tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45519773543384038762024-03-13T19:37:26.621+00:00Asia VuLiving and traveling overseas - again. MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.comBlogger252125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-49002469262714405442020-02-25T18:05:00.001+00:002020-08-17T14:55:16.266+01:00Expat Life: Going topless<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgasZHXQOakwUksXJ15ypiWUwMlQxaa8jGS-HPDhL_RrwiocWltT22ZCgZ2OvUMkHHzrjrm9rBaH1xdy6_sJoKoY4wR4rur9S3qoVBUU1lT5GBVpDQBqmuQZfAFqf6390pT0FcAhZFj5hpm/s1600/AeLb2kNGNRF8hxqwWlXiTKeFSpJQ-603377810037-5.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="360" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgasZHXQOakwUksXJ15ypiWUwMlQxaa8jGS-HPDhL_RrwiocWltT22ZCgZ2OvUMkHHzrjrm9rBaH1xdy6_sJoKoY4wR4rur9S3qoVBUU1lT5GBVpDQBqmuQZfAFqf6390pT0FcAhZFj5hpm/s400/AeLb2kNGNRF8hxqwWlXiTKeFSpJQ-603377810037-5.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm not sure what it says about me that the event that has <i>finally</i> prompted me to resurrect my languishing blog was an awkward experience in a foreign country involving partial nudity.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">What's even odder is that I hadn't felt this inspired at all during 2019, which had been full of <i>really</i> blogworthy happenings, including:</span><br />
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<li><span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> the two international moves we made in 8 months <i>(oh, by the way, we live in Germany now)</i></span></li>
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<li><span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> the romantic elopement of our older son and his stunning bride in Gibraltar <i>(I know, right? What's wrong with me?)</i></span></li>
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<li><span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> the university graduation of the younger son from his Uni in Amsterdam <i>(and MrO's and my equally-significant 'graduation' from years of paying tuition.)</i></span></li>
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<li><span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> the sale of our US 'home base' of 15 years and ensuing statelessness.</span></li>
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>(So, yes, things have changed a few times since we packed up </i><i>with our teenagers</i><i> to move for 'just two years' to Seoul back in 2011. But I digress.)</i></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">So why the silence on the blog? Well, for one thing, most of the above events were </span><strike style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">mercilessly </strike><span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">endlessly documented (by me and others) on just about every social media platform available, it seemed almost obnoxious to add blog posts to the mix. Part of it, too, was the feeling that many of the other bloggers I followed seemed to be migrating to other platforms, so the feeling of camaraderie and community that I used to get from blogging had faded somewhat. Besides, we'd been living in England for quite a while and there wasn't much to say that hadn't been said already by me or some other expat blogger about the charm and beauty of the verdant English countryside and all the historical buildings around us or the hilarity of a dessert called Spotted Dick.</span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">But then we moved to Germany, and I found myself once again coming face-to-face with all those <i>only in another culture</i> situations that just beg to be blogged about - with 'slightly embarrassing, partly clothed medical procedure' easily topping the list. I'm sure that </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">those of you were following me back when we lived in Korea and remember my experience with the </span><a href="http://asiavufullcircle.blogspot.com/2013/05/cultural-differences-healthcare-in.html" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Crazy Robotic Gyno Chair</a><span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> will probably not be surprised that My Awkward German Mammogram presented itself as the perfect vehicle for a return to my online presence. Read on. </span></span><br />
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As I was saying, here we are in Germany. Having arrived in early November and being immediately hit in the face with the fire hose that is the holiday season here <i>(How many Christmas Markets </i><b>can</b><i> you go to in six weeks?), </i>I'd been a bit lax about tracking down the usual list of providers that every new expat assignment necessitates - doctor, dentist, hairdresser, vet, etc. (Actually, the dog got a vet pretty quickly- a story in itself - but other than that, we just hoped to remain healthy until after the New Year.)</span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">So when I got a letter telling me that I'd been scheduled for a mammogram as part of the screening programme here in Rheinland-Pfalz, I thought, <i>Why not?</i> I was due for one, and at the very least it would save me having to track down a specialist and make an appointment on my own.</span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Accordingly, I presented myself at the appointed time at the screening centre, prepared with a book, my health records, and lively anticipation of a new opportunity to <strike>be embarrassed </strike>experience health care in yet another culture.</span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, to be fair, getting a mammogram is not particularly embarrassing - at least, not to me. (I've been getting them since my early 30s due to family history.) In fact, my experience in Korea was so benign that it never even seemed interesting enough to write about. The <i>setting, </i>I'll grant you, was pretty incredible - like something out of a TV drama. The English-speaking specialist I found was a cosmetic breast surgeon who had trained at UCLA and worked out of a super-swank plastic surgery clinic in the posh Gangnam neighbourhood, so the whole practice was very luxurious and mostly geared toward beautiful, wealthy young women getting implant surgery(clearly not my demographic, but you do what you have to when you need an English-speaking specialist). Everything in the office (on the 10th floor of a high-rise) was was decorated in shades of pink (including the gowns), the music was soft, and the furnishings were luxurious. The changing rooms featured zen bamboo lockers for your clothes, and there were organic soaps and lotions in the bathrooms. But the experience itself (beyond a few awkward moments where the radiology tech clearly wasn't used to dealing with Anglo-Saxon-sized boobs) was more or less the same as in the USA.</span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">In case you haven't experienced a mammogram in the US (where we are a bit more <strike>uptight </strike>modest than Europe,) patients are checked in and then given a gown to change into. During the procedure, each individual side of the gown is removed just enough to expose the part being radiated, then immediately covered back up again. This was the same procedure I followed in my swanky private clinic in Korea, so - outside of the language barrier - there was little difference between the procedure in the two countries.</span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Fast forward to England, where the experience was in a far less fancy hospital setting but had the benefit of being fully comprehensible at all times -which was very helpful because I was able to be 100% sure I understood what was going on when I discovered there were <i>no gowns. </i> I was simply ushered into a room (wearing my clothes) with the radiologist (a very pleasant lady whom I got to know in ensuing years) and - after she'd asked a few health history questions -indicated that I should 'nip my jumper and bra off' right then and there and she'd get down to business. No gowns, no, "I'll step out whilst you're changing and come back later so this whole thing takes much longer than necessary" and no wasted time. During the 4 years I lived in England, I got quite efficient at it.</span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">So, upon moving to Germany - in the heart of a culture where a very relaxed European attitude towards nudity prevails (naked saunas and spas, topless swimming pools, etc), I anticipated an equally relaxed attitude to providing gowns for what was, after all, not such a Big Deal. In fact, before I left for my appointment, I joked with MrO that I wouldn't be <i>completely</i> surprised to find myself sitting around in the waiting room with a bunch of other topless women awaiting my turn. <i>Hahaha.</i></span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">(No, that didn't happen, but the important thing was that I was fully open to the possibility. See how exposure to different cultures broadens your mind?)</span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">After presenting myself and my credentials at reception, I sat down in the waiting area (not a gown in sight), watching alertly, wondering how it was going to work in Germany and trying to remind myself that this was an Interesting Cultural Experience. <i>Note: These 'interesting cultural experiences' are almost always more fun to read about than they are to actually <b>have</b>. But I digress</i>. </span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally, my name was called - and I <i>did</i> have a brief moment where I thought that my 'topless waiting room' fears might come true when I was ushered to a tiny changing room with two doors; one that I entered through, and the other -my panicked brain reckoned - could/would/might lead into the next waiting room. The receptionist chanted, "Lock this door when I leave, then take off everything above the waist -and your glasses." and then vanished. I did as I was instructed and then, sat, uncertainly - topless and blind - on the little bench in the room, wondering what to do next and listening to the free-flow nonstop chatter of my anxiety-ridden brain: <i>Was I supposed to go through the door -or sit there and wait? How long should I wait? Maybe someone was out there waiting for ME? She hadn't told me to leave, but she also hadn't told me anyone would come get me. Would they even remember I was there?Maybe there was someone on the other side of the door expecting me to emerge? Were my darkly humorous predictions going to come true? If I <b>did</b> go through the door, was I actually going to find myself in a topless waiting room? Surely not..but if so, what was the correct German greeting for such a situation?* Was there a special one if you were topless? Maybe I should just go through that door. But maybe the other room was the radiology room and someone else was having <b>their</b> topless mammogram on the other side of the door? I guess I'll just sit here and wait. But maybe I AM supposed to go out there. </i></span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">With such thoughts I <strike>tortured </strike>entertained myself until there was a knock at the interior door and I was summoned by the radiologist into what turned out to be an adjoining room with (thankfully) just her, me, and the machine, where things proceeded in a way I could (finally) understand. 20 minutes later, I was walking out of the office with -bonus!-some thoughts about reactivating my blog.</span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">True, my morning didn't fit into the typical 'Instagrammable' depiction of expat life: breathtaking scenery, lattes at the sidewalk cafe in a historic cobblestoned square, and sun glinting off the golden steeple of some venerable cathedral. However, it <i>is</i> the type of 'cultural collision' that most expats recognize and often look back on with fondness. These awkward, embarrassing moments are a rite of passage, a shared suffering, and maybe -a mark of belonging to our tribe.</span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">(still.... definitely relieved there was no topless waiting room.)</span></span><br />
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<i><span face="" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">*Cultural note: you always greet people when you walk into a doctor's waiting room in Germany.</span></i></span><br />
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MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-10245059350367320432016-07-28T12:45:00.001+01:002016-07-28T14:34:59.763+01:00Life in England: Takeaway in the UK<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmspbxZOpE-nY6Br1V_88giZQi_RNz3Q88kdb3WbDeYQhSXnMqQRC1ruKWynTtTYU-Ushihfyec41c0HWdQ9QABx92pdecp1ME0rQenvE6LerOnt4ftC5LDu6XpcQn-d2zNKCDJlWMbT8U/s1600/Dvrroguys.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmspbxZOpE-nY6Br1V_88giZQi_RNz3Q88kdb3WbDeYQhSXnMqQRC1ruKWynTtTYU-Ushihfyec41c0HWdQ9QABx92pdecp1ME0rQenvE6LerOnt4ftC5LDu6XpcQn-d2zNKCDJlWMbT8U/s400/Dvrroguys.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deliveroo: Fast food, Bath-style. via <a href="https://www.insidermedia.com/insider/midlands/deliveroo-launch-to-create-50-jobs">source</a> </td></tr>
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<i>(Note; For those of you who are curious about the photo above, <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-32901626">Deliveroo</a> is a delivery service in the UK (and, I believe, other parts of Europe and Asia) which provides delivery service from a number of different restaurants, some of which normally don't even provide delivery service. Here in Bath, the delivery people are usually seen on bicycles, which is impressive, given that the hills around here are pretty brutal. Apparently they use motorized vehicles in other cities in the UK, but around here the sight of one of these ultra-fit young people toiling up a hill with a Deliveroo box strapped to their back (or the bike) is quite common. MsC does not know for sure, but can only assume that there is something like this in North America as well. Or not.)</i><br />
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Along with all of you, MsCaroline has been observing with <strike>abject horror</strike> great concern the political madness going on at home and abroad. <br />
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Here in Great Britain, people are still getting over the post-Brexit shock (whether you were for or against leaving, no one can deny it's rarely a good thing when all the people who led a campaign for something jump ship once they realise it's actually going to happen. But -I digress.) Over there in the USA, the ever-present spectre of gun violence, now mixed in with the whirling vortex of presidential nominations and the party conventions are providing escalating speculation as to the End Of Times and countless FaceBook feuds. And of course, the situation in Europe is not exactly encouraging.<br />
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MsCaroline, who is an anxious worrier by nature, has done all she can to affect the outcome of world events within her small sphere of influence by volunteering, donating, voting, and sharing (within reason) her opinions and any information that seems unbiased and useful with anyone who seems inclined to listen with an open mind. But ultimately, the final outcomes of these things are beyond her control, and this -if one thinks about them too much - can make a person insane with fear.<br />
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So this is why MsCaroline has decided that it is time for her to discuss a topic we can all get behind, feel good about, and appreciate - namely, food. In this case, specifically, takeaway food (what we call 'carry out' in the US. Unless that's changed and I don't know it.)<br />
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Let me start off by saying that we are not huge fast food/delivery/takeout fans. When we lived in the US, we would order the occasional pizza or Chinese food, but it was certainly not a regular thing. Maybe once a month, or less frequently, say, if the boys had friends over or <strike>a bunch of us started drinking early on Friday afternoon and suddenly discovered it was 7pm and there was no dinner </strike>I was busy and needed a break from cooking.<br />
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When we moved to Korea, we initially didn't order much at all - mostly because we didn't speak any Korean, but also because we had dozens of restaurants within a very short walk of our apartment. Eventually, we learned how to order things online (or we had a Korean friend with us to do the talking.) Again - it was far from a regular occurrence.<br />
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Then, we moved to the UK, and MsCaroline found herself back in a land where she could (theoretically) speak the language (at least enough to order takeaway,) and it was glorious. One could get anything from Ethiopian to Thai to the more mundane pizza or chicken. In fact, your typical takeaway/delivery place in the UK offers a huge variety of foods, from pizza to burgers to fried chicken to fish and chips to kebabs. Really.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNeBF3VcZBFye4zBonm8iQlbFABX__cNs3qTMjVr_4jZEPW18r2C49cHs0h_LUjt0zsiz7MxaRhR4HHmT8e9Z9txnwm7IE-c6H1-EUfaJiKdx3dfT7ZLYhVpxlpSKS8uQGxLcFN6nGkRBx/s1600/kebab2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNeBF3VcZBFye4zBonm8iQlbFABX__cNs3qTMjVr_4jZEPW18r2C49cHs0h_LUjt0zsiz7MxaRhR4HHmT8e9Z9txnwm7IE-c6H1-EUfaJiKdx3dfT7ZLYhVpxlpSKS8uQGxLcFN6nGkRBx/s400/kebab2.jpg" width="280" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is just one of two full pages of possibilities</td></tr>
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While MsCaroline can take or leave the pizza, the burgers, and the fish and chips, it was soon evident that she had met her downfall when she saw the kebab menu. Why? Because the Doner Kebab is one of her all-time favourite foods.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjAkt2sl-1iJbWYuWcVWF5UMVe-CIBRPkuDfRajSPq1eSis6ttM0TCR3-XIqICqp273sqi4vZUdOMfhjEbgT4Qm87CnkHGVx9PP2alZRz5PqL3ofuTiWYZHIK_W_X0bxTiGLBh9JM_gFy8/s1600/kebab+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjAkt2sl-1iJbWYuWcVWF5UMVe-CIBRPkuDfRajSPq1eSis6ttM0TCR3-XIqICqp273sqi4vZUdOMfhjEbgT4Qm87CnkHGVx9PP2alZRz5PqL3ofuTiWYZHIK_W_X0bxTiGLBh9JM_gFy8/s320/kebab+1.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
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The Doner Kebab (or just, "Doner" for aficionados) is of Turkish origin - it's sort of like a Greek gyro, although it tends to look and taste differently depending on where you find it. Back when MsC lived in Germany, the Doner was a bit spicier and could feature shaved meat or more traditional kebab-type chunks. But the basic recipe remained the same: some sort of flatbread stuffed with delicious spicy meat (lamb is traditional, but chicken and beef are options), salad (usually lettuce, cucumbers, onions, tomatoes, red cabbage and banana peppers) and a tzaztiki-type yoghurt sauce. It is spicy, crunchy, creamy, and delicious all at once. It is (mostly) healthy: meat and veg and a yoghurt sauce (yoghurt's healthy, right?) And if you are worried about carbs, you can even ditch the bread and feel moderately virtuous. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGp_xMlOHnMflHGPkmMQrskQQhlY5BnnqPMEGbYLztrCk7SVFa9LrDARp9bejMDtcbamnojcqyR-0Eok-OBLDWpP_9qh_k646rKKRp8nUIdULocHEPkLwKOxfTDBcgu6nSfGcAQ1Z8XIqw/s1600/doner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGp_xMlOHnMflHGPkmMQrskQQhlY5BnnqPMEGbYLztrCk7SVFa9LrDARp9bejMDtcbamnojcqyR-0Eok-OBLDWpP_9qh_k646rKKRp8nUIdULocHEPkLwKOxfTDBcgu6nSfGcAQ1Z8XIqw/s400/doner.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Doner Kebab: beautiful.</td></tr>
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It is, in short, a Beautiful Thing, but not a Thing that MsCaroline ran across very frequently when living in the US. In Korea, there was a "Mr Kebab" not far from her home, but there was always a huge queue in the shop, and on top of that, they didn't deliver (in retrospect, probably a good thing.)<br />
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Imagine then, if you will, MsC's delight upon moving to the UK and discovering that practically every takeaway restaurant in the UK has, as a matter of course, Doner kebabs on their menu, along with Pizza, chips (that's fries to you and me) garlic bread, burgers, and pretty much anything else you can think of - and they'll even deliver if you can't be bothered to get yourself there to pick it up.<br />
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Of course, MsCaroline is no fool. While she would love to eat Doner kebabs every single day, she knows better. So she and MrL limit themselves to the occasional Doner. Say, once every couple of weeks - not really that often, right?<br />
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Well, those calls add up, and, after 18 months in the UK, MsC has begun to realise she might have a bit of a problem. Not just because her jeans were tight (although that's certainly an indicator.) <br />
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Maybe it was when she entered her favourite takeaway's number into her mobile's 'contacts' list, instead of looking it up every time.<br />
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Maybe it was when she no longer bothered to even look at the menu.<br />
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Maybe it was when she knew the total of her order without having to be told.<br />
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More likely, it was the last time she called, when the conversation went like this:<br />
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Takeaway Guy: Hello, Megabite, how can I help?<br />
MsCaroline: Yes, I'd like to place an order for delivery.<br />
Takeaway Guy: Yes my love, is this Number 15 Wordsworth Ave? <i>(*not our real address) </i><br />
MsCaroline: It is.<br />
Takeaway Guy: And will that be the normal, my love?<br />
MsCaroline: The...normal?<br />
Takeaway Guy: Yes, my love. 2 medium Doners with salad and yoghurt sauce?<br />
MsCaroline: Oh, sure...of course...the normal...yes, please.<br />
Takeaway Guy: Very good, my love, they'll be there in about 40 minutes<br />
<br />
<br />
MsCaroline is not saying she has a problem. But she understands that admitting it is, after all, the first step. <br />
<br />
<i>(Note: MsCaroline would like to point out that 'my love' in British English is roughly the equivalent of 'hon' or 'darlin'' in the (southern) USA and in no way indicates anything but a strictly professional relationship between her and the Takeaway Guy.)</i><br />
<br />MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-85449711980434695622016-07-04T14:57:00.002+01:002016-07-04T18:54:37.829+01:00Life in England: The 4th July in England or Hot dogs and Fancy Dress<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhITafpMCzYnThZTbQztwjvLLFkhwQrKggxlqZG2MFNeWMsBSmsOW9Ah1fOoRLyLIPiwfXQUKWqq6fmSTTcB4wnGG8gvgVpZREyaFNEfqdhY17cm0CyglhIUCXb1H5YWT1Fv7uXVdQRSRQK/s1600/flag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhITafpMCzYnThZTbQztwjvLLFkhwQrKggxlqZG2MFNeWMsBSmsOW9Ah1fOoRLyLIPiwfXQUKWqq6fmSTTcB4wnGG8gvgVpZREyaFNEfqdhY17cm0CyglhIUCXb1H5YWT1Fv7uXVdQRSRQK/s400/flag.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Old Glory</i></td></tr>
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If you are in the US at the moment (as most of my readers are,) you are probably engaging in/getting ready to engage in/have already engaged in some typically American 4th of July behavior, which probably includes sunscreen, drinking beer, eating food cooked outdoors and accompanied by some sort of red-white-and-blue dessert that contrives to look vaguely like Old Glory and probably features Cool Whip and/or strawberries. If you are lucky, a pool, a lake, or a beach is involved. If there are little kids around, there may be sparklers, and if you are really lucky, you will be somewhere that you can see the professional fireworks easily when it gets dark without having to sit in traffic forever on the way there or back. Or, if you are<strike> in</strike> <strike>Texas</strike> somewhere large and rural, with benign fireworks regulations, you will shoot some off yourself. There will be mosquito bites and sunburns, and someone will have a child that is so worn out after a day of sun and fun that he will fall asleep on his Daddy's shoulder and stay there for the rest of the evening, sleeping peacefully, a little sweaty and smelling of sunscreen, while Daddy deftly drinks beer with the other hand and continues his conversation. <br />
<br />
However, <i>we</i> are <b><i>not</i></b> in the US, which means that MrL had to get up and go to work this morning just like everyone else in the UK, because (of course) it is not a holiday here. And while it may be sunny and warm somewhere in England at the moment, here in the South West, where we live, it is overcast and 66 deg Fahrenheit and threatening rain.<br />
<br />
In other words, it is just a regular day.<br />
<br />
Last year on the 4th (a Sunday) MrL and I 'celebrated' by doing <a href="http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/bath-skyline">The Bath Skyline</a> walk. While it wasn't a traditional picnic/party/cookout, it did include sunshine, beer, and being outdoors, which ticks the important boxes in our books. As it happens, the Walk goes through woods and meadows and past a sham castle and gives you breathtaking views of Bath in addition to steering you right past the <a href="http://americanmuseum.org/">The American Museum in Britain</a>, which we did not know in advance, but which we found suitable to the occasion. It was gloriously hot and sunny, and we ended up walking about 9 miles all told (the Walk itself is about 6) with a lovely refreshment stop at a pub along the canal on our way home.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuw4YrSu8B0NxmXzdjaAClO2rq1rp6mNFjF_KiEbqgcPROAu5MWSc6Us3vxJdKcl32BiBmo7EA-1RmzmmhkTWboFsS637Q4VTrsQHLwcri9ScwPM99j9SOUnSCyefl7du-TwEK-SeA_Ttf/s1600/skyline+badge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuw4YrSu8B0NxmXzdjaAClO2rq1rp6mNFjF_KiEbqgcPROAu5MWSc6Us3vxJdKcl32BiBmo7EA-1RmzmmhkTWboFsS637Q4VTrsQHLwcri9ScwPM99j9SOUnSCyefl7du-TwEK-SeA_Ttf/s400/skyline+badge.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Skyline is marked intermittently with these little signs, which are helpful - when you can find them.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqz9YfKTnUWbXhSLzbl2Kv7wVrTXhWOBs7kYzT19FAUMxN55DX9a0KCyVoREu1iok_xk0YXW_6DVxVa5MMEGsYrbSYBTr4ETfpMaFrVyP2pdikNt4AwjwtRyZDbN4EZExXrQzR_hE3bwmK/s1600/stile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqz9YfKTnUWbXhSLzbl2Kv7wVrTXhWOBs7kYzT19FAUMxN55DX9a0KCyVoREu1iok_xk0YXW_6DVxVa5MMEGsYrbSYBTr4ETfpMaFrVyP2pdikNt4AwjwtRyZDbN4EZExXrQzR_hE3bwmK/s320/stile.jpg" width="240" /></i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>MrL, carrying the Dog whilst crossing a stile (yes, that's what a stile looks like.)</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9UaLenVWDn4IY9N-sZ_6KLeyZdLFvBGNWly8dRBpXIgiAbOWD6UmbJsEQzDtm3PsWqNXqVmLhE1EAEE0eYJ54G7gqR0STlEAT4mprwi_gPZiQ6Y2nYmmYMtmqtc-o0bZAMCj_JBLkGHvU/s1600/american+museum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9UaLenVWDn4IY9N-sZ_6KLeyZdLFvBGNWly8dRBpXIgiAbOWD6UmbJsEQzDtm3PsWqNXqVmLhE1EAEE0eYJ54G7gqR0STlEAT4mprwi_gPZiQ6Y2nYmmYMtmqtc-o0bZAMCj_JBLkGHvU/s400/american+museum.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Last year at this time, we hadn't even known there was an American Museum in Bath. The Skyline walk takes you right by it.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0D1KaiEgPUDld_aO2Sc-34kXsSu7nceEDZnVM1kfYRJyBNtxvnX_-JQGCHfPbDjEflA1OCCLtOBJd9cVzCx_t4JDCYYVm4EXz1XJiPVlPO6BS7NcwvJ0Slri1DlWAqB2No9JmcD82T0cb/s1600/flyer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0D1KaiEgPUDld_aO2Sc-34kXsSu7nceEDZnVM1kfYRJyBNtxvnX_-JQGCHfPbDjEflA1OCCLtOBJd9cVzCx_t4JDCYYVm4EXz1XJiPVlPO6BS7NcwvJ0Slri1DlWAqB2No9JmcD82T0cb/s400/flyer.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This should have been my first clue that the 4th of July is well-known in the UK. It's a good excuse for a party, if nothing else, right?</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqNuXBX5Ue9IWCU5-6l-MDCXWVnl6_QN7TluigwLi6Or5lR2hH3R3WrdrV5hhuWxHukk7opr2davPt0Nil5TuK1xERUUInh1g3FKJi32lThphKCtYEGEggUIwsHFj7Dpz3Ww1oDbnXvuUY/s1600/couple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqNuXBX5Ue9IWCU5-6l-MDCXWVnl6_QN7TluigwLi6Or5lR2hH3R3WrdrV5hhuWxHukk7opr2davPt0Nil5TuK1xERUUInh1g3FKJi32lThphKCtYEGEggUIwsHFj7Dpz3Ww1oDbnXvuUY/s400/couple.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A brief rest and a photo op at the Sham Castle before heading to the pub. </i></td></tr>
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This year, we ended up celebrating not once, but twice, which - if the truth is told - is more celebrating than we usually did when we lived in the US. The truth is, the 4th always came as a bit of a shock to me, usually right about the time when I would get an invitation to someone else's 4th of July cookout/pool party/lake house and realize that it was once again upon us. (<i>Honesty compels me to admit that is the way I approach most holidays, but I digress.) </i>So we always did <i>something,</i> but it wasn't usually a very big deal. <i>(I could write a whole series of posts on why this is the fault of my expat upbringing or my Canadian mother, but the truth is that I am just poorly organized in the summer.)</i><br />
<br />
This year we were invited to a gathering of some of the American expatriates in MrL's company; we'd done the same sort of thing in Korea, and even been able to watch <a href="http://asiavufullcircle.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/oh-say-can-you-see.html">fireworks</a> at the American army post in Seoul. So there was no question that we'd be observing the holiday in at least a small way. But that wasn't our only 4th of July option.<br />
<br />
As it turns out, the neighborhood we live in now is adjacent to a small local park which puts on a 'Picnic in the Park' every July, with live music, food, a bar, games, contests, and even a children's Fancy Dress Parade (that's 'Costume Parade' to the Yanks in the group.) <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ6FAq0Wz6hYypXFg2k4BwqDdill87_TTVIP6y_RmxnOpJmuACOhCpbaZno_TO8WgtlKt_aDNXunpF5l_C8xjQAP4hXzhpXazLDzcWdIOdyqOE9oTRZs2B4OTGHo8LAP5jPvdBPyktE5ef/s1600/picnic2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ6FAq0Wz6hYypXFg2k4BwqDdill87_TTVIP6y_RmxnOpJmuACOhCpbaZno_TO8WgtlKt_aDNXunpF5l_C8xjQAP4hXzhpXazLDzcWdIOdyqOE9oTRZs2B4OTGHo8LAP5jPvdBPyktE5ef/s400/picnic2.jpg" width="281" /></a></div>
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<br />
Notice the stars-n-stripes theme they have going in the font? Yep. And (in case you can't expand the photo) the wording was very specific: "<i>As it's very close to 4th July this year's event will have an American theme. Children are invited to dress up in US-inspired fancy dress to take part in a parade." </i> Before I saw this flyer, I would have estimated that roughly the same number of my English neighbors were aware of the 4th of July as most Americans are of November 5th in England (Guy Fawkes/Bonfire Night). <br />
<br />
Clearly, I was mistaken, because it was obvious that every single British person reading that flyer was expected to know all about the 4th of July without even a little asterisk to clarify things. <i>(I'm assuming all of <b>my </b>US readers know about Guy Fawkes, but I don't know that I'd feel safe applying that assumption to the entire US population in general.) </i><br />
<br />
Needless to say, MrL and I were intrigued and had decided to stop in at this event before heading to our next social engagement (<i>my, aren't we in demand?) </i>if for no other reason than to see what the children were wearing for costumes. After all, we Americans don't have any traditional costumes like so many other countries in the world. My mind ran through the various costumes that I, as an American, would think of as 'US-inspired:' Pilgrims. Cowboys. Southern Belles, maybe? Army guys? NFL football players? Baseball players? <i>Baseball's American, right? Like apple pie and Chevrolet? Wait, they play it everywhere now and it's really bigger in Japan than it is in the USA now, anyway. Wait, maybe American football? Nah, they have a European League now. Hell, what <b>do</b> they wear?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I had a bad moment there, envisioning the angelic British children of my neighbors parading themselves round the Park dressed as Honey Boo Boo, the Kardashians, and Donald Trump, but logic prevailed, and I went back to my original guess of Cowboys and Pilgrims augmented with, possibly, a few Native Americans. <br />
<br />
We wandered up to the park, listened to the band, bought some raffle tickets, enthusiastically supported the bar, and talked to our neighbors, keeping one eye out for Cowboys and Pilgrims in the crowd, since we had to leave for our next engagement before the Parade, but were intensely curious as to what this 'US-inspired' theme would produce.<br />
<br />
So - what were they all dressed as?<br />
<br />
Superheroes. <br />
<br />
Mostly Spiderman and a few Batmen. We also saw a couple of nonspecific princesses and something that looked like Tron. But mostly - superheroes.<br />
<br />
We were a bit surprised. Honestly, I'd not made the connection at all, but after some thought, I realized they <i>do</i> all have American accents in all of their movies, so the connection was reasonable - even if MrL and I wouldn't have made it ourselves.<br />
<br />
For the rest of the day, I asked every Brit I ran across about this; what did they think of if you said 'Fancy dress' and 'American.'? All of them responded with, "Superheroes." None of the Americans I talked to came up with anything similar, though.<br />
<br />
I'll never tire of new perspective and new ways of looking at my own culture. <br />
<br />
And I'm glad none of them came dressed as Honey Boo Boo.<br />
<br />
<br />MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-61351553015161932512016-06-30T11:40:00.000+01:002016-06-30T11:49:08.980+01:00Asia Vu, Deja Vu: A Quick Trip to Seoul and Some Thoughts on Expat Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp56LqMSr3LSyXdQr4DPgi0kiuse7ki-1oq2huahpCvY2hOi4OLZog9Eqe9izHAhpVm1l7fPYUmhnDiBMbLO0qn083OFxO9eFsWG-Df0ivUTPXb9h8KE6LhgUK-j7aGDAOUXlsYGs2qFvQ/s1600/IMG_1508.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp56LqMSr3LSyXdQr4DPgi0kiuse7ki-1oq2huahpCvY2hOi4OLZog9Eqe9izHAhpVm1l7fPYUmhnDiBMbLO0qn083OFxO9eFsWG-Df0ivUTPXb9h8KE6LhgUK-j7aGDAOUXlsYGs2qFvQ/s400/IMG_1508.jpg" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, restaurant signs in Korea. How we have missed you.</td></tr>
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<br />
For those of you who have assumed that Asia Vu is now defunct (<i>does 2 months of silence count as 'defunct'? It seems like it should) </i>and have stricken me from your blogrolls, please be aware that I have written many blog posts <strike>in my mind</strike> recently and will publish them <strike>eventually, maybe </strike> at a date to be determined. Mostly I've been experiencing the Blogger's Dilemma, in which <i>being busy enough to have interesting material to write about prevents one from having time to actually write. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I happen to know I'm not alone in this, because I've been desperately stalking some of my own favorite blogs for weeks and finding nothing but dust and cobwebs - which <i>has</i> allowed me to do a certain amount of rationalizing: <i>Well, xxx is an outstanding blogger, and <b>she</b> hasn't posted for weeks</i>.... This excuse, of course, came to a screeching halt last Friday morning when we here in the UK woke to the stunning (and by 'stunning' I mean 'inconceivable') results of the recent <strike>vote to hasten the coming of the World Apocalypse</strike> <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/politics/what-is-brexit-why-is-there-an-eu-referendum-a7042791.html">Brexit referendum</a> which, if nothing else, has clearly struck a nerve with many bloggers, myself included (of which more later.)<br />
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Among many, many other experiences, MrL and I had a bizarre (<i>by 'bizarre', I mean 'wonderful but brief, considering we flew across the world and back'</i>) experience in mid-May, when we flew to Seoul for a friend's wedding.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Hn9CHc3Ny3NrU5u4ywwyxCRkiVHuOsdCnTwtH6FnaruzoLy6TWMcLTh5TbAOkKC309tr35-qzdZSHSeqZJ6JPGVvB7vPowIDkNKn3YYWEGVpg4tsnKNSUEtzCDDl6akRYzQ_qGKlHBFc/s1600/IMG_1869.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Hn9CHc3Ny3NrU5u4ywwyxCRkiVHuOsdCnTwtH6FnaruzoLy6TWMcLTh5TbAOkKC309tr35-qzdZSHSeqZJ6JPGVvB7vPowIDkNKn3YYWEGVpg4tsnKNSUEtzCDDl6akRYzQ_qGKlHBFc/s320/IMG_1869.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MsC and MrL, as cleaned up as you will ever see them.</td></tr>
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We stayed for exactly 4 nights (2 days in transit: it's an overnight flight), indulged ourselves shamelessly in nostalgic activities, and spent as much time as possible with friends. This is, in fact, an uncommon occurrence in the expat community: typically, people come and go so often that it can be rare to go back and find people you know. However, since we'd just left 16 months ago, about 70% of our former community was still around. This led to a sort of strange time-travely feeling, where things seem so unchanged that it's just like you never left.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiumWgUeSNWRoquX47VUaaMFMZ-NZod3pe8NX_aWGmM8s8s_2i0UH64CQZ_EqC959JirAd0WxAXk0mcVD5D6jl4yqEzB5cyBhkDoJE_yDblb4xyOOfqwaq3FcazYIoi0ewxMTrH5b3bvGov/s1600/IMG_1325.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiumWgUeSNWRoquX47VUaaMFMZ-NZod3pe8NX_aWGmM8s8s_2i0UH64CQZ_EqC959JirAd0WxAXk0mcVD5D6jl4yqEzB5cyBhkDoJE_yDblb4xyOOfqwaq3FcazYIoi0ewxMTrH5b3bvGov/s400/IMG_1325.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The National Museum of Korea Gardens - my old stomping grounds.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJ-Zy0XVI4ALaSvkSP-4MaL_n1QTdKNsRnK5bClj9Qn08TrihWweX4_rgCpyzCFp6b8Uu2B6HWzVPanTub81Odx8zc5LQkwC3nax9Kxrktgg383f95SVjku98XI7uoHNu0C2vZPOuDuDf/s1600/IMG_1338.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJ-Zy0XVI4ALaSvkSP-4MaL_n1QTdKNsRnK5bClj9Qn08TrihWweX4_rgCpyzCFp6b8Uu2B6HWzVPanTub81Odx8zc5LQkwC3nax9Kxrktgg383f95SVjku98XI7uoHNu0C2vZPOuDuDf/s320/IMG_1338.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The iconic Namsan Tower remained unchanged.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuCqdG1wdhjdnXf8pJ2N6lAntOkS9snrUX2OOfWi-DnGrfukHkaCo_1I20xbx_1tfBe9mSPvNy9KfoW1MjfmgMmX8awppCky3KDzSvGSHkZWo7nESmqJw5ltzbFqthBfQhQISYtLOdmri/s1600/IMG_1345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuCqdG1wdhjdnXf8pJ2N6lAntOkS9snrUX2OOfWi-DnGrfukHkaCo_1I20xbx_1tfBe9mSPvNy9KfoW1MjfmgMmX8awppCky3KDzSvGSHkZWo7nESmqJw5ltzbFqthBfQhQISYtLOdmri/s320/IMG_1345.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The food - omg, <i>the food</i> - was just as incredible as we'd remembered.<br />
<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig1aoR5J6CSltbC9iIxaKg25tgr6hLkzh4E0UqLkJUda7p21fhLdsXidKiUUy7lx-0gRGg231-uh8dz6tmNOhtKtMvmlCQfPnZrgbkXaRcfRHL5xruJg36yVqpAZ3MmuSrBUaWrrzeV-ag/s1600/IMG_1406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig1aoR5J6CSltbC9iIxaKg25tgr6hLkzh4E0UqLkJUda7p21fhLdsXidKiUUy7lx-0gRGg231-uh8dz6tmNOhtKtMvmlCQfPnZrgbkXaRcfRHL5xruJg36yVqpAZ3MmuSrBUaWrrzeV-ag/s400/IMG_1406.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, mandu (dumplings), you are so delectable. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVSPJzJApYd7Ofk31icq2PTYqYldFbeXNpMtbv82JL8Rq9j6cyWDOe4cFf9NvR1jEVAjwkQRNUh4gZFl1cE_O7n2O1eLm9FcDzIfLMrbhUg5wZDFligaPLT4br7EehHbrW5UYBxAQAhAEL/s1600/IMG_1505.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVSPJzJApYd7Ofk31icq2PTYqYldFbeXNpMtbv82JL8Rq9j6cyWDOe4cFf9NvR1jEVAjwkQRNUh4gZFl1cE_O7n2O1eLm9FcDzIfLMrbhUg5wZDFligaPLT4br7EehHbrW5UYBxAQAhAEL/s400/IMG_1505.jpg" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Squid-on-a-stick. A new favorite.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We strolled through our old neighborhoods, went to our old workplaces, ate in our favorite restaurants, visited our friends, and took all our favorite walks (although it was definitely strange to do the walks without the Dog, who was our constant companion on most of them.)<br />
<br />
And of course, we went to the wedding, which was just as lovely and joyous as we had anticipated, although everyone seemed astounded that we'd flown from England for four days just for a wedding.<br />
<br />
What can I say: we're sentimentalists. It was absolutely worth it.<br />
<br />
I do have to apologize for the poor-quality photos taken with my phone, but hopefully you'll get the general idea.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8paalrmOwqDLbJJCdeMv1wRCCSVHbsefAqGSOlyYpwbtxO6kyc2DoB3dcoSa42VB_AFJoJ_gEJl-IgUVe6G4d7SUci_GLCye9kR9Hyt21aPhLEuf0pKaPHi60BLp6T0yFM3W9sDMLXKWv/s1600/IMG_1364.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8paalrmOwqDLbJJCdeMv1wRCCSVHbsefAqGSOlyYpwbtxO6kyc2DoB3dcoSa42VB_AFJoJ_gEJl-IgUVe6G4d7SUci_GLCye9kR9Hyt21aPhLEuf0pKaPHi60BLp6T0yFM3W9sDMLXKWv/s400/IMG_1364.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The couple bow to one another as the ceremony begins. Notice the wedding venue has a runway/catwalk arrangement and can project images on the domed roof of the auditorium. How cool is that? </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vbv1Dd6XUpIiu3_p3gGoPsS3MgHnhVJBbvLy6VdbB1N7LyjJ95WE0JwT5CyT_aRJpiwL85D4s0qFYVIpdcMFIh7vXUwY1G68is_AircnaFOvOmIdmuVjc8eQAnPCxNfIs8-61cQVCI_m/s1600/IMG_1364+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vbv1Dd6XUpIiu3_p3gGoPsS3MgHnhVJBbvLy6VdbB1N7LyjJ95WE0JwT5CyT_aRJpiwL85D4s0qFYVIpdcMFIh7vXUwY1G68is_AircnaFOvOmIdmuVjc8eQAnPCxNfIs8-61cQVCI_m/s400/IMG_1364+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you zoom in, you can see what a lovely photo this would have made if I'd had a better camera...</td></tr>
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<br />
And just for a little insight into how Koreans - who are so traditional in many ways - have used technology to enhance just about everything, here's a short video of the glowing, happy, newlyweds walking down the aisle - check out the (virtual) fireworks exploding behind them!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_xMgSx6F3GypT4kcdfLrBKbPMLgp39funcxhak1rMiymMBSI14MoEecYmCb0InpNNB4AVhuVeSitdn1Klc6bBz6iP-X4RMTV5TKOsERnwOncyXrtEcBbc0wrlY1kJIw0Ri3dHdUT1Ry1/s1600/IMG_1379.m4v" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_xMgSx6F3GypT4kcdfLrBKbPMLgp39funcxhak1rMiymMBSI14MoEecYmCb0InpNNB4AVhuVeSitdn1Klc6bBz6iP-X4RMTV5TKOsERnwOncyXrtEcBbc0wrlY1kJIw0Ri3dHdUT1Ry1/s400/IMG_1379.m4v" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I think everyone feels this way after getting married; we just don't all have access to fireworks. </i></td></tr>
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<br />
In any case, it was a very strange experience, and I still haven't quite processed how I feel about it. Good, obviously, but definitely a bit sad as well. On the one hand, we've been in the UK for over a year now. We're settled here, we have friends here, and we feel very much part of our little neighborhood community. On the other hand, we lived for nearly 4 years in Seoul; more than enough time to really feel like a place is truly 'home.'<br />
<br />
It was a strange feeling, as though we had just temporarily stepped out of our lives in Seoul for a short time and then stepped right back in. Some things hadn't changed at all: buildings, neighborhoods, food (<i>glorious food!), </i>our friends.<br />
<br />
But, of course, other things had most definitely changed since we stepped off the airplane at Incheon in June of 2011, 5 years ago.<br />
<br />
5 years ago:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>We'd just moved to Seoul, and we'd never even been to Korea.</li>
<li>MrL and I were back in Asia and returning to expat life for the first time since the late 1980s</li>
<li>we were planning to be in Korea on a limited 2-year contract before returning to the US</li>
<li>We were a more-or-less typical American family of 4 with two teenagers, one of whom was beginning secondary school.</li>
</ul>
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Fast forward to May, 2016:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>We'd lived in Korea for almost 4 years and headed on to the UK, becoming not just expats, but 'serial' expats.</li>
<li>Living abroad was the new status quo and we didn't think of our assignment in limited terms any more.</li>
<li>We were 'empty nesters,' with 1 son graduated from Uni and <b>employed</b> (*<i>bows head, modestly accepts congratulations*)</i> and the other - now very much a global citizen - attending University in NYC</li>
<li>And, of course, MrL and I were a bit older, grayer, and, accordingly, in possession of more or less hair, weight, teeth, and eyesight <i>(pride compels me to point out that we managed to stay out until 3am with all the young people after the wedding reception, regardless of our age-related infirmities.)</i></li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNBr4sksmf-IYQnBoXdLSPXQnxch9tLEmz7Kgv5qBGtQLc_NrVI-vESEGnv-aSrwqvLMhonfu9_tVFqf-4Bv8XQRJKK0uwZqM6dDx85AQ_tSs46NEut5rHSvpd73I4ngERfDfQ4HZM6mvz/s1600/IMG_1356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNBr4sksmf-IYQnBoXdLSPXQnxch9tLEmz7Kgv5qBGtQLc_NrVI-vESEGnv-aSrwqvLMhonfu9_tVFqf-4Bv8XQRJKK0uwZqM6dDx85AQ_tSs46NEut5rHSvpd73I4ngERfDfQ4HZM6mvz/s400/IMG_1356.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shenanigans in the taxi. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
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<div>
Ultimately, though, the most poignant changes are those that are in no way unique to expat life, living overseas, or foreign cultures.</div>
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They're universal, aren't they? </div>
<div>
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<div>
I think I must have something in my eye.</div>
<div>
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<div>
<i>*sniff*</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMb_Ebuypi-T9JT1s3gTT7xQ1-bdYVVGZAiF-lQl2i42U-jbmXecuORm-iwontuaAXVY-kwiBTO4WtmS1V4smFQoFGnYAa_j8n1DS82eikFa-HOivpKbdwmsruIgucwfGEgTt2_Jmuv55I/s1600/Boys+2011+Namsan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMb_Ebuypi-T9JT1s3gTT7xQ1-bdYVVGZAiF-lQl2i42U-jbmXecuORm-iwontuaAXVY-kwiBTO4WtmS1V4smFQoFGnYAa_j8n1DS82eikFa-HOivpKbdwmsruIgucwfGEgTt2_Jmuv55I/s400/Boys+2011+Namsan.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Sons #1 and #2, Seoul, June 2011</b></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmxiVvscSzvCzY11ogxgaMPkihHtH_lmTaNIOTQaVKBckZgzz7XN1MysOyFtOXkjG2rYr7XJa2YY9rwwTnhhCQMWj6pD_LYvqeKKFa-JsLZebH1bEBwP2PJSg4m4z1fah_Dmap6AcmX6cK/s1600/IMG_1711.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmxiVvscSzvCzY11ogxgaMPkihHtH_lmTaNIOTQaVKBckZgzz7XN1MysOyFtOXkjG2rYr7XJa2YY9rwwTnhhCQMWj6pD_LYvqeKKFa-JsLZebH1bEBwP2PJSg4m4z1fah_Dmap6AcmX6cK/s400/IMG_1711.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Sons #1 and #2 (positions reversed) in Bristol at the Clifton Suspension Bridge, June 2016</b></i></td></tr>
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<br />MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-55325977457422074992016-04-07T10:55:00.002+01:002016-04-07T11:18:04.573+01:00Things About Life In England Lately<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY6sXJA9qRhBv1_EmrD6qgA3nyx7li4Up8OOTofjGhrsunk_KZXl5NkyJupj_gRdyDuRpd4HcvJkpkUFu-ZLJa5gEkevXFkhalKJrVcXz0CvFvHjsYcPcTtOjaW6s5slnnTsON7jV_so0E/s1600/IMG_9358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY6sXJA9qRhBv1_EmrD6qgA3nyx7li4Up8OOTofjGhrsunk_KZXl5NkyJupj_gRdyDuRpd4HcvJkpkUFu-ZLJa5gEkevXFkhalKJrVcXz0CvFvHjsYcPcTtOjaW6s5slnnTsON7jV_so0E/s400/IMG_9358.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The English are nothing if not encouraging. And yes, it's really that steep.</i></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />
I'm aware that, according to my last post, this one is supposed to be about the last day of our Edinburgh weekend, but - as I've said before - it's my blog, and I'm the decider, so this one will be about Other Things, and Edinburgh will just have to wait, as will the recent Easter Holidays, spent in Belize (main point about Belize: It Is Warm There.) <br />
<br />
No, today's post is about the stuff that has been floating through my consciousness for the past few weeks. Most of it doesn't fit in any particular category, but it has become pervasive enough that I feel it might be worth posting. Also, it actually has something to do with expat life, which (ok, very loosely) is, one might say, a theme of this blog.<br />
<br />
So, without further ado, some Things About Life In England Lately:<br />
<br />
<b>Donald Trump: </b>In the first place, as an American expat, I've had to do a lot of Explaining lately. It seems that, no matter where I go, no matter what the context of the discussion, or with whom I am speaking, the topic somehow invariably defaults to Donald Trump. The English are truly fascinated (or maybe 'bemused' or possibly 'gobsmacked' would be the better choice here) by The Donald's popularity in the USA, and always want an explanation for him. Here's the thing: <i> I don't know either. </i>I've read a lot of analyses and op-eds, but it is still unclear to me What The Hell Is Going On In US Politics. This, of course, has led to my starting to wonder if my inability to understand American political thinking is a result of having been living out of the country for nearly 5 years come June (<i>do any of you remember when I started this blog to record our '2 year assignment in Korea'? Yeah. Anyway.) </i>In any case, I'm finding it difficult and tiresome to keep clarifying that I have no insights to share, and that I that I don't know what the American electorate are thinking either, except that it would seem that many of them are dissatisfied with the Status Quo. Which leads us to<br />
<br />
<b>People Who Swear They Are Moving to Canada/England/Australia if Trump (or another candidate) is Elected: </b>I do get that most of these people do not <i>really </i>plan to move anywhere regardless of the election outcome. However, this is what I would like to know: <i>How many of these people have gone through the visa application process? </i>My guess would be: <i>Not very many. </i>And I know I cannot be the only expat who is thinking this. I am saying this as a person who came close to shrieking despair during hours of waiting in the Korean immigration offices (not to mention the multiple trips I made because I didn't have the correct document, apostilled by the 3rd Undersecretary to the Foreign Something and needed to go find it - translated into Korean - before I could move forward.) <i>You </i>try hunting down the right person in the right government office (via a bad international cell phone call with a 13-hour time difference, of course) who can overnight express mail you a certified copy (apostilled by an internationally authorized notary) of <i>your</i> marriage license. Then maybe you can understand why I start twitching when people chat blithely about 'moving to _____' in the same way they chat about a trip to the grocery store. From my perspective, it would seem that relocating the family to an underground bunker somewhere Out West to live, subsistence-style, off the grid and wait out the apocalypse would be preferable to undergoing the immigration process. But maybe that's just me.<br />
<br />
On a less contentious note, let us leave politics behind and discuss one of my favorite topics: language. Specifically,<b> the use of the word 'scheme' in British English. </b>Here in Britain, the word 'scheme' is used regularly, and in a straightforward and benign way, to mean, <i>plan</i> or <i>program(me). </i>The problem for me is, in American English, the word 'scheme' has distinctly negative connotations, typically in reference to an evil/underhanded plan: <i>The villain's scheme to take over the world was foiled by the intrepid hero. </i>In American English, you just don't use the word <i>scheme</i> in any sort of positive context, with the exception of the phrase <strike>used exclusively by English teachers</strike> <i>"rhyme scheme." </i> <i> </i>In fact, in American English, you can just go right ahead and replace 'scheme' with 'plot' -it's that negative. It follows then, that <i>scheming</i> is a distinctly negative adjective, as in <i>You scheming, underhanded such-and-so</i> and calling someone a <i>schemer</i> implies that the person has been rubbing his/her hands together in a dark room, cackling with glee over a nefarious plan. So my point is, the word 'scheme' in American English is pretty much <i>bad</i>. Not so here in the UK, where, in the last week, I have received not one, but <i>three</i> notices referring to some sort of <i>scheme: </i>a residents' parking scheme, a neighborhood cycling scheme, and at my own university, a scheme that recognizes excellence in teaching, referred to as the <a href="http://www.bath.ac.uk/learningandteaching/progressing-your-career/ntfs/">National Teaching Fellowship Scheme.</a> All this just to say that I understand <i>logically</i> what is meant here is a 'plan' or 'program', but somehow I cannot filter the cobwebby wisps of negative connotation out of my mind. Someone remind me about this in 2017 and I'll see if I feel differently after another year of constant exposure.<br />
<br />
<b>Old House Culture: </b>As most of you know, the house we are renting is an Edwardian-era terraced house, built ca 1910, and is, of course, one of the more modern structures in Bath, which is known for its Roman-Era baths and its Georgian crescents. All this to say: a lot of people here live in <b>Very Old Houses, many of which are So Old As To Boggle The American Mind.</b> It is always amusing to me to run across 'The Old Vicarage" (built 1760 but updated in 1820) and then, around the corner, find 'The New Vicarage" (circa 1910) which, by American standards, would be considered Pretty Old on its own merits. (<i>Aside: I was vastly entertained to note that the main dwelling at the Cardiff Castle was built in the 1400s, and 'modernised' in the 1500s and again in the 1700s.) </i>My regular walk to the shops takes me past a chapel built in the 1200s and previously attached to a hospital for those suffering from leprosy. MrL and I refer to this fondly as 'The Leper Chapel' although it has a properly respectful name which fails me at the moment.<br />
<br />
Along with the charmingness that is Old House Culture, you do, of course, have a few downsides, one of which, we have learned, is <b>Visitation By The Occasional Mouse,</b> which is only to be expected. Unfortunately for us, the most recent visitation must have occurred just as we packed up our diving gear and headed off for nearly a fortnight to Belize. (I don't have a clear concept of Mouse Years, but I'm pretty sure that a couple weeks for a mouse would be enough to produce and raise a family to adulthood.) As best as we can piece things together, a mouse (mice?) took up residence in my tea towel drawer, built a nest out of tea towels and plastic carrier bags, and then - inexplicably - set off on a pilgrimage into the recesses of our walls or under our floorboards, where he met with an untimely demise (no doubt hastened by his injudicious consumption of my tea towels and carrier bags), and began forthwith to <strike>rot</strike> decompose. This apparently took place shortly before our return from Belize, so all we noticed upon arrival was a slight mustiness, which we chalked up to the house having been shut up for so long. We were, of course, wrong. Within a day or two, 'musty' had metamorphosed into 'putrid' and I began tearing open and ruthlessly purging every cabinet, drawer, cupboard shelf, and container in the kitchen with the singlemindedness of a woman gone mad. After two days of fruitless searching, scrubbing, and deodorizing, we came to the sinking conclusion that the <strike>bastard</strike> malcontent had expired under a floorboard or in a wall, and that we would just have to Deal With It Until The Process of Decomposition Was Complete <i>(MrL's offers to locate the source by tearing the cabinets out of the wall or ripping up the floor much appreciated, but unlikely to be embraced by landlord.) </i> Subsequent trips to Home Base (the Home Depot of England) allowed us to stock up on a number of powerful odor neutralizers and - you're going to love this - 'Rodent Sachets'. Clearly, we are not the first (or the last) people to run across this problem. The neutralizers claimed to suck the bad smells out of the air (can this really be done? I doubt it) but the Rodent Sachets made no such grandiose claims. <i>Tear open the sachet</i>, they said, <i>and place as close as possible to the source of the odour. Lasts up to 6 weeks. </i>In other words, <i>Put this powerful-smelling thing as close as possible to where you think the mouse died and this stuff will mask the smell so you can tolerate it until decomposition is complete. </i>So, we did. and - after a few days of initially smelling like a Port-a-Loo (think 'organic stench masked by powerful man-made chemicals') the kitchen is starting to become bearable again.<br />
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Anyone know how long it takes a mouse to decompose?<br />
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<i><br /></i>MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-10918542226488369912016-03-09T09:20:00.001+00:002016-03-15T11:34:58.718+00:00Life in England: A Weekend in Edinburgh: The Distillery Tour<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYWj2qRsnDHgO6L-WNz5Pws8CFCch6R_SUENRakbE_BdwsRu9n8CjQE14Nsf-eLYeK-uxqjpcYzKpmtCojEeNYAF3iRO1sA8g8qJ8yiMLwBdSGrEGUoQzUeZCsmmiCggQrq6deDFCiBOLl/s1600/IMG_9546.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYWj2qRsnDHgO6L-WNz5Pws8CFCch6R_SUENRakbE_BdwsRu9n8CjQE14Nsf-eLYeK-uxqjpcYzKpmtCojEeNYAF3iRO1sA8g8qJ8yiMLwBdSGrEGUoQzUeZCsmmiCggQrq6deDFCiBOLl/s400/IMG_9546.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>MrL is Excited About Whisky</i></td></tr>
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As I'm sure all of you know, Scotland is well-known for its whisky production. MrLogical being an Enjoyer of Whisky <i>(I don't think he's quite at the 'connoisseur' level yet),</i> it goes without saying that our trip to Edinburgh was the perfect opportunity for a closer look at the inner workings of a Real Live Scottish distillery (or two of them to be precise.)<br />
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It should be noted that, while I am not a particular Enjoyer of Whisky myself, I don't actually <i>hate</i> it or anything, and I am always up for a new experience, so I did a bit of research and booked us for a 1-day "Discover Malt Whisky" tour. This was offered by <a href="https://www.rabbies.com/index.asp?lng=en">Rabbie's Trail Burners,</a> who specialize in small-group tours, and came highly recommended. <br />
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According to the description, we would be traveling in a small group out of Edinburgh to a distillery just north of Glasgow, stopping for a meal and some sightseeing at Loch Lomond, and then looping back to Edinburgh with a stop at a second distillery on the way and a return to Edinburgh around suppertime. While MrL was looking forward to seeing the distilleries (not to mention sampling the whisky), I was looking forward to seeing the Loch, learning a bit more about Scotland and its history, and finally seeing the countryside which had figured prominently in so many books I'd read over the years.<br />
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The tour was set to begin at 9.15, but we arrived almost 40 minutes early at the centrally located pickup point, <a href="https://www.cafe.rabbies.com/">Rabbie's Cafe,</a> which is owned and run by the tour company. This was absolutely ideal, because you could grab a coffee or something to eat whilst waiting out of the weather for your tour to start. In addition, there were clean toilets and a large digital display board listing each tour, its guide and start time, and its status ('loading' departed' etc.) <i>(MsC has participated in more than one of this sort of day tour where the meeting place was a chilly/rainy street corner in front of a hotel, and she can assure you that this arrangement was highly preferable.)</i><br />
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Our group consisted of 12 people ranging in age from 20s to mid-50s and covered about 8 nationalities, and our vehicle was a 'mini-coach,' a smallish bus with enormous windows that held about 15 passengers While we drove through the chilly February rain, our guide, a young woman named Audrey, somehow managed to deftly drive the coach while also regaling us with a variety of facts about Scottish history, folklore, politics, legend, geography, and pretty much anything else you could think of. (<i>Since I am the sort of person who insists on absolute silence when trying to drive somewhere even vaguely unfamiliar, I was in awe of Audrey's formidable multitasking abilities.) </i><br />
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Our first stop was the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forth_Bridge">Forth Bridge,</a> a cantilever railway bridge built in the late 19th century over the Firth of Forth ('firth' = estuary), a UNESCO World Heritage site, and a symbol of Scotland. This was not, strictly speaking, part of our tour, but upon learning that all of us wanted to stop and have a look at it (we were passing right by anyway), Audrey obligingly pulled into the parking lot and let us all disembark for photo ops before continuing on our way. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiilud70ObnYgKuyl7ffKBqnZxPyEZ5noUP3giH1j3UdqEkgJZpio_hYVwiquCn8ntV5dFi6Ue-FISCxHMHa-xoEYx64WGlN-XGxWCr9WMxZsOWXr1kDKPl_l3UHdwAAtwOfxwOK1TiCDjE/s1600/IMG_0736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiilud70ObnYgKuyl7ffKBqnZxPyEZ5noUP3giH1j3UdqEkgJZpio_hYVwiquCn8ntV5dFi6Ue-FISCxHMHa-xoEYx64WGlN-XGxWCr9WMxZsOWXr1kDKPl_l3UHdwAAtwOfxwOK1TiCDjE/s400/IMG_0736.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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An hour and a half or so later, right on time, we were pulling into the parking lot of the <a href="http://www.glengoyne.com/visit-us/getting-glengoyne">Glengoyne Distillery</a>.<br />
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Sipping the 'wee dram' of whisky which we'd been handed on our way into the reception area, we watched a brief, informative video about the history of Glengoyne (complete with subtitles, in case you didn't quite understand some of the very strong Highland accents) before trooping out to the distillery for the tour of the facility.<br />
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For those of you who are interested in the actual process of whisky making, let me just say that I am not an expert, even after touring 2 distilleries, so I am not going to even to attempt to describe the process for you in detail. A very brief overview is that it involves water and malt being cooked together, with yeast being added at some point, the product of which is eventually distilled into an alcoholic beverage,<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJoaiJ9bqvnniex8eBEY12W8dOuX7cxSoanoH-V0WKj2exoxzryq-G1Ldh3wZSum2jOiY4izKLf5NGAtOJVG-nLhDRqHf4O01zLCYpYbWE2gbHNFGJQLPYfLHsSwkgrORtihhN_04fd6e/s1600/IMG_0761.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJoaiJ9bqvnniex8eBEY12W8dOuX7cxSoanoH-V0WKj2exoxzryq-G1Ldh3wZSum2jOiY4izKLf5NGAtOJVG-nLhDRqHf4O01zLCYpYbWE2gbHNFGJQLPYfLHsSwkgrORtihhN_04fd6e/s400/IMG_0761.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Stills at the Deanston distillery</i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHy3iYDkxTn0gzTBLaaQ4moiKjmbpa-qb_of841UNXvK8GsnzCvNxpz1IfUhphyphenhyphen_RBIWYXlf3CZiQEumATQmx8c3sgS102KAw-hzzGHYxzA8YngDXBk5jqpwtHm_Sb1n3JG2Gdk6smW5XI/s1600/IMG_0758.JPG" imageanchor="1"></a><br />
which is then poured into oak casks and aged. It is the casks (most of which have been previously used to age anything from port to bourbon) that impart the flavor to the whisky.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0OBP-u-44r9wumkDenAuLzlmeUUjkGLDjNPw2PNHEDV2o_tErTp4B3X0Lh3oXXPZfNv3cjxLmtP2bOk-wYwkYlaiudhV6Ml1wuxTgf_eb8pWBfqUW-OFehsp6PBI14IKd30jMCQ1NRwpm/s1600/IMG_0755.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0OBP-u-44r9wumkDenAuLzlmeUUjkGLDjNPw2PNHEDV2o_tErTp4B3X0Lh3oXXPZfNv3cjxLmtP2bOk-wYwkYlaiudhV6Ml1wuxTgf_eb8pWBfqUW-OFehsp6PBI14IKd30jMCQ1NRwpm/s400/IMG_0755.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Who knew that Scotch whisky was aged in Kentucky bourbon casks? </i></td></tr>
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Since I am more or less a whisky philistine, it never occurred to me that whiskies <i>could</i> have<i> </i>complex flavors. Mostly what I noticed is that, when you drink whisky without a mixer, it burns your mouth. Nonetheless, by the end of the afternoon (and the second distillery tour) I was able to appreciate the difference in quality between a 10-year-old and an 18-year-old whisky. Or it could possibly just have been that 5 shots of whisky in one day just made me <i>think</i> I was appreciating the difference in quality. In any case, both tours were very interesting.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSC0pmV53MVoCqCd6L-gHZVZLDOI4bBjPAng-pb53kSSSak0H7W1PVOtynuYbE_9vFKFk9StSfB9mmhyphenhyphenhGc_IzI5GyfhsaXRaKsNRAEU1TBO16SrEToSd09G_dI2mmB4RoJ8jfyjAKzV_i/s1600/IMG_9557.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSC0pmV53MVoCqCd6L-gHZVZLDOI4bBjPAng-pb53kSSSak0H7W1PVOtynuYbE_9vFKFk9StSfB9mmhyphenhyphenhGc_IzI5GyfhsaXRaKsNRAEU1TBO16SrEToSd09G_dI2mmB4RoJ8jfyjAKzV_i/s400/IMG_9557.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our charming, well-spoken young guide in the duty-free room at Glengoyne. I was slightly disappointed that he wasn't wearing a kilt, but I couldn't blame him, given the weather. I was somewhat mollified by the fact that he was wearing tartan <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trews">trews</a>.</i></td></tr>
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After visiting Glengoyne (which was definitely our favorite of the two distilleries), we piled back into the coach and made the short drive to the cozy <a href="http://theoaktreeinn.co.uk/">Oak Tree Inn,</a> right by the banks of Loch Lomond. Since the day had been chilly, with sporadic rain, we were all happy to get into the warmly-lit dining room. The Inn is a popular stop along the route of the 151-km <a href="http://www.walkhighlands.co.uk/west-highland-way.shtml">West Highland Way</a> walking trail, and, despite the cold and the rain, the restaurant was full of rosy-cheeked walkers in damp waterproofs who had obviously earned their lunches. MrL and I, who had expended no more effort than it took to climb up a few ladders in the distillery, nonetheless managed to find room for more haggis, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cullen_skink">Cullen skink</a>, and steak and mushroom pies, accompanied by locally brewed Balhama ales.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghsREJMawTfICoHxVHYgh2GB2r5OdUKHGqdhdjmVsJz_Nz9XcQhmBmlZcVa5FS7nbAcwI8Uq-8ePIRWeuh5gyKF4mq_8R2g4B8xEayHYjPvZmk92CwHYtZpdBEf6l3SdZ05VfzruhG4Swl/s1600/IMG_9576.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghsREJMawTfICoHxVHYgh2GB2r5OdUKHGqdhdjmVsJz_Nz9XcQhmBmlZcVa5FS7nbAcwI8Uq-8ePIRWeuh5gyKF4mq_8R2g4B8xEayHYjPvZmk92CwHYtZpdBEf6l3SdZ05VfzruhG4Swl/s400/IMG_9576.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cullen Skink, traditionally made with smoked haddock, is ideal on a chilly winter day.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5cP9xEQRUo-uLjG8LRlNzndWGZUN5mEKUOsVUNB6IhrttI-r5NbnrVI67yZ7NkuW4CrMxjRZPXtrtqJxZbA4mXbsgR04FCIGf8mkT-bTw8UhXvABD24cM58JiUgYGWpduYMwfhKG8WKoJ/s1600/IMG_9580.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5cP9xEQRUo-uLjG8LRlNzndWGZUN5mEKUOsVUNB6IhrttI-r5NbnrVI67yZ7NkuW4CrMxjRZPXtrtqJxZbA4mXbsgR04FCIGf8mkT-bTw8UhXvABD24cM58JiUgYGWpduYMwfhKG8WKoJ/s400/IMG_9580.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>MrL is waiting for his beer. It may <b>seem </b>that he is not impressed by the cozy decor, but he really is.</i></td></tr>
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The ever-thoughtful Audrey had given us a generous amount of time for lunch, with enough leeway for those of us who wanted to take a stroll along the banks of the loch to do a bit of sightseeing and take some photos, so after eating we headed out to find a trail that she had mentioned, which was 'down the road a bit, and up the hill."<br />
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We walked along a path on the banks of the Loch, crossed the road, found ourselves at the foot of a rough uphill path, and puffing our way to the top, were rewarded with a jaw-droppingly gorgeous view of the loch:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4csxs198zshTxRPxMULbS-I2CMrTPa-iWZRiAfJLHfnOn8K4hh0k_Q5FxPcWM9oevGWHIjS6pLAqh2bzByMS_GE35aaZFh5QUfQ5dmt3ska8PaRZw23xU0-gfotVeOHyAkdQA3eTQI_f/s1600/IMG_9584.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4csxs198zshTxRPxMULbS-I2CMrTPa-iWZRiAfJLHfnOn8K4hh0k_Q5FxPcWM9oevGWHIjS6pLAqh2bzByMS_GE35aaZFh5QUfQ5dmt3ska8PaRZw23xU0-gfotVeOHyAkdQA3eTQI_f/s400/IMG_9584.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPU9jvE_0P3zDt3JSL8VZu_bKB-y_LPhA-ATo_k9vvUSHDRPhcWfBCfgBVQA0MWg4bQj1pwPEV9x9KusLwibOMJBv1tlnE_QB-UQP3EbiRzREFr1qjfBSV-CQGMCMEn-DVdgj1U7EBlAc-/s1600/IMG_9586.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPU9jvE_0P3zDt3JSL8VZu_bKB-y_LPhA-ATo_k9vvUSHDRPhcWfBCfgBVQA0MWg4bQj1pwPEV9x9KusLwibOMJBv1tlnE_QB-UQP3EbiRzREFr1qjfBSV-CQGMCMEn-DVdgj1U7EBlAc-/s400/IMG_9586.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>MsCaroline's sense of romance and mystery was fired up by all those distant snow-capped peaks; clearly, MrL did not feel quite the same way...</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHsPGxuzKAounZagYJAHwx7vsFIn56LpQle5C2iD2avBTzK8Pw896uIGIqR7KG0Vf6Gnj-rjmz5F9wyrcaN0OQo1k2Q7iDkjK1WjegiiSEUuwi0L13yanVfe9n0RXe10OyB5-8meC8PEr/s1600/IMG_9587.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHsPGxuzKAounZagYJAHwx7vsFIn56LpQle5C2iD2avBTzK8Pw896uIGIqR7KG0Vf6Gnj-rjmz5F9wyrcaN0OQo1k2Q7iDkjK1WjegiiSEUuwi0L13yanVfe9n0RXe10OyB5-8meC8PEr/s400/IMG_9587.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>MrL knows how to appreciate a loch</i></td></tr>
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We had enough time for a few photos before we turned around and headed back in the direction of the parking lot in time to board our coach and head toward distillery #2, <a href="http://deanstonmalt.com/the-distillery/distillery-tours">Deanston.</a><br />
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After a morning of whisky tasting followed by a hot meal and scrambling up hills in fresh air, MrL and I took advantage of the cozy seats and the warm coach, and dozed a bit (one of the advantages of having someone else doing the driving on a distillery tour) but roused ourselves now and then to listen to one of Audrey's many entertaining and informative tales about various aspects of Scottish history, or listen to some Scottish music. My favorite story involved the legend behind the folk song, <i>The Bonnie, Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond, </i>which most North Americans recognize only by its refrain, <i>"You take the high road and I'll take the low road and I'll be in Scotland afore ye" </i>and which turns out to actually be a pretty sad song about two brothers who are taken prisoner by the English and who do not expect to meet again in This World. Which was a bit of a bummer -but only in a sad, distant, romantic long-ago way -and still added a nice flavor to our drive through the Highlands. <br />
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The <a href="http://deanstonmalt.com/">Deanston</a> distillery, while not as posh as Glengoyle, was warm and welcoming, and - bonus - allowed photos during the distillery tour, of which we took full advantage. As at Glengoyle, the tour ended up in the gift shop, where we all had the opportunity to taste - and buy - a couple different types of whisky.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlP83hgZLtc5KvE2CZxC_alyamss9J4F4Hx6NdyyBp9FzcAtTNU-uKR4fELLYzccrjOoVLNdYwXuQkmRs3_YmbBGYSGGD6bzqTgWKJ5fGlm3ojZ33WiQrbcVjwU-KzVJrDv3T-YEWklTA2/s1600/IMG_9613.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlP83hgZLtc5KvE2CZxC_alyamss9J4F4Hx6NdyyBp9FzcAtTNU-uKR4fELLYzccrjOoVLNdYwXuQkmRs3_YmbBGYSGGD6bzqTgWKJ5fGlm3ojZ33WiQrbcVjwU-KzVJrDv3T-YEWklTA2/s400/IMG_9613.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our guide, Franz, telling us about the 12-year-old whisky we were about to taste.</i></td></tr>
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By the time we finished our whisky and made our purchases, we were ready to head back to the bus for our return to Edinburgh, with more stories - and more napping for <strike>MrL</strike> some of us. As she drove, the ever-helpful Audrey also gave us a plethora of suggestions for ways to spend our evening in Edinburgh - from a bar that regularly featured ceilidhs (pronounced 'kay-lee' - a type of Scottish folk dancing, similar to American square dancing, complete with a caller) to another one that featured live music (including bagpipes) to restaurant recommendations that were off the beaten tourist path. <br />
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Arriving back at the cafe in Edinburgh, we headed out into the cold evening to find what every tourist in Edinburgh is yearning for: good Mexican food.<i> (After 5 years overseas, we had more or less given up trying to find real, authentic Mexican (or Tex-Mex, as most Mexican food is in the USA,) and it is the one thing we still really miss, so anytime we see a hopeful-looking establishment, we try it.) </i> Anyway, we had seen a small, unassuming-looking restaurant in our wanderings on Friday and, after reading some glowing reviews, thought it might be worth trying out in our never-ending quest for some good Mexican food in the UK. We were well aware that our chances of getting a table without reservations on a Saturday evening were slim, but we were highly motivated, so we headed to Cockburn Street (one of our favorites, a really eclectic mix of independent shops, restaurants, and pubs) to see if they could fit us in at <a href="http://www.viva-mexico.co.uk/">Viva Mexico</a>.<br />
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Naturally, it <i>was</i> packed, but (miracle of miracles!) the hostess told us if we came back in an hour, she could get us a table. So, we headed back out into the night to find a pub where we could while away the hour, ending up just a short trip down the street at <a href="http://www.taylor-walker.co.uk/pub/malt-shovel-inn-midlothian/s1565/">The Malt Shovel,</a> which was also packed with people, but that didn't matter since you can drink just as easily standing up as sitting down. While we were standing there, we chatted with the 2 middle-aged gents standing next to us who turned out to be expert Scuba divers who had been diving pretty much everywhere in the world and regaled us with their tales of WWII wreck dives off the Scottish coast and the excitement that comes from diving in a loch. (<i>Note: MsCaroline is certain that diving in a loch - or any other cold water - has many untold charms, but she freely admits that she is more of the 'tropical blue water and coral and clownfish' sort of scuba diver, and she is happy to leave the wreck diving in the cold waters of Scotland to the professionals.)</i><br />
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Eventually, the hour came to and end, and we headed back to Viva Mexico with an air of anticipation, hoping that our wait had been worth it. No need to fear: it had been.<br />
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What looks like a tiny storefront restaurant is actually much larger, with a good-sized dining room downstairs - authentically decorated with a mix of Mexican folk art and a dash of kitsch.<br />
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Starting with the authentic basket of hot tortilla chips and salsa down to the just-right pitcher of margaritas, we were pleased at every step. The meal we ordered (enchiladas for MrL, beef and chicken fajitas for me) would not have been out of place in a restaurant in San Antonio - and from us, that is high praise. We hardly even spoke, just ate and reveled. <br />
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The take-away from this experience? If you want authentic Mexican food in the UK, you won't go wrong in Edinburgh.<br />
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Replete with the sort of haze that can only come from <strike>drinking a pitcher of margaritas after touring 2 distilleries</strike> a day spent enjoying the Highlands, we headed off into the evening toward our cozy B&B to plan out our adventures for the next day, which would be our last. <br />
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MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-39977861129029128622016-03-05T18:41:00.000+00:002016-03-06T12:10:41.554+00:00Life in England: A Weekend in Edinburgh, Part II<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i>Note: This is the second in my series about our weekend in Edinburgh. In my last installment, we were wandering down the <a href="http://www.royal-mile.com/">Royal Mile</a>, looking for lunch. You can find Part I <a href="http://asiavufullcircle.blogspot.co.uk/2016/03/life-in-england-weekend-in-edinburgh.html">here.</a></i></div>
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While we enjoyed the shops and the many lovely historic buildings, what we found really interesting along the Royal Mile were the <i>closes. </i>A <i>close</i> is sort of a 'lane' or even an 'alley' - a very narrow walkway between 2 buildings.<br />
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These can be found all along the Royal Mile, tucked between the shops and restaurants -and were once themselves full of stands and stalls as well as people going about their daily business(<i>how they all fit, I've no idea.)</i> Today (no doubt due to Health and Safety regulations) they are empty of everything but pedestrians, but still narrow and a bit dark (Edinburgh had some of the earliest 'skyscrapers' even in the Middle Ages, with some buildings as tall as 14 storeys, which effectively block out much of the sunlight.) The old buildings and cobblestoned streets make it all seem very romantic and historical. The closes were often named after the businesses to be found within the close:<br />
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We ended up finding a bar/restaurant in the Advocate's Close (no idea what an Advocate was, unless it was some sort of medieval attorney) called <a href="http://devilsadvocateedinburgh.co.uk/">The Devil's Advocate,</a> which got extra points in my book from the very beginning for such an excellent play on words, and extra points in MrL's book for stocking a wide variety of local ales and beers. It featured a cozy interior, about a bazillion types of whisky, and a simple, but sophisticated lunch menu:</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>That's my 'do not take a photograph of me I've been wearing a hat all morning' face, which is hardly attractive. But isn't the place cozy?</i></td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: center;">After we'd thawed out with some stout and lamb burgers with goat cheese and beetroot tzatziki <i>(I would never have thought of this combination, but it was excellent),</i> we wrapped ourselves up and headed out to see some more of the city. </span></div>
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At this point, as it was still bitterly cold, windy, and sporadically raining, we decided that seeing something <i>indoors</i> would be an excellent plan, which is how we ended up at the <a href="https://museum.rcsed.ac.uk/">Surgeon's Hall Museums</a>, a place that had been on my list for quite a while due to its historicity, obscurity, and creepiness - all things that MrL and I enjoy (in moderation, of course.) As we approached the building, we could see that, if the banners and courtyard art were anything to go by, we'd be experiencing quite an afternoon:</div>
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As Edinburgh is the home of one of the UK's oldest and respected schools of Medicine, it makes sense that it would also house a museum featuring a mind-numbing array of historic medical and scientific paraphernalia. Visitors can <strike>be deeply grateful they live in the modern era</strike> view the development of medicine from the earliest times through the modern day, starting with ancient Latin texts listing diseases, symptoms, remedies, and treatments, most of which seemed to involve removing the majority of the patient's blood, or administering medicines made of things that, today, would probably be classified as biohazards(urine was a popular ingredient.) As far as we could tell, the practice of medicine didn't seem to greatly enhance anyone's lifespan until sometime in the late 1800s, when physicians started to (grudgingly) wash their hands between patients and some decent anesthesia arrived on the scene. <i>(It is true that early anesthesia did often kill the patients, but it was, apparently, greatly preferred to the 'here, bite on this rag while these burly lads hold you down' variety.) </i>The history of anesthesia (<i>or, rather, the lack of it),</i> medical technology ancient and modern, dentistry, and surgery (<i>in the days before anesthesia, 'quick'= 'good')</i> were all featured in a variety of exhibits and there were lots of evil-looking ancient medical instruments on display as well. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photographs are not allowed in the museum. This is the one MrL snapped of the display case in the reception area, which should give you some idea of what we were walking into.</i></td></tr>
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The crowning disturbing glory was the Pathology Museum, which contained hundreds (thousands?) of glass and plastic tanks, containers, and jars holding every possible body part (or sometimes entire bodies,) affected by every imaginable disease, floating in peaceful, disembodied repose in row upon row of labeled shelves. These samples, we learned, are still studied by medical students today. <i>(Note: While the various pickled organs, appendages, and extremities are undoubtedly immediately recognizable to your average medical students, civilians like us were often dependent on the labels to figure out what we were seeing. If you don't know your spleen from your lung from your fatty lipoma, it all, as MrL observed, 'looks like waterlogged chicken breast.')</i></div>
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We spent an <strike>morbid</strike> interesting couple of hours wandering through the halls until we both reached our saturation points, such that one more disembodied ear floating in a jar of formaldehyde would have sent us both over the edge. We agreed that a scenic stroll, some souvenir shopping, and a few strong drinks were in order, so we headed through the streets of the Old Town toward the West End and <a href="http://usquabae.co.uk/">Usquabae,</a> a celebrated Edinburgh whisky bar and restaurant where we had made dinner reservations.</div>
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<i>(Note: In case you were wondering, "Usquabae" is the Irish (Gaelic) word for whisky.)</i> We'd read great reviews of the bar, its whisky selection, the ambiance, and the food, and considered ourselves fortunate to have managed to book a table on Friday night. We got there a bit early and had a drink in the bar <strike>to help us forget all the pathology specimens.</strike> </div>
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By the time we'd finished our drinks, our table was ready in the restaurant, which is in a basement with an incredible 'wine cellar' vibe. Not a dark, gloomy, cold dying-with-the-cask-of-amontillado wine cellar either, mind you; this one was warm, cozy, and softly lit. The hostess led us through the main dining room and bar area into one of about 6 little curtained alcoves located all along the periphery. Each alcove was lined with backlit glass display cases featuring a variety of whiskies (some of which probably cost more than our house.) MrL and I settled in at our candlelit table for two and proceeded to drool over the menu.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Perusing my menu in the soft glow of the whisky bottles in our private dining alcove.</i></td></tr>
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The next few hours passed in a sort of a food coma, during which we ate and drank far too much but we didn't care because vacation. If you are interested in such things, we ate Cullen Skink (a type of milk-based fish chowder), venison, mussels, Balmoral chicken, haggis, turnip and potato mash, and sticky toffee pudding (whisky-infused, of course.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_LZ0ODbAHjFPNuY_s1YfMV4gWtn3mlrjepcaL7IlPiSMBeoZCdGObG2ORkheeiVHdxCkbpMQATRXOCltG0pN2y2456wxrljChHSAxkWXMQze55-Sk8No9jBdlZMPAf4h17kvHOfLlHaW_/s1600/IMG_0734.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_LZ0ODbAHjFPNuY_s1YfMV4gWtn3mlrjepcaL7IlPiSMBeoZCdGObG2ORkheeiVHdxCkbpMQATRXOCltG0pN2y2456wxrljChHSAxkWXMQze55-Sk8No9jBdlZMPAf4h17kvHOfLlHaW_/s400/IMG_0734.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Venison and mussels in the foreground. Chicken, haggis, and turnip and potato('neeps and tatties') mash in the back.</i></td></tr>
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And, yes, I ordered <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haggis">haggis</a>, and it was really delicious. In fact, as far as I can tell, haggis is more or less the meat loaf of Scotland (the gravy sort of meat loaf, not the ketchup sort) and is very much a yummy comfort food as long as you don't dwell overmuch on its ingredients. <i> If you question MsC's judgement on this, be aware that, after nearly 4 years in Korea, MsC's concept of 'edible' has broadened, and she will now eat pretty much anything as long as it is not still moving. </i><br />
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<i><br /></i>We didn't linger too long over our coffee, since we had to be up early the next morning for our much-anticipated "Experience Malt Whisky" distillery tour. We paid our bill, wrapped ourselves up, and reluctantly left the cozy warmth of the restaurant to head out through the dreich* evening back to our room. <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , , sans-serif;"><b>dreich: </b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">driːx</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">/</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"> </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">adjective(</i><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; color: #777777; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small; text-transform: uppercase;">SCOTTISH) </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , , sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-weight: lighter;">(especially of weather) dreary; bleak.</span><br />
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MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-27136486983986865332016-03-04T09:54:00.003+00:002016-03-06T12:13:22.417+00:00Life in England: A Weekend in Edinburgh, Part I<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihtuNvZkfpS_JMbjjiZWX81t5HSUuEGRXkB0xNIQ_Zyq8R18u3UAdM4OT-7Sa_1J413i_LQelJqVJGwfynLJ7z8J2onkvuLZHeyXnQJKU4zJXK1YovJWaRjpwWBZ6k9R_NZhZ5aj-hBHPR/s1600/IMG_9528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihtuNvZkfpS_JMbjjiZWX81t5HSUuEGRXkB0xNIQ_Zyq8R18u3UAdM4OT-7Sa_1J413i_LQelJqVJGwfynLJ7z8J2onkvuLZHeyXnQJKU4zJXK1YovJWaRjpwWBZ6k9R_NZhZ5aj-hBHPR/s400/IMG_9528.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A 'hairy coo' (a type of Highland Cattle) which (it turns out) is Not A Yak.</i></td></tr>
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<i>Note: For those of you who may not yet have been to Edinburgh (or, if you have, were not aware of this,) let me provide you with this free tip: Despite its appearance to the contrary, 'Edinburgh' is not pronounced 'Ed-in-burg' as you would expect, and not even 'Ed-in-burrow' (although that's closer) but <b>'Ed-in-burra.' </b>You're welcome.</i></div>
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One of the things that MrL and I talked about when we found out we were moving to the UK was the fact that we would be so close to the rest of Europe.<br />
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With most of it more or less on our doorstep, we imagined we'd be heading off every available weekend to some exotic locale, taking in the sights and living <i>la Vida loca.</i><br />
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Needless to say, what with coordinating our 3 schedules (#2 was still at home until August) along with the Dog's needs and MrLogical's <strike> puritanical</strike> very strong work ethic that made it very difficult for me to ever plan anything in advance - my vision of us as a globe-trotting, jet-setting couple off to points unknown every weekend has not exactly come to fruition, and most weekends find us squabbling over the Cabernet selection at Majestic Wines, schlepping the dog through miles of soggy English countryside, and running lackluster errands (last week it was Marks and Spencer for Men's Socks. <i>Try to remain calm.)</i> If we get <i>really</i> wild, you may find us at a pub with some friends for a few ciders on a Saturday night - before retiring to bed at a decent hour as is consistent with our advancing age. Of course, it's equally likely you'll find us eating take-away doner kebabs in front of the telly, so rest assured we're not <i>complete</i> party animals.<br />
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The point is, while we have traveled a good amount, it's not quite what I'd envisioned.<br />
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Nonetheless, we have persevered, and - while we're still spending more weekends running errands than we are flying somewhere, we're starting to tick the boxes off (slowly.) (Since we moved here last year, we <i>have</i> been to any number of Stately Homes and landmarks in the UK, and traveled to 3 countries, so we're not <i>complete</i> couch potatoes.)<br />
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I promise to tell you all about it sometime, but I am not going to say when, because I hate deadlines.<br />
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The point is, last weekend, we (finally) headed for Edinburgh on one of those weekend jet-setting jaunts I have been envisioning since we moved here just over a year ago.<br />
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Neither of us had ever been to Scotland, and, since Edinburgh is only a 55-minute flight from Bristol, we decided that it would be an easy weekend trip with minimum travel time. The fact that we wouldn't have to loiter at immigration (since we weren't leaving the UK) was an added bonus. Also, MrL had a strong interest in whisky, which the Scottish do rather well, so the matter was settled, and we headed out on a Thursday evening after work.<br />
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We got through security relatively quickly, and had just enough time to wolf down some dinner - we started off optimistically at the Brunel Bar and Kitchen (sort of a gastropub, and quite nice for an airport) - until they informed us it would be a minimum of 30 minutes before we could hope to get our food before boarding our flight. So...Burger King it was. (The glamour just never stops, does it?)<br />
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For those of you unfamiliar with EasyJet, it is a discount, no-frills airline that serves England and Europe, sort of like JetBlue in the USA, only even cheaper. Some of the flights to Edinburgh <i>(not ours, sadly)</i> were as low as £19.99 each way (that's about $30) - although the<i> really</i> cheap flights tended to be at less convenient times. And, of course, as is the case for all discount airlines, you pay for every.single.additional.thing. <i>(Oh. You want to <b>choose</b> your seat? That'll be an extra £5. Want to check in online instead of queuing at the airport? That'll be an extra £6. What? You want to sit in the first 5 rows? Extra £. You get the picture.) </i>On the plus side, though, for a 55-minute flight, it really doesn't matter much, and - most importantly - It Is Relatively Inexpensive. <br />
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So, we arrived in Edinburgh around 10, and caught a taxi to our B&B.<i> </i>As we climbed in, I gave our driver the street address and then added uncertainly, "Do you want the postcode as well?" <i>(postcodes are far more accurate than the American zip code - they target precisely where you live to the actual street, and they are worth their weight in gold when trying to drive somewhere unfamiliar in the UK using a SatNav(GPS).)</i> The driver, a genial middle-aged Scotsman with a delicious accent, snorted indignantly and said, "Not at all. This is a <i>proper</i> taxi." <i>(In retrospect, I am somewhat surprised that he didn't add, "I don't need no stinkin' postcode," but I'm sure that's what he was thinking.)</i><br />
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He was, of course, correct, and -<i>sans</i> postcode - had us at the door of the <a href="http://www.thevictoriantownhouse.co.uk/">The Victorian Town House</a> just 15 minutes later. The owner - sort of a magical Scottish combination of Mrs. Doubtfire and Paula Deene (and the level of welcome we got would not have been out of place at a family reunion somewhere in Georgia or the Carolinas, so warm and welcoming was she) was waiting to let us in and show us around despite the late hour. After filling us in on breakfast time and details about keys and checkout, she left us to collapse in our cozy 'Africa'-themed room and to enjoy <strike>shots</strike> 'a wee dram' of <i>complimentary</i> (!) whisky before heading to bed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrQgkqL9OU90QjHE3Z_4Fo0-J-kW674Fhg_Ck2vD_yHPyXTznpYrsc6HiM62CIokrKfQHw2l74X-kdn_NB-N5pQOU_5KqYLkFQ_MAQD9pruWzzDv6LLLQlbvYzqKnWUJUt_jdb5je69YEQ/s1600/IMG_9441.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrQgkqL9OU90QjHE3Z_4Fo0-J-kW674Fhg_Ck2vD_yHPyXTznpYrsc6HiM62CIokrKfQHw2l74X-kdn_NB-N5pQOU_5KqYLkFQ_MAQD9pruWzzDv6LLLQlbvYzqKnWUJUt_jdb5je69YEQ/s400/IMG_9441.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Nothing says 'Welcome' like whisky. And chocolate.</i></td></tr>
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We slept - as MrL so eloquently put it - 'like the dead' and were shocked to discover that it was already 8am when we finally roused ourselves - almost unheard of for 2 people who are typically up (even on Saturdays) before 6.<br />
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Mrs. Doubtfire/Paula Deene was already in the breakfast room with another couple when we arrived and proceeded to simultaneously take our breakfast orders, make introductions, and start the conversational ball rolling with the skill of a seasoned diplomat, and we ended up talking to the other couple <i>(in Edinburgh for a wedding, 4 grown sons, 1 of them living in the US and another in Hong Kong)</i> as we all worked our way through our enormous Full Scottish breakfasts: eggs made to order, sausages, bacon, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, black pudding, toast, coffee...you get the idea. <i> (Note: as far as we could tell, this was more or less exactly like a Full English, but maybe we were missing some subtleties.)</i><br />
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As an aside; talking to the other B&B patrons at breakfast was actually one of the highlights of our weekend. I've been to plenty of B&Bs where guests - after a brief nod and smile at their neighbors - sit at their tables and communicate in hushed whispers and strained murmurs for the entirety of the meal, but this one had more of the air of Old Home Week. Our hostess - a past master at the art of conversation - was delightful about introducing her guests to each other every morning and we ended up meeting some lovely and interesting people as a result. <br />
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An hour or so later, <strike>glutted </strike>stuffed full of breakfast and armed with muffins (also provided by our thoughtful hostess <i>'to have with your coffee later' -</i>I suppose because she was concerned that 3,000 calories' worth of a cooked breakfast might not hold us past 10am) <i> </i>we headed out the door in the direction of Edinburgh Castle, which was about a 20-minute walk away (probably less time for people who hadn't eaten Full Scottish Breakfasts.) <br />
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Edinburgh Castle is one of those 'must-do' items on the list when you are in Edinburgh. In comparison to many others we've seen since living in the UK, it is in remarkably good repair -a number we've visited have been basically just ruins: splendid, amazing ruins, but ruins nonetheless. Of course, this Castle has also been used more or less consistently for its entire history (and continues to be used for a variety of purposes today) so that probably has a lot to do with it. It is less a single castle edifice and more of a small, interconnected town within the castle walls up on top of a huge outcrop of bedrock overlooking the city of Edinburgh and - in the distance - the Firth of Forth(<i>that's an inlet or estuary, in case you're not up on your lochs, firths, and closes - of which more later.)</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOnFZrRupjGIseBZvxHSozn2IY_wzEF0XzBDVwAZx4uV9SfOZa-G6BzknN8QM_XIL9-nmIbuIBKr2hS_HKfuQ6MjeQhvspwERTRIqdgEAhEG1FwvZvicbGvnO4I1Y8k_auZEzdWav-Q8QK/s1600/IMG_9466.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOnFZrRupjGIseBZvxHSozn2IY_wzEF0XzBDVwAZx4uV9SfOZa-G6BzknN8QM_XIL9-nmIbuIBKr2hS_HKfuQ6MjeQhvspwERTRIqdgEAhEG1FwvZvicbGvnO4I1Y8k_auZEzdWav-Q8QK/s400/IMG_9466.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>View of Edinburgh, the Firth, and some distant snow-capped peaks from one of many ramparts in the Castle.</i></td></tr>
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You can easily google 'Edinburgh Castle' for all the historical details if they interest you, so I am not going to include any of them. Suffice it to say that, when you are standing up on the castle ramparts (I love that I can include the word 'ramparts' legitimately in my blog post), the view of Edinburgh is absolutely magnificent.<br />
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The rest of the castle is pretty magnificent, too. It is so huge that there are several museums included within the various buildings, among them: a museum featuring the Scottish Crown Jewels (smuggled away and buried for years during English rule); a museum that has been made out of the castle's prison (which at one time incarcerated Americans held during the War of American Independence); the Scottish National War Memorial, and the museum of the Royal Scottish Dragoons(a 'Dragoon' is a type of cavalryman. You're welcome.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXlcmHB657Q0vWOJ0u7b6097fTi4kTRMiI42TTur41jvK2EZZL7ZXmpsDR8YDCZzyQZRUoVtQrl909h1ktL77oACT1y4v4M007th-WZA5t_H-d_60faNy6ePZcXtsHFtWotcwnLRVPwVGb/s1600/dragoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXlcmHB657Q0vWOJ0u7b6097fTi4kTRMiI42TTur41jvK2EZZL7ZXmpsDR8YDCZzyQZRUoVtQrl909h1ktL77oACT1y4v4M007th-WZA5t_H-d_60faNy6ePZcXtsHFtWotcwnLRVPwVGb/s400/dragoon.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>At the entrance to the Royal Scottish Dragoons Museum. No, I was not incognito. Yes, it was cold.</i></td></tr>
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As you may also imagine, I found this to be especially touching:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-a-AlvoEPJ01TaNE7dkn8Jz3MJQaGmb3fp6uVhEd7-gKMQB2CTRophQ3Q9GBNjcaBUxzUOL5-oehrfArAPAZv2vuVIylHHw5mMijDzzllQpuF8mcXm_TL1NnaL2ykaGtA2m5dfQ1boMJP/s1600/IMG_9464.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-a-AlvoEPJ01TaNE7dkn8Jz3MJQaGmb3fp6uVhEd7-gKMQB2CTRophQ3Q9GBNjcaBUxzUOL5-oehrfArAPAZv2vuVIylHHw5mMijDzzllQpuF8mcXm_TL1NnaL2ykaGtA2m5dfQ1boMJP/s400/IMG_9464.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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However, as charming and interesting as I found the castle to be, it was difficult to ignore the high-velocity wind, frequent rain showers, and chilly temperatures. There is a good reason that February is considered to be the 'off' season in Edinburgh, which means that we spent far more time inside the various museums within the castle (which, I would add, are waterproof and reasonably heated) than we did taking photos from the ramparts where all the other tourists were jostling cheek-to-jowl. Nonetheless, we spent a pleasant (if chilly) 3 or so hours wandering around before heading down the hill to the Royal Mile in search of food and warmth.<br />
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The Royal Mile is a charming, historical cobblestoned street that runs from the Castle directly to the Houses of Parliament, and which is lined with shops, pubs, restaurants, and various historic buildings. It is fairly touristy, but mixed into the aggressive tartan/ bagpipe/knitwear/ t-shirt souvenir tsunami are some lovely, quirky shops, pubs, and restaurants.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhty76djixSq9CG0HokBzJK61jVtgqaZVM5icE8FoAgmJDaMJ9fWx99eitvdVbV_6zZ40rK80UEHvo-pZ84l33inNp0YZn4DVXcIe9TxneVxG7Kcx3FAMAnUc68bnJmzVvTqrsZBtvS4Up2/s1600/IMG_9500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhty76djixSq9CG0HokBzJK61jVtgqaZVM5icE8FoAgmJDaMJ9fWx99eitvdVbV_6zZ40rK80UEHvo-pZ84l33inNp0YZn4DVXcIe9TxneVxG7Kcx3FAMAnUc68bnJmzVvTqrsZBtvS4Up2/s400/IMG_9500.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Little boy playing the pipes next to St. Giles' Cathedral</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl2dzGytfIOIIltfAUzhgDuB165ha1FyvYn1Z2JpwnekvVj9YuEsf93UhDF-6nKpCvc9McJy4r87GUr1fStp0cYiMQc13Hzmc4waC09-X6b4LTwm2H8J28F-9F_aqHg0A6hN6fF1V_p1HE/s1600/IMG_9507.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl2dzGytfIOIIltfAUzhgDuB165ha1FyvYn1Z2JpwnekvVj9YuEsf93UhDF-6nKpCvc9McJy4r87GUr1fStp0cYiMQc13Hzmc4waC09-X6b4LTwm2H8J28F-9F_aqHg0A6hN6fF1V_p1HE/s400/IMG_9507.jpg" width="383" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Best t-shirt I saw.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCIzVw8xdXyeRUe3F-PY3VRlR-H6i-7oCpGCl6vmsoy21zKz8-7omU8xa4B5gtLRfIqGvewyF-j42wbG4GdI2AF2OrzrHj65FJ5l4urqY1jLuMuZXvjkBNiDpZj9IsH9sbS643C0cOxris/s1600/IMG_9501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCIzVw8xdXyeRUe3F-PY3VRlR-H6i-7oCpGCl6vmsoy21zKz8-7omU8xa4B5gtLRfIqGvewyF-j42wbG4GdI2AF2OrzrHj65FJ5l4urqY1jLuMuZXvjkBNiDpZj9IsH9sbS643C0cOxris/s400/IMG_9501.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Presumably, there were some butchers located here.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: center;"> <i>I'll be back tomorrow with Part II, in which we visit the Surgeon's Hall Museum (medieval medical instruments, vivid paintings, specimens in jars) and (daringly) drink gin at one of Edinburgh's most popular whisky bars. </i></span></div>
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MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-74767834813689122532016-02-07T18:30:00.000+00:002016-02-07T18:30:27.104+00:00Life in England: The Mundanity of February*<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYKm6eId1dbh2K8AycCmIIrF4KjEnb2sxsh6T6Y6k152J5GxT3ZBvZc7ZkBFBlrH-Ifc-EoUg83CMqVUqDbhSHmFDqlHSlIK3SHDCnYbFB69KhdMFgX10jzFqGKn2iNHOfuBxtGHVxqME0/s1600/IMG_9267.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYKm6eId1dbh2K8AycCmIIrF4KjEnb2sxsh6T6Y6k152J5GxT3ZBvZc7ZkBFBlrH-Ifc-EoUg83CMqVUqDbhSHmFDqlHSlIK3SHDCnYbFB69KhdMFgX10jzFqGKn2iNHOfuBxtGHVxqME0/s400/IMG_9267.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T<i>he view from my kitchen most of the time these days.</i></td></tr>
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<i>*Warning: This post is comprised of mostly whining and some observations. You have been warned.</i><br />
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There is really not much to say about February in England. For starters, it is Mostly Cold and Grey and Usually Rainy, but that isn't so different from the rest of the northern hemisphere, so there's nothing remarkable there. <i> </i><br />
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I have started seeing Signs of Spring everywhere around me, though: fruit trees are in blossom (yes, really) and the daffodils, crocus, and primroses are so evident that I no longer stop and exclaim, <i>Look! The (crocus, daffodil, primroses) are blooming! </i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvoesQofBbDZkeAOlig7ab-RWk8FJwOBcvKYef0avux57hrGNIZSmM6bG31HjpsO42zTwhVazR48Fgv7oMo9tdGf2d09iHRPe8q8-nP3bbunEcasJyj2QLBslHLRDMpVgfxH6g_rupV_V2/s1600/IMG_9272.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvoesQofBbDZkeAOlig7ab-RWk8FJwOBcvKYef0avux57hrGNIZSmM6bG31HjpsO42zTwhVazR48Fgv7oMo9tdGf2d09iHRPe8q8-nP3bbunEcasJyj2QLBslHLRDMpVgfxH6g_rupV_V2/s320/IMG_9272.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The crocus are out, but difficult to appreciate so much in the rain.</i></td></tr>
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Of course, the fact that it is raining approximately 90% of the time has limited the amount of time I spend gazing at blossoms, but I've seen them when I walk the dog, so I know they're out there.<br />
<i><br /></i>Those of you who read my blog when we lived in Korea will recall that I whined a lot in February when we lived <i>there </i>because it was So Incredibly Cold. Indeed, it was, in fact, much, much colder in Korea but at least we had Sun, and that made all the difference.<br />
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So I'm just sort of dragging through the days, working toward the Easter Holidays. As far as I can tell, this is more or less the same tactic being used by everyone in the UK - sort of a stolid plodding towards the light. Naturally, we are doing our plodding wrapped up in waterproof coats and wellingtons, but we are all moving forward, myself included. Most of the time, I am well-wrapped up in what #2 refers to as my "Tundra Suit," consisting of hat, fleece neck gaiter, several layers of clothes top and bottom, waterproof coat, gloves, and waterproof insulated winter walking shoes. It is far from being an attractive ensemble, but at least I am mostly warm in it.<br />
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Of course, while I walk miles behind the inexplicably energetic dog (who has to stop and sniff every.single.thing -even more so when the wind is particularly bitter and from the East) I brood inside my Tundra Suit about all sorts of things, including:<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Why it has taken well over 3 weeks for this !@#$%^& cough to go away and if it really means that I'm Getting Old because it's never taken me this long to kick a cough before. </i>This is such an unpleasant notion to contemplate that I rarely spend much time on it, because I really don't want to <strike>stare my own mortality in the face</strike> think about being Old, even though it seems this is inevitable if I am to avoid the alternative.<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Why my refrigerator has a plastic holder for seven (7) eggs. </i>First of all, eggs in the UK are not kept in the refrigerated section of the grocery store (just out on a shelf), which leads me to believe that one isn't expected to refrigerate them at home, either. And, if you <i>do </i>refrigerate them, why <i>seven? </i> Why not <i>six</i>, or <i>twelve </i>(the amounts in which they are sold?) The point is pretty moot in this case - for me, at least - because my refrigerator is so tall (the fridge is stacked on top of the freezer, and together they form a fridge/freezer taller than I am) I can't see how many eggs are up there anyway and when I try to feel around up there, I invariably knock at least one egg out and onto the floor. As a result, I mostly store the eggs in their cardboard containers in the fridge (very, very difficult to overcome lifetime habit of storing eggs in fridge, even when the entire UK doesn't do so and clearly suffers no ill effects from it. When I tried to get in habit of storing eggs on kitchen counter instead of In The Fridge, these attempts foiled by Son#2 and his father, who always put them back in the fridge.) This is problematic because the fridge is about the size of the one I had in my dormitory at University, and real estate in there is at a premium (frequent disagreements with MrL as to exactly how much space he is allotted for chilling beer. Needless to say, our opinions diverge significantly.)<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">How much easier it is to stay indoors. </i>Last year, when MrL and I were starry-eyed newbies who had just moved to the UK and were enchanted by everything, each weekend found us out exploring our new country, impervious to the vagaries of the English climate (<i>this means rain)</i>; a Stately Home here, a rugged Cornish cliff there, a charming museum, a cozy pub - you get the picture. This year, though, we're experienced and - if the truth must be told - a bit more jaded. Rainy weekends <i>(in England, in the winter, this means 'nearly all')</i> now find us holing up inside, binge-watching select TV series, interspersed with brisk, miserable walks through the rain with the dog, who has no desire to be out in it either, and, most of all - cooking. Oh, yes, we're cooking like we have our own show: mostly warm, cozy things: soups, and stews and gumbos and pies and roasts and the like, and usually project-worthy, involving hours of chopping and sauteeing and simmering, resulting in something warm and comforting and tasty (and a sink full of dishes, but whatever). Naturally, all this cooking is doing nothing for my waistline, of which fact I am well aware and which is depressing. It is made even more depressing by the fact that MrL remains precisely as fit and trim as he was when we married nearly 25 years ago. ( I am fully aware that MrL's habit of cycling to work several days per week -60km round trip- has a great deal to do with this phenomenon, but still feel faintly resentful, although also fully aware that this is both unreasonable and unjust.)<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">How relieved I am not to be parenting small children right now. </i>MsCaroline does, of course, have two children, but they are no longer small. What this means is that MsC does not have to read - and, more importantly, worry about - all those articles on FaceBook that predict Doom and a Limited Future for every child who has not been breastfed/ attachment-parented/carried about the world in a sling/taught a second language while still <i>in utero</i>/raised in a yurt on organic food. While MsC is pretty sure that she will always find <i>something</i> to worry about regarding her children, she at least no longer has to worry about scarring them for life or destroying their chances for a happy future. <i>(Note re: scarring/destroying: If this <b>has, </b>in fact, happened, it is already done and no amount of worrying can change it, which is in itself quite freeing.</i>) Furthermore, at this point children are nearly 19 and 23 and both have thus far avoided incarceration (surely a win in anyone's parenting book) and proven selves to be responsible, hardworking, cheerful, kind and level-headed, which means that MsC and MrL must have gotten at least <i>some</i> of it right. <br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">The very interesting interpretation that England has of some American foods: </i>Let me say here and now that I am not in any way bashing the cuisine of England. In fact, I will undoubtedly go through the 5 stages of Grief when I leave here just because I will miss the grocery stores so much. Also, Pies. And Cornish pasties, Bakewell Tart, and Eccles cakes.And the Sunday Roast. But I digress. The point was, that, while England does its own food - along with just about every other cuisine - marvelously, it has been oddly uneven on its interpretations of a couple American specialties we have run across(<i>Note: The Hamburger is <b>not</b> included in this category; we have probably eaten the best burgers of our lives here no matter what the Americans think.</i>) And while we experienced this cultural disconnect a number of times in Korea (some of you may recall the time I was served a margarita made entirely of soju) we didn't really expect to experience it in the UK. Which just goes to show you that you should never make assumptions. In the last few weeks, we have run across:<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">"Nachos"</i> - these were served to us in a cast-iron skillet (interesting presentation and a first for me with nachos) and consisted of what appeared at first glance to be only sauteed bell peppers and onions, but eventually revealed itself to be a dish consisting also of: black and green olives (whole and chopped); a bit of cheese (more of a garnish), and a red sauce possibly meant to be salsa but tasting strongly of ketchup. There were a few tortilla chips interspersed under the toppings, but they required some hunting. We ate them, of course, but were bemused.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMPvFpwGJOzwEwsLyOvO7FRP1mnX_s7gYWcWyAYjyYZU4pWRpARCAVLIQ0OZVsBFhF2c_d4S5XJwNYjXoF_wvCi0Es0Ky19ev6CApwPiYZj5g4vIFIuwWGQk1hHcop1z3KkCDZ4v2McF1/s1600/IMG_9178.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMPvFpwGJOzwEwsLyOvO7FRP1mnX_s7gYWcWyAYjyYZU4pWRpARCAVLIQ0OZVsBFhF2c_d4S5XJwNYjXoF_wvCi0Es0Ky19ev6CApwPiYZj5g4vIFIuwWGQk1hHcop1z3KkCDZ4v2McF1/s400/IMG_9178.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The banana peppers were an interesting touch.</td></tr>
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">"Barbecue" - </i>this was served in a local chain restaurant that is meant to replicate a genuine BBQ joint of the American South and did it so well that MrL and I were almost stunned upon receiving our extremely genuine-tasting pulled pork and brisket sandwiches. The only clues that indicated it was not a <i>bona fide </i>BBQ joint were: 1) The lack of a cartoon pig in the establishment's signage (widely recognized in American South as reliable indicator of quality of BBQ), and 2) the 'coleslaw' served on the side was essentially purple cabbage that may or may not have been tossed with a bit of vinegar. Since you can easily find typical American-looking (eg, mayonnaise-based, orange-and-white-and pale green) slaw all over the UK, we were hard-pressed to understand this deviation from the accepted norm when everything else was entirely authentic. While I can state definitively that purple cabbage slaw on your brisket does not taste as good as the White Stuff, I can also state with equal confidence that the BBQ was As Good as Anything We Could Get At Home, which (we felt) made up for any deficiencies in the slaw department.<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">"Guacamole"</i> - Honesty compels me to admit that the tacit understanding in the USA when buying guacamole is that Homemade Guac (pronounced 'gwok') is Always Best so of <i>course</i> the stuff you buy in the store will <i>never</i> be that good. Everyone knows this, and everyone (well, at least everyone who lives in the Southwest) has their own recipe for guacamole. However, it is also true that making guac can be messy and time consuming, so if your grocery store guac is less than stellar, it is the price you pay for convenience, and you should just Deal With It. In this way, English grocery store guacamole is entirely consistent with the American version, except that it tends to be heavier on the sour cream than the guacamole we are used to. But that -as I said - is the price you pay for convenience - in both America and England - and you just Deal With It.<br />
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And, while we're on the subject of food, may I just say how much we love our Local, which puts out some of the wittiest signs in town (sorry, FaceBook friends, just had to post this again): <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ioEMZpt9RnI4YFQO0KbT3xv9YtZ-biEXJ-aYiC8_vdhnCxZe2iAETXXTAEQGGuupH28PiMrxEciFfHuMBvTH2f8sKXL1Qdt4gE1OgFbC69b9HIBm8XExGCVOKaKl6PjZPb55gM6bIC6R/s1600/IMG_9248.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ioEMZpt9RnI4YFQO0KbT3xv9YtZ-biEXJ-aYiC8_vdhnCxZe2iAETXXTAEQGGuupH28PiMrxEciFfHuMBvTH2f8sKXL1Qdt4gE1OgFbC69b9HIBm8XExGCVOKaKl6PjZPb55gM6bIC6R/s400/IMG_9248.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-73007171402717967712016-01-25T15:53:00.001+00:002016-01-25T20:43:49.933+00:00Toastie Pockets: A Demonstration<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO_mZ_KlWuKC6uhyphenhyphen1kx1bjh55_lH8zJa2ECDZv36Z6LLsGdDKEkIesim2nWFPkqqHdNVjc2pBiCCHhoviGziQFxuVdq1eqcMmWaUC8VqsBCxk23YFYeKdHOlG8z9gRGTdOZJRnc82SydEK/s1600/IMG_9203.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO_mZ_KlWuKC6uhyphenhyphen1kx1bjh55_lH8zJa2ECDZv36Z6LLsGdDKEkIesim2nWFPkqqHdNVjc2pBiCCHhoviGziQFxuVdq1eqcMmWaUC8VqsBCxk23YFYeKdHOlG8z9gRGTdOZJRnc82SydEK/s400/IMG_9203.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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Good Morning, Lovely People.</div>
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MsCaroline would like to express her thanks to all her kind readers who expressed sympathy and concern about her Lingering Cough as a Result of the Flu Bug From Hell, and would also like to assure them that she is, in fact, clearly on the road to recovery. The clearest indicator of this is the fact the MrL is no longer doing all the laundry, which, while a bit sad, is a small price to pay for an unrestricted airway, and MsC will take it.</div>
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A surprising number of you also expressed interest in/amazement at the Toastie Pockets MsC mentioned in her <a href="http://asiavufullcircle.blogspot.co.uk/2016/01/life-in-uk-things-mscaroline-is.html">last post</a>, which was extremely gratifying, since she brought them to nearly everyone last summer when she was in the US and felt like the general response was more 'puzzled' by them than 'thrilled.' In all fairness, maybe people just are not thinking 'toastie' quite as much in the summer as they are in January, so the takeaway here is this: it's all about the timing. </div>
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In any case, after such a warm reception, MsCaroline had the bright idea of showing you step-by-step how these nifty little things work <strike>,because this will be easier than writing an entirely new blog post.</strike></div>
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Of course, I am neither a food blogger nor a food photographer, so you'll have to use your imagination to a certain extent. But we all know that's better for you anyway.</div>
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In any case, without further ado, I give you</div>
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<b><i>How to Make a Toastie Using a Nifty Toastie Pocket</i></b></div>
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Step 1: Sort out your bread: </i>As far as I can tell, the toastie pocket is sized to fit slices of typical pre-sliced, commercial bread. Since we buy bread in big, hearty farm-style loaves <strike>that looks like it was made with pieces of bark and twigs</strike> with as few processed ingredients as possible, the slices are invariably too large to fit in the pockets, so you want to make sure your bread fits in the pocket before you get started. In our case, I always have to cut off a side or an end or something. If you don't like crusts anyway, you are ahead of the game:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9CVVfKvVcAl_M0WwAGveQC5hIw_zv22-MV_JSeuPcqv5XZHEPb1EMW2EqKPXB4K3t80CO19sc4Cr2XwqPCP5g7CuYRaajI4dCOR5xEtjnW9l-at7OmMvNvEhEP9GcA8_IaeXpYZ3rvUdu/s1600/IMG_9250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9CVVfKvVcAl_M0WwAGveQC5hIw_zv22-MV_JSeuPcqv5XZHEPb1EMW2EqKPXB4K3t80CO19sc4Cr2XwqPCP5g7CuYRaajI4dCOR5xEtjnW9l-at7OmMvNvEhEP9GcA8_IaeXpYZ3rvUdu/s400/IMG_9250.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hard to tell because I took the photo from a stupid angle, but this bread is a bit too wide for the pocket. I shall cut off one side.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq4ME01_xhJ1G5MSzWD6EMiTO86bKuU6ffkkE35_Dhcgh7rnuQDGmS8KoMmHfIbG5aiw_DByAdx1vF19fArEe0ujWTX7w8XagumMKbFLvAJcwX1WWt3zaUNe6fgE_FY3Ng747vzryJEa0q/s1600/IMG_9251.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq4ME01_xhJ1G5MSzWD6EMiTO86bKuU6ffkkE35_Dhcgh7rnuQDGmS8KoMmHfIbG5aiw_DByAdx1vF19fArEe0ujWTX7w8XagumMKbFLvAJcwX1WWt3zaUNe6fgE_FY3Ng747vzryJEa0q/s400/IMG_9251.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Testing for a good fit.</i></td></tr>
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Step 2: Decide what you want on your toastie, and make your sandwich. </i>You can put what ever you want in your sandwich, including condiments and sauces. The pocket catches the drips, so you don't need to worry about your toaster getting mucked up with mayonnaise or what have you. If you like butter on the outside of your toastie (more like a grilled cheese), then, by all means, have at it.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4nRtRAQgF-kNNOdbSwJHjQgbaFVdSeuqMp6bFi3f9VigC7BX6GJt9r5pyWPpWfOsyYQG3qYcW6VFoswLPlZG_PctMhcbWh2g8CCDo_HPGA5s8HCRhiAjzFD_AosZnDOHnUsqNwixyZWDg/s1600/IMG_9252.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4nRtRAQgF-kNNOdbSwJHjQgbaFVdSeuqMp6bFi3f9VigC7BX6GJt9r5pyWPpWfOsyYQG3qYcW6VFoswLPlZG_PctMhcbWh2g8CCDo_HPGA5s8HCRhiAjzFD_AosZnDOHnUsqNwixyZWDg/s320/IMG_9252.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mozzarella, ham, and some roasted red pepper bruschetta, because that's what we had.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGJoT3CxXo4WHTNvw-Bp5LQSp4qkMWXuZOP0q4em4oNVhOfoIViY3Lh3hkfOErCxuXDWaBdVEF5SLx4xrjezhp3s3dYRhw1JkdM9kpYau_r-uB2ATkUUYU_j7jIDtNgznl9bQIOTwMbFZb/s1600/IMG_9253.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGJoT3CxXo4WHTNvw-Bp5LQSp4qkMWXuZOP0q4em4oNVhOfoIViY3Lh3hkfOErCxuXDWaBdVEF5SLx4xrjezhp3s3dYRhw1JkdM9kpYau_r-uB2ATkUUYU_j7jIDtNgznl9bQIOTwMbFZb/s400/IMG_9253.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Assemble as usual.</i></td></tr>
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Step 3: Insert sandwich into Toastie Pocket: (I squash mine a bit first, due to crazy thick bread.)</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDDlan2mCndp08S0g9JhkCKscpIm6nBPABBkpq3gnR9wzzwL1NRNI8M0BNBHQUy9285r6M3JClU-b91r5UQ92250bo5D8OEvzN8NwxSheoAjN29g-gyneLJ0YwxuoJ06X4UL2usrnOjeHU/s1600/IMG_9255.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDDlan2mCndp08S0g9JhkCKscpIm6nBPABBkpq3gnR9wzzwL1NRNI8M0BNBHQUy9285r6M3JClU-b91r5UQ92250bo5D8OEvzN8NwxSheoAjN29g-gyneLJ0YwxuoJ06X4UL2usrnOjeHU/s320/IMG_9255.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0cTCwcmKtVSeb5Pp-RZEY-nv82WZGjc-nR6Plb81pAy8DnnT5vAxLWb3YeLtMa9m2KL0M3Wa6Er6ecu4v-s8QDGyC8r0NkK4TOrd38Kc4C4VaJAHitj4fqjCn-9C8opTN2CAgNB40NdB/s1600/IMG_9256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0cTCwcmKtVSeb5Pp-RZEY-nv82WZGjc-nR6Plb81pAy8DnnT5vAxLWb3YeLtMa9m2KL0M3Wa6Er6ecu4v-s8QDGyC8r0NkK4TOrd38Kc4C4VaJAHitj4fqjCn-9C8opTN2CAgNB40NdB/s320/IMG_9256.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ready for toasting.</i></td></tr>
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Step 4: Pop it in the toaster. </i>I don't like my toast very dark, so our toaster is usually turned toward the lighter end of the toast spectrum. Putting mine on #2 usually works.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIEa7Z4xdhgrr3pK21CsA-ASpzwGXs9RhTClOiqJydKTh5oEMb-UfnKHBZTZnxMqUQsIOOag4OswQLczyHYLHXhGEQFvbSVchRgbuee-TNlpAU5oNnyOrIoWDccmJK5zepaP97YTT3wiQ9/s1600/IMG_9257.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIEa7Z4xdhgrr3pK21CsA-ASpzwGXs9RhTClOiqJydKTh5oEMb-UfnKHBZTZnxMqUQsIOOag4OswQLczyHYLHXhGEQFvbSVchRgbuee-TNlpAU5oNnyOrIoWDccmJK5zepaP97YTT3wiQ9/s400/IMG_9257.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOkhCX2zIYzYwINEHkMDfTv1XQLA68Tyep2FItH6cofY5jqZlqzm0VcL3y76n_Sq0IzpOFcCLah5BHFv3O-wtoYxY4oCzweAVBMXbQuGhyADoMmDYOOhktwwojhW2QVrr7g8fPxt7nIz9J/s1600/IMG_9258.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOkhCX2zIYzYwINEHkMDfTv1XQLA68Tyep2FItH6cofY5jqZlqzm0VcL3y76n_Sq0IzpOFcCLah5BHFv3O-wtoYxY4oCzweAVBMXbQuGhyADoMmDYOOhktwwojhW2QVrr7g8fPxt7nIz9J/s320/IMG_9258.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtLW_vBVJ6mH2mxPLxla6l2UfvmMeNvMpPd_ZU6cnpRdkALpgToGhwn2lQJvvvMJkfQ0CbYqLbxFGSeouAIZvsKWGWFzn_O0VOpr2VNuNH_inZp-WRoQSsnbt05_0-anON3JXunp4aFUAq/s1600/IMG_9259.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtLW_vBVJ6mH2mxPLxla6l2UfvmMeNvMpPd_ZU6cnpRdkALpgToGhwn2lQJvvvMJkfQ0CbYqLbxFGSeouAIZvsKWGWFzn_O0VOpr2VNuNH_inZp-WRoQSsnbt05_0-anON3JXunp4aFUAq/s320/IMG_9259.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I have never put my toast on anything darker than #3, and even that was pushing it. I imagine #6 would give you ashes. Or embers or something.</i></td></tr>
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In this case, since the cheese wasn't as melty as I liked when it was finished, I popped it back in for a few more seconds until I reached my personally-preferred level of meltitude:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirjLhuoY-ATG3nbwW8YPznG8nfqhq_65RG1rUNiLfl6u5BsBFiTZY2B97OrLywQtQwCueJvhFwn0xO3KDcWnlpI4PygZ0mDxoaMRFOOUB0k_fL5Hb-cOD-WpkCp7hpas_MLs0ZwhwzC_fW/s1600/IMG_9260.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirjLhuoY-ATG3nbwW8YPznG8nfqhq_65RG1rUNiLfl6u5BsBFiTZY2B97OrLywQtQwCueJvhFwn0xO3KDcWnlpI4PygZ0mDxoaMRFOOUB0k_fL5Hb-cOD-WpkCp7hpas_MLs0ZwhwzC_fW/s400/IMG_9260.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Step 5: 1) Marvel at the fact that you have lived an entire life without knowing that this was even possible and 2) eat your creation.</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqnKKxQMXVqPNln5-W6JhXWVyhwaEVL5JMJZ8Bt5URyDx9Np7BflqVhs3DdtAv7zappoCUpSzreGzol3EoWf7bgcbuAqp6sahddyc8wFPjo42ah0WlIqUd-lhta9xp85bKu_Lm_1JeLdn/s1600/IMG_9262.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqnKKxQMXVqPNln5-W6JhXWVyhwaEVL5JMJZ8Bt5URyDx9Np7BflqVhs3DdtAv7zappoCUpSzreGzol3EoWf7bgcbuAqp6sahddyc8wFPjo42ah0WlIqUd-lhta9xp85bKu_Lm_1JeLdn/s320/IMG_9262.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>You can see where the bruschetta leaked through a bit - no problem, it was all in the toastie pocket.</i></td></tr>
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As with everything in cooking, of course, results will differ, based on your toaster, your bread, your fillings, and who knows what else. I have burned a toastie or two trying to find the perfect balance between the level of bread toastiness and cheese melty-ness(final assessment: better to put the setting on low and check at intervals than put it on high and risk burning.) I will also concede that a toastie made in the toaster might <i>possibly </i>taste less awesome than one made in a skillet or in a panini press, but no one can deny that this method requires much less effort, and I am <i>all </i>about minimal effort.<br />
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While I'm confessing, I should add that I have also only concocted cheese-based sandwiches thus far. Yesterday, however, a comment from <a href="http://deptofnance.blogspot.co.uk/">Nance</a> on my last post suggested a banana-and-Nutella combination that had never, ever occurred to my own limited imagination - but has been <strike>haunting my every waking thought</strike> intriguing me ever since.</div>
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I'll let you know how it turns out. </div>
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MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-66366124114143810142016-01-21T16:15:00.000+00:002016-01-25T20:43:07.419+00:00Life In The UK: Things MsCaroline is Grateful for in January in England<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZ0OK4SW0xJsZLpm3grgHAwRp8B1NAdZyz-agbFRc1rs1hKZtDHNO05SgDVyXqlYj2cPPyv2HffShluHT1L3wLCn_wXhXt-iJjuDjU_8QoUOEfTjfAvkquiE5p6aS81jd16qXeGoZC-Ax/s1600/IMG_9201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZ0OK4SW0xJsZLpm3grgHAwRp8B1NAdZyz-agbFRc1rs1hKZtDHNO05SgDVyXqlYj2cPPyv2HffShluHT1L3wLCn_wXhXt-iJjuDjU_8QoUOEfTjfAvkquiE5p6aS81jd16qXeGoZC-Ax/s400/IMG_9201.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cold, but sunny. I'll take it.</td></tr>
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<i>(Note: This post was originally titled, "Things MsCaroline is sick of in January in England," but in the spirit of <strike>trying not to be a whiner</strike> positive thinking, she has chosen to reframe her position and <strike>try to</strike> find something positive about what has so far proven to be an inordinately long month. Just try and imagine her fake smile as she lists off the things she is grateful for.)</i><br />
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<b>Sunshine: </b>Observe: It is January in England, where today's weather is sunny and bitterly cold, but not a single person is complaining. In fact, just like the man you see in the photo gazing out over the city, we have all been walking around marveling at our good fortune. The reason is that it is January, in England, and <i>it is not raining.</i> Let me state here for the record that, before I moved here, I was fully aware that England was a rainy country, so it's not like I got here and went, <i>"Hey! What? It rains all the time here! I'm surprised!</i> I think what really gets to you after a point is the <b>unrelentingness </b>of it all. It's more like rain is the standard and sun is the exception. I know that's not really the case, but 19 days into the new year, that's what it seems like to me. I have to say that the combination of daily rain, grey, and drizzle, combined with the short winter days, does not do much for the morale. I will admit, though, when you see almost <i>no sunshine</i> for days, a sunny day seems like the Best.Thing.Ever. I don't think I ever truly appreciated that when I lived in Arizona. <br />
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<b>A Very Cold Snap: </b>In the Southwest of England, where we live, it does not get particularly cold, which was a very pleasant surprise, since my concept of England in the winter was based primarily on Dickens novels, in which it always seemed to be snowing and all the people were huddling around inadequate coal fires with those fingerless gloves. Temperatures here rarely make it to freezing (at least, they haven't thus far), which is why at least 3 of the people on my street have actual palm trees in their gardens. Accordingly, when we had a very bitter cold snap several days ago, it was a Big Deal. Now, having come from Seoul, where sub-freezing temperatures in January and February are the norm, this did not phase me much. But there was one glorious aspect of this cold snap that I had not foreseen and have absolutely adored, and that is this: <b>no mud. Only frozen dirt and grass -</b> which you cannot fully appreciate unless you are in the habit of walking a dog in England, where grassy fields and meadow paths are the typical setting for the daily walkies. That's right, it is so cold today that <i>all the mud is frozen. </i>Since all that glorious striding about the English countryside typically takes place in grassy fields and dirt paths through scenic pastures, mud is necessarily a regular part of the landscape. For humans, this is not a big deal, as muddy shoes and boots can easily be jettisoned at the door. The dogs' paws, however, are more problematic. This scenario is a common one:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_eYneJmfOuMDMIIfuMQ3YMFVc6-OMIR6Tyid8q2HGEr02RPOF2kO4fCL3nufmsQfekK_Un7jkw8-zubAwDLFjGyLiHBFkw0MWc2fMKMOrREpM81yU8WV3erAhEGk8JZ54yGpEvhlCW6BF/s1600/muddog.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_eYneJmfOuMDMIIfuMQ3YMFVc6-OMIR6Tyid8q2HGEr02RPOF2kO4fCL3nufmsQfekK_Un7jkw8-zubAwDLFjGyLiHBFkw0MWc2fMKMOrREpM81yU8WV3erAhEGk8JZ54yGpEvhlCW6BF/s400/muddog.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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It involves lots of wriggling on The Dog's part and lots of <strike>cursing</strike>fussing on the human's part, not to mention a certain amount of flying mud, muddy footprints, and dirty towels. Thus, even if it is so cold my toes are numb after 5 minutes of walking, I will unhesitatingly celebrate a Day Without Mud.<br />
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<b>Powerful English OTC Medicines: </b>While I realize this post is intended to be a positive one, I <strike>want to </strike>have to start off by saying that I have Been Ill. For more than 2 weeks. And, frankly, I'm really, really, tired of it. I made it unscathed through the holidays in the US only to return and get stricken - 5 days later - with what I'm sure most clinicians would refer to as 'a flu bug from hell.' (I<i>t also may or may not have had something to do with the amount of merrymaking that MsC did during those 2 weeks, but that is neither here nor there.)</i> It laid me low for several days with all the traditional boring flu symptoms, and then vanished, leaving behind it only one trace: a violent, wracking cough. And this cough has remained with me since, displaying the kind of steadfastness, commitment to duty, and tenacity that is typically only found in a martyred firefighter or an apocryphally self-sacrificing family dog. It has firmly resisted all of my attempts to extinguish it - and they have been legion. In addition to all the ordinary stuff one finds at the drugstore, I have been advised on a number of surefire home remedies, many of them liquor-based (for this alone, you have to love the English. When I was at the pharmacy counter discussing cough suppressants with the pharmacist, the woman behind me leaned forward and stated emphatically, "<i>Whiskey." </i>As far as I could tell, the pharmacist was in agreement.) My milk delivery guy did deviate a bit from the norm when he suggested a tea that His Gran always made, which began, "you chop up half an onion" and which MsCaroline did not bother to try, although she might have, if whiskey had been one of the ingredients.<br />
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What MsCaroline has been taking has been this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0m2MiCXazxbBXyywxcl8gD_84wCSm7joi6G5WGouqsrc73uLMA44PmGxMyO6b9sbDr6dHfGNaZ5bMHyyYIYcSRBqnm5nsYAOeN6h0JXrqbLRUnHwIIQr1tHOSeBSJ7JYeCGYscNousY1q/s1600/IMG_4426.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0m2MiCXazxbBXyywxcl8gD_84wCSm7joi6G5WGouqsrc73uLMA44PmGxMyO6b9sbDr6dHfGNaZ5bMHyyYIYcSRBqnm5nsYAOeN6h0JXrqbLRUnHwIIQr1tHOSeBSJ7JYeCGYscNousY1q/s320/IMG_4426.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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And, for the long, dark nights of coughing, also this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhar-zI0EIUvXOzsBX8Us6FS9cwKTilLoS1oms5keq7NylWkFAZFt1PCZSwoCnvoh7UCyqDlY4xLTM2mXaB2anbmh8sHY8ypwPo-OECIc2MsaYSOi9LmQTvgXsw7Z7itItiOr6eaRq3lbt5/s1600/IMG_9173.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhar-zI0EIUvXOzsBX8Us6FS9cwKTilLoS1oms5keq7NylWkFAZFt1PCZSwoCnvoh7UCyqDlY4xLTM2mXaB2anbmh8sHY8ypwPo-OECIc2MsaYSOi9LmQTvgXsw7Z7itItiOr6eaRq3lbt5/s320/IMG_9173.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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And let MsC just step in here with this ringing endorsement for Night Nurse: that stuff <strike>will knock you on your a** </strike>really helps you get a good night's sleep if you have a persistent cough. The only downside to it is that it eventually wears off - and often very suddenly - and when it does, it is very unpleasant indeed for you and your sleeping companion.<br />
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(MrL - who, after being sick himself during the Christmas holidays, is now bursting with rude good health in a way I find wholly offensive - finally resorted to sleeping with earplugs, and I finally ended up decamping to the sofa, where I could sleep sitting up and not worry about waking my longsuffering spouse with my late-night coughing spells and constant nose-blowing. Also, I am free to watch bad TV at 3am.)<br />
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According to WebMD, most coughs "take about 18 days to resolve."<br />
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EIGHTEEN. I'm on day #14 here, so the end should be in sight. <br />
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Theoretically.<br />
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<b>Excellent comfort food. </b>As is always the case when I'm ill, it hasn't affected my appetite in the least. Oh, I may have to eat more slowly, so I won't choke to death due to coughing, but that hasn't prevented me from doing my best to provide maximum nutritional support to my presently overtaxed immune system. And this is supported 100% by the British grocery industry, whose motto should be: <i> Here to fulfill all your midwinter, carb-heavy, gravy-based, home-cooked desires in the shortest possible time. </i>Not to say they don't have lots of healthy options - they do, and the portions are much smaller than in the USA (where even the healthiest foods are provided-inexplicably- in 'single-servings' sufficient to feed a family of six.) But if you need something that is hearty and delicious, you need do no more than drag yourself to the nearest corner store (less than 3 minutes as MsCaroline shuffles) and take your pick from among the pies(like American pot pies) pasties (another sort of pie along the lines of beef wellington), ready-made meals, soups and stews - most of them ready to pop right in the oven. Of course, despite the fact that all that is easily available at my fingertips, I am nothing if not lazy and impatient and can't be bothered to wait the 15-25 minutes it would take to cook something more substantial. So, lately, this has been high on my list:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgsbNkrHVehPFNq6MInTM3Ot4EEPSE37LNhLjd6PEnuw5D5Hr0Y5G1LIboyX64NHvqpIsSdTPhkD0eKRnmUmTqrfQHahCLMB6XiZkxHhlCKWrSqmwgLw4MzrMxQ8nH7-LQi4Gd_xpx8Kl/s1600/IMG_9202.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgsbNkrHVehPFNq6MInTM3Ot4EEPSE37LNhLjd6PEnuw5D5Hr0Y5G1LIboyX64NHvqpIsSdTPhkD0eKRnmUmTqrfQHahCLMB6XiZkxHhlCKWrSqmwgLw4MzrMxQ8nH7-LQi4Gd_xpx8Kl/s400/IMG_9202.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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And let me just say, this stuff is not like your typical American vegetable soup. It is thick and hearty, and a little bit creamy - and tastes like someone made it at home for you, and I feel immensely better when I eat it. And because soup is lonely without a sandwich, I've been using these to go along with it:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNCHGwbcQY9CZrhXa03z-hyTeHcyQ1All65WnHRD2W9zozEHIt362HSwa7vUJLzsbasdpiKX589GnTEb4954XBz7Z3kOKVW4QNt47-emwT2u49-L5P1sTIMyQTKWBhAlOAH2lYM45dad4/s1600/IMG_9203.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNCHGwbcQY9CZrhXa03z-hyTeHcyQ1All65WnHRD2W9zozEHIt362HSwa7vUJLzsbasdpiKX589GnTEb4954XBz7Z3kOKVW4QNt47-emwT2u49-L5P1sTIMyQTKWBhAlOAH2lYM45dad4/s400/IMG_9203.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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I don't know if they have these in the US or not, but if they don't, they should. In fact, I'm actually surprised they're not a huge thing in the US, because who doesn't love a grilled cheese sandwich? These things are basically a little teflon pocket you stick your sandwich (bread, cheese, meant,whatever) into. Pop the whole package into the toaster, and - <i>voila!</i> - you have a grilled cheese (or whatever) sandwich, fondly known here in England as a <i>toastie. </i>No muss, no fuss, no skillet, no paying attention so it doesn't burn. Your cheese is melted, your bread is toasted, and life is good. And it's all done while your soup is in the microwave. <br />
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Which, in my book, is a beautiful thing.<br />
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<br />MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-54719882486995609582016-01-15T10:42:00.002+00:002016-01-15T10:42:40.762+00:00Life in England One Year In: The State of the Union<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMtVaeWewczXSjISagUw_2slwS0XgfTtKP0sWUrdZCjmEvHLsRPDgL6l6nwogJBY4HTk5dF2LfWFJLcUoCQURylef2FnhdFtKQUYag_enufqRu1XL9B1aJMfAwHIVnuZvqlebsBjHq8nt/s1600/uk_us_flags.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMtVaeWewczXSjISagUw_2slwS0XgfTtKP0sWUrdZCjmEvHLsRPDgL6l6nwogJBY4HTk5dF2LfWFJLcUoCQURylef2FnhdFtKQUYag_enufqRu1XL9B1aJMfAwHIVnuZvqlebsBjHq8nt/s320/uk_us_flags.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Given that I've <strike>hardly posted at all</strike> posted so infrequently in the last year, one might think that something like the anniversary of our arrival would fall far below my radar, but, in fact, I've been thinking quite a lot about our first year in the UK and what that's encompassed. (<i>And yes, I'm well aware that it's more than 10 days late, but whose blog is this, anyway? Right then.)</i><br />
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It's been a strange ol' year, for many reasons. Some of it is just part and parcel of any move. Some of it has to do with the strange set of circumstances that being an expat sets you up with. Some of it is very likely unique to living in the UK. Either way, here we are, a year later, and, in the tradition beloved of US Presidents, I present here a <strike>brief</strike> summary of what's transpired in the past year.<br />
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<b>We're not living in Bristol, where we originally thought we'd live</b>. In fact, we're living about an hour's worth of a commute away in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bath,_Somerset">Bath,</a> which, as it turns out, is somewhere everyone in the world has been or wants to go. <i>(Note: While MsC understood that Bath was a lovely city and a big draw to anyone with a love for Jane Austen, she completely admits not realizing just <b>how</b> immensely popular it was with the rest of the universe -what with the Royal Crescent and the Roman Baths and so on - until it turned out that just about everyone she knew had already been there and declared it one of their favorite cities in England. And don't get me started on the Austen fans. They were <strike>nearly foaming at the mouth</strike> especially enthusiastic. After surviving most of the spring and summer here (peak tourist months) she now Gets It.) </i>That we ended up here is more or less the fault of the Dog, whose presence meant that many rentals in Bristol were off-limits to us. When we found one in Bath that fit most of our needs and also allowed pets, we never looked back, and we have the Dog to thank for it. We ended up in a small neighborhood of Edwardian terraced houses with lovely neighbors, parks in both directions, and two pubs within a short walk. English living at its best. <i>(I'm sure Bristol would have been lovely, too, but we're very, very happy here.)</i><br />
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<b>We're starting to belong (a little bit.)</b> We'd moved quite a few times in the US before we headed overseas as a family, and the one thing that MsCaroline always kept in the back of her mind was this: <i>You have to live somewhere for about a year before you start to feel like it is home. </i>This has proved to be the case in the UK as well. We returned to the UK from our Christmas holidays, and were gratefully surprised to realize that we had, in fact, put down some tiny beginnings of roots. We picked up the dog from our lovely sitters (a young couple who, in my opinion, represent everything that is good about the often-disparaged Millennials) with a nice chat about our holidays and plans for the coming year. A few hours later, we ran into friends in the grocery store (<i>we know enough people to actually run into some of them at the grocery!</i>) (and, yes, we were <i>those</i> people, the ones who stand there nattering and blocking access to the grapes with their trolleys,) found a number of Christmas cards popped through our letterbox in our absence, and (the ultimate) got quizzed on our visit to the States by the clerk at our corner store, who knew we were leaving and wanted a summary. It was, in short, Coming Home. <br />
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<b>We still miss Korea: </b>Yes, we love England, but we miss Korea. We miss our friends and our jobs. We miss the expat community there. We miss the energy, the bustle, and the excitement that is living in a megalopolis like Seoul. We miss cozy winter evenings at our local Korean BBQ, the neon lights of Hongdae, the strangely peaceful hikes through Namsan Park (despite being smack in the middle of a city of millions,) the crazy traffic, the incredible food, the privilege of living in a culture of honesty, honor, and constant striving for excellence. We miss it all.<br />
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<b>We're empty nesters now (at least for the moment): </b>#1 was duly graduated (<i>summa cum laude</i>, if I may brag for just a moment) from his university course in December and has begun his career as a financial analyst with a respected institution. #2 began his university studies in August and handled his first semester with aplomb. He will be back with us in England for the summer <strike>thank God.</strike> And I'm doing just fine, thanks. <strike>mostly.</strike><br />
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<b>I'm working again.</b> Teaching part time (one course) at a local University My students are lovely, my colleagues (who hail from all over the world) are equally so, and my work environment (as most universities are) is diverse and stimulating. As an expat wife, I am fortunate to be a teacher, one of the very few really portable international professions.<br />
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<b>I don't have an English accent - or anything even close:</b> What I <i>do</i> have, however, are phrases, words, and sayings. And inflections. Nothing major, nothing deliberate, just a slow wearing-away of previous words and habits and an introduction of new ones. Most of the time I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb with my non-regional North American accent (note: common introductory line by English people, who are too polite to ask you outright if you're a foreigner: <i>You sound like you're a long way from home) </i>so it absolutely never occurred to me that I might in any way be absorbing aspects of British English until we were checking into our hotel in the US and the desk clerk told me to <i>"Have a good night, now" </i>and I responded automatically, "Thanks, and you" and went on my way. "That was a totally British 'and you'" MrL observed on our way up in the elevator. I looked at him blankly for a minute, and then realized what he was referring to. <i> And, well, yes, he had a point</i>, I realized. In the US, we'd say, "Thanks, you too." At least, I think we would. <i>(When someone points these things out, you quickly discover that both start sounding odd if you try to compare them.)</i> And I'm not alone here; I notice that MrL asks questions differently now - instead of asking questions with rising inflection, US-style, he asks them with a drop at the end, British-style. And our vocabulary is slowly, inexorably, adjusting. We put the dog's <i>jumper(sweater)</i>, buy <i>courgettes(zucchini)</i> and <i>rocket(arugula)</i> at the grocery, ask for a <i>half (pint of cider)</i> at our <i>local (neighborhood pub)</i> and check our <i>diaries (personal calendars)</i> to find out whether we're free to attend a colleague's<i> leaving do (going-away party.) </i>I suppose it's inevitable since we're surrounded by it all day, every day. I know there are likely many more words that have weaseled their way into my vocabulary, but since they've weaseled their way into MrL's as well, we don't notice it as much - and our British friends certainly don't, since I'm sure it's our Americanisms that would get their attention, not our 'normal' usage. The next time you run into one of us, let us know what you think.<br />
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<b>I've met a number of my favorite bloggers: </b>Having been an avid reader of many UK blogs for years now, I suppose it's not such a surprise that I'd start meeting their authors once I moved to the UK, but it has been a real thrill for me to meet four of them in the past year. I still have a few on my list that I'd love to cross paths with (Yes, I'm looking at you, <a href="http://nappyvalleygirl.blogspot.co.uk/">Nappy Valley Girl</a>, and you, too, <a href="http://www.foodlustpeoplelove.com/">Stacy,</a>) but I'm off to an excellent start! I met up with Emma of <a href="http://www.thesojournseries.com/bavaria/two-serious-museums-and-a-kimchee-princess-berlin/#comment-272511">Bavarian Sojourn</a> when we were in Munich for Oktoberfest, and followed that up by meeting the hilarious Potty Mummy of <a href="http://potty-diaries.blogspot.co.uk/2016/01/re-acclimatisation-milestones-for-expats.html">The Potty Diaries</a>, and the lovely Elizabeth of <a href="http://welshhillsagain.blogspot.co.uk/2016/01/reflection-and-adventure.html?showComment=1452787637186#c6243208908269992128">Welsh Hills Again.</a> Most recently, I met up with Trish, whose award-winning travel blog <a href="http://mumsgoneto.blogspot.co.uk/">Mum's Gone To...</a> has provided me with tons of ideas and inspiration - even more so now that we're living right on Europe's doorstep!<br />
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<b>Blogging has fallen by the wayside in the past year and I really miss it. </b>I'm not a New Year's Resolution type of person - I hate jumping on any sort of bandwagon and January 1st always feels like one to me - but I have started 2016 off by thinking about things I would like to do this year - travel more, spend more time with friends, worry less, and - most of all - get back to blogging more regularly. Not so much because I feel I'm such a spectacular blogger, but because I have missed it. Even more to the point, I have missed having the sort of record that blogging provides and which I have so enjoyed looking back over as we reminisce about our years in Korea. Somewhere along the way, I lost my blogging mojo, and I'd like to get it back. What this will look like, I have no idea, but I am hopeful and optimistic - a good way to begin any undertaking.<br />
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Here's to 2016.<br />
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<br />MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-24694794857150006492015-11-19T15:10:00.002+00:002015-12-15T18:52:08.701+00:00Life in England: From my Phone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>November has not been particularly sunny in Bath</i></td></tr>
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<i>After breaking the silence of <strike>four months</strike> the ages, MsCaroline has had a second wind in the blogging department and is absolutely determined that four more months will not pass before she posts again. </i><br />
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<i>To that end (and because she is, essentially, slothful), MsC has decided to just post some photos that she's taken in the last week or so (with a little commentary, of course, because MsC is nothing if not chatty) and call it a post. She'll do this once a week (unless she's got something better to post) because, after all, most of her readers know her from some other life and are at least mildly interested in the day-to-day that comprises her life in England now. </i><br />
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<i>Maybe, at some point, she'll return to the <strike>whining</strike> witty and cynical observations for which she is known, but at this point, she's going with photos. </i><br />
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The photo above sums up (more or less) what <b><i>November</i></b> has been like here in the South West: grey. Although I should point out that the weather in that particular photo is actually fairly nice, all things considered. (I should also point out that, after living for almost a year in the UK, I now consider any weather that does not include a downpour to be 'fairly nice.' This means that a drizzle, or mist, or intermittent showers do not count as Actual Rain.) I will say that we were fairly warned about this, so I'm not complaining, just observing. And, as I've stated many times in the past - thank God for waterproof clothing.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A few days after the initial injury, with sling to support non-working rear legs.</i></td></tr>
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Quite a bit of my time has been taken up with our <b><i>wee dog, Merlot,</i></b> (a Boston Terrier/French bulldog mix known as a 'Frenchton' or 'Frenchbo') who managed to hurt her back with an ill-fated leap onto a bed that was Too High For Her. She had hurt herself back in May (more leaping: we do our best to prevent it) and had struggled with hindleg weakness, but recovered quite well under a strict rest regime lasting a few long months which was very trying for all involved (try keeping an active 2-year-old dog on Strict Rest and see how well you do. I dare you.) This time, she hurt herself enough that her hindlegs were nearly paralyzed (we had to use a sling to hold up her rear legs, during which time MrL callously referred to her as our 'dog marionette') and this involved a week of hospitalization and specialist referrals which were sad and annoying <strike>and bloody expensive</strike>. Ultimately, an MRI revealed that she had spinal bruising from a 'low-velocity ruptured disc' and that surgery was not needed (need I say how relieved we were?) She came home on 'Strict Rest' again and has been sequestered in her basket except for potty breaks for weeks, but is now able to take short 15-minute walks around the neighborhood. She's still a bit wobbly in the caboose, and hunches like Quasimodo, but the main thing is that she's not in pain and can get about under her own steam.<br />
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<b><i>Remembrance Day </i></b>(Veteran's Day in the USA) was observed on 11th November with a parade (including several WWII veterans!), wreath-laying, many, many <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Remembrance_poppy">poppies</a>, and a church service. I caught a few shots of the city's dignitaries as they left the Guildhall after the parade on their way to the church service, including the Mayor (he's the one in red):<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>US Mayors never wear anything interesting at all</i></td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: left;">and one of his legal counsel, who probably has a glorious title to accompany his wig and excellent robe.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pretty sure this was a barrister or the Mayor's Counsel, or something legal</i></td></tr>
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What all of this tells me is that the US needs to up their ceremonial robe game significantly. </div>
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In other news, <i style="font-weight: bold;">Christmas is coming</i>, which it has been doing for quite some time now in the UK, but since there's no Thanksgiving to squabble about, no one is making statements about how terrible it is that people are decorating before Thanksgiving. The first sign I noticed was the Invasion of the Mince Pies and Christmas Cakes and Puddings in my local Tesco Express:</div>
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Christmas Cakes (and their near relative, the Christmas Pudding) are baked about 2 months in advance of Christmas (the cakes are 'fed' weekly with liquor whilst they're maturing) contain lots of dried things, and are tightly wrapped, there's no worries about spoiling, even if they're out on the shelves months in advance. The mince pies seem to be disappearing at a high rate of speed as part of the season. <i>Note: mince pies should not be confused in any way with 'mince' which is what the British call 'ground beef'. They are basically tiny pies full of preserve-y fruity deliciousness, best eaten warm and topped with cream. Once you understand this, everything falls into place. </i> In other places, decorations are going up:</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Christmas tree outside the train station.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Old-world market booths are appearing in the City Centre in advance of the actual Christmas Market</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lights and decorations have been up for weeks</i></td></tr>
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although we have a week or two to go before the Christmas Market in our own City Centre opens (most of them open the last week in November) so this is all just a warm-up from what I understand.<br />
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In the same vein, we went to the mall at Cribb's Causeway in Bristol last week, and I was gobsmacked to see that they'd had snow!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not real snow</i></td></tr>
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On closer examination, though, I discovered that it was all fake, part of the set of the temporary man-made outdoor skating rink (largest in the South West!) complete with Fairy Tale Ice Castle - conveniently located right outside of John Lewis!</div>
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Also included: a seating area for viewers, and a number of charming little kiosks selling hot drinks, chestnuts, and the like:</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roasted chestnuts and mulled wine </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">German-style wurst stand</td></tr>
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It's definitely beginning to look a lot like Christmas.</div>
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MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-29478206092179712852015-11-10T17:16:00.000+00:002015-11-19T07:30:52.193+00:00Tomayto, Tomahto<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><i>(Note: MsCaroline is well aware that it's been <strike>four months</strike> a while since she posted anything on her blog, and <strike>maybe someday when she's old and retired</strike> eventually she'll get around to catching up, but for now, she's just jumping in where she is. Suffice it to say that the 1-year anniversary of the move to England is fast approaching, a certain amount of acclimatization has been accomplished, and time is storming by at its usual breakneck pace.)</i></b><br />
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Even before MsCaroline moved to the UK, she was a fan of a number of British blogs, including a couple written by British and American expats, so she was well aware that a certain amount of linguistic confusion awaited her on the Other Side of The Pond. As a moderate Anglophile who had had more than a few dealings with speakers of BE (British English) during the course of her lifetime, she really did feel (wrongly, as it turns out) that she was as well-prepared (as well as anyone could be) for her move to the UK - at least with regard to the language. And, she reasoned, she was still farther along than she'd been in Korea, where her conversation was limited to a stockpile of approximately 25 words and phrases.<br />
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MsCaroline already knew about spelling differences and things like <i>cash register</i> being called a <i>till</i> and <i>shopping carts</i> being called<i> trolleys. </i>She knew about car things: <i>bonnet</i> and <i>boot</i> instead of <i>hood</i> and <i>trunk</i>; and she knew that <i>underwear</i> was <i>knickers </i>but that <i>underwear</i> was also <i>pants</i> and that it would result in an embarrassing faux pas if she referred to her <i>pants</i> when she really meant to discuss her <i>trousers (</i>although she did <i><b>not</b></i> know until her arrival that <i>pants </i>could also be a British English term of derision as in <i>The film was pants. </i>But she digresses.)<br />
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So it was, in this state of <strike>blissful ignorance</strike> optimism that she moved to the UK not anticipating too many communication issues whatsoever. And, naturally (as always seems to be the case) she was soon to learn just how wrong she was. <br />
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Knowing that at least some of her readers would be keen to <strike>enjoy a laugh at her expense</strike> learn something new, she decided that an occasional post highlighting a few differences between AE (American English) and BE (British English) might be worthwhile.<br />
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Let MsC emphasize that what she is sharing with you is only the merest tip of the linguistic iceberg, but one must start somewhere, mustn't one?<br />
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Let's start with a few phrases: <br />
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<i><b>Poor little sausage/dumpling =</b> poor little thing. Example, "Well, she really is a poor little sausage, isn't she?" </i>Used by our vet to refer to our dog, miserable due to a back injury. Highly accurate. Also adorable.<br />
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<i><b>Fit as the butcher's dog = </b>in extremely good shape or physically very attractive, not necessarily to do with actual fitness. ('Fit' on its own is often used in the same context where an American would say 'hot' or 'good-looking' or even the old-fashioned 'fine' as in, "Oh, wow, (S)He's fit!") A direct quote from a Cornish bartender in regard to a tour group of Russians staying in the hotel shortly before we arrived: "Every one of 'em had a wife that was as fit as the butcher's dog." </i>Hmmm. Right then.<br />
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<i><b>Touch wood: = </b>knock on wood. Close enough.</i><br />
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Other words:<br />
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<i><b>fancy= </b>to like, as in, 'Do you fancy kebabs for dinner?' or 'Do you think he fancies her?' This is surprisingly insidious, is used all the time by everyone, and when it pops out of one's American mouth for the first time, it sounds ridiculous. The feeling quickly passes, though. In the same vein, we have the word</i><br />
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<b style="font-style: italic;">keen=</b> a) t<i>o enjoy or like, or b) to be interested in or passionate about, as in, "We were really keen to see the new James Bond film." Or, "My husband is a keen cyclist." This is, if anything, even more insidious than 'fancy' and worms its way into one's vocabulary very quickly as well, and one suddenly finds oneself saying it without meaning to. </i><br />
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<i><b>Surname= </b>family name, last name, as opposed to first name. Most N.Americans are aware of this word, but rarely (if ever) use it, in contrast to England, where it is used regularly. Being asked, 'What's your surname?' often takes <strike>people like me who aren't expecting it</strike>Americans by surprise and results in a slight processing delay. Since this inquiry is accompanied by an unfamiliar pronunciation, the puzzled listener may have no idea what is being asked. The fact that, as an expat, you are constantly signing up for things (utilities, clubs, dentists, warranties) means that you run across the question 'What's your surname?' all the time, and it take some getting used to.</i><br />
<i>Moral of story: '<b>Surname</b>'= 'last name'; '<b>Christian name</b>' = first name. (UK readers: Most N.Americans would use 'Last name' and 'First name' in those situations)</i><br />
<i><br /><b style="font-style: italic;">Stone= </b>a unit of measurement equalling 14lbs and how people often refer to their weight. "I weigh 10 stone" = "I weigh 140lbs." "I weigh 10st 2"= "I weigh 142 lbs." MsCaroline has nothing against measuring weight in stones vs pounds, especially since stones are smaller numbers. However, any reasonable person will realize that most stone weights require the non-British listener to do at least </i>some<i> calculating, which is not always MsCaroline's strong point. Naturally, if you have grown up in the UK and someone tells you they weigh '9 stone,' you have an immediate innate general understanding of what that looks like (126 pounds) but if you are MsCaroline, you have to do the math(s). Fortunately, this is not an issue that crops up too frequently, since the British women I've met seem no less eager to share their weight than women from anywhere else. </i><br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Greengages and damsons and blackcurrants, oh my: </i><i>As in so many aspects of daily life, England is full of words that are vaguely - but not actually - familiar, and nowhere does one notice this as much as in the supermarket. The produce section is full of <b>beetroot</b> (not beets), <b>peppers</b> (not bell peppers), <b>rocket </b>(not arugula), <b>courgettes </b>(not zucchini), <b>chillies</b> (not habanero or serrano peppers), <b>satsumas</b> (not clementines) and <b>swedes</b> (turnips or rutabagas.) Flour is not just flour, but <b>strong flour</b> or <b>plain flour</b> (and yes, they are different!) Jelly is j<b>am</b> or <b>marmalade,</b> and and jello is <b>jelly.</b> And there is no grape jam or marmalade. At least, not anywhere I've seen. But you </i>will <i>find ginger rhubarb conserve, lemon curd, and chutneys in spades. Also, the best preserves you will ever taste in.your.life. </i><br />
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<i>During the summer <strike>when I mostly stopped blogging due to busyness and sloth but we won't mention that now and spoil this nice time, shall we?</strike> when I was walking the dog several miles each day through fields and meadows, I noticed huge swaths of what looked like blackberry bushes and which turned out to be what my English friends all assured me were 'brambles.' (I would have to see a 'bramble' and a 'blackberry' side-by-side in order to convince myself they were, in fact, different things, but I'm not one to quibble. Tomayto, tomahto.) The<b> bramble,</b> of course, must not be confused with the <b>blackcurrant,</b> which is something different -but not that different- from the <b>redcurrant, </b>which is pretty much the only kind of currant that Americans recognize <strike>and rarely use anyway</strike><b>. </b> Blackcurrants are used to make slightly tangy jams, preserves, and marmalades as well as a popular juice drink called '<b>Ribena' </b>which seems to be a favorite with children. MsC is not a fan, but that probably has to do with not growing up drinking it. </i><br />
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<i>All this confusion extends to the garden as well:</i><br />
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<i>Actual exchange between myself and neighbor man last spring when the trees were in bloom:</i><br />
<i style="font-weight: bold;">Neighbor Man= </i><i>That tree is covered with blossoms. You'll get quite a bit of fruit in October.</i><br />
<i style="font-weight: bold;">Me= </i><i>Oh, I hope so. Do you happen to know what sort of a tree it is? We thought it might be a crabapple, but it's a little different from what we have in the USA. Any ideas?</i><br />
<i style="font-weight: bold;">NM </i><i>(inspecting a branch closely) No question, they're damsons or greengages, of course.</i><br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Me=</i><i> (racking brain frantically for vocabulary list) </i><i>Oh. yes. of course. I should have realized. Thank you so much! <b>(note: damsons and greengages are types of plums. I learned this from Googling, which I did immediately after this conversation. You're welcome.)</b></i><br />
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<i>And the list just goes on and on. Looking for toilet paper or paper towels? You'll be looking for <b>toilet roll </b>and<b> kitchen roll. </b>Ladies, you'll be looking for sanitary <b>towels</b>, not napkins - although if you're looking for diapers for your baby, you will, in fact, want napkins, or <b>nappies. Crisps</b> are chips (and chips, of course, are french fries) and <b>biscuits </b>are cookies, except when they're crackers; then, they get to be called <b>savoury biscuits</b>. </i><br />
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So, yes, it's been a bit of an eye-opener or, as we say in the US, a learning curve. <br />
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The best one, though, has been the sign we ran across at the beach a couple of months ago. <br />
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We'd gone to a beach which didn't allow dogs <b><i>off-lead (</i></b>off-leash), but another dog-walker had told us that, if we walked away from the car park towards the end of the beach that was very sparsely populated, we could let her run with impunity. Accordingly, we set off for the end of the beach. As we left the crowds behind us, we passed a sign which stated that 'beyond this point, Naturists may be seen.' <i>Hmmm</i>, I thought to myself, <i>why are they telling us that? </i>Envisioning a phalanx of safari-hat-wearing birdwatchers in practical shoes tiptoeing through the dunes looking for the nest of the rare green-throated Nuthatch, I mused that it was possible that a really serious naturist might be annoyed or interrupted by loud beachgoers or barking dogs and resolved to keep my voice low and my movements smooth and nonthreatening.<br />
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<i> My, </i>I thought, <i>they really take the whole nature-watching thing seriously here in England. </i> MrL and I trudged on down the beach, and the crowd continued to thin until the only other person we could see was just a spot in the distance. Unleashing the dog, we let her frolic in the surf and continued on our way down the beach toward the spot, who, as he came closer, we were able to recognize as a man wearing a sun hat and - based on the amount of bared skin we could see from a distance - a very small, light-colored bathing suit. <i>Of course,</i> I thought to myself,<i> European men and their little bikini bathing suits. It's only the Americans who insist on wearing those big swimming trunks all the time.</i><br />
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As you have undoubtedly guessed by now, by the time we approached each other, it became abundantly clear that what we had perceived to be a small, flesh-colored bathing suit was, in fact, no suit at all. As we learned via awkward experience, the British word <i style="font-weight: bold;">naturist</i> is the equivalent of the American English <i><b>nudist.</b> </i><br />
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<i>Tomayto, tomahto.</i><br />
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<i><br /></i>MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-46049521704133401762015-07-21T15:39:00.002+01:002015-07-22T06:44:32.184+01:00Life in The UK: Jettisoning the Loveseat: A Case of Too Much Furniture<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1QxFffl_S0xNNupZI9kNSDSnrB14ODUWnBlmoYEY2FD1F1GoXlJh4-9FfK2LyxA3T3_LbDVB_T40mJ4wKnmNepRd6LmsroXXY1fal_fR1y-__VkGziWziGJONbJwau_AUU_u4j-KkdV4/s1600/Cullenreading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1QxFffl_S0xNNupZI9kNSDSnrB14ODUWnBlmoYEY2FD1F1GoXlJh4-9FfK2LyxA3T3_LbDVB_T40mJ4wKnmNepRd6LmsroXXY1fal_fR1y-__VkGziWziGJONbJwau_AUU_u4j-KkdV4/s400/Cullenreading.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#2, reading on the loveseat in our apartment in Korea, where it fit.</td></tr>
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When we learned we would be moving overseas in 2011, we were living in a typical suburban single-family home in a large-ish city in Texas. For those of you who have never been to Texas, things really are larger there, owing to the fact that there is a lot of space and probably also owing to the 'everything's bigger in Texas' mentality. The point is, the house we lived in was fairly typical of all the other homes in our neighborhood, but was remarkably spacious compared to similarly-priced homes in many other parts of the US. By Asian and European standards, it was probably ridiculously oversized, especially when you consider that we were only a family of 4. We had (to put it mildly) a Lot of Stuff.<br />
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In any case, we were at least smart enough to realize that our Texas-sized furnishings would be unlikely to fit in our high-rise apartment in Seoul, and, accordingly, put most of our belongings into storage, with the exception of some beds, desks, and living room furniture. <br />
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Since MrL and I had grown up with furniture that had been <strike>gouged, dented, and dropped throughout Asia and Europe </strike>around the world a few times, we knew that even the most painstaking international moves usually result in a casualty or two. And this does not even take into consideration every expat's worst-case scenario <i>(note: MsC always considers the WCS,)</i> where the moving truck bursts into flame en route, or the shipping container holding all the family's worldly goods tumbles overboard and sinks to the bottom of the sea whilst rounding Cape Horn in a fierce gale. For that reason, we stored the good china, the family heirlooms, and our better furniture, and packed only what I thought of as 'disposable' things.<br />
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This brings us to the living room furniture, which consisted of 2 small armchairs, a sofa, and a matching loveseat. It was upholstered in fairly resilient, dog-proof, kid-proof leather, and had managed to withstand the childhood and adolescence of our boys, their friends, and several labrador retrievers. No longer particularly new, it was, in fact, beginning to look distinctly worn in places. We were fairly sure it would fit in our Korean apartment, but we also reasoned that, if it did not fit, we wouldn't feel bad about passing it on to another expat family and/or leaving it behind completely. It had served its purpose, and if it happened to make it back to the US, it would most likely be consigned to the game room to live out the rest of its natural life anyway.<br />
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Fortunately for us, it turned out that both of our apartments in Korea accommodated all of our furniture, and, as our 4th year approached, it looked like the sofa and its companions would, indeed, be making the journey back to the Lone Star State (or wherever else the company indicated) with us. <br />
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Then, in one of those <strike>shocking</strike> delightful twists of fate, we found ourselves moving to England, to a 115-year-old terraced house with a sitting room designed for Victorian-sized people and their Victorian-sized things: delicate chintz sofas and soft brocade armchairs, petite side tables and needlepoint footstools. It quickly became apparent that the sofa and armchairs would fit - but the loveseat would not. <i>(Note: finding a house to rent that would permit us to have a dog severely limited our options, which meant that we didn't dare hold out for a bigger place - since one might not ever appear. In the end, we preferred having the dog to having the loveseat, so all's well that ends well.)</i><br />
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So...in accordance with our original plan, we decided to sell the loveseat, which had been around nearly as long as the children and - as MrL so eloquently put it, "didn't owe us anything." If we listed it for a few weeks and didn't find a buyer, we would get rid of it some other way - but the point was, it was going to be going, and soon.<br />
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Now, in the US, it is fairly easy to get rid of furniture, even if no one wants to actually <i>buy</i> it from you. Most of the time, all you have to do is drag it out to the curb/kerb and within a few hours, someone with a pickup truck and a few burly helpers will show up to spirit it away. In Korea, it wasn't much different: if you didn't have a vehicle that would hold a sofa, you could always find some enterprising ajossi (<i>middle-aged man)</i> with a Bongo II (<i>small truck)</i> who would be thrilled to collect the items and transport them across Seoul for a very reasonable fee. So we were completely unprepared for just how difficult jettisoning our loveseat would prove to be in the UK.<br />
<br />
In the first place, very few people in our part of the UK seem to own a vehicle big enough to carry a loveseat - and why would you, when you're paying $8/gallon for petrol and parking space is always at a premium? Our plans for selling the loveseat for a few pounds to a young couple or some strapped Uni students evaporated quickly as we discovered that the UK is brimming with sofa-albatrosses that are free to a good home if someone (anyone) will just come and <i>take</i> the damned thing. Realizing that <strike>hell would freeze over before</strike> it was unlikely that anyone would ever pay us for the loveseat, and quickly realizing that dragging the thing to the curb was not an option, I called the British Heart Fund (who sell furniture in some of their charity shops and -this is more to the point - also have a large van) and made arrangements for someone to come and collect it.<br />
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By now, we'd been living in the kitchen and our bedrooms for weeks, unable to access the living or dining rooms except on narrow trails, like hamsters, so you can imagine with what enthusiasm we were looking forward to the arrival of the Heart Fund Guys. When the van arrived (3 weeks later, since their docket was -apparently - full of other people who also had extraneous furniture), the men examined my loveseat and then kindly explained to me that, while they would love to take it, no upholstered furniture could be resold in their charity shops without a special fire safety tag (which is mandatory on all furniture sold in the UK) and, since our US-made loveseat didn't have one, they couldn't take it (England is the Land Of Safety, which is another entire blog post in itself, and something I was not aware of - more on this another time.)<br />
<br />
So.<br />
<br />
The loveseat - which, at this point, we now loathed the sight of - stayed, and we were back to square one.<br />
<br />
We decided, then, to take the sofa to the dump (i.e., the Council Recycling Centre) but obviously, the sofa wasn't going to fit in the back of the Mini, so we had to look into renting a van to drive it there, which, naturally, wasn't going to be cheap. And, of course, we needed a special form to prove that we were council taxpayers before we could access the Recycling Centre, so processing that would take a bit longer. Through it all, the loveseat sat there, leering at us (or so it seemed) and preventing anyone from using the living room except the dog, who liked to walk across the backs of the tightly-crammed sofas and chairs to look out the window.<br />
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For a while, it looked like we were stuck with the loveseat forever, but eventually, after a certain amount of tooth-gnashing (on MrL's part) and research (on mine),we learned that there was a solution - but (naturally) it would cost us. We could call the Council and <b><i>pay them</i></b> to come and take our (perfectly good) loveseat to the recycling centre for us- not for 3 or 4 weeks, mind you, but still, the point was, <i>they would do it </i>- which they eventually did. Of course, it was 3 months and £55 after we'd moved in, but they did it. In the meantime, we worked on our assimilation into British culture by maintaining Stiff Upper Lips and Working Around the Situation To the Best of Our Ability Without Whinging <strike>very much. </strike><br />
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There is no moral to this story, except that we now can use our living room and, if you find yourself moving to England, you might wish to consider leaving <i>all</i> your furniture in storage. Either that, or don't bring the dog. <br />
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MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-1771155207311842822015-07-19T09:34:00.000+01:002015-07-19T10:20:40.084+01:00Grasping the Nettle<div class="vk_ans" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif-light, sans-serif; font-size: xx-large !important; font-weight: lighter !important; margin-bottom: 0px; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My arch-nemesis, the Nettle.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #515050; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">grasp the nettle</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #515050; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">phrase of grasp</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">1. </span></span><span style="color: #515050; line-height: 19.5px;">BRITISH: </span><i style="color: #515050; line-height: 19.5px;">tackle a difficulty boldly.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">It should come as no surprise to most of my readers that I read a lot as a child. The fact that I moved to Asia at the age of 3 meant that I had minimal access to the typical media absorbed by most of my American peers in the 70s and 80s. I did see the occasional American film, listened to some English and American records, and did watch TV on Sunday evenings - a sacrosanct hour devoted to 'The Wonderful World of Disney,' aired on the Armed Forces Television Network, which was the highlight of my week. Disney, in fact, was the major contributor to my generally vague concept of the geography of the continent of North America, which was heavily influenced by the landscape of California, where the majority of Disney's filming was done. The majority of my information about Life in America, however, was based on what I read, and by the time I headed back to the US shortly before my 10th birthday, I had composed a mental picture of the USA that was heavily influenced by Yosemite National Park, Louisa May Alcott's Massachusetts of the 1870s, <i>Archie </i>comic books, and Nancy Drew.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">It wasn't always immediately obvious whether the things I was reading about were products of another time or simply products of another culture. While it was clear that no one in the USA was still using kerosene lamps or chamber pots, I was not always quite so sure about the rest of it, and was somewhat disappointed to discover that suburban Northern Virginia (where we moved for a few years before heading back overseas) was distinctly lacking in snowy winter landscapes, pesky but well-meaning bears that broke into your kitchen, blue roadsters, soda fountains, and train travel involving dining cars.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">The point is, having grown up reading books set in other places and other times, it was not uncommon for me to run across references to things I knew nothing about, make a contextual guess as to their probable meaning, and move forward in the narrative. This brings me to today's blog topic: the nettle.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">I had run across the nettle in a number of the English children's books I had read, as well as in Alcott's work (although I should point out that I never once encountered a nettle while living in Alcott's own home state of Massachusetts.) I remember being highly impressed by a scene in Little Men where tomboy Nan is proving herself to her new friends in a classic 1870s 'double dog dare you' scenario:</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><i>".. I never cry, no matter how I'm hurt; it's babyish," said Nan, loftily.</i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #515050; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><i>"Pooh! I could make you cry in two minutes," returned Stuffy, rousing up.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #515050; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><i>"See if you can."</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #515050; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><i>"Go and pick that bunch of nettles, then," and Stuffy pointed to a sturdy specimen of that prickly plant growing by the wall.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #515050; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><i>Nan instantly "grasped the nettle," pulled it up, and held it with a defiant gesture, in spite of the almost unbearable sting.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #515050; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><i>"Good for you," cried the boys, quick to acknowledge courage even in one of the weaker sex.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">Living in Thailand (or maybe Taipei) at the time I first read this, I was unfamiliar with nettles, but having spent my formative years in countries where venomous snakes, limbless beggars, and </span></span><span style="color: #515050; line-height: 19.5px;">insects the size of puppies </span><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">were part of the daily landscape, the fact that a stinging, burning plant was growing in the family's garden within easy reach of young children did not seem unreasonable to me and I moved on with the tale.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">In the following years, when I eventually moved back to live on the East Coast, I never ran across nettles: thistles, yes, poison oak, yes, poison ivy, yes. Thorns and brambles, yes, yes. But never anything called a 'nettle.' I had a vague image of a nettle as something like a thistle: round, prickly, sharp, and obviously unfriendly. Maybe something like a cactus. In subsequent years, MrL and I would end up moving Out West, raising our children in an environment that included scorpions, rattlesnakes, the occasional wild javelina, and every other possible sort of prickly and aggressive plant one could imagine. The nettle floated down into the sediment at the bottom of my consciousness and remained there.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">Then, I moved to England. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">I knew, of course, that there were nettles in England, and vaguely assumed that I might run across one, say, if we happened to be hiking across a desolate moor somewhere in Yorkshire or maybe on a remote Scottish hillside.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">The nettle, I imagined, would be large - maybe like a burr or a pinecone - and would, like most prickly plants I had come to know, look sinister and foreboding. It would live out on a windy mountaintop or in a dense forest.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">This, of course, was entirely wrong. My first introduction to the nettle was in my local park, just around the corner from my house.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">Learning About The Nettle was a result of every dog owner's least favorite experience: cleaning up after one's dog, only to find that there is a Hole In The Bag and that one has been left with a handful of body-temperature dog feces. With nothing to wipe my hand on, what I needed was something with broad, soft leaves - nature's handkerchief, so to speak. My eye scanned the hedgerows along the park path, and fell on a medium-sized plant sporting greyish-green, fuzzy-looking leaves about the size of a large post-it note. From my perspective, it appeared perfect: large, absorbent, and not too stiff, and with a soft-looking texture like lamb's ears. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">As soon as I grasped it, I realized that something was wrong. At first, I thought I'd accidentally caught hold of a stinging insect, but turning the leaves over and examining my burning fingers (while still stupidly holding the leaf, I should point out), I could see nothing - no insect, no stingers, nothing. But my fingers continued to burn and sting. At that point, I realized that the leaf itself was to blame, but by then, it was too late. For the rest of the walk home, my fingers stung, burned, and itched, no matter what I did to them. By the time I was able to wash them off and examine them, they were sporting tiny red dots, some of which later turned into blisters. A quick perusal of Google informed me that, yes, I had indeed, grabbed a handful of nettle leaves <strike>like an idiot</strike>, and should not have been surprised to find that it did, in fact, hurt.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">Always willing to learn from experience, I resolved then and there never again to grasp a handful of nettle leaves, and considered that to be the end of the story. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #515050; line-height: 19.5px;">Unfortunately, as MrL and I discovered a few weeks later while hiking the <a href="http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/bath-skyline/">Bath Skyline Walk,</a> one doesn't have to actually <i>grasp</i> a nettle to experience its unpleasant effects. All you have to do is <i>brush up against it ever so slightly</i> with any uncovered skin - in our cases, especially arms and hands, which tend to brush against them as we're hiking along the overgrown trails - and the nettle's nasty little trichomes (hollow hairs) take the opportunity to inject their venomous payloads into your epidermis, leaving you burning and itching <strike>and cursing.</strike> </span><span style="color: #515050; line-height: 19.5px;">Since they're so unpleasant, it should come as no surprise that they tend to flourish near human habitation and love places like empty fields, hiking trails, parkland, bike paths - pretty much everywhere that I walk my dog. Every day. And yes, they are, in fact, everywhere.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">According to Google, nettles can also be found in the US and should therefore should not be a surprise to me, but (obviously) I missed something (<i>note: any of my N.American readers run across them?)</i> At any rate, they don't seem to bother our fellow hikers here in Britain, who stride around in tank tops and shorts with impunity, never seeming to worry about them. Or maybe they're just immune after a lifetime of nettle exposure.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #515050;"><span style="line-height: 19.5px;">In any case, having familiarized myself with their fuzzy and deceptively benign appearance, I am on my guard. Granted, I probably look a little silly walking through the overgrown field trails of late summer with my hands held up over my head, but no one can say I haven't learned my lesson.</span></span></span></div>
MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-75969326732178101762015-05-05T10:48:00.001+01:002015-05-05T10:48:27.800+01:00Life in the UK: Walking the Dog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Long-time readers will know that the Asia Vus are a very doggy family. (MrL and I, in fact, co-owned a dog before we got married - true story.) Over the years, we've always had at least one dog, and often had two. It stands to reason, then, that we have spent countless hours on that quintessential pastime familiar to dog lovers the world over: walking the dog. Here in England, it's no different, except for one thing: <i>you can go almost anywhere. </i><br />
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No more boring walks around the block or a loop around the park before heading home. Here, we walk through woods and fields, across meadows, through blackberry brambles, and past the occasional grazing horse. We stroll through playing fields, down ancient lanes and up slippery stone steps built into the hillside hundreds of years before we were born. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The brutally steep set of stairs known locally as 'Jacob's Ladder' which leads up from the City Centre to our neighborhood. Fortunately, there are other - less extreme - alternatives for getting home.</td></tr>
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One of the things I like best about living in England is the idea of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ramblers">public access</a> to the countryside. Coming from a country which is is rife with signs that say things like, <i>'Private Property' ' No Trespassing!' </i>and <i>"This Property Protected by Smith and Wesson," </i>you can understand that, upon moving here, I stuck to sidewalks and parks as a rule of thumb - not a problem, since there seem to be parks everywhere around here. I saw fields all around me, but it never occurred to me to try to walk through them. <br />
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After a few weeks, though, I kept noticing these signs:<br />
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They are everywhere, and designate public footpaths - that is, paths or sidewalks that are open to the public. And I also started noticing these gates, which seemed to show up quite frequently near woods and fields:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is either a 'slip gate' or a 'kissing gate' depending on who's speaking.</td></tr>
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Of course, not knowing where they led - and not knowing whose property they led to - I never entered them, no matter how gorgeous the landscape on the other side might look. <br />
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It wasn't until I was chatting with some other dog owners one day when one of them invited me to join a group of them who met in the afternoons in a field which, she explained, was accessible through <i>'yon slip gate'</i> (that's <i>'the slip gate over there'</i> for us North Americans) at the rear of some school playing fields ("<i>We have right-of-way through them, you know" Actually, I didn't. ) </i><br />
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Well, as they say, that changed everything.<br />
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Once I started looking for them, I noticed them everywhere, often in combination with the 'public footpath' signs as shown above. Often, there is a sign asking you to keep your dogs on a lead and to clean up after them. Occasionally, there will be a notice warning you that livestock may be present, and once, I saw a reminder not to 'come between a mother and her offspring.' (<i>Duh)</i><br />
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Most of the time, though, it's just you, the dog, and nature, and, since I know I won't be living here forever, I try to really be mindful about how fortunate I am to be able to do this. It's always a little amazing to me the way people here seem to be able to go about their business so calmly. I feel like I spend about 50% of my time (or more) either taking pictures, and the other 50% thinking, <i>"I can't believe I'm just walking around in all of this. It's like a movie."</i> How my neighbors every accomplish anything is sort of a mystery to me, although I suppose if I'd lived here my whole life, I might be equally sanguine about all this gorgeousness, too.<br />
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Anyway, for those of you who might have been wondering what things look like in this neck of the woods, I thought I'd share a few photos of one of our favorite walks, which starts with a stroll through the park before you enter a brambly sort of field via the slip gate above:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjci02-MbuP5SQABp8lUGZbsDBkCY-q0pZX6M8TTbQ89yeH_V76Z9tnxUtbvUCZTOpu74MQ4gfIgfbuUXsw-vz2_JbQKLjNmdGaRdceST03S7IuolxyZ7ZxheLcLy-S2IDjTZZy6O3k6C-f/s1600/IMG_5771.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjci02-MbuP5SQABp8lUGZbsDBkCY-q0pZX6M8TTbQ89yeH_V76Z9tnxUtbvUCZTOpu74MQ4gfIgfbuUXsw-vz2_JbQKLjNmdGaRdceST03S7IuolxyZ7ZxheLcLy-S2IDjTZZy6O3k6C-f/s400/IMG_5771.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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Following the path, you come out into a little open area, overlooking southeast Bath and its surroundings: <br />
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Past the blackberry brambles:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHpsprW_bzeQC2IGOiPOi57eR_Aq-5k3hBXnJ18pdTRCI-AEua0WWGj__MwoprwQqBeqFlTM0kURz13Xda2XkJM6fETm5IO641CH2akObR6AG1BndrB_YIKkdvlb-AgCCGNLoR1doOTz3/s1600/IMG_5776.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHpsprW_bzeQC2IGOiPOi57eR_Aq-5k3hBXnJ18pdTRCI-AEua0WWGj__MwoprwQqBeqFlTM0kURz13Xda2XkJM6fETm5IO641CH2akObR6AG1BndrB_YIKkdvlb-AgCCGNLoR1doOTz3/s400/IMG_5776.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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Into another little patch of woods:<br />
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And out on the other side into a surprising little meadow overlooking more houses and more fields.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdnDYJOJwf67y_EIuez9UoXodzMw7k8_oj69GWgQy_ye12CEHz9lfZtrmKx1LkHWI0i2Rz5A2VU-uaQeTKxG4yiEO0UQmMh2a2-u0gubX7xk-R3YlB0KVHGMSDZMvq57VEcgxbOdWDqq4j/s1600/IMG_5790.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdnDYJOJwf67y_EIuez9UoXodzMw7k8_oj69GWgQy_ye12CEHz9lfZtrmKx1LkHWI0i2Rz5A2VU-uaQeTKxG4yiEO0UQmMh2a2-u0gubX7xk-R3YlB0KVHGMSDZMvq57VEcgxbOdWDqq4j/s400/IMG_5790.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Apple tree in full blossom</i></td></tr>
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Follow the path uphill through the meadow:<br />
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And come to another slip gate:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjNo0DVlGRxhfF01owzKvYlO2Qd4jDSmG_zU8CNBkBUO7mZTNRbTeRvqJNb2mKVGv7G2lraZ5V37us6JrDSZ0ntiZyKjHLfVIlBGDAzUXhK0U02ofdGHKlrw8IpXqtxMlVJRO0aeJ4Mtt/s1600/IMG_5798.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjNo0DVlGRxhfF01owzKvYlO2Qd4jDSmG_zU8CNBkBUO7mZTNRbTeRvqJNb2mKVGv7G2lraZ5V37us6JrDSZ0ntiZyKjHLfVIlBGDAzUXhK0U02ofdGHKlrw8IpXqtxMlVJRO0aeJ4Mtt/s400/IMG_5798.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>These gates still freak me out, but I am slowly getting used to them and no longer bark at them.</i></td></tr>
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Which leads into another field at the bottom of the school cricket grounds:<br />
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Before we know it, we're leaving the field at the next gate:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo0XIS-8yXZdbi4LK1XbQxc5_qJNqLZ7fdMBRVQ5A_r2mCZxzHDJgcl-HajHGCtXZfAdR5ejG4wYKrHgUfeAcv0zXmV5EOyhB-mxqFz8r5yxrMv9vXjm7trvFwzUM4QU75Yqsd5IQ3KBAN/s1600/IMG_5652.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo0XIS-8yXZdbi4LK1XbQxc5_qJNqLZ7fdMBRVQ5A_r2mCZxzHDJgcl-HajHGCtXZfAdR5ejG4wYKrHgUfeAcv0zXmV5EOyhB-mxqFz8r5yxrMv9vXjm7trvFwzUM4QU75Yqsd5IQ3KBAN/s400/IMG_5652.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Notice that it's a private field with public access. Love it!</i></td></tr>
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And walking down the street toward home:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcI4wWTat2QWDdW7ViQTc_IYYfBsRn6aFb9KWuA7SvKjM-2YrOzaUi9jHj2KGRlBFd8_QEBmqkLIMFZQMtU0aA78tioWmac_JxjBmRJhgwiYsVleY8UMgAtv6stTyHp11nZF-89Azbqowf/s1600/IMG_5653.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcI4wWTat2QWDdW7ViQTc_IYYfBsRn6aFb9KWuA7SvKjM-2YrOzaUi9jHj2KGRlBFd8_QEBmqkLIMFZQMtU0aA78tioWmac_JxjBmRJhgwiYsVleY8UMgAtv6stTyHp11nZF-89Azbqowf/s400/IMG_5653.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>MrL joins in on all of our evening walks</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4TURL-7Gg7kIPh7DYsZFB8ACHuyYtXDKHVf6PiQ_mh8nWoXLha_JIHGnG7hhv-JpWvLJKIEwqO3FuSvXFfvD4PmigTn1jmoTEym1w8Uf6z8BkUTilLcChHSOWQxvWH-_UNhuQUap3ptqj/s1600/IMG_5655.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4TURL-7Gg7kIPh7DYsZFB8ACHuyYtXDKHVf6PiQ_mh8nWoXLha_JIHGnG7hhv-JpWvLJKIEwqO3FuSvXFfvD4PmigTn1jmoTEym1w8Uf6z8BkUTilLcChHSOWQxvWH-_UNhuQUap3ptqj/s400/IMG_5655.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>One of the houses on the way home</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwuyU7RY1-9V1GOeHwElnmFWEGzRV5ehh_J1Vxh6dgVOZjcAlWNv22z9TYbqvwgWY8oST4gDJETQaZUHFzO9AoYlRvOIB4UGSz115y7s8ouApKSPDVy-TxLbX4871eJaDHe9OUCebpQ6K/s1600/IMG_5657.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwuyU7RY1-9V1GOeHwElnmFWEGzRV5ehh_J1Vxh6dgVOZjcAlWNv22z9TYbqvwgWY8oST4gDJETQaZUHFzO9AoYlRvOIB4UGSz115y7s8ouApKSPDVy-TxLbX4871eJaDHe9OUCebpQ6K/s400/IMG_5657.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I love houses with names</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XrB51NTfJzwJdxnDJ3r7jIccIQqQ_hMJ-R0roXzM6xMREek7Tuh9MIUVFXztgcJKmbZhAcnJk8nwu0ff_EqgmNwQ0JluKlwqlG0APvA3jiL6KcRvAMkVjUcUEclqMO6SDYtVipzUYGnM/s1600/IMG_5658.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XrB51NTfJzwJdxnDJ3r7jIccIQqQ_hMJ-R0roXzM6xMREek7Tuh9MIUVFXztgcJKmbZhAcnJk8nwu0ff_EqgmNwQ0JluKlwqlG0APvA3jiL6KcRvAMkVjUcUEclqMO6SDYtVipzUYGnM/s400/IMG_5658.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This stairway leads down to another footpath. We haven't been here yet, but it looks promising</i></td></tr>
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<br />MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-86040967910186293232015-04-22T10:02:00.001+01:002015-04-22T10:02:30.392+01:00Life in the UK: English Lessons<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_Haw2lb6Wkb1-sjbHl1Okx4KesBqKfwx_TRQIE7_sGxV8ZoxJP_bR3RZpwEKh_RsjLdJ4eIIMn1DtK4agXMD8n7bZ41yPIuKDo0sFD7DcXlbOimQd-nvyfc4yAkotSsa7uGmfx9-XYSG/s1600/the-lone-ranger-the-far-side-comic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_Haw2lb6Wkb1-sjbHl1Okx4KesBqKfwx_TRQIE7_sGxV8ZoxJP_bR3RZpwEKh_RsjLdJ4eIIMn1DtK4agXMD8n7bZ41yPIuKDo0sFD7DcXlbOimQd-nvyfc4yAkotSsa7uGmfx9-XYSG/s1600/the-lone-ranger-the-far-side-comic.jpg" height="400" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Language: it can be tricky</i></td></tr>
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I don't think that there are many people left in the world who aren't aware that American English (AmE) and British English (BrE) have some significant differences. (If you are one of them, just go to Urban Dictionary and type the following words into the search bar: <i>fanny, rubber, knickers, pants, bonnet.) </i><br />
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There are plenty of expat blogs written by Americans in the UK who have had to adopt a completely new vocabulary (and vice versa.) I regularly read this <a href="http://separatedbyacommonlanguage.blogspot.co.uk/">one</a> written by an American linguist who teaches at a British University who specializes in the differences between our two versions of the language <i>(oddly, I started reading it long before we ever moved to England...hmmmmm.) </i> In fact, before we left Seoul, my sister-in-law even sent me a US/UK dictionary, so, clearly, the information is out there.<br />
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In fact, in one of my very first<a href="http://www.asiavufullcircle.blogspot.kr/2015/02/moving-chronicles-seoul-to-bristol-some.html"> posts</a> written in the UK, I mentioned the word 'lurgy,' which I learned shortly after arriving. My point is: the fact that our languages are different should come as a surprise to no one - especially me.<br />
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And yet, it continues to surprise me, almost daily, the new words and phrases and uses I run across. Most of those that capture my interest - like, 'lurgy' are not the typical <i>'you use this word, we use that one'</i> foreign exchange that we think of when we think of the two Englishes. Those are the easy ones: boot=trunk, courgette=zucchini, post=mail. But some of them are baffling. Some are funny. Sometimes, they carry different connotations in each language. It's these subtle differences that I like to mull over in my free time <i>(let's not get into what that says about how boring my life is at the moment, shall we?)</i><br />
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So...I've decided to blog (occasionally) about the new words and usages I've been running across. Keep in mind, I'm living in Somerset, so I'm sure there's some regional usage involved. I'll look forward to hearing your impressions, and, without further ado, here are the newest additions to my lexicon:<br />
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<b>"Can I stroke your doggie?" </b>I hear this several times a week from children while I'm out walking Merlot. An American child would, undoubtedly, ask me if she could 'pet' my doggie. Mulling this over (we walk at least 3 miles a day - I have ample mulling time, trust me) I've decided that Americans really don't use the word 'stroke' much as a verb - especially not with animals - and, if we do, it would most likely be used with a cat, not a dog. Why, I do not know. Or maybe that's just me.<br />
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<b>"I'll meet you at half ten." </b>In AmE, we'd probably just say, "I'll meet you at ten-thirty" or, possibly, "half-past ten." For me, the waters have been significantly muddied by the fact that, in German, 'half ten' (<i>halb zehn) </i>means 'nine-thirty,' or 'halfway to ten.' I'd never heard it used in English before, and initially had to ask for clarification. On the other hand, I have an excuse if I show up places at the wrong time.<br />
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<b>"It's so warm, you really don't even need a jumper." </b>In this context, a <i>jumper</i> (as far as I have been able to deduce) is a garment with long sleeves that you wear on top of another garment (a shirt or blouse or <i>vest</i> ( a <i>vest, </i>fyi, is a tank top or undershirt.) Where I would probably use the terms <i>sweater, sweatshirt, fleece, pullover</i> (or whatever else came to mind) <i>'jumper'</i> seems to cover anything with long sleeves - but isn't a jacket (this is still a bit vague, so I'm not sure if <i>jacket</i> is in that category or not. Input much appreciated from BrE readers.) Whenever we take Merlot out wearing this little hoodie (or is it a jacket? or a fleece?) in England, we always get compliments on her<i> 'smart jumper (aka 'attractive or nice-looking outer garment.)</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Merlot in her smart jumper.</td></tr>
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<b>"Can I help?" </b>This is what shop assistants say to you in England when it is your turn for service, for example, if you are waiting in line (<i>in a queue) </i>and it's your turn to approach the register (<i>till</i>) or if you are wandering around the cosmetic section in confusion, looking for a cream that will make you look 10 years younger with a single application (I'm here to tell you, it doesn't exist,) or any other instance in which an American worker would say, <i>"Can I help <b>you</b>?" </i>It's obvious that they are offering to help <i style="font-weight: bold;">you</i> (even if they don't say so) but I find it interesting that, in American English, the phrase, <i>"Can I help?" </i>is something I'd use, for, say, asking permission (<i>I see you're baking cookies. Can I help?) </i>or offering to assist someone who is clearly in a bit over their heads (<i>I see you're trying to lift that refrigerator alone. Can I help?) </i>Whereas, in American shops or restaurants, the phrase one usually hears is, <i>"Can I help you?" </i>Why? I don't know.<br />
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<i>Note: It's been a few years since I've spent much time in the US, so maybe these things are not as unusual as I think they are. Comments, clarifications, questions, or corrections are always welcome! </i><br />
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<br />MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-2105962622112546932015-04-21T12:44:00.002+01:002015-04-21T21:23:33.713+01:00Exploring in the UK: A Day Trip to Wells and Glastonbury Tor<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY77pn1xuGavSvysRlSmCyF3PsfPhFSolWrDAHne55s5a_CnITl5Elv5U-RkyS3dqNipKZ4K45BaAIJaR3kizBGX7TU3-9h5s-zpjKUqIerTsMiv0D-uEghPwRVRHc0H0j9VSD0L00F-yX/s1600/IMG_4601.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY77pn1xuGavSvysRlSmCyF3PsfPhFSolWrDAHne55s5a_CnITl5Elv5U-RkyS3dqNipKZ4K45BaAIJaR3kizBGX7TU3-9h5s-zpjKUqIerTsMiv0D-uEghPwRVRHc0H0j9VSD0L00F-yX/s1600/IMG_4601.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In front of the <a href="http://www.wellscathedral.org.uk/">Wells Cathedral</a></td></tr>
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One of the things I've been observing about the UK is that it is absolutely, chock full of historic stuff. <i>Duh, MsCaroline</i>, you are saying to yourself, <i>everyone knows that the UK and Europe are full of historic stuff. What other glaringly self-evident observations do you have to share with us? </i>Well, let me tell you what. It may sound pretty self-evident when you are living somewhere else, but when you are surrounded by it every day, constantly finding yourself passing signs telling you that <i>This building was modernised in 1740 by the 7th Earl of Chesterwickshireham</i>, it puts a new spin on things.<br />
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In the UK, everything is just oozing with history, which means that (to use one of my favorite new expressions) a visitor is 'spoilt for choice.' Will it be the castle, or the Roman ruins? Druid stone circle? Historic mansion? Ship? Cathedral? Village? How to choose?<br />
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And that's the problem. There is so much to see, you almost become paralyzed by all the options. And I'm just talking about things that are within an hour's drive of home. We haven't even started to explore the rest of the country yet, except for Cornwall, which is remarkable and which I will blog about <strike>eventually</strike> soon.<br />
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So you can imagine my relief when, shortly after our arrival in January, I got an email from one of my long-time favorite bloggers, <a href="http://potty-diaries.blogspot.co.uk/">Potty Mummy,</a> kindly offering some suggestions for a few day trips around our area. I was pathetically grateful. At last! Guidance! Focus! Help!<br />
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I picked the first thing on her list, and this is how it came to pass that we headed out the very next Saturday to Wells and Glastonbury Tor. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weekend market in the city centre in Wells.</td></tr>
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<a href="http://www.visitsomerset.co.uk/explore-somerset/wells-p500273">Wells</a> is a charming little medieval city in the Somerset district of England. It is the seat of the Bishop of Bath and Wells (the Bishop's Palace can also be toured) and the location of the <a href="http://www.wellscathedral.org.uk/">Wells Cathedral</a>, built between the 12th and 14th centuries. <br />
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The city itself is incredibly picturesque, complete with cobblestone streets and historic buildings, including a fountain in the town square, medieval stone walls, and a Tudor-style historic pub, which is probably why it was chosen as the location for the Simon Pegg film, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hot_Fuzz">Hot Fuzz,</a> which concerns a London police officer who is transferred to a (seemingly) idyllic village in Gloucestershire. It's easy to see why Wells was chosen, since 'idyllic' should be part of its official name:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kids playing by the fountain in the village courtyard (fountain featured pretty prominently in <i>Hot Fuzz</i> as well!)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">National Trust gift shop and archway leading to the Bishop's Palace.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of adorable shops, restaurants, tearooms, and pubs. Ooooooozing charm!</td></tr>
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Since we are huge <i>Hot Fuzz </i>fans, we were probably a little more excited than normal people would have been about visiting Wells, especially when we spotted buildings that had featured prominently in the film, such as 'The Swan' Hotel, and 'The Crown' pub:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is actually the back of 'The Crown,' which I did not realize when I took this photo.</td></tr>
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It goes without saying that we had to stop in for a pint. And a bite to eat. It was an interesting mix of fancy tourists and down-to-earth locals. We spent most of our time conversing with a man whose Staffordshire terrier was wearing a very unusual garment which piqued our interest. The jacket was different from your typical dog outerwear in that it looked like it had been removed directly from the sheep upon its demise and placed immediately on the dog's back with no concern about silly things like fit and size. (In fact, I initially thought it was a sheepdog lying there on the floor until I noticed that the dog's head didn't match its coat.) Imagine, if you will, a dog with a Flokati rug tied on its back and you will understand why we were intrigued. As you can imagine, the owner was the most interesting person we talked to all day.<br />
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After our refreshment, we decided to tour the Cathedral, which, as the historic seat of the Bishops of Bath and Wells, was truly gorgeous. Since MrL took all the interior photos, you will have to take my word for it, or google 'Wells Cathedral.' <br />
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But here are a few shots of the exterior:<br />
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We also took a stroll around the grounds of the Bishop's Palace (you can take a tour of the palace itself, but we were heading for Glastonbury at that point,) which featured a moat (our boys would have appreciated this when they were younger) complete with swans:<br />
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After a stroll around the moat, we set our sights (and the GPS/SatNav) on the next spot on our itinerary:<br />
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<a href="http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/wra-1356292763044/view-page/item454457/">Glastonbury Tor.</a><br />
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For those of you <strike>aren't interested in</strike> don't have time to read up on it, 'Tor' just means <i>'hill or rocky peak.' </i>It is also described in other places as a 'prominent hill.' It is supposed to be a significantly spiritual location, a former place of pilgrimage for Christians as well as a meaningful site for Pagans. Legend also links the Holy Grail of King Arthur to this site. At its peak today sits nothing but a lone tower, which may have been part of a church that was planned (or built) here in the the 15th century. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching the Tor.</td></tr>
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Even if it were not historically and spiritually significant, the Glastonbury Tor would be worth hiking for the views alone. The view of the countryside is sweeping, and on a clear day (which we, sadly, did not have) you can supposedly see all the way to Bath (miles away.) <br />
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Setting our GPS/SatNav, we drove into the countryside and soon found ourselves approaching the Tor. It turns out that most people enter from the direction of a town called 'Burrow Mump' (<i>I will never get over that name, by the way) </i>which is where you pick up the concrete footpath leading to the top. However, due to a <strike>really annoying</strike>wacky and laughable SatNav glitch, we found ourselves on the <i>other</i> side of the Tor, on a lane backing up to some fields. After seeing a knowledgable-looking party wearing waterproofs and wellingtons striding purposefully in what we thought looked like the right direction, we ended up parking on a side road, following a public footpath through someone's sheep pasture (I love how you can do that in England) eventually joining the concrete footpath about halfway up with a crowd of other breathless hill-climbers.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33uCaKfQKpNGGkjH4m1Pr4FJ3dparQ_0iL81MRfEBzHRir2i-Y_Jeo30GPX9g7wNXpFh9exU9DnWOq8KV-zrZ70z7f9QHfiK3TmcgMxxzygKaG-s5Q2qhQVGMOLGwvBbjmK02coKiT_pF/s1600/DSC_4310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33uCaKfQKpNGGkjH4m1Pr4FJ3dparQ_0iL81MRfEBzHRir2i-Y_Jeo30GPX9g7wNXpFh9exU9DnWOq8KV-zrZ70z7f9QHfiK3TmcgMxxzygKaG-s5Q2qhQVGMOLGwvBbjmK02coKiT_pF/s1600/DSC_4310.JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We were sure that the Tor was just over this hill (it was)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Almost at the top</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKlQHtQtkC2FgQSVgjOhCXhC7ksTEf03YN2lBtFMYOfKoXxGMAJQ578nNPRcbqrX84tspphdsqD9_Vvsx6xwD8MX6OelgWfjqB1hrtcNX2NsypEgKVZBn0aDrGTUbvFZgumJY142ppj6bx/s1600/DSC_4330.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKlQHtQtkC2FgQSVgjOhCXhC7ksTEf03YN2lBtFMYOfKoXxGMAJQ578nNPRcbqrX84tspphdsqD9_Vvsx6xwD8MX6OelgWfjqB1hrtcNX2NsypEgKVZBn0aDrGTUbvFZgumJY142ppj6bx/s1600/DSC_4330.JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nearly there.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Success!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As promised, the views at the top were spectacular, - sort of difficult to tell in this very odd panoramic shot.</td></tr>
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Despite a bit of drizzle, there were plenty of people out, and, as with so many outdoor venues in England, there were more than a few dogs along for the adventure, which, in their case, involved chasing rabbits. The grassy hill area around the Tor is absolutely crawling with wild rabbits - you saw them, their holes, and their poo, everywhere. (Another good reason to stick to the footpath - both of us came close to breaking an ankle- and wellingtons are a good idea, too.) MrL even suggested that this might have been the inspiration for the cover of <i>Watership Down, </i>and I'd be inclined to agree. <br />
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<b>If you go: <a href="http://www.wellssomerset.com/about_wells.php?sid=97cce702b17cec86b068ab6f0c42411e">Wells</a> is a charming medieval city ('the smallest city in England') about an hour's drive from Bristol or Bath. <a href="http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/glastonbury-tor/visitor-information/">Glastonbury Tor is about a 15-20 minute drive from Wells</a>. There is no National Trust car park, but there are public (fee-paying) car parks at Burrow Mump, Glastonbury Tor, and Collard Hill (if you don't fancy parking on the roadside like we did and hiking cross-country.) You don't need to be an athlete (trust me, I'm not one), but you need to be fit enough to walk up the steep uphill path. There are benches halfway up if you need a break. </b>MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-78109337389595891302015-04-20T09:14:00.002+01:002015-04-20T09:14:27.861+01:00Life in the UK: A(n) (quarterly) Update<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTlIkc_Lr7-AoKMq1WDuXmF7nX1CYt6LQTbwnzoAX5r2E4m47d2nmKoy6LeA-MvglQt6so0ax3oDkoPA9UXYqIcJwUKHKb69hLQ7D5Hq7VoKiPvN14lBD1dzam2JNBjkYShNLDQrXlPss/s1600/IMG_5548.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTlIkc_Lr7-AoKMq1WDuXmF7nX1CYt6LQTbwnzoAX5r2E4m47d2nmKoy6LeA-MvglQt6so0ax3oDkoPA9UXYqIcJwUKHKb69hLQ7D5Hq7VoKiPvN14lBD1dzam2JNBjkYShNLDQrXlPss/s1600/IMG_5548.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>No, this is not my garden, and no, MsCaroline has not become a Peeping Tom, but it's difficult not to at least glance when this is the sort of thing you walk by all the time.</i></td></tr>
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Spring has sprung here in England, and I've been rejoicing in blue skies, warm days full of brilliant sunshine, and pretty much every single flowering thing in creation exploding into bloom. This has been a lovely contrast to the near-daily rain we experienced between January and March, and I'm hoping it will last for at least a while (<i>although, if the Tesco deliveryman is to be believed, this will all end in a week or so and we'll spend the next 4-5 months slogging around in waterproofs and wellies, because this is what happens every summer now because of the <strike>global warming</strike> climate change. Thanks for the encouragement, Mr. Tesco Man.)</i><br />
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Since we last met here in the blogiverse (if that is, in fact, a place,) things have been moving steadily forward in that way things have of doing <i>(you'll note that I have not categorized this post under 'moving chronicles' because we've been here 5 weeks already and, in my book, once you've been somewhere for a month, you're pretty much done moving whether you feel like it or not</i>) specifically:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Sitting Room: clearly, there was not going to be room for a 2nd sofa, even if it was a loveseat.</i></td></tr>
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<ul>
<li><b>We moved into our rental house </b>Although we had downsized assiduously before moving to Korea, we still found ourselves bursting out of the seams of the new place. This was compounded by the fact that our house - like many older homes in Europe - had no closets. The answer to this, of course, was to buy some freestanding wardrobes, which required us to move <b>everything</b> out of the room in question(and let me just say that every room was packed to the gills) in order to assemble the wardrobes (<i>they were too big to carry up the stairs assembled, and, yes, we'll have to disassemble them in order to move them out when we go and we are not even thinking about that right now lalalala</i>) and then carry everything <b>back</b> in to put it away or hang it up. We also have one sofa too many and a dining room table that is far too large, which means doing a sort of shimmy to slide between it and the sideboard and the sofa is in the garage until we figure out what to do with it, which makes MrL crazy because he can't do garage-y things until there is space to move in there (<i>sidenote: in the UK, your garage is pronounced 'GEHR-ahj', not 'guh-RAHJ'. In case you were wondering.)</i> Not that it matters anyway, since we're eating in the kitchen these days. The ever-eloquent MrL has succinctly described our moving-in process as "Stuffing 10 pounds of rubbish in a five-pound bag." Except he did not use the word 'rubbish.' </li>
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<li><b>Our dog arrived from Korea</b> Long-time readers will recall that we left Merlot (our French Bulldog/Boston Terrier or some combination thereof) in Korea with our petsitter when we moved to the UK, with a reunion being dependent on us finding a rental that permitted dogs - which we (thankfully) were able to do. After almost 2 1/2 months, reams of documentation, and (groan) some hefty financial investment, we collected her at the Animal Reception Centre at Heathrow, to our mutual delight. She spent most of the ride home demonstrating her pleasure at seeing us again. </li>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Let's just say she was very excited and continued to demonstrate this for most of the 90-minute ride home from the airport</i><br />
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<ul>
<li>Since then, she has been learning about Living in a House With A Garden in a Country With Tons of Grass and Trees and Many Other Dogs. This is a significant departure from life in an apartment, walks through the concrete jungle, and only very occasional other dog sightings. She has also experienced squirrels for the first time, never having seen any in the extremely urban landscape that we lived in in Seoul. We suspect that she may have thought that the first one was a small grey dog, because she did a lot of head-tilting and wagging - initially. She was thunderstruck when it ran up a tree, and spent quite a lot of time trying to follow it, crying, and circling the tree. Once it was clear that a friendship wasn't going to develop, the squirrel became her Arch Nemesis, and - in accord with all other dogs in the British Isles - she has come to see it as her responsibility to chase each and every squirrel that crosses her path. </li>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It's a mathematics problem - see the plus signs?</i></td></tr>
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<ul>
<li><b>Son#2 Turned 18 </b>It seems absolutely impossible that my youngest child could: a) be 18, and b) be heading off to Uni in the fall, but somehow, it really did happen. We celebrated with dinner and drinks (legal drinking age is 18 in the UK, an extra bonus) at a local steak house, and had a visit from one of his high school classmates from Seoul who is now attending Uni in London. While I think I did pretty well in managing to make a cake from scratch less than a week after moving into the new house, I didn't plan so well for the candles and had to improvise at the last minute. </li>
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<li><b>We've been doing a lot of sightseeing. </b>We joined the National Trust and English Heritage (sort of like joining the National Parks in the US, only these two grant you admission to hundreds of castles, stately homes, and other historic buildings in England, Scotland, and Wales.) We've hiked up cliffs and wandered through crumbling ruins of castles and mines, marveled at cathedrals and abbeys, tramped through damp fields full of sheep and ancient stone circles (there are more than just Stonehenge, really, and the sheep don't seem to mind) and goggled at incredibly sophisticated Roman ruins. And all of that has just been in a few hours' drive from home. And, yes, we did a lot of it in the rain, because if you wait for a nice day before you do things, you may never get anything accomplished. I really do have every intention of posting about these trips, but they seem to be piling up faster than I can post about them. </li>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Wells Cathedral</td></tr>
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<li><b>I've been enjoying my new city. </b>Actually, to be more precise, I've been enjoying walking around the <i>outskirts</i> of my new city. I really do appreciate that Bath is lovely and historic, its architecture is graceful and classic, and the Roman baths are incredible, but after almost 4 years in an Asian megalopolis of concrete, metal, glass, and Jumbotrons, I am less interested in the City Centre (and its shops and tourists) and more interested in what really does my soul good: sights like this:</li>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cherry blossoms blooming on my street</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the bridge over the Avon</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Merlot appreciates the rolling hills of Somerset.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over the park.</td></tr>
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MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-61215429703732939962015-02-09T10:36:00.002+00:002015-02-10T17:26:21.286+00:00Moving Chronicles: Seoul to Bristol: Some Observations<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>None of these 3 photographs have anything to do with the topic of this post. They are just an example of what MsCaroline walks past every day and has still not gotten over marveling at.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bristol Central Library at night.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Row houses in Bath, near MsC's friend's house. Yes, she is a little jealous. </i></td></tr>
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Yes, lots is going on. In the last week, MsC has been to Wales, visited some Very Interesting Historic Places, and had a Job Interview(no word yet, she'll keep you posted), so there is no question that she is Out There Experiencing Life in the UK. <br />
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This is why she has not had time to write any sort of comprehensive posts about her experiences and, instead, will resort to a few brief observations with some (empty) promises to catch you up later when she's got more time.<br />
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For the moment, here are a few observations about life in the UK in the past week:<br />
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<li><b>People in the UK <i>can speak English:</i> </b> This is actually a difficult thing for MsC to remember. After so many years of expecting to be entirely on her own and never being able to ask anyone anything, she had completely forgotten that it was possible to communicate freely with nearly everyone around her. Preparing to go to her job interview, she was bemoaning the fact that the British bus timetables are difficult to read (they don't include all the stops) and that most of the buses in Bristol do not have digital displays or audio announcements telling one what the upcoming stop is anyway. Everyone just seems to instinctively <i>know </i>that 'The Centre' is the next stop and that's where they want to go. Even if one is aware that one is, say, on Corn Street, this, in itself, means nothing, since Corn Street can be miles long and include any number of stops which may or may not be near one's intended destination. MsC had resorted lately to turning on Google Maps on her phone when she was on the bus, and, when she got near where she wanted to be, hoping she was getting off at the correct stop. After several weeks of this sort of anxiety-producing travel, she mentioned her concerns to a friend, who asked her why she didn't just tell the bus driver where she was going and ask him/her to tell her when she needed to get off. <i>Oh, right. I can do that here. </i>Needless to say, this has changed everything.</li>
<li><b>The opportunity to learn new words presents itself regularly: </b>For example, at MsC's last choir practice, she was informed that one of the directors would not be there because he had the 'lurgy.' As it turns out, having the 'lurgy' is a sort of a general term for 'being ill with whatever prevailing bug or virus is going around' similar to what MsC's mother refers to as having 'the crud.' This reminded MsC of her move to Kentucky, when she learned that the word 'puny' could be used to describe someone who wasn't feeling well, as in, "John's puny, he won't be at choir practice tonight.' Since MsC had only previously used the word 'puny' in its most narrow dictionary definition (<i>small and insignificant) </i>she was charmed by this, adopted it immediately, and continues to use it to this day (although she always has to explain herself if she uses it with anyone but her immediate family or Kentuckians.) She is similarly charmed by 'lurgy' and has plans to take it back with her and introduce it into North American vernacular. You're welcome. Other words that have now transitioned from her passive to active vocabulary include: <i>hob</i> (stovetop), <i>till</i> (cash register/checkout), and <i>take-away (</i>carryout). </li>
<li><b>Delightful surprise: driving is mostly polite and orderly: </b>Keeping in mind that the AsiaVus are coming from nearly 4 years of the hurly-burly that is Driving in Seoul, their experience in the UK has been an absolute pleasure. <b> </b>MsC and MrL rented ('hired') a car last weekend and - once MsC stopped panicking at every.single.roundabout ('traffic circle' or 'rotary' to N.American readers) - were pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to drive here. No one beeps their horn, no one tailgates aggressively if they feel one is driving too slowly, no one drives aggressively past one and cuts them off. To the contrary, there is an incredible amount of friendly gesturing, allowing drivers to get into a line across traffic, and extremely orderly merging (even in the parking lot at the mall - <i>the mall, people.) </i>Navigating down a narrow street in a small village with cars parked on either side and not enough room for 2 cars abreast? No worries, mate. Your friendly English driver will pull courteously into the nearest space on the side of the street and gesture kindly for you to go on by. And when MrL, upon spotting an oncoming ambulance - siren wailing, lights flashing - pulled compliantly over to the side of the road, the <i>ambulance</i> <i>driver waved a 'thanks' as he passed.</i> </li>
<li><b>Everyone wants to know your title: <i>(</i></b><i>This could become a very compelling discussion about cultural bias, the notion of social class, and some of the differences between Americans and their English cousins, but MsC is fairly certain she is the only one who would find it interesting, so she will just say that she finds it an intriguing reminder of one of the lingering contrasts between the two cultures.</i>) From your bank account to your Boots (<i>that's Walgreens to us North Americans</i>) Loyalty card, every form you fill out will start out by asking you what your title is. In the US, this is almost always an <b>optional</b> frill, mostly for people who have titles which indicate a specialized calling, (<i>Dr., Rev.) </i> or who have worked for an advanced degree <i>(PhD, JD.) </i>It is also important if you're in the military, but not in the greater population, since Safeway couldn't care less if you were or a Corporal or a General. While there are certainly plenty of people with titles floating around in the US, in this one small way, American culture remains true (on paper, at least) to the notion that Everyone Is Equal To Everyone Else. While some Americans do, in fact, have titles, they aren't considered important enough to worry about on a computer form, and are almost always optional: no one really cares if I am 'Ms' or 'Mrs.' anyway. That is not the case in England, at least on forms. Before they even ask me my name, it is absolutely vital for the computer program to know whether I am a <i>Mrs</i>., a <i>Ms</i>, a <i>Sir</i>, a <i>Lady</i>,<i> a Dr., a Reverend</i>,or an <i>Esquire (I'm sure there are more, I've just never looked at the list beyond 'Ms.")</i> And this is not an <b>option</b>, it's got to be filled out - MsCaroline has personal experience with this - or else the form won't process. What's even more interesting to MsC is that, while Titles Are Important, not all of them are used in speaking anyway, which means that the person who removes your appendix is called, "<b>Mr.</b> Jekyll" by everyone who addresses him - but MsCaroline assumes that <i>his</i> Boots card reads '<b>Dr. </b>Jekyll." Conversely, in the US, one would most certainly address one's doctor as 'Dr. Jekyll' and his Walgreens card probably just reads, 'Robert Jekyll.' Interesting stuff, culture. </li>
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MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-49435776878711250242015-01-30T13:48:00.002+00:002015-01-30T13:48:28.502+00:00Moving Chronicles: Seoul to Bristol: Househunting, UK-Style<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>MsCaroline is going to have to brush up on her geometric boxwood-trimming skills.</i></td></tr>
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For those of you who are not MsCaroline's FaceBook friends, today's post is a follow-up to a comment she made in her last post: The AsiaVus have Found A House. It is not located in Bristol, but in a nearby city that MsCaroline will not identify in case of stalkers and weirdos, so she will only tell you that it is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and it rhymes with 'path.' Sorry that she can't be more specific.</div>
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It will hold their furniture (barely.) And yes, they can bring the dog.</div>
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Those are, actually, the 2 most important things. The rest, as they say, is just details. Nonetheless, MsC is pretty pleased, because, for a while there, she was despairing of ever even finding a dwelling that met her requirements, which were, she felt, fairly straightforward:</div>
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<li><i>Somewhere that allowed dogs</i></li>
<li><i>Somewhere that was close to transportation links and a reasonably short commute for MrL </i></li>
<li><i>Somewhere within walking distance of shops (groceries, pharmacy, pub, dry cleaners, coffee)</i></li>
<li><i>Somewhere with at least 3 bedrooms that would hold all their furniture that had been shipped from Korea (keep in mind that approximately 8000 lbs of their belongings had been left in storage in the US, so it wasn't like they had shipped that much anyway)</i></li>
<li><i>Somewhere with more than one bathroom</i></li>
<li><i>Somewhere that fit their budget</i></li>
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It did not take much research for MsC to figure out that numbers 1 and 5 were clearly going to be the most problematic, and that the rest of them weren't going to be a walk in the park, either, given that Bristol is, according to her realtor, "the hottest market in Britain at the moment," meaning that properties are snapped up before they even get on the market.</div>
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As she has mentioned previously, for all the fact that the UK is clearly one of the most dog-friendly countries on earth, it is also, inexplicably, one of the most difficult places to find pet-friendly rental property that MsCaroline has ever run across. It is also (apparently) unheard-of to have a dog (no matter how small) in a flat of any kind(at least, in this area), unless it is a garden flat, and even those were iffy, which left Houses Only, which knocked out most of the contenders in the parts of town where they wished to live.</div>
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As far as bathrooms go, well, MsC understands that things are a bit different in the US. She also understands that if you are going to be living in a dwelling that was built before the advent of modern plumbing, you cannot expect to have nearly as many bathrooms as you would in a more recently-built dwelling. However, MsCaroline is still scratching her head over the tendencies of landlords here to put one large luxurious bathroom into a house rather than two less-grandiose ones(which clearly would fit in the same space.) She cannot tell you how many properties she looked at that boasted one lone, enormous bathroom that looked like something out of a spa - but that was it. What she could <i>not </i>grasp was sharing a 1-bathroom dwelling with her husband and two sons (particularly during their early adolescence, when they suddenly became very hygiene-conscious and spent <i>ages</i> in there.) For this reason, she always marveled at the real estate descriptions describing a 'perfect family house' containing 4 bedrooms, a conservatory, and exactly <i>one</i> toilet. (MsCaroline may have misplaced priorities, but she thinks that she would rather have a second bathroom than a conservatory. But this is probably part of why it is so broadening for one to experience different cultures.) </div>
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Many of them did not even include the mysterious <i>cloakroom</i>, which - MsC finally learned- is the American equivalent of <i>powder room -</i> toilet and sink -but it took her quite a while to figure out that they weren't referring to coat closets. </div>
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While MsCaroline considers herself a well-traveled, fairly enlightened person who is (mostly) free from narrow cultural constructs, she has to admit that the one bathroom issue was the most difficult to get over. No closets? Fine. Small rooms? Cozy. Washing machine in the kitchen? Convenient. But one bathroom? argh.</div>
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Fortunately for her, the house they have rented has not one, not two, but THREE toilets (1 bathroom, 1 'shower room' (ie, no tub) and one loo-under-the-stairs), which was one of its major selling points, along with permission to have the dog. In fact, those were pretty much the main reasons they put down a deposit on it so quickly - well, that, and the fact that the attic had been turned into a giant 4th bedroom loft that would hold #2 and all of his paraphernalia. But MsCaroline digresses.<br />
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So, yes, the decision was made quite rapidly. The actual process of finding the house, however, was very slow. While MsCaroline actually only viewed one or two properties in person (they were usually gone before she could get there), she spent hours poring over online real estate, learning an entirely new language, and discovering just how challenging it was going to be to even <i>find</i> a dwelling that met all her picky particulars, much less get in to view it before it was snapped up by a competitor. By the time she did find one, she was almost ready to put a deposit down, sight unseen.</div>
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A typical description, which would fill her heart with hope (quickly followed by despair) read as follows:</div>
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<i>Spacious character home located in sought-after neighbourhood of Adorable Quaintness; this charming Victorian home features 4 bedrooms (2 doubles, 1 good-sized single, and 1 smaller single suitable for a study or nursery), 3 receptions, double-glazing, a fitted kitchen with gas hob and electric oven, all white goods and a sunny conservatory. The spacious family bathroom has been remodeled to the highest standard and contains a 4-piece white suite including a separate shower cubicle. Parking is available through the residential parking scheme. This desirable property is located just minutes away from the shops, restaurants, and pubs of Lovely Historic Market High Street and offers excellent transit connections. Spacious front and rear gardens. An ideal family home! Viewings are highly recommended, as this property is expected to go quickly!</i></div>
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<i>What you may not like:</i></div>
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<i>No pets,</i></div>
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<i>No smokers</i></div>
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<i>No unemployed</i></div>
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And now, the American English translation: </div>
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<i>This is an adorable and charming historic home that is exactly what you Americans think of when you imagine yourself moving to England. It is located in an awesome neighborhood with all the charming details you would expect in an English Victorian home. It has 4 bedrooms, 2 of which will hold double beds but not much else, (certainly not your ludicrously oversized American King-sized bed which you should have known better than to ship overseas anyway,) 1 of which will hold a twin bed, and one of which may or may not hold a twin bed, depending on whether or not you care to put other furniture in it, but either way, it's going to be tight. None of them have closets, so be sure to plan a trip to Ikea to buy some wardrobes very soon. The house has a living room, a dining room, and a room that might be used as a TV room or study ('reception'= rooms you would have company in. MsC feels that, theoretically, 'reception' really should include the kitchen, because in an American home, that's where all the company ends up anyway, but maybe this is not an English thing. She will likely find out pretty soon.) The windows are double-glazed, and this is important because it will keep you warmer, and is also a good indicator that the landlord takes pretty good care of the property. It has a kitchen with appliances, (not all of them come with appliances, so this is actually important to pay attention to) The cooktop is gas. There is a conservatory (eg, 'Florida room'/glassed-in porch) off the kitchen. There is one huge, remodeled bathroom, and it is <b>really</b> nice. There is no parking for this house (no driveway or garage), but you can pay an extra monthly fee for a neighborhood parking permit to jockey with all the other neighbors for a parking spot on the street if you can find one. There are lovely front and rear gardens, which you will need to keep up, since all the gardens in this road are incredibly lovely and you will not want to be the only one without a gorgeous garden. This house is within walking distance to everything worth going to, which is why you will not mind having 1 bathroom and no driveway or garage. This is an excellent house, and by the time you call your realtor, it will be rented, but thanks for reading this anyway. Also, because this house is so obviously perfect for you, we will not let you have a dog in it, but we waited to tell you that until the end of the description (MsCaroline quickly learned to scroll down and look for the 'no pets' warning before even starting to read, just to avoid all the soul-sucking disappointment.) </i></div>
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Add to all that the smoking-hot real estate market, and it meant that, as soon as MsC and MrL saw a house that would even vaguely meet their budget and requirements, they would have to put a deposit on it immediately. So it came to pass that MsC and MrL viewed exactly 2 and a half (the half was one they approached and dismissed based on neighborhood before they even went in) properties before making a decision.</div>
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So the offer was made - and accepted - and now they just have to wait until March, when they can move in.</div>
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As it the case in every home one buys or lives in, there are always pluses and minuses: in addition to its toilets and pet-friendly lease, the house has the coveted 4th bedroom that the Asia Vus had hoped for, although it doesn't have parking and is a longer commute than MrL would have preferred. It's a bit farther away from the city centre than they would have liked, and there has been some <strike>heated</strike> debate about where all the furniture will go (thank God for the garage, which is too small for a car but provides some badly-needed storage.) They are also not looking forward to waiting until March to move in, which means another 5 weeks in the tiny and cramped serviced apartment.</div>
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But really - MsCaroline is just relieved that they found something that will work, in a nice neighborhood, and she's looking forward to living in a real home - not a temporary apartment - again soon. She's looking forward to family dinners, strolling to the pub at the end of her street, digging in her own garden, and having her own books and art, her own cookware, cajun seasoning, and her own pillows again.</div>
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Most of all, she can't wait for this:</div>
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March can't come soon enough. </div>
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MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-45978561339267891332015-01-28T09:50:00.000+00:002015-01-28T09:53:59.331+00:00Moving Chronicles: Seoul to Bristol: Making Adjustments<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>MrL and MsC in front of the S.S. Great Britain, and, yes, it was cold.</i></td></tr>
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After almost a month in the UK, readers will be relieved to know that MsCaroline is starting to feel <a href="http://www.asiavufullcircle.blogspot.kr/2015/01/moving-chronicles-seoul-to-bristol-on.html">less stupid,</a> although it is clear that she still has a significant learning curve ahead of her. <br />
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She has learned how to take the bus and the train, can hold her own in a conversation that begins with,<i> 'Alright?' </i>and has (almost) got to the point where she can fill her phone number in on a form without having to look it up (always embarrassing.) She knows to ask for a 'return' ticket instead of 'round trip,' and as far as money goes, she can now confidently and quickly identify £1, £2, 20p, and 50p coins without having to hold them up to the light and squint at them (she is still working on the others.)<br />
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Her daily life has changed in a number of other ways, of course, and - just as it did in Korea - it simply <i>happened, </i>without her giving it much thought, because there really was No Other Option than to Make Adjustments.<br />
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MsC, being the <strike>lazy</strike> reflective type, has given this some thought, and has come up with the following observations about her new reality and daily life in the UK, which should be filed under the heading, Things She Does Differently Now:<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">She is <strike>paranoid</strike> extremely cautious when crossing the street: </i>Not to say that she was ever a careless street crosser, especially in Seoul. The problem now is that she is <i>never sure where traffic is going to be coming from. </i>Yes, she looks both ways, but what really messes with her mind is never being able to anticipate what stopped traffic is going to do. In other countries, one looks at traffic and can anticipate what will happen <i>OK, these cars are able to turn right on red, so they may well turn into me if I step out into the crossing; </i>or, <i>That is a left turn signal, it means cars will be going away from me, and I can go. </i>The problem is, having to reverse 30+ years of driving instincts is incredibly difficult, especially for someone like MsC, who always failed the spatial relations parts of IQ tests. Suddenly having to flip everything around in your mind is bad enough, but the fact that roughly half of the streets in Bristol are One Way means that, even if one remembers that the traffic patterns are reversed, one <i>might</i> need to be looking the other way anyway. (MsCaroline knows for sure that she is not the only one who struggles with this, and submits as evidence the fact that, on many one-way streets, the words <i>Look Right </i>or <i>Look Left</i> are painted right onto the asphalt.) But all of this still means that she goes through a huge number of mental gymnastics, traffic pattern analysis, and a certain amount of anxiety whenever she approaches a zebra (pedestrian) crossing. For this reason, she strives to walk closely behind groups of confident-looking Britons, who seem to all have a fine-tuned instinct for where to go (and when) without any hesitation.<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">She goes shopping every.single.day. </i>Part of this is the fact that she is living in a serviced apartment without any of her own things, and a minimum of usable cookware (not to mention no cajun seasoning.) Part of this is that going to the grocery store in the UK is pretty much one of the most pleasurable things she has ever done. Part of this is that she has no car and must carry everything she buys with her. And of course, part of this is the fact that this has been her entire refrigerator since 2nd January (and will continue to be, until early March:) <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yes, the top shelf is mostly MrL's beer.</i></td></tr>
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Now, MsC totally gets that most Americans are spoiled with lots of space and giant refrigerators, not to mention tons of preservative-laden food that will keep for ages. She also gets that she could be more efficient in her space management. But she is still working on her mindset, and it has been a challenge to work with a fridge that is not much bigger than what she would expect to find in a dorm room. (She should hasten to add that the freezer, which is next to the fridge, is the same size, which would be a definite plus, were she ever thinking ahead at all and buying frozen food.) It should also be pointed out that everything in the grocery stores comes in very compact sizes anyway, since everyone's used to dealing with space restrictions; everything one buys is the size of what would be found in America in, say, a campground grocery store. What this means is that, even if MsCaroline <i>were</i> to have an American-sized fridge, she'd have to go to the store every few days <i>anyway</i> to replace everything that was running out. As evidence, allow her to present her eggs:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>MsCaroline has provided this coffee cup for scale; also because the cup is pretty awesome.</i></td></tr>
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Astute readers will notice immediately that this is not the typical, long, dozen-egg carton that one finds in every grocery store in the US - and no, MsCaroline did not pick up the little box because of her space limitations. She picked it up (off the shelf, not from the refrigerator case, by the way) <i>because this is the only size you can buy</i> (at least in the stores she has been in.) That's it. Six at a time, please. And lots of other things are similarly sized for maximum space efficiency. Peanut butter, for example, comes in tiny jars about the size you buy bouillon cubes in in the US; even soy sauce comes in smallish bottles (think aspirin size) instead of the giant Kikkoman vat like MsC is used to having in her cupboard.<br />
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Of course, it should also be noted that the eggs, purchased at a corner grocery store (only slightly larger than an average 7-11 in the US) are <i>free-range. </i>In fact, <i>the</i> <i>only eggs available are free-range. In the corner grocery store. Pretty amazing, huh?</i><br />
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So, while it has been an adjustment, MsCaroline is not complaining about the sizes of anything. Not one bit. <br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">She does laundry <strike>constantly</strike> much more frequently: </i>Long-time readers may remember that, when MsCaroline first moved to Seoul, she had to <a href="http://asiavufullcircle.blogspot.co.uk/2011/06/all-that-glitters.html">make some adjustments to her laundry routine</a>, due to the popularity of the space-saving washer/dryer combo in many Korean apartments. However, as soon as she moved into a permanent dwelling, this was rectified very quickly by the installation of a heavy-duty, <a href="http://asiavufullcircle.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/welcome-to-land-of-gadget.html">US-style dryer.</a><br />
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This however, is not an option here in England in the serviced apartment where the Asia Vus will be staying for at least the next 6 weeks; it is also unlikely that a US-sized dryer will be an option in their rental house (<i>yes, they finally found one, and, yes, the dog can come, but they can't move in until early March; details coming soon.</i>) So, at the moment, MsC is trying to keep up with the laundry using a machine that holds the equivalent of about 4 t-shirts in each load. And each load, of course, takes about 90 minutes just to wash - and much more than that to dry.<br />
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As it turns out, most of the dryers in the UK are not the vented sort of dryer that most Americans are used to; they are more typically a type of dryer called a 'condensing' dryer, which does not require venting. This is actually much more practical because many older buildings simply don't have windows in the right places to provide adequate ventilation for a typical vented dryer. Of course, it takes longer to dry things via condensing than it does just by blasting hot air on them, but everyone here is used to this (much as they were in Korea) and takes it in stride. Besides that, many people in the UK (and Europe) prefer to drip-dry or line-dry their clothes, either on a clothesline outdoors, or a drying rack indoors. This is due to both economical reasons (electricity is expensive,) environmental reasons (less energy) and does, of course, result in less wear-and-tear on the clothes. So the only people who seem to be struggling with the laundry situation are spoiled North Americans like MsC, who is determined not to whine <strike>once she finishes writing this post.</strike><br />
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Now MsCaroline loves the environment and economy as much as the next person, and she is getting used to seeing this first thing when she walks in the door of her apartment: <br />
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What she is not getting used to is <i>the ironing. The ironing.</i><br />
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In case you <strike>are like MsCaroline</strike> did not already know this, she would like to share an important piece of information with you: <i>when you hang clothes to dry</i>, <i>they mostly dry wrinkly. </i><br />
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Even if you put them in your condensing dryer and <strike>ruin the environment and spend a million dollars on energy</strike> let them spin for the <strike>several hours</strike> longish time it takes for them to get really dry - and you snatch them right out of the dryer while they are still hot - they still do not come out wrinkle-free like one would expect. (Or, rather, like a person used to doing laundry American-style would expect. ) <br />
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Oh, MsCaroline trotted herself off to the dry cleaners the first week here (MrL goes through 5 dress shirts a week and <i>she</i> was certainly not planning to iron them all) but they didn't use enough starch (MrL likes them to make a cracking sound when he puts them on) and, frankly, their ironing job wasn't that great, considering the price she paid. So, she reasoned, since she is unemployed at the moment without a house to take care of, she might as well iron the shirts herself. How long could it take?<br />
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Let her tell you: it can take a <i>long</i> time. Especially if you have not ironed in a long time. Even more if you are dumb enough to let the shirts dry completely before you start ironing them. <br />
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So MsC is learning. Learning to take the shirts out and iron them when they are damp. Learning that it's pointless to put the ironing board away because it will just come right back out within a few hours. Learning that a well-designed ironing board can make a huge difference in the rate at which you iron (and, conversely, that a crap one will make you want to throw the iron across the room.)<br />
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But she is definitely not complaining, because every single day, she sees things like this:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bath Abbey</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Philip and St. Jacob Church, Bristol</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Mary Redcliffe church, Bristol</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Llandoger Trow pub/restaurant, Bristol</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJcVQEhixL9BB9duu7qx9kLE6Ck3TL5kvnpKWARU5dZC5iP2xSK8BAFr-aP37fwTVLUDtW2PitpTo9gumZlfETgYBYpSa02is7GZBxbsmF8gw8aIS-yBhykCQ-Mz4bCXxYIytDbAf_hDa/s1600/teas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJcVQEhixL9BB9duu7qx9kLE6Ck3TL5kvnpKWARU5dZC5iP2xSK8BAFr-aP37fwTVLUDtW2PitpTo9gumZlfETgYBYpSa02is7GZBxbsmF8gw8aIS-yBhykCQ-Mz4bCXxYIytDbAf_hDa/s1600/teas.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">tea in Bath</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiohgBXNbcV1rGI5Sh4dpblJwUU6SStOSm-NYPD-PzInA6CkkEh6u1eBLtI4tXF2ecAgV7CkVh7Y_paCChmVfrT3aor42CtUQq8BWoczDzcTCNkk_rcPndNq4LFUI_3NG1YMj62m991brwR/s1600/york.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiohgBXNbcV1rGI5Sh4dpblJwUU6SStOSm-NYPD-PzInA6CkkEh6u1eBLtI4tXF2ecAgV7CkVh7Y_paCChmVfrT3aor42CtUQq8BWoczDzcTCNkk_rcPndNq4LFUI_3NG1YMj62m991brwR/s1600/york.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">York Street, Bath</td></tr>
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And, surely, that's worth making a few adjustments for.<br />
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<br />MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-61848085947732105772015-01-22T10:48:00.001+00:002015-01-22T10:48:09.544+00:00Moving Chronicles: Seoul to Bristol: On Feeling Stupid<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning practice on the River Avon in front of MsCaroline's (temporary) apartment. </td></tr>
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So, after 3 weeks of silence, MsCaroline has finally managed to find some time to do a little updating and let her readers know how she is adjusting to Life in the UK. <br />
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So far, so good. The AsiaVus are comfortably ensconced in a small temporary accommodation on the River Avon (I know, aren't we lucky?) where they will stay until they move into their actual dwelling with all of their possessions (and the dog) sometime around the beginning of March. MrL is taking the train to work every day, trying to get up to speed at the new job, and remembering to spell words like, 'organise' and 'defence' correctly. MsCaroline is lucky enough to have some other partners of MrLogical's co-workers here in Bristol as well, and they are all sharing the learning curve together. #2 has hit the ground running. He has organized an unpaid internship at a local art gallery for himself, applied for several barista jobs, and traveled twice to Cardiff (to visit a friend at Uni there.)<br />
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Obviously, the enormous language barrier that existed in Korea is not actually a problem here. And really - all the 'separated by a common language' jokes notwithstanding - MsCaroline hasn't had any silly misunderstandings yet, like asking for 'pants' when she means 'trousers' (hearty laughs all round) or using the word 'fanny' (not part of MsC's standard lexicon in either English) to the consternation of all and sundry. (US readers who don't know what I'm talking about, click <a href="http://www.thefreedictionary.com/fanny">here.</a>)<br />
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In some ways, MsC feels that it might actually have been easier to move to the UK directly from the US, instead of coming from Korea, because she is still adjusting to Not Being In Korea at the same time she is adjusting to Being in the UK, and that has been a bit of a surprise. A few observations:<br />
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<li><b style="font-style: italic;">Not looking different: </b>In Korea, one is immediately recognized as a foreigner; everyone understands that you're Not From Here, and braces themselves for stupid behavior accordingly. No one expects you to be able to speak the language, no one expects you to know the customs, no one expects you to know what you're doing - and (Koreans being Koreans) most of the time, people will leap to help you (even when you don't need it.) Here in the UK, though, MsCaroline does not look appreciably different from anyone else (except shorter, fatter, and less chic), and - until she opens her mouth - it is simple enough for everyone to assume that she is a local who Knows What She is Doing. This also means that, when MsCaroline does dumb things, she just looks Stupid, instead of like an Exotic Foreigner Who Does Not Know English Ways. For example: upon entering a pub, one always places orders at the bar. Even if the pub is huge and looks like a proper restaurant. Even if there are wait staff walking around the tables delivering food, and even if there are menus on the table. What one does <i>not</i> do in a pub is sit down at the table and wait expectantly for someone to take one's order, because it will never happen, no matter how long one sits there waiting. Do not ask me how I know this. </li>
<li><b style="font-style: italic;">Not knowing the customs: </b>Let MsCaroline preface this comment by saying that, before she moved to Korea, she never traveled by bus. Subway, yes, but bus, no. In Korea, however, she took the bus all the time and found it to be fast and efficient. When she got to Bristol and noted the extensive bus system, then, she was a confident bus rider and ready to take advantage of a cheap and convenient public transport system in which she had the advantage of being able to understand everything she read. What she did not know(but should have realized, duh), however, was that buses in Bristol (she cannot speak for the rest of the UK) are somewhat different than buses in Korea, particularly with regards to stopping. In Korea, if a bus is supposed to stop at, say, Bus Stop #2, <i>it stops there.</i> Whether or not anyone needs to get off, and whether or not there is a person waiting at the stop (granted, the 'stopping' might be more of a 'slowing' but a token attempt is made.) And if a person is waiting at the stop, the bus <i>always</i> stops. If it happens that several buses serve the same stop and the person is waiting for a different bus, well, no harm done. The driver closes the door and drives on. But - and this is key -<i>if a person is waiting at the bus stop, the <b>bus stops</b>. </i>This is not, however, the case in Bristol, which is how it came to pass that, on one particular day, MsCaroline stood at a bus stop in Bristol for approximately 20 minutes while no fewer than 10 buses whizzed right by her, not so much as even slowing down, while she became more and more embarrassed and confused. She even went so far as to search the bus stop for some sort of button or light to activate. But it never <i>once </i>occurred to her to stick her hand out and hail the bus as you would a taxi. So, she walked, and it was a refreshing and lovely walk indeed. And when she went home later on, she watched <a href="http://www.firstgroup.com/ukbus/bristol_bath/bus_access/how_to_catch_the_bus/">this video,</a> which she probably should have done in the first place. And now she knows. </li>
<li><i style="font-weight: bold;">Not Knowing the money: </i>Yes, yes, MsCaroline understands that it's pounds and pence here; that's not the issue. The issue is, the <i style="font-weight: bold;">coins. </i>First of all, MsC did not realize that there is a pound <i style="font-weight: bold;">coin. </i>This is not like a US silver dollar or Susan B. Anthony thing - sort of largeish and weighty, sending the message, "Hey! I am pretty valuable!" The pound coin is heavy, but smallish - sort of the size of a US nickel - and really unassuming, except for its goldish color. As a result, one fails to realize that it's worth a lot of money (comparatively.) The first thing MsC bought was an umbrella<i> (yes, MsC moved to the UK without one like an idiot, but in her defense, she was rushing at the end there)</i> which cost £6. She handed over £10, and was given a handful of coins, which her American mind immediately calculated to be the change left over from the cost of the umbrellas plus tax(which is already added in the UK, like in Korea and most of Europe, not tacked on extra like in the US, but she was not thinking clearly.) She continued to wait <strike>stupidly</strike>expectantly for the bills to be handed over, which, of course, did not happen. Only when she looked at the coins in her hand, did she realize that she'd been given 4 £1 <i>coins</i>, which was, of course, the correct change. She is still getting used to this. It also does not help that the coins you would expect to be more valuable tend to be less valuable (have you ever seen a 2p coin? It's <i>huge!) </i>and vice versa. It also doesn't help that MsCaroline's aging eyes cannot always see the (very faint) print on the coins telling her what they are worth - especially since she is often in <strike>pubs</strike>dimly lit places when she's trying to deal with these coins. It's very humbling. She has finally resorted to taking out her money at home, figuring out what it is worth, and memorizing its sizes and shapes (big silver polygon=50p; tiny silver polygon=20p; multicolored large circle- £2, etc.) so as not to embarrass herself quite as often. </li>
<li><i style="font-weight: bold;">Understanding the language, but not the customs: </i>MsC is still trying to figure out how to respond to, "Alright?" For my non-UK readers, "Alright?" is used as a sort of a greeting in the UK, but MsC (despite intense observation and careful listening) has not figured out how to respond properly to someone who says, "Alright, MsCaroline?" or just, "Alright?" Usually, she is paralyzed by indecision: <i>What do I say? "Yes, I'm alright?" or, "Fine, Bob, and you?" or should I use it back at them, like 'Hi': "Alright, MsCaroline?" "Alright, Bob?" </i>When MsC first arrived, she thought that she somehow appeared to be unwell, and people were concerned about her. In the US, if MsC were to ask someone if they were 'alright' it would indicate that the other person looked ill or upset and MsC was inquiring about their state of being. Here, though (and maybe this is a Bristol thing, MsC has no idea) 'Alright?' is clearly a greeting. The problem is, MsC just has no idea as to what the correct response would be. She has settled for a kind smile and nod combined with an unintelligible mumble, hoping that the other person will hear what they expect to hear and let her off the hook. She would greatly appreciate direction from anyone who can tell her what she should be saying. She is pleased to report, however, that she is doing better with, '<i>Cheers' </i>or <i>'Cheers, mate' </i>which is clearly a farewell and not a toast.</li>
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<br />MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551977354338403876.post-30734877840477157462015-01-07T09:46:00.005+00:002015-01-08T06:51:27.120+00:00Moving Chronicles: Seoul to Bristol: The Final Weeks<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSTZTqPGzXrUSAvm7K1bMBvxpmhUgChCdvk3WcRVRC9yhzWurGgCuMmrqvt5YlkWia3J2SIRhFY_lO97Ps8o0bgIvpDkn81W78LcvlA2h68bjdQpGMH8X4-5CSCrMMxFgw755r7YyDNzar/s1600/10808828_708297169244678_849774949_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSTZTqPGzXrUSAvm7K1bMBvxpmhUgChCdvk3WcRVRC9yhzWurGgCuMmrqvt5YlkWia3J2SIRhFY_lO97Ps8o0bgIvpDkn81W78LcvlA2h68bjdQpGMH8X4-5CSCrMMxFgw755r7YyDNzar/s1600/10808828_708297169244678_849774949_n.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>MsCaroline, MrL, and friend J in the <strike>guest bedroom</strike> holiday/farewell party photobooth</i><br />
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Those of you who are still reading this blog have probably guessed by now that MsCaroline and Co have finished all the confusion of packing and moving and tying up loose ends and are now more or less settled in a serviced apartment somewhere in Bristol, trying to get over jet lag.<br />
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MsCaroline, who has been in the UK for approximately 3.75 days, has plenty of insightful observations to make about life in Bristol, which she will share with you in due course. However, she feels that she owes her readers at least a few highlights from the last 6 whirlwind weeks of life in Seoul. <br />
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<i>(But she will just say this before she moves on: English grocery stores: Oh. My. God. One would never be able to walk into an express corner grocery store in the USA- and in many cases, a regular grocery store - and buy a dozen free-range eggs, fresh green curry, and almond milk. She has been to Tesco or Sainsbury's every day - sometimes twice - and still cannot get over what you can find in these stores. She is not sure she will survive a trip to Waitrose.)</i><br />
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We all realize that it is impossible for MsCaroline to ever relate all that has taken place in the last 6 weeks, and she is not even going to try. She will provide you, instead, with a few highlights which will somehow have to suffice.<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Early December: </i>Due to the <strike>impossibility </strike>difficulty of moving a student from an American IB curriculum to an English IB curriculum in the <i>very last semester </i>of school, the decision is taken (by #2 himself) to do the extra work required to graduate early from his school in Seoul. His fabulous, supportive, and wonderful international school in Seoul facilitates all of this (although #2 himself was the one who took on the not inconsiderable extra workload with grace, good cheer, and a wonderfully positive attitude) and even provides a 'Graduation-for-One' ceremony on the last day of school at the final winter assembly. #2 has the very unique experience of graduating alone in front of the entire student body (and his parents, of course) and makes an articulate, moving, and creditable speech which MsCaroline does not remember because she is concentrating so hard on not falling apart(thank God for video). The most heartwarming moment of the whole thing takes place when he moves his tassel and the audience of his peers bursts into a roar of applause and cheers (at that point, there is no hope for MsCaroline, who just pulls out the Kleenex and tries to work on damage control.) The ceremony is followed by a reception for #2 and the entire senior class, Head of School, and faculty members. It is a happy, happy day. There are many photos taken, but this selfie probably sums it up best:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>High School (Honors) Graduate #2 (yes, MsC is bragging. She is not apologizing.)</i></td></tr>
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Mid- December: </i>Having wrapped up their work obligations (MsC is not going to even talk about how <strike>heartwrenching</strike> difficult it was to say goodbye to her students and colleagues. You'll have to use your imagination) MsCaroline and MrL throw a combination farewell/holiday Open House in an attempt to both say farewell to friends and also use up as much of their liquor cabinet as possible (shipping the stuff would incur heinous duty taxes - besides, it's always good to have a challenge.) Copying an idea from #2 (who had done it at his birthday party last year) they decide to set up a DIY photo booth, complete with studio lights (nice to have a photographer for a son), a remote to control the camera, and whiteboards for writing messages. The resulting selfies are a priceless (and hilarious, as the night went on) memento (see example above.)<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Mid-December: </i>Having recently celebrated a 'milestone birthday,' and reasoning that landing in England and immediately trying to track down a doctor would add an unnecessary level of confusion to an already-challenging situation, MsCaroline decides to undergo a series of routine medical screening tests 3 weeks before leaving the country at her local hospital (she will describe the whole experience in a future post, because this paragraph will not in any way do the experience full justice.) These are the sorts of tests that require a certain amount of fasting and other unpleasant preparations, but MsCaroline goes into the whole thing gamely, primarily because she is aware that she will be unconscious for most of it. This is, in fact, true, although, due to unforeseen circumstances, she is required afterwards to spend the night in a Korean hospital, during which time she is not only fully conscious, but also connected to an IV, not permitted to eat or drink, and (not surprisingly, under these conditions) unable to sleep. Needless to say, when she is finally released the following afternoon, she goes straight to bed and stays there for about 24 hours. (<i>Note: there was really no cause for concern; it is just that Korean hospitals are far more conservative than Western ones and require hospital stays after even the most routine and minor procedures. MsCaroline reflected on this bitterly more than once, realizing that, had she had this test in the US, she would have been at home, eating chicken noodle soup and toast and lying on the sofa with the dog, rather than lying all night long connected to an IV on a (very hard) bed in a Korean hospital.) For those of you who are concerned about MsC's well-being, have no fear: all is well and MsCaroline has a clean bill of health - and a newfound appreciation for the western hospital system.)</i><br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Mid-to-late-December: </i>#1 arrives to enjoy his last Christmas and New Year's in Seoul. Much celebrating is done:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Heading out for a Christmas Eve Dinner at the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/LibertineSeoul">Libertine</a> in Itaewon.</i></td></tr>
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and Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are lovely. On the 26th, however, the entire family awakenswith varying degrees of debilitation due to what they soon realize is a case of stomach flu which means that they lose almost 2 full days' worth of sightseeing and (even more importantly) preparing for the packers, who arrive on the 29th. MsCaroline and MrL - already somewhat weakened from their bout with the flu - engage in their traditional pre-move bickering, during which both of them remember with great bitterness just how unpleasant it is to inventory every.single.item.in.the.apartment.and.write.it.on.the.provided.form. After the packers leave and they are all settled in the hotel, they once again return to their normal state of mutual admiration and great goodwill, heightened by: 1) a bottle of wine, and 2) the knowledge that they - and their marriage - have survived yet another moving inventory. <br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Late December: </i>In the midst of the stomach flu, MsC receives a frantic and unintelligible phone call from her sweet Philippine housekeeper, who, it transpires, has been apprehended by the Immigration Police and is in jail, awaiting deportation. Since MsCaroline is: a) unaware that her housekeeper was in the country illegally and b) has no experience with either Korean jails or the deportation process, it takes a certain amount of time and repetition for her to grasp the situation, compounded by (quite justifiable) hysterics on the part of the housekeeper. The situation, as it turns out, is very straightforward: the housekeeper must remain in jail until she leaves for the Philippines. The catch in all of this is that the housekeeper does not have enough money to pay for an airline ticket, nor do her family in the Philippines. In addition to all of this, due to Christmas and New Year's (both official holidays in Korea) she will be required to stay in jail until the holidays are over and cannot even buy a ticket until January. Eventually, MsCaroline and another one of the housekeepers' employers manage to sort things and arrange for the purchase of the ticket (the housekeeper has worked for them for over 3 years and is a lovely, sweet lady - it is unthinkable that she should just be left in jail.) While MsC is very happy that J's problem is solved, she cannot help but be concerned at the same time with a more selfish issue, namely: Now that J is in jail, who is going to come (at the last minute during the holidays) and do the extensive cleaning of the apartment after the movers leave on the 30th which was arranged weeks ago and which will (obviously) take hours and hours? And is MsCaroline a spoiled, lazy foreigner who is too good to clean her own apartment?(No, she is is a tired foreigner who is happy to pay for it to be done.) This is eventually sorted for them by their realtor, but MsCaroline has a few dark moments before it is all arranged.<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Late December: </i>The AsiaVu's beloved dog, Merlot, is taken to the dogsitter (also quite beloved) and left there with the understanding that she will be flown to England directly the AsiaVus find an accommodation that permits pets. No one discusses the fact that everyone has been extremely pessimistic about the likelihood of finding such (<a href="http://asiavufullcircle.blogspot.co.uk/">this article</a> more or less sums up what they are up against), and instead talks brightly about other things, preferring not to consider what will happen if no pet-friendly dwelling can be found in Bristol. MsCaroline does a lot of looking out the window and sniffing. It is a terribly sad ride, both there and back.<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Late December/Early January: </i>Having finally moved out of the apartment, the Asia Vus head to a hotel in downtown Seoul, where they will stay for the next few days before heading to the airport on the 2nd of January. MsCaroline takes it into her mind that she would like to ring in her last New Year right in downtown Seoul near the <a href="http://english.visitkorea.or.kr/enu/FU/FU_EN_15.jsp?cid=1980967">Bosingak Belfry</a>, which has a Times-Square-like celebration, complete with music, announcers, street bands, and general revelry, culminating with the ringing of the great Bosingak Bell at midnight. Accordingly, she and MrL arrange to meet with friends M and S to have a lovely late dinner (Italian, 5 courses, lots of wine) and then wend their way 20 or 30 minutes before midnight to the Jongak area. This is an excellent plan, except that they have not contended with temperatures hovering not much above 10 deg Fahrenheit/-12C. Although all of them are veterans of Korean winters and are warmly clad, the truth is that standing around outdoors in that temperature for any amount of time is fairly uncomfortable, no matter how much wine you have drunk. By the time the bell starts ringing, MsCaroline can no longer feel her toes, and MrL has completely lost his sense of humor. Nonetheless, they stick it out, and are able to wrap up their time in Seoul with another unique (<i>by 'unique,' I mean 'mildly uncomfortable but mostly worthwhile')</i> experience: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn8cpYlscFVs1mgYtblqMGb-O_WuFZH9SkCSrB9Xsht2YxtHLmCZjdTu6ZtV61AY8hnW8jqHaIgdvNkW0oR2P_lRyulveViI-csdSXVFBxyTx-9TjR7MigyCh2dWRjVr07NAso2vWL5-X5/s1600/New+Year's.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn8cpYlscFVs1mgYtblqMGb-O_WuFZH9SkCSrB9Xsht2YxtHLmCZjdTu6ZtV61AY8hnW8jqHaIgdvNkW0oR2P_lRyulveViI-csdSXVFBxyTx-9TjR7MigyCh2dWRjVr07NAso2vWL5-X5/s1600/New+Year's.jpg" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Waiting for the New Year with friends M and S. MrL claims he was smiling in both of these photos. This may or may not be true.</i></td></tr>
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Early January: </i>We end our nearly 4 years in Seoul in much the way we began it: dinner with friends at that most iconic, delicious, sociable, and friendly Korean institution: the Korean BBQ restaurant. It seems entirely fitting, although terribly bittersweet.<br />
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Goodbye, Korea. We've loved you - and we'll miss you. More than you can know.MsCarolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623997911568143459noreply@blogger.com19