondary.

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a bit of a different thanksgiving for us this year. in past years I’ve done a big thanksgiving dinner for as many family and friends as i can gather together. as our new flat is not yet kitted out for real cooking, and quite a bit smaller, this year we’re going to spend t-day at amity’s house instead, and then have a dinner later in the week with kim and andy. so even though i *know* amity will be the hostess-with-the-mostess and i’m so glad to be able to share in her generosity, it does feel a little strange this year.

and even more so because it’s been over a year since last seeing the folks back home. i’ll admit i’m a little homesick these holidays. but i’ll be thinking of everyone stateside, and know they’re thinking of me.

i’m often called upon to explain the traditional american holiday to people over here. and it’s interesting to talk about. it’s not religious, it’s not commercial – it’s the only “pure” holiday left. and no matter what the history books say, the essence of it boils down to this: it’s about people coming together, relying on each other to get through the hard times, and being thankful for those whose presence makes it all possible. usually that’s family and friends – and perhaps that why it’s an even more important celebration for those who find themselves far away.

so thank you to all those near and far who give me strength. those both here and there who are so important to my life. may you all feel as lucky as i do.

happy thanksgiving!

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thanksgiving

as much as i am enjoying our new flat and new neighbourhood, there is one thing, however, which it is noticably lacking: a good local.

for my american readers:

i’ve written a little bit about the pub culture and etiquette before, but i’ve not yet explained the uniquely british icon which is “the local”. as you’ve no doubt seen in movies, the pub serves a very important function in the daily life of the british. it is a gathering point for much of the community, a place to meet friends and neighbours, a hub of information, and a ritualised social club. the neighbourhood pub (or “local”) is most often frequented by the same people day after day, who build bonds over pints, develop unique personalities and become well-known and respected patrons of the establishment. people often frequent “the local” several times a week, as a matter of habit – but it’s important to point out that this is usually less about the drinking, and more about the interaction. in many ways, a good local is much like “cheers” on t.v. – where everyody knows your name, and the beer is secondary to the comraderie. people often while away many hours at a time, nursing pints, gossiping, sharing a laugh, and generally hanging out. and this time is also an investment – there’s a definite proprietary feel towards a good local, a sense of ownership that the regulars foster. because it is, after all, *the people* that make a good local. in many ways, a local is a clique – like gravitating towards like. it’s a community relationship, and when it works well, it is a lovely thing to belong to.

and there are many different types of locals. posh locals with cream and oak tones, fancy food (duck and scallion pancakes anyone?) and pinstriped businessmen. old man locals with dim lighting, dark panelling, worn carpets, a thick blue smoke curtain, and a down-at-the-heels air. hard drinker locals with burly publicans, rough customers, cheap lagers, and lots of fruit machines. quirky locals with funky music, young bartenders, offbeat beers on tap, and loungey furnishings. and if you’re lucky enough to have more than one in your immediate area, you can take your pick. find something that feels right. much like your bookshelf or movie collection, where you choose to drink says a lot about who you are – so you want to choose something that reflects your taste, your attitude. a place where you feel you fit in.

the locals at my last two flats have been of the quirky kind, and that really suits me because i’m kind of quirky myself. a relaxed vibe, sofas, good music and a decent beer puts me in the right frame of mind – comfort is key when you want to gather with friends, or need to unwind. our last local was called “hoochie mamas” – a tiny little hole in the wall that played rock and reggae, served giant pizzas, and had hoegaarden, guinness and san miguel on tap. we loved it – spent many a birthday, new years, and friday night there. and even though it’s still only a 15 min walk away from our new place, it’s just a little too far to be our local anymore. we will miss it.

and sadly, the local pickings around our new place are pretty slim. there’s “the wheatsheaf” across the road, which leans toward the “hard drinkers” side. there’s “the rose and crown” towards tooting bec common, which is definitely an “old man” place. as is “the kings head” on upper tooting road. there’s “smoke”, a posh bar/diner at the corner of our street which tries too hard to be trendy to be comfortable. and that’s really about it in the immediate area. the other decent options (”the hope” on wandsworth common, the nicer pubs at balham high road) are all still a 10 min walk. which doesn’t seem that far – until you have to make your way home after a few too many. a local should ideally be a place you can easily stumble back from.

so all this is to say that i’m not sure where we’ll end up making our “other home” at yet. but given the amount of time we’re likely to spend there, it’s an important decision that shouldn’t be rushed.

just ask “norm”.

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british culture, pub culture