Stranger In A (Not So) Strange Land

Category: Uncategorized

  • What’s missing?

    I’ve noticed that I spend a lot of time raving about my new home life. I’m still in the “shiny and new” stage I suppose. That doesn’t mean that there are not elements of my old home that I don’t miss. Several have come to mind recently. In fact, I plan to be sure to have all of them wrapped into my visit at the end of November. Each one has sat as a small hole in my heart, waiting to be refilled on a return to the states.

    Now you may be wondering what those few things are. Or you may not. Either way I’m going to tell you. Unless you decide right now to stop reading, but then it’s on you. If you are okay going through life with this small mystery in your mind…letting it grow…encompassing more and more of your thoughts until you can’t take it anymore! Well then that’s on you.

    Just for clarification, I’m not mentioning all the wonderful people in my life who I truly do miss. Thank goodness for Zoom and WhatsApp!

    Here they are, in no particular order:

    1. Blue cheese salad dressing. I KNOW! I’m not quite sure why I am unable to find it anywhere in my corner of England. Perhaps because it is too French? Too posh? Too deliciously flavourful? Mind you, there are plenty of other types that are easy to come by. Honey mustard, French (hey, wait a minute. There goes my theory) Italian, ranch. And I know, I could simply buy some bleu cheese and make my own. It’s not the same. I want to grab a bottle of Wishbone Dressing and pour it on.
    2. Jersey Tomatoes and Corn. There’s no getting around this. The fresh fruit and vegetable access here is great, but there will never be any way to replace the best. I was okay going for a whole summer with no corn fritters and no fried tomatoes, but that gives me a year to figure out a way around it.
    3. The extremely hot weather. Ha! Tricked you. I’m loving the idea that a “heatwave” is in the mid 80s and lasts no more that 2 days. As opposed to 90+ and lasting for weeks on end. It would be like me saying I miss getting up at 5:30 am on Sundays, or having to drive everywhere. So no, I don’t miss the heat at all.
    4. (Or the real 3:) Cynicism. More specifically, the opportunity to be cynical. Here’s a scenario – I order something that is to be delivered in 30 minutes. I wait over 45. Now, in NJ this is cause for righteous anger. I mean, how dare they! No tip for you. And a rotten review online. (Now it’s 50 minutes) TWO rotten reviews online. This is awful.

    Then there’s a ring at the door. Perfect. Grab my keys and all my pent up anger. Swing open the door to see a young man with his bicycle, standing in the rain, my package carefully protected from the weather. “I am so sorry, I do not have a car, so this took a long time with the rain.” Stick a pin in me, clearly my privelege is showing. So I take my package, tell him it’s not a problem, tell him to be safe on the slick roads, and pull out my app to up his tip. I mean, really. Defeated by an honest apology.

    Overall, there are few things I miss. Outweighed by the positive: walking everywhere, pleasant people smiling and saying hello, conversation on the buses, not starting work until 9 a.m. (Let’s be honest, I said 9 a.m. because I don’t want you to know I often don’t get going until 10.) Pleasant pubs with good food, good drinks, and football on the TV. If this is the shiny/new stage, I hope it lasts. Because I’m willing to trade off that bleu cheese dressing for the joy of being in Reddish.

    UPDATE: You aren’t going to believe this. I was lamenting my salad distress with Sarah, the owner of my local coffee shop. She went into the back, came out with a catalogue and said she could order some. I thought that was such a sweet gesture. Then, a few days later, I was waiting at the bus stop and she came running out to tell me the dressing was here! I can neither confirm or deny that I ate a salad every day for the next 9 days. But I can confirm that it was heaven, and I’ve been incredibly lucky to find her shop. One checked off the list. And if you are ever in Reddish, be sure to stop at Sykes Coffee House. Best coffee, best food, best people.

  • Two countries separated by a common language?

    Now that I’ve been living in this Strange Land for four months, I thought it would be a good time to reflect on how I’ve adapted.

    Food – Definitely well. I love getting fresh fruit and veg daily (so it’s really fresh), and the variety of types of food available is great. Haven’t tried the MacDonalds because, frankly, I never ate there in the States. I did finally venture into the Dunkin’ Donuts in Manchester, and am happy to report the coffee blend is awfully close to what I used to buy daily. Can’t vouch for anything else on the menu; however, the coffee is all that really matters to me. But my schedule gives me time to cook more often – which leads to

    Time – Extremely well. The hectic pace of Jersey life has been tough to shake but I’m glad that I have unloaded that particular burden. Getting started early is not a competition. Working late is not a necessity. I’m task oriented, and letting the tasks be accomplished in time is much more relaxing for sure. Not feeling like I’m hurrying to get to the finish line (which, let’s be honest, is either retirement or death) has done wonders for my stress level. Speaking of stress

    Health – Even better than expected. I’m not a fan of “exercise” but I like to sneak in activities without my body knowing it. I walk everywhere. My blood pressure is good; my weight is the best it’s been in 18 years.

    So I’m doing well with my adaptations. Yet what about the big barrier? How am I doing with learning the language? We all know George Bernard Shaw’s opinion on this: “England and America are two countries separated by a common language.” Not sure about the accent – I only wish I could sound as beautiful and the Mancunians with their open vowels and lilting tones – since I won’t notice the differences myself. I’m focusing on how well I have adjusted to the phrasing. Have I adopted local terms?

    Here’s an example. Getting off the bus, the rider always gives a departing word to the driver. “Thanks” is very American. “Thank you” is more British. “Cheers, mate” feels like the goal. I’m still working on consistency, but I’m definitely settled between 2 and 3. I’d even say it’s about a 2.75 for now!

    There are sayings I can’t stand and am very glad to hear that they are not popular in my new home. Early on in my time, I contacted the person who has oversight of my work to ask about something that seemed like it might be trivial. Didn’t know if I needed her okay but I wanted to get it just in case. I thanked her for not making me feel like I wasted her time, and she said, “One thing I never abide by is that “better to ask for forgiveness than permission” nonsense.” Oh, I so agree with that. It’s never made any sense. It takes a moment to get the approval; it can take a lifetime to make up for a screw up.

    And I’m noticing that I never hear my least favourite of all statements. I even hesitate to write it. Okay, here you go:

    I’m sure they meant well.

    Makes my skin crawl. I mean, clearly, they didn’t. If they meant well, they wouldn’t have done whatever it is they have done that’s pissed me off. Don’t justify someone’s ridiculous actions or words because you can’t imagine that they were not being mean or vindictive. If they “meant well” they could have kept their opinions to themselves. Ugh. Now I’m in a bad mood. I need tea.

    (By the way, isn’t this the most British of mugs?)

    “Well meaning” isn’t a substitute for being kind, and those intentions should not be excused.

    Enough on that though. Being able to use “brilliant” or “lovely” in non-sarcastic ways is, frankly, quite lovely. So I plan to just keep working at it, learning my new language until everything falls into place, and Bob’s your uncle. Even if you don’t have an uncle. Or you have an uncle but his name is Henry or Sam or something.

    I just said I’ll learn the language. I didn’t promise to truly understand it.

  • Settled in?

    Just for the record, yes, I’ve settled in.

    It’s interesting what has become a standard conversation piece. Oftentimes in the states it would be “did you watch the game last night?” or “how are you coping with the weather?” or even “can you believe what Politician X did?!” (the last one is only when you know you’re safe.) So I prepared myself for local conversation by having a standard answer to what I assumed the question would be:

    1. Weather: “Oh, I’m used to it getting even hotter than this.” Which evolved into “Yes, it is rather warm.” Then “this is a miserable heat wave!” (because they couldn’t hear that 28/82 degrees C/F was lovely beach weather.)
    2. Sports: “I actually have been watching York City, so I’m not partial to either Manchester team.” This in turn has evolved into “Wow, if Stockport has a team I’ll root for them!” (like politics, this has turned out to be a safe answer.)
    3. Weather, Part 2: “I didn’t know that Manchester is one of the rainiest places in the country.” This evolved into “I’ve been lucky.” Then “oh, I’ve got a rain coat and boots and 2 umbrellas.”

    But the unexpected conversation that I have now had with literally every person I meet – “Settling in?”

    In all honesty, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer that.

    Obviously, yes. I’ve got all I need for the house, gotten used to the bus/train schedules. Got my cat. Started decorating my walls.

    NICE START TO THE WALL DECORATIONS

    Sleeping well, eating much better than I have in a long time. Thinking in pounds and Celcius, not dollars and Fahrenheit. But each time I hear those words I have an existential crisis.

    What exactly is settling in? How long does it take? When do I stop giving a long answer, and let it evolve into “Yup!”

    Because when I say just that, no one believes me. Perhaps I’m missing something, a secret marker that will indicate when the settle has ended. Or perhaps the actual settle hasn’t happened, and there are still multiple hurdles that will rear their ugly heads soon. I’ll suddenly make some huge social faux paus and everyone around me will solemnly shake their heads and mutter “She thought she was settled in.”

    Like the tagline to Jaws – “Just when you thought it was safe to stop settling…”

    Of course, I won’t be really settled in until I get my belongings. The ones that I boxed up 3 months ago and handed to a (hopefully) trustworthy moving company. (Which, by the way, brings up yet another difference. In the US, it’s a moving company. In the UK it’s a REmoval company. I don’t really want things removed, I want them moved. Much confusion on my end.) The material things that matter to me, that have great sentimental value –

    Alright, you called it. My books, and a few other odds and ends. Like my summer clothes. That I could be wearing in this unbearable heat wave.

    CLEARLY SOMEONE HAS SETTLED IN

    They have gone from my garage to a warehouse to a freighter to a dock to a warehouse to another warehouse and hopefully will arrive at my house sometime before the holidays. Although not having my books has led me to a whole new habit of visiting a local indie bookshop and Waterstones on a regular basis. Even found a new fantasy author who sets his humorous supernatural novels in Manchester. He’s no Terry Pratchett, but they are really very good. None, however that will go on my bookcase in the living room. Because that will be the home of my favourite authors, the best of the best (in my opinion.)

    Why? Because that bookcase was given to me by a colleague who got it from a person who was a student of JRR Tolkien. Who gave her the bookcase when he was her tutor. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have a bookcase that once held books held by Tolkien. It is currently empty, but soon my own library will be settled into –

    Oh, wait, maybe THAT’S it! I won’t be settled in until everything is settled in.

    I hope that settles it!

  • Food, glorious food?

    It’s always the same, inn’t?

    (See, I’ve already started to use the local terms.)

    Mention a country where you are going to visit, and the stereotypes immediately come out:

    “Holiday in Paris? Oh, the people there smell awful and are so snobby.”

    “Mexico in the winter is the best place to vacation – the resorts are beautiful, just don’t drink the water.”

    You can probably come up with a ton more. Then the reality of it comes to light – people who have visited France and found the people warm and friendly. Travellers finding Mexico a beautiful place and not having any difficulties with their digestive track. What do you think was the biggest stereotype that I heard before my trip to the UK?

    The food is awful.

    As an American traveller, I always take the advice of strangers. (Ha!) On my first trip, I was prepared for everything to be boiled to the point where all taste is removed. Impossible to find a fresh salad. Grey and depressing like the weather. That is, if I had bothered to listen to those strangers. But fortunately, I found out rather quickly that there is something unique about British food. Let me share my experience:

    I came to the UK the second time to go on a retreat in a small village near Huddersfield. Which is near Leeds. Which is – oh, don’t worry, just imagine a beautiful area with lots of green fields. The retreat house was a converted old church, and I was the only guest at the time. The weather was sunny and bright, just cool enough to wear a hoodie or a jacket. Lovely. I arrived early afternoon and was told that there was a small farmer’s market about a quarter of a mile away that sold all kinds of fresh food for my time there. My room had a little kitchen area, so I went over to buy some basics. Some sausages, some cider, an onion. And of course, I would need milk and cereal for the morning. I looked at the cereal first and there were no name brands, but I got what seemed like corn flakes with dried fruit. Then I found a small container of milk – but it wasn’t pure white, like the milk at home. It was all that was there, so I made my purchases and went back.

    Deciding I was hungry but not ready for dinner, I landed on the cereal. Poured some into a bowl…added milk…first spoonful…and it tasted SO good! Like fresh milk and very flavourful. Okay, so at least they don’t drain the flavour out of that. Then I had the sausage and onions later. Delicious. Maybe I had just lucked out on that.

    As it turned out, it wasn’t just luck. The reputation for British food being bland is just totally inaccurate. The food tastes, well, like the food that it is. It’s what I have always preferred, so it seems my taste buds are in sync with my new home. Admittedly, this is something I’ve known about myself since I was about 11. Growing up, I had a (okay, yes, rather strange) obsession with food that touched other food on the plate. Potatoes here, chicken here, peas here. Nice space in between – NO! No gravy for me thank you, that’s worse than mushing it all together. It’s amazing how creative I could get with a knife to prop up one side, or to be able to eat effectively right up to the part that was contaminated but not let the crosspollination to cross my lips.

    At the same time I had very effective parenting that taught me this was okay at home, but if someone put a plate in front of me that had food touching, or something I didn’t care for, I should still thank them for it and eat as much as I could without any complaints. This approach did help me get over my separate but equal concept of food and opened me up to the different ways people enjoyed what they ate.

    Back to 11-year-old me, getting invited to a friend’s house after church and allowed to stay through dinner. What were we having…? Roast beef, and mashed potatoes and broccoli. This, for 11-year-old me – and admittedly for me today – this was the perfect Sunday dinner. When the time came, we gathered at the table, and I looked over the dishes. Smelled wonderful, and all looked good. Well, the potatoes already had the gravy, but I could just suck it up. (No, not literally, silly.) Then my eyes fell on what looked like a bowl of orange soup with funny lumps. I didn’t say anything, didn’t express my puzzlement until my friend offered the bowl with the most peculiar question: “Want some broccoli?” Yes, I would, but why are you handing me this awful looking stuff with – oh. There’s a slight hint of green in those lumps. Of course, I immediately asked what they had done to destroy the beauty of this delicious vegetable and refused to even try it!

    (Any of you that may have known my mother knows that last statement is utterly false. I took some, and tried it, and it tasted like Velveeta cheese with crunch.)

    This is my pivotal moment as far as tastes of food are concerned. Why are you even eating broccoli if you want it to taste like cheese? Why eat curry chicken when the food is so spicy you could be eating curry cardboard? And don’t get me started on a well-done burger with mushrooms and onions and cheese and ketchup and pickle – where did the flavour go? The idea of “smothering” food items seems to be the desire to choke the taste out of it.

    Perhaps for you, British food isn’t good because it doesn’t have sauces and spices and layers of melted cheese. But for me, I’ll take shepherd’s pie any day – even if all of the ingredients have to touch each other.

  • Livin’ on the Edge

    Of course, the whole reason (well, maybe not the whole one) that I have moved to this not-so-strange land is my work. When I got the opportunity to continue my ministry in a whole new area, I did realize that there would be many differences. Not so many that they couldn’t be learned, but that the curve might be a bit steep. For example, my title is still the same – Rector – although I am also an Incumbent at the Reddish Benefice. (Don’t worry, I had to look them up too. Quick Google search’ll do it.)

    There are lots of different titles and different levels of roles in any institution. However, the UK has the US beat hands down. For example, a parish priest may be a curate, or an associate, or an associate curate. Which means they are responsible to a specific rector. I am Rector of St. Agnes, and associate curate (do NOT abbreviate that. Oh, you just did? I’ll wait until you stop giggling about being an ass cure) of St. Elisabeth’s and St. Mary’s. Traditionally, the associate curate (are you going to chuckle every time?!) of those 2 parishes are under the guidance of the rector of St. Agnes. So, in the grand scheme of things, it looks like I am both responsible for myself and responsible to myself.

    Once again, I digress. The element of life that has been brought up a lot during the settling in has been the housing situation. In both elements of the church, housing is usually provided by the parish, as was the case in my first parish in NJ. The second place I served did not have housing, so they paid a portion of the rent on my apartment. Finally, with being responsible for three, the diocesan staff made arrangements for the associate curate to be in residence at the rectory, which I can only assume was with the permission of the rector. (This is so much fun.)

    The question that keeps coming to mind is: how are the living situations different? Better or worse? Preferred or tolerated? Like so many other comparisons, there are good and bad in each. In my first spot, the house was big and just recently renovated. 4 bedrooms, 2 car garage, full basement. Which was designed for men with families. One of the previous residents had 4 or 5 kids. I had me, and my cat. Every week I spent a day off cleaning. I had to practically bribe the sexton to cut the lawn, even though it was part of church property and he had a riding mower. There were people who would come over and knock on the door “just to visit.” It was most concerning to me when I realized what a fishbowl I was in.

    One day, I went out into the garage, took some gardening tools and went into the back, leaving the garage door open. Within 20 minutes I had 3 texts telling me the door was open, and then one of those people drove by to check if I was okay. But it provided lots of space for family to visit (even though I had to explain to the neighbor that the “cute young man” staying for the weekend was my nephew.)

    Then when I was called to the second parish, I was told there was no rectory. I would have to find myself housing and they would give me funding to cover rent. It was nice to downsize, get rid of 10 years of accumulated stuff. The kitchen was too small to cook in and no more than 2 visitors at any time. Still, I was anonymous in the complex and didn’t run into anyone when I went to the grocery store in my pjs. My commute went from 30 seconds to 21 minutes, so again, plusses and minuses.

    Sorry, wrong analogy.

    It’s swings and roundabouts. (Look at me, talking like a native!)

    My settling in period is coming to a close, and it’s been fun to get used to this new home. I guess it’s the perfect blend of the two previous situations. I’m in a rectory on church property, a house that is the same amount of rooms as my first one, but a much more manageable size. My office is in the front part, but there is a door that I can lock to separate personal from professional. It’s surrounded by the brick wall indicating it is a definite residence for the church, but not exposed to anyone to just “drop by.” I’ve even left the garage door open for hours and no one has panicked. I think I may be able to watch my horror movies and pro wrestling events without having anyone judge me on my viewing choices.

    Although I do have to share one remaining final observation about the house. Apparently, during the time it was left empty (about 3 years) there was an incident of local kids getting riled up and breaking the windows of the house. Which isn’t too surprising. I bet it was a dare to see who would do it and who would chicken out. Remember, we were all kids once. At any rate, when the newbie was going to move in, a lot of people wanted me to feel safe and secure, so they were sure to put locks on all the windows (fine) and locks on all the external doors. I like to think that someone had a flashback to the old sitcom Open All Hours, when the owner would unlock a dozen locks to open the front door, much to the entertainment of the viewers. However, having 5 locks on each door brings a whole other set of concerns to my mind. If there was a fire, how would I possibly get out? Is there any added benefit, or once you hit 2 or 3 is it redundant? “Well, I tried to break in but after the fourth lock I gave up?” And how many keys am I supposed to recognize when they literally all look the same? It’s like security designed by committee.

    If one morning I’m scheduled to be at a church and I don’t show up, don’t anyone panic. I’m probably just inside the front door, trying to get lock number 17 to open.

  • Please forgive the delay

    To begin with, I feel like I need to apologize.

    Although when I started this blog I didn’t set any type of time frame, I sort of thought I’d do something on a weekly basis. So I really don’t have anyone to apologize to, right?

    Besides, it’s not my fault. I have a new housemate who has demanded my attention.

    (Her name is Sabrina. Supposedly after the model/actress on the right. I think she’s named after Audrey Hepburn in the movie.)

    At any rate, the delay turned out to be a good thing. It was just brought to my attention by that modern receptacle of memories and life events (yes, Facebook) that I am celebrating an anniversary. It was 6 years ago today that I made my very first trip to the UK. Travelling with my sister, sister-in-law and brother, we arranged to spend 9 days hitting some important places for each of us. My sister wanted to see the Harry Potter studios; I wanted to see the places in Oxford I have been seeing on my favourite British mysteries for years. We all enjoyed ourselves. It has been interesting to think back about that first dream trip and see it as the starting point of the journey that would lead to me here and now.

    Of course it wasn’t start of my love for all things UK. I grew up on the reality that British television/movies/books were always better for me than any others. I was the only kid I knew who was obsessed with Doctor Who. Every Saturday morning I’d come downstairs to get a cup of dry cereal (yeah, I still don’t like milk) and settle on the couch to watch cartoons. By the time my Doctor (Tom Baker of course) showed up, I had sugary bear cereal stuck all over my robe. My word, I was cute.

    But I digress. Doctor Who fan before it was popular. Enjoying Hammer horror with my sister, not knowing that there were other actors who had allegedly played Dracula and Frankenstein before Lee and Cushing. Sitcoms and mysteries, I slowly grew an absolute love of the things I learned about England. Someday, I convinced myself, I would get to go to this magical place where Daleks roam the streets and murders happen in small villages regularly. Where people would understand my quotes from The Young Ones and Monty Python.

    When my brother became a member of the Society of Ordained Scientists, he suggested I become an associate. I have also always been fascinated in that space where science and faith overlap, and to spend time with the brilliant minds who occupied these two disciplines was very intriguing. And I would get to go to England. Win/win.

    Purchased our tickets, laid out our plans, packed our bags and headed off. We got off in Heathrow and my brother and sister-in-law went to find the luggage. My sister and I stood there for a moment, and I said what seems even today to be the strangest feeling I’ve ever known. “I feel like I’ve come home for the first time.” You would think I would have had some great foresight into where I would end up, but that wasn’t the case. I did have worries about travelling to this new land, which could be summed up in these simple ideas:

    1. Don’t be rude. Americans are always seen as rude, and it’ll be a dead giveaway if you’re arrogant and rude. Be polite, and positive, and patient, (especially when queueing.)
    2. Don’t be loud. Americans are always heard as loud, and no one wants to hear you announce your opinions over the conversations around you. Like someone on a cell phone breaking up with their partner, no one wants to know that “you could have paid me more attention” or “you weren’t the worst I’ve slept with” or “you couldn’t just clean the toilet once in a while?!” (By the way, these are real snippets I’ve overheard while working in retail. Oy.)
    3. Don’t keep asking people to repeat themselves. Americans think it’s the fault of the other person if they can’t keep up with the accent. If someone doesn’t understand you and asks politely for you to say it again, do NOT, under any circumstances, say the exact same thing slower and louder.

    How delighted was I to discover that the people of my dream were wonderfully friendly and generous. I enjoyed Oxford. And all things Harry Potter. And the hotel’s pool, and afternoon tea…Not knowing, however, that the most important element of that trip would be the gathering in Leeds for the Society. Yes, I did have the honour to spend time with an incredibly brilliant bunch of scientists and theologians. I also met the bishop who would later ask me to think about coming to work here. However, that was quite a few years – and a whole pandemic – away from that first trip. For now, I just remember the feeling of getting back on that plane to return to the US. The thought I couldn’t shake from my heart – I’ll be back.

    Even though it was 3 years later. But that’s a story for another day. I have to go pay attention to my housemate now.

  • I Found it in the Biscuit Aisle

    Today was the day it finally happened.

    It was inevitable. Anyone who has ever moved knows that it is a moment that is unavoidable. There is no predetermined length of time after you arrive for it to occur. Sometimes it sneaks up on you in the oddest of places, when it is least expected. For me, it occurred today, in the local grocery store.

    Now I know you know what I’m talking about. I’ve arrived in my new home and done all of the best practices for getting used to a new area. Brought specific items that remind me of the places I have lived before. Purchased little comfort items that will make me feel connected. I’m very scent oriented, so the smell of soap and shampoo from New Jersey helped with that thread of continuity.

    Slowly and intentionally, you get familiar with the local area. I have walked my neighbourhood each day, in larger expanding circles. Start with memorizing landmarks, walking a path until things feel familiar and made the associations that will help. The bus stop is right outside my new favourite coffee house. Getting to the grocery store means turning left – no, right – at the end of my driveway and left – yes, left – at the Working Men’s Club. This pub serves food all day, this one only in the evening, and this one never has food. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, all the methodical work is blown away.

    I was expecting it, only because it happened to me each time I moved in the past. I’ll never forget “the moment” when I moved to Mercerville, New Jersey. I had been there for about 4 months and felt confident about my area. Or perhaps it was overconfident. Determined to find a bagel, I hopped into my car and headed to the store I had passed on many occasions. It was only a few miles away, so I foolishly left my GPS off.

    I got lost.

    After 20 minutes and 3 passes by the local Shop Rite, I found it. Pulled into the parking lot, which was surprisingly empty…and realized it had closed about 15 minutes earlier. Oh well, I thought, just head back home.

    I got lost again.

    Finally, I pulled into a parking lot and shut off the car. Apple Maps was taking its time trying to find a connection, so I decided to call my mother. You know, the thing you do when you’re a kid and you’re really upset but you’re trying hard to be brave? She answered the phone, and I’m still not sure she understood the blathering on my end. However, she did sense that this was “the moment” and calmly talked me down. It happens. You reach a point where everything seems to be good, and you are suddenly reminded that you have moved X miles away from home and everything has changed. Then you get over it, and it all settles in.

    When I say I was expecting it, I didn’t think it would come on so early in my time here, or that it would be in this way. I mean, yes, it was (again) food related, but I never would have guessed it would occur in the biscuit aisle of the local Morrisons.

    I stopped in today on my way home from a trip into Manchester. (Went to the cathedral, had a little lunch, it was lovely.) Now that I have a refrigerator, I was giddy with excitement! I picked up fruit, and enough chicken for 2 meals. Cheese, salad mixings – oh! I knew I would be having company tomorrow, so I’d better pick up some nice biscuits to have with tea. (One of the main rules of hosting, I learned within my first 24 hours, is to always offer tea, and have some decent biscuits on hand.) I was even congratulating myself (in my head. That would be weird, saying it out loud in a store. I mean, really.) I had been thinking “biscuits” and not “cookies, wait, no, that’s not what they are called here” which shows how much I have adapted to my new language. I picked some chocolate covered ones with a hint of orange, and then I saw several boxes labelled “ginger”. I do love the taste of ginger. Maybe they would be like ginger snaps. I put them in my basket and cheerfully headed to the self-serve check out.

    Imagine it. I’m scanning my items, looking at the screen to verify, and suddenly the words appear – The Best Ginger Cookies. What? I look at the box. Cookies. I look at the screen. The word is still there. And the reality hit me like a pie to the face. (Not a pie, like the pub pies, with steak and onion and all kinds of delicious flaky crust. One of those creamy pies, like Sara Lee makes.) I really don’t have this all together. It’s not all under control. I am definitely a stranger living in a strange land. So, I did the only thing that could be done at that moment.

    I laughed.

    Because no matter how long it takes for me to adapt, no matter how many times I think I’ve got the changes to a minimum, or apologize because “my American is showing”, it will always be this way. Subtle reminders that I am on the adventure of my lifetime, that I don’t have to be in control of every little thing, and that joy can appear any time, even on a box of cookies (which, by the way, were utterly delicious.)

    And in case you were wondering, I didn’t get lost on the walk home.

  • A Language Barrier?

    Whenever I mentioned that I was moving to England, I got different reactions, but two of them seemed to occur every time:

    “You’re moving there? Are you going to be like the Vicar of Dibley/Father Brown and be in embarrassing/crime solving situations?” OR

    “You’re moving there? You know, they say things funny, like “lift” for “elevator” and the car trunk is a…”

    The answer to the first is always the truth – as much as I find Dawn French’s show a good laugh, it touches on more universal realities that are experienced by women clergy around the world. (But I do secretly hope there’s a crime in my parish that needs my cunning insight and detective skills to crack.) The second is usually the truth too – a boot. They call it a boot, and yes, I’m aware that there are language differences.

    However, simply knowing what words or phrases correspond is not enough to fully embrace the differences. I’m slow to adjust to the maths. Calculating pounds to dollars is getting to be less necessary, but I still can’t wrap my head around the idea that my phone says it’s 21 degrees so I can wear a T-shirt. And it doesn’t just apply to those things. I have also needed to adjust to the concept of time at a slower pace. For instance, I bought a refrigerator more than two weeks ago. It was scheduled to be delivered a week later, but when it didn’t show, I called. Once we tracked down someone in the delivery department I was told that the delivery volunteer had been sick so it would get to me in an additional week. Hope this isn’t too inconvenient.

    To deal with this, I have developed a formula. Take whatever time I’m told, multiply by 3 to 5 and that’s the broad idea of when it will happen. Internet should be up and running in 48 hours? No, you’ll get a phone call withing 5 days to say the next part will be done within 3 more days…. which means I may have connection within another 5 days after that. “We’ll take care of that today” automatically means 5-7 business days. The construction on the house here was “nearly finished, just a couple of minor things to be done” has resulted in 3 weeks of hammering and sawing. And so it goes.

    That wasn’t really what I wanted to talk about today. I was interested in sharing what insight I have had to the language difference, but really, I just want to talk about sports. Most people who move beyond the lift/elevator warning (do they picture me wandering around a building’s ground floor (or first floor) trying to get to the first floor (or second floor) for hours on end, because the sign in front of the metal doors says “LIFT”?) head toward sports. They call soccer “football” (only because it makes more sense. A game played with a ball and your feet is instead called an abbreviation for association football with a random “er” added? Oh, those crazy Brits!) But why did no one ever mention bowling?

    Bowling, for the whole of the US, is an activity enjoyed, or at least played, by certain groups of people. It’s a safe place for a group of friends to just hang out, a church youth group’s yearly activity when the adults can think of nothing better, or even something to take the kids to do when the weather outside is frightful. It’s easy to tap in, and even the least skilled can still enjoy the games. Change your shoes, find a ball that’s not too heavy, and you’re in. Professional bowling tends to be seen on ESPN2 on Saturday afternoons as a filler sport. Here, however, I have discovered there is a difference. A pretty big one, as far as I’m concerned.

    Directly across the street from me is a pretty, well manicured field. I’ve seen it from my first-floor window (remember, that’s upstairs.) Someone had mentioned it was the “bowling field,” though I didn’t ask what that meant. One day, a particularly beautiful sunny day, I saw my first sign of activity there. Four people were playing on the end of the field, looking very much like a game of croquet without mallets. They rolled two black balls each, bowling style, toward a red ball. I watched for a while and was quite proud that I could figure out this game. Felt very relaxed, slow paced, not even too much skill required. So, like the bowling I know, just outdoors.

    Then 2 days ago, my confidence was shattered. I heard the noise, went upstairs to see what was happening, and saw absolute chaos. There were fourteen people on the field, six different coloured balls, and everyone was walking about as balls were rolling past. Suddenly it wasn’t a low concentration game but a beautifully constructed dance, with the occasional pause at one place when a ref stepped in to measure and call who was closest. It went on for hours. Somehow, someone knew who won because there were handshakes all around at the end. But my word, it was a game that pulled in the skill of golf as well! The green sent balls on curves that seemed magical.

    Bowling can mean a tedious game of rolling a heavy ball straight down a wood floor into ten pins that are always in the same place. OR it could mean an intense strategic game played in pairs that must take a lifetime to master. One way or another, watching the activity on the bowling green is a great way to occupy my time. I really should enjoy it while I can. You never know when I’ll get the call that the local vicar is needed to solve the murder of the parish gossip, and I’ll have to get on the case!

  • Institutional Insanity

    “It appears that you are in a processing loop.”

    I stared at these words. Read them again. Closed my eyes, in hopes I had somehow misunderstood. Opened my eyes. Nope, still there.

    “It appears that you are in a processing loop.”

    It’s one thing if you are used to dealing with a big, old institution. And the Episcopal Church in the United States certainly fits that bill. I have been in the church my whole life, however, so negotiating processes are like swimming upstream. It’s doable, as long as you know where the rocks are and how to turn the current in your favor.

    HOWEVER…if you introduce another part of that same institution, it becomes slightly more challenging. Like swimming upstream in someone else’s creek. Then (and it’s only in hindsight that I realized this should have been obvious) introduce a whole other institution, like say the government, and you’re now in the ocean, with giant tidal forces whipping you around. “Just keep swimming” may have worked for Dora, but it’s not going to cut it for me. See, I was in a processing loop.

    Here’s a simple description to bring you up to speed: I need to have a background check done in the UK (even though the FBI has expressed twice that they have nothing on me.) To get this done, I need my work visa. To get my work visa done, I need verification from the diocese that they will be responsible for me if I suddenly decide to live a life of petty crime. But – and I’m sure you’ve already gotten there – I can’t get that verification without the UK background check. Processing loop.

    Now I understand that. Yet where does it leave me? Delayed already by nearly a month, because no one wants to figure out how to break said loop. Looking back, I do see how this initial incident helped prepare me for more of the same loopiness. Take for example two fine institutions, like the banking system, and the communications business.

    Me: I would like internet access in my new home, so I can let my American friends and family know I am not dead.

    CB: To do that, you need a UK phone number.

    Me: I would like a UK phone number.

    CB: To do that, you need a UK bank account.

    Me: (deep breath) I would like a UK bank account. Please.

    BS: We can do that, but you need a UK phone number.

    Maybe the government had a good reason to worry about me engaging in petty crime. I spent most of my next few days trying to figure sneaky ways around the system. (My new colleague and I decided on a burner phone. How cool is that?! Yes, I know, it’s just a “pay as you go” and it’s totally legal, but we like to think of it as a burner phone just for that coolness factor.) In the end, breaking that loop wasn’t as impossible as it seemed, it just needed some creative thinking.

    Breaking the initial processing loop wasn’t that hard either. It just took a bishop. All of this institutional silliness makes me think of two things. One – regardless of the many differences between our two great lands, things like giant, ancient systems are deft at causing us to bang our heads against the wall repeatedly. And two – how hard must it be for someone to go to a new country without the resources that I’m fortunate enough to have? It makes me thankful and makes me more attentive to those who struggle. Thankful and attentive. Now that’s a pretty good loop to be stuck in.

  • Becoming Strange

    I’ve always wanted a blog.

    Wouldn’t it be wonderful, I thought, to be able to keep an ongoing diary of events and occasions, full of wit and wisdom, to show to the outside world? “Look at me!” it would say, “I’m here to make your day brighter, and lighter, and other words ending in -ighter.” Let’s get to the point, however. I’ve never had the kind of life that warrants any kind of attention. Oh, not dull or boring, never that. Perhaps just a bit more normal than most.

    That is, until I decided to embark on the greatest adventure of my life.

    As long as I can remember, I dreamt of a beautiful, foreign land. A land of wonderful people, deep history. A land where my ancestral roots would be shaken and reborn. I learned more about my heavenly space, and my dreams grew more exotic. A land where vicars solved mysteries. A land where pythons named Monty were quoted, where royalty still lived, where things less than 500 years old were still referred to as “new”. Finally, in 2019 I ventured into this land of tea and biscuits, without a single concern that it would fall short of my high esteem. My brother, his wife, our sister and I made plans for a vacation together – London, Oxford, Leeds and London again. Journeying around to see the places that painted the backdrop of so many books and shows and movies that we have all grown to adore.

    Standing in Heathrow Airport, I turned to my sister and said the simple sentence that I can never fully explain: “I feel like I’ve come home for the first time.” On the flight home nine days later, I promised myself that I would return every year, without fail. Saving up in my travel fund (something I had started decades before) until I could fly back. Nothing would keep me from standing in this New Jerusalem again!

    (Cue COVID)

    It was three years later when I travelled again. To a small village outside Huddersfield for a retreat in a converted church, and then to York, to meet up IRL with some amazing friends I had met along the way. It was in that walled city that I realized I was falling head over heels in love again, even more deeply that before. So it wasn’t just England then. It was THE NORTH.

    Long story even longer, it was the following year that I attended a gathering of the Society of Ordained Scientists (back again in Leeds) when the gem of an idea was placed in my head. The Bishop of Manchester asked me the question:

    What do you think about coming here?

    Me: I love it, nice flight over, very easy to get to.

    BoM: No, I mean coming here.

    Coming to Manchester to work and to live?! Could he be serious? Could I do that? Why would I do that? And then one of those amazing people in my life said the mantra that would stick with me during the whole decision making process – Why wouldn’t you?

    He was right. So I did.

    Almost 2 years later and I am on the wildest adventure of my life. Moving from one country to another is easier than I thought, and much harder than I imagined. Many differences I was prepared for and many more that have cropped up. It’s been a great story to tell, and this is how I plan to tell it. Not a researched guide to the linguistic divisions or the varied ways of expressing math. Maths. Math. Well, there you are. What is it like for a life long (New) Jersey girl to follow her dream across the pond?

    Stay tuned to find out.