Lost in transit

Past the point of no return?

When do you know that you've passed the point of no return? According to this article in The Age, if you are Australian, it is after you've lived overseas for five years. That means I reached it about six months ago.

Please don't tell my mother . . .

Snow

This afternoon when I opened our front door on my way to pick the children up from school, I noticed that it was snowing quite heavily. And so I pulled the hood of my parka on and headed into the flurries.

As I was walking down the street, head bowed in a vain attempt to keep my glasses clear, I noticed that everyone passing me by was carrying an umbrella.

Perhaps my memory fails me, for I lived in New England for almost ten years and don't recall ever having seen a sea of umbrellas on a snowy day.

Or perhaps things have just changed since I have been gone.

Misconceptions

The other day I attended a meeting at my daughter’s school here in small town France. It was to inform the parents about our little darlings’ forthcoming one-week trip to London. In a classroom already stuffy with 100 bodies crammed inside, I got to bask in a reminder of the endless silly misconceptions we have about other cultures.

I got to listen to parents asking questions like, oh, let’s see… Is it true that English people don’t use washcloths? How do they bathe? Is it true that the water in the bathroom and the water in the kitchen are not the same? Will there be hooligans? My father was over there in 1942 and he tells me… And the inevitable: yeah, and what is it with the mint sauce on lamb, already?

I’ve been in my little village for some time now, so no longer a subject of curiosity, but when I first arrived there was the unavoidable cluster at town celebrations, eager to confirm their myths about Canada: cold there, eh? Freezing all the time, I hear. How many skidoos you got? Do you really eat hamburgers every day? Ever had cheese? I have a cousin in Quebec, Lucien, you know him?

All fairly innocent, and somewhat inevitable I suppose but, taking a look at the headlines these days, it’s impossible not to note that people the world over are apparently as willing as ever to create and uphold sometimes appalling stereotypes about their fellows across the sea, or right next door (while still as indignant as ever when faced with stereotypes about themselves).

People, man… they’re the worst.

The mecca of motorsport

Deep in the Surrey landscape, about 20 miles south of London, lies the ruined mecca of motorsport: Brooklands, the world's first purpose-built motor racing circuit.

The three-and-a-quarter mile circuit, built in 1907 by enterprising landowner Hugh Locke King, once attracted the nation's - and indeed the world's - most daring racing car drivers. Names like Malcolm Campbell and Reid Railton and even, strangely enough, Dame Barbara Cartland (yes, who'd have thought the romance novelist was once a raging motorhead) were synonomous with the venue. Land speed records were made and broken here. And for some 30 years it was the global epicentre of motor engineering. Witness old footage of British racing and chances are you will see cars "flying" along the circuit's infamous bank, some of them flipping over the lip to their sure deaths.

Today little remains of this legendary circuit. The most complete part - the bank - stands within the relatively safe confines of the Brooklands Museum, but even then the concrete is crumbling underneath a carpet of moss and fallen leaves.

I spent a pleasant few hours last Saturday exploring the museum. The thing that impressed me most was the bank. It is so steep that it is almost impossible to climb to the lip without sturdy boots and mountaineering equipment. Downforce might have kept the race cars from sliding off it, but I wasn't afforded such luxury: I was constantly aware of being only one false footstep away from a nasty fall. Imagine careering around it at 100+ miles an hour!

I'm not a motorsport enthusiast - I just live with one - but I gained a new insight into the sport's history and the very big part Britain played all those years ago.

And I was also surprised to learn the role that Brooklands played in aeronautical engineering, especially during times of conflict. For instance, The Wellington, the twin-engined bombers of World War Two, were developed and test flown at Brooklands. And the notoriously destructive 'earthquake' bombs were also developed here.

That's the thing about in living Britain: you are never very far away - literally and figuratively - from the most important and interesting aspects of 20th century history. . .

Close Only Counts In...

Counting is one of those things one doesn't give much thought to. Counting change, counting sheep, counting blue cars... every day, many things counted, without a second thought.

Until last weekend, anyway.

It turns out I count foreign.

Apparently, Americans are weird creatures for starting with their index finger for one, index plus middle for two, etc. Or perhaps the French are the odd ones. All, I know, is I'm in a country full of people who think the way to express "one" looks like hitching a ride.

That's right, they start with their thumbs. They throw in their index finger for two, and just go on from there. They also count with their palms facing in toward themselves, rather than outward as I was always taught. Perhaps they start with the thumb to avoid accidentally making obscene gestures at their British friends.

How do you count your chickens?*

*first one to respond with "before they hatch" is not only a wise-ass, but a predictable one at that

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted...

I just got back from spending nearly two months in the native state of Arizona. It was a time filled with holiday eating, holiday jobing, bridesmaiding, more holiday eating, and just all out merriment in every form. I visited the old haunts, as well as finding some new ones (karaoke at the gay hamburger restaurant anyone?).* I ate every possible thing I could ever crave before my next visit, and then ate some more for good measure.

But is it just me, or has the food gotten greasier?

It's true that a lot of my favorites involve frying. Awesome Blossoms with that orange dipping sauce, honey garlic pork at the local chinese joint, onion rings, what have you. However, never before do I remember having to fight the overthrow my stomach would attempt to stage. Have too many cheese and/or cream-based dishes turned me into a sissy? Will I be forced to eat nothing but baguettes and drink nothing but cider for the rest of my life?

I think it's time for some serious tummy training. Send over bags of jalapeno chips and pork rinds. This means war.

*do make sure to give that menu a look over, if only for the "Is that a zucchini in your pocket?" appetizer.

How to fold a T-shirt

My mother folded t-shirts by taking them out of the dryer still warm, shaking them smooth (roughly) and folding them vertically down the middle (front on the inside). Then she made a second, horizontal fold in the middle. Then she folded the arms over to achieve a (roughly) rectangular shape.

With my father's dress shirts she just said the hell with it and had them laundered.

So one of the surprises in store for me when I moved to Austria was the science of shirt-folding.

At first it seemed arcane and pointless to me, but I have been converted. This is how it is done. (Perhaps you already know this. Maybe my previous shirt-folding style was less an American thing and more a result of the fact that my mother placed a low priority on laundry.) Anyway this is how it is done: Place the t-shirt (ironed) face-down. Smooth it out until it is perfect. And I mean perfect. Vertical folds left and right so shirt is the proper width. Then fold the sleeves back. Then the horizontal fold. Turn shirt over: it looks as if it has just come off the shelf.

Perhaps this seems simple and obvious to everyone but me. Maybe not, though, because there are now inventions to help us fold shirts.

With my dress shirts, we just have them laundered.

Trespassing

I had had a year of women in Malawi, the casual OK, the smiles, the fooling, Jika's bantering, Ismail's leers. But, in the morning, when I said I had to leave, to go to my hotel in Lusaka, the woman - Nina - said, "No. It is Christmas," and made a fuss.

On being a sexual prisoner in Africa by Paul Theroux

Pub life

I've been living in London for five-and-a-bit years now, and I'll be the first to admit I have a love/hate relationship with this city. I HATE the crowds, the unreliable underground train system, the weather, the unfriendly people and the traffic. But I LOVE -- and I mean **LOVE** -- the pubs.

Only a wet, dismal city like London could give rise to the magnificent concept of "pub culture". Is there nothing better than sheltering from the never-ending rain than sitting in a warm, comfortable pub nursing a pint or two (or three or four . . .)?

The best part about all the pubs in ye olde London town is that there are so many you could never hope to visit them all. For me, there is nothing more exciting than discovering a new pub and whiling away an afternoon or evening in its confines.

And each pub has its own little history or claim to fame. There are pubs that are twice as old as the country of my birth, there are others that sheltered villians, some that have been inspiration for great writers like Charles Dickens, a few with Royal connections, and so on. The amount of information you can glean about a pub can be staggering. If only the walls could talk . . .

Last weekend me and my beloved went exploring through one of London's more salubrious areas and stumbled upon a pub that will forever be etched in my memory. It was late afternoon, very chilly and we were in need of some liquid sustenance. We wandered along a hidden, upmarket mews off Belgravia Square and found ourselves staring up at The Grenadier.

We weren't sure what to expect when we walked past the sentry box, up the steps and into the darkened, wood panelled interior. It was bit like stepping back in time. It was a cosy pub adorned with all kinds of military memorabilia, including sabres, bayonets and a bearskin hat. There was even a wooden leg which the Welsh landlord tried to tell us had been left behind by Paul McCarntney's wife, Heather Mills.

"Yes, she was legless when she left here," quipped what looked like a regular punter sitting at the bar.

The best part, however, was the open fire, which we settled next to while drinking pints of delicious Deuchars IPA, a pale, biscuity-flavoured beer. In fact it was such a nice brew we stayed for several and before we knew it it had turned dark outside, two hours had whizzed by and we'd watched an endless succession of tourists trundle in and trundle out, so we thought it was about time we did the same.

We plan to go back, but I'm not sure how we will squeeze in a visit, especially now that The Grenadier's landlord has given us a list of other pubs that he recommended we go and explore.

Yes. I love London's pubs.