Listen up!

Waking up this morning, I was reminded how much I like the sound of rain. Not the pitter patter of drops against the window, but the other sound . . . do you know what I mean? There’s a certain low, persistent cadence, perhaps a collective of the raindrops coursing through the air. A bit of white noise. I don’t know how better to explain it; I only know I hear it, therefore it exists, and it soothes me.

This morning it was particularly noticeable; the house still, just me trying to sleep in a bit. Tim is away at a training course until this afternoon, so there was no one breathing quietly and dreaming beside me. I like getting up early when I’m on my own; Tim’s mum would say something along the lines of not missing the best part of the day. I’ll admit I was actually disappointed that it was softly drizzling; I wanted to make coffee and have it in the garden, having spent a very brief time between returning home from visiting my friend Kate in Chesham (which was brilliant—beautiful day, great conversation) and watching the World Cup at 9 pm. Fortunately it was light and warm when I did get home, and I was able to do a bit of weeding and tidying. And yes, I wanted to pause and admire my handiwork with a cuppa!

I did open the French doors to let the air in, and stood in the doorway with my coffee, watching the rain fall and bounce off the leaves of the awning of rose branches. A few yellowing tongues from the palm tree near the doors caught my eye, and so secauters in hand I went out in the light rain and trimmed. And paused. And barely felt the rain, it was so soft. It was lovely. I walked down the short path and decided to pluck a rose, drooping heavily with the evening’s rain, to put in a vase on the table.

 No one in sight, no noise but that sound of the gentle rain.

Sounds. Noise. Talk. I’ve been exposed to a lot of chatter about listening of late. It’s mostly been work related but it has had crossover to life outside the nine to five. I attended an enlightening workshop given by Dick Mullender, a former Metropolitan Police officer who spent years in hostage negotiation. What was wthe key takeaway? You need to listen (and mostly to the rambling, where key words often emerge) and not ask questions. The 150+ of us in the room all left with our new Plan B – to be a hostage negotiator! (Sixteen people got a chance to try out their skills—I didn’t volunteer—and I think all of them found it tremendously hard.) Shortly after I was introduced to a book called The Chimp Paradox. Seriously. In one sentence, the premise is that we all have an inner chimp, five times faster than our human brain, that we can learn to nurture and control before it blurts out something embarrassing. Now don’t you want to read it?

I will. Because while it’s been a glorious three years married to Mr D, I want to, as I said to Tim, add a “0” to that. (His response at doing the age calculations was, well, hopeful!) And even the best relationships need effort to thrive. (You may have noticed that.) A recent anniversary date found us at the lovely Bleeding Heart Restaurant to celebrate. I chose the Bleeding Heart because years ago when we were first courting, we were ambling about the area after having a glass of wine after work, looking for a place for dinner. Tim suggested the BH, and I’d never been and am always up for a new experience.

 In fact we sat in the same room, near the table we sat at in 2009 when we conspired over positively wonderful food and wine to go to Boulogne-sur-Mer the very next day. Decadent of us, but we were carefree and enjoyed each other’s company, so why not. It was my first trip to France outside of Paris, and I recall it was a bit chilly—it was February—but sunny and we had a marvelous time walking and talking and having lunch at Le Welsh Pub. In fact, I rummaged through my technology to find our first selfie—always ahead of the curve!

Tim and I disagree on the order of events, but the dinner and the trip in 2009 did happen and it is a fond memory for both of us.

Now four hours later the sun is trying to peek out. I’ve sent birthday wishes to two of my lovely friends Jill and Taron, eaten breakfast, have read the Telegraph, watched Andrew Marr, and texted with Mr D to enjoy the rest of his course and to shout out when he’s close to home. I think, as Anne would say, I have in fact delighted in the best part of the day, with so much more left to enjoy. And listen to. 

B is for Bureaucracy

I Googled the definition: “an excessively complicated administrative procedure.”

I’m feeling a bit wrapped in red tape at the moment. While poised to have a minor procedure done at the hospital, I was notified—via post, on the Friday before the Monday scheduled—that it would be “unfortunately postponed,” and the date the NHS has chosen  later in November doesn’t suit me. I suppose I’m mostly miffed because I carefully planned my work and social calendar around the minor procedure going forward, knowing I’d need some time away from the office. I’d sent out a note to colleagues and friends, too, only to have the time away not materialise. With other irons in the fire for the rest of this year including the other wee bit of red tape I’m wrapping my head around—my immigration status—it’s not going to be easy to find another suitable time this year. Fortunately it’s not urgent and if it rolls into 2014 I will be fine – I’m just whining because I worked hard at choosing a period that suited me professionally and personally only to be told I’ve been rescheduled. Friends have suggested I go “private,” meaning pay a small fee through my private insurance (a luxury through my company) and just do it. I’ve decided to try to save the dosh and give the NHS another chance.

I am feeling a bit overwhelmed, but only just, with the impending settlement application, aka indefinite leave to remain. It’s not the cost—I’ve been saving up—but just the administrative ladder I’ve only started to climb. I booked a Life in the UK test at the local office. The test allows 45 minutes to get 18 of 24 questions correct. £50 (prepaid, of course). Immediate results provided. I’ve had the study guide for a few weeks now and will give it another read through before the test. I find it a bit funny that I get worked up over taking these tests—I suppose it’s natural, but I still get a bit jittery thinking about having to pass; what if I get all the questions about percentages and don’t remember them? Well, seven days later (and another £50) I can always give it another go.

I also managed to successfully work the system and book a “premium” appointment to submit my application for ILR and have a same-day decision made. The posts on the internet made the possibility of securing an appointment seem dire, with people logging on at midnight to secure appointments or paying premiums to solicitors to secure an in-person session, paying an additional £200 on top of the £300 the premium appointment already commands. (The alternative is to go via the post and be sans passport for months, or secure an appointment with a settlement-checking authority which also has a small fee but allows you to keep your original passport).

I also read about how to best complete the calendar (or not) to get the date range you want. The good: it only took me a handful of tries to secure a slot. The bad: it will likely be all day long. The ugly: it’s in Croydon.

OK, so apologies to those who have a warm place in one’s heart for Croydon, but having been to Lunar House before I can say it’s simply not a lovely place to spend a day. Service mostly feels abrupt, even when you buy a sandwich at the kiosk. The seating is uncomfortable, and there is generally quite a bit of waiting around as you move from one queue to another. For my £300 there should at least be a cushion and the BBC news to keep you from becoming agitated while you wait.

I just had a thought: when you go the Shakespeare’s Globe you can rent a cushion for a £1 as all the benches are wood. Business opportunity?

Having downloaded the form several weeks ago and had a chat with Tim about locating required  accompanying documentation, I thought I’d take a walk through the 35 pages to see how prepared I was. We’ve been dutifully collecting the documents we need to “prove” that we’ve been together the last two years, and then there’s the bank statements and marriage papers and payslips that show I’m not draining the country by using public funds and I can afford to stay . . . that’s the easy part, more or less (I bank electronically so have had to request previous statements, and we don’t get payslips anymore but we do have access to them online). The interesting part will come when Tim and I have to agree on when we became a couple, LOL. It’s not that complicated, but as we were friends for a bit while Tim was “showing me around London,” as he likes to say, the inevitable question of when did that change needs to be penned in and put to memory, just in case we’re interviewed separately in Croydon. I’d hate to get that wrong and walk away £1346 pounds lighter and with no visa stamped in my passport. (I really don’t think that would happen, by the way; we don’t look the type to be passing off a sham marriage.)

I dusted off my 2009 diary and looked for clues for that date. Don’t get me wrong—I do remember the weekend well, just not the exact date. (Tim doesn’t remember either.) I see Tim’s name scribbled on a few Fridays in February and March, along with dinners with friends and other social engagements. There are a few options, but I am settling on 27 February as something in my mind says it was not quite March.

I quite enjoyed the stroll back in time, glad that I kept the calendar. I don’t keep many things, but I held on to my diaries in the event I had to list the days I was not in the UK—I recall my first immigration meeting when I was told it would be good to keep track of all of my days away from the UK—you’re only allowed so many during your residency when applying for citizenship. One’s passport is a good record, but sometimes I can’t make heads or tails of those stamps!

Rain at the Welsh, church to right

That brief travel back in time found me looking at the date of my first trip to Boulogne, France, with Tim  in March of 2009. We recently took a return trip to buy some inexpensive French wine, have a stroll around town, and have a different view of the sea. We have a regular stopping point at the Welsh Pub, in the centre of town and steps away from the church of St Nicolas. It’s nice to sit outside, but on this Saturday afternoon it rained and we were happy to be dry and indoors sipping our rose and feasting on large bowls of moules. For the first time I can recall we saw a wedding at the church, and in a later stroll that day saw the bride and groom being photographed sur la mer.

Since we took the car on the ferry we had the opportunity to travel out a bit and see some of the neighbouring area. When buying postcards in Boulogne, Tim took note of one of the beaches that looked lovely—Hardelot plage—and on Sunday morning, owing to my desire to have a long walk on any beach, we found ourselves there. It was quiet initially, though by the time we were headed back to the car there were many more people and animals of all ages strolling with us.

Hardelot is a very quiet town this time of year—most of the hotels and apartments facing the beach were vacant, and there are no shops open along the stretch of sand—small wooden huts that probably sell glacee or drinks were shuttered. It didn’t matter; we were there to walk and relax and that we did, taking in kite surfers, kite flyers and “sand yachts”—low-seated plastic vehicles on wheels with a sail to scoot along the beach. There were even a few horses occupying the sand, which went on for miles, with us. I was amazed at the surfers, using rectangular kites strapped to harnesses around their waists, riding the waves on short surfboards with no foot binding. Everyone I saw was fit, and I could see why—when on land, the wind was pulling the surfers along with the kite as harness was still attached, and I could see how some of them had to fight to stay grounded!

We had a wonderful weekend—walking, relaxing, and eating at local brassieres we just wandered into (rather than researched). I’ll admit I wouldn’t recommend the hotel we stayed at—it was clean, and the petit dejeuner was quite nice with fresh croissants, yogurt, fruit, and good coffee—but it was a bit worn at the edges. The shower was set inside a very small tub that had a built-in seat making for very little standing room. Tim mentioned some loose springs in the bed, too. There are certainly other hotels in the area that are far nicer for just a few euro more.

On our return journey to England the weather suddenly became turbulent and we had to sit for a bit on the ferry while the wind shifted enough for the captain to get us safely docked. While waiting we had the delight of seeing a double rainbow. How’s that for a fitting end to a lovely weekend?

And, before I forget and while I’m in French mode . . . we said au revoir to Maggie, the Little Blue Peugeot Who Could . . . Almost. Well, to be fair she only let me down occasionally, but it was enough to not feel terribly confident in driving even on the less hectic Isle of Wight—if she even started (or didn’t stall). The car was purchased as an experiment to see how often we’d use it, and whether it was truly worthwhile to have when most of the time it would sit idly, sometimes for weeks. She proved to be a good little vehicle, hauling ropes and sails and ladders and even doors in her interior. But I wanted something to be used in the winter, and be reliable, and sadly Maggie wasn’t the one.

Meet Roux (French for redhead) . . . several years younger and with far fewer miles under her hood, I think she’ll prove a very reliable replacement. Maggie is off to auction, probably worth slightly more than the £200 the garage gave me to take her in part exchange. Roux the Renault is in fine shape inside and out, and she drives quite nicely. Most important, the Clio fits snugly into the small parking space in the mews. She’s had a few short outings and I suspect with Coh Karek spending her winter in the marina she will have a few more. There is so much to see on the interior of the Isle of Wight that’s not necessarily accessible by foot or bicycle or bus, and I’m looking forward to doing some of that exploration in the winter months.

Now I’m off to study for my test . . . do you know what percentage of the population of Great Britain belongs to England? J

Remembering . . . France

One of the many things I've come to love about being in Europe is the ease and relatively minor expense to travel to other countries.When I lived in America, I used to think it was rather exotic to go to France--but when you live in England, well, it's a hop, skip and a jump away. And you can go by car! Well, I suppose you can travel to another country by car from the US--I did go to Canada that way, and there's also Mexico . . . but having lived on the east coast with hundreds of miles away from either of those foreign borders, there's a little bit of a thrill in whipping out a passport while seated in a short queue after a relatively short journey.

 

Tim and I had talked for months about taking a trip to France this summer--perhaps Mirepoix (yes, there is a place named after my cat . . . ) or the wine country, or, well, just anywhere to get away for a quick cheap break and see a different area of the country. I was pressing the issue because I was holding on to my US passport waiting for the trip before taking any action to change my name or request additional pages from the embassy, and Tim finally got fed up listening to me (LOL) and went online searching for accommodation and booking a slot on the Euro tunnel from Dover to Calais--a weekend away, first to Boulogne for a pit stop (where we'd been before) and then on to Caen and, to commemorate 9/11, to Omaha Beach in the Normandy region.

 

Yes, I know Normandy isn't New York and some people didn't "get" the significance of being in an American cemetery on 9/11 in a foreign country when I mentioned how I'd spend my weekend, but I thought it was a lovely idea and was really chuffed that Tim and I were going. As I said, we'd been to Boulogne before--very early in our relationship, but that was a quick day trip (the ferry from Dover is only 35 minutes and the ride from London to Dover about 90 minutes--not all that different from travelling to Cowes). This time we'd spend overnight in Boulogne before making the three-hour journey by car to Caen.

 

View from our hotel--wonderful architecture!

I must say we lucked out with the weather--it was warm and positively summery on Friday when we arrived, settled our bags at the Metropole, and then took a stroll. The hotel we were staying at is situated along the strip where cheese and wine merchants were selling goods--not hawking, but more subtly watching passersby who gave them a glance of interest and then asking if monsieur or madame would like a taste of Chablis? The aroma of cheese was strong along the narrow sidewalk, and I loved it. We dropped our bags but had to move the car into the hotel's garage, and promised the vendor in the stall just outside the Metropole that we'd come back for a taste, and so we did. He was gracious--speaking in French with Tim that he'd come from Burgundy and pointing out on the map he had on display where his wines were from. We tried two Chablis and a sauvignon blanc, and after a bit of thought purchased the sauvignon because it was my favourite and Tim is not much of a white wine drinker. Our first 6 euros spent!

 

Onward to stroll before dinner. We first walked around the center of town and then decided we'd revisit the restaurant we'd been to when we first went to Boulogne together, called the Welsh Pub. I wanted to sit outside--it was still a bit light out at 8 pm and the air was still warm, and I am a great fan of al fresco dining. Our waiter who said he did not speak English was a bit, well, abrupt, but he still managed to be helpful; Tim's French is more than adequate whereas mine is limited to the standard phrases. We ordered drinks first, then decided to stay for dinner and enjoyed a lovely meal at the foot of the cathedral. It was a glorious night--it may not be Paris, but it was tres romantique. And I had the best seat in the house--looking at the cathedral, under a full moon, across the table from my beau mari.

 

On Saturday we started our drive into the Normandy region, making stops at Juno Beach, site where the Canadians landed on D-Day, and then a few lovely small coastal towns that were simply quaint--little shops, beautiful coastline, wonderful views from bluffs. I really loved Arromanches, with its artificial harbour that protected the World War II landings of some half a million men and a quarter of a million vehicles. Two of the huge concrete structures were built in Britain and then submerged in rivers away from the sight of German aircraft, and towed across the English Channel as the invasion began--brilliant.

 

We were staying in yet another port town--Caen--which had me inwardly laughing about how I seem to find myself by the sea most weekends. The harbour had some lovely sailboats, and around midday we found a little restaurant called L'Universe with outdoor seating and plunked down for food and conversation. I adored the little pichet of rose--when in France, I am compelled to have a glass of rose in the daylight hours. The food was generous--I ordered a salad with chicken and Emmentaler and it was accompanied by a light wine vinegar and olive oil dressing--more of what is known in "French" dressing, unlike the ketchup and vinegar concoction of America. The coffee afterwards was outstanding--I must say in most places we had coffee during the weekend was absolutely delicious, the exception being the adequate machine-made cafe au lait at the hotel in Caen.

 

We wiled away the afternoon hours walking around town and also, of course, shopping for inexpensive Bordeaux at the local Carrefour (which is the French equivalent to a large supermarket) and found lovely bottles between 4 and 6 euros--really. I was happy to see some Lalande-de-Pomerol, and Tim grabbed a few from the region of St Emilion, which has always been a favourite.

 

It was another lovely evening, too, and we found ourselves strolling in town for a place to eat, again hopefully al fresco. We'd been through the central district earlier and had seen the line-up of restaurants that reminded me a bit of the main drag in Miami where the menus are all on display and the occasional hawker comes to lure you in. It was just starting to rain, and nothing really grabbed me; I was looking for some seafood choices but hadn't seen a menu or a place to eat outside that I wanted. We walked beyond the main street and spotted a small place with outdoor tables just a short distance from the crowd--and now that the drizzle had turned to more of a downpour it almost became our destination by default.  But what a find! The service was lovely, the food was delicious, and the atmosphere positively wonderful. We lingered over a pichet of rose, of course, and had some lovely French cheeses (chevre, Camembert--first made in Normandy in the 18th century--and brie). It was dark by now and we took a short stroll before heading back to our hotel for the evening, just a short drive out of the centre of Caen.

 

On the morning of 9/11 we set off to Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery--something I'd wanted to see, and also as a commemoration for the day. As with the cemetery near Champagne that Tim and I visited last March, it is a solemn, slightly overwhelming place. You are suddenly caught a bit breathless at the sheer number of identical marble crosses, here spread across the 172-acre landscape, dotted with wide, conically-shaped trees and on a perfectly manicured green lawn. There are statues, and curved walls describing the conflict, and waves of Omaha Beach lap below, beautiful and calm, as the backdrop. American flags were flying at half mast to note the day; the cemetery, even early, was busy with tourists, perhaps relatives, perhaps people like me who felt that they wanted to be somewhere significant on the ten-year anniversary of an appalling, unforgettable event in American history.

 

In front of a flag at half mast.

 I don't know why, but I find myself looking for markers that denote a soldier from New Jersey. There is no geographical grouping in the massive, perfectly ordered rows of crosses and Jewish stars--a New Jerseyan is next to a Texan is next to a Nebraskan. I spent some time looking down at Omaha Beach from the cemetery; the sea, this day, was quiet and grey from the bluff. 9,387 Americans are buried at the cemetery, and walking from cross to cross so many died on D-Day or within weeks of the 6th of June, 1944. Two of President Theodore Roosevelt's sons are buried there--one of them a victim of World War I and the only soldier from that war to be buried there. I was noting how many soldiers died on D-Day--estimates are anywhere from 2,500 to 5,000 on the actual day. What isn't noted in the cemetery, and is probably lost to most people, is that 19,000 civilians in the Normandy region died during World War II. That certainly brings home for me the juxtaposition of D-Day with 9/11: tragedies for civilians beyond anyone's comprehension, and yet, there it is in black and white: war on home soil.

 

As solemn as the end of the journey to France was, it was all wonderful, and I am grateful to have seen the beaches, and had a moment of contemplation for the events. I was sorry to have missed the reading of the names of those who lost their lives in the WTC attack; I did go through the AM and FM channels on the car radio as we were heading back, to no avail. No matter; I have said my silent prayers.

 

Rows of crosses at Omaha beach.

And I contributed a short piece for my department's newsletter about 9/11: while ten years has finally brought the memorial to New York City, it has also brought a piece of the World Trade Center to Britain. Home to 67 of those who perished on 9/11, Britain is the first country in Europe to be given a fragment from the WTC. The sculpture, "After 9/11" by New York artist Miya Ando, is constructed of steel from the fallen towers. It has a temporary home in Battersea Park while a permanent location is yet to be finalised. This month also marked the launch of the 9/11 London Project Foundation, whose aims include teaching schoolchildren about the legacy of the attacks a decade ago.  

 

I found it quite comforting that my adopted home has embraced the tragedy that occurred on different soil; it puts meaning to the term "special relationship" Great Britain and the United States use to describe our political liaison.