Food

Q: What do you get when you cross a vegetarian with four coeliacs, one lactose intolerant and one nut allergy?

A: Delicious food.

Long gone are the days when being diagnosed as coeliac was a culinary death sentence.  Today, even in the erstwhile backwaters of New Zealand, there is a gluten free aisle in every supermarket, and although the bulk of items are pre-packaged cakes unfit for human consumption, they taste more or less the same as pre-packaged cakes in the bread aisle. There are several brands of gluten-free pasta, ranging from passable to "tastes like corn" (because it is corn).  Of course, pasta was only ever meant as a vehicle for sauce and I can empty the crisper tray into a skillet and turn out a fantastic sauce.  (Of course each child will pick certain things out--one the mushrooms, one the chickpeas, one the pasta--but that's normal.)

Cheese makes everything go down better, except for the lactose-intolerant where cheese acts in the reverse direction.  Fortunately she is responding well to the lactase tablets, and so the rest of us do not have to suffer (either from the lack of cheese or the digestive complaining after).  The nut allergy was a bit of a challenge to adapt to, which is funny considering I was nut-free for almost ten years, and only started eating them again about a year ago.  (However, I've been making up for lost time and eating quite a lot of nuts.)  After several accusations of trying to kill the child, I've learned to use two knives to make a peanut butter and jam sandwich -- and to make sure I don't double-dip the jam knife after it has touched the peanut butter.

All that aside, I'm used to cooking for one person, two tops, and even then my chef skills greatly atrophied during the 18 months while I was travelling for work. Suddenly cooking for five has been a challenge.  I get laughed at when I put out a small pan for pasta -- and out comes the large stock pot.  I know longer buy bagged lettuce because the kids will demolish an entire head of iceberg in a day.  (I also have to guard the cucumber jealously or it will never reach the table.)

Thankfully, although the kids can be fickle, they aren't against trying new foods, so I've been able to introduce mexican, thai and even some Jewish foods.  They can't deal with spice so I've toned things down, although they still have a glass of milk ready whenever I feed them, just in case.

And although their mom hasn't raised them vegetarian, meat was never a focus of the meal, and so they haven't missed it at all.  I did feed them brisket once--although it was a small amount in a large bowl of cabbage borscht.  (I also gave them beer--although it was a small amount in a large vat of Welsh rarebit, served with a locally produced fig chutney and some vine-ripened tomatoes.  Absolute heaven.)

Sugar rush

I've just been reading the (large body) of scientific evidence that flies in the face of what every parent knows: There is no link between sugar and hyperactivity in kids.

To be fair, I already knew this from a conversation I had with a pediatrician years ago: The body tightly regulates blood sugar level, ensuring a steady supply to the brain.  If you eat a small amount of sugar, such as a teaspoon, it will have no noticeable effect on blood sugar.  If you eat a significant amount of sugar (say, a soda) then the body will release insulin, which triggers the cells in your body to convert the sugar to triglycerides and store it away for future use, effectively removing it from the bloodstream.

In some people, the insulin removes too much sugar, temporarily causing hypoglycemia, or a sugar crash, but that's rare.  You mid-afternoon sleepiness is not caused by a lack of sugar, and your recovery is not caused by a rush of sugar; it's caused by the act of eating and relaxing as much as the placebo effect--since you expect to feel better after eating a sugary snack, you do feel better.

Why, then, do kids seem to behave so badly after eating sugar?  Again, it's the context--if they are at a celebration, with other kids, they are bound to act up.  If their parents are indulging them with sugar, it's likely they are indulging them in general.  The expectation is they will act up, and kids readily oblige.

So if there is no such thing as a sugar rush or a sugar crash, I have one more question: Is there a sugar hangover?  In the morning after, they certain seem to exhibit the classic signs of withdrawal: Difficult to rouse, anti-social behavior and an over-riding desire for the tail-of-the-dog, more sugar.  From hot chocolate to ice cream, it doesn't seem to matter how miserable they feel, sugar is the answer.

Of course, kids don't have the self-awareness to blame their mood on the sugar; it's the person who woke them, or gave them an omelette instead of pancakes (with jam and syrup).  Or in my case, the person who physically lifted them up and put them in the car, because we had prior commitments that morning.  However, by noon I got a hug, an apology, and an "I love you."

I still get tired in the afternoon, and I still reach for a sugary sweet as a pick-me-up, but I also don't start screaming, crying and throwing things when I don't get my way.  Unfortunately I can't blame it on the sugar; I will have to recognise it was my own fault for not controlling the situation and letting them stay up too late.  Perhaps that's the hardest part of being a parent--whenever you try to reward them, it ends up biting you.

New Zealand vagaries

I'm in Paraparaumu, about 45 minutes north of Wellington.  State Highway 1 passes through Paekakariki, Pukerua, Paremata, Papakowhai, Porirura, Paparangi and Ngauranga before reaching Wellington harbour.  Those are all transliterations of Maori names, so they sound (more or less) like the look, except Paekakariki is pronounced "pie-cock-a-riki."  Also, "wh" is prnounced "f" most of the time.  But not always.

New Zealand is about the same size as Colorado, but only has 4.2 million people, and more than a third of them live in Auckland. (Colorado has 5.3 million people, and only 12% live in Denver.) About 500,000 live in Wellington (the capitol city) and 400,000 in Christchurch (on the south island).  Outside those three cities, the population density is less than 19 people per square mile, as you can see from this map.

The UK, by contrast, is slightly smaller than New Zealand (94,000 square miles compared to 106,000 square miles) but has 15 times as many people, with an average population density of 675 people per square mile!

New Zealand is a weird conglomeration of British and American culture, with a bit of Maori thrown in for flavour.  They use English spelling, they drive on the left and the second floor is still the first floor. "Stop" signs aren't as common as"Give way" signs (with predicatbly hilarious results) and intersections are as common as roundabouts.  (They also appear to be experimenting with X-shaped intersections, which just shows that civil engineers really do have a sense of humour.)  Courgettes are back to zucchini, and aubergines are back to eggplants, but yams are called "kumera" and bell peppers are called "capsicums."

Despite a very large dairy industry (both cows and sheep), the variety and quality of cheese is appalling.  Generally, they sell mild cheeses in large, one kilogram blocks. You can't even find a sharp cheddar, never mind a decent mozzarella.  Locally grown produce is quite reasonable, but anything imported is astronomical.  There are only three national supermarket chains -- Countdown, New World, Pak'nSave -- and two of those are owned by the same company.  There is a large chain called "Commonsense Organics" which sells specialty foods at eye-watering prices.

The main petrol chain is called "Z" and instead of Nectar points you collect "Fly Buys" (which you can no longer use to fly).  Unlike the US, which couldn't handle the metric system, or the UK, which bastardized the metric system, New Zealand is purely on the metric system, so at 44 I'm finally having to figure out what a kilometer is.  This old dog does not like learning new tricks.

The weather is highly variable, unless you're in Wellington, in which case it's always windy.  Where I am gets about 3 times as much rain as Los Angeles, but evenly spread over the year.  (It's about the same amount as Glasgow.) Christmas is the longest day of the year, and most people spend it at the beach.  No matter where you are in New Zealand, you're never more than 80 miles from the ocean.

Because it's below the equator, of course drains spin in the opposite direction, and the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. 

Drama

Things move so quickly here, it's hard for me to keep up. Some days I think I should keep a diary, but then I realise I'm much happier living in the moment, rather than recording it. (Hence the infrequent blog updates.)

It's also hard to keep track of who is upset about what. At 10, 12 and 13 going on 16, there is no end to the drama. It was "labour weekend" in New Zealand, a three-day weekend that is primarily used as a marker for when to plant vegetables, which is exactly what I did Friday afternoon--plant vegetables. The eldest wasn't interested but the younger two came out to watch. When I tried giving the middle child a job, she disappeared and was not seen again. The youngest did stay, although he much preferred stabbing things with the fork, so wasn't much help. (Once I'd weeded, turned the soil and added mulch, he did plant the seedlings, so I'll give him credit.)

Friday night, I made borscht, aka sweet and sour cabbage soup. I haven't had borscht since I went vegetarian, because restaurants invariably cook it with brisket, and I never thought to make it myself! And in fact I did cook some brisket separately, as I did not think cabbage soup would be an easy sell with the kids. (They did eat it with the brisket, but turned their noses up when the leftovers were offered without meat.) In the evening, the eldest child -- who has been an absolute angel for the past four weeks -- had a bit of a setback and started yelling, but I honestly can't remember about what.
Saturday, the kids got up at 6am, 8am and 10am respectively, and each one announced they were staying home the entire day and "relaxing." Of course, I have no idea what they were relaxing from, but it didn't matter as we'd made plans to meet their uncle for lunch on the beach. Just like the UK, it always rains on a holiday weekend, and as Saturday was the only sunny day we were determined to make the most of it. The kids, however, were determined to do the opposite. After much groaning and protestation, we finally got them out the door, but at the beach they refused to go in the water, or play any games, and instead just dug holes in the sand.

Sunday morning is usually a hassle because the kids go to cheder (Jewish school) and normally have to be out the door by 9, but it was on hiatus and so we had a leisurely morning and I made hash browns, frittata and toast. (Toast is a luxury in the household because the kids are all coeliac, gluten-free bread is very expensive and they'll go through an entire loaf in a day!) The kids have a terrible habit of starting the meal before it is even served, grabbing food off the serving plates, and I was determined to stop this, and was gunning for the first kid to snatch a hash brown. Unfortunately that turned out to be the middle child, who was also at the receiving end a week ago when she snatched some lettuce off the chopping board and I was quick enough to grab her wrist and force her to drop it. That two-second incident turned into a two hour festival of screaming and crying, and so criticising her a second time was playing with fire. To be fair, all I said was, "That's very rude. You don't even help making the food, and then you can't even wait for us to sit down before you start eating?" Amazingly, there was no crying, but she stormed off and wouldn't talk to me for an hour. (Although she happily ate the hash browns when they were served.)

At breakfast I mentioned I was meeting their uncle for tennis, and then a strange thing happened--all the kids said they wanted to go with me! (Even the one who wasn't speaking to me.) We were actually going to a tennis club, with lots of older people, so it was really inappropriate for me to bring them, but their uncle has been trying to kindle their interest in tennis for a while so I didn't want to quash it. Fortunately the club was great, and gave us a private court to play on. The middle child promptly had a meltdown and went and sat in the car for the rest of the time, but the other two kids had fun, and their uncle and I took turns playing with the club and teaching the kids.

When we got home at noon, their mom was swimming, so I told the kids we needed to pack for the river. The middle child promptly disappeared, but she was in such a foul mood I was happy to let her go. The eldest announced she wanted to bake a cake, which was not on the list of things to do, but I love cake, so was happy to let her go. The youngest said he wanted a lemon cake, and after some argument she agreed. The recipe called for two teaspoons of lemon rind so I gave the boy a lemon and a zester and showed him how to strip off the peel. He told me he was too tired to do it. I snapped at him, a bit harshly, that he had just asked his sister to make a lemon cake for him and now couldn't be bothered to make the lemon? He relented, and I left the two alone while I loaded the kayaks onto the car. When I came back, the kitchen was spotless--even the middle child had returned and helped clean the dishes!

We met some friends on the river and after a few rough starts -- the two youngest kids insisted on sitting in the car, where they proceeded to argue about who-knows-what -- the kids all went on the kayaks upstream, and we had a lovely time. The Met Office predicted rain at 6pm and, although the skies were threatening all day, it did hold out. We got home and everyone helped unload the car, I got pizza for dinner, and the whole family was playing a board game--it was idyllic, so you know it couldn't last for long. Her mom asked the eldest to do something, and she shot back with a rude remark. Her mom wasn't having any of it, and told her to go to her room and think about what she said, but the girl wouldn't back down and announced she wasn't going to her room, and we should continue playing the game.

This is usually the point where I jump in, just to sever the "casual rudeness" that the children displayed toward their mother, except I could see how this was going to play out -- the eldest has been working hard to behave, and has been enjoying the fruits of that labour -- talking, playing, laughing, having fun. Rather than escalate the situation, I decided that denying her those things would have a more lasting effect. So I didn't stop the kids from playing, but I didn't play with them, and of course their mother stopped as well. At 8pm I announced it was bedtime, even though we had planned on letting them stay up as Monday was a holiday. The kids were also planning a "sleepover" -- sleeping together in one room -- but I cancelled that. Funnily, whereas before they would have had a meltdown and just started screaming until they got their way, the younger two were quite philosophical, and understood this was because the eldest was misbehaving. In fact, the younger two were so exemplary that in the end I did let them have a sleepover--which turned out to be a huge mistake.

While I was reading to the younger ones, their mom was talking to the eldest, who (as predicted) was crying inconsolably about how she never does anything right and how sorry she was. It was very heartfelt--and heartbreaking--but an important lesson, and she needed to know their were consequences for bad behaviour that would not be waived for an apology. Unfortunately, just as she had stopped crying and resigned herself to this, the middle child came in and pleaded on her sister's behalf to be allowed in the sleepover. Her mom refused and the crying started all over again.

Monday the forecast was for rain all day, so the kids were allowed to do their own thing in the morning. We were going to a friend's for tea in the afternoon, and the lemon cake had been such a smash the day before, the eldest wanted to make another. Again, I was happy to let her. Unfortunately the younger two decided to play Minecraft in the same world (on two different devices), and started bickering about things in the virtual world the same as they might argue over real-world toys! Their mom is a luddite and very intolerant of technology, so she told them to stop playing. Unfortunately the youngest gets very addicted, and does not handle being disconnected well, so he started crying.

We called their grandmother (on Skype) and had a video chat, which was going well until she asked about my job situation. We've been trying to not discuss the situation with the kids until we had some concrete plans, but of course they have been asking how long I'd be here and have been frustrated that we haven't given them any answers. The eldest, in particular, has accused us of keeping secrets, and I feel for them but I think telling them "I don't know" isn't any better of an answer. So when her grandma asked, and her mom fobbed off the question, she got very upset. Very, very upset. It stewed for a while, but by the time we got over to her aunt's house it boiled over, and she and her mom had an hour-long screaming/crying/glaring session. (Fortunately I was inside, with the other two kids.)

And then it was over and she was fine. Her mom was a wreck, of course, but it's amazing how kids can turn it on and just as quickly turn it off! We went over to the friend's house and had a lovely afternoon. We got home, made a quick dinner, and over dinner discussed a Halloween party the girls had been invited to. The issue was over the time they had to leave, as we have to be in the city at 10am the following morning--which means getting up at 8am--and the kids are nightmares if they don't get 10 hours of sleep. The girls assured us that they could be in bed and asleep in 15 minutes, even though it normally takes them an hour to settle down. A compromise was reached with the proviso they could show -- over the next four days -- that they could get to bed on time.

The two girls then sat down to practice guitar for a school show they had the next evening. The eldest was playing her own song, and had invited her sister to play with her. Unfortunately, at 8pm -- bedtime -- the eldest told her sister she no longer wanted her to play, and the middle one went into a meltdown. Interestingly, again whereas she normally would have started screaming until she got her way, the middle one started screaming into a pillow, obviously trying (in some small measure) to control herself. Her mother offered her comfort and she slammed the bedroom door in her face, but later came out and demanded her mother come in and comfort her! Her mom took a hard line and told her to control herself and she started to lose it, but then managed to pull herself back from the precipice and go to bed. It was an amazing turnaround, and I was very proud of her, even though I couldn't tell her that because she was still behaving badly.

So night one of showing us they could get to bed early, the middle one went to bed nearly two hours late. (Tonight we won't get home from the concert until after 8pm, so that should be an even more interesting test.) I expected the middle one to be abominable in the morning, but she was perfectly pleasant, whereas the eldest was arguing vociferously about why her mom should be able to just tell her if the dishes in the dishwasher were clean, rather than her having to go and check! Sometimes it's hard to not just laugh in their face. Their mom, who also needs her sleep, was shattered, so I offered to drive the girls to the train station, leaving her with the youngest who was happy as larry. When I got home 20 minutes later, I found him crying in the hallway.

It was piano day and all the kids are afraid of their piano teacher, because she scolds them when they don't practice, and so Tuesday when they realise they haven't practiced all week -- despite their mother reminding them every single day -- they all get upset. (Although they never seem to learn from it.) So I assumed he was having another "stomach ache" -- which only happens on school days -- but it turns out he had gotten on Minecraft again, and when his mom asked him to come off he had given her lip, and she announced there would no longer be any computer time in the morning. (Oddly, he wouldn't admit that was what had upset him, but this is the same child who will assure you that in spite of the tears rolling down his cheeks, the trembling lips and between the choking sobs that he is absolutely not crying.)

So that's the last four days, in a rambling nutshell. I'm hopeful I'll get some more leads this week, but regardless of my situation I think we'll have to talk to the kids. Their dad may be back in town next week -- as usual, he hasn't communicated at all -- and so I don't want this hanging over their heads. It's not great timing simply because, although their parents divorced four years ago, they still haven't agreed on a settlement, so having someone else in the picture only complicates things. (I will have to do another post on the draconian and neanderthal New Zealand divorce laws...)

Chores

I don't remember having chores as a kid.  Perhaps I just blocked that out, or perhaps I was such an angelic child that I did everything without needing to be told.  Whatever the case, at least I wasn't a spoilt brat who expected everything to be done for me, and then complained if it wasn't done exactly the way I wanted it.

Of course my mother may disagree, but she can write her own blog.

Anyway, as I said before, being a single mom with three kids is an impossible situation because you're always in triage mode. If you ask one child to do something, and they throw a tantrum, you can't take that child aside and deal with it, because the other two will start acting up.  They will always be able to outflank you, and in the end it is just easier to do it yourself.

Of course, if chores are the stick then an allowance ("pocket money") is supposed to be the carrot.  But if the kids insist on immediately spending it all on candy ("lollies") -- and then behave even worse after the sugar crash -- then it becomes almost a win-win: If they don't do any chores, you don't have to give them any money, and they can't buy any candy.  In the long run, however, the children are missing out on personal accountability, family participation, and financial responsibility.  In other words, they're becoming American.

But I'm not interested in the long run; I'm interested in control, and carrot-and-stick is the second oldest form of control.  ("Might-makes-right" is the oldest.)  So we've been talking about how to re-introduce pocket money for several weeks, and I'd even drawn up a list of responsibilities, chores and behaviors to reward.  We haven't shown them the list but this week we're filling it out for them, and on Sunday we'll show them how they are currently doing, and what we expect if they expect to get any money.  So far, it's not looking good.

Two of them refuse to keep their rooms tidy, throwing everything on the floor until you can't even walk through it.  (One has terrible dust allergies so this just contributes to her sinus problems.)  The past two mornings, the middle one has had a meltdown and started screaming about nothing.  Asking them to set the table immediately launches a vehement argument about whose turn it is, and asking them to take food scraps to the compost heap sounds more like we're sending them to Siberia.  Yesterday I had to discipline the kids twice--once when the youngest was just being rude, and later when the middle child decided she could ignore her mother and grab some food off the counter.  (I was able to grab her wrist and make her drop it, but that lead to an hour of hysterics about how I shouldn't be allowed to discipline them.  Fortunately their mom disagrees.)

That said, they have been practicing piano, yesterday they folded clothes without any complaint, and this morning the eldest made breakfast for her siblings.  The eldest even did some math practice, although she did spend the entire ten minutes repeating, "This is stupid."   So maybe there is hope.

Then again, last Saturday was a school carnival and their mom gave them $5 each for rides and such.  They immediately spent all of it on sweets.

Six weeks

I've been in New Zealand for six weeks now, maybe more. Excluding my 11-month job search in 2008, I've never been on vacation for this long. I'm talking about buying a second-hand bicycle, and a kayak! I hate the water, but I want a kayak. Go figure.

I spoke with immigration last week and they said I could stay nine months without a job; I just need to submit a form and pay a fee. (Obviously I can't afford to be without a job for nine months, but it's nice to know I have the option.)

The kids are very confused, of course--my first visit was just a few days, my second visit was two weeks, and this seems open-ended. They have been asking when I'll be leaving and I keep giving them vague and unsatisfying answers, such as "I don't have an end date scheduled yet." Yesterday one asked why I was keeping it a secret--I assured her that as soon as I knew, I'd tell her straight away. I'm not sure that appeased her much.

Fortunately they are asking because they don't want me to go. Tonight the newly-minted twelve-year-old said it would be strange not having me around. It almost moved me to tears.

Earlier that day she also told her siblings to do what I said, because otherwise I might get mad and she didn't want me to get mad! What I wanted was for them to get out of the car, where they were staging a protest against walking to the Dewali festival, about half a mile away along the waterfront. We did finally go and the kids (of course) had a great time. The 12-year-old who is famous for not wanting new foods not only tried--but loved--masala dosa and vegetable biryani! (Then she drank all of my mango lassi, which I was less impressed with.)

Unfortunately we were having so much fun I completely forgot I'd arranged for the kids to play tennis with their uncle in the afternoon! (Thankfully he wasn't upset, but he did get me to agree to help remove his old TV, which weighs a ton.)

In the evening we chased each other around the playing field with nerf guns, completely ignoring a perfect sunset. Then we tucked into a vegetarian shepherd's pie, finished with cake and ice cream. I read to the kids from a book called "Captain Underpants" and they were all asleep by 9.

Meanwhile their mom had been cooking, doing laundry, cleaning up, ensuring the kids were ready for school the next day, following up on homework, and a host of things I'm not even aware of. Of course the kids want me to stay--when does their mom have time to play with them?

New Zealand products

The days are just packed

I've been here a month now, and some times it feels like I just arrived and other times like I've been here forever. Today I'm at the pool--sorry, "aquatics center"--though after two laps I was so exhausted I could hardly pull myself out of the water. I may need to work on that.

Yesterday we had my girlfriend's family over to celebrate a birthday, and the day before we were in synagogue all day for Yom Kippur. (The kids were stars, entertaining themselves the entire day.) Friday evening we were also in town for kol nidre.

After the kids came home from their weekend with dad, the girls went off to "music camp" on Tuesday, and Wednesday evening we went to a "concert" put on by the kids.

In between all of this is the shopping and cooking and cleaning, plus the constant drama! One day I spent half an hour just lying on the floor, waiting for a child to calm down and pick up a piece of paper. This morning it was a half hour battle to get the kids to go to the pool, and another battle to get them out of the pool! It's fine that they don't know their own minds, I'm just unclear why they feel the need to argue about it all the time. I may need to go buy a book.

Of course what I'm *supposed* to be doing is finding a job, and I've devoted precious little time to that. I updated my CV and submitted it to one company, plus an IT guy at my synagogue.

Someone else also informed me I was applying for the wrong kind of visa entirely--rather than apply for a work permit, which just gives me the right to work here, I should be applying for a "work-to-residence" permit, which gives me the right to work and live here! (Either way, I'm beholden to my employer for two years, which is exactly the situation I was trying to avoid when I applied for the skilled work permit...)

So that's about it. The kids are still on term holiday this week, so I asked them what they wanted to do. After being told, in no uncertain terms, that they wanted to do *nothing* this week, they then came up with a list of 20 things and then started complaining they didn't have time to do all of them!!

But I'm learning to take it one day at a time, enjoying the moment and not take it too seriously. It really is exactly the right place for me at this stage of my life. Funny how life does that.

Introducing...

You may be wondering why I'm in New Zealand, and of course the answer is as old as time: I met a woman.

As she is reading this, I have to be circumspect in how I describe her.  Let's just say she's beautiful, intelligent, talented, charming and honest.  (And let's pray to God she's not into acronyms.)  She has a fantastic sense of humour, and did I mention she's a red-head?

She has three kids, which she's raised effectively on her own.  (Her ex-husband always travelled for work and was never around much.  Now he shows up about twice a year and blames her that he doesn't see the kids more...)  Although the 13-year-old took a little while to come around, the 11-year-old and 9-year-old took to me right away (as did the cat).  They're all good kids, with the usual teenage and pre-teen angst thrown in.  (I look at it as karma for all the horrible things I did at that age.)

Plus...it's New Zealand.  She lives about 40 minutes from Wellington, and 5 minutes from the ocean.  I came in January (summer), April (autumn) and September (the tail end of winter) and can say it's gorgeous year-round.  (She complains about the rain, which is true--they get about three times the annual rainfall of Los Angeles, and a third more than London, but still less than Glasgow!)  The only thing I can complain about is the accent--think of a Scouse, only happier.

So that's the short answer.  Right now I'm enjoying the novelty of it--especially trying to pronounce maori names, such as Paraparaumu and pukeko--but in the long run, I have no doubt I'm right where I'm meant to be.

P.S. Before I moved here, I told my mother New Zealand was the same distance from California as the UK, just in the opposite direction, so I wasn't moving any *further* away.  However, it turns out London is 5,350 miles while Auckland is 6,525 miles.  Sorry, Mom. :-(

New Zealand work permit

Goodness, a lot has happened over the past six weeks -- I finished at work, moved out of my flat, got UK citizenship, spent a week with my family, bought a new laptop and have been in New Zealand for three weeks.  I've been far too busy to update this blog, and the only reason you're reading this is because I caught a cold and am awake at 3:30am, feeling miserable. :-(

The rest of the stories will have to wait; today I'm just focusing on the one that is distressing me. The original plan--if it could be called a plan--was to spend a couple months in New Zealand to see if I wanted to move here. However, although New Zealand offers a point-based "skilled work permit" similar to the UK, the process could not have been more different.  In the UK, if you reach the specified number of points, you are pretty much guaranteed entrance. In New Zealand, every two weeks they decide how many people to admit, and then picked the top n applicants based on points.  That means one week you might get in with 100 points, and another week need 140 points!  If you haven't been selected in six months, your application expires and you have to start over.

Since I claimed 125 points, I was right in the middle and had no idea where I stood.  Thus, I decided to submit my application straight away. I applied at the end of August and was passed over in both draws in September.  So I did some more research and discovered that no "skilled work permits" have been issued to someone with 125 points since October 2012, nearly two years ago!  I had assumed skilled migrants were given priority, but in fact New Zealand prefers less skilled migrants with job offers!

So my next step is obvious: Find a job.  Fortunately, I'm told most employers are familiar with the process, and as IT is on the "long term skills shortage" list, the government knows employers can't find enough locals, so I shouldn't have any problem getting issued a work permit once I have the job offer.  The only issue is my tourist visa expires 5 December, and I probably won't have the work permit by then, so I'll have to leave the country for a short while.

P.S. The New Zealand immigration website invites "anyone with 100 points" to apply for a skilled work permit, without mentioning it's been two years since they issued one!  Seems a bit disingenuous to me.  Of course, they pocket $500 NZ (about $400 US) for each application received...

Camping

Every story has a beginning, and we’ll start this story with me setting up a tent in a conference room at work.  

A co-worker had loaned me the tent after I announced I had just bought a ticket for a weekend music festival, and didn’t have a tent.  For various reasons, I bought a sleeping bag five years ago but never used it, and last year I bought an expensive air mattress, but only because I saw it on Kickstarter and thought it was cool.  (It had a special valve that let you inflate it quickly with just your breath.)  I had a travel pillow, wellies (in case it rained), sandals (in case it didn’t), a picnic blanket and two camping chairs—all I needed was a tent.

I don’t know what possessed me to go camping in the first place.  I’ve been camping twice in the past 25 years, which is sad because as a child, my family went camping all the time, although my mom can tell you I was a terrible camper: I hated marshmallows; I was afraid of the dark; porta potties were a huge issue; my allergies were always a problem; and I could usually be found in the car reading by the overhead light, ensuring the car battery was dead the next day.

In fact, the only camping trips I enjoyed were when we went to Ensenada with my dad, slept on dodgy beaches with soldiers patrolling with automatic rifles, and ate even dodgier street food.

In any case, weekend festivals are very popular in the UK, and I felt I’d been neglecting my British cultural education.  I’d been to day festivals—in fact, I’d gone to “Folk by the Oak” just the week before—but I’d never stayed overnight. And at US $10 per night with the promise of hot showers, this seemed like a good opportunity.

Which is why I was practicing setting up the tent, although what I should have practiced was taking it down at 6am in the rain.  It’s always hard to believe that camping equipment came out of a bag that is clearly two sizes too small.

Normally my stories involve minor disasters, but honestly I can’t fault the weekend: The car rental went smoothly; the sat nav delivered me straight to the site; the organisers had thought of everything; the music was brilliant; and the weather was perfect.  I’d say the food was good but I had a bit of a panic Friday night and filled a grocery cart with fruit and nuts, bagels and salads, hummus and carrots, and so ate every meal out of the boot of my car.  I kept looking longingly at the people with pizza and nachos whilst munching yoghurt-covered raisins.

Of course there were a few glitches.  It turns out the air pad is not designed for people with asthma; I was blowing as hard as I could and it was barely half-full.  The tent was “mostly” waterproof, but we had a squall come through Saturday night and a few things (including my phone!) got soaked.  Both my camera battery and phone battery died, and with no way to recharge them, I got almost no photos.  Plus I’d forgotten my book, so I had plenty of time lounging around with nothing to do!

The music didn’t start until noon and I was awake at 7am each morning—partly because the sun was shining brightly, but mostly I wanted to beat the queue for the shower—so Saturday morning I went to the Yorkshire sculpture park, and Sunday to Wentworth Castle & Gardens.  The sculpture park was only 5 miles away and charged £8 for parking, so I thought I’d be clever and leave the car at the campsite and ride my bicycle!  They didn’t mention it was 2.5 miles down one hill, and 2.5 miles up the next!  My thighs were burning by the time I’d arrived, and the sculpture park is actually 500 acres with sculptures dotted over the landscape!  I could not feel my legs by the time I was finished walking around, and I called a taxi to take me back.  (I saved £8 in parking but the taxi cost £11.)

The next morning I drove to Wentworth Gardens, but since they didn’t open until 10am I took my bike and tried riding the Transpenine Trail.  Now, my bike came with an old-fashioned bell, with a little spring-activated clapper that made a very satisfying “ding.”  I love the sound it makes.  But the Transpenine Trail is not surfaced, so you are riding over rocks, and that constant vibration caused the clapper to hit the bell over and over again.  I sounded like an ice cream truck.  Other cyclists were getting very annoyed, as if someone were driving down the motorway blowing their horn for no reason.

Wentworth itself was fantastic; a spectacular 18^th century Georgian mansion surrounded by a ha-ha (a decorative moat designed to keep livestock out) and even out of bloom, the gardens were incredible.  It really made me miss what I had in Pennsylvania—and I did have grand designs on the garden—but I could have never matched the grandeur, in any case.  Restoring the Victorian greenhouse at Wentworth cost £3.75 million (US $6.35 million) alone!

Sunday evening, Richard Thompson closed the festival at 6pm and everyone got in their cars and left.  Except for me, as I had nowhere to go.  It was quite melancholic.  In the small tent, a jazz quarter was playing softly, and a woman with severe learning disabilities was dancing awkwardly with her carers.  I thought that was so sweet, bringing someone like that to a music festival.  Then later I noticed they were using sign language, and thought how cruel it was bringing a deaf person to a music festival!  (Of course, she may not have been deaf, she may have been dumb.)

I went back to my tent – which was now practically alone on 35 acres – and went to bed early.  Since I was driving straight to work, I had left out a suit for the next morning, although in hindsight I should have taken down the tent before putting on the suit.  Also in hindsight I should not have climbed around in the cut grass, as my allergies kicked in and my eyes swelled up.  I also figured I could get breakfast along the motorway, but it was 57 miles to the office and the first rest stop was 54 miles.

I returned the tent to my co-worker and let him know it was rubbish: No central heating, no indoor plumbing, no closet space and I couldn’t even plug in my kettle!  He suggested that next time I go “glamping.”  (I don’t know if that concept has hit the States, but it is a portmanteau of “glamour” and “camping”  -- in other words, a luxury hotel room, in a tent.)

Edinburgh Fringe

It's that time of the year, and I can't wait!  (I bought my train ticket over two months ago!)  I have been slowly going through the programme ("49,497 performances of 3,193 shows in 299 venues") and tonight I made a matrix of all the shows I was interested in, including showtimes, cost and location, and scientifically calculated the ideal running order for maximum enjoyment at minimum price.

Of course that's not true--most of the shows I'd never heard of, and I never made it through the whole programme.  But I still ended up with a list of 40 shows and, while I did make a grid, it was a bit haphazard and in the end completely worthless--one of my "must see" shows was sold out on Saturday and had to be shifted to Sunday, and Nina Conti was completely sold out.  If I was smart, I would have started over from scratch; instead I just stuffed a few bits in.

Nevertheless, I've got some semblance of a plan, and if there are some gaps I won't mind, you know, eating.  Or taking a nap.

Friday
Train arrives 6:30pm, taxi to hotel   
Joe Bor, A Room with a Jew @ 7:30 (free)
Alan Davies @ 9
Ennio Marchetto @ 10:30

Saturday
Mark Thomas @ 12:30
National Museum of Scotland @ 2 (free music)
Rory O'Keefe @ 3:15

National Gallery?

Monsieur Butterfly @ 8:10
Jess Robinson or Camille O'Sullivan @ 9:40

Sunday
Waters of Leith walk in the morning (free, including Royal Botanic Garden)
St Giles Cathedral @ 12:15 (free concert)
Daniel Cainer Jewish Chronicels @ 1:30
Old Men Walking @ 2:40 (free)
Underground Tour @ 4
Young and Strange: Delusionists @ 6:30 (free)
What Does the Title Matter Anyway @ 9

Monday
Train at 6:52am :-(

In between shows, I will be dining at establishments such as "Elfalafel," "Piemaker," "Engine Shed" and "Brazil Crepes" -- the latter is just a kiosk in the park -- but I will splurge at David Bann, a properly amazing vegetarian restaurant.  (The prices are actually quite reasonable; it's only expensive comparied to places which don't have seats.)
 
The hotel is £50/night (including breakfast), the train was £38 round-trip, I'll spend about £120 on 14 shows and £50 on food. Not bad for such an amazing weekend.

Marriage MOT

At dinner with a friend, the topic turned to a "marriage MOT."  For those not in the UK, the MOT is the annual vehicle inspection* required to ensure the vehicle is road worthy.  A quick "google" found that the idea is not unique, although it is applied inconsistently.  The Church of England thinks it's a one-off activity to do before getting married. The Daily Mail thinks it's for couples in their early 40s who are having relationship issues.  The Marriage Partnership think it's a one-day course you should consider doing before your relationship breaks down.  Actually that's the cut-down version of the Marriage Course which is 7 evenings of "a romantic candle-lit meal with practical talks that are informative and fun and time."  Feedback includes "The food was amazing,")  The Star thinks it's a questionnaire to fill out.  The Huffington Post thinks that instead of asking, "How was your day?" you should ask, "When did you feel loved today?"  (Not really clear on that one.) There's even a "MarriageMOT" twitter account, dispensing occasional advice (and an occasional advert). Sapphire Counseling seems to have gotten the closest, but starts with the unfortunate question,"Have you got a rattle in your relationship?"

In 2014, a report by the UK Department for Education called for a national drive to encourage couples to consider getting help to strengthen their relationships before problems occur.  That's lovely, but then went on to make no concrete suggestions other than register offices offer discounts on wedding fees for couples who go on a relationship course.  The only problem is, nobody goes to the register office after they get married.  They then go on to make the very dubious claim that every £1 the government spends on relationship counselling will save £11.50 in benefits to single mothers.

The point they are all missing is that the vehicle MOT is not optional, not something to do when you think something might be wrong, and certainly not when you know something is wrong.  It's an annual requirement to ensure things are going well, and give you an early indication of developing problems.

Of course, I'm not advocating that the government require people to submit for annual inspections, but what's important thing here is that it can't be ad hoc and it can't be one-sided; it has to be agreed in advance by both parties; the earlier the better. Ideally, it would be part of a couple's wedding vows.  The obvious time to go is around an anniversary (preferably before the anniversary, I think). If you're already in a relationship, committing to an annual review defuses an adversarial, one-sided, single-issue discussion to become an abstract, inclusive agreement that is much less threatening.  (And when the date does come around and one--or both!--partners becomes uneasy, it's too late--you already agreed to go.)

And yes, it would have to be with a trained counsellor, a disinterested third party who can guide the conversation and make recommendations. Otherwise it's too easy for one person to dominate the conversation, or dismiss the other's concerns.  There would have to be a written record, which at the very least could be reviewed at the next MOT.  And of course the counsellor may suggest interim activites, including relationship counselling, if needed.  In fact, that's the whole point. When you go for a dental checkup, you expect the dentist to tell you if you have any problems that need to be dealt with.

The other thing that makes an MOT work is that it's standardized and agreed upon, so you can take your car to any station and know what to expect.  If it's subsidized, it encourages unnecessary work.  However, where cost is an issue it can be done in a group setting like the Marriage Course, where couples talk among themselves with a group mediator.  In addition, the UK Department of Education stated it already spends £30 million per year, although no doubt most of it is spent on relationships with significant issues, like violence.  As Sapphire Counseling notes, anyone in a violent relationship needs to get individual counseling (and I would add, get the hell out of there).

Of course I'm not a counselor, but the Marriage Course focuses on seven areas which seem to be a perennial issue, and could do with being reviewed on an annual basis:
• Building Strong Foundations
• The Art of Communication
• Resolving Conflict
• The Power of Forgiveness
• The Impact of Family - Past and Present
• Good Sex
• Love in Action

So that's my advice. Take it from someone with three failed relationships (and who will probably ignore this in his next one, as well).  It's still a good idea.

* I should note that in the US, only 20 states have inspection programs, and as North Carolina recently noted when scrapping theirs: "Nearly three decades of research has failed to conclusively show that mechanical defects are a significant cause of motor vehicle accidents or that safety inspections significantly reduce accident rates."  However, I think we can agree that the same is not true of relationships.

Northern Ireland, day 2

I talked about the ridiculous idea of driving the entire Northern Ireland coast in one day.  Turns out it's not a big deal.

As I had already driven by Carrickfergus, Gleno and Islandmagee, I didn't need to go to the east coast, I decided to skip Carnfunnock Country Park, Glenarm Castle and Cushendall, and go straight to Carrick-A-Rede.  This was a small island that Atlantic salmon would swim past, so fishermen would string their nets from it. The only problem was getting to it, as there was a 100-foot crevass between the mainland in the island.  So the fishermen built a rope bridge.

Sadly, the Atlantic salmon has all been wiped out, and the fishery closed in the 1920s, but the National Trust still maintain the rope bridge, and charge £5.60 (US $9.60) for the privilege of crossing it. Of course, I'm terrified of heights so I wouldn't dream of doing it, which is what I repeatedly told myself during the drive, during the half-mile hike, and standing in the queue for 10 minutes.  In the end, I did it, but only because I'd already paid and I'm a tight bastard.

I'm also glad I got there early--by the time I left, 8 coaches had rolled in and the queue was huge.


Next I drove to the Giant's Causeway, which was even more spectacular than I'd imagined. The hexagonal stones really brought out the kid in me, as I leapt from one to the next. It helped that the sun finally came out, the sky was a breathtaking blue.  I hiked around the bays and grabbed lunch at the canteen, before reluctantly moving on.

I skipped Bushmills--the oldest Irish whiskey distillery--and Dunluce Castle--which was just a ruin--and instead went to Cromore Castle.  Now, in my defence--no, there's no defence for this.  I'm sure I just googled "castles" in google maps and starred it, without doing any additional research.  So I was bemused, to say the least, to find it rents...bouncy castles.

Next I drove through Coleraine and up to Downhill Demesne and Hezlett House which, maps would lead you to believe, are right next to each other along the beach.  They aren't.  You pass Hezlett House and 20 minutes later reach Downhill, which is an interesting shell of an 18th century building.  It's most interesting feature is a library/greek temple that was built near the coast, but is now on the coast, and in the near future may be down the coast.  When I arrived, there was a sign announcing music in the temple 12-4.  It was 3:45.  I rushed down and a woman was playing the harp which was quite lovely, even if it was only for ten minutes.

I wandered back through the building and was sorely tempted to drive back to Hezlett House -- just to get my money's worth -- but it was getting late.  My plan was to have lunch in Limavady, which was the next town, but it was already 5 o'clock so I gave that a miss (as well as Roe Valley Country Park) and head straight into Derry.

The Irish called it Doire ("Oak wood") which was anglicised to "Derry."  The town was destroyed in 1608 and a new walled town was built, renamed "Londonderry."  However, the Irish nationalists (i.e. the Catholics) continued to refer to it was Derry, while the Unionists (i.e. the Protestants) called it Londonderry, and the Londoners dropped the last syllable and called it Londond'ry.
However, for all that history, I like the new name they've come up with: "LegenDerry."

I had already selected a restaurant on TripAdvisor, and so parked the car outside and was immediately underwhelmed by the city.  It had all the charm of Belfast, but with a much smaller train station.  I could see the cathedral spire on the other side of the river so I crossed a very utilitarian bridge and walked past another smouldering bonfire before I came across the town walls.  In fact, it's the only city in the UK which still has its town walls intact.  Walking along the walls was so peaceful and quiet, with spectacular views of the countryside, that it was a pleasure.  (The gates to the cathedral were closed so I had to settle for taking some photos outside.)

Actually, in hindsight it was kind of strange--the whole town felt almost abandoned.  I think I only ran into two other people, both walking dogs, plus saw a handful around town.  Once I'd walked around three-quarters, I saw the "Peace bridge" which was a lovely pedestrian bridge across the Foyle, which took me back to the restaurant.   The food was excellent (even if the veg options were limited) and I left at 10pm feeling very full and tired.

It was an hour's drive back to Antrim where I packed up my stuff, determined not to have a repeat of the fiasco on the way over.  Because of my nomadic lifestyle, I had packed a small suitcase and my laptop bag a week ago, and had been staying with a friend.  As I wasn't coming back, I needed to take all of my stuff with me, but Easyjet only allows one carry-on, and I refused to pay the £30 checked bag fee.  I did succeed in stuffing my laptop bag into my suitcase, but came dangerously close to breaking my laptop or my camera, and of course pulling out my laptop at airport security was a nightmare.  Unfortunately I fared no better on the way back.

Liverpool is one of those cities that doesn't believe public transportation should serve the airport.  I don't understand that.  LA is the same.  San Francisco only got BART to the airport by promising it would serve area residents as well.  (It goes to Millbrae, a mile past the airport.)  London, by contrast, has two trains and the underground direct to the airport.  To get to the office, however, I would have to take a shuttle bus to the train station, a train to Runcorn, and a cab to the office, and it was going to take an hour to go 11 miles.

However, while I was waiting for the shuttle to the train station, I punched the destination into google maps and it said it would be faster to take two buses.  What it didn't say was that the bus would drop me a mile and a half from my destination, and I'd have to walk.  With a suitcase.  Wearing a suit.

Of course I called a taxi, and then idly wondered what it would have cost to get a minicab from the airport.  Probaly not much more than the £11 I'd paid for the shuttle/bus/taxi, and would have saved me 45 minutes. I'd say "next time" but I don't have any next times.

Northern Ireland photos

Bonfire night

Each year, on the 5th of November, England celebrates "bonfire night" to commemorate the failed attempt of the Catholic Guido "Guy" Fawkes to kill the protestant king by blowing up Parliament.  Despite it's grim origins, it's actually quite lovely because it's already winter, the days are short, the kids participate and it's about saving the monarchy, not about religious extremism.  (And for a lot of people, it isn't even about the monarchy, it's just a large campfire.)

In Northern Ireland, "the twelth" begins with a bonfire at midnight, and they "decorate" it with Irish flags with rude sayings written on them, which of course are the first things to burn.  I understand the Troubles were recent (the "Good Friday" accords were only 16 years ago) but they certainly make no effort to reconcile.  Parents took their small kids out at midnight, and everyone was drinking heavily.  That was what struck me the most: the people were rough.  They'd obviously led very hard lives, but compounded it with smoking and drinking and poor dental hygiene, and it was almost painful to look at.  Even the young women wore so much makeup, you couldn't tell what they looked like underneath, but they were all well on their way to emulating their parents.

I was in Antrim and the hotel receptionist suggested I go to Ballycraig, who were just in the news for hanging an effigy of Gerry Adams, a Catholic member of the NI parliament.  (I thought politics in the US were polemic!)  The bonfire was literally five stories high, made out of wooden pallets.  (Elsewhere they had bonfires made from car tires, and I can only imagine the stench that created.)  It took a while for the fire to get started, but pretty soon were were all sweltering and moving further and further away, as it was hotter than a blast furnace.  Unlike Guy Fawkes night, this did not feel like a "family event," or even a social event--it just felt like the Protestants were just doing this to harass their Catholic neighbors, much like a KKK rally in the south might feel.  I love bonfire night, but everything about that felt wrong.

I finally got to bed around 2am and set my alarm for 7am to ensure I was in Belfast early, because there were a lot of road closures planned starting at 9:30am.. Of course I overslept and didn't get into town until 9:30am.  At one junction I saw a large group of police, which made me feel better knowing they were out in force, but then I missed a turning and ended up having to circle around again only to find the police had now closed the road, and I was stranded.  That was the last time I saw any police.  They were obviously not there to control violence, only to contain it.

My sat nav didn't find another route and I arrived at the car park that I had looked up the day before, only to find there was no car park.  There was some street parking but the signs said 2 hours max, and I didn't want to have to worry about moving the car later.  Besides, on my phone I could see the car park was just across the street.  Except in the real world there was a wall between me and the car park, and the one-way streets put me in the parade route.

I am not kidding.  The police had not cordoned off the road, although obviously everybody else was smart enough not to drive down it!  I had no option, and there were people crossing the street and kids playing in the street and I hadn't seen mobs like that since the LA riots.  It was terrifying, and there was no place for me to go other than continue down the road at 5 mph for two miles.

I finally got off the route and found a parking space and staked out a place to take photos, but the parade was as grim as the night before.  There were thousands of men, marching without smiling or waving, all wearing orange sashes that said "LOL" on them.  That confused me a bit but it turns out it stood for "Loyal Orange Lodge," a Protestant fraternity.  The Grand Orange Lodge says on its website, "The annual Twelfth of July demonstrations are widely regarded as a major tourist attraction and the largest festival in Northern Ireland....an increasing number of international visitors are keen to experience the spectacle of the biggest day in the loyal orders' parading calendar."  Having been there, I can't believe that's actually true.  The only tourists I can imagine coming to see this are ignorant Americans, such as myself.

The spectators didn't appear to be having any more fun than the participants, apart from the fact that the spectators were all drinking heavily, and this was at 11 in the morning.  I grew weary and wandered off to see the city, but I didn't actually see much as everything was closed and the windows were shuttered. When I came back for my car around 2pm, the parade was over and it had now become a street party, and everyone was staggering around. I don't mind if young adults want to act so stupid, but again there were a lot of children there, playing in the streets that at this point were covered in broken bottles and sticky with alcohol.  I've been to a lot of parades in my life, and I've never seen people behave this disgracefully.  I was disgusted.

Safely back in my car, I started looking for anything that was open--besides the pubs--and was ultimately forced to go to the one place I did not want to go: The Titanic Museum.  I've been to Titanic exhibits before, and while it's vaguely interesting to see what was on the menu in 1912, it's hardly relevant to Belfast.  But I did go through the exhibit and I'm happy to say they don't have any menus.  Or any artifacts from the ship at all.  And the ship barely features in the exhibit -- once the structure was built, it was sent to Southampton for "fitting."  They just made a waterproof shell.

Having learned nothing -- except perhaps how to bend a steel girder -- I decided I'd had enough of Belfast and drove to Carrickfergus, a castle on the inlet leading to Belfast, which is described as "one of the best preserved medieval structures in Ireland."  It was closed.  Plus the parking lot was half a mile away and it was raining, so I just got some photos in the distance and carried on.  I drove to Gleno, which had a lovely little waterfall in a wooded glen just a few minutes off the road.  Then I drove around Islandmagee--which was a peninsula, not an island--and it was actually a sweet little area of farms.  It would certainly have been improved by better weather, but I still enjoyed the drive.

A quick (and unremarkable) dinner overlooking a golf course, and I was back in the hotel by 11pm, reading for an early day tomorrow which includes the Giant's Causeway, a rope bridge, about six castles and an evening in Derry.  I can't wait.

Belfast

A month ago, when I started upon this crazy scheme, I had three open weekends and three destinations. It didn't matter what order I went, and I happened to pick Northern Ireland on July 12.

Big mistake.

The only clue that something was amiss was when I was looking for a car park in Belfast, and it said it was closed Christmas and July 12. That seemed very odd, so I googled it and found the "Orange order" held an annual parade on the 12th. Great, I love parades!

I was at a restaurant Thursday night and the waitress happened to be from Donegal, so I mentioned I was going to Northern Ireland the next day and I got a long sideways stare, the kind you give crazy people before you cross the road to avoid them. She politely said, "You've been there before, have you?" I cheerfully replied, "No, first time!" Her response was a bit muffled, but I think she said, "Oh, Jesus."

She started to give me a list of places to avoid when I said I wanted to see the parade. Again I'm not sure, but I think she said, "Oh f*cking Jesus" and walked away.

So I looked into it a little more and realised the mine field I was walking into. When Henry VIII broke from the Catholic Church, you would have thought his heirs would have happily assumed the mantle of "head of the church" but not all were so willing, including his daughter, Mary. However, the biggest issue was James II, who was not only pro-Catholic but also pro-France!

James was tolerated because the heir apparent was his daughter (also Mary) who was strongly Protestant. However, at the age of 55 James had a son, and the rules of progeniture dictated the son jump the queue to become heir. (The rules were finally changed last year.) When James announced his son would be Catholic, that was too much for the Protestant elite, and they invited his daughter (who had married William of Orange) to depose her father.

As a side note, the house of Orange still rules the Netherlands. Spare them a thought every time you see a carrot--originally purple, they were specifically bred orange to honor the ruling family.

In 1688, William and Mary sailed to England and James fled to France, as his army and navy both switched allegiances. He still claimed to be King, and in 1690 he raised a small army and invaded Ireland, which still had a sizeable Catholic population. However, he was defeated at the Battle of the Boyne by the "loyalists" of William of Orange.

So, invading army defeated, sounds like a great excuse for a party! Unfortunately, the Protestants ruthlessly oppressed the Catholics, and did so for the next 300 years, until it finally exploded in what is colloquially known as "The Troubles." While sectarian violence is down, it certainly hasn't stopped, and to throw an annual parade to celebrate that oppression seems like an awfully bad idea.

And to visit during that weekend was an even worse idea.

To be continued...

What went right

Hindsight is a wonderful thing.  If I ever need to get rid of my car and move out of my flat on the same weekend again, I'll know exactly how to do it.

Rather than whine about everything that went wrong, I decided to just talk about what went right:

• It didn't rain on Sunday. Of course it poured on Saturday when I was moving all my stuff to London, but Sunday was lovely.
• I got to see many of my friends, from Stroud to Surrey.  Granted, driving around the country might not have been the best use of my time, but I had rented a car and it was the first time in two months I could visit.  Besides, I filled the car with stuff I wanted to give away, so I convinced myself it was an integral part of the move.  (Unfortunately most of it came home with me, so I had to make an extra trip to the recycling center on Monday.)
• I got £95 for my car.  However, I spent £40 for a battery jumper, which I had to use twice while driving the car (illegally!) to the scrap yard. Oh, and it cost £5 and took nearly two hours to get public transportation home.  (They would have collected my car, but then they would have only given me £75.)
• I was able to squeeze everything into the rental car, so I only had to make one trip into London.  Of course I missed quite a few things, so on Monday I ended up carrying three suitcases and a battery jumper on the train into London.  When my friend Lucy offered to store my stuff, I assured her I only had a few things, so arriving with six large boxes and two bags of clothes was kind of embarrassing.
• I got to walk through Reading and say good-bye to a town I'd grown quite fond of.  This was because I'd been a little overzealous and packed all of my jeans and trousers in those two bags of clothes I'd left in London, so I had to walk to the shopping center to buy some long pants to wear the next day.
• The cleaners were brilliant.  However, they quickly spotted I had two bedrooms -- not one like I told them over the phone -- and adjusted the price accordingly.  The lease specified I needed to have it professionally cleaned, and in a truculent mood I decided that to get my money's worth I would not clean the flat, at all, for four weeks.  Of course, the day before they arrived I was so embarrassed that I cleaned the whole flat.
• It was done.  Hard to believe, after a month of incredibly stressful planning, worry and effort, it all (more or less) worked out.  Yes, the boxes were in total disarray, but at least they were in one place.  Yes, it was extremely depressing to scrap my car, but after spending a month trying to sell it, it was the only realistic option.  (If I hadn't waited until the last minute, it would have been much easier, but by the same token if I hadn't waited until the last minute, I would have always wondered if I could have sold it.)

I'm extremely grateful to my friends for helping me out, supporting me, and keeping me sane during the process.  It's not easy giving up your job, house and car at the same time, even if I have done it three times before.  (That's not true--when I moved to Pennsylvania, I took my car, and when I moved to the UK, I didn't have a car.)  I'm also grateful to all the people, whether they realise it or not, who will be providing me shelter over the next two months.  I'll let you know who you are.

Northern Ireland

I decided to rent a car in Northern Ireland, mostly because the public transport website is so bad it can barely tell you how to get there, and can't tell you at all how much it costs!  (Seriously, for bus fares it just says "call us.")  

However, I was regretting that decision.  After all, I have to pay for the car for three days-- Friday night to Monday morning -- when I'm only there for two full days, and one of those I will be in Belfast and not use the car at all!  So tonight I rolled up my sleeves and diligently figured out the public transport options and costs, and realised I would save almost £50 (US $85), and that doesn't even include gas.  It was a no brainer.

Except then something made me look at the coastal route along the edge of northern Ireland.  While public transport would take me straight to the Giant's Causeway and back, a car could take me to castles, harbors, cliffs, glens, waterfalls, even a rope bridge! I could also visit Derry.

However, that route is nearly 200 miles.  By comparison, the coastal route from San Luis Obispo to Montery is only 150 miles, and that can take the better part of a day.  Driving by myself, in a single day, will be exhausting, and not leave much time for getting out of the car and exploring.  It will also cost me another £50 in gasoline, doubling the cost of the car!

So now it's not such an easy decision.  On the one hand, I could save my money and have a nice easy weekend, and someday come back and give it the time it deserves.  On the other hand, I'll be there now, and I don't want to wait!  (Unfortunately I already bought the plane tickets, and it's not worth changing them to extend my stay.)

Of course I will justify this insane plan by saying if I do the drive now, I'll know where to spend more time on my next visit...

was

Schedule

Here's my official schedule for the next two months:

This weekend: Avebury and Brighton with friends

Next weekend: Packing, seeing friends

28-29 June: Moving my stuff to London, cleaning

5-6 July: Glasgow

12-13 July: Northern Ireland

19-20 July: London (Jayhawks concert on Friday, Folk by the Oak festival on Sunday, plus 3 weeks of laundry!)

26-27 July: Camping at a folk festival in Barnsley

2-3 August: York

9-10 August: Edinburgh Fringe

15 August: Flying to California (with three weeks of laundry, mom!)

Mostly this is stuff that has been on my to do list for 5 years; I've just been motivated to get it done!

Three month plan

I love a good plan. I don't care if it comes together, I just like knowing when it goes off piste.

To that end, I spent three days mapping out the next ten weeks.

June is pretty straightforward--work up north three days a week, home four days.  Of course I have to move out of my flat by the end of the month, so two weekends will be spent packing, one will be spent moving, and the other will be travelling--probably Bath, Brighton or the Cotswolds.  (I'm also going to two plays, a concert and a festival.) One friend has offered me her attic space in Bournemouth, and I'm hoping another friend will help me move it there, as I can't use my car.  (Speaking of which, I need to sell my car!)  Packing is particularly challenging because in the end I will have stuff in five places: Up north at work, in London at a hotel, in storage in Bournemouth, in my mom's garage, or with me on my travels!

July I'm officially homeless, so instead of three days a week at the office, I will spend five days there, and let the company pay my hotel bill.  Two weekends I will go travelling--Glasgow, Geneva, York and Northern Ireland are the finalists--and use my points at Holiday Inn.  The other two weekends I will stay with friends in London. (Actually, one weekend I only have one commitment in London, so I'm going to try and get out of it so I can spend that week travelling as well.)  I will be three weeks without access to a washing machine, so I have to organise this with military precision to ensure I have clean underwear! 

I'm also going to go back to Reading for one day to see my dentist and get my prescriptions refilled.  My phone contract is also finished in July, so I need to change it to pay-as-you-go and get the phone unlocked, so I can use local sim cards when I travel.

Mid-August I plan to leave, so you'd think I'd be ramping down, spending time with friends, but it's just the opposite: I'll be travelling both weekends, including Edinburgh for the fringe festival!  (Sadly, the Cambridge Folk Festival is completely sold out, or I'd be spending one weekend there, as well.)  My last day up north will be Thursday the 14th; on Friday the 15th I will go to the London office to drop off my laptop and take care of any final paperwork, and then I will get the train to the airport and go.

Of course I'll be back in mid-October, and will start looking for work then.  However, that will take a little time and I've already scoped out a couple of weekends to go to Canterbury and Cornwall, plus visit friends in Stroud, Gloucester, Oxford, Birmingham, Manchester, Reading and Bournemouth. (I may even visit Runcorn for old time's sake.)  In November I'm going to tour the Whitechapel Bell Foundry, where the Liberty Bell was cast, and go to Northumberland to watch the Leonid meteor shower (and also check out the Angel of the North and the Battle of Flodden battlefield, where the English crushed the Scotts 500 years ago).  In December I will attend Limmud in Coventry.

So basically what I'm saying is that I'm going on holiday to relax and get away from my regular life.