Family of Five

More Translations, or: English ≠ American

In England, think is just as often a noun as a verb. You don’t talk about it, or think about it, you “have a chat,” or “have a think.” Seriously. I’ve been told twice this week to “have a think,” and I sort of like the sound of it. Sounds more tangible than “thinking about.”

For instance, when trying to get a haircut I was told at noon that they could fit me in that day, at 3:00. “Let me have a chat with my husband,” I said, “and I’ll call you back.”

Earlier in the week I was told that there was space for Boyish to come to nursery for the morning session, and also space for him to come during the afternoon session, but um, no space at dinner (English for “lunch”).  Could I perhaps trek up the hill and down again, with the four year-old, feed him, and then bring him back up the hill to school 45 minutes later?

Oo, let me have a think on that. I’ll let you know what I come up with.

See? I’m speaking English. You might not understand me if you’re from “the States,” as we say around here, but then again, you people need a bit of training in proper use of the language. From the founders. So, here goes, (again).

The sidewalk is the pavement, and

A guy is a bloke. An anonymous guy is John Doe to you, but Joe Bloggs over here.

There is no Jane.

If you want Sprite or 7-up, order lemonade; and if you want actual lemonade—well, too damn bad—no one seems to have any idea what it is.

Your pants are not pants, they're trousers. And if you have them altered, don’t ask for a cuff when it’s turn-up you want. Turn-ups look smart with your hideous London shoes (see above).

Or you could wear your trousers with trainers (otherwise known as sneakers), which wouldn’t be smart. But then again you wouldn’t have to change shoes if you wanted to play crouchettes after work.

Wait—I mean squash. Which is juice. If you want to eat squash, not play squash, or drink squash, you must ask for crouchettes. That’s French.

Which is English for squash.

Mommy Loves Trains, Too

I started an internship today with English PEN, an organization that promotes literature and literacy across cultures, advocates for writers that have been imprisoned for their work, funds translations of foreign works into English, and is one of the oldest human rights organizations in the world. I’m helping out with their largest annual fundraiser, the PEN Quiz, which is a swank night when all the London publishing and media glitterati get together and compete for prizes and bragging rights by answering questions in categories like literature, history, and current events. The director of the organization is beyond charming, and the events director—the woman I will work with most closely—is a poet. Need I say more?

To get there I take the overland rail from my neighborhood to London Bridge, which is not just a nursery rhyme but also a tube station and an actual structure that spans the River Thames. Then I descend, down, down into the depths of London on the Underground, into a world of artificial lights and swirling sounds—rushing trains, murmuring voices, the muffled clip-clapping of shoe heels on hard floors, clear notes streaming down hallways as the occasional musician takes advantage of tunnel acoustics.

On the Northern Line, the platform is always crowded. Short tunnels no wider than doorways feed the platform off the main hallway, and I stand in one of these, as commuters crowd in front of and behind me. I can see the packed train through the people in front of me as it arrives on a whoosh of air; the doors open and the crowd parts just enough to let people off, and only the lucky few standing right behind the yellow line will make it onto the train before a recording of a woman’s voice announces, “Please stand cleah of the doors. This train is departing.” Then I am at the yellow line, the train so close I could press my hand on the Plexiglas window without fully extending my arm. It begins to move, gathering speed until it is no more than a red blur, and when it ends there is moment of vertigo where I am sucked into the empty space behind it.

When I emerge from the Tube, at Angel, I ascend the longest escalator in the system, 318 steps, and just like that I am in Islington, a hip north London neighborhood where there are shops and theaters and publishing houses. And although I am not paid, I am on my way to work, and even though the day is only just begun, it feels like a very good day indeed.

Another First Day

Nervous, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

Yesterday was Boyish's first day of nursery school. Nursery here is often attached to a primary school, so he's attending school just downstairs from Girlish, and wearing a uniform just like hers. Which works, because he worships everything she does.

So he's off to school in his uniform, fussing about his shoes and his shirt. Many days, he wages war with his clothes, which includes spinning in a circle, tugging and screaming on the offending article until he is able to rip it from his body. Once freed of the shirt, underwear, socks, shoes or pants that have infuriated him, he flings them across the room. Once he threw them out the window, but because I am a hardass I have put a stop to that.

Anyway, because he was admitted to the nursery the third week of school, there were no white shirts in his size at Sainsbury's, which is the large supermarket/Wal-Mart-wannabe here. So his shirts are too big, and um, if I thought he would let me tuck them in so they wouldn't hang down to his knees, I can FORGET IT. The deal we struck is that he has to wear his "jumper" (that's English for sweatshirt) over the too-long shirt. No jumper, we tuck the shirt in.

So far, that's working--but don't get me started on shoes.

All this week they're "phasing him in," so he's attending from 9 to 11:30, and then next week we'll hopefully be in for some full days. He would be happy to go all day, of course, but I get it--the sissy kids need the phase-in, so phase in we must. Which means three 20-minute trips up the hill to school this week, every day, and three 15-minute trips back. It's a pretty steep hill, did I mention that?

Here's a picture of the Head Teacher's big bell. I'm afraid to ask her if I can have a shot of her ringing it. I'll have to butter her up some. But that's for later, right now I've got pack Babe-ish in the buggy and head back up the hill. Anything for my chickens, right? And all this uphill walking is bound to be good for my ass.

The English Language, Revisited

Yield, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

Fries = Chips, and
Chips = Crisps, but
Crisps ≠ Fries, even if they’re overdone.

Other Food:
Fiona offered my chickens some fromage frais that  first day we met and I, feeling worldly and European, said sure, they could try fromage frais. Um, okay, it’s only flavored yogurt—like the kind I buy for my kids all the time. The only difference I can see is that fromage frais sounds French, which makes it fancier, and it comes in a tiny container, like a serving of baby food.

Rocket. I have no idea what this is, but I’ve seen it on several menus. Any help, here? Buffy?

Things To Know:
A rack to dry your clothes on is not a drying rack, or even a clothes rack, but an “airer;” and,  according to the label on the package for the one I bought, a spatula is—I love this—a “slotted turner.”

Movies = Cinema
Change = Sterling
Cents = Pence or simply, “P”.

It's About Communication:
Your diary is not the written repository of your innermost thoughts and feelings, but rather, the daily schedule you check before you plan something; and if you need to use the bathroom, better ask for “the loo,” no matter how silly you might feel saying it. If you ask for the bathroom, the restroom or the ladies’ room, people will usually point you in the right direction, but there will be a pause—a hiccup in the communication as they take a moment to work out what you mean:

Does this woman need to wash her hands, or take a bath? Surely she doesn’t intend to bathe, here, in the restaurant? She looks relatively clean, I suppose, and there is that rather hyperactive child clinging to her hand, jumping up and down and whatnot—oh! She’s looking for the loo!

Half-Nine = 9:30. I like this one; it saves a syllable.

Bin, both verb and noun, is used to refer to trash cans and the act of throwing something out. Rubbish, not trash, goes in the bin. Rubbish can also be used to refer to something you don’t like, are disdainful of, or find to be in poor taste or of poor quality.

Sort, or sorted. Used as a verb or an adjective to mean worked-out, work it out, figured out, figure-it-out, or resolved. Overused, even.

Mail is “post,” both noun and verb, as in “Here is your first bit of post,” and “Do you need to post a letter?” Post boxes, incidentally, are shaped like cylinders, and the Royal Mail’s signature color is red.

Hoover is huge over here. Did you know they make refrigerators? And clothes dryers? (Our refrigerator is a Hoover, but I can only assume the bit about the dryer is true based on rumors and reports. I haven’t actually seen a dryer here, yet. More on that later. I have issues.) The British have adopted “hoover” to mean both the act of vacuuming and the vacuum cleaner itself. Fiona told me, “I’m so sorry, I forgot to hoover the cupboards before I left.”

Cupboard: generally what I would refer to as a cabinet, but may also refer to any sort of small closet. This is a word I very much enjoy using, as I find it rather quaint, and it puts me in touch with my inner Victorian.

I had originally thought I might feel pretentious using these “Britishisms,” and therefore had every intention of shunning them in favor of the good ol’ American words I already know. I realize though, that now I’m here that won’t be possible. Living in another culture is, at its most basic level, about speaking the language. How arrogant of me, I realize now, to think that I spoke English already.

10 Things That Make Me Happy (Right Now)

Taking a cue from my dear friend NatDawg, and listing 10 Things That Make Me Happy (Right Now). If nothing else, it seems like a good exercise. I could much more easily list 20 Things That Bug the Shit Out of Me, but I am resolved to be more sunny and optimistic and I WON’T.

1.    My camera. I love it in a way that I have never loved any other inanimate object since Cuddles, a teddy bear with a rattle in his tail that I slept with until he pretty much fell apart. If I get into bed at night, and I can’t see in my mind's eye exactly where I put my my camera, I have to get up and find it before I can go back to sleep.

2.    The internets. It’s sad, but at the moment my entire social life outside my immediate family is online. I have flickr-friends, blogging friends (and new ones here, and here), and twitter friends, some of whom are also my friends in real actual animated life. You know who you are.

3.    My chickens. They are loud and high-maintenance; they make me crazy, but they are also my greatest and most reliable source of joy.

4.    My man. He’s hot. He’s the rock that I grab onto when the current threatens to sweep me away and pull me under. We have been married 9 years today.

5.    My laptop. Oh Mac, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways: so silvery, so quiet, so useful. The instrument that manifests my creative endeavors; where I write, play artist, and communicate.

6.    Harry Potter. I’m enjoying the mania. I left HP world after Book V, but have been happily dragged back in with this latest and final release. No spoilers, please, our Bloomsbury copy of Deathly Hallows is calling me from the back of the couch where it has lain, forlorn, since we brought it home from the release party. Just as soon as I finish The Half-Blood Prince.

7.    My new green amber ring that Rod bought me in New Orleans.

8.    Our new house. It’s spacious, bright, and comfortable, and the garden is beautiful. The view from our kitchen window is nothing but green treetops. In London. I can’t wait for our things to arrive so that I can make a home here.

9.    British Accents. They are infinitely varied, and oh-so-pleasant to my ears. They have given me a whole new appreciation for the English language, which I was pretty taken with even before I moved here. There’s something about hearing all different kinds of people talk the same, but not the way I’m used to hearing it, that reinforces the fact that we share this human experience.

10.    Change. I’m really enjoying the fact that everything around me is suddenly different than it used to be. It’s exciting, invigorating, energizing. I’m looking forward to gaining a more intimate understanding of the world by living in a different place, to eating different food, seeing castles and meeting new people. It’s like starting over, but starting over knowing all I’ve learned so far. It feels, in my best moments, like I might be making the most of my life.

Arrival

The Book, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

We arrived in London on Wednesday (? I think, it's a bit of a blur), and stayed two nights in a Travelodge before moving over to our new apartment on Friday. The hotel was clean and serviceable, but no luxuries whatsoever. As in, no phone in the room, and we had to ask for more than one towel. And sit around in the lobby for um,  three hours because we had eight bags and they had no storage room to stash them for us until check in. But it was clean, so I will not complain. Any more.

We ferried a few things over to our new house (like a town house) over the next couple days, and met our landlords, who were just unbelievably lovely people. They are a family of four, and they are moving to the States for at least a couple of years, so it was interesting to compare notes. Fiona was the one we dealt with mostly, and she gave the me the skinny on where to buy children’s shoes and shop online for groceries, and introduced us to several neighbors and parents at her son's school. While I sat in her living room picking her brain about all sorts of miscellania, Babe-ish did something clever (I forget what it was), and Fiona said, "My, you are a just bright button, aren't you?" She was terribly terribly charming.

We had a school interview for Girlish on Thursday at the local non-sectarian primary school, which has achieved an "outstanding" rating this past year. That is, apparently, a very rare occurrence, and so we were concerned that we might not be able to get her placed there. As it turns out, though, they have a place for her in Year 3, which was really exciting and a big relief for me (us). The only hitch is that the school where Fiona's son attends, a Church of England school, has all of Fiona's friends and neighbors and they all seem to really want us to come there. It's not as highly-rated a school, but obviously the parental involvement and community there is very good. A sidenote: many public schools in London are religiously affiliated. The CoE school was rated as an "outstanding" school about 10 years ago, but hasn't been so again since. And there's the religious issue, which concerns me since I don't go in for religion much, but the parents I met there assured me that it was very low-key.

Oh, and our checked bags—the other 8 of them—were delayed in Cincinnati on the way over, so Rod had to taxi to the airport to pick them up Friday morning. It rained an absolute gully-washer that morning, and his taxi got stuck in a flood and we almost didn't make our hotel checkout. A bit of drama. Finally, we got everything over to the new place, where Fiona was frantic with last-minute packing and errands, and then we cleared out until 7:30p.m., when she was planning to leave. When we returned we got to meet our new neighbors, who have 3 children: two boys, 9 & 7, and a girl, 5. All six kids hit it off famously, and after forcing Fiona to stop her frantic packing and have a cuppa tea, we hung out with Karen while she finished up. Karen’s going to be a great neighbor, I can tell. She has a northern England accent, which sounds almost Irish to me, and she’s as sweet as the ginger cake she served with our tea. Around 8:00 we moved back over to "our" house, and it was bliss, bliss, to just be in a place that was a space all our own. We put a few things away, made the beds, and popped some champagne.

Fiona had also given us, because she is so terribly unbelievably lovely, her ticket to claim the newly-released and final edition of Harry Potter, which became available at midnight Friday in the local bookstore. So Girlish and I headed out to the High Street (the main street in town with all the shops) around 11:30, and queued up with all the neighbors to claim the book. It was no problem staying up for it, as we are still jet-lagged in the late-night direction from our travels. People were in costume, and the bookstore owners walked up and down the queue, handing out cookies and punch, and wine for the grown-ups. Some of the parents I'd met earlier in the afternoon happened to line up right behind us, and so we chatted as we waited, and the whole the thing was an absolute blast.

Yesterday we went to the store and bought groceries, which was also a bit of an adventure, the whole family hiking down the High Street with the stroller, bags and backpack for the groceries, with Babe-ish on my back. We stopped in a fruit & veg store, and also a butcher shop, and then on to a big grocery store for staples. I roasted a fresh chicken and some potatoes and red peppers for dinner, and I used some rosemary, sage, and oregano from Fiona's (our!) garden.  The butcher-shop chicken was fresh—as in, I opened the plastic and gasped out loud because the drumsticks had feathers clinging to their heels. I took a deep breath and plucked them out. If I'm gonna eat chicken I might as well remember that it used to have feathers, I guess. It was worth getting over my squeamishness, though. I cooked it at 500 degrees for 50 minutes, rubbing its skin with salt and olive oil and stuffing its little body cavity with lemon, garlic, onion and Fiona's fresh garden herbs. Little chicken, you did not give your life in vain; we thoroughly enjoyed you.

So, we are well and happy, feeling so grateful to be just the slightest bit settled, and as soon as we get the phone up and running we will start calling all you friends and family that are waiting to hear from us.

P.S. Girlish is already trying on her British accent. "Mommy, can I have some wat-ah?" and, "Ouch! That huhts!" She kills me.