Did you mean Lebanese?

Walking home from the train last night, wrapped up in a million thoughts, enjoying the setting sun and the clean smelling air.

I had stopped to watch a blackbird perch on a fence with a small floppy worm hanging from its bill.

Around the bend came two pretty girls walking in my direction. They were dressed like they were headed out on the town--eye makeup, dangly earings, heels. They were maybe 20--could have been younger.

"Lesbian!" one of them spat at me as we passed each other.

I stopped and turned around, but they didn't look back.

Did I hear right?

No, it was unmistakeable. One of them called me a lesbian!

Mind you, it's not that I care if anyone thinks I'm a lesbian. It's that some snotty kid, in my own damn village, desired to insult me, as she clearly meant it as an insult. She could have said librarian or soccer mom, doesn't matter. It was said in a vicious spirit.

I was pretty taken aback. A, I didn't think people behaved like that here. And B, it's 2007 and this is suburban London for God's sake. Are these girls so sheltered they feel threatened by a 5'4" birdwatching lesbian carrying home groceries at 9pm?

No matter. A few hundred yards later a fox darted out in front of me from a hedgerow set close to the road. He was brindley, and so thin! He may have been a juvenile--he had big paws and reminded me of a puppy that's yet to grow into his. We locked eyes and both of us stopped, staring at each other for about 3 seconds. Then he darted for cover. Scott later commented that he probably thought I was gay.

Sunday walk

This was a busy weekend, with a visit to the National Gallery, a play, a dinner with two couples I'd never met (Scott's work colleagues and their spouses), lots of walking all around London, and a late afternoon massage (our belated Valentine's Day present to each other).

By Sunday morning, I was feeling a serious need for quiet. One of the best things about where we live is that quiet isn't hard to come by (in fact it's all there really is). We took a peaceful morning walk in an area I recently discovered just five minutes from our house. (click on photos for larger view)

I wanted to distribute left over "nesting wool" which I purchased at the garden center last month. You place little tufts of it around your garden and birds use it to insulate their nests.

The nuthatches, chaffinches and robins currently nesting in our garden have been very receptive to it, but they don't seem to want/need any more. I thought we ought to leave some along the footpaths for other birds to use.

It still amazes me that, outside of urban areas, there isn't a parking lot or Home Depot occupying every open space. The buildings that comprise towns are clustered together, and open space is left for farming or grazing. The public footpath system ensures that ordinary people have public right of way to enjoy these spaces; there are 140,000 miles of paths all over the UK, and even a charity dedicated to protecting them.

Here's an example from our town:

You can see all the homes grouped together, and then big open fields. The dark green lines are hedgerows and/or public footpaths (this is where we walked on Sunday).

As someone who has always lived in large cities, I can't get over the novelty. You can go for miles and miles, crossing private farms, heaths, meadows and woods. Farmers post little signs reminding you to close gates behind you. And depending on the route, you can usually end your walk at a nice warm pub.

Turns out that the birds on this particular footpath might not need our help. We found plenty of fox fur caught on fencing for those birds who have more upscale decorating tastes.

The Lovely Things About England

Got this email from Scott, sent from his blackberry on the train to Waterloo this morning:

.....At 7:59, I stepped into the ticket office, faced with 7 people in front of me. Right on the cusp...would I get my ticket and make it out, down theplatform and over the bridge for the 8:04?....at 8:02, 2 people ahead ofme....at 8:03, I was up. And I could hear the train pulling in. The ticketman expedited his movements (lovely thing no. 1) and pushed my tickets under the window. Train now stopped, doors open....I dashed out, ran down the platform...ran up the steps and onto the bridge. Whistle blows...imminent door closing. As I came to the end of the bridge and bounded down the steps, I was faced with an empty platform and another whistle. Then I saw the man in the blue uniform at the end of the train, holding it for me (lovely thing no. 2). I waved and jumped into the car. Doors closed and we're off.....

And then to top it off, he sees three owls sleeping in tree as the train heads out!

I cannot imagine these sort of things happening in Brooklyn. Yes, there are many magical things that happen in NYC, but commuter trains patiently waiting for stray commuters is not one of them. And wildlife viewing is limited to watching rats dart around on the tracks (although I always found that quite amusing. Are they all deaf? Have they, after 100s of generations of subway existence, developed eardrums immune to thundering trains? Is natural selection responsible for the fact that their fur is the EXACT color of the track floor?)

Going Beasley

When I was a small child of two, I had a Mrs. Beasley doll. This toy was mass-produced by Mattel following the popularity of a 60s sit-com called "A Family Affair" in which one of the child characters loved and confided in a doll named Mrs. Beasley.

I, too, loved Mrs. Beasley--so much so I wanted to be her. I took to wearing the plastic Beasley-esque glasses from my Mr. Potato Head set and would fake-hobble around the house, a quilt draped around my head and shoulders, pretending to be an old woman. I squinted, feigned being hard of hearing, and made my voice feeble and shrill. I insisted on going out in public like this, undeterred by even Atlanta's July heat, much to my mother's embarrassment. She pleaded with me to ditch the Beasley guise, which only made me cling to it more. Other little girls pretended they were princesses, unicorns, Nadia Comaneci. I channeled an octogenarian.

Mrs. Beasley remains a family nickname. And between Scott and me it has evolved into a verb, as in "to go Beasley" or to eschew a fashionable/sexy appearance for the comfort of flannel, eye glasses, wool hats, sensible shoes, cotton underwear and the like. It can also be used in the adjective form to describe a bookish, reclusive state marked by general grannyish attire or general lack of concern for one's appearance, as in "you are so Beasley right now."

In the broadest sense, it is a sublime state of retreat from the world.

Since coming to England, I have ascended to a higher plane of Beasley-ness than I ever thought possible and frankly, as a woman of 31, not 81, I think it is cause for alarm. I think it means I need a job in London among fashionable people who wear lipstick and high heeled shoes and meet regularly for happy hour and can still tolerate loud music.

Exhibit One, my outfit today:







Look familiar? Maybe that's because you last saw it on Hyacinth Bucket, of BBC's Keeping Up Appearances (one of my all-time favorites but not to be relied upon for fashion inspiration):


















Bottom line, I am playing a dangerous game. One more wool cardigan and I could reach a point of no return. Somebody pull me back from the brink!

I Can't Ever Imagine this Happening in Brooklyn

Yesterday afternoon the doorbell rang. It was one of the workmen from Thames Water who's been tearing up our street for the past month. In a thick Scottish accent, he advised me that there was a chance they might have to shut the water off for about an hour, and he just wanted to let me (aka "luv") know in case I wanted to "put a kettle on" beforehand.

And, PS: Why is it that being called "honey" by a guy from Queens pisses me off, but being called "Luv" by anyone here makes my day?

Detours

Yesterday on my way back home from running errands, I noticed a small sign for Wisley Church, and thought I'd check it out. It was out of my way, but I've been feeling a bit cooped up lately and thought exploration would be good for me. So glad I followed that instinct.

After following a progressively narrowing and winding road for a bit, I came upon an old Norman church, which I learned was originally founded in the 1100s.

For those of you whose early English history is a bit rusty, the Norman invasion of England, headed by William the Conqueror in 1066, changed the face of England in many ways, culturally, governmentally, linguistically, even in terms of the physical landscape (and, interestingly, it laid the foundation for hundreds of years of English-French conflict).

(Battle of Hastings, as depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry) As occupiers, the Normans were notoriously brutal. They sacked villages, confiscated land, and built imposing castles that served as humiliating reminders of Anglo-Saxon defeat. In fact, they busied themselves building lots of structures, including many rustic little country churches that still stand today.

Wisley church is petite and quiet. There wasn't much sunlight yesterday and so the interior was dim and shadowy. I sat for a little while, soaking in the quiet and the blueish, melancholy light. I love old stonework; like other artifacts--cooking utensils, tools, furniture, jewelry, textiles, weaponry--it is an intimate link to people long gone that, for me, fills in so many details of who they were, how they lived, what they were like. It was difficult to get any really good shots of the interior given how dark it was. But here's the exterior:
























And the very pretty path leading from the road:

























As I was leaving I met the Vicar, who seemed to eye me cautiously at first (I later learned the church was robbed last week) but lit up when he learned of my interest in Norman architecture. He directed me to another old church a few miles down the road, St. Nicholas.

This one was built in 1140, and unlike many churches which have Norman foundations but whose structures have been augmented over the centuries, St. Nicholas's structure is completely Norman. Caretakers also uncovered 12th century frescoes which, much like the original stonework, I find really touching.

They are apparently done in red ochre and depict the Passion and local pilgrims preparing to set sail for a pilgrimage to Spain.

Finally, here's a peaceful scene from the St. Nicholas graveyard:

Met some new neighbors today

Who knew that not 300 yards down the road from our house is a working farm? I did not until this morning when, following a sign for Christmas trees, we found a winding dirt road that eventually revealed barns, hay, tractors, pecking chickens, the whole nine yards. We purchased a fine 6 foot Christmas tree which is currently out back. The farm hands addressed me as darlin', which struck me as oddly non-British but charming nonetheless.

Green Grocer

Scott has been working at his rural office this week, and so I've not had the car. I could take the bus into the next town over to do grocery shopping, but why bother when I can order online?

When we lived in Brooklyn, I regularly used Fresh Direct* (the alternatives as a Clinton Hill resident being a subway ride into Manhattan to Whole Foods with an energy-sucking, weighed down ride home or the charming yet exorbitant L'epicerie on Vanderbuilt Ave. which charges $20 for a head of lettuce). With Fresh Direct I always felt so guilty--the packaging was shameful, borderline vulgar. I remember opening one large cardboard delivery box to find, to my dismay, a single cluster of bananas inside, wrapped in 3 layers of protective plastic.

So back to the present. I decided to test out Ocado, the local online/home delivery service. What a pleasant surprise. After compiling your shopping list, you select a delivery date/time. The time slots are color coded allowing you to select a time when a delivery truck is already scheduled to be in your area, thereby saving fuel. When the groceries arrived today, they were packed in reusable bags that I can return to the delivery man next time. And, the bags are color coded to denote freezer items vs. frigde items vs. cupboard items (just like I arrange my own groceries on the conveyer belt). Brilliant!

The thing I love about England/Eurpope is that conservation efforts like this don't seem like crunchy fringe environmentalism, but rather as plain common sense. So refreshing...

*I was loyal to the farmer's market when it was in season. I promise!

Our Environs

I'm going to try to start posting more photos of our neighborhood, so that all of our friends and family back in the States can see what it's like.

So, here's my favorite house in Cobham, Scott's barber, and a traffic jam on Saturday morning in our village:

Me, Myself and I

I love walking into town. It takes only 20 minutes, which is not prohibitively long, but long enough to get lost in thought. Walking means taking in so much: smells, colors, temperatures, textures--all sorts of things you miss when buzzing by in a car. The same houses, trees, bushes, sidewalk cracks, peeping robins, mailboxes, parked cars and bus stop signs have begun to make up a community of sorts, reinforced every time I pass them. The walk makes me feel peaceful, and envisioning myself a small component of a larger world somehow makes me feel secure.

I remember hearing Jane Goodall talk at the Union Square Barnes & Noble years back about how, as a young woman during solitary periods studying chimps at Gombe, she came to view the trees, boulders, and other landscape features as part of her community, and would even say good morning as she passed them each day. I loved hearing that because, odd as it might sound, I have always secretly greeted squirrels, birds, trees, shrubs, flowers, etc., in the same way.

This morning, my mission was to pick up drycleaning and find a pair of tights to wear with a dress on vacation (I forgot to look in London yesterday). I didn't have high hopes--the little dress shop in town isn't exactly what I'd call fashion forward. But I stopped in anyway and was shown, to my amusement, a selection of sheer panty hose with various rhinestone animals (scottish terriers, seahorses) and holiday shapes (cornucopia, christmas wreath) glued to the ankles. I passed on those and bought a more sober pair. As she rang up my purchase, the shopkeeper remarked that she'd better order more, seeing as it was "party season." My immediate thoughts were, "What is party season?" and "How do I get invited to one of these parties?"

At that moment I realized, between talking to birds and wanting women with rhinestone pantyhose to invite me into their homes, I may be a little starved for human contact. With Scott regularly working late and my UK social circle in its infancy, I've been on my own quite a bit since we got here.

I wouldn't say it's been unpleasant; I like being alone and actually need a block of time alone every day or else I get grouchy. But I've never been alone as consistently as this. Sometimes I go whole days without speaking, content to drift along in my silent, pseudo-monastic little bubble (I'm actually to the point where I think the muscles in my head related to speech are slightly atrophied--the past few times I've socialized, my throat, jaw and neck ache afterwards from a few hours of talking). Sometimes I feel lonely, but the feeling subsides after a while, as hunger would. Mostly, I find it really interesting to discover just how much time alone I can tolerate before it becomes unpleasant. Turns out my threshold is pretty high.

The less glamorous side of my neighborhood

St. Mary's Church, Stoke D'Abernon

I visited St. Mary's Church in Stoke D'Abernon this afternoon and along with one other visitor I was treated to a fabulous, unexpected tour by one of the church guides. What a gem, this church. It is one of England's oldest surviving churches which has been in use since Saxon times, and based on constuction materials it is thought to date to the second half of the 7th century. One side of the facade shows Roman bricks taken from a ruin adjacent to the church yard--a Roman bath on the banks of the Mole river.

Additions were made in the 12th, 13th and 15th centuries as well as in Victorian times, and the church retains elements of all of these periods. The photo above shows part of a Norman arch (12 century) and the rich, intricate woodwork of the ceiling, which I think is Tudor.

The church is most well known for its brasses, such as this one of Sir John D'Abernon dating from 1277, the oldest of its kind in Britain (bottom figure). He is buried under this section of the church. The pictures don't do it justice--the detail of the chain mail, his lance and enameled shield (bearing the D'Abernon coat of arms) is really beautiful. (The church was dark so a lot of my photos are a little blurry.)

Caretakers uncovered a partial mural on one wall that dates from the 13th century and shows the "Adoration of the Lamb." Amazing:

Pumpkins at Garson's Market, Esher

View from the train station

As you climb the bridge to cross to the London bound platform, look behind you and you can see our little high street, while looking straight ahead, all you see is greenery and cows.

"I'm a Dork" Department

In England, people flash their brights to signal a variety of things, not all of which are discernable to me. But I have figured out that a flash can mean "I'm letting you go" or "Thank you for letting me go" and can even take the place of a punitive honk. Without fail, every time I attempt to thank someone for letting me pass, I turn on my front and back windshield wipers instead.

NOT the parrots, 2:30 am

Last night I was jarred awake by what sounded to me, in my groggy state, like a murder taking place below our bedroom window. It was a distressed, gutteral scream, advancing from the field next door toward the house. Heart pounding, I nudged Scott who was already semi-awake. "It's just the parrots. Go back to sleep," he murmured. "Those are NOT parrots! Something is DOWN there!" I whispered horsely.

Ten seconds of silence, and then we heard the cry again. It was clearly not the parrots, and Scott, now fully awake, hopped out of bed to join me at the window. Just then, a lone fox emerged from the brush bordering our front yard. It was beautiful. It stopped in the driveway and surveyed the path. Then it looked up at us. It lowered its ears and made the cry again, and then trotted off down the road.

A few minutes of research on the Internet this morning reveals the cry to be part of a territorial dispute. Click here and then select "Territorial Response" to listen to the call that can wake the dead (but not Scott). Make sure your speakers are turned up to get the full effect.

For the past week I've seen at least one fox per day not far from the house, including 3 sightings on Saturday. No wonder they are disputing.