The Lake District--Days 1 and 2

27 December 2014

Several hours later than planned, car packed to the hilt and Aggy peering anxiously out of her travel crate, we pushed dog hair and plastic bottles aside and piled into our beat up Golf Estate.  I straddled a giant Tupperware full of leftover spaghetti and enjoyed a lower back massage, compliments of Millie, who is, it appears, physically unable to ride in a car without kicking the seat in front of her constantly (woe be to the unfortunate airline passenger who is seated in front of her on our next flight). We were off to the Lake District, a destination we had been meaning to visit since we moved to England. 

As luck would have it, the day after Boxing Day is one of the busiest travel days in the UK and there were major train service disruptions, so more cars on the road than there should have been. Result: our trip was considerably longer than it should have been.  Somehow, though, we still had a pleasant journey.  The girls were happily playing with their 'cameras' (which also are video games) and Jim and I enjoyed catching up on our stockpile of NPR podcasts. When traffic got unbearable, we detoured off of the M6 and  into the country, stopping for coffee, a walk with Aggy, and to play in the snow that started falling as we were driving along.  We didn't get to the Lake District until long after dark, but we managed to get there without having a fight, getting lost and, most unbelievably, without tantrums or meltdowns (and I'm not just talking about the kids).  It was a great start to what would turn out to be a really wonderful week.

28 December 2014

When we woke up the next morning, it was to the view of beautiful frost covered fields and bluish mountains off in the distance.  It was cold, but after fortifying ourselves with coffee and breakfast, we bundled up and crunched off on our first walk in the Lake District.  Aggy darted around, peering at sheep and sprinting through fields.  The girls delighted in crunching the ice that had formed over the puddles and a deer bounded off ahead of us. 

 After crunching along for a while and scrambling over some rocks, we reached our first obstacle. The puddles gave way to full blown, partially frozen marshland of indeterminate depth.  The girls, of course, thought the solution to this problem was to just walk right out onto the thin ice.  So did Aggy, who, while we tried to figure out how we were going to get across,  charged right onto the ice and then through it into the water below.  After we had pulled her back to safety (she was, it should be noted, completely unfazed by falling into freezing water), we noticed a ladder-like 'bridge' propped up against the fence.  Jim was wearing wellies, so he waded in and made us a somewhat unstable crossing, escorting each of the girls across like a true gentleman.

 We made it!  A little more trekking across the marshlands led us to a path along a muddy river and then over a bridge and into a wood full of moss-covered stones and narrow boardwalks. 

 When the girls started to flag, we let them be in charge of mapping our route, an age old distraction technique.  We also bribed them with food to keep them going.  Jim packed some of his irresistible Snickerdoodles, which proved to be great motivators.

 After we came out of the woods, Aggy almost abandoned us to go live with some people in their beautiful farmhouse with a spectacular view over the river below.  But, she too is easily persuaded by treats and we managed to get her to come back to the tune of a few dog biscuits.  We all could understand why she would want to live there!  It was really beautiful.

 Down a hill and beyond the house, more marshland needed crossing and it was over this narrow boardwalk that we had to walk. We made it across, unscathed and mostly dry but the inevitable whining had begun so we started back towards home.

 Millie is a nature lover and really has fun walking in the country. Evie, the athlete, is pure city girl and once she has decided she's had enough, she comes up with any excuse possible to try and convince her dad to carry her.  (He didn't.)

 After such a cold and beautiful walk, there was no choice but go to a local pub and warm up. 

 And then to the grocery store, which had this view above it:

(And a picture of Aggy Brown, just for cuteness sake.)

 And finally back to our cottage to relax and watch The Gruffalo and plot out our next day. 

Homesickness

I just looked at pictures of my family all together on our farm and felt unbelievably sad, despite having just spent a blissful two weeks with my own little family here in London and beyond.  There's something about home that is better than anyplace else, especially when it's full of people you love.

I suffer from conflicting emotions during times of stress and during holidays. On one hand, I still wake up in London and sometimes can't believe that I'm here. After growing up in Tallulah, Louisiana, moving to New Orleans was a big deal and here we are, thousands of miles away from home, all settled into a culture that isn't ours with two beautiful children who have somehow managed to embrace their English AND American roots.  I am staggered by the diversity, culture, excitement, and sheer hugeness of London. If I had the energy and the motivation, I could do something new every day here.  Just last week we discovered that if we drive fifteen minutes down the road we are in what is essentially the countryside...in London.  It was surreal (full blog on this experience to follow) and reminded me of how much we still don't know about this amazing and vast city that we live in.

But I still have a visceral longing to go home.  Not just to the the States (when we tend to refer to, in its entirety, as 'home'), but to my home, where I grew up and where my parents still live and where my whole family was together just a few days ago.  Home, where it smells like tilled earth all the time and where, in the winter old pecans crunch under your feet.  Home is where my children can climb on tractors and explore the dusty 'commissary' like I did when I was a kid.  Home, where a mothball scent penetrates everything and where, in the summer, the bullfrogs make an unholy ruckus in the bayou in front of our house. Home is where Dad smells like the lava soap he uses to get the grease off his hands and where Mom makes French bread in bulk in anticipation of us gorging ourselves when we get there.  At home, we can see for miles in every direction.  At home, we can take the pickup truck over the levy and show the girls the Mississippi River.  We can pick fresh tomatoes from Dad's garden or sweetcorn from the fields.  We can lie in the pecan groves at night and watch the stars and listen to coyotes in the distance and, if we go walking around in the evening or early morning, there is the real possibility of our getting hit in the face by a bat (of the flying variety).  We can trek out across the fields with dogs and children and maybe see a small alligator in a ditch or climb over the fence into the corral where a bunch of curious cows will look at us, chewing their cuds in boredom.  We might hear the unnerving gun shots of hunters in the distance (In Louisiana, it always seems to be hunting season). We might get chased by some dogs when we go running.  We'll wave in that relaxed way that country people wave when we pass each other on the road.  We'll dodge pot holes and wonder about the FEMA houses that are being used as hunting lodges.  Maybe we'll dissect some owl regurgitation and show our daughters the bones and teeth of mice inside.  Maybe we'll scoop some crawfish out of the pool.

They say 'home is where the heart is' and I tend to believe it.

Update: In response to a few comments from friends, I feel I should clarify that I do not want to move back home. I just think there will never be any other place that I feel so emotionally connected to.  Home is not all cypress tree beauty, Southern charm,  and pecan pie.  It's also hot and full of mosquitoes and poisonous snakes and out in the middle of nowhere. It's conservative and can be racist.  It's full of local culture but can be small minded. Poverty prevails. I left, but that doesn't mean I don't still love where I grew up, the rich experiences I had with my family there and the amazing people there who have always been part of my life. Plus, after Cleveland, it's my favorite place to spend Christmas!

Santa Claus and Dear Friends

Twas a couple of days before Christmas and all through the house, the children were gearing up to go see SANTA CLAUS!  Usually we go to Selfridge's for Santa, but this year they didn't have their grotto, so we decided to explore other options.  At the school fair, Santa proved to be skinny, 'didn't even say Ho Ho Ho!' and had to be prompted to ask the girls what they wanted for Christmas, so we were a little wary of what Santa at our local garden center would be like.  Evie is no fool and is quick to assess the authenticity of Santa.  Usually, Santa doesn't pass the test.

So, after having a pep talk about Santa and all of his Santa Helpers who saw children and gave messages back to the REAL Santa, we headed to the garden center.  Santa scored points by having coloring and the movie Polar Express playing in the waiting room. 

He also had several rooms dedicated to the North Pole and a friendly elf who was happy to sit through our family rendition of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

 And, as we approached the door, we could hear him Ho Ho Ho'ing his heart out!  He was a jolly Santa with a good sense of humor and the girls loved him. He laughed at their jokes and conceded that he liked banana cookies (a recipe that was new to us, but suggested by Evie).  He also suggested doing jazz hands for some of the pictures, which Jim and I thought was amazing!

So did he pass the test?  After some thought, Evie concluded that he did not.  'His voice wasn't right and even though his belly was big, his beard had some strings hanging from it.'  Off the record, his costume was also kind of ridiculous. BUT, we all agreed that he's probably one of Santa's closest helpers and will definitely relay all the 'wants' (except the ipad ask that Millie sprung on us.  Yeah, right.)

But really, as Jim pointed out, how hard would it be to pay a little more for a chubby guy with a real beard?

After all that excitement, we had even more to look forward to on Christmas Eve. Our dear friends Rashmi and Siddarth are in town and, since we hadn't seen them for over five years, we were thrilled to be able play tourist with them this afternoon. First stop:  Covent Garden! 

Where we spent no less than £13 pounds on street performers....some of whom were more worth it than others!

Eventually, after wandering and a stop for pizza, we parted at Regents Street, where throngs of crowds were doing their last minute Christmas shopping. Nothing like leaving it until Christmas Eve! 

So, happy times with good friends, a decent Santa, and, to top it off, we stood outside in the freezing cold to see if we could see Santa off in space (we think we did!).  Tomorrow should be fun!  Merry Christmas Eve!

The Great

Recently, one of my friends sent me an article about appreciating the great in your life.  It was all about how we focus on good things (which, for the author, included cleaning her house. I can assure you that I never feel good about cleaning my house) but forget to focus on the great things. Despite whether I agree or not with her idea of what is good in life, it's a really important message.  So, now that the dust has settled, I'm trying to be more aware of and appreciate all the great things in my life: my family, my friends, the times like this when I'm finally focusing on the kind of writing that I enjoy, the dog that's snoring in my lap, the Christmas tree that we all picked out together a few weeks ago.

In London, everyone sells Christmas trees.  Most of our neighbors get their trees from a Tile store a few blocks away or from the off license corner store.  For a fancier and more expensive tree, people go to the garden center.  After paying more than I'll ever admit for a tree in Hampstead one year, we vowed never to buy a tree in London and every year, rain or shine, whether we feel like it or not, we drive out to Chesham and get our tree from a real, live tree farm.  Not only is it cheaper, but it's a lot more fun!

This year, because we have tall ceilings, we were able to really go crazy and get what we call an "American Style" tree.  After not much deliberation and in the pouring down rain, we picked our big, tall tree, put it on top of our car, and drove it back to London.  We had to trim the top down to make it fit in our living room and we're not sure how we're going to get it out again, but we love it (even if we have to keep it in our living room forever).

But before we drove back, we enjoyed a short country walk and a pub lunch in Amersham, with Aggy, our faithful and beloved, if slightly not house trained beagle. (At some point I'll blog about the trauma of having to rehome Sonny,  our puppy of the previous blog). 

 London at Christmas time is, in some ways, a lot quieter than usual (for instance, I'm thoroughly enjoying sitting in my living room without having to listen to the bass of our neighbors' TV booming through the floor or to the hysterical screaming of the teenaged girl next door, which just reminds me of what my life is going to be like in about six or seven years).  But in Central London, things are in full swing with lights and decorations hanging form the skies and each department store trying to out decorate the next. Selfridge is always a festive destination and this year they had their windows decked out in slightly creepy scenes from Grimms' fairy tales. 

It's been a fun Christmas so far, full of really special and much needed time all together, a lot of food, great friends and smiling, if exhausting little girls. We're lucky to have wonderful friends to share our holidays with, when we're so far away from our own family.  We have also discovered the wonder that is the Winter Pimm's Cup, which adds to the Christmas merry making.  I am of the opinion that traditional (in England) mulled wine tastes like cheap red wine mixed with potpourri, but Winter Pimm's is dangerously delicious.  Here's the recipe:

http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/889647/winter-pimms-punch

And here I am with Jim, a little happy from drinking a couple of glasses of Winter Pimm's before our annual Christmas get together with some of our dear London friends.

 The girls did not partake in the punch, but were still in the festive spirit!

 Eight little girls enjoyed hot dogs and Christmas crackers in our kitchen.

 While, in the living room the adults (and a leopard) ate Louisiana gumbo, homemade bread, delicious salad, spicy Mauritian red beans, and meringue.

After a feast like that, it was necessary to spend the next day out and about in the fresh air.  Alexandra Palace is the site of the BBC's first public television station.  These days it's got an ice rink, a really depressing pub, and hosts things like 'the world dart championships' or 'Bierfest' or 'The International Tattoo and Body Art Festival.'  It has been taken over by a charity, though, and with Big Lottery Funding they are slowly improving things at the 'people's palace.'

Some of us are very fashionable (not Jim or me, sadly) and it was with our stylish children that we headed to the Ally Pally Farmer's market, which is full of  olives, Mediterranean food,  locally sourced sausages and meat, art and, my favorite, Bokit'la, home of delicious West Indian food and run by three very handsome and friendly men from Guadaloupe. YUM. (I'm talking about the food, obviously).

 Aggy, who came to us from the country, is in her element when there are wide open spaces to run in.

 Evie and Millie are in their element when there is hot chocolate to drink (even if it is from the depressing pub). So Ally Pally is a great place for us! 

Another great: ending a long day with a family movie night, watching the Muppet's family Christmas and snuggled up with a warm and sort of smelly dog.  I love Christmas.

So we got a dog

If you were a reader of this blog in its early days, you might remember the famous (in our circle of friends, at least) Buster Brown.  He was our bow legged, ragged eared, snaggle toothed, food obsessed, questionably behaved adopted beagle.  In the beginning, nothing about Buster was fun or easy.  On the way home from his foster home (where they let him drink their leftover coffee), he expressed his anal glands in my lap.  That was how it all began.

As the weeks went by, Buster destroyed our Venetian blinds in an attempt to launch himself out of the windows every time we left the house without him.  He scratched jagged holes in the doors of our house, trying to escape.  He moved furniture around our living room in (successful) attempts to get to food.  He once ate an entire sheet cake and then vomited it back onto our couch. He bit us. He bit our friends.  He was Houdini-esque in his ability to get out of the back yard and was even known to scale fences and then free-fall to the ground just so he could go sniff under the house.  I have a clear memory of sitting in the dark, on the ground, in the yard,  trying to get him to stop eating the cat poop he had already rolled in and getting bitten for my efforts.  

It gets better!  Recall was a foreign concept to him and I nearly broke my ankle chasing him through the fields on my parents' farm after a lapse in judgement involving letting him walk off the leash.  I have never--before or since--seen a dog head for the hills at such top speeds.  Upon my return from a two week work trip, he ate an entire bottle of ibuprofen that he stole from my purse and then had to spend the next week at the vet having his stomach pumped and being observed.  His kennel had a big sign posted on it that said, 'Cage Jumper'.  He was a great explorer of our trashcan and consumed some things during his time with us that had detrimental effects on his health and well being...and on our bank account.   We spent a lot of money on vet bills. He loathed being dressed up as a hot dog at Halloween.

But it wasn't all bad.  Buster, despite his naughty behavior, lack of training, terrible breath, and codependency, was a great companion and brought us a lot of joy through the years we had him.  He was happiest when we were home and greeted us and the walks that followed our returns from work with great enthusiasm. With a deep and beautiful howl, he would alert us and all of the neighborhood of the presence of a squirrel (usually long gone).  He slept, snoring, next to us in his smelly bed with his smelly, squeaky "Froggy."  When Jim left for London and I stayed in Texas by myself, Buster slept with me on an air mattress on the floor for a couple of weeks.  He howled when my parents drove off with his companions, our two cats, who started their new life on the farm a few weeks before him.  He was a constant source of amusement and a constant presence. I missed him the most when we got to London and I was spending long days in our temporary flat by myself.  I knew he was happy on the farm with my parents, being spoiled beyond belief, but there was a hole in our lives without him.

So here we are again, almost eight years later.  Buster Brown has gone to the proverbial Rainbow Bridge after living his twilight years in his version of heaven on earth and we're starting over with a new, questionably behaved rescue dog: Sonny.  A week into his life with us, he reminds me far too much of his predecessor for me to be able to relax.  Venetian blinds destroyed?  Check.  Desperate attempts to escape accompanied by unrelenting howling?  Check!  Inappropriate growling?  Check.  Already, I'm spending anxious nights wondering what I was thinking getting a puppy (because, let's be honest here.  It was ME who wanted to get another dog.).  And Sonny isn't just any puppy.  He's a rescue puppy from Romania. 

Yes, I adopted a six month old Romanian street puppy who had never seen cars before, had never been around children before, had never lived away from his mom and brothers before, and was, generally, a basket case when we got him.  A week and a bit later, he's fatter, bolder, an amazing sleeper, a ferocious barker and can't be left unsupervised around small children.  He almost will play.  He almost seems to enjoy going for walks.

As a family, we're investing time and energy in this dog, trying to fix the problems that happened before he got to us. We drag him out on his leash for walks when there is traffic, even though he is desperate not to go.  We move slowly and quietly around him so that he doesn't get startled and growl.  The girls help to feed him and walk him.  We shower him with an abundance of praise when he does well and use what we refer to as our 'Buster Brown bad dog voices' when he doesn't. We are careful to only pet him in places that aren't seen as 'dominating' (not on top of his head, not on his back).  There are lots of discussions along the lines of 'the puppy doesn't want you to carry him up to your room' or 'hugs and kisses are nice for people, but not for dogs!'  We are introducing him to friends and neighbors slowly and calmly.  

There is so much psychology involved in having a dog. I sometimes wonder if I should be putting this much effort into my own HUMAN relationships. If I praise my husband lavishly whenever he does things well, might it enhance our marriage and improve our relationship?

Even though I'm feeling haggard and worn out and can't believe how many rolls of paper towels we have used in the past week, Sonny is a lot of fun and to hear my older daughter, who until recently was terrified of dogs, say how much she loves him makes all the trouble worth it.  I hope that as he grows up and comes into his own, he will inspire me like Buster Brown did. Here's to rescue dogs, far and wide!

The good, the bad and the ugly: Muswell Hill

It's been almost two weeks since we moved and we have internet again.  I'm too tired to get up and look for my camera so I can't test whether or not it's 10 times faster than our previous internet...but, really, fast or slow it's nice to have it back!

Our first week here was idyllic.  The garden is in bloom and we weeded and mowed the lawn, bought new plants and enjoyed the sunshine.  The neighbors are friendly and international and we are surrounded by children, who run from garden to garden and play for hours together. Our girls immediately joined the fray and as soon as we open our backdoor in the afternoon their new friends call them out to play.  We have access to beautiful woods and parks.  At night we sleep with the windows open and, except for the occasional car horn or motorcycles off in the distance, it's quiet.

But then...school started again.  This week has been a brutal battle to get out the door, into the car or up the road to the bus with lunch boxes, ballet bags, swimming kit, scooters, sobbing, exhausted children.  On our first school run to Hampstead, we sat in traffic for thirty minutes before I abandoned the car and walked us the rest of the way.  Our second day was spent winding through back roads with the London A-Z in hand, frequently heading in the wrong direction or stopped in our tracks by dead ends or one way roads.  Car sickness forced us, on our third day, to huff up the hill, dragging children on scooters and shoulders to join the private school crew on the 603 bus.  Alas, the 603 bus only runs twice a morning and twice an afternoon and this evening, after ballet, it was up yet another hill to yet another bus, where we spent the next hour and a half in stop and go traffic, three of us crammed into two seats and staring forlornly out of the windows with our lunchboxes, ballet bags, scooter helmets and everything else we could possibly have brought along.  We ran out of snacks.  There was almost an emergency stomach ache situation. Two buses later, when we finally made it home, I actually staggered into the door and nearly just collapsed, face in the now cat pee stained carpet.

All this AND work.

Before I moved across the world, I was a soft, soft person.  London, far away from my family, land of inconvenience and traffic jams and body odor on public transportation and relentless energy and movement, has hardened me.  This is hard.  But I'm tough and I'm going to figure it out.

Lasts

A few minutes ago, as I prepared to take a shower, I did a little jig in the shower room (There is no tub. There is no toilet. There is a shower (and a sink)! Hence: shower room).  'This is the LAST TIME I have to take a shower in this shower room!' I said to myself.  It's not like the shower is completely horrible or even horrible at all. Our landlords renovated it while we were living here so it's high quality and has good water pressure, but, for people of our proportions, it's small.  When I shower, I have to make sure that I don't make any sudden movements or I'll crash into the wall with my elbows.  And forget two people being in there at once.  Over the past five and a half years, Jim and I have gotten into the annoying habit of racing each other into the bathroom. Whoever doesn't get there first stands cursing outside of the door.

Anyway, the small joy I felt at not having to shower in our tiny shower anymore led me to think of other lasts that I'm either looking forward to or not.  Here they are:

This is the last night  we'll sleep under our crazy neighbor. She is loud, she stomps, she is volatile, she has made enemies of everyone in the building (except us. The only reason is because we live under her) and we sometimes have to turn our TV up so that we can hear it over her radio upstairs.  She also has been very nice to our children.  So that redeems her, slightly.  I will still be happy to be the ones doing the stomping in our new house!

The last bath. The girls have lived here their whole lives. I have bathed them since birth in their little (cursed and too small for normal sized human beings) tub. It has been the site of much terror (when they were babies), crazy soap hair styles, bubble blowing, hysterical laughter, tsunami-like splashing and, now, independence.  Evie prefers to give herself a bath these days, but tonight she agreed that I could wash her hair one last time before we move.

The last bedtime. We have a bedtime routine that we've been following for years and tonight was no exception.  After bath and teeth and bathroom, each girl picks a book, we snuggle up in Millie's bed and we read.  Then we kiss and hug and butterfly kiss and squishy kiss and I lie in Millie's bed with her for a few minutes before they go to sleep. It's a nice way for us all to end the day and tonight was the last time we'll have that time in this flat.

This is the last time we'll ever have white tiles and white counter tops (if I have anything to do with it)!  We are four not so compulsive types (and a cat) living in a house with white tiles. They are frequently splattered with food, footprints, cat prints, dirt from the garden and other things that wouldn't show up quite so much if we didn't have white tiles.  Therefore, I rejoice at the thought of the ugly linoleum tiles in our new kitchen.  They might be ugly, but at least you can't see just how filthy they are!

Yesterday was the last time it will be easy for either of us to get to work (in our current jobs).  I am so not looking forward to our new commute that I can't even write about it.

Oh, but despite the small shower and the crazy neighbor and the white tiles, this has been a happy home for us and we're really going to miss it and Hampstead. Tomorrow we'll start fresh in our new house and when we have internet again in a week I'll be able to compare neighbors, showers, bedtimes and bath times.  Stay tuned...