Stranger In A (Not So) Strange Land

Tag: writing

  • 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!

  • 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.

  • 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.