Hot and Cold

A bit of our lovely new garden

I'm writing this whilst blissfully enjoying a patch of warm sunshine on the lawn.  It's about time.  British weather, ever a topic of conversation amongst the locals, has truly challenged me this spring.  Coming from Portland, where the rains close in sometime around the end of October and don't let up again until, say, June - I thought I was prepared for British weather.  I'm not one to complain much anyway.

After a crisp dry February and truly lovely and unseasonably warm March, the Southeast of England had to declare a drought condition and instill a hosepipe ban.  The irony is, about 10 days later it began to rain and it didn't stop for about 6 weeks.  I follow the Thames to work and each morning it got a little higher until it threatened to overspill the bank.  The nearby public footpath became a nearly impassable bog, and yet I still can't rinse my car with a hose. Worse than the rain, it was just so. damn. cold.

Let me first say, I'm generally not even sure, officially, how warm or cold it is around here.  I don't know how to judge temperatures stated in Celsius.  I'm confounded by a country that measures its distance in miles and its beer in pints, but goes all metric when it comes to stating the temperature.  I think it's some kind of conspiracy.  A conspiracy happily joined by my husband, who is perennially hot-blooded and gleefully took the opportunity to declare that 15 degrees is a perfectly legitimate maximum for the thermostat.  I had to look it up, but that is only 59 degrees!!

For weeks temperatures (outside) struggled to reach the mid-50s and I was in a semi-hypothermic state.  Having lived through a couple of Oregon winters with only a woodstove for heat - and that only making one room in the house truly comfortable, I'm no stranger to cold.  But I was completely caught off guard by frigid depth of the bone-chilling cold that crept into me and refused to be dislodged.  I ran a space heater under my desk at work, showered twice a day to try to drive the chill away and spent most of my time at home huddled under blankets and cradling a hot water bottle.

Last week, I'd had my fill and decided it was finally time to start bitching in earnest about the weather.  As the lovely Helen pointed out, at least that meant I was officially becoming a Brit.  And then two days ago (cue the chorus of angels and shining beams of light) the sun not only came out, but the temperatures suddenly soared to the upper 20s (that's low to mid 80s in real money).  I've been lovely and warm through and through.

Brits celebrated for all of about half an hour.  And then promptly began complaining that it was too hot.  Well, at least they're never short of something to talk about.

Ease on down the road? Not so much.

Do you know what the hardest thing about moving to England has been for me?  It's not the rat hole, or the fact that we're moving this weekend (again!) and have to load and unload (again!) all our worldly possessions,* it's not even $8/gallon gasoline.  It's driving.  The simple act of getting in a car and conveying myself from point A to point B - something I've been doing, even enjoying for over two decades.  When I had a convertible, there were few things I relished more than dropping the top, cranking the tunes, and carving up the lanes on a sunny day.  Road trips were an adventure - the journey was the destination.

* and by we, I of course mean D.  The man is a moving machine.

But now, the car is my nemesis.  If had only to learn the rules of British roads, it would be fine.  If I had only to learn to shift the transmission with my left hand instead of my right, it would be fine.  But the act of trying to do both, it stymies me.  The sheer concentration required to ensure that I'm shifting into the right gear and not jamming it into reverse or 2nd rather than 4th whilst monitoring the pertinent traffic approaching the roundabouts.  As D reminds me, I have to not only get comfortable on the roads, I have to pass a driving test.  So I need to develop good driving habits - not just get by.  And now, I question and second guess every little decision.  Did I shift up too soon? Shift down too late? Brake too hard? Signal too early? Turn too hastily in front of oncoming traffic? Block traffic for too long waiting to turn? Pull out at the roundabout too aggressively? Too timidly? Push the accelerator too hard to achieve optimum fuel economy? (The car, the tattling little brat, has a computer that reports on my sins in that area.)  The required concentration and resulting stress of a journey in the car is enough to make me want to abandon the effort entirely.

For those that have done this before with little concern or effort, my frustration probably sounds trite or silly.  "How hard can it be?" these fortunate souls ask, to which I can only answer, "You have no idea."

"Learning to drive" again after two decades of doing it as second nature is bad enough.  Not having the ability to jump in the car and just go is so much worse now than it was when I was peering over the precipice of adulthood, chafing at a lack freedom and independence before I'd ever really tasted it.

I need to stone up and just do this already before it develops into a full fledged phobia - but I never dreamt it would be so hard.

Finding my voice

If ever there was a time to blog, when you might have something engaging and interesting to say, when those you love are far, far away and really want to hear it, one might think it would be when you embark upon the adventure of an overseas move.  I was determined to chronicle the Long Journey - and recounted the story to up until the point we checked in to our hotel for a few days stopover in Iceland.  And then nothing.

I wanted to do that little bit of heaven justice - with photos and descriptions of how marvelous our time in Iceland was.  To tell of how a jet-lagged walk to the 24 hour supermarket in the wee hours led D to discover one of the most exceptional displays of the Northern Lights, rarely visible from within the bounds of Reykjavik's city lights (and I was fortunate he sprinted back to the room to wake me up to enjoy it too). To convey, with ironic humour, the seriousness with which D mooted the idea of emigrating to Iceland before I'd even set foot on British soil with my newly-minted settlement visa. But the business of settling into the UK took over my energies, and my dogged determination to tell the story with some kind of chronological sense stopped me in my authorial tracks.

So here we are.  There is loads to tell - if only to keep those that care about me in the loop - and I best just get on with it.

England has been amazing and terrible all at once.  We've been here three months this past week and I still feel unsettled due to a rough bit of luck with respect to our living accommodation.  We had rented a cottage, based on the virtue of pictures and a couple of phone conversations with the landlord who claimed it had just been fully renovated.  It appeared ideal.  A semi-rural village on the outskirts of Windsor.  The charming little cottage, set on a 13-acre gated equestrian property, next to a large house with lovely manicured gardens, a swimming pool, and plenty of parking (always a plus in England).

Our landlord seemed kind - concerned that we would be comfortable during the five-week period before the shipping container arrived, when we'd be living there on the floor with nothing but the suitcases permitted by the airline baggage allowance.  He invited us around for a drink and during the course of the evening offered us free access to his apartment in the South of France, should we ever want a holiday there.  He's a very old, very lonely man whose face would light up if we happened to wave to him in passing.

Yes, it seemed ideal, and for the first three weeks, life in England was indeed pleasant.  We explored Windsor, enjoying lovely views of the castle during evening ambles along the Thames, delighting in the knowledge that we weren't mere touristas here, we actually get to enjoy it full time.  The cast iron lion that serves as a door knocker made me smile whenever I arrived back at our new home.

There were a few niggles.  Take, for instance, the fact that the floors we were sleeping, eating, lounging, living on were absolutely covered in a layer of fine dog hair.  The carpets the landlord claimed had been professionally cleaned: upon showing him the problem, did our landlord offer to get the job done right?  No, he did not.  So it took D over two solid, full-time days of painstaking vacuuming to make them passably clean.  Further, the oven didn't work, the fridge compressor leaked, and one of the shelves in the newly fitted kitchen cabinets was missing its mounting pins (halving the storage capacity therein).  To top it all off there was evidence of rodent infestation in the closets.  We patiently submitted a list of items to be addressed, at which point the landlord started giving D the names of contractors and asking him to sort it out.  Having just completed the exhausting renovation of a home we actually owned, the injustice of having to take on the landlord's job in a place we've rented started to feel a bit unfair.

Then came the Sunday morning when the power in the cottage suddenly went out as D was preparing brunch.  After a bunch of diagnostic trips to the fuse box, we determined the water heater was the cause and went next door to inform the landlord.  He asked if he needed to get someone to deal with it that very day.  Magnanimously, we said, "No, that would cost too much - tomorrow is fine."  Loyal readers, we were without hot water for 13 days.  And, ironically, the plumber insisted on doing the work on a weekend, so we were forced to cancel our plans to go away in order to accommodate him because we were so desperate to just effing have it fixed already.

It took a well over month to get the pest controller in to review the rodent problem, and when he did arrive, he pointed out that not only were there mice in the closets, but the attic in the bathroom extension was literally carpeted in rat shit.  (Oh yes, and that the power shower unit up there was leaking, so the landlord had it switched off without telling us.) The exterminator spoke to the landlord about the remedial actions required, and on a return visit when nothing was addressed, he advised us that we were perfectly within our legal rights to move out and strongly recommended that we do so.

Meanwhile, our container had arrived and, unwilling to unpack when we had made the decision to break the lease, we were now living essentially in a storage unit with paths leading through the boxes.  We commenced the soul-destroying effort of finding another place to live, which consumed another month of our weekends.  The halcyon days of our first few weeks were replaced by a frustration, bordering on anger, that life has to be this much effing hassle.

Au revoir, Leo, you're the only thing
I'll miss around here.

But fear not, my faithful friends.  Things are looking up.  Last weekend, after having had a number of promising properties rented out from under us before we could even see them, we secured (through a bit of luck) a detached cottage to rent.  It is set in a picture-postcard village of Tudor houses set around a 12th-century church and we're excited to be moving in next weekend.  We are very much looking forward to beginning what we hope to be a much more settled and content existence.

I've loads more to tell you about my new life in England, but I shall leave that for another time.  Thanks for reading, my lovelies, and for all your support and encouragement.

The Long Journey, Part the Second (Notes from the Road)

Continuing the chronicle of our move from Portland to England...

We left Portland on a stormy Friday - all week there had been snow, then ice, then we were deluged with rain and wind.  The unusual weather kind of reflected how my life felt while in the throes of the move.

* * *

We leave everything to the last minute, it seems.  Despite completion of the herculean task of packing the shipping container on the previous weekend, when the day of departure came, it felt like we would never be done emptying and cleaning the house.  Which we finally were... two hours later than planned, of course.

* * *

We received a call about an hour before we drove away for the final time noting that the counter offer to the buyers' counter offer to our prior counter offer had been accepted.  We were going to sell our house!!!

In the chaos of the moment, it was an anti-climax that barely registered at the time.

* * *

Leaving the keys on the counter, closing the door, realizing that was is it - we really couldn't go back and do just one more thing.  Our time at the little shack on the prairie was over.  Very strange feeling.

* * *

We were driving to Seattle for our flight departure the next day, normally a 3.5 hour trip.  It took two hours in truly horrible traffic, and even worse weather, just to move 35 miles across the city to drop off our rental car.  It felt like Portland didn't want to let us go.

* * *

The friends (to whom we will be eternally grateful) that we planned to stay with overnight in Seattle told us they hadn't had electricity at home for over two days due to even worse storms up there.  However, we were welcome to stay if we didn't mind flushing the toilet with a bucket.  We booked a hotel instead and arranged to meet them for breakfast the next morning.

* * *

About 30 minutes from the end of our now nearly 6-hour drive, we received a call from the hotel.  They'd just lost power too.  We were welcome to stay... if we didn't mind flushing the toilet with a bucket. (I wish I was joking.) We booked another hotel.

* * *

Despite the fact that the Seattle airport had been all but closed two days earlier (due to ice), we lifted off on Saturday afternoon after an uneventful trip to the airport and a smooth-as-silk check in of the two suitcases each that we would be living out of for the next six weeks.  I heart Iceland Air.

* * *

We touched down in Reykjavik at 6:30 am local time (11:30 pm Pacific).  The frigid Icelandic sky was black as ink, with not even a hint of dawn.  I'd never been this far north before.

* * *

We rode the packed, but silent coach to the bus terminal, and transferred to a minibus for the drive to the hotel.  By now, it was 8:30 am.  The sky was still completely black.  There was no one on the street and few lights on in the houses. It was quieter than Portland at three in the morning.  Eerie, almost.

* * *

D and I asked the coach driver when people tended to get up and head to work in winter, since the mornings were so dark.  "Sometime after nine," he told us.  We glanced at the time and asked, "Where is everybody, then?"  He looked at us like we were daft and said, "It's Sunday!" (The residents of Reykjavik have a reputation for partying hard - very hard - on the weekend, and need a nice lie-in.)

D and I had both been under the exhaustion-addled impression that it was Monday already.  It hardly seemed possible that it was only Sunday morning, given all that we had experienced so far.

* * *

We were staying at a little non-chain hotel where one needed a pass-code to enter the building.  No one was at the front desk to let us in when we were dropped off.  It was about 30F (-1C).  We were stranded on a empty street, with our pile of luggage... hungry, cold and nowhere to go.  After waiting around for 20 minutes, I was swiftly losing any shred of humor or poise I had left.

* * *

Eventually we were let into the hotel to check our bags, but couldn't check in early.  We left in search of someplace, any place, to get some food.  After a half hour of aimless and increasingly resentful (on my part) wandering, we finally settled into the corner booth at a bakery that had only just opened its doors for the day.  We had endless hot drinks and pastries for several hours - which did wonders to improve my mood - before we gratefully checked into the hotel and collapsed into bed for a nap.

(to be continued)

The Long Journey, Part the First

When last we left our heroine, she was mourning the fact that her birthday weekend was going to be spent packing her life into a shipping container...

It looked enormous - four feet off the ground (with no ramp!), 20 feet long, 8 feet high and just as wide.  A big empty box waiting for every nearly every possession we have, whether precious or mundane, to be packed onto it in the space of three days.  By ourselves.  And we'd barely made a dent in the boxing and packing in the house.  Our moves are always like this.  Too particular to trust the packing and moving to professionals, too proud to ask for help, we leave it to the last minute and confidently insist that we can "do by self" as the toddlers are wont to say.

The container was dropped off on a Friday evening and was due be picked up the following Monday.  Two days, three nights.  D was sure that the container was more than enough to swallow what was left of our possessions after countless trips to Goodwill and the dump.  How hard could it be?

We had no idea.

Fortunately, we have two very dear friends that practically insisted that we needed their help.  They packed up their two children and their two dogs and all the extra moving blankets and packing tape they had lying around from their recent cross-country move and drove nearly two hundred miles from Seattle for the weekend.  Boy are we lucky they did because, seriously, the job would have been impossible - wait let me all-caps that - IMPOSSIBLE to complete without them.

After two very long days and two very late nights and nearly 3,000 linear feet of stretch wrap, we got the job done, just.  And we still had to leave behind more than we planned.  D was a machine... he and our friend S carried everything to the truck and then D fit it all together with the finesse of a world-class jigsaw champion.  In doing so, he lifted nearly every item we own no less than twice, often three times or more.

S was the king of stretch wrap - have you ever used this stuff?  We encased nearly everything in this industrial plastic film to ensure it was secure, watertight and sticky enough to be fit together in a big block that won't slide around at sea.  S quickly developed a two-man technique and stretch-wrapped like it would earn him time off for good behavior.

My friend R was a rock.  She's a packing genius and systematically reduced all the random things laying around our house to neat packages for the boys to heave out.  She made me laugh, provided critical moral support at a particularly low moment when I was exhausted and convinced we'd never be done, and generally reminded me why she's one of my best friends in the world.  And I'm very glad it was a dear friend packing up my things, because one revelation I had that weekend was this: if you are going to let someone help pack up your life, you want them to be either a chosen sister who won't judge your housekeeping or the ridiculous detritus of your life... or a stranger you will never see again.

What did I do?  Ostensibly, I was directing the efforts inside the house while D manned the trailer, but I'm not entirely sure I was much use. The weekend is all a big, mentally exhausted blur.  But Monday morning, we finally shut the door on the container and waited for the trucking company to come haul it away.

The truck driver was brilliant, assuring us about the security of our shipment while D (in his own words) "clucked about like a mother hen."  This was our entire life packed in the giant box and it feels a bit weird to watch it be hauled off for a 15,000 mile, months-long journey by sea.  It had started to snow and I went inside as the container was pulled off the drive.

A few minutes later, D still hadn't come in.  I went outside to find him looking into the distance as the driver gingerly negotiated the potholes on our long country road.  He watched until the trailer finally pulled out of view.  Then we turned and went into the strangely sad, nearly empty house that was still going to be home for four more days.

But the journey was begun.

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Happy Effin' Birthday

It's my birthday today.  13 is my lucky number and a birthday on Friday the 13th is just cool.

I've scheduled this post for the precise minute when I was born all those {ahem} years ago, adjusted for time zone effects and all.

That's about all the acknowledgment my birthday's going to get from me this year.  The monstor move has taken over our lives.  In fact, I got myself a 20 ft shipping container for my birthday.  That's how I roll, and I hope there's a big effin' pink bow on it when it shows up on the drive this afternoon.  Kind of like those cheesy Lexus commercials for Christmas.

Not that it hurts my feelings if my birthday doesn't happen.

If a birthday candle is lit in the forest and no one is around to see it, does one turn another year older?

I don't think so.