A Tale of at Least Two Cities

Well, it's settled. We can't come home -- or at least, not to the home we left in Salem. Despite an insurgence of moss down the driveway and over the front porch, we found out on Friday that a family with a small dog has taken over the place and part of the mortgage. Whew.

Which gives us the chance -- without fire, or foreclosure, or pogrom -- to ask about the meaning of a home. Jesse and I counted this weekend, and figure that we've moved eight times in the last fourteen years, which makes pinpointing "home" somewhat challenging. Our parents have moved around quite a bit as well, house to house and state to state, and there's nothing like an ancestral home either (unless you count Ohio).

So this weekend, we went to visit someone else's ancestral home: the Dunfermline Palace and Abbey in Dunfermline, Scotland, built almost a thousand years ago for Queen/Saint Margaret and her husband. She and a piece of him -- his embalmed heart -- are buried there (no clarification about what exactly happened to the rest of him, I'm afraid), as is Robert the Bruce (the minor bearded character in Braveheart, and despite what Mel Gibson believes, far more important to Scotland's autonomy than William Wallace) and myriad other characters. The palace and the abbey functioned as a joint property for the royals, including Mary Queen of Scots and Lord Darnley, and the church.

They can't go home either, not the least because they are dead but also because there's not much home left. Building began on the site in the 11th century and continued for almost 700 years, but the thing entered its final ruined stage a couple of hundred years ago. On Saturday, after buying tickets and a membership to Historic Scotland from a lovely, persuasive host, Jesse and I walked through the remains of the refectory, the Queen's chambers, the kitchen, the gatehouse, and the monks' dormitory (complete with a charming drawing of monks yawning), the rooms open to the public.

It's hard to tell from the photos, which are mostly from the still-standing nave, but this was a spectacular house. The rooms were huge, with large windows overlooking a small river and wood. The negative? You could run into monks on the way to the loo. The positive? If you're queen, you can apparently say to the architect, "I'm not the one who has to cook, so I don't even want to see the kitchen. Just put it in the basement." There were three stories, with a huge hall on top, and lovely spiral staircases to connect the levels. Cold, desperately cold, but stunning. And considering some of the rocky, damp, tiny hovels monks seemed to frequently inhabit between the tenth and thirteenth centuries, a pretty good gig as religious orders go.

In The World Without Us, author Alan Weisman makes his point in about two pages and then continues to write long enough to have enough pages for a book and Discovery series. Nonetheless, he notes that the buildings that will survive humankind are not the steel temples we've built in the last century, but instead buildings that have already stood the test of time -- buildings like Dunfermline Palace. Though roofless and almost as mossy as our Salem home, you can feel the building's power in the massive stone walls and paved floors -- carved by stonecrafters long gone who left their logos in the stones they carved. Wars for independence, the Reformation, several world wars, conflicts between queens and popes notwithstanding. . . these stones have sat silent and committed, holding up ancient walls and legends.

We got home to discover our modern dwelling less resilient. Dead refrigerator, stinky food. And then I accidentally reset my iPhone settings, deleting all of the photos I have taken since I got the phone, including beautiful pictures of Dunfermline. Thank goodness that, according to Weisman, future societies won't have to put up with these imperfect and ephemeral gadgets. So I am beholden to Jesse and French Wikipedia (did you know there was a French Wiklipedia?) for the photos.

P.S. Brace yourself. Giving me a membership to Historic Scotland is like giving Elton John a knightship and a crazy hat. I'm going to use it.

P.P.S. Nothing like moving 4,500 miles away from your friends and family to make you philosophical. However, this is the lasty extensive musing on homes or home-related topics. Promise.

Slow boat to China

A former supervisor, someone lacking in execution skills but superb at articulating the human condition, once pointed out that moving house is an opportunity to try on a new identity simply by rearranging your belongings. "Who will I be if I put this table here?"

But this move has forced us to ask another question. That question is, who are you if you move to a new home with no property whatsoever? It's true -- our 16 boxes, stuffed to bursting with clothing, pillows, linens, shoes, pictures and kitchen equipment which we shipped a couple of days before we left Salem, have yet to arrive. Rumor has it that they've showed up in Glasgow after (literally) taking a slow boat to China, but they have yet to appear on the doorstep of Little Balone.

As a result, I have -- and this may surprise you -- fewer than ten pairs of shoes including just four pairs of heels. My clothes fit in two drawers and on fifteen hangers. I have one coat. ONE, which has to serve for all situations. We have two towels and no cookbooks. This news may inspire you to send sympathy cards. Or six-inch heels. But I think you'll agree, seeing pictures of our beautiful little cottage, that while I don't currently enjoy the wardrobe of a princess we're living quite happily ever after.

Why? The truth is that, living in a location as rich in culture and art and delightful people as is St Andrews, you don't need much. It's freeing to feel that, instead of fussing around organizing possessions or buying more (we can't afford it!), we can pack a small bag and board a train for anywhere. Perhaps we lock all the doors and windows. Maybe we don't. But we certainly don't worry about it.

We're obviously not living the life of rocky island monks. We have furniture and various kitchen appliances, including a kettle. But we really don't miss the pasta maker, the third and fourth bedrooms, the extra bath, the Ron Popeil knives or the three drawers of unmatched Tupperware. So much less to wash, dust, arrange. So peaceful.

P.S. Shipping company, if you're reading this -- I'm not saying that I don't need my shoes. A girl can't live with just four pairs of heels forever, so step on it.

Telling your story

Don't get me wrong -- I enjoy the Louvre, the Field Museum, MOMA, the Chicago Institute of Art. They're all cleverly constructed, beautiful spaces conceived by professional exhibition designers and curated by the best in the field. And if you haven't yet, you should rush right out and visit each of them as soon as you finish reading this. Really.

And, of course, the US learned about nurturing terrific museum collections from the best -- the Brits, who brought us both Tate Museums, the Victoria and Albert, the Imperial War Museum (my favorite), the Royal Museum and Museum of Scotland, the British Museum (although, in fairness, they borrowed a lot of it from other people). So make sure you don't miss those either.

But in addition to these excellent showpieces, one of the things I love about the UK, one of the things I really treasure, is the beautiful, careful, meticulous way small communities put together tiny museums to honor their special piece of history -- a single battle, a favorite son, a crumbling building. There's at least one in each town, and as you creep through the tiny displays you can feel the community's thoughtful, humble pleasure in curating its own identity. You can feel it like warmth, despite the often drafty, sometimes dim buildings and dog-eared museum guides. I love these museums.

This week, while my parents were here, we visited a truly lovely example of beloved community museums in Dundee, Scotland, called Discovery Point. To be fair, Discovery Point is a rather well-funded version of a community museum. However, like its poorer brethren it spins its tiny piece of history -- as the dockyards for the Scott expeditions to the South Pole -- into an elaborate Odyssey. And it does it well, with entertaining video displays (one, which explores the pole's climate, comes with its own wind), children's activities and the beautifully-preserved HMS Discovery, which Scott took on one of his trips.

Discovery Point tells the story of these journeys, from the planning to the provisioning (3,000 lbs of chocolate, 800 gallons of rum, 45 live sheep) to the successes and sometimes dramatic failures of the boats and their men. One video introduces you to each of the key characters, while another demonstrates through ancient footage what conquering the pole wearing sealskin hoods and wooden skis must have been like. You can smell gunpowder, try to load a ship using a crane, play a video game called Krill Bill. And the designers manage to tie the whole story of Scotland-based South Pole expeditions (which, candidly, was over by the mid-1930s) into the future of a warming planet as illustrated by the dissolving polar ice caps. Drip, drip, drip.

I worry that these tiny demonstrations of community pride, like the polar ice caps, are slowly dissolving into a maze of high street shops and big box stores, even in small-town Scotland. The few visitors they must entertain each year cannot possibly pay for the lights, heat and ticket-taker -- and yet huge museums like I've mentioned above won't ever provide space to conserve history writ small. In some ways, they're big box stores themselves, homogenizing and packaging culture to be accomplishable in an hour and a half with a trip to the museum store. And then, if it turns out I'm not a giant dinosaur or one-earred artist, who will tell my story when I'm gone? Or yours?

If you like boats, or whales, or sailors, or horrific and disappointing death, or, frankly, jute, this is your museum. Or if, like me, you love the fact that a community -- long past its prime as a shipping and ship-building port -- would so honor and conserve its unique story, this is your museum. Even though it's in Scotland.

Please, people. We're Americans.

I am an immigrant.

Although I’m white, speak English as a first language, am educated and have independent resources, there is no question that I am an immigrant – with all of the baggage that label carries. This is hard to realize, let alone admit. The hallmarks of an immigrant, if you watch Fox News, are brown skin, many babies, a thick accent, meagre resources, manual labour and an existence on the margins of society – both literally and symbolically. That’s not me.

The truth is that I believed that, unless I opened my mouth, I could pass as a native. I’ve existed for a month and a half secure that I had pulled off the deception, compounded by the fact that I’ve successfully integrated key words and phrases (“bits” instead of “parts,” “gobsmacked” instead of “stunned,” “would you be happy to” instead of “would you mind,” “brilliant” instead of “great”) into my American grammar, and worn the same outfit twice in two weeks and only three different pairs of shoes. These cosmetic changes have allowed me to be fairly self-congratulatory about my assimilation.

But I’m still an immigrant.

It is, however, a markedly different kind of status than, say, newly-arrived Mexican or Southeast Asian people experience in the US. Those immigrants are systematically disempowered, despite terrific efforts to adapt to middle-class standards. Instead, as an American in Britain, you represent a country that has become powerful by doing some nasty things and, as penance, you must sit quietly while others complain about you. To your face. The alternative is to become complicit in these acts.

So in some ways, you’re an immigrant who has too much power. It’s ironic . . . I’m thinking about this as a new version of Gulliver’s Travels is about to be released. Suffice it to say that I’m Gulliver.

This is not to say that the people we’ve met aren’t lovely. They are, and don’t consciously hold me accountable for my countrymen’s foibles. But I’ve sat in many meetings where colleagues snickeringly reference some aspect of fundraising – or life in general, really – as “so very American.” Or they’ll make a reference to an American turn of phrase, laugh uproariously, and say, “Please. Not here. We’re British.” And usually I can’t even understand the joke. For example, what’s wrong with the word “gotten”? Yet I laugh to prove that I’m the American who understands my flaws.

In general, while these jokes hurt, I don’t entirely mind. I frequently disagree with American politics or behaviors myself, and have made conscious efforts to differentiate myself in the past.

But we’re talking about Britain here, not Cambodia. Britain, the empire on which the sun never set. MY country, though a little backward, didn’t invent slave-trading. MY country didn’t colonize thousands upon thousands of indigenous people around the world. MY country has never beheaded politicians or burned martyrs. So while I’m sorry about KFC and Britney Spears, I think we need some perspective on relative evils perpetrated by our countries.

Until then, I’ll try to fit the word “posh” into my vocabulary and use the letter s when I really mean z. I’ll work to accommodate my status as the powerful yet wayward “other.” And I’ll hope that America’s new face – international, tolerant, compassionate – can represent to the world something other than a military-industrial complex. Please, people. We’re Americans.

Ten things I love about Scotland

I get to ghostwrite a letter for a Commander of the British Empire.

There is an abiding national tendency to stuff puff pastry with smoked meats.

Old people walk around in the snow using single ski poles (like, one per person).

Morning shows seem to understand that they are not news programs, and function accordingly.

An American accent (something I've cultivated for years) serves as an excuse for all manner of sins, from taking too long at the ATM machine to falling asleep in a meeting ("Zzzzz . . . snort . . . ah-what? Oh, sorry -- my Americanism keeps me from going to bed at a proper hour").

While natives don't appreciate it, the public transport system is a miracle.

Eating biscuits (cookies) around tea-time is seen as something that can't be helped.

St Andrews has two Indian restaurants, one Bangladeshi restaurant, a Thai restaurant, several pubs, a kebab joint . . . AND NO McDONALD's (which, as I write this, seems kind of ironic).

They leave historical things -- and I mean stuff that is REALLY old -- just lying around for anyone to enjoy . . . even without an entrance fee.

Cream tea. Don't know what it is but it sounds heavenly.

Hold on. Is this Qwest? I'd know you anywhere.

I must admit, after a month in another country, the less adventurous side of me is starting to seek out Americanisms. I’m a little worn down by the endless lamb and haddock in the grocery store. I would be much happier if I could use a flashlight instead of a torch. I get upset sometimes by the shape of the light socket. It exhausts me to constantly translate the pounds required to make a purchase into the American dollars in our bank account. I can’t figure out why movie theatres (cinemas) would ever sell cold popcorn without butter. I just can’t.

And then, something happens that’s so recognizable, so comfortable, so familiar that it almost makes me weep. If it hadn’t made me so damn angry.

That’s right, friends. I had to call the telephone company to set up phone and broadband service.

You’ve had to do it too, I know, and so this conversation will sound almost like it came from your own brain:

Me: Hi. I need to set up telephone and broadband service.

Woman who sounds like she should be the first girl in any James Bond movie: Ms Finch Gnehm. there is no record of a line previously at your house. We'll have to send someone out on the 11th of never between 6:00 a.m. and 9:00 p.m. Will someone be available?

Me: I know that there's been a line here before. I can see it, plus the landlord confirms it. This house has been connected for ages.

James Bond woman: I'm sorry, Ms Finch Gnehm. We don't actually have your house listed as a residence. Are you living in a public park? No? Then you'll have to call the post office to make sure your house really exists. Ask them to contact NASA for a satellite image of the home. Fax us the image on NASA letterhead and then we can schedule an appointment. There will be an entirely unreasonable charge for this.

And then, as it turns out, that’s not enough. We have to prove that we have a dial tone, and then only after having a dial tone for five days can we access the network. Why? We don’t know. But there are certain things we have just come to expect.

Fortunately, after years of rigorous training by AT&T, ComCast and Qwest I already know how the rest of this dialogue goes.

Me: We have no dial tone.

British Telecom: Have you tried resetting the phone?

Me: This is a £4.85 phone. There is no reset button.
I have to constantly turn a crank just to keep it working.

British Telecom: Well, we can send someone out then. Can someone be available at the home between tomorrow morning and Cinco de Mayo?

But this pattern feels so safe. I know what the unfamiliar accent on the other end of the phone is going to say. I know I’m going to be frustrated, and yet I’m emotionally prepared.

Finding security in disappointment. British Telecom, I thank you.

Viva la meringue

First, it was crepes in Paris, covered with nutella. But we didn't really know how bad it could get.

Next, in Italy, it was tiramisu -- sometimes two or three a day, in whatever form was available.

Then he moved on to ice cream in Ireland, scoops and scoops.

But I can truly say that the epidemic reached its peak in Barcelona with the meringue shop. We'd never seen meringues like these before. Chocolate, strawberry, coffee, lemon . . . the options were seemingly endless (especially when you're willing to eat the same flavor twice). They were sticky, light, beautiful confection and only cost a couple of Euros each. Not only did we eat many, we brought some home.

JFG and I spent four days in Barcelona over my birthday this year, two of them before he came down with a nasty flu bug. We dedicated one day to seeing the three major Antonio Gaudi structures, a second day exploring the historical museum, and the third day at Monserrat, a 10th century monastery outside the city where we got into an argument about the difference between cable cars, trollies and funiculars.

We actually managed fairly well on my 12-year-old Spanish, especially since I'd dramatically under-estimated the difference between Mexican Spanish (mine) and Catalonian Spanish. In fact, I go so far as to claim that Catalonian is really a mixture of French and Italian more than it is a version of Spanish. Fortunately, we usually ended up with the food we thought we'd ordered (except for the time we ordered asparagus and ended up with mushrooms and sausage) and in the proper Metro station.

But what we'll remember, what we'll deeply value about this trip, is wandering the city at 7:00 am looking for aspirin on the first morning Jesse had the flu, complete with a fever.

No, I'm kidding, of course. We'll remember the meringues.