Expat Haircut Surprise!

First of all, if you live in the UK may I highly recommend the online booking facility available for Toni and Guy and Essensuals salons? This is so cool. You have to have been at the salon and be “in their system” to get registered, but then you can book haircuts online (and thus avoid the inevitable difficulties associated with accents and telephone calls… or is that just me?) So I did this and had my haircut today. Chopped. Hacked back to a chin-length bob from half-way down my back. I was tired of it taking so long to dry. My instructions to the lovely gentleman who cut my hair was to only leave it long enough to get the top half into a ponytail for the gym. Else it was going to have to go, and go it did. I left piles of hair on the floor of my local Essensuals, hooray!

So expat awesome surprise number one was that my randomly-selected hairdresser (that is, the one who was available for a cut after noon on a Saturday!) was an expat, he was from Vancouver. So North American bonding a-plenty. For once I actually enjoyed chatting while my hairs were falling to the ground; there was none of the stilted small-talk that I’ve experienced with the British girls who have cut my hair. And I suspect it’s both things–with one really important exception (Estetica in St. Paul, Minnesota) my best haircutters have always been men. And yes, nearly all of them were gay. And that brings us to expat awesome surprise number two; when chatting with the lovely Canuck about long term plans, he said “Well my husband is British so I’m here for the long haul” and I remembered “Woo-hoo, I live in a country where a gay man can say that!” Yesssssssss. Good things about England indeed. OK, fine, technically it’s civil partnerships but still…

Given this awesome experience (not to mention a pretty good haircut) I followed my lovely readers’ advice and left a generous (a.k.a. American-style) tip. Although the link URL reminds me why I needed a haircut so badly… has it really been seven months since I’ve had my locks shorn? No wonder I was looking such a right mess. Oh well, I’m sure now with the ability to book a haircut online, I’m actually more likely to go back. And look for my good Canadian friend.

Flashback

I just returned from my local grocery store on one of those glamorous Tuesday night missions. The person in front of me in line at the grocery store had an assembly of items that looked remarkably familiar: a single white plate, a single white bowl, some pasta, some pre-made heat-and-eat pasta sauce. It was like looking at myself… three years ago this week. On the 8th of October, 2006, I got on the plane from Minnesota to (horror of horrors) Gatwick airport with two suitcases and a small carry-on bag. I arrived in the UK on the 9th of October. I struggled to get from Gatwick to my town, unaware at the time of the beauty of the car service that now lugs me back and forth to Heathrow whenever I need to travel. I stopped into my new workplace briefly, then went (with suitcases) out to my temporary furnished flat to pick up the keys. By this point it was nearing dinner time, and my suitcases contained things like bedding and clothes but no food or cooking items, and although my flat was furnished with furniture, it was not in possession of a fully-equipped kitchen. So back to the town center, to my (now) local grocery store, for some rudimentary food and the exact same single plate and bowl, along with some cheap cutlery and a coffee mug. I’m guessing I bought instant coffee at that time, since I had no other choice, and a cheap electric kettle (that I still have to this day). It was about four months before I was in my current flat, surrounded by boxes and furniture that was shipped over from the US.

In some ways, those were halcyon days. I had a shower. I had very little in the way of “stuff”. In the months after arriving, but before the arrival of my American stuff, I accumulated more things: a single non-stick pot, a square baking dish, a loaf pan for bread, a plastic bowl and some measuring cups. I started to discover the local clothes shoppes and equipped myself with work clothes to supplement the few things that had accompanied me on my journey over. My flat was not exactly right by the grocery store, so I learned to shop nearly daily–a practice that I have maintained, thanks to life with a tiny dorm fridge. Perhaps that is not so bad.

I had not thought in a while about my early days here, not until I saw the woman–who could have been me three years ago–with her single plate and bowl. For four months, that was all I had–there were no dishes to accumulate and things had to be cleaned every day in order to eat again. And yes, it does make me look around at my small but stocked kitchen–the kitchen with a potato ricer that allows me to make gnocchi, the new flatware from last year’s “expat-iversary”, the Nespresso machine that makes coffee much better than the instant I suffered on early arrival. Suddenly it all starts to look like a pretty good life–albeit a little cluttered. So this weekend, for my expat-iversary round three, I will be purging. I will be trying to get back to my early, halcyon days in England when there was just not as much stuff in my local environment.

Second time is the charm…

Twice in the last two weeks I’ve had a recipe disaster convert to a recipe result by trying it a second time. The first was crab cakes; the first time I tried to make them I followed the recipe advice to fry them, but the second time I baked them and they were awesome instead of a disaster. I highly recommend baked crab cakes, the ingredients stood out well and the method was much simpler.

The second time I needed a re-do was more critical, I have long been obsessed with potato gnocchi. I had some in San Francisco when I was at a conference many years ago; they were so good they ruined me from appreciating other attempts. The risk is that one is too “noodle-y” and the gnocchi are tough and thick noodle-like morsels instead of soft, spongey pillows of goodness. I have tried many times over the years since 2002 when I sampled potato gnocchi brilliance in San Francisco. I have always erred on the side of being too noodle-y and have made a “dough” that looked like a home-made noodle dough; I have a pasta attachment on my Kitchenaid and have used it. But it did not result in good gnocchi.

So today I did the most amazing thing, I actually followed a recipe. I’m convinced now that any time that flour is involved, the quantities are crucial. My early attempts at home-made bread definitely involved too much flour and resulted in dense bread that was not like the modern ciabatta or any other modern bread. I’ve learned my lesson there. Similarly, the proportions associated with potato gnocchi are critical. A pound of mashed up potatoes (I used riced) to a single egg and a single cup of flour does it. The dough is like pie crust, it does not seem to be a dough proper but it works. Letting the dough rest is crucial. The results were delicious and totally worth the effort.

The sauce is a combination of a store-bought pesto with some cream and a bit of parmesan cheese.

And so it goes

It is almost too perfect. I’ve been complaining about my flat, ornery about it, but on my return I found it was even better than the simple, mundane things I had been complaining about, the lack of modern conveniences. I arrived “home” in the UK this afternoon and received an email about 1 pm or so from my landlord’s housekeeping service to say that there would be no hot water tomorrow morning from 8 to 11 am. OK, I thought, I can do this, bath tonight or early tomorrow, no problem. Still easy to make coffee, brush teeth, etc. I then went down to get my mail, and found a sign on the door, it said “no hot water, no cold water”. Hmmm. So I emailed back the housekeeping people and asked for clarification. They came back to me and said, yes–actually there would be no water at all tomorrow morning. I wrote back and asked if they had a suggestion on where I could find some facilities to use in the absence of my own bathroom. And then nothing. They did not answer.

Right. Got it. So I’ve just come off the trans-Atlantic flight, to an apartment with no water on my first morning home. No showers, no sinks, no toilet, no nothing from 8 am. And I’m not sure I believe the anticipated 11 am return of water, based on previous experience with prior maintenance projects in my building. Regular readers of this blog may think this sounds sort of familiar. They might remember the month across December and January when I was not allowed to sleep in my flat for a month, when fortunately I had planned ahead of time to spend three weeks in Australia, but stayed in a hotel both before and after my trip. And I stayed there for longer on my return than had been planned, as the re-wiring took “longer than expected”. I anticipate that happening tomorrow as well. I’m hoping for water by dinner. I’m planning my back up plan (there are showers at the gym…)

I will work around all of it, of course, get up early, get into the office bright and shiny. I’ll probably hit jet lag at 2 pm and be fast asleep at my desk. It will probably actually help the jet-lag problem and the time-zone reacclimation, the forced early start. And don’t worry, I’m more annoyed at my own inconvenience here, especially in light of the fact that I had just been complaining about my flat. I’m not actually trying to claim that this is a big US/UK thing. I actually did have a water shut-off in the US in one of my apartments. although it had been planned long in advance, and I had not been travelling internationally at the time, and I was able to plan and camp out elsewhere. It’s one of those things that crosses cultures, the annoying things that landlords do. (And for another really good landlord rant see Mike’s recent post here.) I’ll be fine. It’s just not quite the comfortable homecoming I had been hoping for.

And this is why I live in the city

I have been out in the wilderness of New England this week, experiencing what has (to me) become fondly known as “science summer camp for grown-ups” — a conference at a remote location, where a medium (100 to somewhat less than 200) people camp out in college student dormitory rooms together and spend a week immersed in a single topic of scientific inquiry. The brilliant thing about this format is that the science bits are in the morning and evening thus leaving the afternoons free for other forms of entertainment. Which sounds lovely, except that this week has been more of an adventure than I bargained for.

The science bits were great, I should start with that. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself and written more than 20 pages of A4 notes. Which is amazing in and of itself–I’m sufficiently old and jaded that I don’t often have that much to write down. One of the afternoon social events was brilliant, it was a beer tasting at a local swanky brew-pub complete with a hilarious brewmaster with a sharp wit, an English degree, and lots of audience participation. There were lots of shot-glass-sized beers to drink, and everyone left happy but not sloppy. But Tuesday we went hiking, and had a spectacular time. Except it was hard going. And I’m clearly not as young as I used to be.

Step back, the group was two of us “senior” colleagues (at all of mid-thirty-something) and two very junior (young twenties) colleagues. We older folks (ugh) were scrambling to keep up with the two youngsters. And it was not pretty. I got my foot caught in a gap in the rocks and I’m pretty sure my left pinky toe is busted (again… it’s happened many times before) and my compatriot experienced some sort of bout of food poisoning and was rushing down from the summit while I was limping. I was literally doing the bridal half-step except leading with my right foot every time I had to descend vertically, such that the pressure would not be on the left pinky toe. Fun. But the views at the top were awesome.

I thought this particular hike (fun and picturesque as it was) was but a distant memory, until I woke up this morning, aware that what I thought was just a mosquito bite on my leg was actually sort of strange in shape and appearance, looking nothing like a normal mosquito bite on closer examination. Fast forward a few hours, and the thing just kept growing and growing, until it was about 3″ across by the last scientific session of the evening. At that point, I had noticed steady growth in the thing over the last few hours especially (not to mention the itching) and realized I had to do something about it. So I left the last scientific session of the evening mid-way and went to the tiny-town New England ER because I had the background to realize it might be serious, and at least worth a look by someone more qualified than me in the medical milieu. I spent a lovely hour as the only patient in the ER of a tiny town New England hospital, chatting with the lovely doctor, who happens to have a son studying for a PhD in my field. I could have predicted what the doctor would recommend (broad-spectrum antibiotics for a longer-than-usual time) which he did, but at least it was a pleasant medical experience.

I now have to get up early in the morning to get an antibiotics prescription filled in the local pharmacy before heading out to my next meetings in Boston. I have a disgusting bulls-eye rash on my right shin, and I can scare people with it. There’s a medical bill careening towards my parents’ house in Minneapolis, because that was the easiest way to handle the emergency non-resident healthcare scenario. I was happy, I was treated. I had a triage EMT, a nice nurse and a chatty MD. I got a first dose of anti-biotics and a prescription for 2 more weeks, which is a big deal when faced with this sort of skin penetrating rash. But I have no idea what it cost, and I will be eagerly anticipating the numbers. I did not need as much time as they gave me, or as much high-level effort as they gave me. I have an obvious rash with an obvious cause.

And now I have no flies

I am so very happy with the portable fly-screens that I got last week:

I have now solved a problem that is over two years old by finding appropriately sturdy, removable and effective fly blockers for my flat. With the actual summer weather we have been having here in the UK, this became a necessity, not a desire, as there was something odd about the light in my main/living room that seemed to attract a large group of the annoying, buzzing insects, who liked to fly around the room in circles. Hooray for (rather primitive) technology, as for approximately £50 I got three screens for the old-school sash windows in my living room, and can now enjoy the summer breezes without losing my sanity or needing to continually spray toxic poisons around my living space. Good for expat life? You betcha.

My new bathroom floor

Last week, when I was in the midst of work chaos and busy-ness, the naff green carpet in my bathroom magically disappeared, to be replaced with a gorgeous, neutral solid floor. Before and after:

Now if only I could do something about the hot pink carpet in my living room….

To drive or not to drive…

That is the question. For various reasons, the question of getting a car has suddenly cemented itself on my brain. This is something I had been avoiding in my time in England thus far; circumstances are such that my walk between home and work is a pleasant 15 minutes and I’m even closer to a wide variety of shops and restaurants, including a Sainsbury’s at two blocks away and a John Lewis about three blocks away. So you could argue that I really do have everything I need quite close, and my longest jaunts are off to the health club which is about 20 minutes’ walk away. However, what I don’t have much of in this little urban bubble is a social life. I’ve been really fortunate to make a couple of friends recently, but in both instances a car would be really handy for getting out of town to their villages (although I admit in both instances there are buses, so it’s not a completely lost cause without a car). In some ways, I really don’t miss the fuss of owning a car, paying for a car, keeping a car insured and paying all associated taxes. Without all of this, my life is quite simple.

But I confess, I’m an American girl who has always been a road-tripper. Every time I return to the states I rent a car, and sometimes drive longer distances than is truly necessary just because I love the feel of the open road. It was instilled in me as a child to be a road-tripper, we did lots of driving between the family homeland in Minnesota and the east coast where we lived for a time, and while east we also drove all the way south to Florida and north to I can’t even remember how far. When my sister and I were both based on the east coast as adults, we did a memorable jaunt into NYC as well as a bittersweet trip back to MN when I abandoned my post in Virginia for what would eventually be my job here.

I have lots of travel coming up, so this is not necessarily something I would do until after my summer trips to other continents, but starting to try and understand the UK rules of the road might come up in about September. I’ll have to take lessons and pass a test here, and obviously save up some money and look for some wheels. And finally, I’d have to sort out a place to park the thing in my urban environs, making a very small car (Smart! Mini!) look appealing. But it’s starting to really tempt me… so I’m going to have to do some serious soul-searching on the whole car vs. public transport question not to mention the “oh dear, this would really be sticking down roots in England” issue… thoughts?

Some days, better than others

Managed to bend the frames of my favorite glasses last night. Can only sort of get them to sit right on my face again, might need to seek professional advice. Wearing one of my other pairs of glasses now; fortunately over the years I’ve learned that being a klutz (and one who occasionally does really, really stupid things like fall asleep while reading or watching tv) means that it’s not a good idea to have fewer than 2 pairs of glasses for when catastrophe strikes. Actually at the moment I have three pairs, which is great, although only one of those three has never been bent out of shape! Fortunately with time, patience and a bit of hot water, they can normally be fixed. Still working on it with this pair, and it’s a real shame because they really are my “Tina Fey glasses” — she has the same pair. Sigh.

Ice, ice, baby!

My new fridge came today! It is still an under-the-counter ‘dorm’ fridge (I tried, I really did, but could not convince the landlord to knock out the counter for a full sized one) but at least it has a freezer that works, so this happy woman can have beverages with ice. The thing came with a single ice tray, the cutest little ice tray I’ve ever seen:

Eight tiny ice cubes can be mine any time I wish! Actually, I ran out to the store tonight and bought a full-sized ice tray–which just about takes up the whole freezer–although I also managed to squeeze in some frozen baby peas (my favorite!) and a box of fish fingers. I know. It’s crazy. I just never ate fish sticks as a child and now I love them! Off to enjoy a cold beverage…