EINE

Ben Eine, from what I've read, created a series of murals in Octavia St. as a sort of 'calling card' for his then upcoming show at a local gallery here in 2011. The only mural of his that I remember noticing and had the pleasure of photographing is the one above from 2013, when I was visiting home from abroad. Upon moving back in 2015, I found that the mural had been painted over. -shame, really. Also: Can you identify what this piece is called? 

When I was living in London, Eine's work seemed to be everywhere. -that or I was spending a lot of time in Shoreditch. The first piece I recognised as Eine's work was CHANGE. I took a photo of that one as well, but don't know where I've stashed it on the computer. Given that Eine has been fairly prolific, there are shed loads of images of his work on the net. 

Here is CHANGE--

I have just read that Eine's work is displayed in galleries & on buildings all over the world. I hadn't realised how successful he was. I suppose the person who had his mural painted over in San Francisco didn't know either. 

Feininger

When I lived in London, I spent a good deal of time in Hampstead Heath. After my Heath walks, I'd usually go for a potter around the High Street, grab a crepe at that crepe stall that always has a super long wait, and nose around the Oxfam shop. The Oxfam shop in Hampstead, as one might imagine, was usually filled with stuff from posh people's homes. I went there a lot.

I remember that on my penultimate visit to the shop, I tried to convince a worker that she could probably sell a really lovely tea pot from the GDR (it had a maker's mark) for more than £3.99. She actually couldn't understand what I was saying (Excuse me? What do you mean?) because English wasn't her first language, and I'll bet my mumbly Californian accent threw her off. Continuing on as only a pushy American could, I busted out some ancient-old high school Spanish that equally tanked: Um, como se dice...?  El Pais...no mas existe.  (My attempt was "que lame".)

Then I found a photograph bearing the name of Eleonore "Lore" Feininger, daughter of Lyonel Feininger, on its matting. The black and white picture was either signed by Lore, who had been a photographer, or it was a photo of Lore by someone whose name remains unknown. The image shows a happy, smiling, young woman with large, light-colored eyes. She's wearing a slim wedding ring and has her hair in a bob. I'd date the picture from the 20s. The matting and frame were not top quality, but they seemed period; the picture was compelling, but, without knowing if Lore is the subject or the photographer (or both) it's hard to know what the 5"x7" portrait is worth. I am a huge fan of Lyonel Feininger's art, so, to me, the picture is invaluable.
-probably sounds silly, but that's how I feel.

Apparently, no one at Oxfam had 'googled' Lore Feininger, so only priced the portrait at £8.99. At the time, I neither bought the photo nor tried to talk the English-challenged shop worker into putting the portrait aside and contacting an auction house. (Also, that would have been BIG ask.)

I can imagine that someone in the Feininger family must have, at some point, lived in or around Hampstead. I'm guessing there must have been a spring cleaning and the photograph was given away to the charity shop.

Anyway, a couple of days later, I went back up to Hampstead and bought the photo. The internet searches that the hubs and I engaged in continued to turn up nothing. Online, there are only a handful of pictures with Lore Feininger's name attached, and, of them, only two readily viewable. Apparently, Lore had photographed other photographers of renown--T. Lux Feininger, her brother, and Erich Salomon and those pictures have sold quite well at auction.

So, is what I have an image taken by Lore? And, if so, who is the subject? My plan was to write to the Bauhaus Archive in Berlin, send them a copy of the photo, and see what they can tell me about its provenance. Given that both Lore's dad and brother were instructors at Bauhaus, I'd imagine the archive could shed a little light on the subject. Now, some years later, I still haven't gotten around to figuring out the photo's origin story. Alas...

Below is a work by Lyonel Feininger, Lore's papa.

Gelmeroda by L. Feininger

More Drag, Less Queen

The second child of Lady Di and Charles will marry this May. I am reminded of their eldest son's wedding as I happened to be living in England then. There were lots of royal wedding swag the in shops leading up to the big day, but also some 'counter-swag', if you will. Much of the anti-royal wedding stuff I discovered on the day itself. 

Will's edible parents, from Bea's of Bloomsbury

On the 29th of April, 2011, Will and Kate were married in London. Of course, by "Will and Kate" I mean Prince William of Wales and Miss Catherine Middleton (formerly of party supplies).

Also on this same day in London a Republican Street Party was held by this organization: http://www.republic.org.uk/ 

I attended one of these events. Care to guess which one?

The anti-Royals came from all over the UK to protest what they see as an outmoded system that must be dismantled. "Citizen not Subject" was just one of a handful of bumper-sticker phrases I saw emblazoned on t-shirts, mugs, and fliers available at the info. tables set up amid musicians, face-painters, and food stands. 

"Yeah, but how could the monarchy be dismantled?"  

"If I had a quid for every time someone said that to me..." was what M., one of the organizers of the party, said to me in response.

Not yer queen's tea mug!

By the end of the fete, I still didn't have the answer to my question. I did, however, get to see many people come together for a day of relaxed, good fun.


Here are some pictures:

Spiderman in the making

Baby's shirt reads: Stuff the Royal Wedding

This shot gives the expression "Young Republicans" a whole new meaning, thankfully.

Two sides of the same, tired coin: DIY/Bespoke

I remember my time living in London mostly fondly, but if I'd had a penny for every time that I ran across either of the above listed terms emblazoned across a storefront, headline, photo caption or bus shelter ad, then I would have had a shed-load of worthless coins and an even more sour attitude than usual.

I don't remember hand-built furniture being referred to as "bespoke", but now it's being termed as such:
http://www.thesofaandchair.co.uk/bespoke?n=n&linkfrom=bespoke_furniture&gclid=CNfJxqHdkqkCFUEb4QodPGjjkg
If those are an example of "bespoke" living room pieces, then, um, no thanks.

Would that then mean oil paintings really are just bespoke pictures and stand-up comedy is just bespoke language?

Time was when the term "bespoke" only referred to tailored clothing. And, if I'm correct, it really only referred to fancy, men's suits and such. Back in the 70s, I don't think that I could get away with saying our mom made us kids "bespoke" clothing.  We'd needed something decent and yet affordable to wear to elementary school, and that was that.

I remember my older sister had Mom make her a pair of wide-legged red pants with the Coca-Cola logo recurring all over them. They were ridiculous.  But, hey kids of the 8th grade, don't laugh, those pants are bespoke!

Bespoke coffee

Bespoke mustache

Bespoke gin

And as for DIY, don't use this term if you can't back it up. I noticed that a lot of hardware/electrical supply stores in London have "DIY" written across their awnings. Well, that was the hook to get me into the store as I had some American lamps that I wanted to re-wire.

Lured by DIY storefront signage, I had gone into a one-off hardware and appliance shop to inquire if they had electrical cords, plugs and such for re-wiring foreign lamps. "No, we don't have anything like that. Check B&Q (UK's Home Depot)." I thought: Okay, I guess I'll help you run yourself out business. Or, here's a better idea, stock items that actually pertain to the DIY bit on your signage. (And, no, light bulbs don't count. -neither do screws or nails.)

When my Dad changed the oil on his car, was that DIY?  No, it was a guy changing the oil on his car, as most people did back when I was a kid.

Don't let's label what was and for many of us still is standard behavior as something more than it is, and let's also remember that most of what we pay someone else to do for us we used to do ourselves!

DIY fruit and veg

DIY Hairsalon

DIY lunch

The few, the proud....

the North Americans working at Selfridge's in Oxford Street were a unique bunch. There were only a select few of us in the induction room, but we were, by far, the most talkative, sort of, 'go-getters' of the lot. When I say, 'go-getter', I really mean 'chatty Kathy-types'. The Selfridge founder was an American businessman by the name of Harry Gordon Selfridge, so I guess it only seemed right that I apply to work there. That and I had no other job prospects at the time.  

I recall the induction (what we here would probably call a 'training') as being more of an indoctrination and for almost 7 hours we were treated to information on how Selfridge's Co. became the money-making monolith it is today and how to keep it that way.  It sure fostered my commitment to the 'team' to learn that I, at six quid an hour, would be helping to ensure Selfridge's earns somewhere in the range of one billion pounds that financial year.  Ugh.

Interestingly, the induction leader failed to mention that HG Selfridge, after having lost his fortunes from both the crash of '29 and due to his free-spending ways, died in dire straits in 1947. 

Harry Gordon 'There's no fun like work'. Selfridge

During induction, I had been fortunate enough to sit next to a lovely man from Manchester who had just spent three years in Salt Lake City, Utah before moving to London for work. He and his American partner intended to move back to SLC as soon as they were able. Knowing a little bit about Utah, I would think that being out and proud in Salt Lake would not work too well. The Mancunian found Mormons to be 'very accepting' people. I sure hope he's right. And, he told me, that there are lots of gay Mormons dotting the landscape of Utah. Safety in numbers. 

Walking down to the employee locker rooms (where the wait-list for an employee locker was four months) after induction in a herd of other employees, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation of a few nattily dressed young men (presumably from the men's finery dept., or whatever it's called). One was telling the others of a particularly thick-headed customer that he had been dealing with during his shift. The employee telling the story slipped into an accent that could have passed for American. Then, by way of making an excuse for the customer's denseness, he went on to say that the guy was from the states. Yes, that explains it all doesn't it?

I like to think that I did ole Harry Gordon proud when I reached out, tapped this employee on the shoulder and said in my Californian best, 'Nice American accent!'  His friends fell out laughing while he mumbled something to the effect of: Oh, the shame!

Family stories, flexible facts.

If history is written by the victors, then family history is 're-written' by surviving family members.  I had always been told by my father that my paternal great-grandmother, Beatrice, traveled alone as a teen by ship from England to San Francisco.  The family lore was that Bea's father had been a violent drunk.  There was a story of his having clocked one of the children on the head with a wooden chair.  I had always heard that Bea, once settled, then sent for the her mother and siblings.  I had also heard nothing about Bea's father other than that he was mean-tempered, and, I had always presumed, therefore left behind in England.  For thirty years, or more, I have had an image in my mind of young Bea, fleeing her mean drunk of a father, traversing the seas alone en route to the West Coast.  The promise of rescuing her family, one member at a time, burning in her heart.  The absence of facts lends to one creating a much more dramatic tale.

Thanks to my partner having tenaciously searched online genealogy sites, the truth of Bea's story was a bit more nuanced.  It is true that Bea came to SF via New York as a teen after the turn of the last century.  In actuality, she had arrived with her mother and some of her siblings, a family mostly intact.  Also known was that Bea had been born in Tasmania.  I never understood why Bea had been born on Tasmania, if my family had come from England to the US.  Discovered via my partner's online sleuthing is that Bea's family (originally from Great Yarmouth, England) left London, where they had been living, for Australia, presumably where building work was to be had (Bea's father's occupation was listed on the census just prior to the family's move abroad as 'carpenter').  After Bea's birth, the family returned to London for a few years before emigrating to America.  Online records also show that Bea's father eventually abandoned his family in San Francisco and returned to Australia where he lived out the remainder of his life.  Without the benefit of online resources, I never would have known anything about Bea's parents, especially not that her father had ultimately chosen to live sans family in New South Wales.  Census records show that, contrary to family stories, my great-great-grandfather had abandoned his family and not the other way around.

My maternal Uncle, Kenny, was of Japanese descent.  This wasn't unusual as it was all I knew growing up.  What, perhaps, was unusual is that Ken, having become a member of the family, retained his original surname.  Why had Ken been raised by Grandma and Grandpa without ever having been adopted?  Had it something to do with his ethnic background?  Where there laws in the 50s preventing white couples from adopting non-white babies? 

Some years ago, Mom told me of how Kenny came to live with Grandma and Grandpa.  It was never meant to be a permanent arrangement.  Like other parents struggling to make ends meet in the 50s, Kenny's biological mother, Nell, elected to put her son into fosterage until the day came when she could afford to take him back.  During the time Kenny was with Grandma, Nell regularly visited.  I had always heard that Nell hailed from Hawaii and was without family in San Francisco.  Ken's father wasn't in the picture.  Five years after Ken began his stay with Grandma and Grandpa, Nell was finally financially able to take Kenny back.  Picture this: Ken is thirteen and sitting on his single bed with his suitcase packed ready to be picked up.  While making her way across town, Nell was fatally struck by a Muni bus.  Kenny waited in vain.

A few days later, a man arrived at Grandma and Grandpa's house, the story goes, who looked a lot like Ken and identified himself as Ken's Uncle.  He supposedly threw a pony tail of what was said to have been Nell's hair on Ken's bed and announced, 'your Mother is dead'.  Apparently, Nell had been brought to the hospital after the accident where she remained alive for some hours.  No one at the hospital had bothered to notify Ken or Grandma.  Maybe the hospital didn't have contact information for Grandma?  Or, perhaps, more to the point, back then it wasn't deemed appropriate for a child to see his parent dying in hospital.  Ken's Uncle, living south of San Francisco in San Jose, had wanted to take Ken back to live with him.  Ken had never met his Uncle before and was reluctant to go.  Grandma loved Kenny and asked the Uncle if she could raise him.  The Uncle agreed under the proviso that Ken was never to be adopted, again, so the story goes.  Ken was then able to stay with Grandma and Grandpa, the only foster kid to be kept, but not adopted.  This is both a tragic and strange tale.  That Ken was able to stay with Grandma was good.  However, was it really that easy to simply leave a child with it's foster parent if a blood relative were in the picture?  Had there been documents drafted and signed?  Was this even legal?

Unfortunately, Ken died this month.  I had never actually verified the details of the above story with Ken while he was alive as it always seemed too delicate of a subject to broach.  The above account was shared with me by my Mom and another family member.  I wonder now whatever happened to Ken's Uncle.  It was Ken's Uncle, wasn't it?  Why, I wonder, did Ken never see him again?  What sort of an agreement was made between Grandma and the Uncle?  Were there cousins?  Where are they now?  Is there still family in Hawaii?  Perhaps some of the answers could be found on genealogical sites.  Different facets of Ken's family story may yet be uncovered and that would be amazing. 

Tips

In 2011, I worked in an upscale cocktail bar in London.  I slung tasty concoctions, opened bottles of craft beer, fancy champagne and wine and served food to those both sitting at my bar and at tables.  As with many London establishments, the bar automatically added a gratuity of 12.5% to all bills.  Apparently, the gratuity was 'optional' to pay, but as it was already included in the bill, it didn't appear to be optional and folk had to take the extra step of subtracting the tip from the main portion of the bill if they did not want to leave anything additional.  I found it cringe-worthy to have a tip added to all transactions regardless of effort employed.  Yes, I did only earn 6 pounds an hour, but it still felt weird to have someone leave me 12.5% more for opening a bottle of St. Mungo.  Some customers tipped a fiver for a bottle of champagne opened and served.  Yet others (I'm thinking specifically of the 10-top hen do of Welsh girls that ordered multiple cocktail rounds and food) left nothing additional.  Customers never 'owed' me a tip and I was grateful to anyone who gave.  'Thank you very much' was the usual response to customers' generosity.  I have always focused on the end-of-the-night tip earnings and not stewed over each table's tip contributions.  As most of us in the biz might say, 'it all evens out in the end'.

The fact that someone back in the States decided not to tip their waiter is not news; it happens all the time.  That the customer in question then had to justify her no tip stance with a wee note on the credit card slip was another matter entirely.  'I give God 10%.  Why do you get 18?' she wrote.  My question to her would be: why do you feel the need to justify your stinginess with a question?

We who are familiar with restaurant dining in the USA know the cultural rules.  If one goes out to eat, then one, generally, leaves a tip.  If one never tips, regardless of quality of service, then, I'd suggest, that person wasn't 'playing by the rules', culturally speaking, and should not eat out.

Visiting with H.

H. comes into the shop where I work every couple of months, or so.  She doesn't buy much and that's okay.  What she does do is converse quite a bit.  I listen and respond, as needed.  H. is 83 and lives alone over by the park.  She's also still recovering from a debilitating stroke that rendered her mostly without speech and forced her to walk with either a cane, or walker with wheels, when she's out shopping.  Although I understand pretty much all of what H. says, sometimes she's at a loss for words, literally.  The word won't be in her head, so another one, less suitable, will pop out, or she'll spend some time searching around for the correct thing to say before she can move on.  Her walker also doubles as a chair.  H. will wheel in, usually a bit out of breath, and then sit down.  The shop is so narrow that all spaces not taking up product displays are aisles.  So, she has a seat in one of the aisles and folk just need to go another way, or squeeze around her to get to the end of the shop.

It had been about three weeks since I last saw H. in the shop.  Today, as I was walking home from the market, I saw H. huffing and puffing her way up a small incline, walker laden heavily with shopping bags.  I stopped and asked if I could help her carry anything and she wound up insisting that I let her carry my shopping on the arms of her walker.  I later helped her carry her belongings up through two sets of front doors and a flight of stairs.  Mind you, her bags could have been weighted with bricks.  She had done a huge shop.

She invited me in for a chat.  We sat in comfy chairs in her cramped one-room flat.  She offered me raspberry sorbet, and, even though I declined wanting any, wound up holding an icy-cold pint in one hand with a silver spoon in the other for the first twenty minutes of my stay.  Eventually, I put it back in the freezer along with a tub of ice-cream H. had bought that day.

Born in 1929 to parents who weren't 'cuddly', H. remembers her mother refusing physical affection as it would have 'disheveled' her clothes.  Her father was a military man and H. remembers that she was never, ever allowed to refer to him as 'daddy'.  She and her siblings had to call their father 'sir'.  H. had been raised by a nanny to whom she felt close.  A cook prepared the family meals.   'My mother never wanted us,' H. told me.  In a few short years, she and her two siblings had been shipped off to what H. referred to as 'home school'.  I had naively assumed that the siblings had remained together.  She told me that they had been sent to three different institutions.  The 'home school', she said, was neither 'home', nor 'school.'  Her parents left for India shortly thereafter.  When the war broke out some years later, her parents sent for them.  "You're home now."  That's what her mother had said to her.  She thought, is this what home feels like?  H. had her doubts.

Years later, when H. had a husband and four children of her own, her mother would insist on staying with her for a couple of weeks at a time during the year.  H. and her husband had little money and took in lodgers to make ends meet.  With her mother in the house, H. had one more mouth to feed.  As her mother had never changed a nappy and couldn't cook, she was little help around the house.  However, that didn't prevent H's mother from telling her how to run her household.  That stopped the one time H. sent her mum upstairs with one of the babies and a nappy with the request that she change the baby.  H. said that her mum was upstairs for ages, not a sound could be heard.  Eventually, H. went to check on her and found that the baby had indeed been changed, but, instead of nappy pins, the cloth had been fastened around the baby's pelvis with two large knots, one on each hip.  'She hadn't known about nappy pins, you see', said H.  After that, H's mum never told her what to do in her own home again.

We sat in her high-ceiling front room overlooking neighbours' gardens.  Blue skies were overhead; it was a lovely view.  'Oh, that's not the park, you know.  If you want a view of the park,' she told me, 'then you'll have to go to the other side of the house'.  I went to the kitchen, looked out the window and saw the barriers and fencing erected to contain this year's Olympic equestrian events.  As I sat and, mostly, listened to her talk, I became aware of not one, but three dolls' houses set about the room.  One was a large-scale affair that I mistakenly thought was a replica of H's own building.  It was actually an 18th century re-production of a stately home from Bath.  The insides of which were filled with amazing rooms.  The butlers' quarters, the 'bachelors' room', the laundry room, the nursery, etc.  Viewing the wee bachelors' room intrigued me most.  I hadn't known that there was such a thing as a room for young, single men in which to play billiards, drink spirits, and smoke tobacco.  I guess the 'spinsters' didn't really have a room of their own, and, if they did, it certainly wouldn't have contained a billiard table.  Bummer.

HSBC

I am reminded of GG's post regarding the lameness that is HSBC, and how I thought I was lucky not to have been hit with half the rubbish that she was.  Well, as of yesterday and today, I can say that the 'rubbish' has hit the fan with these folk.  A few days ago, I attempted purchase tickets to CH to visit the hubs; my card was declined.  I thought that something was amiss with SwissAir, so I let it go.  Yesterday, I attempted to make an online purchase, and my card was again declined.  Mind you, I was having no trouble using the 'chip and pin' system to buy everything from groceries to train tickets, so I really didn't understand what the problem could be.  Yesterday, I rang HSBC and was told that I needed to 'come in with photo ID' and the problem would be rectified.  This morning I visited the Baker St. branch and had my card confiscated due to alleged 'fraudulent activity' associated with my account.  I was told that I would be able to retrieve money from any branch by using the teller services.  I was also offered to use of a premiere 'lounge' where I could drink coffee and lounge around, and, I dunno, feel like a big-shot, I guess.  What I was not told was how rigid the ID verification check would be when attempting to withdraw said cash.

Apparently, my signature doesn't look like my signature.  Right.  The passport I have was issued in 2010.  The signature I use is at least that old and hasn't changed in any grand way.  I could see if my current script were being compared to the scribbles on my passport issued in 1988.  That teenie-bopper signature in no way resembles what I write now.  My scrawl is more stylized, and, hopefully, harder to copy, but not too hard for me to replicate, obviously.  As a fancy-schmancy premiere account person, I was given a hard time at the Shaftsbury Ave. branch when trying to extract £100 from my account.  Not to sound like I'm swimming in dosh, but it's not like I tried to withdraw a grand which I could have done.  It's a only 100 quid, people.  (The woman doubted who I was, I guess, and began asking the standard questions like 'how much money do you have in your account?'  I gave her that and the name of the joint account holder.  -didn't seem to help much.)  My signature does look like my signature, and, what do you know, my picture does look like me.  It's my picture!

The passport and its attendant visas all have photos of me attached to them.  The NY state license (a bitch to obtain in its own right) shows my picture.  I have not had radical plastic surgery, undergone extreme weight fluctuations, or shaved my head since having any of these pictures taken.  They are passport pictures, and, as such, pretty much all look alike.  There I am, not smiling with my hair pulled back. 

The 'signature that is my face' should be the most important part of the verification process.  Nope.  HSBC security measures seem to place more emphasis on the fact that the curve on the last consonant in my name was larger in the passport signature than it was on the signature I had to give in order to withdraw money.  There are subtle variations to one's signature.  A loop written one day may be slightly more bulbous or slightly more anemic-looking on another day.  If I were a robot, then I'd write my name the EXACT same way each time, but, alas, I am not, and folk whose business it is to scrutinize signatures should know what to look for when examining one's script and what to make allowances for.

After telling me 'you wouldn't want me to give your money to someone else' or some such rubbish, the bank clerk then handed over five 20 pound notes.  Again, it's my passport with my picture in it.  So, actually, if some punk were to try and extract money from my acct. using my passport, then I think the larger problem would be that my passport has been nicked.  Call the authorities!

Name change and other musings.

As of yesterday I fessed up to myself that I'm moving away from lovely London, a city I have grown very fond of, to Zurich and wanted to reflect that change in the blog.  'Orchids and Onions' is a brilliant name--not mine, but pinched from the annals of Rancho junior high year book fare--and I wanted to replace it with something, hopefully, almost as catchy and Swiss-appropriate.  Fondue, as most of you are probably familiar, is the yummy melted cheese or chocolate (or meat!) treat that one dips veg, bread chunks or fruit into for a belly-ache of a good time.  Fendant, a lovely, mineral-like, white wine produced in CH, is something I got turned onto while visiting Zurich recently.  I am told that Fendant rarely makes it out of CH, so the rest of the wine drinking world doesn't know what it's missing.

I had thought about starting a new blog to reflect the new direction my life is taking, but, really, I'm not a huge fan of technology, and the thought of cobbling together a new site was off-putting, so I thought I'd just continue on in the same vein with a slightly different facade.

Photo courtesy of Fribourg Tourist Bureau

Züri-bound

Im Juli ziehen mein Mann und ich nach Zürich.  Wir freuen uns darauf, aber ich mehr als er.  Weil er kaum Deutsch kann, hat er Angst, dass er nicht viel verstehen kann sowie sagen kann.  Zum Glück kann ich schon einigermassen Deutsch, aber nicht so viel wie ich möchte.  Deutsch mit Fehlern ist nicht schön, zuzuhören, aber kein Deutsch reden zu können, wäre am Schlimmsten!  Ich wäre so wie ein Kind und würde den Leuten ziemlich blöde Fragen stellen.  Ich erinnere mich noch daran, als ich in Essen war und etwa Obst und Gemüse am Markt kaufen wollte.  Ich habe mit dem Finger auf die kleinen, runden, süssen Dinge, die natürlich zusammengebunden sind, gezeigt und die Verkäuferin gefragt, 'wie heissen die alle zusammen?'  Sie hat die Stirn gerunzelt und sagte, 'wie bitte?'  Ich wusste schon, dass ein einziges Stück von denen 'Traube' heisst, aber viele von denen?  Das wusste ich nicht.  "Die eine heisst 'Traube'", sagte ich ihr, 'aber die ganze Gruppe...?'  Die immer noch stirnrunzelnde Frau hielt eine Menge Trauben hoch und sagte mir ganz laut und deutlich, 'TRAUBE!'  'Oh, danke', ich habe gemurmelt.  Dann habe ich eine Traube gekauft und bin schnell weggegangen.

Ich erwarte noch solche ähnliche Erfahrungen in der Schweiz, was ich mich nicht darauf freue.  Was mir am Meisten Angst gibt, ist der schweizer Dialekt.  Ich habe schon Schwierigkeiten mit dem Standard und kann mir gut vorstellen, dass ich kaum etwas vom Dialekt verstehen würde!  Eigentlich könnte ich vielleicht doch Stückchen des Dialekts kriegen, wenn sie ähnlich mit dem Schwäbishen wären!  'Gell' und 'Gruezi' (Gruess Sie/Gruess Dich...im Schwabenland) schaff' ich schon, obwohl sie nur ein Paar Wörter sind, sind die besser als gar keine.  Die allemannischen  Ausdrücke 'hai ja' und 'ha noi' verstehe ich auch, wenn sie ueberhaupt im Schweizerdeutschen gäbe!  Ich möchte mich nie über die Einwohner in Zuerich lustig machen, weil ich sehr gern die Sprache habe.  Ich bin der Meinung, dass man unbedingt die Mundart pflegen sollte.  Ich möchte nur die Sprache verstehen, nachmachen tue ich als Ausländerin nicht.

Zum Thema Nachmachen: ich rede in England genau sowie ich in den USA geredet habe.  Manchmal spreche ich aber die Konsonanten deutlicher aus, damit die Leute mich besser verstehen können.  Im Vergleich mit den Engländern reden die Amerikaner eher unklar.  Ein gutes Beispiel fuer die Undeutlichkeit der amerikansichen Sprache ist während der Reise meiner Schwiegermutter passiert, die bei uns im Herbst zum Besuch war.  Sie und ihr Mann wollten einen Aufenthalt in Canturbury machen, um sich die wunderschöne Kathedrale anzuschauen.  Dafuer haben sie mit dem Zug fahren müssen.  Am Schalter im Hauptbahnhof hat die Schwiegermutter danach gefragt, Bahnkarten Richtung 'Cannerbury' zu kaufen und wurde zwei Fahrkarten fuer die Cannonbury Haltestelle, die immer noch in London ist, verkauft.  Man muss im Britischen ganz deutlich die Konsonanten aussprechen, sonst gibt es unangenehme Konsequenzen wie eine Reise nach Cannonbury Overground Haltestelle.  Der Cannonbury/Highbury Teil Londons ist zwar nicht schlecht, aber im Vergleich mit Canterbury ist er ziemlich tote Hose.

Fanny pack? Bum bag?

Let's call the whole thing off!

I've been living in LDN now for eight months and I'm no closer to thoroughly understanding what the English say to me than when I landed.  I think it all comes down to word choice.  We say 'wrench', they say 'spanner', and that really puts a spanner into the mix, as some might say.  I feel like I've filled up my Brit Vocab Bag reasonably well and I now say with confidence things like, 'you could do...' as a response to many questions directed at me, and 'go on then' when offered another biscuit/pour of wine/most things edible.

I'm fairly sure that I haven't fucked it all up and said, 'thanks for the ride' when stepping out of someone's car, and, if I did, you know I didn't mean it that way.  Speaking of all things sexual, I may have inadvertently referred to the big, refillable jug at Whole Foods as a 'growler'.  Yes, I did actually know that that word is slang for vagina here in the UK, but, in the moment of my sampling good beer (which may or may not be synonymous with 'real ale'), forgot and said it.  The beer dude at Whole Foods kept a straight face.  As well he should have cuz if he's such an authority on beer that he gets to wear the badge and pour the brews, then, well, he should just know that a big-ass jug with a thumb-hold is a growler in No. America.

Most challenges I usually deal with well even if they do take more time to figure out than normal.  Just the other day, some woman of indeterminate middle-age came into the shop where I work and asked if I had an 'egg lifter'.  Mind you, I visualised some tong-like device one might use to pull a boiled egg out of a pot, so I asked her if she were needing something for boiled eggs.  She looked at me as if I were speaking Martian, yet I wasn't the one who'd just asked for an 'egg lifter'.  She tried again while I asked her pointed questions as to how the eggs in question where to be prepared.  'I'm looking for something for fried eggs, you know.'  Oh, I thought, you need a spatula!  I ventured forth with something not terribly crushing that highlighted my being from somewhere else, so that she shouldn't think that asking for a 'lifter' was completely lame even though it was.

Eight months have gone in a second and I'm about to celebrate my first Christmas in England.  What I need to get straight is understanding the differences between Christmas Cake and Christmas Pudding, and why, in general, pudding here isn't like this:

I've eaten (see link above) already more than anyone's reasonable share of Xmas Cake and won't need to refill until 2014.  And, to use the British expression, if I'm honest, if the pudding here is anything like the cake, then I'll pass, thanks very much.

A trip out

Our very friendly and outgoing house guest left yesterday after a week of work and play in LDN.  As a send-off of sorts, we were invited to lunch by a friend of our guest who lives down in Tooting Bec.  It was to be the final 'hurrah' before House Guest jetted back to parts continental.  American-style chili was on the menu.  It was suggested that we bring drink and dessert, so we stopped at the Sainsbury's en route and bought some vino and a chocolate cake.

Tooting Bec, a stop on the Northern Line, is a rather suburban-looking patch of London south of the river.  I had been there once before in 2008 in order to visit a person I had then just met on a lark in California.  Until yesterday, I had not been back since.

As we three exited the station I can't say that I recalled exactly the high street with its not-too-great shops bearing slightly makeshift-looking signs.  However, knowing I had been precisely there before, I tried to find familiarity in the red brick facades along the main drag.  I couldn't.  We were to make our way down the street 'with the Sainsbury's on it', passing the Common, and, at some point, making a right just beyond a sports center.  I should have remembered at least some of that stretch of road as we traversed it.  I remembered not one bit.

As instructed by House Guest, who'd been down to Tooting a few times before, we crossed the street at the Common in order to turn right at the sports center which would take us down the path leading to the neighborhood where his friend lived.  House Guest had luggage in tow as he would leave the luncheon for the airport sometime around five o'clock.  Hubs carried the bag with vino.  I carried the chocolate cake.

As we neared our destination, I noticed a man quickly approaching from the opposite direction on the path parallel to ours some 20 feet away.  I looked in his direction.  It was the man with whom I'd had a prolonged liaison those few years before and who I had neither seen nor spoken to since 2009.  I held my cake and stared.   Perhaps sensing my hard gaze, he glanced my way before turning his eyes back to the path.  I can't be sure that he recognized me, but I felt certainly that he must have.  I turned momentarily to watch him walk toward town before turning back and, passing the building in which I'd spent a week of my life in March, 2008, continued on to our lunch date.

Christmas Cake

So, I was out and about yesterday running errands and meeting folk and had fuck-all time to grab a proper bite to eat before work.  My 1pm appt. at the tutoring center that was to initially have been scheduled for 1.30 ("Holborn is sooo close to here, don't worry about being late for work"), but I pushed it back a bit, wound up lasting until 2pm, so I had to rush to get to The People's Supermarket for my 2.30 start time.  Lame.

I caught the tube at King's Cross and made good time in getting to Bloomsbury, but still had only ten minutes to spare before my shift began.  In that time I had hoped to stuff my face with something cheap and quick, so that I wouldn't be doing prep. work in the kitchen while drooling over whatever it was that I'd be cutting, dicing, mincing, or slicing that day.  There were slabs of individually wrapped breads that, sort of, looked like carrot cake, or something, with raisins lodged in them for sale and on display on the counter of the kitchen in which I'd be working.  The wrapper read "eternity", but I couldn't tell you what in the hell that meant.  Undaunted and super hungry, I unwrapped one, putting the wrapper with bar code label into my pocket, so that I could pay for it after my shift, and stuffed the thing quickly into my mouth.

Christophe, the French dude that usually heads the kitchen on Mondays, was out with a bad back, so I wasn't even sure if I'd be working in the kitchen this shift.  If I weren't in the kitchen, then I'd be out on the floor restocking shelves, and, while I wouldn't mind doing it, wasn't keen on the idea.  Fortunately, I was able to locate the morning shift guy, John, and ask what was to be done during the afternoon shift.  "You'll be icing cakes", he said.  Okay, I thought, at least I'll be in the kitchen, if, however, not prepping for our usual evening meal.

Geraldine, another member who works occasionally, had been called in to replace Christophe and help me with our cake project.  In a few minutes' time, another woman, Aki, also came to lend a hand.  Three people, as it turned out, were just barely enough to meet the needs of what was to come.

Before leaving for Swedish class, John, with the help of Geraldine, brought up around ten, large pans of cake to be, as it turned out, both 'marzipaned' and iced.  After nearly four hours of feeding, slicing, rolling and draping, we never got to the icing stage.

Our task was broken down into three parts:  Geraldine was to roll out the already made marizpan, Aki was to cut off any hard bits of cake around the edges and put them on a plate for members' consumption, then 'feed' the remaining cake brandy after having scored the tops of all of them with a skewer, my job was to cut the slabs of cake into more manageable chunks, then apply the 'glue' (apricot jam mixed with a bit of water ) to the tops and sides of cakes, and, finally, fashion the slabs of marzipan around them.  -sounds not too terribly challenging, right?  Fortunately, or not, we were sustained in our work by eating bites of the burnt bits of cake that Aki had piled high on three separate chargers.  My routine was this: glue and drape a cake with marzipan, have a bite of burnt-bit-cake, wash and dry hands, and start again.  This carried on for a good hour, or so, until I felt slightly ill.

After three-and-a-half hours we were mostly done with 'marzipaning' the cakes.  We hadn't even begun making icing for them, however.  Now, it was time for clean-up and figuring out where to store our brood.  There were a few cakes baked in loaf tins that Geraldine thought we should slice, wrap and sell for two pounds a piece.  Aki and I were in charge of this effort.  As Aki sliced and bagged, I tagged and sealed.  Not knowing what to write on the labels--it hadn't occurred to me to ask what the cake was called--I asked Geraldine how I should label them.  She said, "just write 'eternity' on it.  They last forever!"

Ugh.  The stomachache growing in my belly after eating more than my share of cake-ends felt as if it would last forever, too.

Ownership

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about how people live as citizens/subjects/permanent residents/short-term visa holders in a given place.

Barring any unforeseen changes, I will be living in London for the next four-and-a-half years.  I want to feel as if this is my home.  With feeling comes action.  I should act like this is my home. 

As I was running through the local park yesterday I saw a child being let through some fencing by its mother.  The fencing had been erected to prevent folk from trampling on a bit of patchy earth that had been recently re-seeded.  I said under my breath, "there's a reason for that fencing," as I jogged along.  Would I have said anything ALOUD if I were a subject of this country?  No, probably I wouldn't have.  And, neither would most British people.

I remember once when I was visiting SW Germany during a break from college with a friend an elderly woman berated me for having thrown away a bit food.  Never mind that the food in question was a soggy bit of bread with herring that had fallen apart in my hand and was now neither appealing nor easy to eat.  This was in 1994; she looked to be in her mid-to-late 80s.  I think now of what she must have lived through: two world wars, massive inflation and deprivation, and, ultimately, the division of her country.  How thoughtless must I have appeared to her for throwing decent food in the garbage?

I see things that don't gibe with me here all the time.  Would I really ever say anything to the people who litter in the park, bottles and food waste left on the grass after they get up to leave?  Would I tell that guy who, crowded bus or no, puts his shoe up on the seat next to him as he rides into town to keep his feet planted firmly on the floor?  Did I "police" where I lived back home?  I didn't really, no.  Well, if you count continually making my presence known to the marginally aggressive, homeless woman who camped in our back garden from time to time, then yes.  She couldn't take my nosing around her territory, and, thankfully, she eventually moved a few blocks away.  However, that wasn't fixing the problem so much as displacing it.  I think of the man who died during the recent attacks here in London.  He was attempting to put out a fire set in a bin by some youths, and, while doing so, gave those brats a piece of his mind.  It was his neighborhood they were messing with and he didn't like it.  They responded by beating him into a coma.  He died shortly thereafter.

This horrible tragedy reminds me of the story a friend of mine here has recounted to me on numerous occasions.  I've heard it enough times to wonder if it's not an Urban Legend.   It's a cautionary tale of how another man stood up for what was right, and, for his trouble, was knifed in the process.  This man and his girlfriend were riding a bus somewhere in London when some young men began throwing bits of either candy or crisps at the girlfriend.  Valiantly, the man attempted to get the youths to stop, and was rewarded with a knife wound.  I can't help but wonder how things would have gone down on the bus that day had everyone (assuming there were lots of riders) had, in unison, chanted those effers into submission with something like, "Put the crisps down!" or "Leave her alone!"  I know that that sounds cheeky, but I'm being serious.  Maybe the bullies would have been bullied into stopping?

There is certainly something to be said for standing by one's beliefs.  However, if voicing them can have potentially devastating results, then, sadly, it may just be best to keep one's mouth shut, or to merely voice discontent under one's breath.

Fence-sitting

Not all bisexuals will leave you for a member of the opposite sex.  Now, I know that you, dear reader, know this, but, after having pho with a new acquaintance the other week, I'm not sure that everyone out there in TV Land knows this.

Let me start by saying that last week's dinner date is pushing 40 and she's been living in this fair city for over ten years.  -ten years in one of the most cosmopolitan places in the world with all manner of folk tucked away in it.  That means gay, straight, bi, and what-not are all living side-by-side, and, ideally, befriending those of other persuasions.  And, hopefully, through these friendships, one is reminded that an individual is either faithful, or adulterous, but NOT a whole group of people that are aligned by sexual orientation.

I swear it was an early 90s flashback when out of her mouth popped, "I'd never date a bisexual because I'd be afraid that she'd leave me for a man."  Um, how 'bout she might just leave you for another woman, or, in her eyes, because, you've proven yourself to be a narrow-minded twit?

Well, she may have a decade's worth of experience living in London, but she only has less than a year's worth of experience living as an out lesbian.  She's forty going on thirteen.  Perhaps that would explain her somewhat infantile attitude toward relationships and sex.  Or, maybe it doesn't explain a thing.  I wonder now how she was in relationships with men.  Did she worry that her male partners would leave her for other women?

After I and our other dinner companion patiently explained that "people are people" and fidelity is an individual matter, we settled into talking of more banal subjects.  All was well as we slurped our rice noodles, washing them down with ca phe sua da.  Well, things were fine until our bisexual-fearing buddy looked in the direction of the street, pointed and said, "Ugh.  She's too fat.  I couldn't date someone who was so fat!"

An Idiot in a Strange Land

Lately, I've been feeling like most things I say are totally ridiculous, bordering on the stupid.  I think that my problem might simply be constantly worrying about how I'm being interpreted, culturally speaking.  Am I too "American"?  Am I, like Goldilock's porridge, "just right"?

Speaking of porridge, I found out the hard way that the English seem to get by in the kitchen without the help of a double boiler, or porridger.  Or, as they also say here, bain marie.  Oui mais non.  Why have the term--in two effin languages--yet not the product?  Comment dit-on "confusing"?  I gave up almost all of my rather inexpensive cooking gear before packing up for parts unknown thinking that I could easily replenish my kitchen stock here in London.  I've succeeded in finding most pots and pans, but, for the life of me, not a double boiler. 

Last week, or so, I popped into a neighborhood cookery shop, as they say here, to inquire after a sales position advertised in the shop window.  (And, no, they don't carry porridgers.)  I've been working, and, therefore, applying for jobs for the past twenty years.  I have, actually, figured out what potential employers want to hear.  However, in the cookery shop that day I said something totally foolish.

It was this: is one allowed to bring a book in?

What the fuck was that?  The genie was already out of the bottle, so I let it hang in the air knowing that I'd probably just fucked it all up.  The owner was quick to go on at length about how there's much to do what with dusting products, unpacking deliveries, and the like.  Ugh.  I had failed this very mini test.

The next day, resolved to reversing my fortune, I went into the shop to apologize for saying such a daft thing.  I said something to the effect of this: I just want to apologize for a comment I made yesterday about book reading.  I want you to know that I'm not a laze-about book reader.  I'm here to work!


My apology went over well and I got the job.  Today, I went in to train with the other woman who works at the shop.  As I entered the store, she looked up from her book and gave me a warm greeting.

Shuttered and, a bit, shattered.

August 8th

It's well before dark here (sun sets at 8.30-9.00) and the grocery stores have shut exactly at 6 o'clock.  It's nothing to do with a religious holiday, or a royal function.  No, that might actually be fun.  It's to do with looters.  Looters, for the past three days, have damaged already disadvantaged areas across London, and, now, sadly, other cities in England.  -their goal?  Well, it's to grab as much loot as possible and destroy property in the process.

Until yesterday, both PM Cameron and London Mayor Johnson were on holiday.  It took them a day, or so, to figure out that they should probably get the fuck back the capital and sort shit out.  Johnson, for what it is worth, gave an informal speech to residents in Clapham Junction.  He was met with both derision and brooms:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2011/aug/09/boris-johnson-clapham-junction-london-riots

Brooms not Bombs!

The complaint is that there has not been enough police support in areas most affected by the looters.  People whom I've spoken with have said that they'd like to see more drastic tactics like water cannons and rubber bullets being used.  I mean, heck, the cops engage in nasty tactics like kettling on student protestors.  Why don't they use such means on folk intent to do real harm?

In Kingsland Road, Dalston, up to the Stoke Newington High Street, Kurdish-Turkish shopkeepers, their friends and family members stood along the pavement and in the streets in front of their businesses in order to ward off potential looters. 

It's a family affair.

In Croydon, a city south of here, a 144-year-old furniture business, House of Reeves, was burnt to the ground by arsonists.  The 80-year-old owner, Maurice Reeves, had this to say:  http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/video/2011/aug/09/london-riots-croydon-reeves-video

This man has more dignity and composure than I'm sure I'll ever have, never mind that I'll not be standing in front of almost 150 years of my family history burnt to a crisp to be interviewed for the Guardian on how I feel about such things ever in my life.

August 9th

Looting has spread to the cities of Birmingham and Manchester, to name a couple.  Last night, in Birmingham, three young men, NOT looters, were mowed down by a vehicle purposely targeting them.  Their crime was trying to protect the neighborhood in which they lived from being damaged by punk-thugs.  Today on the news, the father of one of the young men called for peace, but is it enough?  The men happened to be Muslim.  This whole mess of trouble began with the shooting death of Mark Duggan, a known drug dealer, who was Black.  Will violence begin to fall along racial lines?  Will it shift from nicking flat-screen TVs and trainers to mobbing those who don't share one's skin color?

Today, the local supermarkets resumed normal business hours.  I went down to the Cooperative Supermarket where I shop in order to fill the empty fridge at home.  While waiting to pay for groceries, I asked the clerk how late they'd be open tonight.  "10 o'clock", she said.  Then I asked at what time they'd closed the prior day.  "We had to stay open until five," she told me none to happily.  "The other Cooperative was robbed down the road.  And we didn't want to come in at all, but they just don't care about us."

"They just don't care about us" could be the general refrain of people living in hard hit areas.  Where were the police on the first night of violence?  Why were shopkeepers having to defend the their own property, vigilante-style, or risk being attacked and robbed? 

August 10th

Everything seems to be back to "normal".  Which means that those who feel it's their right to steal from shops still feel that way, they've now no chance to be a part of a coordinated effort to act on said feelings.  There's no chance, that is, until something else happens to trigger unrest, aggression, and wanton looting.

Let's blame the Spanish.

Back home, in the land of 'milk and honey', there are bakeries.  Many of them produce some very lovely French baked goods.  Chief among these goodies is the croissant (or, as we say, kruh-sahnt).  <--Hey, at least we still don't say 'crescent roll'.

At the bread and cheese shop just around the corner from my house, I tried ordering a croissant, and was met with a bit of confusion.  The poor girl hadn't understood my (apparently shoddy) accent!  I hadn't known to say croissant (kwah-sah).  As I'm not in Strassbourg, I wouldn't have said it italicized anyway.

The first time I'd heard penchant spoken in a way that made me go, 'huh?' in the direction of the radio was just a few weeks back while ironing the hub's shirts.  The Beeb was broadcasting some such thing and this bit o' French popped out over the radio.  'Pen-effin-chant?!'  I could hear my dad's voice say in my head, 'Oh, reeeeeaaallly?' in that overly-comically-dramatic way that I think he'd nicked from the Jack Benny radio show of his youth.

I know the word, penchant.  We, too, have it in our version of English only we say it as: pen-shint.  Classy, ain't it?  We also have the words: original, royal, restaurant, cinema, and many more from Le Francais.  None of these words are pronounced avec une accent, if you catch my drift.  They've been a part of English so long, that they're, well, now just simply English.  So why the 'fancification' of penchant et croissant on this side of the world?

Well, it all started way back in the 11th century when the Normans invaded both England and its language.  After a few hundred years, English regained its primacy, but not without having been fundamentally changed by its French infusion.  Between now and then, I should think, that any trace of French-sounding words would have disappeared.  So, again, if the above French-derived words in bold aren't accented, then why are there a few that are?  (Is it perhaps because they entered the English language at a later date?)

I asked an acquaintance of mine, an Etonian, why he thought some borrowed words from French were pronounced en francais and some were not.  His answer was, in essence, this: because we, the English, have the ability to pronounce them so.  Hmmm.

Okay smarty-pants (this is my response to him in my head), if that were the case, then why can't a whole legion of people pronounce the word paella?  Hint: it don't rhyme with a cappella.  Or, for that matter, tortilla?
Or, even easier to say, taco?

"Taco" rhymes with "Paco"!

Can't remember Spanish vowels?  Just memorize this little ditty: A-E-I-O-U, mi burro sabe mas que tu!

The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!

 If the Spanish had invaded rather than the French, then, I suppose, we'd all have gotten the hang of the "ll" and "aeiou" sounds long ago.  Of course, we also might be ordering cafe con leche with our crescent rolls, too.

In London wird Deutsch gesprochen...

und zwar sehr gut!

I attended my first German Meetup the other day at a pub in Hammersmith.  It took well over an hour to get there on two different forms of public transport from Greenwich, but, really, it was worth the travel time.

I went in to the pub and headed straight for beer taps.  As usual, besides the Amstel and Guiness, I didn't recognize the other draught beers.  So I asked the 'tender by way of saying, "I don't know your beers well here" what's the (fill in random English lager here)?  She responded, "I don't know them either!"  It turned out that the sweet, young gal behind the bar is from Tennessee.  Well, shoot!

Tiffany from Tennessee is here doing an internship, and, as such, is able to work, too.  She told me that she's at the pub most nights and interning during the day.  Not a bad gig, really!  Chris from Caledonia came up and ordered a certain lager, and, upon his suggestion, I did, too.  We were all just chumming around with one another when a huge group of drunken misfits came up to order their umpteenth round.  This was my cue to leave the Tiffany and Chris and go in search of the German geeks.

The group was housed in the upstairs portion of the bar, and, for the whole night, we had this space all to ourselves.  The Meetup was billed as a group for "students of German", but I thought it was a very advanced group when compared to like-leveled groups I had attended back home.  All were fairly conversant, and it seemed that we all had a good amount of both speaking and listening time.
The only 'bummer' was that, due to table constraints, we were broken down into three sitting groups.  I tried to circulate amongst them all, but found myself stuck to one group in particular with only a foray, or two into the neighboring group.  The folk sitting farthest from me didn't get any attention apart from a cursory 'hallo'. 

After about two hours, or so, the organizer decided it was time to put on the German movie he'd brought.  Not good timing on his part, really.  I was tired, but trying to rally the strength to sit through a two-hour movie.  Fortunately, for me, I'd seen the film before, hadn't liked it much, so felt no compunction at all about calling it quits and making the hour plus journey home.

If you're wondering, the movie was this: Die Edukators  I had hoped it would be this: Goodbye Lenin!
Daniel Bruehl stars in both films, and he's a good actor, but the former could be skipped entirely.

I'm hopeful that subsequent Meetups will be equally rewarding, if, however, a little bit closer to home.