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Where Am I? Top or Bottom?
WEDNESDAY:
A beerless bar might,
and a gearless car might,
but I can't go on
without my Marmite.
Sorry -- just reminding myself to stop at the shop because I'm out of Marmite. Lunch is a leftover Co-Op salmon fish cake sandwich on a fresh breadcake from my local bakery. The fishcake is quite good, with lots of fresh salmon mixed with smoked salmon, and it's held in with low-fat cream cheese and has a garnish of lettuce and red pepper. My fruit cup contains excellent strawberry and nectarine slices. I do love the summer fruits.
I could easily write this week about how I'm mystified as to why so many patronising personalities end up working in university libraries, but I'm not going to.
FRIDAY: Today's lunch is late and therefore in danger of being devoured instantly. It's a bit of a challenge to eat, as it's basil-marinated tofu, cream cheese, and chopped red pepper and spring onion on most of a long skinny baguette, cut at various angles so it will fit into my square plastic container. So today's lunch is a bit precarious.
One of the things Brits tend to assume about Americans -- aside from the erroneous assumption that 95 percent of the population are massively obese right-wing Christians -- is that all of the cities are built on grids. It's true that many of the roads of the newer cities are arranged this way, especially when the geography is flat and boring. But there's usually quite a bit of variation from horizontal streets crossing vertical avenues, especially when the landscape is hilly and/or marked with rivers or lakes. And the capitol of Washington, DC, like some of the world's oldest cities, was built on a series of spokes and hubs. I grew up in a city where the Pacific Ocean was to the south and the entire city completely surrounded a hill which was its own city, so this could have led to me being geographically disorientated later in life. Of course I was the type who would get lost driving the perfect grid of inland Orange County in search of Disneyland simply because every intersection looked exactly like every other intersection. For a British comparison try finding your way around the cloned roundabouts in the Edinburgh suburb of Livingston and you'll understand.
Regardless of this I still become extreme confused navigating the streets of Sheffield because I'm used to thinking in terms of North, South, East, and West, not to mention being aware of street names. Whereas in America one will give directions by saying something like "go down 3 blocks, turn left at the signal onto Elm Street, then go 2 blocks and turn right onto 34th Way, and it's the 3rd house on the right", somebody in the UK might say "Go down the main road until you come to the second set of lights, then make the second turning and keep on past the Red Lion until you come to a junction and make the third turning and keep on up the hill until you come to some shops on the left, and it's just opposite the Co-Op." So what's the name of the street you want? Who knows? It doesn't matter -- only taxi drivers are required to know the names of streets. When I spent a year in Sheffield delivering pizza and home improvement fliers door to door, I got to know the streets in the western half of central Sheffield like the back of my hand. As a result, because of my Knowledge, everybody in my neighbourhood knew that anybody who was searching for a certain street by name should consult me.
Another thing that confuses me are the terms "top" and "bottom", as in "the top of Fargate" or "the bottom of the Moor". It's been explained to me that these terms refer to the elevation of the street, which makes sense in the case of where I live, because my "top" half of the street is up the hill from the main drag, whereas my friends who live on the other side of the main drag live on the "bottom" part of the same street because it's down the hill. But this is all fine and good because I live on the slope of a hill. I still can't figure out why "the top of Fargate", for instance, is called this because I can't distinguish any notable elevation change when one walks from one end of Fargate to the other, and I'm not in the habit of carrying a pocket altimeter or even a spirit level with me.
As to which way is North, South, East, or West, on a sunny day I can make a good educated guess; but when the sky is evenly tinted with grey I can only really guess that a particular 180-degree direction from my particular standpoint has at least a bit of North in it, or South or whatever.
I suppose, so I don't seem like such a disorientated foreigner, I should start carrying a pocket compass as well as a spirit level…
Becoming Historic
TUESDAY: Lunch is one of my usuals: basil marinated tofu and cream cheese on one of my local bakery's breadcakes. I watched a bit of a documentary last night on Richard Burton -- the Victorian explorer, not Liz' ex. I remember my father becoming fascinated with Burton's travels after reading a book on the subject while on a business trip. Sadly I didn't pay much attention as I was still at the point in my life where I had very little interest in the subject of history.
I attribute this lack of interest in history to the fact that I grew up in suburban Long Beach, California, in a house built in the 1950s and kitted out in Danish Modern. My neighbourhood was devoid of social history, being a brand new residential area in what was once soybean fields. It wasn't until I was well into my twenties that I first visited Rancho Los Alamitos, an early 19th century Spanish adobe ranch house which is today surrounded by my alma mater, the 1950s-built California State University at Long Beach. Soon after this awakening I learned about the Tongva tribe who lived in Long Beach centuries before my childhood home was built, and long before Los Angeles's freeways began to spread across the landscape.
But this was local history. I still felt no connection to or interest in standard American history, eg. Revolutionary officers crossing rivers in their tights and fancy hats while making grand poetic statements. I mean, coming on! Growing up in 1950s California suburbia, spending the summer barefoot at the beach, and spending my allowance on rock concerts and records, why would I give a toss about Abe Lincoln growing up in a log cabin or Betsy Ross sewing a flag?
When I started travelling to Europe I gained more of an appreciation for history, as the history over here is just so much, well, longer than the history of the United States. You've got so many different eras and ages, and the range of architectural styles left behind is staggering. My real epiphany came when I was working in Sheffield as a photographer of antiques and I was looking at an old tablespoon. The tablespoon was manufactured in 1764; and I suddenly realised that this spoon I was holding in my hand was being utilised most probably by a family for daily meals, just like we use our tablespoons today for soup or cereal or Marmite. But this was happening 12 years before the nation where I was born even existed!
It's this personal aspect that makes history real for me. I mean, I've seen lots of historic sites like Canterbury and Salisbury Cathedrals and Notre Dame in Paris and even the Skara Brae Neolithic Village in Orkney. But shortly after I moved to Sheffield a friend loaned me a video of Sheffield during the Blitz; and that's when I realised just how historic my adopted city is by the fact that much of it was blown away by World War II bombs. That's why so much of Sheffield looks relatively recent, with very few buildings dating back before the Victorian era. It makes one wonder what the city looked like before it was all blown to smithereens. Having worked on a research project on the Sheffield Flood of 1864 I am now really curious to find out even more about the city's history.
My god, what's happening to me? Why am I gaining this respect for history? Is it became I'm becoming a bit historic myself? Uh oh…
Caravan Memories and Bathroom Doors
MONDAY: Lunch on this quiet Monday in the student-sparse library is Wensleydale with cranberries on a sunflower breadcake from a local shop. I had no sandwich makings at home, so I was forced to treat myself. Ahhh, what a shame...
The other night I was staring vacantly at the television. (I say "staring at vacantly" because most times when I find myself sitting on the sofa and the TV's on I'm really not interested in watching it and I just wish it would go away. "Right," says 26-inch Panasonic, "I'm off t' pub. Don't wait up for me." But alas, it's only a dream…)
Anyway, I was staring at a repeat of QI, Stephen Fry's more intelligent than average celebrity game show. The question came up about what links Airstream, Sierra, Fleetwood, Sandpiper, and a few others names…and instantly, propelled by an excited prodding in the childhood section of my memory, I blurted out "TRAILERS! They're all trailers!" As the celebrities all seemed stumped Stephen Fry gave the answer: "They're all makes of caravans." (Which, of course, are trailers in America.) Andrew, who was sitting next to me and usually knows most everything but not this, was impressed that I replied so fast. I explained that my grandparents once lived in an Airstream, and I had a friend who lived in a Sierra and another who camped out in a Sandpiper.
Still, I'm rather perplexed. Why do I know so much about trailers? My Uncle Tom, who's the genealogist of the Mitchell family, informs me at various times during his research travels of new bloodlines, races, and nationalities to add to my already hugely diverse ancestral tree. It could be the touch of Gypsy from way back that has etched all the makes of caravans into my brain. But on the other hand I'm dying to ask him -- proudly, of course -- if he's located any trailer trash in our ancestry.
That might explain why I think of pink flamingos as desirable decor.
TUESDAY: I brought my lunch today. It's only cheddar and spring onion with English mustard on a Somerfield equivalent to a whole wheat bolo roll. But my fruit includes fresh nectarine, fresh local strawberries, and intensely ripe cantaloupe.
Something I've been meaning to complain about is this closed-door policy in Britain. And I'm not referring to immigration or trade or anything so newsworthy; I'm talking about bathroom doors. Why do so many Brits, including the younger generations, leave the bathroom door closed when nobody is in there? How do they expect people to know if the bathroom's in use or not? It's not like there's a door latch which, when engaged, changes an indicator from VACANT to OCCUPIED -- at least not on the domestic bathrooms I've seen.
When I first visited England I still lived in sunny Southern California where the fact that I didn't have central heating wasn't much of a problem. And then I visited the huge stately home of some non-wealthy Sussex acquaintances who simply couldn't afford to thaw the late November chill from their castle by turning on the heating. So I could understand why they closed off all the doors to the lounge in which we were being entertained: it was to keep the heat from the roaring fire in the room with us, instead of letting it waft off and dissipate in the freezer of a kitchen where even the Marmite had probably turned to ice, or into the frozen wasteland of the upstairs rooms. If one had to pop out to use the loo, one could simply don one's coat, hat, and gloves and pretend one was on a camping trip.
In cases like that, door-closing makes sense: to conserve heat and reduce fuel costs. But this does not explain the infuriating habit of keeping the door closed to an empty bathroom. And it's not the elderly Brits I'm railing at, because they may have been brought up with the toilet outside away from the house, and therefore they may still harbour the opinion that a toilet belongs out of sight and not displayed as a feature of one's house. All well and good, although some people actually have this attitude about their children and pets -- but I won't start on that one. The door closers I object to are mostly young people I've known who have no logical reason to leave the bathroom door closed when they vacate the room. My god, it's the 21st century, and top Italian designers enjoy the rewards of well-attended exhibits of their gorgeous and sensual bathtub, sink, and toilet designs. There's nothing to be ashamed of -- everyone has to use the toilet now and then, even the Queen and the Pope. I suppose androids wouldn't necessarily have to, but if there were androids I would think they'd have much better things to do than to come over to my house and make sure my bathroom door is shut.
I'm sorry -- bathroom doors are meant to be open and inviting when the room's not in use. If the bathroom has a window the sun can shin in, providing money-saving solar heat, and the air stays fresh and healthier.
Okay, I'm going to stop talking about this now because I'm in danger of becoming so obsessive I might start going around opening bathroom doors that are closed for a good reason. So consider yourself warned…
Meeting Colin
MONDAY: Lunch is Waitrose smoked salmon and cream cheese on my local bakery's whole wheat breadcake. As I have no capers at the moment I added a sliced spring onion. I was first introduced to cold smoked salmon in the classic Jewish delis of Los Angeles, and I loved the classic Nova lox and cream cheese served on a decent bagel with sliced red onion and sliced tomatoes. By the time I moved to Seattle my favourite bagel deli also put capers on their lox and cream cheese bagels, which I considered a brilliant addition. But today, as I have neither a decent proper bagel nor capers, I have to make do. Not bad for making do…
TUESDAY: I was looking so forward to a goat cheese sandwich today, but sadly the last bit of the roll of creamy white goat cheese had developed a greenish-yellow sweat, a bit unnatural for creamy white goat cheese. So it's mature cheddar with Dijon and the usual spring onion and red pepper on a large granary roll.
Although I consider myself a diehard city girl I still love nature and all the floral and faunal pleasures of the countryside, the seaside, and the mountains. For the best of both worlds I love encounters with urban wildlife. In the California suburb where I grew up, before all the fields were covered with detached family homes with two-car garages, my brother and I used to be able to go out in the fields just beyond our neighbourhood and catch lizards and snakes, and we'd occasionally spot a jackrabbit scampering through. And our jungle of a front garden was home to plenty of grasshoppers, dragonflies, and butterflies. Sadly, thanks to our entomophobic neighbours who gallantly sprayed their world, along with everyone else's, with insecticides, this wildlife didn't stick around long. By the time I moved away from home to a flat near the beach, the only urban fauna I could hope to bump into was the random gopher popping its head up from the bluff park, or the random feral parrot roosting in a palm tree.
When I moved to Seattle I was overjoyed to find the place teeming with squirrels that, shockingly, I had never experienced in an urban environment. I even called the tree outside our home the Screaming Squirrel Tree because it was populated by territorial squirrels who were always screeching and arguing noisily. After dark my favourites, the raccoons, would emerge along with the occasional possum. When I moved to southeast England I was happy to have a second-story flat overlooking a garden and railway embankment where a family of foxes regularly visited. And when I first moved to Sheffield and popped out to the local shop for a jar of Marmite, I passed a dog trotting nervously down my street, and it wasn't until our eyes met that I realised it was a large fox.
I've been in England for nine years now, but it wasn't until the other night that I finally experienced one of the creatures England is famous for. I had spent the evening at my local pub enjoying my favourite local band with friends while consuming a liberal but not ridiculous amount of Farmers Blonde. As I was walking home down a quiet residential street I spotted a tiny furry being on the pavement in front of me. When I stopped and leaned over to have a look, it froze. I said, "Well, hello there! You're so tiny! Are you a hedgehog?" And the hedgehog, still frozen in its spot, watched with alarm the much bigger Me and finally scurried across the pavement into the closest garden. I had been told that hedgehogs usually curl up into a ball when frightened, so this one, obviously a young one, must not have felt too threatened by my gentle, if a bit beer-scented, presence.
I'm sure the average Brit would laugh at my excitement on seeing my first hedgehog. But like my reaction last summer to watching puffins flying around the Old Man of Hoy in Orkney, I was so excited to see nature like this close up.
So go ahead and have a good laugh. See what I care.
