British Life Begins and Ends at the Pub

On a recent visit to England I discovered that British life begins and ends at the pub. The centuries old custom of pub going means more than frequenting the local watering hole where you can wet your whistle. The pub, a center of community life, is a place where social barriers break down, class distinctions disappear and everyone is treated equally. Even dogs.

Visiting a traditional pub with a native helps you interpret the pub going protocol. We would still be waiting to be served if it weren’t for Larissa our son’s British girlfriend. When she took us to her hometown favorite The Embankment, a trendy place in Bedford, she explained that you must go to the bar to order and pick up drinks.

This renovated, wood-timbered Victorian era pub built in 1891 across from the River Great Ouse down from the Rowing Club reflected its roots. Though it retains its old world charm, there is nothing stuffy about this place. Divided rooms cater for dinner parties and crowds, but the heart and soul of the establishment remains the front room’s long wooden bar.

A local patron, a jovial mate stood there reading a newspaper knocking back his first beer at 10 am. He greets the steady stream of clients by bending to pet every pooch that entered the premises while his own dog dozes in a stuffed chair by the door.

The family friendly pub welcomes kids and pets. Everyone can lounge around over breakfast, lunch or dinner on cozy banquettes and sofa chairs in front of a log fire. The din of adult’s chatter, children’s laughter, and dogs’ barking, creates a convivial carnival like atmosphere.

“It is the opposite of America,” my Frenchman quipped, “In England dogs are welcome, but no guns allowed.”

With people watching at a premium I reveled in the view. At the round table next to ours, a posh couple coddling a poodle ordered a morning whiskey and Baileys on ice with a side of coffee. I nudged my husband and whispered “They brought dog biscuits in a mini Tupperware.”

“That’s nothing,” Gérald said. “The local chap at the bar has a box of kibble that he hands out to visiting pets.”

For the price of a drink you can linger and savor the show all day.

After our morning coffee, as soon as a table freed up in front of the fire, Larissa ushered us to comfier seats where we ordered lunch. The menu? What else – fish and chips. In keeping with British tradition, we doused our thick-cut fries and fried cod with a dash of cider vinegar.

But by far the biggest celebrity to parade into the pub was Guinness, Larissa’s sister and brother-in-law’s dog. The fluffy, black labradoodle stole the show when he loped in on gangly legs while everyone cooed in delight.

Dining on fish and chips in a real pub made us feel ever so British. In addition to greeting new arrivals, the man at the front of the bar put a fresh log on the fire as soon as the flame grew low. As if we were royalty sitting in his front parlor, he shared a kind word with each of us on our way out.

We felt like honorary guests in a British private home… until it was time to pay the bill.

Flying Uneasy on Low Cost British Easy Jet

Nothing easy about so called “Easy” Jet the low cost British carrier, which offers services on over 820 routes in more than 30 countries. For years my UK colleagues raved about the simplicity and affordability of Easy Jet. We wanted a quick, cheap ride across the English Channel from Geneva to London Luton Airport to visit our son who moved to the Bedfordshire area. After 4 decades of globetrotting, I have never had a worse flight. If all goes well the flight takes about an hour and 20 minutes. Alas if all goes wrong it can takes days.

Before leaving our house we saw on-line that the 20:15 flight was delayed an hour and 15 minutes, which for Easy Jet seems fairly standard. Nevertheless, the message from Easy Jet stated that we must come at the normal time to the airport to check-in.

Our family’s previous experience with Easy Jet made me shudder. One time our son’s flight was delayed twice, then finally cancelled at midnight. The Easy Jet personal told him, “So sorry mate. Can’t help. Give the airlines a call and they’ll sort you out in the morning.”

Eventually they stuck him on a flight from Zurich, which is two hours away by train. Then on his return flight he was stranded in Luton, which is ranked as the UKs worst airport in the city considered the “armpit of England.” When Easy Jet changed his booking, they canceled his return by mistake, so his ticket was no longer valid. He had to fight to get another ticket issued for free for the same day, but 10 hours later!

Back to our own saga. By the time we arrived at the Geneva airport, our flight had been delayed another 25 minutes. Finally around 9:30 they announced our boarding gate, a bit earlier than the expected delayed time. From the gate they herded us into a bus like cattle off to slaughter. The bus lurched forward and backed into a terminal parking space a hundred yards from where we left. We stood in the bus waiting for another 15 minutes, then re-entered the terminal again to finally proceed to the boarding ramp. The plane finally took off 15 minutes later than the delayed time. Are you still following?

Departure from our home in Geneva – 6:45 pm; arrival hotel outside of Luton using the unreliable train system – 2 am. Travel time 7 hours. With a good tailwind, it would have been faster to fly to Chicago.

For our 6:15 am return flight on Monday morning, we left our hotel at 4:15 to arrive on time. A sign said that the boarding gate would be posted at 5:40. It was and they simultaneously announced “Last call boarding call Easy Jet Flight 2049 to Geneva; we will be closing the gate”

One minute we were sitting in Starbucks stalling and starring at the departure screen and the next instance we were racing through the terminal knocking over other frantic passengers rushing to catch the Geneva flight before it took off, which by the way left 5 minutes ahead of schedule.

Ah Easy Jet, the single class, high-density layout airbus, guarantees discomfort.

Imagine squeezing into an egg carton. You must fold your body into an egg shape for the duration of the journey. Seats, which feel like benches, won’t lean back even a centimeter; if you are tall tray tables rest on your knees.

To further curtail costs, Easy Jet discourages checked baggage by charging as much for a bag as you pay for your ticket. Nor does it offer complimentary food or beverages not even water. Purchases from Easy Jet Bistro buy on board will be expensive.

In spite of the inconveniences, Easy Jet fills 92% of its flights, so your plane will be packed even at 6:15 am. Oh those poor souls commuting to work via Easy Jet.

The cabin crew, the only saving grace, will be kind as if they spent a lifetime calming irate passengers who have missed connecting flights, important business meeting and special family occasions.

Saving money may not be worth the trade off due to the toll an Easy Jet flight takes on your body.

My recommendation: if you see bright orange Easy Jet label – run.

Unfortunately I cannot heed my own advice. If we want to visit our son and Larissa we have to fly Easy Jet. London Luton, 35 miles north-west of Central London, is Easy Jet headquarters and the airline is the only one offering a direct flight from Geneva.

Before I go back for another visit, I will consult my British friends and find out the insider secrets on the most painless way to survive a flight on the so called Easy Jet.

Explaining Thanksgiving to Europeans

Americans know the story of how Native Americans saved Pilgrims from starvation back in 1620 by teaching them to tap maple trees, plant corn and fertilize soil, but I have been trying to explain Thanksgiving to Europeans for decades. They remain bewildered by our Thanksgiving, a journée de remerciements. They think it is the only day of the year where Americans prepare a hot meal and eat slow food.

Decades ago when I moved to Europe, I was a pilgrim at the mercy of my French teammates who taught me their language and customs.

A year later, I became indebted to German friends who shared their homes and meals. Accepted by marriage into my French family, adopted into Swiss culture where I now live, I have always been a guest in someone else’s country.

Yet I remain loyal to my roots. Though every feast I have prepared has been a fiasco, Thanksgivings with my Franco American family has always been sacred.

“Are any European celebrations similar to Thanksgiving,” I once asked my husband. He looked at me incredulous.

“Of course not,” he said. “Native Americans are the only people on the planet gracious enough to thank their conquerors.”

No matter what the circumstances or who shows up at the table, T-day is one tradition I cherish.

My first year abroad I invited French teammates to dinner and much to my chagrin they ate the meal in courses, one dish at a time. The next year in Germany, the team turnout was so great, there was standing room only; we never sat down to dine.

When I introduced the custom to my French family, my mother-in-law served raw oysters first and insisted a turkey was too big; chicken would suffice.

If left to their own devices, Europeans could butcher our day of thanks.

What American celebrates Thanksgiving by eating an seven-course meal standing up? Who replaces Tom Turkey with Chicken Little to eliminate leftovers? Leftovers are Thanksgiving.

Born in the Land of Lincoln, I consider it my patriotic duty to give thanks on the fourth Thursday of the month, the day Abe appointed as a national holiday in 1863 when he gave gratitude for an instrumental Union Army victory at Gettsyburg.

Expats everywhere create their own special ties to their heritage.

When my Norwegian grandfather immigrated to America, he insisted on keeping the Norwegian tradition of eating lutefisk and lingonberry on Christmas Eve.

“My dad brought strangers home to dinner,” my mom said. “He’d say ‘so many people helped me when I arrived in the United States, I want to return the favor.’”

Every Thanksgiving, I gather family, friends and “foreigners” in a feast honoring my Norwegian ancestors, my American homeland and my host country. To avoid offending guests, I whisper thanks to the Great Spirit who watches over all of us regardless of our religious, national, or ethic affinity.

**Apparently, like our Native American friends, she sees the good in man, even in the conquistador.**

Hanging Laundry Good for Health

I noticed something missing in America, the clothesline. Hanging clothes outside is great therapy. If more people hung clothes, doctors would be out of business. It’s good for achy muscles, stiff joints and stress related illnesses. Bend, reach, ssstttttretch. Breathe. Inhale, pick up the jeans from the basket, and exhale as you pin garments on the line. Hanging laundry forces you to slow down. It’s mindless, which gives you time to focus on the world around you.

As I hang laundry in my little yard in Switzerland, I admire Mont Blanc, a white peak sticking up above a jagged, gray mountain line, behind a shimmering blue lake. Granted not everyone has a view of the Alps, but no matter where one lives, there is beauty to behold – yellow daffodils, emerald lawns, pink cherry blossoms.

I keep old-fashioned wooden clothes pins in a pin bag loving stitched by my mom. Although my son never used pins; he had his own technique. He would fling clothes from the washer directly on to the line. On windy days, I used to pick up my boys’ boxers from my neighbors’ yards on my walk home from school.

I’ve never owned clothes dryer. In Europe, they used to cost a small fortune. They are so tiny, a pair of socks, two t-shirts and three boxers would fill them. Washing machines, also compact, make laundry a daily chore, but it keeps me fit. I haul clothes up and down 24 stairs from the bedrooms to the basement. So my FitBit is always happy.

Every time I do laundry, I think how lucky I am now. When I first moved abroad, I washed clothes in the bathtub on my hands and knees. Then I hung tops, shorts, and socks on furniture to dry.

When first married and living in Paris, my sweat suits waltzed on the wrought iron railing from my balcony overlooking the town square. After our daughter was born baby clothes hung from a rack above the tub. Onesies fell on my head every time I took a bath.

I had been married 15 years before I owned a clothesline and a yard to put it in. Now I have one of those lines that spin and I love watching pants and shirts twirl in the wind. At the end of the day, while folding clothes I enjoy the comforting ritual, seeing the sun slink behind the mountains in a golden glow. While gazing at the view, I daydream unless a family member shows up to help, then we talk. Hanging clothes together helps us stay connected.

Better yet, keeping clothes clean gets me out of the house and away from the kitchen. Some fathers put up Christmas lights in July when they want to get away from the kids, I hung laundry to escape from the daily demands of motherhood.

If they still make clothes lines over in America, you should buy one. It’s a wise investment for your health. You’ll feel better in a couple of days, once you get back into that rhythm. Bend, stretch, breathe. Just what the doctor ordered.

Chiropractors Keep Me Dancing

With the trauma my back has endured, I should be in wheelchair or limping around with a walker, but chiropractors keep me dancing. Forty years ago, when my right leg went numb from my first herniated lumbar disk, a chiropractor saved me from surgery.

Today chiropractic care is recognized as an integral part of the American health system, but back then it was controversial. Doctors were often referred to as quacks.

Historic caged elevator

But after my first visit, I was sold. Chiropractic looks at the body holistically and emphasizes the patients’ role in recovery by promoting exercise, nutrition and healthy lifestyles.

I have been chiro chasing around the globe ever since. Though the treatments may be similar, the settings are not and each chiropractor’s office reflects the unique personality of the practitioner.

In Geneva, I ride a creaky, caged elevator to the 3^rd floor of an 18^th century building to see Dr. G., a film fanatic. Posters of famous movie scenes cover his walls and his waiting room has an authentic jukebox. While I wait, I boogie down to old hits like Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls,” C’est Chic’s “Le Freak,” and Rose Royce’s “Car Wash.”

My chiro in Eagle River, Dr. D works out of his state of the art stone edifice with cathedral ceilings and gold plated fixtures nestled at the edge of the woods. While enjoying complimentary coffee and cookies from his dad’s bakery you may see deer outside the windows of the waiting room. After an adjustment, chill out literally as you ice down sore spots in comfortable recliners or recharge injured

Chillin with dad at Dr. D’s

body parts with electronic muscle stimulation.

My latest great find, Dr. A, has a family practice in Minnetonka. I thought that meant that he treats families, which he does including babies for free, but it may also mean his family is part of the therapy. His baby and pets accompany him to the office.

His place is like an amusement park. While waiting, you can play pass the baby and pet the dog. No sitting around bored waiting on back breaking straight chairs. Before a treatment, enjoy a free massage on a roller bed or take wild ride on a whoopee seat.

Ever so cheerful, Dr. A sings while he works on you. After my last adjustment, I asked what I should do to help it hold, he said, “Go home. Relax. Put your feet up. Drink a G & T.”

I laughed so hard I rolled off the table.

Convivial. Holistic. Optimistic. Chiropractors are lifesavers.

They make everyone believe – You should be dancing!

[embedyt] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_JoZS6LgqYI[/embedyt]

FitBit – Tamagotchi for Adults

When our kids gave us a FitBit for Christmas, I had no clue what it was, but FitBit is like a Tamagotchi for adults. Remember those digital pets we babysat for our kids in the 90s? Well, FitbBit vibrates if you haven’t moved your butt in the past 30 minutes. A message flashes across the screen, “Wanna stroll?” And if you forget to feed FitBit with daily motion it will die. When I realized FitBit was another electronic gadget I was mortified because I am techno impaired. Alas, ze Frenchman to the rescue. Sure enough, he programmed that little wristband do everything except cook dinner.

Tamagotchi

For those not in the know, FitBit is a physical activity tracker designed to help you become more active,eat a more well-rounded diet, sleep better and live healthier. Or at the very the least, it can make you a more obsessive human being.

FitBit records time, measures motion, counts calories, steps, and stairs. It records pulse, tracks sleep, and differentiates between biking, hiking, skiing, climbing, strolling, and running.

FitBit data can be synced to an online account. You can track every breathing moment even while sleeping. Which may not be a good thing. Over morning coffee ze Frenchman checks my profile and scolds me, “Pot you did not sleep well. Only 4 hours and 18 minutes.”

“I know,” I grumbled. “Why do you think I wake up feeling like I’ve been run over by truck?”

For many FitBit is a great motivator. It collates data about your weekly fitness level and sends you virtual badges rewarding positive behavior.

London Underground Badge: You’ve walked 250 miles—as many as the world’s first underground railway.

My Frenchman, who is 62 going on 16, is really taken with it. Since retiring he never stops moving. He plays volleyball, lifts weights, skis, bikes, hikes and kayaks. With my bad feet, bad knees, and a bad back, I limp along a mile behind him.

“I am struggling to keep up with your dad,” I confessed to our daughter.

“Somebody needs to remind him he is retired.”

“Good luck with that,” I said. “Your dad used to time his sisters when they walked to school. Now if FitBit shows we are not moving fast enough, he yells at me to hurry up.”

“Mom, what have we done?” Nat lamented, “FitBit will be the death of you.”

Ah, but for an old athlete I can’t think of any better way to go… on the move breaking records.