232 Days In - Decorations and Traditions

We definitely live in an area of the United States that likes decoration.

Of course I have previously mentioned Halloween, which is neatly followed by Thanksgiving (when carved pumpkins are swapped for solid ones and spiders replaced by small scarecrows) and then Christmas.

Even before the Thanksgiving turkey is finished, out come the sparkley lights and giant baubels.
I know this because they are on the outside of houses.

This tradition is picking up in England, but it has a special place here; flyers begin to appear sometime in October advertising professional light-putter-uppers, which reportedly cost you anywhere form $400 to $20,000.

Plus, no-longer content with simple strings, the lights now come in the shapes of reindeer, or the baby Jesus, or a Polar Bear wearing a scarf.

On a lonely drive home, well before Christmas, I am distracted by bright lights that I have not seen before (and this is a part of the Freeway I know very well). A large circular church has its Christmas lights on: in addition to those lining the building, a life-size nativity-crib is made from fairy lights, and every tree in the graveyard is coated in them - from root to top-tip.

As if buildings lining the roads are not enough, the cars themselves are also decorated - wreaths, red bows or reindeer nose and antlers.

Eager for a tasteful, reusable wreath for their front gate, Chris’ parents went to Stats - a festival slanted “everything you will need” kind of shop. At this point Chris was still on his start-of-MFA-residency and with no car I was slowly going mad, so I go along for a laugh and a bit of cultural learning.

You can get everything you will need: pre-dressed trees with oversized bows, or a statue of Father Christmas with a surfboard, or fake silver branches to hang from your ceiling, or life-size Crib figurines, or a miniature Dickens village…

On entry you are slapped in the face with all manner of garish Christmas tat fighting each other for attention in the crowded space. It is a big shop.

Chris’ Mom spends some time picking out the correct wreath, holding them up against each other and trying to block out the lurid surroundings. This I have to commend her for, as the wreath looks very good separated from its birthplace. Looking around at our fellow shoppers, it is clear that no-one else possess’ this rare seventh sense.

One lady pushes a trolley full of various glittery branches. Full.

Back at home Chris’ Mom comes across the “icicles” that hang on the tree; these are the long individual pieces of tinsel material that, here, they dangle from the ends of the Christmas-tree branches. Feeling validated now that she is back on home turf, she merrily scatters them about her tree. This causes some disapproval from the patriarch of the family.

Not at all British.

Actually there are many British Christmas traditions that I did not realise were specific to us, until I merrily tried to make them happen here.

Crackers, for example. I mean, what is Christmas without silly paper hats, useless plastic toys and awful jokes?

Christmas pudding, Christmas cake and mince pies are the other main casualties.

Though I am not that partial to eating mince pies, I am very partial to making them, and this was one tradition that I was not going to give up. But if Americans don’t make a certain food, why would you assume that the ingredients for it will be found in the shops? It isn’t. Not readily anyway, and it took more than a few trips to hunt down a semblance of what I needed.

In-fact, with the help of the world-wide-web, Costco and a quaint little British shop that sells lots of tea-pots, we gathered together all of our missing treats.

But I know that I am here for the experience of living in a new land, so this year we added two new traditions to our list: a Christmas walk along the beach and The Elvis Christmas Album.

219 Days In - Winter, Is That You?

It rained for a few days. Pretty heavily and constantly.

With a wry smile at the reminder of home, I sit inside the house, not daring to go out.

Chris’ dad puts on his raincoat and ventures into the unknown. Grinning.

But, because Southern California is usually so hot the heating system is not up to British standards: hot air is blown noisily into the only room with a thermostat. Everywhere else in the house, the paper walls are at the mercy of the cold outside.

So the thought of getting soaked through just makes me shiver.

This is not my usual state. As I have mentioned, I love the cold - and the best bit about it is knowing that you have a blazing fire and toasty house to return to.

On the first day that the rain came and the winds picked up, we did have a fire. Chris’ dad had been waiting for just such an opportunity, and the garage has been filled with awaiting logs since August. But the chimney was build by southern Californians, and the wind whipped down it, gusting puffs of smoke at us like a message from the natives.

That was our last fire.

Chris has started his Masters course. He goes in for ten intensive days, and then writes lots of Booker-prize-winning pieces at home, emailing his adviser over the months before his next ten intensive days.

He is about half way through his first set of ten days, and has been lucky enough to catch some of the rain on his commute to “school”.

If Californian roads are dangerous when the climate is predictable, they are downright scary when the rain comes. A bit like English roads in the snow. But worse.

The drivers split into two categories. Those who do not understand that stopping takes longer when the road is wet, and like to sit on the bumper of your car at the same speed they would usually go. And those who are scared and so drive really really slowly. If this second group is lucky enough to drive up behind someone else who is scared, again, stopping distance gaps are not altered.

Unsurprisingly then, the local newspaper recorded that on one of the said rainy days that, here in Orange County, there were 484 collisions registered - compared with 127 the previous week.

On the bright side, the drought has been eased for a while.

It is now sunny again, and if you sit on the patio at midday it feels like summer; the view is of blue skies and green trees. The only indications of December are wind chills and longer evenings
Recently I realised that I had been scrimped on autumn this year. No golden leaves to run about in, and no bare trees to sway eerily against the sky.

I just isn’t right.

So while the neighbours complain that wet and cold must cancel their plans with Chris’ parents, I am hoping for the storms to visit again.

212 Days In - Vistis and Visitations

Chris’s parents have been on a whirlwind of visiting and entertaining - well, comparatively speaking.

In November his dad flew to England to sort some business. While there does a whistle stop tour of relatives, from Bristol to Liverpool.

Upon return, barely recovered from jet lag, and he packed up the car and drove off with Chris’ mom to where she grew up. They visit old school friends, cousins and even double-cousins, ate a lot of hospitable food, and return exhausted two days earlier than planned.

There was disappointment over the way that things had changed: that the roads had stretched and spread, that gardens had not been tended, and that chain-link fences had been put up around fondly remembered childhood homes.

I have tried to visit neighbourhoods or houses close to the heart of distant rose-tinted childhood memories. Generally the bright glare of reality brings nothing but melancholy.

There is then a flurry of preparation for the arrival of Chris’ uncle and aunt in time for Thanksgiving.

Whilst busily preparing a 20lb turkey, three different types of potato and two pumpkin pies, Chris’ mom lamented that I would not be able to experience a proper American Thanksgiving where there is lots of food.

Maybe next year.

It was lovely to have family here, and there was a feeling of holiday in the air; everything shut down for the Thursday, and most companies were closed on Friday also.

In true Thanksgiving tradition (I am told) we watch American football whilst nibbling on nuts and sipping lager. Chris asks many complicated questions about this overly-complicated game, doing his best to find his roots and be a proper American.

I bite my tongue, avoiding a loud eruption of “Rugby is clearly a much better game - rah rah rah”.

Seriously though, if you need scantily clad dancing girls and a person in an oversized costume to keep you entertained, how good can the game be?

Then, this week, I had my own little “visit”.

Albeit for just half an hour in the departure building of Los Angeles airport, it definitely made my day.

One of my best friends from University was flying through on her way back from Hawaii, and we managed to meet for a hug and quick natter in the general melee of her flight change.

I have to admit that I am feeling a little friend-deprived at the moment, and seeing someone close to me was a real tonic.

But I try not to think about what I am missing - just what there is to look forward to when the time for family and friends’ visits arrives.

199 days In - The Police and Me

An American Cop is an intimidating figure.

Through T.V. dramas, grapevine stories and reality cop shows, an image has been built of men (I don’t mean to be sexist, this is just how my imagination works) who have all the power and not necessarily much morality.

In a country where, they say, it is not that difficult to get a gun, and where, they say, there is much gang related crime, it would not be surprising to find cops who look on you with suspicion before giving you the benefit-of-the-doubt.

I have, in six months, had four encounters with the US police-force. Each increasingly dangerous…

Honestly though, it’s not what it sounds like.

The first was early on. Driving lost through down-town LA, hoping and praying that some mad-man won’t jump out of the shadows with a sawn-off-shot-gun, disorientated we turn left from the wrong lane and cut off a police car.

Well, I say “we”, but Chris was driving.

At the next junction, we are blinded by one of his special “blind the criminals” lights, and he calls across to us:

“You can’t just pull across me like that, buddy.”

“Oh….I am terribly sorry.”

Stammers Chris in his best “I went to a posh British school” voice. The “we are just stupid tourists” excuse is always the best.

Our second encounter was much more personal, though still disappointingly polite.

Speeding on our way to a day of mundane background work, we are caught - yes - speeding.

Again, I say “we”, but Chris was driving.

Blue lights flash behind us. It is very exciting, this time it is a motorcycle cop.

He walks purposefully to my window, which I obediently roll down, and complete with moustache, sunglasses and leather gloves he introduces himself and asks the driver why he might be driving so fast.

My over-excitement at the whole experience is somewhat dampened when the extortionate ticket arrives.

At encounter number three, I had no husband to protect me (or to blame).

Work took me out to a little hotel in the middle of nowhere, and at 8am there is a knock on the door. My room-mate answers it and immediately we are asked:

“So what’s going on?”

So nice to meet you too, officer.

Thinking it is some kind of joke, my room-mate laughs along, but when we are requested to hand over I.D. she staunchly refuses and begins a rampage about how, if the police did their jobs, California would not be in debt.

A slightly confusing argument.

It turns out that there had been an anonymous call saying that something distressing was happening in our room - though he did get the room number wrong when he mentioned it, sooo…

After taking me aside to ask sincerely “are you sure you are alright ma’am?” he has to admit defeat and leave.

I begin to eye everyone else at the hotel suspiciously, and am very happy when it comes time to leave for work.

And so, two nights ago came the fourth, and definitely most scary, encounter.

At 3am we wake, with a start, so the screech of tyres and a thunderous bang. A car alarm goes off for about 20 seconds. Then silence.

My heart literally pounds from the shock, while my mind runs wild. As I have mentioned, we live in a guard gated cul-de-sac with speed bums every 50 yards; how could anyone even travel fast enough to create such impact?

In my head a pick-up-truck has crashed into a house. Chris agrees that this is what it sounded like.

Lying awake I hear a few scuffles in the dark - figments of my startled imagination, I tell myself.

Then there is torchlight, voices, and the unmistakable sound of our back-gate. Followed by a knock on our door and Chris’ mom’s rushed voice:

“There are policemen in the back yard.”

It takes up approximately two seconds to dress, and we head for the front door to investigate, but the call of “don’t go out, the police had their guns drawn” halts us firmly in our tracks.

The image of policemen running around just outside the windows, guns in hand, chasing down a criminal, who was clearly trying to escape them, has an odd effect.

Will the mad-man run through our land? Might the police, on the other side of the house, see him, shoot through the windows and catch us in the cross-fire? Conversations of whether the patio lights should be on or off, ensue.

A knock on the door brings the news of how the attempted escapee did run through the back yard, and that now having been caught, he would be going to jail. Not a drug-dealer or gang-killer, it transpires he was a drunk 21 year old who panicked when stopped for a broken headlight.

We watch the blue lights slowly disappear, and head back to bed.

Chris’ dad, who slept through the sound of the crash, puts the kettle on, and stays up to have a cup of tea.

194 Days In - The Quality of the Air

Those of you who know me will know that cleaning my car is really rather low on any priority list I might make.

The other people who live in LA seem to put it a little higher on their lists, and being the only person on the road with a dirty car can cause some self-consciousness.

There was great excitement, then, when (after having taken the car for an oil-change, which I had never even heard of before coming here) we were offered a free car wash.

Scarily not that perturbed that the oil-change did not check my break pads, or suspension, or even back lights, off I poddle to the designated place to receive my newly clean car.

Parking in a row of cars waiting to be cleaned, I clock the “just washed” look of other cars in the line. Clouds of shame begin to gather.

It was a very rare occasion, in the UK, that I would wash my car. Maybe if I was selling it, or if there was so much mud on it I couldn’t actually see out. But England does help you out a little, with torrential downpours and drizzly days.

Rain is such a rare and wonderful occurrence here that when it does come, it simply displaces the dirt on your car, arranging it into new patterns.

That is how dirty the car gets.

I think I may have mentioned that we live on a tamed desert - there is a lot of dust in the air. I may not have mentioned that Los Angeles has filthy, filthy smog. I have often been shocked, when driving, at relatively close mountains hazily coming into view, and when out and about in town everything is doused in a romantic soft-focus.

It is not quite as bad a Kathmandu, but worryingly close.

A famous weather phenomenon here is the Santa Ana Winds. This is when, instead of getting breezy, slightly humid winds from the ocean, the air comes rushing over the desert and arrives hot and dry. An upside is that it straightens frizzy hair, but these “devil winds” not only traditionally cause quarrels and anxiety, but they bring all the Los Angeles smog to those of us smugly perched by the sea.

When the winds visited us a couple of months ago Chris’ mom ran round the house in a panic ordering us to close all the windows. In my usual “it is better to have the window open” opinion, I was dubious. That is until I saw the effect out at sea, in the form of a green haze hanging over the water.

I kid you not.

So it all makes sense; I am not unusually grubby out here, the air is just filled with dirt.

After watching a numerous amount a men scrub, rub and even hoover every inch of the car (including the inside rim of the doors), I handed over an above-average tip, avoided all eye-contact, and informed Chris that he would be taking the car to any washes, in future.

185 Days In - Tea's Up

I have taken to having a spot of tea of an afternoon; poured from the tea-pot, naturally; often accompanied by a small slice of sponge.

High tea is a truly wonderful thing.

When at university, my house-chum commented, whilst sipping on a hot cup of English Breakfast, that I never made tea for her, and that she was always making tea for me. My response was that I did not care for tea that much, and that I would gratefully accept her offers as it meant a break and no-doubt a hearty chat.

Now, come five hours following noon-time, I will place a brimming kettle on the hob and call to all that tea will soon be ready.

It is now the tenth of November. Which means that the fifth of November has been and gone, vanishing into the past as though it were of no significance at all. Gunpowder treason being well and truly “forgot” by this household, this year.

When I lamented to Chris, pulling an ever-so-slightly childlike face, and thinking of all the jollity we would be missing out on, he retorted that we never did anything to mark the day in the past, anyway.

This is simply not true.

Wrapping up and trudging out into the cold, so that I can have my face burnt by a bonfire, while my toes slowly freeze, and my neck goes stiff from looking up at fireworks, is one of the things that I live for. I have never let a Guy Fawkes night pass us by without so much as a sparkler, before.

But Chris seems to be forgetting a few things that made us British.

The worst of these, is his accent. Without a doubt the most unattractive sound in the American accent is the way they say the “you“ sound. Like it is a double O.

Now it is winter we will be having stoo; Chris has dooal nationality; characters on T.V. claim they are not stoopid; we got a noo car…I could go on and on and on.

Chris’ Mom, having got out of this habit in her twenty years of living in G.B. has slipped right back into it - and her little son is following suit.

The first slip came pretty early, when we were doing background work and he referred to the stoodio. As he had mentioned that he was keen to keep his English accent, I was very happy to jump on this; and what followed was ten minutes of Chris trying to get it right again.

This has been followed by other mistakes; but his tolerance of giving in to me is waning, either that or it is just too much like hard work.

Granted there are a few words that Chris has always said in the American way: tomato, oregano… But he has taken to responding “I always said it like that” when I might mention that no, he wasn’t frustrated, but frustrated.

I am all for fitting in while we are here in the United States, but there is something special about being a little unique. And, more importantly, I’ll be damned if I let any of my Great British standards fall.

So if you’ll excuse me, I just need to pop the kettle on.

177 Days In - Halloween

Wow Halloween is a big-deal here.

I mean, I knew is was a bigger deal here than in the UK. But, really, it’s a Big Deal here.

Like Christmas, the shops started advertising it over a month before; even if their wares are totally irrelevant to the Eve of All Hallows Day, stickers and spiders’ webs adorn the windows. There are whole warehouse shops that open just at this time of year, Disney runs its own special show and people decorate their houses weeks in advance.

As Chris pointed out, this takes something from the scary effect on Halloween night.

Apart from the amazing array of decorations, of course you can purchase special “trick or treat candy” in pretty much any shape or form. The Mommys like to know that their little darlings, having donned bought costumes and yelled “give me sweeties or I will egg your house” at you, will not be poisoned by their treats. To this end, everything is individually wrapped, proving a lack of poison or razor blades.

Learning this, I start to wonder about how noticeable needle holes are in chocolate bar wrappings. Not for my own use, you understand.

There was great excitement as Halloween fell on a Saturday this year. I heard rumours that Los Angeles is the only city where adults go trick-or-treating; but most either go to a party or run about the streets in cordoned off Hollywood.

Overhearing energetic conversations of “which party are you going to?” and “I’m dressing up as this, what will you be?”, can make you feel somewhat left-out. A bit like New-Year’s-Eve, I felt like I should be having an amazing time somewhere, that I could gloat about on facebook later.

On the Saturday in question Chris and I pop to the local mall, we shop for jeans, everyone else is there to show off costumes and gather “candy”.

You guessed it, this is not something that starts when the sun goes down, they are at it all day. Lucky old dentists.

And costumes are not limited to witches and ghosts, we saw cheerleaders, bears, princesses, ketchup bottles, ladybirds, tacos, and our personal favourite - Big Ben.

Actually, we did have fun. We carved an evil pumpkin, made a big spider to creep about on the pool “web” and donned minimum costume/makeup - Chris was a fantastic joker-style-pumpkin. The job of doling out little chocolate bars to cute little kids and greedy pre-teens also become ours; and we actually got some “oh my god” squeals in reaction to my husband’s face.

My childhood Halloween was an evening of apple bobbing and silly games; I don’t remember dressing up, and I do remember my mother’s attitude that getting something because you threaten people is not a good thing.

If you look into the origins of Trick-or-Treating you find that centuries ago it was prevalent in the UK in the form of poor folk offering prayers in return for tit-bits on All Hallows Day (November 1st). It then skipped over here, grew in popularity in the 1940s/50s, and is (I hear) creeping its way into our quaint little British villages.

But if it builds a sense of community and spreads a festive mood, that can only be a good thing. Just don’t tell the kiddywinks what it really means!