Welcome to London

England was my first love,  and London has always been the force behind that,  Chiswick the epicenter, my aunt the reason. I love flying in and looking down at all the green patches, taking the tube to Turnham Green, seeing what's new and what's gone on Turnham Green Terrace, and walking down the Devonshire Road, underneath the tunnel that smells like piss and then up on the other side of the Hogarth Roundabout where we saw King Charles who was then Prince Charles in the back of a brown Bentley with paperwork, and after that it's the beautiful and wholly untouched Mall.

Little has changed at the Mall since the 15th century 

​But for the last few arrivals, the weather has been less than welcoming, forcing me to stagger along with my suitcases, shoulders up as though doing so might keep me drier, zero interest in looking around, rather looking down to avoid large puddles. Wait, why did I leave France?? 

But this time, things had started going wrong way before the attack of sharp and aggressive raindrops. Last year, in order to renew my British passport, I had to send in copies of every page of every passport along with 200 quid. Because my Maltese passport didn't include a middle initial, the request for renewal was denied without a refund, which didn't warm me to The Land of Hope and Glory. When in touch with the Maltese authorities, I was told it would be a year before any passport would be updated, they were understaffed (??), an awkward amount of time given that it was my proof of EU citizenship. So that project got put on hold in favor of things like finding a place to live and learning how to say "I'm so sorry to ask this, but can you please reset my bankcard password a third time?" in French. When booking this trip, the Air France app might have told me to be concerned about English paperwork, but that doesn't apply to me, I thought, this is a Brexit issue, cocky as I was about being able to use my American passport. Turns out that a new rule went into effect in the UK, not surprisingly coinciding with #47's first day in office, that Americans now have to file information and pay money to enter this bloodsucking country. That I found this out at the airport and had to pay an expediting fee, putting me back £169, didn't warm me to  the old Britannia, nor did the glowers I received from my fellow passengers as I finally entered the plane. 

But the sharp rain pellets that attacked me were the last thing that went wrong, followed as they were by a steep happiness curve with lovely walks, pub visits, old friends, drinks parties, jolly times celebrating my aunt's 92nd birthday, and that whole Christmas thing. 

Quintissentially British, at the Cheese Market

There was no question about attending the cheese market, at which I'd stuffed myself in previously. Nat, with years of Costco sampling under her belt (there was a time when she contemplated bringing varied sweatshirts to improve her harvest), joined me. A grey and cold morning after a pub night, of course we were going to the raclette booth, where we shared the vegetarian version of a breakfast a friend had called the Seven Deadly Sins which included every sort of fried meat, bread and potatoes; ours was roast potatoes with a serious amount of oil doused on them, topped with melted raclette, cornichons and what they were calling black ketchup which tasted like Pickapeppa.  You have to keep moving after a meal like that... So we did, going to the Columbia Flower Market to stare at all the people staring at people. 

Other days we walked along the river to centralish London, had not bad dim sum in Chinatown at Lido, visited Brookline friends now living in Islington, said hello to the deer at Richmond Park, bought lots of fresh orange juice. In France, I have no interest in drinking, but find it hard not to in London, whether because of the grey, or the staggeringly good array of pubs. So to pubs we went, finding a new favorite at the Black Lion, where with two of the lads (more about them later), we enjoyed a few pints and some dinner. 

Elegance personified

My aunt's friends are a couple who have been married many years. He is a story teller, she is not, nor does she want to become one. After they'd been together some years, she found that her elbow wasn't quite as sharp as it had once been, rendering undercover jabs at him less effective. Instead of giving up, she had some cards made of nice,  thick and luxurious off-white stock that she hands out generously. 

Art, the Calmer and Baz, the Cook

After Christmas, things quieted down and there was a fair amount of walking and staring at the river or the sky or other people or a beer. On the last day after Nat had left, I walked along the river, almost as far as Richmond before realizing I needed to get back to pack. It was nice to have quiet time alone. Even though my aunt is 92, it's somehow usually bedlam at her house. 

I have no idea if this is old school, but seems it

And then it was back to Marseille, delays at Charles de Gaulle**, but eventually home and so happy to be here, the actual light, and the lightness of people, the sense of humor of even the passport people and Uber drivers and well, I'm in the right place and feel so very lucky.  

Supplies at the Italian grocer next to my apartment

The saga has ended. Well actually, I'm not sure it's ever going to really end. There's a voicemail on my telephone that I haven't had the strength to listen to, addressing what to do with the second WiFi box that was installed last week at what was supposed to be a reduced price, but in the end will cost more than I should be paying because it includes a years worth of TV coverage which I won't ever watch. So I've got that going for me. Every single thing is like that, every thing. Challenged by logistics in my own language, it's pretty much never ending. Next up, registering for health insurance. Wish me so very much luck. That aside, some things must have gone right because I have a home with an address and a mailbox and a buzzer with my name (sort of) on it. 

Getting there.... I have so many small things like this to fix

This process has been that of a village helping, starting with my dear friend Carin, who not only held onto my boxes in Brookline for far too long, but had to unpack them when I was notified that the French customs officials would treat Annie's macaroni and cheese as a not allowed dairy product, along with a leather bag which apparently falls into the meat category. And then there's the address labels I was so careful to print out and affix that I late in the game realized said TBD for the delivery address. She had to fix that... Bless you, Carin. Last year it was my socks she had to get to me....

Those boxes were added to the luggage I had left in France last year, which was added to the luggage I brought this year, which was enhanced with some household things I proactively purchased here, rounded out by all the belongings Julia kindly passed along before buzzing back to Brisbane. So much for traveling light. 

When I turned 50, I wanted the newly published New York Times cookbook, so bought it for myself and copying a friend, wrote on the front page, To: Anna, Happy Birthday, I hope you enjoy this for many years, Love Anna. It was a cookbook that got a lot of hype and one of the things I read either in the book or prior, was that Amanda Hesser, the editor mentioned that her mother's fitness regime consisted of cooking, cleaning and manual labor around the house. I often thought sheepishly about this when scampering off to the gym while the Brazilian cleaners carried vacuum cleaners and other things into my wee apartment in Brighton. So as I believe I've mentioned, I'm trying to turn over a new lease here in France. 

So I got the idea to carry my stuff from my old place to my new place. With six days of crossover, it was .8 of a mile, uphill, why not put my clothes in garbage bags and haul them up instead of going to the gym?  For two days I did this, four trips a day, falling into bed at night with sore muscles and a need for deep sleep. But on day 3, I started doing the math, likely something most would do prior to beginning the project, while also wondering whether I could carry that box of cookbooks on my head and would people stare at me. When rain entered the forecast, I threw in the towel and called a cab, one of the few cars able to penetrate the pedestrian barrier where I live. This most wonderful and cheerful guy showed up in a car I was convinced wasn't big enough, but he told me of his recent trip to Paris, moving his daughter, and within minutes, had every bit of space filled, and we were on our way. Minutes later, we had unloaded into the lobby of my new building and he was on his way, though not without having to walk around the neighborhood outside my apartment with his card reader, looking for a signal. 

Ugh, I didn't even ask his name, he was a very nice guy

As I listened to the rain patter while I carried all my things up a flight of stairs, I thought about how nice it would be to be in my new, cozy apartment, but alas, the key didn't move in the lock. So, I'd go down, get another load, try again, to no avail. Prior days, it had been a struggle to get it to open, involving some unknown combination of pulling, pushing, holding the key hard and then soft. But this time, no results, with all my things blocking the hallway. 

Over the years, the spectre of the ugly Americans has haunted me and I have taken my PR responsibilities seriously, wanting to do what I can for the reputation of our blighted citizens.  Apparently the relationship between landlord and tenant is somewhat different here, with tenants responsible for more than they might be in the US. So, after struggling for a few hours, I took a chance and apologetically texted my landlord who responded immediately, ordering a locksmith, saying the guy would arrive in an hour. I went out for a walk, and of course it started to rain again and I got soaked. Came back, tried, the lock again, to no avail, got a call from the locksmith, he'd be another hour. Went to a cafe, had to have a pain au chocolat, another hour, he still wasn't there. Eventually he did show up and didn't seem to notice my sorry state, body slamming the door to open it, which I guess bypasses any sort of lock problem. I explained that this wasn't necessarily an amenable solution for me, and he pulled out his power tools and did some things that made noises and pronounced the lock fixed. It is better, but still gets stuck and honestly, I'm traumatized. So, since then, driving my poor dear friend Ank crazy, I've resorted to what shocked my neighbors in Boston, and left my door unlocked. Everyone happy.  Phew. 

At night the radiators make that noise, I deliberate about whether to say something, eventually decide to, get a plumbers appointment a week later, they come, bang around, make the radiators leak water on the floor, don't stop the noise and put the thermostat up to about 87 degrees, forcing Ank and me onto chairs with YouTube videos. 

I tell you these shockingly uninteresting stories to illustrate how incredibly complicated every little thing is and to rationalize my re-watching of Schitt's Creek, which is somehow the balm that soothes my tired head. In any case, I'm on the other side of the mountain, and while there will surely be rubble and perhaps a few avalanches I'm putting the crampons away. The apartment is lovely and funky. It had been an airbnb and so there was a fair amount of de-cluttering to be done, which got me thinking that perhaps Airbnb was solely responsible for the birth and growth of all those stories that sell random home shit.

And this

Off to London tomorrow morning for Christmas week. On the way back, I'll be diving into house cleaning and I'm sure there will be some adventures there. 

Happy happy whatever you celebrate and hope you have the week off!

​Back when white painters pants were a thing first time around, a woman I'd known in high school invited me to join her on a weekend trip from Boston to Burlington. As we drove north on Route 89 in the snow of deep winter, her Subaru started to make unfamiliar sounds just south of West Lebanon, New Hampshire. We pulled off at a gas station/convenient store, but it was late on a Friday night and the only person working was a kid also in his early twenties. We told him of our troubles and he kindly locked up the store and came to look at our car, determining that we needed a new fan belt, an easy fix in the morning. He called a tow truck and invited us to sleep on his and his girlfriend's couch, which we gratefully accepted. In the morning, they made us breakfast and he drove us to the garage. As though he hadn't done enough, he said he'd guide us back to Route 89. Stopped at a light, a car T-boned his hardworking and already beaten up old car. We pulled over, moritified. After what was likely not enough back and forth, he (still warmly and politely) convinced us that staying wouldn't help, so we thanked him and went on our way, while he focused on more important things. The whole weekend long, we thought about him dealing with his cracked up car, knowing how little he and his girlfriend had, while we were whooping it up at UVM. We didn't have his last name and being lame 20 somethings, didn't try to find any identifying information. I have never forgotten his largesse, lamenting the disadvantage in which he was put because of it, and so uncomfortable with the inequity of our response and thanks. While it comes up regularly, it's particularly on my mind today. 

Last Friday afternoon, my dear friend Ank arrived on the train from Basel to celebrate my birthday. She brought her beautiful smile and hearty laugh, absurdly good Swiss chocolate and pretty candles that give a warm glow in the evening. It had been two years, but was only minutes before we were back in it. While we've shared hard things in the past, we've also had a lot of fun. We're both the ones who say "Sure" if someone suggests doing something, though it's unlikely anyone will make a suggestion before we do. So I made many plans in my head for adventures we'd take over the five days she was here. But alas, I woke up sick the day after she arrived and as time went on, felt worse. There was my friend who'd just recovered from COVID, stuck in the germ factory of my not properly furnished apartment with me either sleeping or hacking up a lung. 

Every morning I'd wake up saying I was feeling better, and suggest some  plan or other. She'd just nod patiently and say "Let's see how things go" with a smile, only to end up padding quietly around the apartment, bringing me tea and meals. When I had a little energy, we went to the hardware store and she picked out the right lightbulb. She put up my hooks and fixed the thermostat, standing on a chair with flashlight and YouTube. Through it all she was warm, kind, funny, exhibiting not one iota of the annoyance I imagine I might feel in her place. And we never stopped talking and laughing, never ran out of things to say. Our time together and the love and care Ank bestowed upon me are gifts so graciously generous that I'm moved to tears every time I think about the last few days. My thanks in return? Sending her back to Switzerland with my illness, all her plans cancelled. Rest up my friend.

Next up and finally, the move and the apartment.

With my dear friend Julia

Since last Saturday when Julia and Parkie began their 24 hour journey back to Brisbane,  an empty feeling comes over me, sometimes when the light is right for a nice sit and chat, other times when the magpies are in evening vespers, and often when unpacking my my new place, spoiled by hand me downs.  It's a funny thing to have a friendship with someone so young, but she's old beyond her years, despite her puppy-like enthusiasm for the Harry Potter store, which was hard for me to understand. 

We met through Facebook, which is funny because neither of us uses it. This sunny Aussie girl asked me out to lunch, and that first time together cemented things immediately. Julia moved to Aix here to be with Parkie while he was on a contract with Airbus in Marseille. For someone so young to have only minimal responsibilities must have been a little disorienting and at first, she was unmoored, painfully missing her family and life back in Brisbane. But gradually, they both grew a friend group who went indoor climbing on Friday nights, then she joined a pool and got back to swimming and became a barista at the volunteer coffee shop, meeting another friend for life from South Africa. So by the time last week rolled around and the two of them finally put a lid on a month of goodbyes, although she was finally going back to her family, I believe she felt a bit torn away from a life she had grown to love.  She taught me words like yabby and brekkie and chook, but really it was that instant and very deep connection we shared that was what mattered. Julia taught me to be warm yet unapologetic with everyone, even French waiters, I can't think of anyone who is engages unfamiliar people more easily.

She's about to start med school in Perth, and plans to take her fellowship year in the bush, from which she anticipates never returning. Interesting, doctors who work there need to be trained as a GP, as well as in general  surgery, OB/GYN and even some dental.  So, happy trails, you two, as your lives open up to the next chapter. You left your mark and are missed.

First night of Advent at Cathedral Sainte Saveur

English language carols were held on the first night of Advent, and two of us got some of the last seats in this cavernous place. I had to squeeze by an older woman "from the region" as my friend Ank has taught me, meaning from the countryside, on a trip into the city.  Her perfectly rounded helmet of jet black hair was the first giveaway, and sitting next to her, I could see how tightly she grasped her faux leather handbag. When the choir was doing the equivalent of orchestral tuning, running scales, she began shushing those around her, fortunately not me.

I was pumped up for a big old carol singalong and there were many and the little American girls were singing the 12 days of Christmas at the top of their lungs and dancing, which was lovely. At some point, an very fair American, who likely stayed on the train that had deposed the Mormons I had seen the prior week, went on about how awful we humans were and did begin talking about burning in hell at which point the woman I was with and I rolled our eyes at each other. At the same time, my French friend on the other side of me, who endearingly had been following along with the English language carols with her finger underneath each word, remarked that this man was talking too much and why would he do that when there were French people in the audience who couldn't understand? I told her she wouldn't want to understand. And then we were friends.  When finally it was time for Silent Night, she used her finger and sang for the first time, a voice rich and beautiful and moving. When the song was over and I had teared up, I passed on my appreciation, embarrassed that she'd had to listen to me for the last hour. She told me she'd been a singer in her thirties, but now that she was 89, her voice was "horrible". I complemented her on how young she looked and was delighted to see the way she jumped up from the pews, and later outside, saw her talking on speaker, her phone covered with a  brash flower design. Something about her made my day and I topped it by finally trying a coronet of châtaignes grillées, or roasted chestnuts, eating them while I roamed around Aix on a Sunday night, full of people and lights and happiness.

Dutchland

I'm going to have a separate post about moving and my new place, which I love, but the whole process has had me thinking so much about unspoken cultural agreements, generalizing, which I believe usually comes from collecting a fair amount of data. As I've mentioned before, this apartment hunting process has often left me feeling misaligned as a foreigner, nay American, which I fear is even worse. Here are two stories Nat has recently shared with me about Dutch people.

The first takes place at the food coop where she works, Dutch people are more focused on Sinterklaas than Christmas, one of the traditions being to give chocolate in the shape of the letter with which the recipients name begins. Apparently her store, Odin,  had been written up in the Dutch version of the New York Times as the purveyor of the best chocolate letters. Nat's words "so a flurry of people whipped through yesterday and wiped the store out in a matter of hours...Today all these adults came in asking please please if we had any more chocolate letters and would they be coming back in stock. all ended up leaving with those droopy forlorn shoulders." To me the Dutch are stoic and tough and bike in the windy rain. Yet here you have it. If you want to get some really funny views about Dutch culture, check out Double Dutch, this guy is really funny too.

The other is a story that was also in that NYT about how international companies in the Netherlands had started providing free cafeteria style lunches for employees. As Nat said "Everyone was understandably excited but there was some culture clash because Dutch people would take their lunch, and then bring extra Tupperware and pile up to bring home leftovers for their families. They apparently were just scooping and scooping until they reached the bottom, no regard for others. And then the international people would go get their lunch, and there would be not a crumb of food left. And so they got upset that there wasn’t enough left for them to even eat lunch and the Dutch people just Dutch shrugged and ...said "Well, it’s too bad you’re too late! You should have thought to come sooner."  I asked Nat if she thought that there would be a different outcome should a sign be placed saying that people should take only what they can eat in the cafeteria, and she said she wasn't sure, as the Dutch are particular, but don't like being told what to do.

I love both stories, but the second especially because it makes me laugh without even being there. But also because it's clearly a clash of mores. And yeah, it's a thing, will talk about it in the next post and how hard it is to navigate.