The Last Post

This is the 99th and very last post from Life in the LA Bubble.  To those regular readers this is of course an epilogue, whilst for those catching it for the very first time it will always be the introduction.

Three years ago in the summer of 2009 my husband commenced a work assignment in Pasadena, just north of Los Angeles; my teenage daughter and I moved from  our rural home on the south coast of England to join him in the sunshine of California.

I was very much a reluctant alien, uprooted and transplanted, left to survive in a hostile environment,  learning to adapt and acclimitise.  I started this blog when I found myself at odds and struggling to cope with what at many times seemed the illogical and slightly surreal way of life that is LA. I missed my family, my friends, my British home comforts.

Three years on and we are now back in the UK.  My husband is about to commence another work assignment in the deserts of Saudi Arabia, whilst the teenager and I are safely cocooned back in England.

Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read my posts, especially those who have made comments, either on line or to me personally.  It is very much appreciated.

Life in the LA Bubble will hopefully remain floating in cyber-space for the foreseeable future; a permanent record of our trials and tribulations in LA, as well as providing a handful of helpful hints for prospective US immigrants. To anyone about to set out on such an adventure I wish good luck.  Pack a good dose of patience, a great sense of humour, an open mind and you will be fine.  If I can do it - anyone can do it.

Homecoming

They always say be careful what you wish for.  Well what did I wish for? To feel the rain on my face and the wind in my hair and so naturally it hasn't stopped raining or blowing or a gale for the whole of our first week back in the UK.

What else did I say I was looking forward to? A stroll to the pub.  Well my feet have hardly touched the ground since we got back  we've been so busy, but when they did touch the ground they came into contact with a packing case.  The result? Something that suspiciously looks and feels like a broken toe. I just about managed to hobble the ten minute walk to the local on Wednesday - the only shoes I can comfortably wear are a pair of sparkly white flipflops.  Ideal for around a sunny pool in LA but hardly suitable attire for the soggy British countryside.

So yes we are just about settled into our new home; the teenager is terrified by the thought of having to learn to drive along the narrow country lanes; the husband is dreading the prospect of having to tackle all that DIY and I'm desperately seeking storage solutions for all our possessions.  The new house is already full and we are still awaiting the arrival of the shipping container.

When it comes to sociability however, the Brits have won hands down.  In the few days since we moved in we have already met three of our new neighbours - one who introduced herself to complain about some loose guttering, another who continually parks across our drive, and the third who welcomed us to the road with a bottle of red wine - he's obviously our favourite!!

As for the LA Bubble, well it's the end of an era. Our bubble didn't so much  burst as evaporate; dissolve.  It's amazing what you get used to and human beings are remarkably resilient creatures.  I'm sure we'll all adapt pretty quickly to our new life in the UK -  we'll probably have developed webbed feet by this time next week.

So its' over - that lazy Californian lifestyle.  It was good whilst it lasted although I would never have thought I'd be saying that when  I set out on our overseas adventure three years ago.  For the first twelve months of living in the US I would have willingly come home at the drop of a hat; the feelings of culture shock, home-sickeness and loneliness were overwhelming.  No I never got to grips with a new way of life, the dream often seemed like a nightmare, and I know I'll never understand the American psyche. Two and a Half Men is just not funny.

But I've visited some awe-inspiring places, and I've met some great people; I've travelled to parts of the world I'd only ever read about, and have made some genuine new friends.  I don't feel I've moved back to the UK- I feel I've moved on. We have all changed. I never used to do thrills and spills, especially not at great height or great speed, but life in the LA Bubble was certainly one roller coaster ride I wouldn't have missed for the world, although I'm not quite sure I'll be joining the queue to do it again.......

Packed

The bags are packed and we’re ready to go.

Two years, eight months and five days (honestly I haven’t been counting) since our arrival in the US and it’s time to leave.

Of course we’re all a bit sad – especially the teenager – to be leaving our new friends and the rather luxurious lifestyle to which we’ve all become accustomed.  It’s back to public transport for the teenager after a whirlwind romance with the car, and I’m going to miss my self-indulgent routine of gym, swimming pool, lazy lunches and idyllic morning walks in the mountain foothills. 

Of course what I’ve lacked most, and what I crave most now, is intellectual stimulation.  I am not cut out to be a housewife.  I have tried to become a lady of leisure and feel I have failed, plagued by that guilty feeling that I should be doing something more useful. Yes I tried to read the classics in an attempt at self-improvement;  I  ploughed my way through the teenager’s English Honours reading list in an effort to at least look intelligent as I sat around the pool. 

There were many times when I felt I lacked a purpose.  I was  an appendage – my husband had to come here to work and I came along for the ride.  I wasn’t useful to anyone.  I was supposed to be the home-maker but there were many times when I couldn’t even manage to put dinner on the table; flummoxed by something so mundane as the grocery shopping. Of course now I think, heck this is America, who needs to cook, let’s just eat out or get a take-away!

One of the things I struggled with most was that feeling of not fitting in. I missed my old friendships; I longed for uninhibited conversations with people I’d known since the year dot and who knew me warts and all.  Americans are very good at talking to complete strangers, unburdening themselves; I just didn’t feel comfortable divulging my innermost secrets to the check-out assistant at Ralphs.

I tried to involve myself in American culture; I dabbled with my voluntary work, I enjoyed my gardening but the school mom thing just didn’t feel right.  I admitted defeat and started this blog. It became my lifeline - the friend who listened to me, who understood my accent. And of course I did make real friends in the end; friends who I am really going to miss.

One thing I have learned is that writing not only keeps the brain cells ticking over, it’s a cathartic experience; it’s great therapy. So when I get back to the UK I really am going to write that book.  I'm planning a comic tale, entirely based on historical fact, about a charming young (okay middle-aged) English woman who comes to Los Angeles for three years, discovers she is totally incompatible with American culture and very slowly, but in the nicest possible way, goes mad.  I think I’ve just about finished my research….

Looking Forward

What am I looking forward to most about returning to the UK? Well it goes without saying catching up with friends and family! Skype is a great thing but it lacks that touchy feely-ness.  I want to give Daughter No 1 a hug and  I can’t.  She skypes us when she’s tired at the end of a hectic day and just about to go to bed; I’m full of beans and having my morning cup of tea. We can’t even text each other spontaneously.

Buying things in small quantities. This will be good – grocery supplies can only be purchased in Mormon sized quantities over here.  I’m not sure how people who live on their own cope - they either eat out all the time – highly likely, or they end up throwing vast quantities of food away.  Things definitely do not come in small packages. I wanted to buy just enough I can’t believe It’s not Butter type spread to get us through our final week – but ended up buying a bucketful of the stuff instead. What do old people do? Back in the UK my mother lives on her own in a very small flat with a very small fridge.  If she lived over here she’d never be able to buy anything small enough to fit in it.

I’d like to think I’m getting my husband back – although I wont because he’s off to the desert for six week stints, but at least when he’s home, hopefully he’ll have something else to think about besides work.  Americans are very work orientated and our life here has totally revolved around the job.  Americans have far less employee rights than in Europe, work longer hours and have less holidays. With additional benefits such as health insurance are tied into your job, it pays to stay on the right side of your employer and show as much commitment as you can; that blackberry is never switched off.


My husband's American colleagus think he's laid back. I think I lost Mr Laid Back half way across the Atlantic. Without the distraction of extended family and a wide circle of friends, everything has become very  focused on work, but hopefully once safely back in the UK he’ll have hobbies and interests to take up – we’ll have a house to follow and a garden to potter in. Living in rented accommodation for the last nearly 3 years has seriously curtailed the DIY activities.  I can paint walls; dig holes in the garden.  He can cut his own grass and wash his own car – no one does that here. The close proximity of the Mexican border provides a ready supply of graduates from Mexico's abundance of horticultural colleges, cleaning and car washing academies - leaving your average American with far more time to - yes you've guessed it - go to work!

It’s taken me nearly three years to get used to writing the date month first – now I can go back to doing what comes naturally! I’ve only just stopped converting everything from dollars to pounds in my head – now I’ll probably find myself doing the reverse. No more battles with spellchecker, omitting my u’s and inter-changing s and z. I can ask for a cup of tea when I'm out happily knowing it will come with milk not a lemon slice and when I need the loo I wont need to politely pretend I need a bath or a rest. There’ll be no need for a calculator to work out what correct gratuity to leave – in fact in many places no need to tip at all! What a relief!

What else am I looking forward to? Fresh air; no freeway noise; no helicopters constantly buzzing about overhead; no layer of black grime coating everything left outside; no sugar in bread; no air con.  I can peg my washing out.  The NHS.  Commercial free radio and TV – pure bliss!  Marks & Spencer; walking to the pub; and yes, I'm even relishing the thought of stepping outside in the rain and feeling the wind blowing through my hair - but only for a couple of days please...

At least going back in June we will have time to get used to the British weather before the worst sets in - we'll have acclimitised by the autumn, or as this had to be translated to an American friend, we'll have acclimated by the Fall.

Quite looking forward to getting back to people who speak the same language too! ;-)

Bad Habits

Earlier this week I found myself telling my hairdresser her skirt was cute - what has happened to me?

Cute and awesome – the two mainstay adjectives of the American vocabulary. I too have been told my skirt was cute – a woman once bellowed something across the gas station forecourt at me.  What? I thought anxiously, is there something wrong with my car.  I stopped what I was doing and crossed over to her.  Sorry, I didn’t hear you, I told her. I said your skirt was cute she bellowed back again.

My accent is cute, my necklaces have been cute; the fact that I match a lime green handbag with a pair of lime green shoes, that’s cute too.  Stopped by complete strangers who want to compliment me.  Is it a compliment to be told you’re cute? Back in the UK cute is probably never used to describe anything over four years old. I am definitely not cute. 

My neighbours recently acquired a new puppy.  I don’t even like dogs but there I was stroking its nose and telling them how cute it was. It has to stop.  

If it’s not cute it’s awesome. It’s totally awesome that I can match a cute bag with a cute pair of shoes and it’s totally awesome that my neighbours felt the need to go out and get themselves a cute dog.

Random conversations between strangers are positively encouraged and part of the American psyche. Folks here will cross the road to pet a complete stranger’s dog.  Yes honey, of course you can stroke the Rottweiler. Many an American, especially the elderly kind, will stop and compliment families on their cute kids.  That’s so friendly you might think, until they try and lure them away.  Sometimes a bit of reserve wouldn’t go amiss; after all not everyone who looks like your friendly old grandpa really is.

The ability to maintain ad hoc conversation has never been one of my attributes and I haven’t succumbed.  However, I will have to watch my language when I return to the UK.  I’m pretty sure none of my UK friends will be that flattered when I tell them how cute they look. It has become  too easy to unwittingly develop the native patter and mimic local customs. When I’m out with my American friends I find myself discarding my knife and eating with only my fork.  I don’t understand why Americans don’t like using knives – after all most of them are pretty comfortable wielding a gun, but when it comes to cutlery, a fork does it all. Slice up your food with the side of your fork and then shovel it in.  

Another bad habit that must be broken – reckless driving.  Yes my driving skills have definitely deteriorated since being out here.  An amber light no longer means slow down - it means put your foot on the gas and go!  And turning right on a red traffic light?  I’ve never thought this was a particularly brilliant US law – mainly because I’m often on the receiving end as a pedestrian risking my life on a cross walk.  Will I be tempted to inch myself out on a red light when I’m turning left back in the UK to make a quick getaway? I’m also going to need to learn to drive with two hands again, one on the gear stick and the other on the steering wheel.  How will I hold my Starbucks?!

And the final bad habit that must be broken? Alcohol consumption! There has been way too much of that! How easy it has been to see the last two and a half years as an extended holiday, sat on the balcony overlooking the pool on a warm summer, winter, spring, autumn evening, glass of wine in hand, watching the pollution enhanced psychedelic colours of the LA sunset reflecting on the San Gabriel mountains.  I'm going to miss that mountain view - it's  awesome!!

Counting Down

There is an air of sadness overhanging the bubble household and it’s because our bubble is about to burst.  We’re counting down in days rather than weeks until our return to the UK and the teenager is stamping her feet and having a hissy fit and saying she doesn’t want to go.  I tell her we’re going home and she tells me this is her home. And its true – she’s been here since she was 13 and now she’s 16½ and driving a car and has boyfriends and girlfriends and is planning a leaving party that apparently is going to last for the next two weeks.  I’m not totally heartless and I do sympathesize.

There will be things here that I too will miss – not the Starbucks and the fast food, or the crass TV and the traffic.  It’s good riddance to all that.  What I will miss will be the people, and that eternal air of optimism and positivity that they all have.  Yes I know I’ve complained in the past about the childlike cheerfulness a lot of Americans possess, and how it smacks of insincerity, but I’ve acclimatized – how will I cope when I go to a supermarket back in the UK and complete my transaction in a complete silence – never having to speak a word; no-one wishing me a nice a day?  Even the car park attendant at my local Fresh n’ Easy told me he’d missed me when I hadn’t been for a couple of weeks.  How will he cope when I don’t go at all? How will I cope when I have to pack my own shopping bags?  

My gardening friends were the first friends I made in the US – I took up volunteering as soon as I arrived before I had the opportunity to procastinize and talk myself out of it.  It was the one sound piece of advice our re-locator gave us. This week as I walked to the Rose Garden through the plethora of peacocks which wander freely through the flowerbeds, past the ducks and the geese, I realized I wasn’t looking forward to the thought of returning to the UK at all.  I’d have to find a proper job.  How could I go back to work in an office after this?  One morning a week pruning and weeding in the sunshine wins hands down over four days a week working for local government – which is what I did in my former life.  Do I want to go back to that? No way!!  Just before I packed away my tools a native Californian red tailed hawk, the size of a small eagle, flew overhead, swooped down low in an attempt to snatch a lizard, and landed with an ungainly thud in a clump of irises.  Slightly disorientated – irises are more sturdy than they look - it then took flight and perched on a nearby arbour whilst it recovered.  It’s come to say goodbye, one of my fellow volunteers suggested. How did it know? Was this a sign? Do the natives like me after all?!

When people here ask me what I will miss most about California when I leave, I’ll tell them the weather.  But that’s not really true.  I can cope with the British weather, I really don’t mind the grey and the damp, and the odd "phew what a scorcher" three day wonder heat wave. 

When I first arrived in the US, I felt lonely and isolated. I wished I could have picked up all my friends and family and brought them with me.  Now I just want to take everyone home.

Overstock dot com

The big clear out has begun.  As I dragged four bags of grocery shopping across the car park to the lift up to the fifth floor I thought, only 4 more weeks of doing this.  Our departure is  imminent so why am I even grocery shopping anyway? It’s time to start eating up all the surplus food in the house. 

A quick look in the kitchen cupboard  and a whole half litre bottle of Worcestershire sauce stares back at me.  It was the smallest size I could buy.  I thought I couldn’t live without Worcestershire sauce but looking at the large volume of liquid I have left, obviously I could. I’ve also two nearly full bottles of Balsamic vinegar – one I purchased and one inherited from a departing ex-pat wife, together with two jars of Branston Pickle. 

I hate waste but who can I donate my remaining store cupboard ingredients to? Most of my British friends have now returned to the UK – we’re just hanging on until the teenager finishes school in June. Could I convince my American friends to try a salad tossed in that good olde British traditional vinaigrette of Balsamic infused with Worcestershire sauce and Branston pickle? I doubt it.  

I’ve two hundred and fifty odd Sainsbury’s tea bags to get through –  even at four cups a day seven days a week, I’m going to have a fair few left over when we leave.  Have I over-stocked?  I demanded packets of teabags from every visitor; I stashed hundreds of  them  in my suitcase every time I visited the UK, panic buying in the extreme.

There’s the usual array of half used herbs and spices – bought for one recipe and never used again. I don’t think I have ever got through a full jar of nutmeg before the end of the sell-by date.  What do I do with these? Donate them to the homeless begging on the streets of Pasadena? Hey guys I know you really want money for crystal meth but could you use a jar of ground ginger instead?

What else have I got lurking in my cupboards that is totally surplus to requirement? Paracetamol . Yes I’ve enough packets of those to start up my own pharmacy.  Spray deodorant -another example of over-zealous importation from the UK.  I realize I still have three cans to get through. I can hardly go around  donating these to my friends with a casual would you like some anti-perspirant? What kind of response would that provoke??

I’ve already taken four bin bags of various clothes, shoes and books to Goodwill and the teenager hasn’t even started on her room yet.  Why do we accumulate so much stuff??  Even though we’ve only lived in our apartment for two years I still have a kitchen drawer full of those useless odd buttons, wall plugs, pieces of wire, replacement light bulbs for Christmas lights we no longer have and spare keys – to what?? 

And what about the four unused sheets of return address labels? In the US you are required to put your home address on any mail you send so I ordered a handy supply of printed labels on the internet – they were very cheap and if I ordered 250 I got another 250 free, but now of course I have at least 250 left.  How many letters can I write in the next four weeks? Perhaps the answer is  to kill two birds with one stone and distribute my unwanted jars of spice in the post….

The Food Chain

A couple of days ago the local morning LA news reported that in a few years time it is predicted that  42% of American adults will be obese.  I’m not surprised. 

The next item on the “news” was a feature on the introduction of three new flavours of Girl Scout cookies – double whipped peanut butter, extra creamy coconut and mega chocco-chocolate. Must nip out and stock up on those straight away.  

Subliminal messaging or in your face advertising? Either way it was hardly going to encourage the viewer to lose a bit of weight – not with all those tasty new flavours to try. 

America is a breeding a nation of people programmed to believe they need a constant supply of cheap, sugary, fast food.  Everywhere I go, at the mall, in the supermarket, on the street, I see kids with their hands on auto pilot dipping into a bucket of popcorn or a packet of chips.  Parents seem to have this fear that their kids will faint on the spot if they don’t top-up their calorie intake on a continuous loop.  Strollers these days have special food trays – if my kids ever wanted to eat whilst they were out in their pram they had to wait until we went home and had a meal. These days it’s food on the go.  As nobody ever walks anywhere over here these toddlers will only be strapped into their stroller for a maximum of about 15 minutes – surely they can last that long without food?

I regularly drive past the local In and Out Burger when it opens at ten in the morning and there’s a line of cars eagerly waiting outside.  What meal of the day is that? It’s not even elevenses and anyway, elevenses back home used to be a cup of tea and hob nob biscuit. Here it’s a double whammy bacon cheeseburger. 

I don’t think you have to have a degree in food nutrition to work out this is a recipe for a serious health problem.

But surely not in California you might think, all that fresh air, kids outdoors playing sport. Yes moms take their kids in their car to Little League Baseball every Saturday morning and then reward them with a KFC on the way home. And don’t forget your average frappe-latte or whatever from Starbucks contains about 4000 calories – they’ll  have had one of those before they even start.

People drive to the gym, park their car as close to the entrance as they can and run five miles on a treadmill.  It doesn’t appear to occur to them that if they ran to the gym and back they wouldn’t even need to go in. But of course modern American cities aren’t designed for pedestrians – running or walking anywhere is a major no-no and not just because of the hazards of traffic, there's all the other nasties out there lurking  on the street - germs, Al Qaeda and alien abductors to name but three. It’s a lot safer just to stay in your car.

Yes you can go to Santa Monica and Venice Beach and see all those muscular fit young men swinging on the monkey bars and the blonde and the beautiful jogging along the beach.  But if you can afford to live in Santa Monica you can also afford to go to Wholefoods and stock up on your alfalfa beans.  For the rest of us – when it’s for 99c for a hot dog and an apple costs $1.50, as they say over here, do the Math.

Super School Mom Me

In a past life I was an ordinary every day mum, working part-time and doing my bit to occasionally help out in school.  I’d assist with  paper mache construction or be an extra pair of hand on  trips; it didn’t take an awful lot of effort and when your kids are little they like having you around.  I later joined the Parent Teacher Association  and helped to organise the school disco and handed out refreshments at the Christmas raffle. In a school of 300 or so children we were lucky if we could ever muster up more than about a dozen other mums to volunteer, and the biggest donation for the raffle prize would be  a family sized tin of Quality Street or a bottle of wine. Everything was very low key and by the time my kids were in senior school the last thing either of them wanted was for mum to be constantly hanging around, so somewhat relieved, I took a back seat.

But then I came to Pasadena and met Super School Mom and I realized that parenting in America is a completely different kettle of fish. On the teenager’s very first day in middle school I visited the school office,  handed over her vaccination certificates as if I was registering my new puppy, and wrote a couple of cheques – one which of which was my membership fee for the PTA. Great I thought, good way to meet people and make some new friends, so I sat back and waited for calls to roll in begging for my help. To my surprise I heard nothing. Then I looked through the school handbook and discovered the PTA already consisted of about six different committees and 100 contact names. No wonder they didn't need me.

When the teenager moved up to High School, I became determined to try again.  Pasadena has one of the highest percentages of children in private education than any other city in America, and school places  are won and lost on the size of the parental contribution. Naturally most moms want to keep in the school’s good books, especially if they have younger children waiting to come through.   One way of doing this, besides inviting the Principal over for afternoon tea or offering to donate the contents of the entire library, is to work voluntary service hours above and beyond the compulsory  commitment necessary to avoid the penalty fine.  There is a vast calendar of competitive sports games, concerts, award ceremonies and open evenings requiring parental assistance; plenty of opportunity to bring out your inner CEO. 

Last year I struggled to complete my service hours – one attendance at the first PTA of the year and I vowed never to go again. These moms weren’t planning a simple musical concert, they were mounting a military campaign.

This year, the term is slipping away and once again my service hours are not complete. Seeing an opportunity to earn double time helping to set up for the schools mega fund raising event of the year, the  $170 a dollar a head annual parents' ball, I put my name down to volunteer. An afternoon of napkin folding – how difficult could that be? A morning of putting up decorations in the luxurious surroundings of Pasadena’s poshest hotel? No sweat.  

Yes it was slightly different from hanging up a few balloons in the school hall, and I knew I was in another league as soon as I made my way through the army of volunteers and encountered super-school-dad asking when he could start ironing the 40 odd table-cloths. As I admired the dazzling display of 100 or so donated raffle prizes and items for silent auction, one fellow napkin-folding mom remarked she had yet to find the time to take up the African Safari she had outbid everyone else for two years ago, whilst another confessed still hadn’t used  her prize winning week at the Florida beach house.

And to think I used to get excited at the thought of winning that super sized tin of chocolates. It really is a different world.

A Ride on the Wild Side

As well as being home to the glitzy glamour of Hollywood celebrities in their swanky Beverly Hills’ mansions, LA is also home to many lost souls.  Any major city will have its fair share of socially disadvantaged, the mentally ill and people down on their luck. Unfortunately LA seems to have more than most. 

American society isn’t a particularly compassionate or caring society. It’s the land of opportunity, self-responsibility, and every man for himself.  It’s a sad fact of life that the pace out here is fast and not everyone will keep up.  You need a certain income to maintain a nice lifestyle and it’s very easy to fall by the wayside. I’m a relatively sane woman, but I can totally appreciate how easy it is to lose your marbles and unfortunately there are an awful lot of marbles over here that have been lost. 

It would appear that most of these poor souls tend to take refuge on LA’s public transport system, which rather than being a viable, safe and sensible alternative to taking your car anywhere, has basically become a last resort.

When I once bemoaned to an American friend that the teenager had to be driven everywhere to meet up with her friends, where as back in the UK she was more than happy to hop on a local train or a bus, my friend replied “have you seen the people who use the bus?” A couple of years ago the Pasadena City Council sent us an information leaflet containing some useful tips for staying safe over the holiday period; one of which began with “if you have to use public transport, try and avoid sitting next to anyone…” Hardly encouraging words to make you want to hop on a train.

Most Americans drive – gas is cheap and towns are  spread out. You need to get yourself from A to B and even when your car has 200,000 miles on the clock and bits falling off it, you don’t need any kind of certification to keep it on the road.  There's no nice way to say it but sadly the people who use public transport tend to be those who lack the physical or mental means, as well as the financial ability,  to run a car. 

Knowing that the roads were going to busy on Long Beach Grand Prix day and parking expensive, we didn’t really let the teenager take control, we let the train take the strain.  We’ve gone from pleasant posh Pasadena into Union Station before, that’s one commuter train, and it’s been okay.  We were travelling to Long Beach in broad daylight. How bad could it be?

LA’s light rail system is cheap – $5 let’s you ride unhindered all day, which is why it has become such a good deal for the homeless seeking shelter.  The metro system traverses some of LA’s most deprived and run down areas - abandoned industrial sites, run-down housing units, gang territory.  Buildings are covered in graffiti, the streets are strewn with litter. This is when you realize the concrete encased freeway is the scenic route. 

Americans do have this habit of always talking to you – this could be seen the sociability gene which we British tend to lack, or alternatively a hyper-activity disorder, but quite often it’s a ploy to convert you to whatever wacky religion they happen to practice. Trust me when you’re sat on an LA Metro train, you  don’t want anyone to so much as make eye contact with you, let alone speak to you.   

 A two hour train journey in the company of America’s great underclass (don’t believe the hype for one minute that this is a classless society) and I’m well and truly converted – back to my car.

Behind the Wheel

Last week was full of exciting events. First we had some rain – that always causes a bit of a stir, especially as late as April. Secondly the TV receiver was back in time to catch Whitechapel on BBC America - the highlight as far as I am concerned of the viewing week, and thirdly the teenager passed her driving test! She’s now officially US licensed.

 A mere ten minute drive around the block with an examiner and that’s it, she can hit the road! How did she do it? Well it’s all down to her mother of course – who else?  Who sat there patiently encouraging, guiding, and leading by example? Demonstrating the correct maneouvers, stressing the importance of the indicator and the need to slow down and stop at a red light. 

Over here the onus is on parent to teach their young to drive.  Six hours of professional instruction is all that is required, the rest, well it’s entirely up to mom and pop. I’ve seen the way most moms and pops drive and quite frankly, it’s frightening. Half of these people should never be allowed to drive a car themselves, let alone pass on their skills to impressionable young adults.

More seriously, another downside of learning to drive in the US is lack of L plates. In the UK learner and newly qualified drivers are easily identified by a warning sign stuck on the car; other drivers know they are following a learner and generally make allowances for their mistakes and give them a wide berth.  LA drivers tend to be particularly aggressive and inconsiderate at the best of times, car horns regularly beep at you if you take more than a second to make a turn across traffic or hesitate at a light.  Naturally learner drivers tend to be more cautious and having someone impatiently sat on your bumper all the time does not enhance the learning (or teaching) experience!

Still we have decided to be generous and for our last couple of months in the US, we will let our teen take to the road by herself and drive – after all she wont be able to do it when we get back to the UK until she is 17, so she might as well enjoy it whilst she can.

I was delighted to discover that we were entitled to a car insurance discount because she has good school grades.  Good grades are the be all and end all of the US education system, it doesn’t seem to matter about effort, or attitude, it’s that final little letter that counts. Although the clever kid discount worked for us, it does seem a little discriminatory.  What about those kids who aren’t always the brightest but who are conscientious and work hard? Shouldn’t they be entitled to a diligence discount instead? No wonder parents put so much pressure on their kids to get the A grades; it’s not just the college credits they need to accumulate,  there’s a financial incentive as well. 

Another surprisingly sensible Californian law is that under 18’s cannot carry passengers under the age of 20 during their first year of driving.  This does mean you can’t take your buddies to school, nor can you transport a distracting gaggle of giggling girlfriends anywhere. Definitely a good idea.  There’s plenty of other people over here who I would also liked to see banned from carrying passengers but unfortunately most of them already seem to have jobs driving cabs or super shuttle vans to the airport.

The final excitement of the week was attending the Indy Car Racing Grand Prix at Long Beach.  It was great fun - the screeching of rubber on hot concrete; the roar of the engine, the thrills and spills of driving around the city streets at breakneck speed - and that was just the journey down there. I knew it was a mistake letting the teenager offer to drive…..

Out of Service

Here’s a dilemma.  The AT&T receiver box has just died on us. That means no TV.  

You think I wouldn’t be too bothered, after all I’m no great fan of US TV, but after a while it’s amazing what you get used to. I find myself missing that “comfort TV”, programmes you can dip in and out of whilst doing the ironing, nothing too complex to tax the brain.

Comedy shows like Friends, Scrubs or The Big Bang Theory, which play  on a continuous loop – that’s comfort TV.  Yes I know I’ve seen the episode before, often in the same week, but it’s familiar territory; as is the home channel, HGTV, and the opportunity to nose around other people’s property. Another favourite is the cooking channel.  During the day I can sometimes catch a Nigella Express or a Jamie at Home, although I think Jamie Oliver is now banned in the US after daring to suggest fresh veg should be included in school dinner menus (a crazy idea that made him a hero in the UK but the devil incarnate out here).  Far more likely to find the Queen of Cholesterol, Paula Dean, tossing something into her deep fat fryer  than poor Jamie telling us all how to grow our own greens.

Like putting on a pair of well worn slippers, PBS will inevitably by showing Doc Martin at some point during its schedule, usually followed by behind the scenes with Doc Martin, the making of Doc Martin and our chance to catch it again Doc Martin. PBS is always a treat, despite the overdose of Martin Clunes, because it's commercial free. It is also home to Masterpiece Theatre, currently showing everything ever written by Charles Dickens and produced by the BBC. Dickens you might think, wow that's intellectual! All those sub-plots, a confusing array of characters with tongue-twisting names, all those accents! Never fear, Masterpeice have come up with Dickens for Dummies, each episode is introduced and the plot carefully explained - no concentration skills required.

But it is because of Charles Dickens that I insisted the AT&T box would have to be replaced. Live without TV for a few weeks? No great hardship! But what about Little Dorrit?  Do Amy and Arthur get together in the end? I have become addicted - it's like watching a soap.

A simple phone call to AT&T should do the trick!  Speak to someone, explain the problem and request a replacement receiver, after all we are on a contract. Well speaking to someone was the main hurdle.  When we did finally reach the technical support helpline, it’s sole automated instruction was to unplug the receiver and re-boot it, then to press 1 when the lights started to flash.  Our machine had long died a death - it's lights were never going to flash but failure to flash was not an option.  Surely a technical support line, however automated, should be able to offer more than one piece of advice? Well yes eventually it did, it told us we were taking too much time and should call back later.

We did persist, eventually found a human, and a new box was on its way. A few evenings later I found myself once again flicking aimlessly through an uninspiring selection of 300 + TV channels, the mindless drivel of umpteen shopping channels, OTT talent shows, lightweight local news, Hollywood gossip, trigger happy cops and endless re-runs of Two and a Half Men. As for Little Dorrit, well that appears to have been replaced mid-series by Great Expections.  I knew I should have just gone and bought myself a copy of the book.....

The Wine Tasting Tour

The main aim of our trip up the scenic Pacific Coast Highway was to visit the town of Paso Robles and partake in a spot of wine tasting. Paso Robles is the centre of Southern California’s wine country.  Being a little older and wiser than we were last time we paid a visit to a vineyard, we left the teenager at home and booked a wine-tour.  No driving involved.  We were lucky, it was early in the season and a weekday, and we had exclusive use of our driver who was going to be at our beck and call for the whole afternoon.

Lloyd was a former highway patrol man who now provides a similar service in keeping drunks off the road working as a part-time wine-tour guide.  We left him in charge of the decision making and spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon visiting three different wineries – one the traditional, one the more modern, and the final one quite unique – there were no vines.  Yes the last wine tasting was held in a private house of an enterprising couple who decided although they wanted to produce their own label wine, they couldn’t face the hassle of growing their own grapes.  What a brilliant idea! Why haven't I come up with something like that?! It was truly inspirational – Dave & Lynne buy grapes from other local vineyards, employ an experienced wine mixer and decide what flavours they like.  They then bottle, label and sell their exclusive wine direct on the internet or from their own home.

The wine tasting was held in the conservatory and Lynne paired each tasting with her favourite cheese.  The family's pet dog and the honeymooning school teachers from Arizona who were staying in the adjoining guest house soon became our new BFF’s.We really didn't want to leave but on the other hand, how paralytic do you want to get at 4.00 pm in the afternoon?

The Paso Robles countryside has some amazing scenery – lush green rolling hills with livestock grazing on the slopes.  This isn’t just wine country, it’s cowboy country too.  Paso Robles is full of shops selling hats, boots, saddles and stuffed road-kill, and in the evening the local bars came alive with the twang of that good ol' country music.  This is small town America, probably the height of boredom for anyone who has to live there under the age of 21 and definitely not the place for vegetarians. It was very much a case of how do you like your beef?

Paso Robles used to be famous for its natural mineral water spring and mud baths, until the townsfolk got fed up of the smell of sulphur infiltrating into the air and capped the well under several tons of concrete in the 1970’s.  The Paso Robles Inn has since re-drilled the well and has devised the use of herb beds to filter the water in an effort to reduce the unpleasant aroma.  I have to say the spa bath was lovely but we definitely needed a shower after and, despite the herb beds, the air definitely does still smell.

Still after 16 glasses of wine, who cares??

A Room With A View

Always moaning and full of gripes, haven’t I got a good word to say about this country? Well, every now and then yes.

Regular readers will know that we have recently been house hunting back in the UK  and I thought we’d found just the thing. However, after the weekend’s road trip up the Pacific Coast Highway I might be having a re-think.

We came across this quaint little place, perched on top of a hill, great views of the ocean, landscaped gardens, off street parking for several vehicles, indoor and outdoor pools – it ticked a lot of our wish-list boxes.  Dining room that seats 40, 56 bedrooms, 61 bathrooms – okay it was just a tad on the big side but it had some nice European features, a stone fireplace imported from a French Chateau, carved wooden ceiling from some Italian monastery, a few old 16^th century tapestries hung on the wall. Perhaps not quite to my taste but nothing I couldn’t  learn to live with. Probably the downside was the long commute but there is a private airstrip and a jetty for anyone arriving by sea, and of course the million tourists who visit the spot every year.

Yes we had found Hearst Castle – a totally fantastic OTT example of how to spend your money when you have way too much of it. Hearst Castle is the magnificent opulent home of multi-millionaire newspaper and media magnet William Randolph Hearst and is one of the US’s most visited tourist attractions.  Building work commenced in 1919 and was never finished in Hearst’s lifetime.  It was only when his descendents handed the estate over to the State of California as a national monument that work was finally completed.

Apparently Mr Hearst’s original plan was for a modest bungalow at the family’s 250,000 acre ranch but he obviously got a bit carried away.  This man didn’t just  go around the auction houses of Europe buying up antiquities to furnish his home – he bought up enormous architectural features and subsequently designed his “castle” around them. 

 

The house is a personal pleasure dome – built during Hollywood’s heyday most of Mr Hearst’s invited guests were in the movie business and were left to amuse themselves during the day  whilst he beavered  away upstairs in his study increasing his fortune.  As a Hearst house guest you would have complete run of the ranch with its two pools, tennis courts, billiard room, music room and private cinema at your disposal, as well as America’s largest private zoo.  Descendants of Mr Hearst’s zebra collection still roam the working ranch –luckily for the local population it was the zebras that escaped during the dismantling of the zoo and not the tigers or polar bears, whose concrete enclosures are still visible just a few yards from the house.

It was very easy to imagine sipping an early evening cocktail with a dashing young Clark Gable by the huge Romanesque outdoor heated pool, with its view across the rolling Californian countryside to the Pacific Ocean. 

Hearst Castle is a fine example of how the other half lived – very nicely thank you.

Food For Thought

There I was last week thinking that coffee mug wielding mom was the most dangerous thing I’d seen on the road for some time, only to have her well and truly superseded this week, not just by the two drivers who nipped out to overtake me when they realized I was slowing down to stop at a red light, but by the giant white poodle spotted dropping the kids off on the school run.  Yes there might well have been someone sat beneath it but there could just have easily have been a couple of Chihuahuas down in the foot well operating the brake and the accelerator pedal.  Yes it was that big, and yes it was sat in the driving seat.

It’s all very well entrusting your pets with more responsibility –  why did I never think of sending the cat out with my weekly grocery shopping list – but sometimes your child’s safety has to come first. On the other hand Americans love their pets and you’re not a pet-owner over here, you’re a pet parent. Your domestic animals are part of the family so why not let them earn some extra pocket money assisting with the daily chores.  

Doggie-day-care is readily available for working pet parents, and there is a huge market for pet related products – designer apparel, diamante accessories, and of course, gourmet diets. I’ve noticed that pet food is very much promoted on quality of product, as opposed to convenience and low cost. As a discerning pet parent you can rest assured your dog or cat is getting only the very best.

It’s a shame that food producers and manufacturers don’t appear to believe the US public share these same values when it comes to feeding themselves. Whilst your dog and cat are being promised only the very best cuts of meat, little importance appears to be placed on what's going into your kids' chicken nuggets as long as it's cheap.

 

Why am I so surprised in a land where a tin of Spam is still advertised on TV as a culinary must-have? Grocery shopping remains one of my major bug-bears.  I still haven’t got used to walking past the chemically enhanced radio-active looking fluorescent iced cup cakes on sale in most supermarkets, or the stacks of packet meals ready to be reconstituted with a half a pint of boiling water. That’s okay when you’re stuck on a NASA space station for six months but is it really necessary back down on earth where you have easy access to a veritable harvest of fresh produce?

Southern California is the land of the citrus groves, the home of permanent sunshine and acres of salad crops, yet rather disappointingly a lot of what is on offer on general supermarket shelves, whilst arranged in beautiful artistic displays, tastes and feels as if it has been sat in a warehouse for the last six weeks. Call me old fashioned but when I buy fruit and vegetables, I expect them to be fresh.  I like a sugar-snap-pea to well, snap.  Likewise I'd like to think that my beef had roamed freely on those Californian hills and my chicken had lived its short life outdoors to the full. Whilst free range and organic products are available, they are certainly not low cost and they are certainly not promoted widely on TV.

Sadly, it appears that if I want guaranteed quality and freshness I'd be better off sticking to pet food.

Taste The Coffee

I don’t lead a very eventful life so sometimes it’s quite hard to find something to write a post about, especially as I have become so immune to the idiosyncracies of American life that incidents that would have once sent me off into a apoplexic rant now cause little more than a raised eyebrow.  

I endeavour to keep my blog interesting, charming, witty – an extension of my personality – and I don’t really want to fill it with mundane facebook style comments reflecting what I’ve really be up to: having a cup of tea, doing the ironing, cleaning the loo. Who wants to know?

So, seeking inspiration I set out for one of my long morning walks.  My walks have been curtailed recently, for no other reason than that to be honest I couldn’t be bothered.  It’s very easy to fall into a pit of lethargy. But as usual the joys of middle-class suburban America came up trumps – I know if I stay out pounding the streets long enough something wonderful will happen.

It actually felt quite good to be back on my old stomping ground. The garden sprinklers are back on, watering the pavements, and one of the yappy dogs that used to bark at me quite regularly appears to have developed asthma over the winter –  this morning it wasn’t so much of a bark as a rasping wheeze.  The air is too dry, California needs rain.  On average LA usually only gets 10” of rain a year, this year figures are down 4” less than normal and come the end of March the chance of precipitation drops to zero.  One of the large colonial mansions on my route was under wraps for termite fumigation – yep if you get infested the whole house has to be tented.  It did briefly occur to me that if desperate I could write a post on the wonders of termite eradication after all that’s something we definitely don’t have in the UK, along with people doing their grocery shopping in their slippers and pyjamas, but no, the highlight of this morning’s walk was  another contender for my multi-tasking whilst driving award.

I’m not perfect and I know I’ve done things in the past in my car that I rather wish I hadn’t – we all do, but back in the UK we tend to do it whilst the car is stationary. Here, in the land of the automatic then of course you only need one hand and one foot to  drive, with the other you can do whatever you want –rest your leg on the dashboard, paint your toe nails, eat a burger,  send a text, and most common of all drink a Starbucks.

An American’s car really is an extension of their home and these people lead busy lives, especially school-moms.  Not only do they spend half their lives ferrying their kids from one after school activity to another, little league baseball, taekwondo, followed by two hours private Math tuition, they will also have a hectic schedule of their own to fit in, hot-yoga,  psycho-therapy, manicure, pedicure, face-lift and cardio-barre. So there is definitely no time to stop and brew a pot of tea or cook a meal. Convenience food is king. Cars are bought and sold here on the merits of the drinks holder – if it’ll fit a super-sized Venti Choca-Mocco-Latte it’s a winner but at least your super-sized Venti-Choca-Mocco-Latte will have a lid on it to prevent spillage whilst driving.

This morning’s super school mom I passed was holding a mug of coffee in her right hand.  Yes, a proper, china mug, holding it by the handle, nicely poised above her six year’s bare knees as she swung her car left-handed around a tight corner.  Now if that’s not an accident waiting to happen, what is. 

C’mon mom, if you’ve been industrious enough to actually make your own coffee, at least take the time out to sit down somewhere relaxing and SAFE to drink it.  I know the teenager wont believe I’ve actually written this – but perhaps there is a case for Starbucks after all!!

Home & Away

Whenever I go back to the UK I always feel like I become a different person – the old me, the real me; the American me is just a fake who has adapted her personality to fit in. When I’m in the UK and people ask me how I am, I can say I’m well, or I’m fine thank you.  Here well and fine just aren’t positive enough, I have to be “good” thank you. At what?

I have to respond with enthusiasm when an exuberant sales assistant asks me how's my day, or whether I need help, putting on this uber happy façade that everything is hunky dory and we’re all having a great time.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a miserable person – in fact people on both sides of the Atlantic regularly remark on my calm, cheerful disposition (one of my American friends once asked me what I was on to retain such an air of chirpy vitality!). It’s just the insincerity which bugs me, and the fact that I am party to it. 

American politeness is prolific and my natural reserve could easily be mistaken for rudeness. I want people to like me. When I am here I have to watch what I say. When I’m back home it doesn’t matter if I slip in the odd four letter word or don’t elucidate – my old friends aren’t easily offended and they understand.  Here I have to think before I speak, always aware that many Americans are highly religious and may take offence at a slip of the tongue or a blasphemous exclamation. I have to remember people don’t always understand my accent, I have to cut out the innits, sound my H’s, leave out the T’s and make a big show of using hand sanitiser. (Personally I’ve always thought a little bit of dirt helped increase one’s natural immunity, here I’m just one of those unhygienic Europeans.)

Back in the UK I felt clever; we joined in the quiz night at a local pub and I could answer the questions.  Here I watch TV, pick up a newspaper or flick through a magazine and have no idea who or what everyone is going on about which leaves me feeling rather stupid.  I don’t understand the rules of baseball, I’ve no interest in American politics, I don’t know who stars in what soap, the names of the Kardashians or Brad and Angelina’s children.

Whilst we were home we went watch our local football team Southampton play at St Mary’s stadium and it was such a relief to be able to follow the entire game without the constant interruptions which dog American sporting occasions.  No time-outs; no total team changes; no commercial breaks; no to-ing and thro-ing  of the crowd during the match to fetch giant hot dogs and buckets of Pepsi. Just real men on the pitch for a continuous 45 minutes in the pouring rain and fans who remained in their place and were able to endure a food free hour and a half.

In fact the only disturbance was when the rather loud but verbally challenged man behind me celebrated so vigorously as Saints scored their second goal that he fell on top of me.  This man had very limited vocabulary - throughout the entire game he had been giving a running commentary and every other word began with an F, the game had fluctuated between being effing beautiful to effing rubbish - one adjective suits all. Although I wasn't hurt when he tumbled onto me, I was shaken. Had this incident happened back in the States no doubt I could have instigated legal proceedings, as it was I just accepted his effing apology. It was good to be home!

House Hunters International

House Hunters International is one of my favourite US TV programmes.  In fact I’m addicted to it – it’s a brilliant show featuring hapless couples and families who wish to move overseas and have  decided to allow a TV company to find them a home. Mostly it features couples from Minnesota or Canada who wish to escape 8 months of winter and purchase a place in the sun in Costa Rica or Aruba, but occasionally the show does follow brave souls who wish to venture into Europe where they express horror at the mere thought of having to share bathrooms with each other let alone their offspring, as well as putting up with the close proximity of their next door neighbours.

An American friend once commented to me that the secret of her successful 20 year marriage was the fact that she had never shared a bank account or a bathroom with her husband. Well I’ve been married for the same amount of time and have always shared both, but even I have been seduced by this American dream of having his and her sinks and a separate room for the teenager’s lengthy ablutions.

In Europe the size of the rooms is always an issue with US couples – tight, tiny and is this a bedroom or a closet? are the usual comments.  So how would we as pseudo Americans fare as we travelled back to the UK to spend a week house hunting in preparation for our return this summer?

Whilst the husband is off to the desert to make sure all the pipes and tanks he has purchased for his oil refinery now fit together like a giant set of mecano, the teenager and I will be heading back in England.  

House hunting was always going to be interesting as he was looking for something rather grand to justify the blood sweat and tears of the last 3 years whilst I preferred something small and cosy for our ever decreasing family.  My comment of “a bit too big” for the first prospective house rather worryingly provoked a reply of “Too big? It wasn’t big enough”, confirming my fears that our search would be fraught with difficulties.  Where’s Kirstie Allsop when you need her?

In the US TV show the families are only shown three homes and always end up buying one, although careful editing ensures there are enough negative comments to leave you totally baffled as to which house they will actually choose.  Whether careful editing also means that it is actually house number 43 that is chosen I’m not sure as I find it hard to believe that the participants would be willing to view only three homes before making a decision to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars - unless of course they receive a huge financial incentive when they do, or face legal action if they don’t.

Anyhow, house number 6 finally came up trumps for us, spotted the day before we were due to fly home. Deceptively small – it goes up rather than outwards – this particular home had numerous bathrooms – one each and even a spare for guests so definitely no need to share and cross contaminate each other, and the walk-in closet totally clinched the deal. You can’t expect to live amongst these people for two and a half years and not have some of their mentality  rub off on you!

PS In case anyone is wondering the house in the photo is not mine, but is one of Pasadena’s historic gems  - the home of Mr Gamble of Proctor & Gamble washing powder fame.  The house was donated to the city of Pasadena by Mr Gamble’s descendents who decided not to sell this fine example of Arts & Crafts architecture after a potential purchaser's wife remarked how dark and gloomy all the wood paneling made the interior seem and it would take a good few coats of magnolia to cover it all up! When I toured the house these were my exact same thoughts. Oops!

Dispelling the Myth

I like to call a spade a spade and tell it how it really is. Before I came to California I had my own pre-conceptions about what US life was all about - 2 ½ years later and its time to squash those urban myths.

Myth No 1 Food is Cheap 

Yes people definitely do eat out more than back in the UK but whilst the menu might start off looking reasonable enough but by the time you’ve added on sales tax and your 18% tip the bill quickly adds up.  

However, a lot of fast food chains do promote their products solely on price. So if you aren’t too fussy about taste or quality, yes you can buy a burger for less than a dollar. Yay I’ll have two!

Myth No 2 Americans like to talk 

Do not confuse like to talk with sociable – there’s a subtle difference.  Americans  do like to talk - you’ll hear someone’s whole life story, warts and all, whilst you wait in line for your take-away. However, don’t expect them to be that interested in hearing yours. Likewise, although your co-workers will be happy enough to chat at the water-cooler don’t expect them to invite you over for dinner.  Americans like to protect their privacy.  

Myth No 3 Gas Prices are cheap 

True - petrol is currently about half what you pay in the UK but there again you’ll use twice as much.  A US gallon is smaller and so is your petrol tank; your great big SUV doesn’t do many MPG and you’ll spend an awful lot of time stopping and starting at traffic lights.  Penny for penny over the course of your car’s lifetime you’ll probably end up paying the same.

Myth No 4 America is the Land of the Free 

Free to practice whatever religion you like? True - America is a very religious country, it is also extremely conservative and amazingly intolerant.  Anything goes here in Southern California but there will be plenty of other states where you wouldn’t want to go around advertising the fact that you’re a gay heathen democrat who needs an abortion.  On the other hand, Catholicism, Judaism, Lutheranism, Evangelism, Presbyterian, Mormonism, Buddhism – you name it and they’ll be someone preaching it.  If you can’t find something that suits, just start your own cult.  

Free to shoot your neighbour if he steps onto your property? Absolutely - go for it!

Free to take a bottle of wine on your picnic? Not here! The consumption of alcohol is not permitted in public places  so that bottle of bubbly is banned from the beach.  Incidentally, so are you, after 10.00 pm.

Also not allowed after 10.00 pm – under 18’s.  Yes most towns will have a teenage curfew, so whilst your teenager is free to get a licence to drive a car at 16, if she is sat in it necking with her boyfriend after 10.00 pm she will be escorted home by the police.

America has tied itself up in knots with a multitude of  petty rules and regulations.  Always remember what state you are in - just because you are free to do something in one, it doesn't automatically mean you are free to do it in another.

Myth No 5 The Super Bowl is a Major Sporting Event 

Complete fallacy! The Super Bowl is a major media driven circus. Three million dollars bought 30 seconds of TV advertising. I can’t tell you who won the football but I can tell you which advert has been voted best in show – Dorito’s.  American Football isn’t a game of four quarters, it’s a game of 50 commercial breaks. I wouldn't be surprised if next year they decide to cut out the match altogether.

Out to Lunch

One thing I really like about living in Pasadena is having such a wide choice of cafes and restaurants on my doorstep, it’s just a shame the city council have never cottoned on to that quaint European idea of pedestrianisation and stopped the main street traversing Old Town. It’s easy to imagine a piazza style walkway full of tables and chairs, without the noise and traffic fumes, but there again, would your average American visit a café if they had to park their car 500 yards away? Probably not.

About once a week I meet up with a few ex-pat friends plus anyone else who happens to want to join us (we’re not exclusive) and we go out to lunch.  

Ever since I first arrived in Pasadena 2 ½ years ago I’ve been  strolling past the Cordon Bleu cookery school peering in the large windows to watch the trainee chefs at work.  About a year ago the school opened up a new restaurant and ever since we’ve been promising to treat ourselves to lunch.  Last week we finally went (it’s amazing how inspired you get to actually do things when you realize your time is about to run out).

$10 for a three course lunch and a NO TIPPING PLEASE policy, how bad could it be? Well it wasn’t bad at all, in fact it was a great culinary experience! 

The menu offers a choice of 8 different starters, 7 mains and 5 desserts. In my opinion the starters and the desserts are always the best part of any menu and the Cordon Bleu  was no exception. In fact if I could have just eaten my way through the entire 8 starters and the 5 desserts I’d have been a very happy girl; as it was I was only allowed one of each for my $10 and it was compulsory to have the main course.  But it would have been churlish to complain.

It was great to go out to eat somewhere in Pasadena and not be totally over-faced with gigantic portions; the staff were attentive but we never felt rushed; the only negative comment I have about the whole experience was that the restaurant is housed in an architecturally very impressive building – its an old bank – but open kitchens and high ceilings are bad for acoustics.  It was extremely noisy, but what the heck, you’re there to eat, not to talk!!

Highly recommended!

Pleasure Pockets

You don’t have to read too many of these posts to realize that I’m not actually a great fan of Los Angeles.  It’s a city without a heart.

There’s no downtown as such – what they call “downtown” Los Angeles is a collection of high rise office blocks.  If you want the retail experience you head out of town to the Malls, if you want designer haute couture you head out to Beverly Hills; if you want tourist tat you head out to Hollywood, and if you want history then you head out of state.

Los Angeles itself doesn’t have an awful lot of inspiring architecture–the guidebooks will set you off on a trail along Wilshire Boulevard, with its rather faded art-deco collection of buildings; Olvera Street in El Pueblo de Los Angeles Historic Park, the original Mexican quarter can be walked around in half an hour.  LA is a vast sprawling metropolis and most of the tourist hotspots are good drive apart. Remember this is a city of 18 million people, all of whom have two cars. Something that looks a 20 minute drive on a map can still take two hours in rush hour gridlock.

However, it would be mean to spend nearly three years living here and not have a good word to say about it.  There are little pockets of pleasure in Los Angeles – you just have to look for them.  I like Angel’s Flight, it’s a bizarre two minute funicular ride that takes you away from the down and outs in Pershing Square to the top of Bunker Hill where you can stand and admire even more office blocks. It’s a novelty but blink and you’ll have missed it.

I also like Griffith Park – home of the Hollywood Sign and Griffith Observatory.  Over Christmas we took a walk around the north side of the park and you’d have never even known you were in LA. Hawks circled over head and a friendly coyote kept popping his head up out of the undergrowth.

When we want to go to the beach we usually go to Santa Monica. It’s not just the lure of the sand but because of the English Shop where we can stock up on essentials like Bisto, Orange Squash and Branston Pickle. However, now that our local Fresh and Easy has increased its stock of British goods, Santa Monica has lost its usefulness, so last weekend when the temperature hit  80 degrees, we headed to South LA and discovered Manhattan Beach.

The place was a revelation.  This was real So Cal living.  This is how I had imagined I would be spending my time when the idea of transplanting to LA was first suggested. We’d have a beach house in an urban village.  I’d be power walking or cycling along the seafront. We’d have a hub of restaurants and cafés, trendy clothes shops on our doorstep, surrounded by lots of fit young men carrying surfboards.

Manhattan Beach had me inspired.  I’d finally found a part of Los Angeles that I really liked, even envied. An eclectic mix of pastel coloured beach huts, high tech glass fronted uber modern apartments dotted amongst mock tudor mansions and a 1930’s style residence that looked suspiciously like a piece of Wedgewood.  A thriving community built around attractive winding lanes sloping down to the wide sandy beach. Shame it just costs millions of dollars to live there.

Maybe I have warmed to Southern California after all.  It just goes to show one should always keep an open mind.