flowers

I will miss the flowers of England, a place where roses grow like weeds.

This is a path in Wimbledon Park. Tim and I went running this morning. He's asleep in the photo but he stayed awake for most of it. When I ran down this path, I could smell the roses, even though I was breathing through my mouth.


This is a home in our neighbhorhood. I tried to grow roses in Arkansas and had some success, but it was hard work. As far as I can tell, roses grow here without any help at all. They are used as hedges and as decorations between lanes in traffic islands.

It's not just the roses that I'll miss. It's the lush greenness of the place. Colorado is beautiful, but it isn't lush.

This is a rhododendron in the neighborhood. It's about six feet tall.

Gardens in England are interesting things. They have a kind of organized wildness about them. Plants often grow on top of or through one another, but the result is pleasing. There are manicured and well trimmed gardens here, as there are everywhere. However, I think of these as the compulsory gardens of government: ordered and counted. Every country has these. The front gardens of the homes surrounding our flat are of the other variety. I've tried taking photos, but my eye can't capture the essence of wilderness, so you'll have to use your imagination. I'm not going to try to recreate an English garden at home. It just wouldn't work. So I have to say good-bye to these. I will miss them.

I've come to realize that even though I am leaving England and its flowers, Paul has made my whole life a place where roses grow like weeds.

the english countryside

Paul and I went camping Friday night in the English countryside, which is something that I will miss, especially Surrey: the rolling hills, the hedgerows, the narrow roads canopied with thick trees, the vibrant green, the wildflowers, the villages, the hamlets, the local pubs, and on and on only thirty minutes from our flat. We went camping for just one night as a test run for our summer trip, to make sure we had all that we needed.


The pub where we paid for the campsite and where the loo and shower are located.


The front beer garden. The beer was extra cold, and we cooked our own food so it was tasty.

Camping in Europe is very civilized with beer gardens and restaurants on the grounds. In England, a pub is usually within walking distance. Ours was across the road, and we enjoyed a couple of pints and conversation with the locals after setting up camp and cooking dinner. Car camping can be quite luxurious with a table, chairs and real cutlery and plates. We only had to add minor things to our list. We are officially ready to go. Roll on 28 June.


Craftsmanship of a bygone era.

In that way that thoughts roll around together and on top of each other, mixing and separating to create new thoughts and bring to mind other thoughts making us contemplative, the words ‘English countryside’ causes me to do a system check to see that I am appreciating the world around me properly. On one of our trips home from Paris on the Eurostar, I listened in on the conversation of two American women. One was travelling with her two children. Their accents caught my attention, recognizing ex-patriots and feeling a connection albeit superficial. I quickly tired of the conversation, the mother of the two children was yammering on about work and family, raining complaints upon complaints on the head of her companion who had the weary look not of a traveller returning home but of someone hearing what they’ve been told too many times and responding automatically with ‘yes, you mentioned that before’ and ‘so you’ve said’ whenever there was a dramatic pause. Nothing unusual in all of that. We all need to vent. What stuck with me, however, was that every twenty minutes or so, the mother would take a break from her tirade and tell her children to look out the window at the English countryside. ‘Look out the window. That’s the English countryside that we came to see. Isn’t it pretty?’ Her kids would glance up from their Gameboys and towards the window but they didn’t have to look for long because she’d be back to her complaints and ignoring both the kids and the English countryside before their heads were fully lifted.


This is not really mist but rather the dew beginning to evaporate as the sun rises and warms the air in the field behind our campsite.


I thought at the time and still think that she was guilty of what we are all at times guilty of: knowing what we should be doing but not doing it. It seems a greater travesty to me to know we should smell the roses and even encourage others to do so while not doing it ourselves then to not know at all that there are roses to smell. So this weekend, I enjoyed the English countryside. We put the tent up in the shade of large oak, so we had to wait for the sun to climb high enough to dry the dew off of it before packing up. We went for a walk that a local man at the pub recommended then we sat on our camp chairs and listened to the birds and watched the sun slowly light up the meadow, mind you Tim had us up before 06:00. A pheasant walked through the campsite.



This cedar tree is hollow in the middle and full of bugs, I'm sure, which is why I didn't get inside as Paul suggested. There isn't any way to figure scale in the shot, but the tree as big around as a round table for 8 people.


Being home with Tim is a big job. I’ll never say that I don’t work anymore. However, my job now allows for a lot more time to do what I know I should be doing instead of saying I should be doing it. We take a walk to the park almost every day. We study patterns in the quilts our friends have made. We marvel at the taste of a banana. I believe ours will be a summer full of this kind of ‘living deliberately.’

leaving the uk

Our departure dates are 27 June and something around 20 September. The September date is a little harder to pin down right now because there are some loose ends we'll have to tie up when we return from our summer driving tour, but it will be close to then because we've got the euro chunnel booked. Before we leave, we've got to do the following:
-Pack for the move. The boxes, bubble wrap, and tape arrived last week and are taking up what little extra space we had.
-Pack for the road trip. We hope to camp in most places, so we've got a lot of gear to sort.
-Sell the car. Two people are looking at it today. We've already rented a minivan for the trip along with a car seat so we don't have to ship one to the US.
-Rent the flat. We've had four people look, no takers yet. We've got an estate agency taking care of it.
-Get Paul's US visa. He has his interview with US embassy on 5 June. I have no idea how that will go. If that doesn't come through, we'll quickly shift to plan B. What's plan B? Don't know yet.
-See to the paperwork of moving such as changing addresses at the post office, closing bank accounts, getting Tim's medical records. Blah, blah, blah.

My last few posts are going to deal with the things about living here that I will miss. They are in random order, chosen by the photos that I already have and those that I still need to take. The first place is Wimbledon Common.



The Common is part of the largest expanse of heathland in the London area according to Wikipedia. All told, it's 1140 acres. I haven't seen all of it, but I've cycled and walked through most of the Wimbledon section. It's a short cut to Richmond Park. The Common was originally set out by the landed gentry as a place where common people could graze their household livestock, a few sheep, a horse, maybe a cow. It remains a natural preserve for both people and wildlife. Mom and Dad have a nature preserve, called The Nature Center when I was a kid, that is similar but not so big. I'll miss the forested areas the most. When I walk through an English forest, I can easily see where Lewis, Tolkien, and Milne got their inspiration. It's a walk through some of my favorite novels.



I see lots of people on horses in Colorado, but it is a distinctly different sort of rider from what trots regally through the Common. I have yet to see a male on horseback in the Common (other than a park ranger). They come from the stables in the village (that will feature in another post) and are either getting lessons or just enjoying the day, the horse, and the Common. They have slightly different accents than the rest of the people and wear clothes I've only seen in magazines.



Within the Common are several small lakes. The swans live at Queensmere. I'll miss names like Queensmere and seeing swans. I've never seen a swan in the US outside of a zoo.



The windmill is a Common landmark. There is a tea room beside it and a golf clubhouse. One of the quirky things about the Common is the golf course that runs through it. The walkers, dogs, and cyclists have the right-of-way and the golfers must wear red. Actually, there are two golf courses, but one is private and the commoners are not allowed. I imagine the girls go there after their riding lessons for tea.


Paul took me to the Common for a picnic the first time I visited him from Bulgaria in April 2005. It holds for me the ideas of romance, possibilities, and discovery. I am fortunate in that I don't have to leave these in the Common. They are part and parcel of my life now.

oreos in the uk

I first became aware of Oreos in the UK when I saw them advertised on the side of a double-decker bus recently. It was a sublime moment: joy that I could now get a childhood snack that has been unavailable to me for five years and saddened that an English icon was being defaced by another wave in the ongoing American invasion.

Today, after keeping back my own tears when Tim’s eyes watered with pain during his second set of immunizations, I bought a small package of Oreos as comfort food. I was confronted with a question from the check out clerk that I answered quickly but spent hours debating in my head in one of those mental time warps that sends thoughts flying faster than the speed of light. He asked me if Oreos were any good. What would you have said?

I told him ‘yes’ without hesitation but with the same exhale of breath that went with the ‘yes’, I added, ‘actually, no.’ Oreos are only good if you started eating them when you were a child when dirt and boogers were equally good to eat. I discovered this when I shared Oreos that my mom sent to me with my Bulgarian homeroom class four years ago. I had just enough for everyone to get one, and I took them through the different ways of eating an Oreo. Some of you know this story. When I announced that I was giving them American cookies, they began to salivate in anticipation. They’d either had or heard about the homemade cookies that the American staff made for parties. I think cookies are one area where Americans truly shine. There anticipation grew as I took them through the many different ways of eating an Oreo. I can’t describe the look of disappointment and even disgust on their faces when they ate. Several didn’t finish them. I had to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies and give them to them the following week to restore their faith in America.

All of this went through my head between the time I said yes and no to the clerk. Along with thoughts about English cookies or biscuits. They have this thing called a digestive that tastes like cardboard to me. The better ones are chocolate covered cardboard. I think these must be good only if you first ate them at the dirt/booger stage of childhood. Especially when there is Scottish shortbread covered in Cadbury chocolate to be had here.

His face registered confusion. Why was I buying them if they weren’t any good. I told him that if he had any children they would like them. He said his son was four. The prefect age for Oreos.

snow

Neville, Jenny,Timothy and me

One of the things that I like about England is that the weather is unpredictable. The light snow that we had while we were in the Cotswolds over Easter was followed by several balmy days. The snow returned last Sunday, reported to be the heaviest snowfall in London for 20 years. It's not much compared to the feet of snow I saw in Bulgaria, but I enjoyed it. We went for a walk through the park and to the village. By mid afternoon it was all gone. Today, it's balmy again with passing showers and impressive thunder.


view from our bathroom window on 31 March

action shots

Tara, Paul and Jonathan

I forgot to mention that Tara’s brother Jonathan also came on the ski trip. He even took a turn watching his nephew. Thanks to him, we have these shots of Paul in action on the slopes.

skiing in chamonix

paul and tim in chamonix centre

chamonix from the ski slopes

Whenever I visit the Alps, I am reminded of the mountains in Ogden. The cities, towns and villages are situated in deep valleys, so there is no sense of foothills, just majestic mountains. It reminds me of my childhood visits to see my grandparents. Ogden isn’t surrounded by mountains in this way, but there are no foothills, and my grandparents lived as close to the mountains as any building in sight.

Before moving away from Europe, Paul wanted one last ski trip in the Alps, so we organized a trip to Chamonix, France. He’s skied there before and also did some hiking and ice climbing on the glacier a few years ago. I was there one summer with students, but this was my first visit in the winter. We originally planned to go by ourselves and booked a hotel in the centre of town so that Tim and I could easily get out while Paul skied. Breastfeeding makes skiing and losing enough weight to fit into my ski pants difficult. It’s also a little too early for me to do vigorous activity. Back in the autumn, we’d spoken with Jon and Tara Lawn, friends of ours with two children, about a ski trip but they didn’t think they could make it. They ended up joining us, along with Tara’s brother JG. They have friends from England who live in the US and own a flat in Chamonix, and we were fortunate enough to get to use it for the week. They left their nearly two-year-old with grandparents and brought their seventh month old son, Dominic, along. I volunteered to baby sit him; instead, they did split shifts every day, and I watched him at lunch when they switched. It worked well, and I got a crash course in what Tim will be like in a few months. Jon and Tara are a great parenting team, and Paul and I observed and learned. The five of us enjoy good food (who doesn’t?), and Tara organized a chef to come to the flat and fix us a meal on Monday night. They returned to England on Friday and we moved to a hotel. Paul skied Friday afternoon, and we left on Saturday. We made the trip in the car, which served as a test run for our summer travel plans. (We plan to drive to Istanbul and back, seeing as much as we can along the way.)

chamonix centre

Chamonix is not just a ski resort, but a proper town with a bustling centre and shops for locals and obvious tourist shops. From our bedroom and the living room, we could see the Aguille du Midi gondola lift and a glacier on one side and tree covered mountains with sheer rock peaks behind them on the other side. Straight out the window over the town stretched mountains that seemed to join as the valley took a turn just outside of Chamonix. It was warm when we arrived and the next day, and then the cold weather returned and we had snow: a lot up high and a dusting in town. We ate at least as much cheese every day as the French, if not more. I had the creamiest Brie I’ve ever tasted. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of baked camembert and fresh bread. The bakery across from our flat was typically small with rows of fresh bread behind the woman (it seems in Chamonix that this is always a woman) working at the counter and a nice assortment of pizzas and quiches under the glass in front of her. As I always do in France, I had a quiche, cold, and ate it while walking around the neighborhood, which was just a block from the main pedestrian area. Most of the restaurants display their menus near the door. Along with English, there were almost always German translations. I noticed Russian on several and, using my rusty Bulgarian, could figure it out. I’m almost certain that the Russian wasn’t there when I visited Chamonix five or so years ago.



lunch break at the bottom of the ski slopes


On our way to Chamonix, we spent the night in Dijon, a wonderful surprise. The hotel that Paul found on the Internet was located 100m from the town centre where a glorious Cathedral loomed above the required cafes. We enjoyed a beer outside with Tim, his first in France.
beers in dijon

We then walked a short block to the plaza in front of some kind of palace. We didn’t have our guide book, so I’ll let you look up the details.
dijon palace in the morning

We stayed in Rheims on the way home which also has a glorious Cathedral, but our motel was outside the centre, just off the motorway, a miserable utility motel done in a nautical theme for some strange reason. Beside the car park was a field with a braying donkey. We went in to the centre and had a croque monsieur. It must be a larger city because there was more bustle, traffic, and noise. We had some car trouble on the way home, but other than that, it was a lovely holiday. We've altered our plans for the summer now to include more time in the Alps.