Things We Should Do Better

My recent trip to Scotland was the best thing I have done all year.  After months of anxiety, I thought I had tried every kind of stress relief: exercise, healthy diet, yoga, meditation, self-help books.  Nothing was working.  I felt overwhelmed by the impossibilities of the future, and at some point every week I felt as if I was about to have a breakdown.

Then my mother came to visit, and we went to Scotland for a week.  I didn’t let myself take any work with me.  We went hiking every day, through landscapes that varied from moors, forests, and mountains to clifftop coastal paths and beaches.  We walked through rain and sunshine.  We stalked wild seals basking on the rocks and called to dolphins playing in the waves.  All I had to worry about each day was, first, deciding where we would hike, then doing the hike, and finally mustering my last reserves of energy to eat some delicious local fish for dinner.  Every night I slept well.  The only stress was driving on the wrong side of the road, but that was fairly easy to adjust to.

On the second morning of our holiday, I awoke feeling happy for the first time in months.  I finally felt like myself again.  I could see that all my burdens were imaginary and self-imposed, and no one else was judging me as harshly as I was constantly judging myself.

I discovered that when I confine my concerns to my daily activities, I can really enjoy each day.  It is only when my mind leaps ahead to next month and next year, and I start trying to control the future, that I get into trouble.  When I say to myself, “If I can get this project done by this date, I will be an OK person, but if I don’t get it done, I am worthless and my life will fall apart,” I am obviously setting myself up for misery.  I believe I have to say those things to myself to keep motivated, but for that week in Scotland I did not give myself a hard time, and I did not try to control the future – and lo and behold, the sky did not fall!  Maybe tomorrow really can take care of itself.

I think the key is to concentrate on the work of the day and jettison the general angst about anything that doesn’t have to do with this particular day or even this hour.  If I focus on the task at hand, I’ll be happy.  When we were hiking, I was putting one foot after another, mile after mile, and not worrying about next year or my career, just thinking about getting up the next hill, enjoying the view, finding our spot on the map, and enjoying all the ideas pouring into my head.  That was the wonderful thing: when I left my work behind, I was more inspired than I had been in months.  I spent our walks reveling in the creative visions that seemed to shine from the sky with the endless daylight.  Something about the rhythm of walking releases a flood of ideas in my mind.  I had so many useful thoughts without even trying, and I didn’t end up feeling that I had taken time away from my work; I had just approached it in a different, more stimulating way – like sneaking up on the seals across a seaweed-covered peninsula instead of going to see them in a zoo.

If I could hold onto that live-for-today mentality in my everyday life, I would be just as productive, and I would have none of the useless anxiety that is so exhausting.  Life would be heavenly.

Tags: dolphins, inspiration, Scotland

We are taught always to be grateful and thank our hosts. It’s hard to say which of my hosts has been the most remarkable. Was it the landlord who took away my furniture so I had to sleep on the floor? Or the family who disinvited me with a post-it note on the stairs? Was it the stepmother who told me I didn’t belong in my father’s house? Or the hostess who went swimming instead of turning up for her own dinner party? Or how about the many hosts who pour me wine or coffee when I ask for water?

I am grateful to all these providers of memorable hospitality. Like so many these days, they follow the philosophy of Kelly, a childhood friend, who insisted that when we were at her house we must play the games she wanted because she was the host, and when we were at my house we must also the play the games she wanted because she was the guest.

Clever girl. Wherever she is now, I’m sure she is still winning the hostessing game, turning water to wine and making her own rules.

Tags: hospitality, manners

Plastic may be wonderful for water bottles and new noses, but when we descended from a remote Scottish coastal path to a picturesque beach, only to find that the shore and hillsides were covered in plastic trash that had washed out of the ocean, the (plastic) recycling bin never looked so good.

My mother and I picked our way through the garbage and climbed back up to the cliffs, feeling that our pristine beach experience had been spoiled by inconsiderate people on the other side of the world. Apparently this bit of littering was not even the tip of the iceberg of trash in the ocean: there is in fact a Great Pacific Garbage Patch bigger than Texas. (http://www.independent.co.uk/environment/the-worlds-rubbish-dump-a-garbage-tip-that-stretches-from-hawaii-to-japan-778016.html).

As we rose above the trash and continued our cliff walk, I recalled a description I had read which described sections of the path as “perilous” and “treacherous” and “unsuitable for vertigo sufferers.” Although I am not a vertigo sufferer, I couldn’t rid my head of the image of us plunging to our deaths on the rocks below.

The path wasn’t terrible, although it would not have held up to the health and safety standards expected of, say, a sidewalk by a busy road. It was more or less firm, but that was no consolation to my enthusiastic imagination, which eagerly offered a number of unpleasant scenarios. I held my breath as we strode grimly onwards, waiting to be struck by light-headedness as the ground crumbled under my feet. Once or twice I made the mistake of looking down. It was an absolutely stunning view of sparkling water and mountains in the distance, but the chant of “perilous, treacherous” never left me. Taking frequent sips from my plastic water bottle did not relieve the dryness of my mouth. I was exhausted and overjoyed when at last we came to firm ground and walked the rest of the way along a road. Later I found out that my mother had been reading an Elizabeth George novel which describes the treacherous nature of coastal paths and the memorials to walkers who have fallen to their deaths, but she was kind enough not to mention this to me during the walk.

That evening we ate local fish which had, no doubt, consumed their fair share of plastic particles which will, no doubt, affect my hormonal balance and the sex organs of my unborn children. At least a fall from the treacherous cliffs has not ruled out the existence of those children altogether. Who would have thought a simple frolic in the countryside would be so fraught with peril?

Tags: rubbish, vertigo

I particularly love it when other people decide they are my long-lost kindergarten teacher. This happened yesterday when I was buying groceries at a small shop.

‘May I have a bag?’ I asked.

The checkout woman put on her most self-righteous tone as she waved the plastic bag in front of my face. ‘Will you promise to reuse it?’ She looked at me as if, in daring to ask for a bag, I had come dangerously close to the category of shoplifter.

‘I always reuse them,’ I said through gritted teeth.

When I left the shop, I was a wiser person. My environmental consciousness had definitely been raised. Not only will I never again ask that woman for a bag, but I will never again visit her shop.

People who take it upon themselves to enforce minor rules (don’t walk on the grass, don’t bring outside food into our establishment, don’t take photos) are missing their true vocation in the shaping of young minds. They should rightfully be in our elementary schools beating six-year-olds with birch rods.

I recall one especially lovable mentor by the name of Melanie, a receptionist at the university club. She came upon my boyfriend and me as we were reading newspapers on a couch in the lounge. Because dusk had fallen while we were sitting there, our eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and we had not thought of getting up to turn on a light. Melanie suspected the worst when she saw us sitting there in the dark.

‘Oh, don’t do that here!’ she snapped as she hurried past to make an unauthorized personal call in a dark corner.

Unbeknownst to Melanie, I was having a bad day. Not just a bad day, but a bad week within a bad month. Because of unfortunate living situations on both our parts, my boyfriend and I had nowhere else to meet that night. I could not invite him to my house, and he could not invite me to his house. Outside, a cold rainstorm made a romantic evening stroll impossible. We had already been feeling cast out of the human community even before Melanie saw fit to offer her motherly guidance.

I approached the woman as she huddled over her phone call. She was tall and thin, with a beaklike nose and a sour expression.

‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘What did you say?’

I proceeded to unleash my full fury on this unsuspecting defender of public morals. There are not many times in my life when I have bellowed, but that was one of them. Did she regret jumping to conclusions? We shall never know. In response to my challenge, she was unable to justify the nastiness of her remark, but she refused to apologize because she insisted that we had embarrassed her. She was contemptuous to the core.

Perhaps I should have pitied her: poor, bony Melanie. There could not be much love in her life. Maybe I should have offered her a hug.

As it was, we fled outside into the rain, where we stood for twenty minutes getting soaked to the skin while I ranted about how I was going to lie in wait for Melanie that night and kill her as she came out of the building. All the frustrating forces of the world were concentrated in her scrawny person. Nothing my boyfriend could say would make me move from the spot until I had repeated several hundred times, ‘I will kill her. I will slit her throat.’

I wish I was not the kind of person who was so bothered by these situations. I would like to resist the temptation to be drawn into such people’s sordid little worlds. My brother was good at letting things go and not getting upset. I remember in particular an incident in Yorkshire with a harpylike bed-and-breakfast owner who shrieked at us for using the wrong bathroom. I was about to give her a piece of my mind, but my brother was surprisingly gallant and even went so far as to apologize (!). It was a good thing he did, too, because she came running after us with his wallet and his passport, which he had left behind in the excitement.

In my haste to get away from Melanie, I left my sweater behind. I was nervous the next day when I went back to get it, expecting to find it cut into shreds, but they had saved it for me in the office, and it appeared undamaged. I took it cautiously, as if it were a plague sweater, imbued with all the rage and disappointment and ill feeling of the previous evening.

It just wasn’t worth it.

Tags: sisterhood, vengeance

We are in awe of a young Indian man of our acquaintance by the name of Kamlesh.  We admire the supreme self-confidence that permits him to wear blue velvet jackets, silk cravats, and curl-toed Indian slippers on a daily basis.  His prim, dandyish appearance suits him perfectly and does not seem affected in the slightest.  He has a job lined up at the top law firm in London, but in the meantime he amuses himself by dominating the student drama scene.  He tends to act the love interest in comedies.  He is not actually very funny as an actor because he takes himself so seriously and does not appear to have a sense of humor in real life, but we find him funny for other reasons.  Prior to his interest in the theatre, he attempted to dominate the student political scene; however, after winning the election while cultivating what can only be described as a Hitler mustache, he was disqualified for blatant electoral fraud and arrogance.  He does not take any trouble over other people.  He uses us when we are useful and ignores us when we are not, but his manners are so impeccable that we do not notice he has left us behind until he is but a speck in the distance, racing into his glorious future.  If only we could all be like Kamlesh!  We would not have to spend any more money on play tickets because the mirror would be such a brilliant spectacle.

Tags: Hitler, self-regard, slippers

For some reason the rural road builders of Britain have decided that it is not necessary to have a separate lane for cars going in either direction.  Instead they have concluded that a single lane will do for both directions, as long as there are slightly wider spots identified as Passing Places where two small cars just might be able to edge past each other if they hold their breath.  (SUVs need not apply.) 

The first time I saw one of these single-track roads, I thought it was a joke.  A road like this could hardly be called a sidewalk back in Texas.  But no, it was no joke, and I really did have to drive on it to get where I wanted to go.  As you might imagine, it is highly disturbing to meet an oncoming car in these circumstances, particularly while heading west at sunset with blinding orange light spreading off the dust on the windshield.  Prayer begins to seem as practical a component of driving as the brake and the steering wheel. 

Assuming the builders of these roads do not have suicidal or mass homicidal inclinations, we must speculate as to other possible motives for their infuriating design choice.  Perhaps they are devoted to a minimalist aesthetic.  Perhaps they are trying to save money, impelled by the same miserliness that makes British people put on an extra sweater instead of turning on the heating in their draughty homes.  Most likely they are indulging in that obstinate penitential deprivation so beloved of this nation. 

“Why should we be comfortable?  Why should we have nice wide roads when we can risk our lives and our children’s lives driving sixty miles an hour headlong into somebody else driving sixty miles an hour with the chance that we may happen to meet and swerve at a Passing Place?  It’s worth the risk of death just so we can feel that we are not being generous or extravagant in any way.” 

That would be dangerous.  If they had wide roads with two ample lanes and solid shoulders instead of hedges or ditches or stone walls on either side, they might start thinking they were Americans, and then what would become of the world?

Tags: hedges, the British

It is no easy matter to maintain our bipedal stance on a muddy hill so steep it might be mistaken for a wall. Hundreds of feet have worn away the grass, leaving a slick, treacherous surface. We slip and fall to our hands and knees, clinging to tree roots and other people’s legs as we try to scramble up and regain some dignity. Instead we pull the others down into a bigger heap of laughing, squirming raincoats.

We are pilgrims to a baffling spectacle. We have driven across the countryside, clogged the roads for miles around, trekked through the meadows and up the hills. Those fools among us who still believe in summer have turned up in sandals and shorts, only to capitulate to the downpour and purchase disposable raincoats at inflated prices. We have come to Cooper’s Hill.

Here we are gratified in our muddy, wet, unbalanced misery to behold fools greater than ourselves. Dozens of men, women and children line up to throw themselves down the hill. They are the racers. Their object, unaccountably, is a cheese. This is a cheese rolling.

“The cheese is rolled. The cheese is off!” announces the master of ceremonies. “Watch where it rolls.”

The cheese is of the Gloucester variety, large and disc-shaped. As it bounces down the hill, it appears to be coming apart at the seams. After it swarms a group of hearty men who become increasingly muddy as they tumble down the slope. They might be rugby players, for they look fit and determined. They are not rugby players, however; they are cheese chasers. Some of them have come from abroad to chase the cheese. They may break their legs or even their necks, yet they will risk these terrible injuries in the hope of a glorious moment when they will seize the cheese and hold it aloft in victory.

The racers tumble past us in just a few seconds. The downhill race alternates with a slow, plodding uphill race which few of the contestants are able to complete. We spectators use this break in the action to change our positions on the hill and slip down in the mud a few more times.

Before the next downhill race, a lone figure emerges. He appears to be wearing a cape, but it is hard to see him clearly because he goes so fast. We do see, however, that he gives himself to the hill with unbridled passion. What he does cannot be called running; it is nothing less than a dive. He plunges down the hill. His body bounces like a rag doll, turning and flipping haphazardly.

In the crowd we fall silent. We have never seen a human body abused this way unless on a movie screen, by professionals. But this is happening in real life, before our very eyes, to a tall, thin youth in a homemade cape. After he has flown past us, we are convinced he must be dead, broken, snapped in two. We cannot see the finish line where he has landed. The master of ceremonies makes no comment. The next race begins.

We are chastened by what we have witnessed. The man in the cape has gone far beyond the bounds of acceptable treatment of our bodies. We can laugh at the cheese racers because they are just stepping over the edge, but the tumbling man has made us witness to an extreme we do not wish to know.

We step carefully down the hill and trudge through the meadows. We are cold, damp, sober, and very glad to reach the steadiness of the road.

Tags: cheese, mud, superheroes

Confident in my charismatic leadership, I set off last weekend in search of the largest box woods in Britain. I was inspired by a book called Hidden Trees of Britain: A Regional Guide to the Country’s Secret Treescapes by Archie Miles. It did not occur to me before we started that Archie Miles might with good reason have described these trees as “hidden”.

Looking back at the description given by Mr. Miles, I must admit he does give some indication that these box trees may not be easy to find: “viewed from below, the hills don’t immediately give away their secrets”. Before we set off, I did not pay much attention to this discouraging remark. My attention was drawn by such promising descriptions as: “the vast majority of trees densely pack the steep valley sides”. Phrases such as “vast majority” and “densely pack”, along with the impressive designation, “Britain’s biggest box woods”, led me to assume that box trees would be found in some numbers.

We drove to Happy Valley in the Chiltern Hills. I felt that Happy Valley was not an auspicious name for a place of adventure. If we had been in a story, the gods of narrative irony would have made sure we met an unhappy fate there.

My plan was to park on Coombe Hill, look at the view, and then walk over to Pulpit Wood, where we would come upon Britain’s biggest (yet still hidden) box wood. I had never seen a box tree, but we used to have a box hedge in our back yard that my rabbit liked to hide beneath, and I always wished I could shrink into a tiny person and climb among the gnarled stems. Here was my chance!

We parked the car and wandered through some beautiful woods until we came upon the spectacular view over the Vale of Aylesbury. My boyfriend announced that it was his intention to enjoy a walk in the woods and not to have any fixed purpose or destination. I was not sure what to make of this declaration in light of the fact that it was my stated aim to find the largest box wood in Britain, so I decided to ignore it.

We then set off in search of Pulpit Wood. I had a detailed map, but there were so many footpaths criss-crossing each other that it was not always easy to figure out which one we were on. My boyfriend wanted to use his phone’s internet capabilities to pinpoint our location and give us directions. With difficulty I persuaded him to abandon this intrusive technology and do it the old fashioned way. I suggested that his phone was unlikely to give us the sort of detail we needed: “You are on the footpath that is slightly south of the footpath you want to be on, so you should go uphill about thirty feet to the other path and carry on along that one until you come to the next fork, where there may or may not be a sign, and then go right.”

Our footpath took us down a steep hill (what goes down must come up, I thought gloomily) and across a quiet meadow. As it happened, this meadow lay on the grounds of Chequers, the country residence of the prime minister. We were greeted with an odd sight: a collection of heavy-duty security cameras at the gate to the meadow. There was a low fence along the side of the footpath with stern warnings against trespassing. Soon we found ourselves on the inside of the driveway that led up to Chequers. Crossing the drive, we saw that the heavy iron gates to the outside road were closed and fortified with stout bollards. These seemed beside the point, given that anyone could walk right through the grounds on the public footpath.

As we walked past the house, I found myself ranting about the Clintons and all other political figures. My boyfriend envisioned a situation in which Gordon Brown became my mother’s boyfriend and moved into our house and offered to cook me bacon in the morning, to my audible dismay. I began to wonder whether the microphones hidden in the fenceposts would consider our conversation treasonous.

After a couple of miles we came to the place I thought should be Pulpit Wood. The problem with identifying it for certain was that there were a great many wooded enclosures, and it was hard to tell exactly which one was Pulpit Wood. We went into the one I guessed was right. It took me a while to be sure. For one thing, there were no box trees in evidence.

Finally I found a sign indicating that the hill fort was 50 meters away. I knew from the map that Pulpit Wood was the site of a Bronze Age hill fort. At last I had my confirmation that we were indeed in the right wood.

I took this as cause for rejoicing, but my boyfriend chose that moment for rebellion.

“So where are the box trees, then?” he asked sulkily.

“We have to look for them,” I said. “I feel they are very near.”

“I don’t want to walk around for hours for no reason,” he said.

“It’s not for no reason. We are searching for Britain’s biggest box wood!”

“I just came out for a walk in the woods,” he protested, as if I had misled him.

“We are walking in the woods. How is this not what you wanted?”

“But there’s no point. There are no box trees.”

“It’s like a treasure hunt. We have to discover them,” I said.

“But there is nothing at the end!”

“I have the strawberries in my bag,” I said, “and I will give them to you when we find the box trees.”

Strawberries were not enough of a reward to lift his spirits. I led him on, and he followed miserably. We passed a young couple who looked miserable and stared at the ground. They were not dressed for a hike and did not say hello. The girl had pale pink hair and glasses. I decided they were Polish and they did not know how to prepare for a walk in the English countryside, with waterproofs and umbrellas.

My boyfriend ran off the path into a grove of trees. “Here they are! Here are the box trees!”

“Those are pine tree,” I said.

“How do you know? You’ve never seen a box tree.”

“I have seen a pine tree, though.”

By then I began to worry that we were seriously lost. I had been taking random paths without remembering where we had come from. I had absolutely no idea where we would emerge from Pulpit Wood. In truth, I did not much care, so long as we found the box woods, but I knew that my boyfriend would care. Besides, he had a cold.

“I have almost run out of tissues,” he said pleadingly.

“Aha!” I pulled a new pack out of my pocket.

“My back pockets are filled with them,” he said. “I have no room for new ones. It is like a cushion of snot when I sit down.”

I gave him a plastic bag and begged him never again to mention his cushion of snot.

By now I realized there were serious problems with planning a woodland adventure using a coffee table book. I admitted defeat and left the wood as soon as we came to a gate. As luck would have it, we emerged in exactly the right point. Soon we were crossing Chequers again and engaging in mildly treasonous conversation for the benefit of the hidden microphones. We passed the unfriendly Polish couple. Then they turned around and walked the other way. Either they were lost, or they were Eastern European spies who had received inadequate training.

“I think they are British teenagers,” said my boyfriend.

“No way,” I said. “Definitely Polish. Definitely spies. What other reason could there be for the pink wig?”

The ascent of the final hill is best skipped over, as it did not do wonders for our relationship (steep hills and conversations about in-laws do not mix). When we reached the parking lot, two police cars turned out of a gate, followed by a jeep with two agents in bulletproof vests who got out and shut the gate. Perhaps the hidden microphones in the meadow had encouraged the prime minister to run off for his first date with my mother.

If only my charisma had been in working order that day, I am sure I would have led us to the discovery of at least one box tree. I have cause to wonder, however, whether the “secret treescapes” mentioned in the Hidden Trees book actually exist, or whether they are a poetic elaboration of Mr. Miles’s, invented for the purposes of decorating the sitting rooms of sedentary Britons. It seems he did not expect an intrepid American to take up the challenge of verifying his secrets.

Next in my sights, also described in Hidden Trees, are the Vale of Aylesbury black poplars: “the greatest gathering of one of our rarest native broadleaf trees”. Should I put the emphasis on the greatness of the gathering or the rarity of the trees? Is Mr. Miles up to his old tricks? We shall see.

Being Southerners, it is our nature to smile and say hi to everybody on the street. This does not go over well in other parts of the world.

After many years in exile, we finally learn to appear miserable and guarded in public. When strangers address us, we pretend not to hear. Hailed by acquaintances, we scuttle away to dark corners. Eye contact is a deadly peril. Forced into unwanted greetings, we cling to the trivial. We have a terrible fear of personal questions. How dare they! Americans and Italians are the worst offenders. They might as well ask for a piece of our soul. The British mind their own business. We stick with the British. As we hurry home we stare straight ahead, wishing people would adopt the fashion of wearing blinkers like horses.

Alone in our dwelling, we are desolate and safe. We cannot quite remember what it was like in the days when we used to greet people on the street. Strangers seemed benevolent then, and the world was full of sunshine, but now we know that the enemy is everywhere.

Tags: misery

My housemate Tjen Ket (actually I have no idea how to spell his name) has undergone a transformation in recent days from glumness to chattiness. I am sorry to admit I preferred the morose state. When he gets excited, his Singaporean English hardens into a series of clattering syllables. Although I find him unintelligible, I must still listen and nod politely. We did have one amusing conversation in March about his love of French toast, which led to such weight gain during his undergraduate years that his mother asked him if he had become pregnant. That was probably the high point of our relationship in the four months we have known each other.

I saw him at a party not long ago. He was alone at the edge of the dance floor, pacing back and forth in a hopefully animated way. Whenever he leaves the door to his room open, there is always the same cheesy eighties love song playing. I suspect he is unhappy in love, but I have no intention of asking because I won’t be able to understand the answer. My boyfriend suggested that I be a good person and befriend him, but I do not wish to be a good person in this instance. Something about him makes me want to run away. (This has nothing to do with the fact that he took my yogurt and hid it at the back of his refrigerator shelf. I did not take it back because I decided it was contaminated.)

A few days ago I concluded that our relationship had deteriorated to the point of no return. Abandoning our regular two-line conversation of “How was your day?”/ “Fine, thanks,” Tjen Ket had ceased to speak to me in the kitchen. In fact, he ran out of the kitchen anytime I came near it. I was pretty sure this was my fault. I felt bad that I had failed in yet another relationship through total lack of communication.

But on Monday he suddenly switched from dejection to exuberance. He entertained me with an incomprehensible monologue about his search for a house to live in next year. He even knocked on my door to ask a question about traffic noise. This sort of intimacy must be discouraged at all costs.

Last night in the kitchen he began to ask me questions about myself (!), but fortunately I was saved by a fit of coughing which made it impossible for me to answer and forced me to flee to my room in search of cough medicine.

Considering that I had done nothing differently between Sunday and Monday, it seems likely his mood swings have nothing to do with me, just as my mood swings have nothing to do with him. I should have heeded the advice of my favorite self-help book, The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz, which counsels us not to take anything personally because everybody is living in his own dream.

What if one day, through some retributive karmic magic, I wake up and find myself living in Tjen Ket’s dream? I may find it necessary to flood the kitchen on a Saturday morning by defrosting the freezer overnight without laying down any towels, and I will not be able to comprehend my own explanations as to why this was a necessary and desirable course of action.

Thank goodness we are not sharing a bathroom.

Tags: cultural differences, secrets, unrequited love