Remember the Fifth of November? Will We Ever!

Remember, remember the fifth of November, Gunpower treason and plot. We see no reason, Why gunpowder treason, Should ever be forgot.

The Fifth of November, aka Guy Fawkes Night, was one of my favourite childhood celebrations, if ‘celebration’ is the right word for remembering an attempt at mass murder of government officials. Slightly disturbing history aside, I loved eating baked potatoes, cooked in the bonfire in the back garden while Dad nailed Catherine wheels to a pole and let off rockets at steady intervals within feet of small children. All the neighbours came over for cocoa and bonfire toffee. The kids ran around with sparklers that imprinted swirly shapes on the retina for hours afterwards. Good times. I was looking forward to this November, my first year back after decades away from my homeland. My family and I would find a community firework display and I’d explain what this quirky British tradition all meant. If I had only known what this November 5th would entail …

Guy Fawkes Night 2020 will go down in infamy as a race against the clock. A holding of breath, an ‘If-this-fails-I-have-no-idea-what-we’ll-do’ sleepless night of tossing and turning. A foreboding sense that we had to get our daughter out of the US before election results, due to the incendiary rhetoric coming out of ‘leadership’ positions. It’s been like watching a Third World country go to the polls and wondering where the UN Peacekeepers are. And our daughter, though a young adult, was in the US alone. Well, not completely alone. Watson, our faithful family dog, was with her. Thank goodness. Maybe all those non-returned calls from pet shipping airlines earlier in the year were for the best. At least my child would have canine protection when the fighting started.

But as a mother, that wasn’t nearly enough consolation. Maybe I was being paranoid. This was America, for goodness sake! America protected democracy around the world, for goodness sake! How could anyone buy into the claims spouted off by one unstable family? How could experienced senators and knowledgeable US citizens allow this to happen? But the reality was, major US cities were boarding up store fronts and some citizens were answering the call to form ‘militias’ to protect (read intimidate) voters. November 3rd was shaping up to be like no other election day in US history. But I can’t worry about that. I focus on getting my dog and my daughter out of harm’s way. It’s no bed of roses in the UK right now either but at least there’s no imminent threat of insurgency to add to the pandemic woes. And at least in the UK we’d all be together as a family.

When I relocated back to the United Kingdom in May, Kerry wasn’t sure she was relocating too. And there were no options for flying Watson. We’d started the process in February, with new microchips and rabies shots, detailed timelines for when each vet check, wormer and certification needed to be complete. Then nothing. Shipping companies stopped calling us back. Airlines weren’t flying pets. If a window opened up, the flight was cancelled last minute. Months and months of fighting ensued to get our dog, and subsequently our daughter, over to the UK. (Because she can’t fly until our dog can or who will play him spa music and massage his temples during the Fourth of July fireworks – which he hates! – and generally spoil him rotten until he can join us?) After much effort, in early November, we think we have Watson’s journey finalised. Until Frankfurt shuts down for pet cargo. Watson is supposed to fly through Frankfurt on his way to Heathrow.  His travel date is moved back two weeks, then three, then no one is sure. But the US election is bearing down on us and we want our family out. Like, NOW.

A phone call and a glimmer of hope. Would we consider a flight to Amsterdam, then a pet transport service driving Watson over to England? Initially we’d said we’d only fly Watson if we were on the same flight and it had to be non-stop to Heathrow to reduce his stress levels. Now, we’re about to commit to a flight, a train ride through the Channel Tunnel and a van driven by strangers! Poor, poor Watson! But what are our choices? None. We grab the November 6th flight, just four days ahead and confirm our daughter’s flight for the day after. She’ll fly once we know Watson’s in the air. We can’t risk having him left alone in the event of another cancellation.

For the next few days we live in hope. We fluff up the dog bed that’s been in storage and fluff up the pillows in our daughter’s room. But COVID isn’t done with us yet. The UK government announces a national lockdown, starting November 5th. Panic again. Will a driver be allowed to travel to Amsterdam to pick up Watson? We’re assured commercial transport will continue, but details are sketchy. Watson’s exact arrival time and pickup point isn’t confirmed and we’ll only have a few hours’ notice. We live a 3.5-hour drive from Heathrow. Can we get a hotel near the airport? Few hotels take large dogs. We finally find one (though Watson’s weight has to decrease significantly on the phone). We’re interrogated by the receptionist as to whether or not our travel is essential. They’re only accepting business travellers. Hubby and I feel like Mary and Joseph knocking on doors, only with Guy Fawkes trailing behind, threatening to blow all our best laid plans to bits.

The election is looming. The current administration continues to incite discord, with threats of violence in pre-emptive strikes against the democratic process. Plans for civil unrest are in the works. My daughter lives in a major city in a swing state. The same state where COVID-19 numbers are out of control and the courts are upholding challenges against measures to control said numbers. The US seems to have abandoned all rationality at a time calm heads, science, and community are needed more than ever.  My heart pounds in my chest with every news report. It’s hard to believe it’s come to this. The America I thought I knew is fading into the mist, but my daughter and my dog are the only things I care about right now. Each day of waiting is torture.

Election Day comes and goes, with all the chaos promised us. But it turns out, a non-concession, no matter how absurd, helps us. There’s no rioting in the streets, just turmoil on our TV screens. The hours creep by until November 5th, the day Watson is to fly. We check the KLM flight schedule every hour. All airlines are cancelling flights with little notice. At last, a positive sign: a text from our daughter to say Watson has just been picked up from her apartment for the drive to Chicago O’Hare Airport. Then, a few photos arrive in my inbox, showing Watson on a walk around the tarmac before boarding the night flight. At last! Wheels up! He’s in the air! My euphoria is quickly replaced by gut-wrenching guilt that he’s going through this alone. I had promised him I’d be on the same flight. He remembers these things. He bears a grudge. He’s like a cat in that regard.

We won’t hear more of Watson’s progress until he lands in Amsterdam during the early morning hours on Friday 6th November. I focus on the next step. Kerry is on the way to the airport herself now. Step by step, we’re moving forward. But it’s 2020. How tightly, and for how long, can one’s fingers remain crossed?

Somehow I manage to sleep while Watson swoops over the Atlantic. We wake to the news he’s landed safe and sound. At least he’s only hours away now. But the thought of him on his own, going through customs and vet checks and wondering where his family is, well, it’s a lot to ask of your canine bestie, isn’t it? The shipping company does a great job of keeping us up to date. He’s cleared customs, he’s on his way to Calais with his driver. He’s having a nice walk and a stretch while waiting for the train to whisk him under the English Channel.

As we set off from Exmoor to the hotel, we check Kerry’s flight. It’s still reporting on-time departure Friday night. We relax, we almost swagger to the car with the dog’s bed and treats. We got this whole transatlantic relocation during a pandemic thing! No probs, peeps!

Five hundred yards down the road from our house, there’s a loud pop and a wobble. Pulling into a gateway, Hubby leaps out of the passenger seat, leaps back in: ‘Drive home! NOW!’ What? ‘Punctured tyre! Quick, before it completely deflates!’ No swagger now. We only purchased this car a couple of days ago. Like most new cars these days, it has no spare tyre, just a weird inflation contraption that was never designed to deal with a slashed tyre. We skid into our driveway, just as the last air gasps out. It’s been about thirty years since I’ve had a flat tyre. Why now?! Oh, right. 2020. We fling our gear into Hubby’s company car (not supposed to be full of dog hair when meeting customers) and creep past the spot of the flat, never seeing anything that could have caused so much damage. But we’re on our way. Barely! Hanging by a thread to our sanity. But on our way.

The UK is in national lockdown. We prepare our speech in case the police pull us over. ‘Essential travel. Dog needs us. He’s gonna be mad if we’re late. You don’t want to make him mad. He pouts. Refuses to eat. Sheds shaggy hair at a rate you must see to believe. And we’re in the company car. No dog hair allowed. You understand, officer?’ Luckily, we don’t need the speech.

At a service station, somewhere on the M4, we get word: Watson’s in England! He’s on his way to a farm near Heathrow Airport. We can pick him up around 8:30 tonight. Hallelujah! We find our hotel but every local eating option is closed due to lockdown. Back in the car. Back on the motorway, then winding through dark lanes, knowing Watson’s only minutes away. We spot the van parked on the side of the road and pull in behind it. The doors open and there’s Watson, tail wagging so hard he can barely stand up in his crate! I can’t stop telling him how brave he is and how proud I am of him. I’m not crying. You’re crying.

At that moment, the only fireworks we’d seen all night kick off. Watson’s terrified of them. Poor chap, sees the door of his crate open, sees his Mum for the first time in five months, and BOOM, CRASH, FLARE! He must think he’s landed in a war zone. ‘Green and pleasant land, my foot!’, he mutters. He’s scooped into yet another car, at least this time with room to stretch out, his Mum scratching his ears and telling him he’s the bravest dog in the history of pandemic doggie travel. She tries to explain the whole Guy Fawkes thing but Watson’s having none of it. He’s bundled from the car into the hotel room between star-bursting rockets, (via an elevator which doesn’t exactly endear the whole evening to him) where we all collapse in a heap of tangled nerves.

No time to rest. We check our phones every five seconds. Is our daughter boarding her flight yet? Will it be cancelled last minute? Will a delay allow time for the US or the UK to impose tighter sanctions on travel and our window close to get her out? Will the US election be called for Joe Biden (which, let’s face it, in any other year would have happened days ago) and kick off the expected aftermath? Where’s that plane?!

We’re exhausted. But we can’t let our guard down because Watson’s decided the hotel couch is where he needs to be and that’s not allowed and we can’t afford to get thrown out of the only hotel in the area allowing pets. He grumbles and gives us the steely-eye of distain as we drag him off the couch. Again. Where’s Kerry’s plane?!

More heart-pounding as the British Airways flight just before Kerry’s is cancelled. Tick tock. Tick tock. Shouts and hugs! She’s boarded her plane! Doors closed and cross-checked! She’s in the air, arriving tomorrow morning! Watson’s about had it and leaps on the couch during the happy dance, only to be thrown off again. We finally get to eat the sandwiches we bought at the motorway service station. We get ready for bed and I come to the conclusion the only option is for me to sleep on the couch to keep Watson off it. He’s decided he hates England, with all its fireworks and hotel rules and even the water tastes funny. He curls his nose at it. He decides at 3:30am he needs to pee. Because jetlag and time zones and Mum won’t let me sleep on the couch so she’s not sleeping on it either.

An early start to Heathrow the next morning but of course there are road works on the M4 so we’re almost late to meet Kerry’s flight. She reports via WhatsApp there’s no one at immigration and no one at customs and before we know it, she and her luggage trolley are sailing towards us. It’s a joyful reunion with Watson who seems to have forgiven her for bundling him into a crate so many hours and adventures ago. The clan is back together and heading down the motorway to Exmoor. It’s a dream after a long, long nightmare.

In your face, 2020! (Only not really because it’s 2020, there’s over a month to go, and all rational bets are off.) We’ll take nothing for granted, ever again. Especially not a sleeping dog on a mat by the fire. Or the chance to spend extended time with an adult daughter while she settles into her new life in a country she’s part of genetically as a UK citizen, but new to experientially. We settle into a 14-day quarantine. We hope for peace and the democratic process in the US. We hope for peace and health in the UK. We have much to be thankful for. Most of all, family; two-legged and four. And sleep. Definitely, sleep.

Cancelled Flights and Dark Skies

Every day lasts a year when you’re missing loved ones. After four months apart, my husband finally arrived in England to as big a celebration as you can have in quarantine. What a relief! But it’s been five months since I saw my daughter and my dog. Five months of planning and plotting and forking over money and waiting and calling and booking and vet’s visits and rabies shots and re-microchipping to be compliant with new 14-digit chips and crate-training in a custom-made crate because Watson is just too big for the biggest off-the-shelf crate and on and on and on. And now, with only days to go before Watson was to arrive on November 3rd, his flight is cancelled. No reason. No appeal. Just a rescheduled flight for November 11th. Which, since I wrote that sentence yesterday, has been cancelled again. Embargo on pets flying through Frankfurt apparently, which means redoing all the paperwork as exact timelines must be met. Which means more trips to the vet which means more … you get the idea.

This delay also means moving my daughter’s flight back as she needs to be in the US until Watson flies. For the love of Pete, will this relocation-during-a-pandemic turmoil ever end?

Of course, I know the answer is yes. But on a day-to-day basis, it’s getting old and we’re all battle fatigued. We’re fighting a ticking clock as this pandemic seems to be getting worse, not better. What if we’re weeks away from a total lockdown and we can’t get the rest of our family over here for months? Holidays are coming up, winter is coming, possible US election results are terrifying for those of us who feel there is, if not a perfect result, at least an OH, HELL NO! result.

I’m whining. I don’t usually whine. But I’m whining and I know I shouldn’t be. I know many of you out there have greater concerns than getting your dog from A to B. You have sick loved ones. You have permanent holes at the dinner table rather than the (hopefully) temporary ones I have. But worry shouldn’t be rated. Worry is worry. And I’m worried. Darkness pervades every thought.

With almost perfect timing, the Exmoor Dark Skies Festival is taking place during the month of October. Exmoor is a designated International Dark Skies Reserve, the first in Europe, due to its low light pollution. While the pitch black can make for a nerve-wracking night drive over the moors, it has its benefits. On a clear night, the stars appear close enough to touch. They dazzle both the eye and the mind. They fill the entire sky, barely a gap between them. The Milky Way is more intense than a wispy veil and even the least knowledgeable stargazer can pick out planets and constellations with ease.

As part of this year’s Dark Sky Festival, last weekend saw me driving up Porlock Hill, across the moors, down Countisbury Hill into Lynmouth, then up over the moors again to Heale Farm. Set in rolling hills with views across the Bristol Channel, Heale Farm is about as dark as anywhere you’ll find. On arrival, I meet Judith, our guide to not only the stars but to a new way of looking at darkness. She reminds us of the special place darkness holds in our lives. Yes, you heard me correctly: THE SPECIAL PLACE DARKNESS HOLDS IN OUR LIVES. It’s like she knows my story, though we’ve never met.

A small band of fellow stargazers (including my husband, son, and daughter-in-law in a delightful reunion as we hadn’t all been together in a year) take the muddy route up and up and up to the top fields of the farm. Our headlamps are set to red light so as not to interfere with our night vision. It’s been raining hard for days and the forecast was for more rain. Luckily, it’s not raining as we walk, but the heavens are hidden behind layers of inky blue to black to grey clouds. The moon teases as it dips in and out of view. No stars are visible. We stop at the highest point and look across the combe. A triangular view of the Bristol Channel opens up to reveal pinpricks of light from the coast of Wales. There is barely a breath of wind, rare up here. It’s as silent a place as I’ve experienced in a long time, perhaps since my night journey up the Brazilian Amazon River. We stand and listen to the silence. Awed silence. It fills my ears, my head, my mind. It’s deafening. It’s total relief. It quiets the mind and absorbs the heaviness of recent events. A single night bird cries. We don’t know what it is – owl? hawk? It calls out into the silence for reasons unknown to us, then just as suddenly stops for reasons unknown to us.

Silence. When was the last time you heard absolutely nothing? I can’t even begin to explain how the lack of auditory input calms my soul, deepens my breathing. It’s the most glorious nothingness. Miraculously, the cloudy veil opens up; only small, fleeting tears in the fabric but enough to reveal those dazzling stars and planets. Then they’re gone, the darkness complete. I realise how many shades of black there are. Though the sky could be considered black, there’s still an even blacker outline of the hills and valleys beneath it. Inky outlines of trees stand out against the hill. A black fence post stands out against the trees. Layer after layer of black. Then another opening in the heavens and we gaze up again in silence. Am I the only one to wonder who, or what, is looking back at our blue dot floating in the heavens? I don’t know how long we stand there. All I know is I don’t want it to end. But end it must, so we stroll back through fields of napping cows, jealous of the hours of silent darkness that stretch before them.

Our evening concludes with a delightful meal around a firepit. We hear from a fellow guest, a cultural astronomer, about how mankind has viewed the stars through the ages. Judith talks about resetting our circadian rhythms, using nature’s darkness to address mental health issues, physical ailments, and healing the planet in ways I’d never considered. It’s enlightening – no pun intended. I needed this to refocus my negative dark thoughts and turn them into positives views of the darkness of the universe. At the end of the evening, I drive back over the inky-black moors with far better night vision than on the outward journey.

I’ve been looking at darkness all wrong, thinking dark times are to be endured, got over with, escaped. But maybe, just maybe, there is a healthy place for darkness. It focuses the mind, resets circadian rhythms, offers hyperclarity to points of light. Silence is more than an absence of sound; it’s a moment filled with clarifying potential. I’m taking that silence and darkness with me into the chaos that lies ahead. Stillness. Serenity. A reminder of all the universal beauty that goes unnoticed in the blinding light and exhaustive noise of daily existence.

My trials will end. This dark period will accentuate the light to follow. We need dark to see light. We need silence to hear sound. Oh, how simple pleasures will become extraordinary events: a dog snoring on the mat. Watching a film with a daughter. A clink of glasses and a ‘cheers!’ around the dinner table when, government rules permitting, my whole family is together for Christmas. Each event will be a pinprick of light, made brighter by the dark days required to get to this point. I highly recommend opportunities to place yourself dark silence whenever you can. I intend to do it again. But hopefully, I’ll get to take my dog and daughter with me. Soon.

(Friday update: Watson may have a flight next Wednesday through Amsterdam. Please cross everything you have for a smooth and safe crossing! And forgive any typos. It’s been a day.)

Many thanks to Judith and all at Heale Farm. For more information visit:  https://www.healefarm.co.uk/heale-exmoor-dark-skies-retreat/

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Stay Strong, Bubble Blowers of the World!

Bubbles used to be fun, didn’t they? My dog, Basil, certainly thought so. He’d leap around the garden, snapping at them as they bobbed on the breeze. He’d look through crossed eyes in shock when they popped on his nose, like it had never happened before. He’d stamp on the ones he couldn’t eat, then spin around and laser-focus on the wand in my hand, begging for the next batch. I’m guessing Doggy Heaven has a 24/7 bubble machine at the end of Basil’s bed. (Which is placed right next to a mud bath full of frolicking squirrels who also blow bubbles as they run.)

During my days as a speech-language pathologist, working with young children, I may have used bubbles as much for my benefit as the child’s. The simplicity, rainbow reflections, effortless flight and spontaneous, spectacular pop never got old. The joy in a child’s face, maybe a vocalization from a little one with language delays, well, it just convinced me bubbles were indeed magic. Who among us has not imagined taking flight in one, nose pushed against the transparent porthole on the world?

And just putting this here for anyone who needs it today: Prosecco bubbles. *sigh*

But here we are, 2020. Bubbles have taken on new meaning in COVID World.  They conjure up less free-spirited flight and more prison-like restrictions. Though possibly containing some loved ones, they also lock out other cherished family and friends, forcing uncomforting choices. They clunk along rather than float, changing shape and size on a governmental whim or the flip of a statistical coin. They seal closed rather than burst open.

I managed to make it over the Atlantic back in May to my Exmoor home and a new bubble. But half my family is still locked out of my personal bubble by thousands of transatlantic miles and enough red tape to ground a Zeppelin-sized balloon, I’m not even sure where my bubble begins and ends anymore. Even those family members within the UK are at a loss as to whether we can see each other. A cousin allowed to visit here; a son not allowed to visit there. A discounted restaurant voucher this week, verboten behaviour next week. The flight path of my bubble echoes a cartoon balloon, popped by Wile E. Coyote with a needle, now zipping erratically across the sky. Will it ever land on solid ground?

This bubble-wrangling’s exhausting. But raise that glass of Prosecco! May our bubbles become a symbol of free spiritedness soon. May we see them as protective, fortifying, miniature globes again. May they hold the promise of floating away to unexplored, exotic places. Cherish your bubble. Protect your bubble. Wait for the pop with a sparkle of stars. Be ready to float in happy suspension at a moment’s notice. We’ve got this. Stay strong, Bubble Blowers of the World!

Stay safe. Stay well.

Images: Prosecco, Pixabay, Dog, PickPik

When Life Gives You 2020…

Seven thirty on a Sunday morning and I’m in the woods between Porlock and Porlock Weir on the Somerset coast. Steep combes reach up toward the blue skies, the smooth waters of the Bristol Channel pave the way to Wales. After days of rain sunlight dapples the muddy trails. Spontaneous streams gurgle through the undergrowth. Soggy blackberries glisten, like tiny strobe lights. They’re prolific, dotted along prickly branches that snag my trousers and claw at my fingers. Berries burst as I pick them, bloated with moisture or furry-white with mould from the incessant dampness of the last week. But there are still multitudes of perfect ones; dark burgundy orbs conjuring up warm ovens and oaty toppings. They promise friendly visits and glasses of wine for Sunday lunches – once social distancing becomes social history.

Motor memory controls my fingers, resurrecting sisterly outings of decades past along the childhood lanes, mouths covered in red stains, one for the basket, three for the instant gratification. No washing, just a wipe on the jeans or a rub of a thumb. Once home, we dunked the berries in tubs of water and watched the creepy crawlies float to the surface before Mum baked the fruit into pies or crumbles.

I didn’t gather these foraging memories in the US. I picked blackberries only in England, teaching my children the skills (and the maths of one in the basket and three in the stomach without washing or worrying) during visits home. You can pick berries in the US of course, but in the areas I lived, it was pay-to-play, organized, rule-driven, commercial. Back on Exmoor now, I wander the free smorgasbord of fruit, alone except for a solitary bird. I can’t identify the cry, a croak almost, not a pheasant or a pigeon or any of the little fellas I see on my birdfeeder. I search for a glimpse of the bird, but the trees are too thick to allow more than the one-sided conversation to penetrate the greenery. Still, it’s nice to know I have company.

I’d expected to be showing my US husband the charms of blackberrying – yes, it’s a verb in England – by now. He should have been here months ago. But I’m alone. So is he. Still. The immigration systems in both the US and the UK seem coldly detached from the immigrant/emigrant’s needs. It’s bizarre that we can go to restaurants, schools and shops but visa applicants still struggle to get a one-on-one meeting with an immigration officer. Why is it not safe to send passports and paperwork into someone who could easily be isolated at a computer terminal? It’s easy to harbour thoughts of darker forces interfering with the immigration process. Easy to think that certain powers are conspiring against the sharing of ideas and ideals, of relocation and residency variation. Against joining families together and reuniting citizens of all nations in the country of their choice. Against the joys – nay, the necessities – of adding new ingredients to the global stew pot. If we can rally on the White House lawn, we can carefully tiptoe though travel hubs and follow quarantine rules dictated by scientific data.

I push the darker thoughts aside and let the sunlight play on the fruits in my own berry pot. Here in the woods I feel part of my homeland. Reaching, picking, the plop of the berry in the pot, and the sounds of Exmoor remind me why I’ve fought so hard to return home. I’ll wind my way back along the trail to Porlock, peel a few apples, wash the blackberries, stir the crumble topping and wait for warm scents to fill the house. Hopefully, next autumn’s crop of berries will be harvested by my entire family. Settled, safe – and home. But for now, when life gives me 2020, I’ll make blackberry and apple crumble.

New Problems: Rubbish Police and Wardrobe Woes

My second month in England has passed without major incident. In this crazy world, ‘without major incident’ counts as a win, surely? (I’m touching a piece of wood as I speak. It is 2020 after all.) I just wish there were a bit more ‘winning’ come out of the US. News from there is disturbing, to say the least. I worry tremendously about my husband and daughter who are still over there. I can’t control the pandemic or the civil unrest or the closed immigration services. I’ve tried to set my goals lower but it would seem I can’t control rubbish and wardrobes, either. I’ll get to that in a minute. First, the good news.

Hiking over Exmoor is thrilling and my fitness level for hills has improved significantly. I have more photos than my camera can store; a throwback to when I had to leave and needed to take pieces of Exmoor with me. I wonder if the novelty of no return flight to the US on the calendar will ever fade. I’m in awe of my views of Bossington Hill from the house. Exquisite walks from my doorstep are all I ever dreamed of and a cheeky Wagtail keeps me company during morning tea breaks.

But these joys are tempered by an absent Hubby. Visa applications, or lack thereof, are still in a state of complete chaos in the US and the UK. We have no idea when that will change. Hubby sits in a hotel in Madison, Wisconsin, watching the clock. Reacquainting myself with many friends and family members is also on hold. Garden get-togethers are weather-contingent or not possible at all if loved ones are sheltering. Gaining a foothold in my new community is stymied by restrictions and precautions.

Speaking of restrictions, I found a warning note on my rubbish bin for not following procedures. The rules for what belongs in recycle, what belongs in regular rubbish and what fits nowhere at all seem to vary from village to village. Rubbish is certainly more regulated than in the US, which is a good thing. I’ve received advice from friends and they all say something different, depending on their location in England. I now have four different containers: general rubbish, food waste, glass/paper and cardboard/plastic. You may be surprised to learn there is much that doesn’t fit into these categories. Plastic only means bottles, glass only means certain types, junk mail isn’t paper if it has a plastic film window in the envelope, and so on and so forth. So many nuances. Having received a warning, I’m afraid to fail again. I don’t know what the punishment is, or even the location of my local lockup. Who’ll water the new plant cuttings if I get hauled in front of the judge? To play it safe, I now have a shed full of stuff I thought was general rubbish or recycle but isn’t. Transatlantic relocation comes with packing materials and new purchases, unfortunately. The shed looks like that scene from Breaking Bad where Skyler White opens the storage locker to reveal a huge pile of cash. She has no idea what to do with it after laundering it though the carwash books. I have no idea what to do with my pile. I considered the Lucille Ball approach, where she stuffs chocolates from a conveyer belt into her mouth in an attempt to keep up. Should I eat the plastic food tray and the polystyrene packaging that came with the microwave? Luckily, new information just came to light. Apparently, even with four different containers at my house, I still get to load the car with ‘noncategorized’ rubbish and drive it to the local collection centre. I wish I had a better grip on what constitutes ‘noncategorized’ rubbish. Could I be arrested at the collection centre? It’s a steep and dangerous learning curve.

Speaking of learning curves, I’ve known for a while (my whole life) construction isn’t my thing. I’ve rediscovered construction isn’t my thing this week. I set out to find a wardrobe before Hubby gets here. I thought I’d downsized my clothing inventory but apparently not. Looking at the available space for Hubby’s clothing, it seems I’m being a bit … selfish. Overflowing dressers, full closets, and I’ve even taken all the underbed space. The least I can do is have a ‘his’ wardrobe ready for his arrival. (Though by the time he receives permission to fly over, brilliant minds may have discovered a way to store excess clothing in The Cloud. That would be awesome – except I often forget my access passwords so could potentially lose all my clothing as well as that best seller.)

Anyway, aware I’m in temporary accommodation and having no idea what my future needs for storage will be, I found a used wardrobe for sale on Facebook. It’s perfect. Cottagey. Pine. Nice iron hinges and handles. But in a million pieces. Not so perfect. (It was the only way the seller could get it down his stairs.) I wrestled the pieces into my car – including an intimidatingly heavy container full of screws, washers, dowels and nails – and set off with visions of space in the bedroom closet for Hubby’s stuff. How hard could reconstructing a wardrobe be, even without written instructions or a YouTube video? After all, I have a Master of Science degree and use wardrobes all over the world. Sliding doors, folding doors, swing doors, I’ve mastered them all. No-brainer.

Four days later, I’m here to tell you it takes a lot of brain – and coordination. Holding a door and a shelf in place with a foot and an elbow while simultaneously trying to screw them into the frame that’s threatening to fold in on itself even though it’s lying on the floor isn’t as easy as it sounds. I’m armed only with Hubby’s toolbox; a pandora’s box of complex gadgets. I rarely peek inside this box because it’s usually attached to Hubby. I try wedging the wardrobe door open with a chair and lying inside the box frame, inducing an uncomfortably realistic sense of coffin-phobia, but things still aren’t going well. The screw holes don’t match up, there are bits of wood left over that are surely important, and when I finally manage to lift the entire structure upright, it’s wobbly with a disturbing right lean. My ancestors built Stonehenge, for crying out loud! (Though I admit some of those stones also lean.) Get a grip, woman! Or failing that, get a neighbour.

In normal times, you’d call over the fence to your neighbour and over a cup of tea you’d work it out, with a good laugh and maybe a few bruises. But this is wardrobe construction in COVID World. That call to arms is not simple. My new neighbours are lovely. We’ve shared tea in the garden and deliveries of cake have brightened my day more than once. But I don’t know them well enough to ask them to enter my house and break social distancing rules. (The wardrobe isn’t two meters wide.) If I ask for help, will they feel they have to say yes, and then hold the risk against me for the rest of my born days?

I decide to go it alone. At the time of writing, I’ve eaten an entire family-sized (if ‘family’ is defined as you on a diet and a pet ant) packet of chocolate Minstrels just sitting on the bed looking at all the parts. All I’ve got to show for it is piles of wood all over the guest room carpet. Who knows how much chocolate it will take to finish the project.

COVID 19 has a lot to answer for. No Hubby. No wardrobe. No joke. And to cap it all, the lights on the fridge have started flashing in an alarming manner. I have visons of spoilt milk and defrosted Tesco’s cottage pie leading to more containers piled up in the shed. Typically, electrical warning lights warrant a call over the shoulder: ‘Hubby, electrical issue in the kitchen! Stat!’ Now it’s a google search for tutorials related to flashing lights on electronics. I’ll work it out, if only because I’m afraid of the rubbish police.

There may not have been a major incident yet but all these minor incidents are stacking up. I’m going to need a bigger bag of Minstrels.

My Extraordinary, Mundane Transatlantic Relocation

It’s been one month since I arrived back in England after a thirty-year visit to America. If you’d asked me a year ago what vocabulary I’d be using to describe my feelings at my return home, I’d have said relief, comfort, joy. And those feelings apply. But they’re mixed with other feelings, like weird and anxious. So much about my transatlantic relocation during a pandemic has proved incredibly stressful. The empty airport terminals, the empty plane, the masked flight attendants, my homemade peanut butter sandwiches in place of the cancelled inflight dining service, along with the deserted arrivals area at Heathrow were powerful reminders I’m doing all this during a historic, and unsettling, time. So much about this last month could never have been predicted. The fact my husband is stuck in the USA waiting for the visa offices to open again, with the daunting possibility of travellers from the US not being allowed to travel to Europe at all, keeps us both awake at night. But global issues aside, the little things are proving more challenging than I’d anticipated.

I dropped my laptop for the first time ever, smashing the screen and bending the keyboard. I had no idea where to go to get it fixed. There were no laptops in my life when I left Exmoor all those years ago. My watch stopped. I broke my prescription sunglasses (another first). It’s weird, completing the mundane tasks of fixing things and finding watch batteries and researching how to pay council taxes. It’s weird learning a new grocery store layout (even without the one-way system in place in my local Tescos) and trying to remember what demerara sugar is. I used to translate UK to US: caster sugar is baking sugar, minced beef is ground beef. Now, I’m reverse-translating, US to UK: confectioners sugar is icing sugar, eggplant is aubergine. Goodness knows what a kilogram is in pounds and will I ever get the hang of Celsius versus Fahrenheit? As a visitor, I didn’t have to complete these kinds of tasks. Now I need to relearn my native language and find the places that cater to my mundane needs rather than my holiday needs. It’s strange to feel strange in one’s homeland. It’s weird to go through the motions of normality in a not normal world. It’s impossible to tell how much weirdness can be blamed on COVID 19 and how much on my extended absence. Maybe it doesn’t matter. My return would feel weird not matter the difficulties of trying to set up a new life when everything is shut down. Do I need to delineate between what’s normal relocation crazy and what’s pandemic crazy?

Luckily, there are plenty of joys to counterbalance the mental taxations of translations and conversions and all-around weirdness. My fourteen-day quarantine flew by in my rental property with gorgeous views of Porlock Bay and Bossington Hill, even though I had little furniture and couldn’t give anyone a hug. I no longer need to calculate time zones when calling family. I got to celebrate my sister’s birthday in person – in her garden as social distancing was still in effect – for the first time in decades. (That was counterbalanced by the guilt of having to celebrate my husband’s birthday with him via WhatsApp.) My son and daughter-in-law have joined me for an extended stay while they’re furloughed from their jobs in London. I’m delighted to share the joys of my new home with them. I get to wander the Exmoor countryside without counting down the days to leaving again. I look over the gates at the closed cream tea shops, knowing they will reopen someday, and I’ll be back to planning my hikes around their welcome cups of tea and slabs of cake. Even the rain feels cosy after years of brutal storms that threaten life and limb in the snowbelt of the USA. This gentle drizzle cossets rather than scares; though ask me again in a few years how I feel about English rain and I’m sure I’ll have a different outlook. Or will I? Will the novelty of walking outside in January and February ever wear off? In Wisconsin that’s indoor season due to bitter cold and feet of snow. Surely it will be awhile before I complain about British weather. We’ll see. We’ll also see if hiraeth is really a thing. Can you go home again? Does the home in my memory still exist? Were the broken sunglasses a prelude to broken rose-tinted glasses? Watch this space …

I survived the first month, thanks to the kindness of old friends and new neighbours. Without them I really would have been lost. My furniture just arrived so I have no excuse not to get back to writing now. Except for needing a new laptop, that is. Wish me luck.

End of A Transatlantic Era

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This is it. My last blog from the United States of America on my last day as a resident. I envisioned a graceful exit after thirty years. A swan-like glide out of the USA and a pirouette into the glorious English countryside. I’d swish my Austen-esque skirts through the spring dew of a cottage garden as the frantic pace of the US faded to black. I’d sip tea from cup and saucer rather than a mug, nibble on scones and high tea petit fours from a tiered cake stand. Partake of a country pub sherry in the evenings. All surrounded by family and friends. The church bells would ring and the English sparrows chirp …

This is where I insert the sound of a car crash. (Not being tech-oriented, you’ll have to add that yourselves.) Suffice it to say, my transatlantic relocation has turned into anything but a swan-like glide; more a belly flop from the highest diving board onto a frozen puddle. The scones turned to stale hotel vending machine crackers, the sherry replaced by Pepto-Bismol. A global pandemic means the only fabric-swishing going on comes from the homemade masks my US friends hand me at our goodbye get-togethers – which dissolve from fun, though teary, events to waves from a distance across parking lots and driveways. Friends shuffle forward, place bags or cards on the floor. They move back. I shuffle forward to collect. Then move back. More like a hostage transfer between alien planets on an episode of Star Trek than a goodbye between friends I’ve shared graduations and weddings and baby births with. We air-hug, blow kisses, and that’s that. Never how I saw this going down.

I’m in a hotel today, this last day, having sold our house at the first inklings of social distancing and lockdowns. The closing date came before transatlantic flights were more consistently available for bookings. Before a small window of opportunity opened at the end of May to fly out of Chicago. An inflatable mattress, a pillow, a blanket and a shower mat wrap around two knives, forks, spoons and a tin opener in my suitcase. Oatmeal, teabags and granola bars make up the rest of my baggage allowance, in case of emergency delays or rerouting or cancellation of flights. I pack multiple masks in my carry-on. It’s been the most surreal packing experience of my long and varied travel history.

I check the websites every few minutes to make sure flights are leaving. Best not to breathe until the flight takes off as so many are cancelled last minute. There’s only one day to go. Surely nothing else can happen that would prevent me traveling?

There’ll be no one at Heathrow to meet me. I’ll drive alone from London to an empty rental house rather than a purchased home, due to restrictions on viewings. I’ll draw the curtains and hide myself from the inhabitants of Exmoor. I won’t risk the trust of new neighbours before I’ve even said hello. Isolate here I come, no matter what government regulations say at the time of my arrival.

My furniture has shipped across the pond, but it can’t leave Southampton Docks until moving companies are allowed to deliver it. No idea when that will be. I’ll be camping in the house; a couple of chairs and a table, some china and a microwave rustled up from kind friends. These items await my arrival, already in place so the friends limit contact with me. Luckily, a small village has its advantages. Porlock knows I’m coming home. The local shops have arranged deliveries of basic household items and food. I thank them all.

I remain hopeful I’ll depart this land of the not-so-free on May 29th. I remain hopeful the visa offices will open soon so my US citizen husband can join me. With as cheerful a smile as I can manage, unseen behind my new collection of masks, I’ll clutch my first one-way ticket in thirty years, destination London, and board that flight. I’ll appreciate being allowed to carry a whole 12 oz bottle of hand sanitiser into the aircraft cabin, along with several sandwiches in case all airport restaurants are closed. I’ll wave a grateful thanks to the America I knew until it became unrecognizable to me over the past few years. I hope it finds its way back. Just as I have. Hiraeth and all.

I’ll get through this, and I know it will all be worthwhile.

Just to be home again.

My Worthless Emergency Supply Kit

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I thought March 2020 would go down in history as the most bizarre month of my life. Running through airports in Buenos Aires to beat border shutdowns, selling my house in the US only to find I couldn’t get to England to buy another, tying a bandana around my face using elastic bands that threaten my eyesight every time they snap. It’s all too surreal to be true. Surely next month will find me laughing at the craziness of it all as I sip coffee in public places with friends? But then comes April…

It begins with the Wisconsin State primary election. All other States postpone their elections to keep citizens safe from the pandemic, Wisconsinites are forced to the polls. I fire off an angry tweet at those responsible for this reprehensible disregard for human safety. I never expect anything to happen. The tweet goes viral, viewed over 1.1 million times, tens of thousands of likes, retweets and comments. It’s included in a podcast featuring the Arizona Secretary of State, and on lists of tweets that sum up the electoral mess. It reminds me one voice matters, and how we frame our thoughts matters. A stranger comments that my short tweet demonstrated I was obviously a writer – a highlight of my lockdown experience so far. Well, along with the neighbour leaving cookies on my doorstep the other day. But I digress …

April continues, everyday a fight to carve a simple transatlantic relocation out of a pandemic cliff face. I try selling furniture from my garage, but there are few takers. I can’t even donate it as all donation centres are closed. I explain to the new owners some larger pieces, like the pool table, will still be here when they move in next month. They understand, luckily.

I battle to arrange shipping to the UK for my dog. It’s moving forward until all responses to questions I send to the airlines suddenly stop. I assume those helping me have been furloughed or laid off. Watson will now be staying in the US with my daughter. This is great as they love each other, but awful as I’m leaving them both behind at a terribly worrying time to be a mother to anything or anyone. But I have nowhere to live after May 14th so must move somewhere.

My husband and I find a rental house on Exmoor online and sign contracts, sight-unseen, because we need an address in the UK before the shippers can transport our furniture. We must have a utility bill before we can fill out the customs forms. We have no choice but to pay rent in the UK for a place we can’t move to yet. My US citizen husband can’t even file his UK spousal visa application as all the offices are closed. We find a tiny one-bedroom apartment in Madison, Wisconsin, that will allow us to sign a three-month lease. It’s not much but it’s a roof and a rented bed. We’re now paying rent on two continents with no idea how long we’ll be doing that for. Awesome! (*checks book sale royalties* Not so awesome.)

I’m interviewed by BBC Somerset about my adventures trying to get back to Exmoor. It’s hard to know what to say. There’s no information to share about how to do it. No one has a plan or even a prediction as to what will happen. I can only say, ‘What a mess’ so many times.

Everything in the last two months has been strange and unpredictable. But if I had to mark the most singular reminder we’re living in extraordinary times, it would be finding my emergency supply kit stashed in the back of the basement.

Living in England, my idea of an emergency kit was a couple of Band-Aids in my back pocket. Maybe a backup corkscrew. That was it. But when I moved to the United States, I realised much of the country was virtually uninhabitable, and an emergency of some kind practically guaranteed. Earthquakes to the west, hurricanes to the east, blizzards to the north, wildfires everywhere. I’ve lived in all these locations over the past thirty years. My neighbours in California encouraged me to reconsider my back pocket emergency kit. A large trashcan-on-wheels was mentioned. What?!

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The thinking is – was – any kind of emergency required you to leave your house. You should plan on being gone for at least 72-hours. You must stuff your trashcan-on-wheels with plastic sheeting and string for making a simple lean-to shelter. A camping stove, thermal blankets to protect you from exposure. A penknife, dried stew mix, headlamps so your hands are free to set up your lean-to in the dark. A tin opener. Rain ponchos. A big stick to protect your supplies from others (the less prepared) walking the earthquake-savaged roads of Los Angeles or the tornado-damaged neighbourhoods of the Midwest. To defend your boat, now sitting inland two miles after a hurricane in New England.

I’ve been through major earthquakes and hurricanes and tornado warnings with nary a scratch. But as I stare at my emergency kit in the COVID-19 era, packed inside its bright blue trashcan-on-wheels, I realise something: it’s all worthless. What good’s a lean-to against a virus? What good’s my headlamp (unless it could light up contaminated surfaces) and my tin opener? That fancy wound kit, full of finger splints and ankle wraps? Useless. Miles of string. For what? Tying the doors shut so I don’t go out?  (Oh, look! Two rolls of toilet paper squashed in the bottom of the trashcan. Now, THAT’S useful.)

No one ever suggested I prepare for a pandemic. Not at the individual, state, national or global level. Even though we’d had warnings. The year 1918 springs to mind. So I’ve spent the last few days thinking about all the things I wish I had in my emergency kit now. They would be considered non-essential in a different time, and I can’t justify going out to shop for them now. You won’t find my list printed on any Red Cross, FEMA or WHO website. But you can bet I’ll always have them handy from this time forward.

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Games, books, greetings cards for every occasion and the stamps to mail them. Hair dye, hairbands. Aged whisky. Prosecco. (I rarely drink but that may change soon.) Noise-cancelling headphones; protection from the home-schooled kids next door. Colouring books to throw over the fence at the kids next door, like hamburger to a barking dog. Graduation/birthday party decorations, even though no one else can come to the party. Birthday candles, sidewalk chalk, noise makers for the heroic handclaps, bubble blowers – entertaining at any age. Dog treats, as pets are fenced in too. Did I mention hair dye? A mechanical robot hand grabber thingy for curb-side pickup. Slingshot for quieting the kids next door. Megaphone for communicating with the mailman. Hundreds of thank you cards for all the small acts of kindness shown by so many in countless ways. A million dollars in tens and fives for tipping everyone who’s still going to work at a hospital, care home, janitorial service, take-out restaurant, delivery company, emergency service or grocery store. EAR PLUGS! Those viral videos of the neighbour singing opera from his kitchen window? Funny. Once. Not so funny when he decides to make it his new revenue stream. A remote control with an extra-large mute button to stop You Know Who from invading my space with ridiculous ‘news’ briefings. I may have mentioned hair dye before.

It’s clear I’m going to need a bigger trashcan.

Emergency kit aside, here’s what I wished I done before the world changed: hugged everyone I knew, every time I saw them. Every. Single. Time. Breathed in the scent of them, stored their laughter in my memory. Learned to use Zoom in split screen. Had my hair cut shorter than necessary, every single visit to the hairdresser. And practiced cutting my family’s hair, while there was still a hairdresser available to fix failed attempts. I wish I’d never postponed a visit to the eye doctor or dentist. Wish I’d taken a frail neighbour out to dinner. Wish I’d returned to England last year.

If wishes were horses …

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My plan to return home this spring has dissolved into chaos and confusion. There’s no point lamenting this. Too many others are fighting far worse battles than a mere transatlantic relocation delay. It’s life and death out there, folks. Let’s not forget that. But I allow myself disappointment and anxiety without guilt. I’ve been working so hard on this move for six months. The delay is frustrating and expensive. I focus on taking a small step forward every day. The basement is finally cleared. The worthless emergency kit, re-evaluated. I’ll work on restocking it with what’s really essential as soon as possible. When I do, I’ll focus as much on mental well-being and staying connected as as I will on physical survival.

Take care of yourselves. I’d hug you if I could. xx

Tales from The Corona Cruise

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Hubby and I never thought of ourselves as ‘cruise’ people. We met when he was in the Navy and I was crewing on a private yacht. Needless to say, our view of the ocean waves was through a prism of hard work, narrowly averted disasters, and exhaustion. But a South American cruise, thirty years after our professional seafaring days ended, would allow us to check off many bucket list locations quickly before moving to Europe. Jet lag wouldn’t be an issue from the US as we’d be heading south. It all seemed so simple. So relaxing. So normal. So … a different world ago.

In February, back when coronavirus was still (in the minds of some ‘leaders’ in the US anyway) a flu bug, weaponised to impact elections and all that bologna, we headed to Santiago, Chile, to meet the Viking Jupiter. Now, if you’ve ever seen the living quarters on a submarine or jammed yourself into a tiny crew bunk on a small motor yacht, you may understand how Hubby and I reacted on seeing the Viking Jupiter. Talk about all your bells and whistles: A large balcony as opposed to my tiny porthole – and Hubby’s no porthole at all. No nuclear weapon codes to worry about. No being responsible for cleaning up the vomit from that guest who decided to have three Bloody Marys before heading out fishing in choppy waters. Oh, and did I mention the bars of Toblerone replenished daily in each cabin? Maybe we’re cruise people after all.

With no frame of reference for cruises, we figure maybe they always take everyone’s temperatures as they embark. It doesn’t faze us. The days tick by in splendid isolation from the world. The occasion message comes through about increases in coronavirus cases and maybe it’s not just in China and Italy after all, and maybe some things were going to have to change. But I’m busy eating the Toblerone and Hubby’s busy looking through the binoculars at whales and we’re floating above the clouds at Osorno Volcano and gazing at the emerald waters of Petrohué Falls and marvelling at Amalia Glacier and strolling through the stunning Tierra del Fuego National Park and learning how to drink the local Pisco Sour and falling in love with quirky Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. February ticks into March and all is right with the universe.

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Except it isn’t. As we round Cape Horn in the smoothest water some of the crew had ever experienced, things are getting distinctly choppy in the real world. Washington State is struggling. Seattle’s shut down. Our financial portfolio is making strange throat-clearing noises. The UK is still avoiding following Europe’s lead of restricting travel and shutting down schools. There are mutterings from older retirees in the ship’s stairwells and restaurants. Increased vigilance at the handwashing stations. A crew member on permanent duty, wiping down handrails. Hubby and I look sideways at each other over Pisco Sours, the hairs on the backs of our necks rippling with the first brushes of alarm.

We arrive in the Falkland Islands after a couple of isolated days at sea. Tours continue as usual and I check off other bucket list items – hanging out with the King penguins at Volunteer Point and paying my respects to those lost on both sides during the war of 1982. Another two days at sea, then a cancelled port of call in Puerto Madryn, Argentina, as high winds preclude docking the ship. Or do they? Rumours are rife. Are we being denied entry into Argentina? No. Can’t be. And I do believe we got accurate information from the Norwegian company. Just high winds.

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It’s information coming out of the US we’re struggling with. Erratic. Contradictory. Inflammatory. Unhelpful. We start looking at info coming out of Germany, Scandinavia, Canada, out of step with initial UK info about herd immunity and how to obtain it. The whole world out of step. It’s impossible to form cohesive plans, to know what’s really going on.

The awesome Viking crew keeps smiling and the food keeps coming and I keep eating the Toblerone, though I’m chewing slower and it may not be tasting as good as it did back in February. We check on the crew, asking questions about what happens to them if the ship can’t dock. The crew doesn’t know. The Cruise Director and Captain (or Designated Driver as he calls himself over the Tannoy) tell us information is being collected and analysed. We find ourselves trusting these non-sensationalized, apolitical messages, reporting exactly what they know and don’t know. No one pretends to be a stable genius. No one points fingers or rants or covers up. It’s refreshing. We need that reassurance.

It’s March 10th now and we head into another two days at sea, wondering what happens once we get to Montevideo, Uruguay. We needn’t worry. A wonderful welcome awaits us and we revel in the colours and culture of this great city.

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Breaking news! Our US house isn’t supposed to go on the market until March 22nd, a week after we return from our cruise. But we get an email from our realtor. Subject line: Hold onto your britches! She has two interested parties offering ‘sight unseen’ bids above listing price. Are we interested? As a matter of fact, we are! We can move to England sooner than we thought! We high five the bartender and I plan on three desserts for dinner. We accept a bid, electronically signing the contracts as the Viking Jupiter slices smoothly through the South Atlantic waters, heading towards Buenos Aires. The man on the couch next to us offers to take a photo as we send off the contract. Woo hoo! Job done! We’re practically in England already with all our furniture and a gorgeous summer on Exmoor ahead of us!

But wait. Our retirement accounts give us the international signal for choking, both hands around their necks, whites of eye showing. Rumblings about our Buenos Aires port-of-call. Then comes the announcement, piped into every cabin, which is unusual: ‘Viking Cruises is suspending services as of today for six weeks.’ I put my Toblerone back in the fridge and plonk down on the couch. Dinner is a quiet affair. No drinks. No dessert. No clue how to react to this new world order.

Cities are shutting down. Cruise ships are the new leper colonies, unwelcome everywhere. We open our eyes first thing in the morning on March 14th hoping we’re docked in Buenos Aires and not spinning circles somewhere out in the ocean. Like the refugee vessels we’ve broken our hearts over so many times. I work with refugees. Am I one, now?

The world has changed. Argentina announces it’s shutting its airports exactly one hour after our flight is due to take off on March 15th. That’s too tight. We run to the Help Desk. Administrative crew are helping other passengers change flights. The ship was supposed to go on to Benidorm, Spain, and many passengers were due to stay onboard for another twenty-one days. We understand they need to get flights out first but we worry about ourselves too, of course. Tense messages are coming in from friends and family. Where are we? We should try to get across the US border soon. Very soon. We’ve seen this movie a million times. But never starred in it.

The Viking crew members are awesome. They assure us they’ll do their best to find a flight out for us but in the meantime we should take advantage of the final tour of Buenos Aires, about to leave the dock. In a daze, we go, not really knowing what else to do. There are no coronavirus cases on the ship or in Argentina at the time. Surely, a tour is better than twitching with nerves in our cabin? And it is. It’s an amazing city. The only problem is we’d dressed to bike around the city in sunshine but that tour’s cancelled so we set off to walk. I’m wearing white shorts. I read somewhere, a long time ago, you shouldn’t wear white underwear under white shorts. You should wear nude-coloured underwear. Then nothing shows through. Typically, that’s been good advice. But not in a rainstorm. The skies open, we’re drenched in seconds. White shorts become translucent and I look completely naked. It’s too soon to laugh about it, okay.

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But we tour on. Stiff upper lip, right? I cringe as I say this to Hubby. What we’re going through is hardly heroic, and, looking back, may have been foolhardy. A luxury cruise. Safer environment than back home. Emergency assets for a hotel if we need to hunker down in Buenos Aires. We shouldn’t be sweating anything. But we are. We have kids in harm’s way on two continents, a dog in a kennel, vulnerable neighbours, friends, family, already struggling with health issues. A house sold, no new home in sight. We need to get back to the US. And I need to change out of these darn shorts before I’m arrested!

The tour guide informs us we are indeed the last tour. He’s been told his job is finished, all other cruise ships cancelled for the foreseeable future. He has a new baby at home. We’re ashamed of our worries. The hospitality industry will be decimated. Our daughter works in that industry. Every member of the crew, people we’ve come to care about, are at risk. Interestingly, we see shops, restaurants and tourist spots still open in Buenos Aires: except for La Ricoleta Cemetery, where Eva Peron is buried. That’s closed due to the coronavirus. Let that sink in for a minute. We stare through the sealed gates. If it’s bad enough that the dead should be protected, we need a new plan.

We bolt back to the ship. Viking Cruises has found us a flight to Miami. We have twenty minutes to pack up our cabin and get a taxi. As I fling stuff into suitcases and panic-eat the last of the Toblerone, I’m so grateful I thought to thank and tip our cabin crew the day before. No time to say goodbye to anyone else. The taxi’s travelling way too fast for comfort and rap music has never soothed my soul. It doesn’t today either. But our driver likes it. He’s all that stands between us and a very long stay in Buenos Aires right now so we don’t complain.

My new suitcase and favourite travel handbag break on the dash through the airport. A pandemic ago, this would have been worthy of complaint. Today, I simply pick up the case and keep moving.  We secure boarding passes and a wave of relief washes over us. Few people are wearing masks at the airport, though as we watch the New York Stock Exchange ticker tape scrolling across the TV screen, our retirement hopes scream for ventilators we know aren’t coming.

We arrive in Miami to warnings of extra health screenings. It’s one question: Are you feeling ill? We pass the test and spend the time between flights watching footage of the chaos in Chicago: four-hour waits for temperature checks. We’re heading to Chicago. We’ve been awake around twenty-seven hours by the time we land, to no extra health screenings. Our phones ping like demented xylophones, family checking on our progress. House sale documents rattle in, requiring our immediate attention.

We’ve no idea if selling now is a good idea. Can we get to England to find a new house? Unlikely. Even if travel isn’t officially restricted, it’s unacceptable to try to get there until we know we’re not a risk to those around us. But if we don’t sell now, who knows when we’ll be able to again? We decide to sell. Hubby and I drive from the airport in silence.

As I write this, our fourteen-day quarantine is behind us. No symptoms. But we’re under ‘safer at home’ advisories in Wisconsin, restricting travel and human contact for another month at least. In the UK, moving companies aren’t moving furniture, home showings have been suspended, mortgage applications aren’t being processed. Visa offices are closed so Hubby’s application can’t be processed. We can’t find information on when we’ll be able to ship our dog. Our US house sale closes on May 22nd and we’ve nowhere to live after that. Our son and daughter-in-law in the UK have been furloughed, our daughter in the US laid off.

We’ve waited thirty years to move back home to England. And thirty years to take a cruise. Our timing is impeccable. The notion of a world cruise takes on new meaning: we left port in one world and docked in another. But we’ll carry memories of the splendours of Chile, Argentina, Uruguay and the Falklands into our isolation. Who knows when a trip like that will be possible again?

Though this adventure wasn’t exactly as we imagined it would be, we’re willing to try again. One day. Some day. We have nothing but praise for Viking Cruises. As I now say, it was the best of cruises, it was the worst of cruises. We’re also seeing the world’s people at their best and at their worst too. And I will get home to England at some unknown future time. I’m lucky. My family and I have our health and that’s all that matters right now. Everything else must wait.

I wish you all safely through this extraordinary time. Sending hugs from a socially acceptable distance.

Author’s own images: Looking down on cloud cover from Osorno Volcano, rainbow over the Chilean fjords, penguins at Volunteer Point, author (before the shorts turned translucent!) in Buenos Aires. (Permission required for sharing.)

 

When Was The Last Time You Did Something For The First Time?

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‘When was the last time you did something for the first time?’ John C. Maxwell

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. We spend so much of our lives repeating the same limited array of actions; the routine so ingrained we don’t even miss what we’re not doing. Oh, I know, we sometimes look up from the alarm clock, the grocery cart, the housework, the dog in need of a grooming, the editing, the writing, the rewriting, to say, ‘I should do that’. But don’t.

This past year, though, I’ve broken out of my personal routine. I’ve committed to doing something I’ve been just talking about for years. Yep. Going home. Back to the United Kingdom. Back to fish and chips, egg cups, dog-friendly pubs, good chocolate and exorbitantly high petrol prices. And the National Health Service and BBC license fees and Trooping of the Colour and stunning national parks and Brexit. Leaving behind endless snowy US winters, stunning national parks, two-year-long election campaigns (Do they ever really end in the US?), school shootings (Will these ever end? Seriously, America?), uber-convenience (think warm cookies delivered to your door, 24/7) and extra sugar in everything, including bread and possibly soap.

With this dramatic change on my horizon, there’ve been a lot of first and a lot of lasts lately.

The Firsts:

Searched for a house to purchase on Exmoor. Signed contract on a house on Exmoor. Retracted said contract when things fell apart. Continued search for a house.

Researched shipping a dog from the US to the UK. It’s not cheap, is it? And it’s stressful, for all of us but Watson. He’s none the wiser at the moment but that will change when he sees the crate. Which, unfortunately, must be ordered in ‘Woolly Mammoth’ size due to Watson’s mixed heritage including a large dose of Great Pyrenees.

Got US citizenship. (I know, I know. Why, you ask if I’m going back to the UK? It’s the travel restrictions on green card holders. Have to be free, man.) Attended my own citizenship oath swearing ceremony and assisted at another for refugees.

Travelled on a US passport. The only thing I enjoyed about this was the photo on my new US passport is much nicer that on my old UK passport. Now it’s not such an ego-bruising occurrence as the immigration officer sniggers behind his screen.

Lost European Union citizenship. I think. Not sure of the exact date that happened/happens. Was it January 31st or is it the end of 2020? Who knows?

Published a second novel. That can never happen again. So is it a first or a last? Luckily, publishing a third can happen for the first and last time also. It can also happen wherever I am in the world.

Paid off our thirty-year mortgage. That felt good! Can now afford the Woolly Mammoth crate.

Witnessed my youngest graduate university.

The Lasts. (At least, I think they are…)

My youngest graduated university, which means no more payments, or summer jobs, or ‘Can I borrow the car?’, or ‘Send food parcels, please’, or sweating grades. It’s been a jolt to realise I no longer have a dependent child. Luckily, I still have a dependent hubby and dog. Or maybe I’m the dependent there. Depends on the day.

Celebrated last Christmas and New Year in the US.

Spent six hours in one day shovelling a massive amount of snow from my driveway. (Should this happen in my new English home, I’ll be upset. Seriously upset. But packing one snow shovel, just in case.)

Applied for citizenship in a foreign country. At least I hope that was the last time. The paperwork was mind-boggling! The emotional toll was also greater than I expected.

Filed taxes for last full year of earnings solely in the US. 2020 will see filings in both the US and the UK. Can’t wait.

Photoalbums

Condensed photo collection from what seemed like a hundred boxes, envelopes, drawers and albums into five photo storage boxes. While I enjoyed the sentimental journey from my own childhood through my children’s childhoods (went digital in 2006 – thank goodness!) it was a massive task I hope never to repeat. I hear you saying, ‘If she’d been more organized through the years, it wouldn’t have come to this.’  I don’t need this from you, thanks very much. But come over and I’ll show you Every. Single. Photo. You’re welcome.

Weighed – literally – the value of items based on nostalgia. Does that child’s tent, book, box of baby clothes, wedding dress, favourite leather chair, china serving dish I’ve never used but was given to me by a favourite person, etc., warrant the expense of shipping?

Bought my last roundtrip ticket from the US to the UK and back. Next time I travel, it will be roundtrip from the UK to the US and back. This may not seem a big deal to you, unless you’ve spent thirty years away from the place you consider home. The roundtrip starting point becomes a huge deal. A Woolly Mammoth deal.

So much still to learn and organize before the move. So much still to experience here in the US before saying goodbye. So if you ask me, ‘When was the last time you did something for the first time?’, I can say, ‘Oh, about lunchtime.’

Wishing you every success with your own firsts and lasts.