This Is Not a Holiday

I realize as I have occasion to talk with people from the States that I am not quite prepared to answer the question, "Are you having a good time?" Not that there is anything necessarily inappropriate about the question itself. But I would find such a query much easier to answer were I spending a week at the beach or a month in the mountains. Being here is somehow different. That difference is not simply one of duration. One can tour on holiday for four or five months and indeed find ways to gauge and describe a time enjoyed.

But being here involves other things. There is a sense of home here. Friends, some of whom we have had in our acquaintance now for 7 years. There are familiar smells and sights. Certain words have meaning and significance here which they do not possess over there. There is a home church, where there are now new friendly faces and a feeling of welcome. There are shared activities and shared purpose. The intensity of being here involves a significant investment in the being of here. And, of course, there is laundry and shopping and cleaning and daily obligations to be fulfilled. Occasional weekends away are punctuated by a feeling of relief at being back in our own home, in our own beds, with our familiar routines around us. The same floorboards squeak to us as we walk over them, and certain noises put brackets around the hours of our day.

For those who have been left behind in the States, there is some awareness of the great amount of effort and disruption which accompanied our departure. Things had to be sorted and managed, and we are definitely NOT there during these months. What may not be as apparent is that there will be some of the same feelings of dislocation and removal for us upon our return. We are living two parallel lives which, for the most part, do not intersect. And the shifting between them is much more than a holiday to be simply enjoyed. It is a life lived among others, in places which are as dear to us as the home which awaits our return.

To my English cousins -- about iced tea

Mother's Day on March 14 in Great Britain. I get lucky on those years that we are here, because I get two of these. March in the UK, and May in the USofA. Not a bad arrangement, actually. My celebration here included the spectacular (81 miles of torchlight along the northern border of the ancient Roman Empire) and a wonderful meal at a Mexican restaurant. Good Mexican food is hard to find here. Bad Mexican food is hard to find. We managed to find a restaurant which provided a reasonable approximation of popular TexMex chain-restaurant food. Quesadillas, with real guacamole (not green-tinted sour cream with pimentos in it). While we were at it, I thought I would shoot for the moon and ask for iced tea. The Brits drink lots and lots of tea. None of it iced. But the cheerful waitress was very happy to oblige. "Of course you can have iced tea!"

As my dh went to the loo after ordering, he noticed the bar staff talking among themselves and casting glances in our direction. Several minutes later, a cute young gal on the wait staff came by the table and asked, "So....just how would we make that iced tea?" We discussed the brewing of a pot of tea and then pouring it over ice. She seemed relieved. "That is what we were thinking we might do." And we did receive exactly that. Each of us got our small pot of tea (the normal delivery system for the hot version of this beverage, in this country) and a small glass full of ice. And we did just fine. "Do you need lemons for that?" she asked. No thanks, not for mine.

I did ask for a second larger glass of ice to facilitate the cooling of the tea. It was very nice. I closed my eyes and could almost imagine being back in the states.

Cold Comfort

Having succumbed to the persistent and perennial cold virus, I wished for a little relief in the form of a brief hot steamy shower before bed. This did not seem too unreasonable. A small simple comfort.

Alas, I was forced to settle for two out of three. "Hot" did not seem to be happening, at least not out of this antiquated plumbing. I remained hopeful until the end. Standing in one corner of the shower, a cautious distance from the tepid jet, I imagined that the tepid stream was becoming slightly warmer. I would have done better to have fetched hot water up the 4 flights of stairs in a bucket. And so, after 10 minutes, I gave up.

The bad news: no hot shower before bed.

The good news: our rooms are cold enough that the tepid water was sufficient to generate a respectable amount of steam.

Cold comfort.