Grounded

Every now and then I just have to make a trip back home to the UK for a reality check.  I need to come back down to earth.

The trouble with living in LA is that after a while the surreal becomes the real.  I see a poodle in a pet stroller and rather than thinking that's so ridiculous I now tell myself that’s such a good idea, it is a bit of a long walk from the parking lot to the doggie boutique....

That’s not good.

So when the opportunity presents itself to check up on daughter No 1 and catch up with a few old friends I grab it. How refreshing it is to talk to people who sweep up their own leaves and wash their own cars.

I’m very lucky with my friends in the UK, they are happy to meet up at the drop of a hat as I breeze in and out of their lives every six months or so.   It’s a treat to go out for a meal and still be in the restaurant at 11 at night and a positive joy to be able to round up the bill to the nearest big number rather than have to worry that I’ve insulted the waiter by not leaving the correct tip.

Everyone always wants to know what I like best about living in America - well the most obvious and  easy answer is the Californian weather, and having the opportunity to travel of course.  The more difficult question is what don't I like about living in America, to which I normally respond how long have you got?  The traffic is a justifiable dislike, not just the gridlock and total congestion but the twelve lane freeways that are total deathtraps.  I can also have a good moan about the constant bombardment of commercialism and the crassness of American TV, where every programme appears to be aimed at an audience with a brain the size of a pea. 

What is more difficult is trying to explain my own personal incompatibility with all things American without sounding like an ungrateful misery, but as a logical and intelligent woman it is becoming increasingly hard to reconcile myself to living in a society that is so devoid of common sense.

Just this week US Congress announced that a slice of pizza can be officially classed as a vegetable because it contains more than two tablespoonfuls of tomato paste.  As such, of course, it can now safely remain on school dinner menus and presumably be considered as one of our five a day. Apart from the fact that I always thought a tomato was a fruit, if this isn’t a case of protecting the interests of the food production industry at the expense  the nation's health I don’t know what is.  And Americans wonder why the rest of the world thinks they're all stupid.

Of course the other issue which always intrigues my friends back in the UK is what exactly do I do all day and this is a question I constantly ask myself too.  How they envy my lazy luxurious lifestyle of relaxing by the pool, the coffee mornings, those long lunches and pottering around a rose garden once a week.  And yet how I envy them with their busy active lives, juggling jobs, running homes and organising their kids. Yes that too used to be me. 

Now I’m just this desperate housewife whose intellectual highlight of the week is penning a rather sarky blog. 

So to all my friends and family back home I’d just like to say thank you so much the welcome dose of humour, the regular supply of sanity pills, and for keeping my feet quite firmly on the ground.

Thank you too for reminding me how lucky am I to have the opportunity to experience life on another planet.  Beam me back up Scottie - I've got some of those new-fangled vegetable seeds to sow.  Does anyone know how long a pizza plant takes to grow?

A Good Read

Alongside the compulsory gifts of tea-bags, Cadbury’s dairy milk and packets of paracetamol, the one thing I always ask people to bring me when they visit from the UK is a generous supply of British magazines.  

 I’ve given up on glossy US mags.  If I have to spend $5 or $6 on a big read then I actually want something to read – rather than a catalogue of adverts.

I had a wry smile at the letters page in a recent copy of Sainsbury’s magazine which had fallen into my hands. A reader had complained that she disliked the layout of the magazine because there were too many advertising features.  Sainsbury’s Magazine is a monthly publication by a supermarket chain – of course it’s going to carry adverts – it’s sole aim is to promote its own products, but at least it doesn’t disguise itself as a journalistic enterprise.

This reader needs to try picking her way through a US magazine – it really is a case of spot the genuine article.

US mags fall into roughly the same categories as back in the UK; there’s the pure work of fiction – the gossip and chat mags (I can’t wait for the arrival of Kate Middleton’s twins); then there are the glossy fashion mags – the last one of these I bought had 36 pages of adverts before I’d even reached the Contents list; and then there are of course the magazines aimed at the more mature woman like me,  which are sadly little more than a promotional vehicle for that all American favourite of mine, the pharmaceutical industry.  

Do I have inexplicable aches and pains? Well yes occasionally something gives an uncomfortable twinge.   
Do I struggle to fall asleep at night?  Not usually - a couple of glasses of wine seems to do the trick. 
Am I suffering from depression? Not until I picked up the magazine….

And so it goes on - pages and pages of the stuff.  I've long suspected that the pharmaceutical industry actually runs America and flicking through one of these magazines just confirms my theory. It's no wonder a lot of Americans you meet are walking medical dictionaries - they are bombarded from dawn until dusk with subliminal messages reinforcing a perceived need for vitamin supplements, anti-aging and cosmetic procedures, as well as all manner of wonder drugs and cure-alls.  It's enough a make even the most fittest and healthiest amongst us to feel totally inadequate and decidedly peaky!

It’s not that American magazines don't carry genuine features and articles - they do, you just have to hunt them out. Cover stories and interviews never begin until at least half way through the magazine, and although there's always an eye catching headline and a glamorous photo shoot, when you turn the page to continue reading you discover the bulk of the story is actually 97 pages of  glossy ads away, right at the very back of the magazine.

Sadly US magazines have succumbed to the same format as US TV – a few lightweight snippets of information that interrupt a great deal of commercial activity.  Give me a nice cup of tea and a copy of Woman’s Own any day of the week. 

Pins and Needles

The best or worst part, depending upon how you look at it, about any road trip is having the opportunity to experience small town America.

For our final overnight stop on the way back from the Grand Canyon I had stuck a pin in the map and found Needles – a border town on the Colorado River.

According to my guidebook, just a few miles from Needles was Arizona’s second most popular tourist attraction after the Grand Canyon - London Bridge.   

Situated in Lake Havasu City, the bridge was bought at vast expense from the city of London and rebuilt, brick by brick, complete with a mock English Village in 1971. Despite popular belief that this bridge was purchased in mistake for Tower Bridge, the town’s publicity machine  is pretty quick to point out that the local entrepreneur who came up with the idea knew exactly what he was doing.   Whilst the bridge is impressive, complete with its gilded gates and tiny fountain, it says a lot for the rest of Arizona that this is it’s second most visited spot. The English Village appeared, like much else in Arizona, to have been abandoned, the pub had closed down and the door was hanging off the red telephone box.

After a brief stop, we continued on to Needles. It was easy enough to find our hotel – it was straight off the freeway exit – in fact it had a view of the freeway despite the words “….on the river…” appearing in its title.

“Let’s hope we’ve got a room around the back” – my husband said wistfully.  We did – twenty yards from the railroad track.

So, how could we spend our evening  in Needles? Did Reception have a map? This obviously wasn’t something they were regularly asked for.  The receptionist hunted around in a drawer and produced a photocopy that was practically illegible. We consulted the hotel room guide in the hope of finding a recommendation for a place to eat – yes, the diner next door, also surprisingly called something on the river, was number one on the list closely followed by Carls Jnr, McDonalds and a Burger King.

We’re used to sleeping next to the busy 210 freeway in Pasadena, so a night next to the comparative quiet of the Interstate 40 would have probably been bliss.  Instead we spent the night next to the main trans-America freight line; mile long trains stacked two containers high, clunking and trundling by all night. Not that it bothered my husband too much; he’s deaf in one ear and when he sleeps with his good ear to the pillow he hears nothing – it’s a trick he mastered when the kids were small.

Awoken bright and early by the 5.00 am cement train to Pheonix, I was desperate to find some redeeming feature about Needles; where was the river? Was there anything else to actually do here apart from eat fast food and attempt to get some sleep?  I wanted to stay and find out but I could sense a mutiny on my hands.  We left straight after breakfast.

We drove to our final stop-off at the Joshua Tree National Park along parts of the original Route 66.  Since the building of the interstate freeway, whole communities along the route have closed down – every few miles there are abandoned motels, diners and broken down homes.  Along one 40 mile stretch of road we only encountered five other cars.  The route isn’t scenic; it’s depressing.

It was with a great sense of relief that we made it safely back to Pasadena.  We’ve promised the teenager she’ll never have to take another road trip with us again and the maps, and the pins, have been firmly locked away out of my reach.

Not Another Dam Road Trip

Despite promising myself not to turn this into a travel-blog, sometimes when we go somewhere, I think oh I’ve just got to share this…..

The teenager had a Monday off school which meant we had an extra long weekend.  What better way to spend it than a road trip.  I got out my map; did a route planner, and worked out that if we left Pasadena straight from school on the Friday afternoon, stopped over night to visit the Hoover Dam, then drove on again the next day we would be at the Grand Canyon for Saturday sunset.

We could then meander back at our leisure and even find time to drive back through the Joshua Tree National Park.  This would then cross off all our remaining  “must-see’s” in one go. 

Our trip started well. We hit the Friday afternoon traffic  but once beyond the LA commuter belt – which stretches for about 30-40 miles east – the road cleared.  Spoilt by the luxury of 5 star Marriot Rewards the teenager was slightly horrified to learn that we would be spending our first night at the comparatively small 1930’s Boulder Dam Hotel in Boulder City.  Built to cater for visiting government officials and dignitaries during the construction of the Dam, the hotel had been lovingly preserved with its original 1930’s name, furniture and at first glance, what looked like the original 1930's staff  until we realised  a few creepy period dressed mannequins had just been strategically placed around the corridors.  

We rose at the crack of dawn and set off for the Dam.  Impressive? Just a tad.  We purchased our tickets for the whole Dam Tour and yes, in an hour’s walkabout you’d been amazed at how many times the guide, and all the visitors, could fit the word dam into a sentence. It was dam good fun.

After following our dam guide up and down the tunnels that run inside the dam and taking a tour of the power plant (which was actually a lot more interesting than it sounds) we then made our way up to the heady heights of the new Colorado River Bridge which gave spectacular views of the whole Dam landscape (it’s actually very hard not to use the word dam when you think about it).

Then we set off for the Grand Canyon.

It’s 240 miles from the Hoover Dam to the Grand Canyon National Park and that’s basically 240 miles of straight road with little sign of civilization. We drove through desserts, over plains and across plateaus.  We drove through Indian reservation country - shanty towns of trailer homes on barren, isolated pockets of land with just a few cactus for company.

As for the Grand Canyon itself, well of course that lived up to all its expectations. The most obvious word to describe it would be “awesome” but awesome is a word that get’s a bit  of over mis-use out here.  I tell someone we’re British, that’s awesome, we regularly visit restaurants where the staff describe  the house special as totally awesome - in fact the hostess at one eatery we visited recently in Pasadena told us her onion rings were so awesome they were going to change our life! (Tasty yes, life changing no!)

A red rock canyon millions of years old, 10 miles wide, one mile deep and 270 miles long, as spectacular as an onion ring?  Probably just slightly more so.  Absolutely  breathtaking.  And ticked off the list too.

Trick or Treat

It’s that time of the year again.  My morning walk no longer consists of a pleasant stroll around suburban streets but has become a hasty path through ghoulish graveyards and pet cemeteries.  Giant cobwebs adorn houses; corpses hang from lemon trees and skeletons sit on the front porch with welcoming toothy grins.

What is it about Halloween that fascinates America? I just don’t get it.  Back in the UK when I was small Halloween was a pretty low key affair; you dressed up in one or your mum’s old black skirts with a homemade witches hat and tried your luck at apple bobbing. Life was very simple way back then.

Several years came to pass and trick or treating reared its ugly head. When my own children were little they would head out into the street with their friends wearing whatever spooky makeshift costume came to hand, clutching an empty carrier bag in the hope of bringing home the odd kitkat or two.

We would decorate our own house with a simple Jack o’lantern – a sign that we would welcome other trick or treaters if they came to call. Most kids knew better than to knock at a door that didn’t have some sort of Halloween artifact on display.

Over here – every house has some sort of artifact on display. It’s a great way to lure children into your home.  As for trick or treating, it's totally out of all proportion. Mom and pop cruise the streets in their black SUV to ensure there is none of that tiresome "walking" around the neighbourhood, the stores are loaded with shelves and shelves of multi-bagged sweets - the American Dental Association must be rubbing their hands with glee.  And of course there are cards too - Happy Halloween - who an earth would you send one of those to?

Then of course there are the "pumpkin patches" that pop-up over night on a bit of waste ground, where you can buy yourself a pumpkin, loose your kids on the bouncy castle and admire the animals in the “petting zoo”.  I’m completely baffled by the concept of the petting zoo - a miserable collection of caged goats, rabbits and hens which travels around showgrounds and farmer’s markets purely for the pleasure of the paying public who can let their toddlers loose in the animal pen. It’s one of those bizarre archaic American traditions that really should have been banned by animal welfare activists many years ago.

Having been to the Pumpkin Patch, collected your pumpkin and let your pre-schooler manhandle a couple of newly hatched chicks, it’s then time to head to Party City to choose your outfit.  Party City, a shop the size of a small warehouse, is now dedicated almost entirely to Halloween paraphernalia.  Adorning an entire wall  are pictures of every costume imaginable and available for you to buy. Don’t forget to bring your pet dog so that they can choose one too.

Unfortunately we had to pay a visit to Party City because the teenager insisted she needed a new costume for the Halloween shinanigans she had been invited to. She couldn’t possibly wear an outfit from a previous year and nearly had kittens at the suggestion that we should perhaps make something instead.  Mermaid? Playboy Bunny? Nurse? What was it to be?  Most of the outfits looked as if they would be more at home in one of those top shelf  “Adults Only” catelogues.  In the end we purchased a relatively tasteful set of Natalie Portman style Black Swan feathered wings and a tutu. 

So how will I spend my Halloween? Well, it'll just be another typical Monday night for me - I'll be out on my broomstick somewhere....

The Land of Excess

After two years of living the American "dream" lifestyle I still find some of my old UK habits die quite hard. Especially when it comes to waste management.  I'm a little bastion of climate control and re-cycling; I just can't help myself; the frugality ingrained after a lifetime back in resource conscious Europe cannot be randomly dismissed even here in the land of plenty - or rather, the land of excess.

This truly is the land of wastefulness - over-sized food  portions in restaurants which must regularly result in plate loads of food being thrown away; over-zealous irrigation as garden sprinklers merrily water the pavement; over-cold air conditioning units which make you want to put your coat on to go into a building and take it off when you come out, and  giant sized household appliances that wantonly consume vast amounts of energy.

Despite living in a compact city center apartment I have a stove large enough to roast a complete medieval banquet.  Often I only switch it on to heat up a loaf of garlic bread. Whilst it does toast up the whole apartment quite nicely, I then have to put the air-con on to prevent the family expiring from heat exhaustion. I also have an industrial sized washing machine which spins with such gratuitous violence  it regularly destroys my clothes - it's so big that an entire week's worth of laundry only constitutes a half load. The same can be said for my tumble dryer, and of course, here in California  it rarely rains so it's ideal outdoor drying weather but there's not a clothes line in sight. It's all so unnecessary.  And what is so wrong with "small"?  It's almost a dirty word.

The vast majority of US politicians will have you believe that diminishing world resources and nasty rumours about global warming are pure mythology.  There's certainly no need for us to worry our pretty little heads about it.   There’s enough fuel left in the world to keep those gas guzzling SUV’s going for a good few years yet and enough by-products being created to enable check-out assistants at Ralphs to continue to pack one item of groceries per plastic bag guilt free.

Economise? Conservation? Don't even think about.  Just indulge.

This is a totally have-it-all and then throw it away, disposable society, and yet I still like to think I’m doing my bit to preserve the environment - regardless of unlimited resources. I don’t send all my trash down the convenient waste disposal chute at the end of my corridor.  Instead I separate my rubbish into what’s recyclable and what’s not, although this does mean I have to manually take half my trash down into the bowels of the parking garage to the one recycling bin that caters for all 230 apartments.

At my local Ralphs there is actually a "re-cycling" centre where I could take all my glass and plastic bottles and receive a 5 cent return for each, proving perhaps that Americans are willing to re-cycle given a financial incentive. However, there is a whole industry here for the poor of Pasadena, who regularly scavenge the bins.  I know if I put my bottles into the trash they will wend their way over to the recycling centre whatever, and some old tramp, far needier than me, will be a few dollars better off because of it.

The trouble with living here is that if you want to be "green" you have to go out of your way to do it.  I have to drive to an organic grocery store; it is an "inconvenience" to recycle my rubbish, and knowing how Americans love that word "convenient" it's hardly the encouragement they need to join in.  Time is precious over here and everyone is always in such a hurry - although I've yet to work out quite what for. The American lifestyle is not conducive to a social conscience.

I know I can't save the planet single-handedly, but at least I like to think I'm doing my best not to join the rush to totally ruin it.

A Good Indicator

Despite my chameleon like attempts to go unnoticed amongst LA society there are certain characteristics which will always mark me out as an alien species.

 Driving is one of them. 

Why? Because I know how to use my indicators.  It is very apparent cruising around the city streets that despite the vast sums of money the average American likes to spend on purchasing a flashy new car, they don’t spend an awful lot of time reading their owner handbooks.  If they did, they’d find out how to put their indicators on.

Considering they’ve all learned how to juggle the steering wheel whilst texting, balancing an i-pad and drinking a Starbucks you think sussing out how to let your fellow drivers know what direction you’re about to take would be pretty easy in comparison. 

Unfortunately co-operation is not part of the American psyche.  This is a culture where it’s very much ALL ABOUT ME.

A regular reader – and yes I do have some – very kindly sent me an article from the motoring press following a post I wrote about our trip to the East Coast where we re-discovered the joys of roundabouts.  American motorists are apparently very resistant to the idea of roundabouts because basically it means they all have to work together for the greater good in order to improve traffic flow.  Heaven forbid, they may even have to yield to another car.  This is an unfamiliar concept in American society.

It's very noticeable here that road users have very little regard for each other and are positively unco-operative.  You are never waved on ahead out of a car park or a side street into the main traffic flow even if the traffic is already at a complete standstill.  Nobody is ever going to give up their place in that line at the lights for you and why an earth should they? Remember - it's every man for themselves out here.

I'll admit I'm not a perfect driver - as the teenager is very quick to remind me now that she has passed her permit test and is the font of knowledge regarding the Californian Highway Code.  Although I personally think most Americans believe the right to drive at any speed, in any lane of the freeway is part of the American Constitution, I know for a fact that slower traffic is supposed to keep to the right and its pure urban myth that other cars can undertake, drive on the hard shoulder and even jump over the top of each other to get ahead.  I also know that a red traffic light means stop and a flashing white pedestrian sign means, unfortunately,  you do have to let them cross.

I also know that you are supposed to indicate before making a manoeuver which actually makes perfect sense. It's not just a question of good manners there is also the safety aspect. 

This is where I come unstuck with American mentality.  Here is a nation of people who take great pride in being gratuitously polite, yet give them a car and Dr Jekyll takes the back seat as Mr Hyde grabs the steering wheel.