Back in May I returned to London for a fortnight’s holiday. Obviously, I wanted to see my friends; whether or not they wanted to see me was another matter. Maybe all those tears that were shed at my departure were tears of joy; I have no idea. But in any case, I went back to have a wonderful time of reunions, theatre, dinner at The Ivy, museums and the earlier mentioned upholstered seats in the underground.
But I had another reason for this return. Unless I go back into the UK every 2 years I lose my right to residency or, as the Immigration officials put it, “leave to enter and remain in the United Kingdom.” Just as an aside here, let me tell you that many years ago when my parents were visiting me while I was doing my M.A. in the UK, my father’s secretary told someone on the phone that my father was in the United Kingdom. “Oh, dear,” came the reply, “when did he die?”
Ok, so there I was in the queue for Immigration, two passports at the ready; one passport was my current one, the other had the magic stamp in it which gives me the “right to abode” which I wish to maintain in case my daughter, a British Subject, ever goes back to live there. So to get this over with as quickly as possible, I approached the officer when I was called and explained that I wished to maintain my rights and have the usual stamp of ‘right to abode.’ He looked over the 2 passports and then said, “But Madam, you’re only here for 14 days. And even if you want that stamp, you were last in the UK in September ’08 so you have gone past the two years.”
There was a m0ment’s silence while I stood staring at him trying to figure out which one of us had Alzheimer’s. Since there is no song for the months the way there is for the alphabet, to help you get those months in order, I had to spend a bit of time figuring this one out. However, years of experience told me that May came before September so in the end I gently but firmly pointed out to him that I still had 3 months to go. He gave me the stamp.
Now I have heard about the problems faced by the Iroquois Nationals, a Lacrosse team headed to the UK for competition in Manchester. The Iroquois apparently invented the game and they have always been considered a nation, just like the USA or Canada. But unfortunately, security being what it is these days, the UK does not recognize their hand-written documents and also sought assurance from the USA that the Nationals will be re-admitted into the US airports…since the Reservations obviously do not have airports of their own. To put it bluntly, this sucks. But it also raises an interesting question. The map of the USA would look something akin to Swiss cheese if the Indian reservations were pulled out of it, yet Oklahoma, originally Indian Territory, is a state and no such holes exist. Tellingly, Governor Bill Richardson of New Mexico who was all in favour of the Iroquois travelling on their handwritten tribal passports, said, “It’s a matter of tribal sovereignty and respecting the rights of the Native American population of this country.” ‘Of this country?’ What country is that exactly? The Iroquois Nation or the USA???
Are they Americans or Iroqouis? Am I British or American? Does anyone know?
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
SALT (8)
No, this is not about Angelina Jolie with a bad wig in a bad film, this is about the actual mineral one may or may not put on one’s food. In my case, it’s generally ‘may not.’
Back in June, my daughter and I headed off to Colorado for4 days to a spot in the NE corner where the prairies meet the mountains. This was completely my choice and my daughter bears absolutely no responsibility. The reasons for my choice are varied and personal but one of them was that I wanted to see the prairies to the east, visit Cheyenne, Wyoming, to the north and get into the Rockies to the west. (Just as a note here you may wonder why anyone would wish to see the prairies. I am not a Willa Cather groupie nor do I have a horticultural interest in grasses but the mere fact that there is a Pawnee National Grassland sort of sent alarm bells my way that what once covered 60% of the USA now has to be protected and is fast disappearing.) The epicenter for this momentous visit therefore had to be a place called Loveland. I kid you not.
Loveland is perhaps best known as a town to which romantic geeks send their valentines cards in order to be hand-stamped “Loveland” by a bunch of OAPs, known as Senior Citizens in the US, who need to supplement their social security (pensions in the UK). Since I am not far off from this predicament myself I bear them no ill will. But that is the heart, you should pardon the pun, of Loveland.
Anyway, we decided on a motel that met our travelling needs and selected a Marriott. This turned out to be situated in what in Britain would be called an ‘Industrial Estate’: a purpose-built horror of single-story office spaces intermixed with ‘inns’ and restaurants in the most sterile environment known to man. One could have sworn that the Stepford wives were about to hold a reunion there. This was not an area for fine dining; in fact, if you look up restaurants in Loveland you’ll find the choice so limited as to make Wendy’s look a firm possibility.
So one night we decided to go for gold and mosey on over to Lonestar. Lonestar may not be known east of the Mighty Mississip but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what their cuisine and ambience will be. Daughter Kit (well that’s not her name but she will die of embarrassment if I mention her real name) ordered a salad, being the more sensible of us two, and I went whole hog for the chicken burrito featuring TWO whole chicken breasts and more sides than the entire team of the NY Knicks puts away in a year. It also featured, unbeknownst to me until I took my first forkful, more salt than is mined from the Dead Sea in a decade. It was definitely a case of ‘have a little burrito with your salt.’ And not only was there salt in the burrito but the baked potato had a crust of sea salt, thereby ruining my favourite part of the spud. I could literally feel my blood pressure going up about 5 points per bite.
When the young and overenthusiastic waitress came to ask us how the meal was, I turned to her and asked if the cook was in love? This won me a good kick under the table from Kit. But here’s the thing: a few short years ago Kit and I were dining after the theatre in London when a similar problem occurred. We had decided to share a side dish of vegetables which came so salty neither of us could eat them. Not being highly original and holding the belief that forgetting how much salt you are throwing in food means your mind is on other matters, I said the exact same thing to the waitress there, a young ‘resting’ actress no doubt, who looked at me and laughed and simply took the dish off the bill.
Back in Loveland, however, our cheerleader friend looked at me, her face slowly caving in as if invisible hands were pushing her cheeks. “I’m sorry your meal wasn’t to your satisfaction,” she whimpered. I sat there in some disbelief while Kit stared angrily at me and kicked me again. “Oh, no, no,” I hurriedly apologized, “It was fine. Just fine.” And then I gave her what was no doubt the biggest tip of her young life.
Could it be possible, I wonder, that (a) she was actually in love with the chef and my comment was too close to home? Or was it (b) she knew a little tear would elicit a bigger tip? Or am I just too cynical?
Back in June, my daughter and I headed off to Colorado for4 days to a spot in the NE corner where the prairies meet the mountains. This was completely my choice and my daughter bears absolutely no responsibility. The reasons for my choice are varied and personal but one of them was that I wanted to see the prairies to the east, visit Cheyenne, Wyoming, to the north and get into the Rockies to the west. (Just as a note here you may wonder why anyone would wish to see the prairies. I am not a Willa Cather groupie nor do I have a horticultural interest in grasses but the mere fact that there is a Pawnee National Grassland sort of sent alarm bells my way that what once covered 60% of the USA now has to be protected and is fast disappearing.) The epicenter for this momentous visit therefore had to be a place called Loveland. I kid you not.
Loveland is perhaps best known as a town to which romantic geeks send their valentines cards in order to be hand-stamped “Loveland” by a bunch of OAPs, known as Senior Citizens in the US, who need to supplement their social security (pensions in the UK). Since I am not far off from this predicament myself I bear them no ill will. But that is the heart, you should pardon the pun, of Loveland.
Anyway, we decided on a motel that met our travelling needs and selected a Marriott. This turned out to be situated in what in Britain would be called an ‘Industrial Estate’: a purpose-built horror of single-story office spaces intermixed with ‘inns’ and restaurants in the most sterile environment known to man. One could have sworn that the Stepford wives were about to hold a reunion there. This was not an area for fine dining; in fact, if you look up restaurants in Loveland you’ll find the choice so limited as to make Wendy’s look a firm possibility.
So one night we decided to go for gold and mosey on over to Lonestar. Lonestar may not be known east of the Mighty Mississip but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what their cuisine and ambience will be. Daughter Kit (well that’s not her name but she will die of embarrassment if I mention her real name) ordered a salad, being the more sensible of us two, and I went whole hog for the chicken burrito featuring TWO whole chicken breasts and more sides than the entire team of the NY Knicks puts away in a year. It also featured, unbeknownst to me until I took my first forkful, more salt than is mined from the Dead Sea in a decade. It was definitely a case of ‘have a little burrito with your salt.’ And not only was there salt in the burrito but the baked potato had a crust of sea salt, thereby ruining my favourite part of the spud. I could literally feel my blood pressure going up about 5 points per bite.
When the young and overenthusiastic waitress came to ask us how the meal was, I turned to her and asked if the cook was in love? This won me a good kick under the table from Kit. But here’s the thing: a few short years ago Kit and I were dining after the theatre in London when a similar problem occurred. We had decided to share a side dish of vegetables which came so salty neither of us could eat them. Not being highly original and holding the belief that forgetting how much salt you are throwing in food means your mind is on other matters, I said the exact same thing to the waitress there, a young ‘resting’ actress no doubt, who looked at me and laughed and simply took the dish off the bill.
Back in Loveland, however, our cheerleader friend looked at me, her face slowly caving in as if invisible hands were pushing her cheeks. “I’m sorry your meal wasn’t to your satisfaction,” she whimpered. I sat there in some disbelief while Kit stared angrily at me and kicked me again. “Oh, no, no,” I hurriedly apologized, “It was fine. Just fine.” And then I gave her what was no doubt the biggest tip of her young life.
Could it be possible, I wonder, that (a) she was actually in love with the chef and my comment was too close to home? Or was it (b) she knew a little tear would elicit a bigger tip? Or am I just too cynical?
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
FIRE AND FLOOD
A short time after I was finally settled into my NY apt. one of my dearest UK friends, S, came to visit for a few days. Our daughters went to school together and were good buddies, and so her daughter was happy to stay over at my daughter’s apt. The night of their arrival, however, I prepared a meal for the four of us; naturally, if you’ve just made a 7 hour plane trip with the supplementary travelling times and waiting times at either end, the last thing you want to do is hit the local hot spots.
The main course I decided to prepare was a fish pie with mashed potato topping. As we sat in my living room (which by the way, in London, used to be a drawing room) catching up on news and making our way through the hors d’oeuvres, the pie bubbled away in my brand new state-of-the art gas range (which in London used to be a plain old ‘cooker’ or possibly a ‘hob’---and when I last lived in NY used to be called a ‘stove’). These delightful bubbles of sauce eventually dripped onto the floor of the oven and, as cooking time passed, eventually sent a miniscule amount of smoke out the vents and into the room setting off all the fire alarms.
Now, look, I know New Yorkers are blasé but this sure beats all. Despite all 3 of my alarms going off with the most intense, shrill, high pitched screeches I have ever heard, absolutely no one came calling. The four of us dashed about trying to shut these things off but no amount of pushing the stop buttons on them did anything at all. Eventually I rang down to our concierge desk and asked the lady on duty to please get the Superintendent to tell us what to do. Shouting down the phone to make myself heard over the siren, I could just about hear her reply that the Super was off duty and couldn’t be disturbed! Eventually, S managed to get the batteries out of one of the alarms and I yanked another from the ceiling shutting the system down, giving me new décor in the form of ceiling mobiles.
The neighbours are great in this building; they balance just the right amount of friendliness with non-intrusion. One gentleman from down the hall, whom I met in the refuse room as I put out my garbage (in London, trash was collected from just outside the apt. door after 10pm, thereby not providing any occasion for meeting neighbours unless you both happened to open your front door at the precise same minute to put your black bag out for collection) came over and sorted the ceiling mobile fire alarms for me so that they no longer go off at will. My immediate neighbours, a delightful elderly couple who came over from Israel, are also friendly, and very quiet.
Since they are so quiet I was obviously greatly concerned when I heard T screaming and panicking. I dashed next door thinking something had happened to her husband only to see a veritable Niagara Falls of steaming water coming down from the apt. above them and flooding the entire place. Trying not to think about the possibility that the upstairs apt. might be a double and thereby be above my newly refurbished, newly painted, newly furnished, new new new apt., I made every effort to help them get their belongings out and get the Super in to help. I’ll just say that this Super has now left the employ of our building and we have a new, hard-working saint in his stead.
Which was excellent news for me because this incident made me really nervous. Although my own apt. remained unscathed, I remained on the look-out for any drips. So you can no doubt understand why, when a few weeks later with 7 people expected for dinner and various dishes I had been working on all day spread along the counter of my kitchen, I totally panicked when I opened a cabinet and found a puddle of water which by then was dripping onto the countertop. Mopping up and going bezerk, I rang down to the concierge and had the new Super come dashing up to see where the leak might be coming from.
It was a bottle of water that had opened up.
The main course I decided to prepare was a fish pie with mashed potato topping. As we sat in my living room (which by the way, in London, used to be a drawing room) catching up on news and making our way through the hors d’oeuvres, the pie bubbled away in my brand new state-of-the art gas range (which in London used to be a plain old ‘cooker’ or possibly a ‘hob’---and when I last lived in NY used to be called a ‘stove’). These delightful bubbles of sauce eventually dripped onto the floor of the oven and, as cooking time passed, eventually sent a miniscule amount of smoke out the vents and into the room setting off all the fire alarms.
Now, look, I know New Yorkers are blasé but this sure beats all. Despite all 3 of my alarms going off with the most intense, shrill, high pitched screeches I have ever heard, absolutely no one came calling. The four of us dashed about trying to shut these things off but no amount of pushing the stop buttons on them did anything at all. Eventually I rang down to our concierge desk and asked the lady on duty to please get the Superintendent to tell us what to do. Shouting down the phone to make myself heard over the siren, I could just about hear her reply that the Super was off duty and couldn’t be disturbed! Eventually, S managed to get the batteries out of one of the alarms and I yanked another from the ceiling shutting the system down, giving me new décor in the form of ceiling mobiles.
The neighbours are great in this building; they balance just the right amount of friendliness with non-intrusion. One gentleman from down the hall, whom I met in the refuse room as I put out my garbage (in London, trash was collected from just outside the apt. door after 10pm, thereby not providing any occasion for meeting neighbours unless you both happened to open your front door at the precise same minute to put your black bag out for collection) came over and sorted the ceiling mobile fire alarms for me so that they no longer go off at will. My immediate neighbours, a delightful elderly couple who came over from Israel, are also friendly, and very quiet.
Since they are so quiet I was obviously greatly concerned when I heard T screaming and panicking. I dashed next door thinking something had happened to her husband only to see a veritable Niagara Falls of steaming water coming down from the apt. above them and flooding the entire place. Trying not to think about the possibility that the upstairs apt. might be a double and thereby be above my newly refurbished, newly painted, newly furnished, new new new apt., I made every effort to help them get their belongings out and get the Super in to help. I’ll just say that this Super has now left the employ of our building and we have a new, hard-working saint in his stead.
Which was excellent news for me because this incident made me really nervous. Although my own apt. remained unscathed, I remained on the look-out for any drips. So you can no doubt understand why, when a few weeks later with 7 people expected for dinner and various dishes I had been working on all day spread along the counter of my kitchen, I totally panicked when I opened a cabinet and found a puddle of water which by then was dripping onto the countertop. Mopping up and going bezerk, I rang down to the concierge and had the new Super come dashing up to see where the leak might be coming from.
It was a bottle of water that had opened up.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
“Oh, give Me a Home…”
)
By June I was able to release my furniture from storage and have it delivered and move in.
Well, what was left of my furniture. If anyone in the UK is moving shortly, please do not use Doree Bonner. Of 8 dining chairs, 7 were broken; the marble top to a hall table was smashed; silver was missing; and virtually every other piece of furniture had a chip on it, including the piano. In addition, and not covered by the Insurance, several items were mistakenly sent to my L.I. house since I had split the delivery between the 2 places. Doree Bonner denied any negligence; they said it was my fault the pieces had gone to the wrong address (excuse me??!!) and their men had worked for them for many years. So, there then ensued several months of dealing with insurance people in the UK, an insurance adjustor in Georgia who sounded like Dolly Parton, shipping people in New Jersey, Doree Bonner, an adjudicator when I threatened to sue DB and finally the police.
I tried to report the theft of my silver to the London police who informed me that since I discovered the theft in NY it was the NY Police who should deal with it. My local precinct is around the corner from my apt. in the city so I popped in. I wish I had taken a photo of the officer to whom I explained this matter. Phoning back to London, I tried again and successfully got the London police to handle this.
So, I got my money from the insurers, had my furniture fixed and then…had to give most of it away. In London I had high ceilings and space that allowed large Victorian pieces. Here I have tiny rooms, polished floors and no place for anything except the piano. Which I don’t even play….
I am certainly learning to deal with the police in this country. I never once had anything to do with a London policeman. Back in the US, I must, by now, know the entire force of the East Hampton Police dept. First there was my case when some idiot used my name and address on the internet to have every insurance company in the country ring me up to give me a quote, have services added to my phone bill and other nuisance attacks. Then one evening at about 10pm an officer rang my bell sending me into a panic (daughter in NYC remember?). Turned out I had mistakenly pushed some secret button on my alarm system which quietly sends out the cops. If a robber had been standing behind me with a gun in my back, this single officer was supposed to take care of him. After that came the call from the Home Shopping Network which needless to say I have never used. Someone had tried to charge a computer to my credit card. The detectives are still handling this one. Then there was the mysterious charge from T-Mobile, a cell phone provider I have never used: back to the detectives again. And last, but certainly not least, came my July 4th party.
No, the police dept. wasn’t invited; they were sent by my neighbors who thought that on the Saturday of July 4th weekend at 11.40pm we were making too much noise. Sitting out on the deck, the headlights of a patrol car floodlighting the remains of our meal the way candles never did, I had to go to speak to the most embarrassed police officer one could possibly imagine. Or maybe he was just trying to keep a straight face as I stood there in my cowboy hat and boots.
The party was country and western themed: I’m trying to embrace America.
By June I was able to release my furniture from storage and have it delivered and move in.
Well, what was left of my furniture. If anyone in the UK is moving shortly, please do not use Doree Bonner. Of 8 dining chairs, 7 were broken; the marble top to a hall table was smashed; silver was missing; and virtually every other piece of furniture had a chip on it, including the piano. In addition, and not covered by the Insurance, several items were mistakenly sent to my L.I. house since I had split the delivery between the 2 places. Doree Bonner denied any negligence; they said it was my fault the pieces had gone to the wrong address (excuse me??!!) and their men had worked for them for many years. So, there then ensued several months of dealing with insurance people in the UK, an insurance adjustor in Georgia who sounded like Dolly Parton, shipping people in New Jersey, Doree Bonner, an adjudicator when I threatened to sue DB and finally the police.
I tried to report the theft of my silver to the London police who informed me that since I discovered the theft in NY it was the NY Police who should deal with it. My local precinct is around the corner from my apt. in the city so I popped in. I wish I had taken a photo of the officer to whom I explained this matter. Phoning back to London, I tried again and successfully got the London police to handle this.
So, I got my money from the insurers, had my furniture fixed and then…had to give most of it away. In London I had high ceilings and space that allowed large Victorian pieces. Here I have tiny rooms, polished floors and no place for anything except the piano. Which I don’t even play….
I am certainly learning to deal with the police in this country. I never once had anything to do with a London policeman. Back in the US, I must, by now, know the entire force of the East Hampton Police dept. First there was my case when some idiot used my name and address on the internet to have every insurance company in the country ring me up to give me a quote, have services added to my phone bill and other nuisance attacks. Then one evening at about 10pm an officer rang my bell sending me into a panic (daughter in NYC remember?). Turned out I had mistakenly pushed some secret button on my alarm system which quietly sends out the cops. If a robber had been standing behind me with a gun in my back, this single officer was supposed to take care of him. After that came the call from the Home Shopping Network which needless to say I have never used. Someone had tried to charge a computer to my credit card. The detectives are still handling this one. Then there was the mysterious charge from T-Mobile, a cell phone provider I have never used: back to the detectives again. And last, but certainly not least, came my July 4th party.
No, the police dept. wasn’t invited; they were sent by my neighbors who thought that on the Saturday of July 4th weekend at 11.40pm we were making too much noise. Sitting out on the deck, the headlights of a patrol car floodlighting the remains of our meal the way candles never did, I had to go to speak to the most embarrassed police officer one could possibly imagine. Or maybe he was just trying to keep a straight face as I stood there in my cowboy hat and boots.
The party was country and western themed: I’m trying to embrace America.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Return of the Native
Since what was once my second home, out at the end of Long island, is now my primary residence and I only bought the NY apt. so that I don’t have to crash in my daughter’s place when I want to see her, I completely resented the various hoops through which I had to jump in order to obtain said apt. When I purchased the London apt., good enough to be in a building in which Princess Di had once resided, all I had to present were a few character and bank references. No interview, no full disclosure of finances, zilch. The Board of the building where I now live know more about me than my former husband ever found out. I suspect that this is all totally unnecessary but it is the NY way of things, as was the interview. C prepped me for the meeting with the Board; she told me what not to say & what not to wear, put the fear of God into me and then ended by telling me that, short of going in completely sozzled and with a ring through my nose, I’d get in.
Once in, of course, the remodeling started. The previous owners had been here for 26 years, the husband having purchased the apartment while single. At the time they left, the couple had a 9 year old daughter sleeping on the floor of a bedroom shared with her sister. This place needed work. I was lucky enough to find a contractor who had been in the building for 8 years working his way around and he obviously knew the ropes. So we started and things went pretty smoothly despite a few suppliers who neglected to supply exactly what we had requested when we had requested it. I’ve learned a lot through this remodeling job. For instance, I now know that if anything goes wrong it is always because the walls are not level, and never the contractor’s fault. And I’ve had to learn a completely new vocabulary: contractor for builder, base boards for skirting boards, pocket door for sliding door, high hats for recessed lighting…or is it? I am now so completely confused as to which word belongs in which country that I can no longer make myself understood even to myself.
In the midst of all this we had Elections. Now here’s an admission: I had never voted before in my entire life (whose years I am not divulging). For some reason, absentee voting never appealed to me; who wants to be sitting in London and voting for Dog Catcher of Suffolk County I ask? So I toddled along to the local school and got in line prepared to own up and ask for help. As I approached the desk, the attendant peered at me and demanded, “where did you get that handbag?” Somewhat taken aback, I stuttered out my reply and, preliminaries over, moved along to my guilty admission. The attendant woman, having checked my identity and taken my John Hancock, called out in a voice akin to a waitress placing an order to a short-order cook, “Hey Joe, we have a first-timer here!” Since there was no hole in the school gymnasium floor into which I could jump, I moved along to Joe for his help. Short of saying ‘Abracadabra,’ he whisked open a curtain with a flourish uncovering what looked like the main console from the Starship Enterprise.
To my amazement, it turned out that Democracy wasn’t quite as democratic as I thought. Half of the positions for which I voted had only one candidate and for other posts the candidates seemed to belong to several parties. Robert Mugabe would love this. But I did my civic duty, America…
Once in, of course, the remodeling started. The previous owners had been here for 26 years, the husband having purchased the apartment while single. At the time they left, the couple had a 9 year old daughter sleeping on the floor of a bedroom shared with her sister. This place needed work. I was lucky enough to find a contractor who had been in the building for 8 years working his way around and he obviously knew the ropes. So we started and things went pretty smoothly despite a few suppliers who neglected to supply exactly what we had requested when we had requested it. I’ve learned a lot through this remodeling job. For instance, I now know that if anything goes wrong it is always because the walls are not level, and never the contractor’s fault. And I’ve had to learn a completely new vocabulary: contractor for builder, base boards for skirting boards, pocket door for sliding door, high hats for recessed lighting…or is it? I am now so completely confused as to which word belongs in which country that I can no longer make myself understood even to myself.
In the midst of all this we had Elections. Now here’s an admission: I had never voted before in my entire life (whose years I am not divulging). For some reason, absentee voting never appealed to me; who wants to be sitting in London and voting for Dog Catcher of Suffolk County I ask? So I toddled along to the local school and got in line prepared to own up and ask for help. As I approached the desk, the attendant peered at me and demanded, “where did you get that handbag?” Somewhat taken aback, I stuttered out my reply and, preliminaries over, moved along to my guilty admission. The attendant woman, having checked my identity and taken my John Hancock, called out in a voice akin to a waitress placing an order to a short-order cook, “Hey Joe, we have a first-timer here!” Since there was no hole in the school gymnasium floor into which I could jump, I moved along to Joe for his help. Short of saying ‘Abracadabra,’ he whisked open a curtain with a flourish uncovering what looked like the main console from the Starship Enterprise.
To my amazement, it turned out that Democracy wasn’t quite as democratic as I thought. Half of the positions for which I voted had only one candidate and for other posts the candidates seemed to belong to several parties. Robert Mugabe would love this. But I did my civic duty, America…
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