Money (Retrospective)

Money

Then there was the matter of money and prices.

The exchange rate was basically two to one, pounds to dollars. And I was a graduate student, making my way on grants that would have barely been enough to scratch by had I been in the US. They were about half as much as I needed to scratch by in London.

I distinctly remember my first evening there. I had gotten in in the afternoon, taken a nap, drugged myself up with coffee, and wandered around to find somewhere to have a reasonable meal for dinner. The flat where I was staying was right on the river, not far from the Tate Modern and the Globe Theater. For some reason I mistakenly concluded then that the restaurants near these institutions would be catering to tourists and therefore more expensive than usual. Little did I know that they were in actuality standard prices for London. I wandered around side-streets past these bigger attractions to try to find someplace smaller and more reasonably priced to eat.

I ended up at a gastro-pub not far from London Bridge. I ordered chicken and a glass of wine, no appetizer, no dessert. No bread on the side. It was around 14 pounds total. While I was waiting for the food to come, I felt both a bit self-conscious about sitting and eating alone—and nervous and overwhelmed at how foreign this city felt and how downright intimidating the prices were.

Twenty eight dollars for dinner for one— not an upscale dinner, a pub dinner. A tube pass for zones one and two for a month: close to two hundred dollars. Rent: A thousand dollars a month for a tiny little room in someone else’s flat. Add council tax, and utilities and it would be a few hundred dollars more. Mobile phone: given that I needed to use it for work and interviews, at least a hundred dollars a month, probably more. My budget: less than two thousand dollars a month. Which meant I had only a few hundreds dollars left for food and entertainment. Was I going to be able to afford to eat?

I spent the entire evening trying to work out a budget for myself, using a pencil and scratch paper to work out sample spending plans. What if I spent fifteen pounds a day or so, on average, on food and entertainment? Could I keep to that?

I started out with the strictest of budgets, staying at home as much as possible, cooking for myself, eating in, only going to shows or events that weren’t free very infrequently. But it didn’t take me long to realize that this altogether defeated the purpose of being in London. I was only here temporarily- and moreover, as an anthropologist, I was here to experience as much as possible of it… to really get to know the culture and to write about it. I found that it was really rather miserable to stay home all the time, in a city I didn’t know, in a place where I had few friends and little social contact on days that I didn’t go into an office to volunteer.

I began easing up—figuring that there was a reason for credit cards and savings. I’ve spent my entire life as a relative spendthrift, so I could probably afford to supplement myself a little bit here to make the year enjoyable. That was the first step down a very very slippery slope.

The second step, which pushed me into a mini landslide, was the fact that I actually needed to travel for my research. I had interviews to do and fieldwork to conduct, all over the country, not just in London. Amongst the list: two visits to Newcastle and environs, visits to Kent and Gloucestershire, and too many visits to Birmingham to count. Thanks to privatization, train prices were often more expensive than flying across to continental Europe. But what choice did I have? I didn’t have the money for it, but I needed to do it.

I don’t remember exactly when I stopped mentally translating prices into dollars. It probably happened about four months after I’d moved there. It was a self-preservation technique—it was too depressing to keep calculating what this was all costing me in real terms. There were still things I didn’t do- I never went shopping for clothing, for example, and I very rarely went to remotely upscale restaurants (although I was so amazed by the range of great food- Turkish, Lebanese, Italian- that I did try some of these places.) And I had to stop myself, over and over, from the urge to treat people to lunch or dinner when I went out. As much as I wanted to, as much as it would give me great joy, I couldn’t afford to be as generous as I would like.

And this, to be honest, is what most Londoners have to do, not just someone like myself, living on dollars. The cost of living, relative to salaries, is far higher in the UK than the US. To this day, it remains a bit of a mystery to me how ordinary people (who don’t work in finance and earn six figure salaries) can have any kind of a life. I remember seeing an advertisement on a bus boasting that bus drivers could make 500 pounds a week plus overtime. Twenty four thousand pounds a year. Subtract hefty taxes, high rent, and high food costs and there’s not much left to raise a family or do anything fun. This was worth boasting about in an advertisement? I asked people over and over how people managed to make ends meet here—and the answer was always the same. They squeeze by. They don’t go out much.

But at the end, I had gotten so used to life in London that I’d all but forgotten to be offput by the ridiculous prices. One of my last evenings there, I went out to dinner with a friend, and it was my turn to treat. We went to Belgo, a Belgian restaurant, not known for being expensive—and had a huge plate of oysters, appetizers, bread, and beer. The bill came to 45 pounds.

“45 pounds, how reasonable!” I thought.

And then I pinched myself. One year ago, I would never ever have considered ninety dollars for dinner “reasonable” or affordable.

I had obviously gotten way too used to London… now to the detriment of my bank account. It was time to leave.

Food (Retrospective)

Food

Okay, let’s talk food. The UK has a poor reputation when it comes to food. Does it deserve it?

My Time Out guide to restaurants and pubs for London was not incorrect in noting how much things have changed in recent decades. As globalization increases its heady speed and as dining out becomes more and more in fashion, the English palate has changed dramatically, nowhere more so than London.

So you do get a dizzying array of just fantastic, amazing, diverse restaurants in London – of the highest quality. Hungarian to die for. Indian cuisine that rivals the best restaurants in India. Not to mention, Italian food that actually really is served liked it is served in Italy—not the overly cheesy and fried American-Italian food we mostly get in the States.

But all of this is if you can afford to eat out in a sit-down restaurant, and the prices are really not cheap at all. What if you just want to grab a quick lunch? Or an affordable quick dinner? This was what really mattered to me, since I definitely could not afford to do the former very often.

Here old habits were more durable. At Zara, the corner café on the block near my house, the array of lunch selections were plied with mayonnaise: prawn salad sandwich, loaded with mayonnaise, tuna and corn loaded with mayonnaise, chicken and bacon loaded with… you know what. (It was also popular to have English breakfast for lunch- sausages, beans, eggs, and bacon… or simply bangers and mash.) Same thing at the Juggler, the slightly more upscale café across from my office. Big sandwiches with tons of bread, a little protein, and a lot of butter or mayo.

If you just wanted a salad- that is an American style salad, one with lots of vegetables primarily, and not loaded down with mayonnaise, you were pretty much out of luck. And forget about finding a salad bar, either. That concept had obviously sunk somewhere in transit across the Atlantic ocean. Generally, I could get a couscous salad or a rice salad, or even a potato salad. But a big green leafy salad with tons of veggies and maybe a little protein, but not a lot of starch – forget it. Out of all the food dishes one inevitably misses when one is far away from home, a big leafy salad was what I missed most.

Still, English food in general has a lot to commend itself. For one, it might just be my imagination, but I think the produce in general tasted better, even supermarket produce. It just tasted a bit less genetically engineered. Same thing with the dairy products and cheeses: closer to Europe and hence closer to the original styles of production. And the array of prepared food in the supermarkets- to die for. Great great prepared meals of a much healthier variety than in the states—vegetarian moussaka, salmon with veggies to steam... Lots of great, reasonably priced fish.

England is also way ahead of America when it comes to labeling and socially conscious food. All of the produce is labeled to indicate whether it is conventional or organic, and more significantly, where it was grown, so that you have a better sense of its carbon footprint. And the selection of fair-trade products was far bigger than in the US. For example, most supermarkets had all of their bananas as fair-trade bananas, which I thought was significant.

All in all, a fairly big thumbs up on the food—if only they could lower the prices just a tad….

Finding My Way Around Town (Retrospective)

Now back in sunny California, and spending several hours a day writing down details and impressions of England. Here's the first, taking off from where the very first post left off:

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Finding My Way Around Town

My first evening in London, I was jet-lagged and miserable. I had gotten in the late morning to a temporary accommodation in the form of a small room in a very lovely (but compact) flat near Blackfriars. She lived right on the river Thames, in a flat stuffed with antique furniture and knick-knacks from all over the world. There were African statues alongside old tea pots that had been so well used they were permanently stained dark brown inside.

I remember the keys: old style keys- with a long straight body and knobby handle and small chubby part at the end to unlock the door. These were the kind of keys that had probably been around for many decades—if not approaching a century or more. The porter at the apartment block gave me the keys to the apartment (since Trisha, who owned the apartment, was off on vacation). It took me about fifteen minutes to figure out how to open her door—which way to turn the keys and which way to push.
…Not to mention that it also took me about twenty minutes to figure out how to find her apartment. It ought to have been simple enough #27 River Court: River Court was the apartment complex, 27 the flat. Second floor, right? Wrong. I went up the elevator to the second floor only to find that those were flats 10-14 or something like that. So I got off on every floor until I found hers on the fifth floor, if I remember correctly.

This was but a foreshadowing for how difficult it was going to be for me to find my way around town. An American, I was used to a very sanitized system of numbering for addresses: even numbered houses on one side, odds on the other side of the street—such that the numbers went up and down at the same rate on either side of the street. Not so in London. You could have houses #50, #54 and #60 across from #5 #7 and #9—so if you were looking for #20 you wouldn’t know whether to walk up or down the street. (Theoretically, it should be on the same side as the even numbers, but then it could be that the pattern changed at the end of the block…. Not to mention that the street names themselves changed about every other block.)

I remember at some point telling a few friends, facetiously, that I thought the confusion of London streets was intentional and somehow in keeping with the legacy of a class-based society: the city was designed so that you had to be an insider to find your way. It didn’t help at all that I was basically born without the part of my brain that would have governed navigation. As my parents often teased, I could get lost walking around my own home block.

My initial method for finding my way when I had appointments was to find my destination on google maps before I left home--—and then I’d write down the directions on a sheet of paper I’d take with me. For example: tube to Bond Street, right on Oxford Street, a right two blocks down, etc. But that method inevitably got me horribly lost, and most of the time, asking people on the street to help would just exacerbate the situation. My first day at work—volunteering at the Jubilee Debt Campaign to get started with my research—I was trying to find my way to their office building in Charles Square near Old Street. Trisha had pointed out the route to me that morning on a map. But five minutes out of the tube, I was completely disoriented. I asked person after person if they knew where Charles Square was, but not a single person did: not shop owners, not businessmen, no one. At one point, I was standing right at the corner of Charles Square asking passersby, and they all shrugged their shoulders. They weren’t being impolite. There were just a lot of small streets around and if you didn’t happen to work or live on Charles Square, you wouldn’t know where it was.

After enough pitiful apologies to friends and colleagues for being ridiculously late (even though I got lost literally only a few blocks away from what I was trying to find), I realized I needed a better solution.

Then, I was finally able to get a cell phone contract (which first required a bank account, which in turn required all kinds of documentation about employment that was basically impossible for me to provide, given that I was a graduate student in the United States… but that is another story altogether.) So my second attempted method to find my way around town was to get a mobile phone with a GPS system on it, so that it could literally tell me how to find my way. That would have been a brilliant solution if it the GPS system actually worked. In most cases, it took ten to fifteen minutes to find my current location via the satellites- if it ever did at all. I was so frustrated that I stopped trying to use it. In retrospect, since I was usually far more than fifteen minutes late, I probably should have at least turned it on.

Finally, my options exhausted, I broke down and bought a mini “A to Z” book (called an “A to Zed”) which if memory serves I bought in the kiosk at the Green Park tube stop one day when I knew I was about to be very lost heading to a very important interview. The book was filled with small maps of every neighborhood in central London, and was literally a life-saver. Or at least a career-saver. And friend-saver.

And from thence on, I never got lost.

Okay, okay. I still got lost. I just didn’t get super ridiculously laughably lost.

goodbye grandpa.

you were a miracle of a human being.

The Chap Olympics

Stumbled upon yesterday while on a walk with my friend Annette in Hampstead Heath: A huge group of people dressed in 1920s costume, men and women, assembled in a huge meadow, playing some kind of series of games.

We asked one of them who walked our way what on earth was going on.

"Oh, it's the Chap Olympics," he said.

"What is that?" asked Annette.

"Well, basically a celebration of all things gentlemanly." he explained. "And we have contests. Right now it's a cucumber-sandwich-tossing contest."

God bless London for having some of the most diverse cultural communities on earth-- but this seemed to take the cake. We watched for a while, bemused, as people streamed in. They were all around our age. Young women wearing fancy 20s style dresses, men with suspenders and 20s style hats...

As we walked away Annette commented how it used to be the case that telling someone he isn't a gentleman was considered a huge insult-- a way of claiming rank in a classist system.

"So the chap olympics," she continued "are a sort of celebration of classism. Fascinating, really, this country we live in."

Personally, I thought it was pretty damn amusing.

Traveling While American

On a recent trip to Turkey, I took a few days with my friend Denise to see Cappadocia, a fairytale like landscape of strangely shaped mountains with houses and churches built into caves in the mountain walls.

In the evenings, we'd hang out with Halis, the manager of our small hotel and a really nice guy who has worked as a tour guide for many years. One evening, we stumbled on the topic of America and whether Americans need to be careful about disclosing their identity when traveling abroad. Denise and I were pretty open about saying that we were from California- a place we love and are proud of. But we could understand why some people prefer (in some instances) to pretend they are Canadian.

Halis completely derided that practice, saying that it's offensive to assume that the people you talk with abroad aren't open-minded enough to judge you on your own merits. I could see his point. The vast majority of people anywhere are pretty reasonable.

But later that week, on the subway in Istanbul, I faced the same dilemma. A guy sitting across from me asked me where I was from. (Denise, meanwhile, on the other side of the aisle, was thoroughly entertained by a cute young man who was telling her about his Turkish music career.)

"California," I told him.

"Oh, you're American," he said. "I'm Iraqi."

I wasn't sure how to respond. It was one of the only times since the invasion that I'd met an ordinary Iraqi who actually lives in Iraq, not the diaspora.

"Where are you from?" I asked. I found out he was from Mosul and that he was in Turkey on business. Except- he didn't seem to be dressed for business. His clothes were rather plain and I kept looking at his eyeglasses, which had a crack in the corner and were missing one of the side handles that would have kept them attached to his ear.

What do you say to an ordinary Iraqi you meet in the subway? Like it or not, when you travel abroad, meet a stranger, and tell them you are American, you automatically become a representative of America as a whole.

"I'm sorry," I said, "for the state of turmoil your country is in. I apologize for that. I really hope things will get better."

"Thank you," he replied. He had a kind look on his face.

Three days later, as I was preparing to go the airport to return to London, the US consulate was attacked. Gunfire. Several dead. Lots of confusion and turmoil. Lots of worrying about people we knew at the consulate. And it wasn't the first time for me. I lived in Kenya and worked for USAID about a year before that embassy was attacked.

I texted Halis from the airport. I asked him if the event had made him change his thinking at all about whether Americans should be careful about disclosing their identities.

"No, I still think the same," he texted back.

I'm not sure I do. I'm really not sure what I think on this particular topic anymore.

The English "Bye"

Back from NY where grandpa is thankfully doing better (thanks to so many of you for your lovely good wishes) and where I experienced reverse culture shock the first few days. ...Only to experience reverse-reverse culture shock back in London.

Amongst the first thing I (re)noticed, chatting with my friend Paul on the phone yesterday, was the peculiar use of the word "bye" by so many English people. It's not that they use the word incorrectly. It's that they somehow, no matter how husky the voice, now matter macho the persona, can only utter the word with their voices floating up about three octaves above their normal range. It's something I've never quite gotten over.

There is also usually a little bit of sing-songiness involved. It's not just "bye" (sung at a high-high-C note). It's "bye-eee." A two syllable word, with the second syllable sung one or two notes lower than the first.

For example, Paul ending the conversation on the phone yesterday where we made plans to meet for dinner:

"Okay (normal deep male voice), so I'll get on the road now and call you when I'm in the neighborhood. Talk to you soon. (Immediate switch to high, falsetto voice about three octaves higher.) Bye-eee!!" He then hangs up.

Or today on the bus, a girl ranting angrily to her friend on her mobile:

"Yeah, it's rubbish. (angry, forceful, deep tone, coming from the chest) Absolute fucking bullocks. They're imbeciles. ...Oh crap that's my stop, gotta go. (Immediate switch to falsetto sing-song, even though she's still mad as hell) Bye-eeeee!!"

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I suppose we all have our cultural blind spots-- words or phrases we somehow distort without really knowing we're doing it. In New York, I heard people over and over in coffee shops and lunch places saying to the service people, "Thank you *so* much!" Basically the service people were just doing their job, not going above and beyond. And it's not that the customers looked tremendously grateful either. A simple "thank you" would have done just fine.

But, someone, please explain-- what's the deal with the English singing their goodbyes in falsetto?

Backhanded Blessings

I was supposed to be in Lisbon this past weekend, a place I've wanted to see for a very long time. But instead, I hopped on a flight to NYC to be with my 97 year old grandfather in the hospital as he faces very serious illness.

And that's where I currently am, sitting across from him at his bedside in Mt Sinai hospital. He is laying asleep and completely sedated (and has been for days, in fact) hooked up to a respirator, and with various tubes coming out of his arms and nose and other places on his body. There is a curtain with hearts printed on it partitioning the room, and on the other side of it is an African American family huddled around their mother, who keeps making very uncomfortable muted squealing noises.

For those of you know my relationship with my grandpa, you will know that he is a pillar of inspiration to me: a man who has survived pogroms, the murder of his brother, immigration, an economic depression, lung cancer, the loss of his wife, and all of life’s inevitable ups and downs… not just with grace, but with humor and optimism and generosity and morality.

But grief, or the anticipation of grief, is a very strange thing. I sometimes think that when we lose someone, or a loved one is in mortal danger, our feelings are as much about the pain of our own loss as about the person we are worried about losing.

I was devastated that by the time I arrived at Mt Sinai, my grandfather had been put under and not conscious enough to know I was here. I desperately wanted to be able to tell him how much I love him—and have him be awake enough to process it. And so for the last few days I’ve felt super frustrated as I’ve sat at his bedside…watching him twitch every now again, watching the monitor of his heartbeats and blood pressure, but never being able to talk to him and send him love. Do I want this for my own sake or for his? Both?

And as I’ve spent the last few days feeling rather helpless and frustrated, I’ve passed time with my cousins and uncles and other family members who also flew here to be with my grandfather. There were fourteen of us, at various times in the day, popping in and out of the hospital bedside, huddling in the waiting room, taking turns going for meals.

I listened to my brother telling corny jokes I couldn’t stop laughing at, because for some reason (much to the chagrin of my sister-in-law, who tells me I’m encouraging him) I have a knee jerk reaction to him, and laugh hysterically at every silly joke he tells. It’s almost involuntary—years and years of conditioning (and dare I say, ever-growing affection).

I watched my parents extend their generosity, paying for hotel rooms and dinners for the whole party without batting an eye.

Last night at dinner, my cousin Jon grabbed the bill and refused to let anyone else pay, even though it was just four of us, all cousins, and we all were expecting to split the bill.

I’ve been sharing a hotel room with my cousin Sandy, who has been willing to listen to anything and everything I’ve wanted to talk about—and even put up with my own bizarre sense of humor and attempts to sabotage her sanity by singing cheesy songs from the 80s that she wouldn't be able to get out of her head all day...

The perverse psychology of grief means that the threat of losing something makes you acutely appreciate what you otherwise might take for granted. But I didn’t need my grandfather to be gravely ill to deeply appreciate who he is. I already did.

But being here these past few days has made me appreciate even more the blessing of what my grandfather has created and the legacy that will continue for years to come.

I have an amazing family. A truly generous, decent, lovely, humorous, unbelievably supportive family. Created by an amazing grandfather (and late grandmother). Whose example continues to pave the way for all of us.

Overheard on: the Picadilly Line Eastbound, 8pm

The Setting: Picadilly Line, Eastbound, 8pm Saturday- between Hammersmith and Green Park

The Characters:
Two Kiwi blokes wearing leis, with big cans of beer with umbrellas and plastic flowers on them. The train stops at Hammersmith, and three English kids get on, mid to late twenties, two girls and a boy. They're super hip, dressed to go out. The boy is also drinking a can of beer.

Sitting next to them on the same train carriage train are: an Eastern European girl wearing far too much make-up, but putting on more and more layers of it, a Chinese woman with two huge bags coming from Heathrow, looking like a jetlagged zombie, an African man in his twenties. None of them appear to pay any attention to the conversation.

The Scene:
One of the Kiwis, a redhead (clearly fairly drunk), calls over the English bloke.

Kiwi Guy 1 (shouting): Cheers, mate! (They clink beer cans.)

English Guy: Where you all from?

Kiwi Guy: We're Kiwis.

English Guy: Live here, or...?

Kiwi Guy: Well of course, we just came all the way here for the last ever drink on the District and Circle line! (He explains, but its mumbled that they was a huge party on the District Line but now they had to switch lines for a reason I didn't hear.)

English Guy: Cheers. Yeah, hell. Yeah. Yeah it should be a party!

Kiwi Guy: Where are you guys from?

English Guy: (Some of this is lost, and picked up at the end...) And she from university and the third one is from Brighton.

Kiwi Guy 2: (Signaling with his hand to the girl as if mimicking a gang symbol) Brigh...TOOONNN!!! Yeah!!

(Girl mimicks the gang signal back and laughs).

Girl: In the hooooouse! (Pause, giggling.) Alright, alright, I'll join you guys. Let me have a beer, alright?

(Guys all laugh and cheer loudly).

Kiwi bloke 2: Ch-ching!!! Cheers!!

Everyone: Cheers!!

Kiwi bloke 1: To the last drink we'll have on the Picadilly Line!

Everyone: Woo-hooo!! (Clinking beer cans.)

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Ed note:
See here for one article covering the party thrown by Londoners on Saturday night during the last few hours before drinking on the tube was made illegal.

Voices of Courage

For those of you who helped out with the Imagining Ourselves project (and that's a lot of you), you'll be pleased to know it won another award...the Voices of Courage award.

You'll note from the link that it appears to be an award for an individual. But what I said in my acceptance speech (which I actually had team members read as I was unable to fly to SF for the ceremony) is that I was accepting the award on behalf of the literally thousands of people in more than 100 countries whose acts of generosity made the project's success possible. It's extremely humbling when we step back and think about how profoundly dependent we all are on one another, and how the little things we do (that we don't even take seriously ourselves, usually) add up to huge impact. If you even spent a second forwarding the website to friends, that's the kind of thing I'm talking about. You helped. We depended on that kind of thing.

Thank you.

Dunkin Donuts pulls Keffiyah ads

Loyal blog readers (of which there are clearly millions for my blog) will remember a key previous post on keffiyahs and the seeming oddness of them popping up as a purely commercial fashion symbol across Europe.

So particularly bizarre today to see (thanks, Lee) that Duncan Donuts has pulled an ad showing Rachael Ray in a keffiyah because conservative commentators said it was "too Arab."

There are too many bizarre things to point out here. So I'll let you discern them all for yourselves.

body language and home

Okay, so the real reason I haven't written in a few months is that... I admit it... I've fallen for London.

Is it home? I don't know. (Probably not, although you never know.) Do I love it here? Yes. I love the long spring days, the feeling of being at the world's doorstep, the unbelievable plethora of amazing art to see and watch and hear, the level of debate and concern about what's going on in the world, the stained-glassed windows on the buildings on my street, the open-air markets in Hackney, the wonderfully creative programs on the radio right now, nearly midnight on a Monday...

And when you feel at home and comfortable, you tend to notice things just a little bit less, and feel less of a need to comment on (or criticize) your surroundings.

I realized this when, the other day at the office, a new American volunteer walked in and introduced herself. She entered the room chest held slightly high, a big beaming smile, a sort of here-i-am body language, and gave everyone a big wave.

And my own body, involuntary, recoiled. Not in horror or shock, but a kind of confusion. It was a moment of cognitive dissonance. I've adjusted, physically, to being here-- or so this moment taught me. More loud, typically American, body language was momentarily unfamiliar to me. And in a split second, I realized it shouldn't be unfamiliar, and placed it. But there was this moment where I couldn't tell whether the culture she was coming from was my culture-- and then somehow the memory kicked in that it indeed was.

Amazing how adaptable human beings are.

(And amazing how much of a simultaneous blessing and burden it is to keep moving from place to place and culture to culture... and keep readjusting. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this routine up.)

FT piece on petitions

From two weekends ago-- click here.

Huffington Post: Delivering Hope

A piece I wrote on an amazing trailblazer, Simone Honikman, working on post-partum depression in South Africa.

It's here.

Overestimating Difference

The other day at dinner, a friend of mine was describing her brother to me, who tended to be very conservative politically. "He'd hate you," she said to me, "He hates me, and I'm liberal, but I'm not nearly as liberal as you are, so he'd hate you more." To which I flinched. "Are you sure," I asked her, "that you actually know my political views?"

This was not an unusual event for me. Over the past month, in both overt and not-so-overt ways, I have had many people express their assumptions to me about my political views. The basic presupposition is that I'm an extreme leftist. They probably infer that since I worked with a women's museum, come from San Francisco, and am getting a PhD (in anthropology no less) that I must be a pretty darn liberal. Logical enough, I suppose, but in point of fact, off the mark. (And if you question that, then you, too, should ask me what my views are.)

On a similar note, last month, I was interviewing a fairly prominent US political figure-- whose faith and religious motivation is well-known in motivating him to work on global poverty issues. He spent about half the interview with me reassuring me that efforts to have motivations that aren't limited to religious Christians, and that are also bi-partisan and multi-faith in foundation. All fair enough, except that I hadn't uttered a word to him that would indicate I would have a problem with acting from a foundation of Christian ethics...or Republican values. By the way he kept referring to my work with the museum and on human rights work, I can only infer that he had read my bio and made (what probably seemed like reasonable) assumptions about the politics that followed from my professional trajectory... or perhaps my last name.

Except again- he got it wrong by assuming that I would judge him, and made me in fact feel more uncomfortable than if he had just shared his motivations in a more straightforward manner.

We can't avoid making assumptions about people-- we do it all the time, unconsciously even. And often times it helps. Before I give a speech at a university, I always ask my hosts to give me a rough demographic breakdown of the audience so I know roughly who I'm speaking to and can fine-tune the presentation accordingly.

But there are things we shouldn't assume we know about people. We should never assume, for example, that someone will be judgmental about our own views, and thus feel the need to water them down. The US political figure with whom I talked revealed far more to me about his own insecurities and self-perceptions than he would have had he just played it straight.

We should never assume we know someone's politics unless they've actually told us their politics.

And finally, and most basically, we should never simplify the complexity and robustness of someone else's point of view or their ability to understand the opposite perspective. In yet another interview, a leading UK NGO figure told me about a trip he took to Africa with prominent conservative US politicians. "It was our chance," he said, "to size up our enemy, so to speak. To feel them out." But then he told me this beautiful story about how his organization actually learned a thing or two, about return on investment and other matters, from the people he'd assumed he'd needed to teach. And he also found his counterparts, the so-called 'enemies', to be extremely intelligent, reasonably open-minded, very decent people.

Which all goes to show that we often construct in our heads far more distance from people than actually exists in real life.

Gives New Meaning to the Phrase "Lie Back and Think of England"

Amusing item for sale in a local drugstore... durex limited edition england supporter condoms. I particularly like the photo of Foosball soccer players on the cover-- very sexy indeed. If anything represents masculinity, it's got to be Foosball soccer players, wouldn't you say?


It is, thank heavens, made with recyclable packaging. Good to be environmentally aware while supporting England through your sex life.


A brief explanation on the back cover. "'Durex England Supporter' is a limited edition assortment of condoms designed to maximise your fun in the bedroom." Followed by a series of legal disclaimers about how even though the condoms are designed to prolong ejaculation, if they don't help you, it may be due to a condition that requires medical supervision.

Storytelling, Culture and Social Change

Yes, I'm lame and haven't posted much lately.
Last week and now I've been devoting my internet spare time to facilitating this discussion on the Skoll Foundation website-- any additional input most welcome!

The discussion is here.

Overheard in...: An Italian Restaurant

The "Overheard In..." category for the blog recalls snippets of conversation I happened to stumble across that for some reason stand out as indicative of cultural differences, or cultural issues I'm trying to understand. (And all subtly prove that reality is stranger than fiction.)

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The Setting: A nice Italian restaurant in Menlo Park, California, right off the main drag. I'm sitting with my parents having dinner on a recent visit. A Monday night.

The Characters (6): (1) A woman in her late thirties, dyed blond hair, sitting at the table behind us with (2 and 3) two men, professional, mid-thirties, just getting off work, wearing slacks and dress shirts, one with a goatee; (4-6) Me and my folks.

The Scene:

Woman: So, do you really think body is more important than the face?

Man #1: Definitely.

Man #2: Yeah, of course.

Woman: Really. Even in the long term?

Man #1: Honey, who's thinking about the long term?

(pause. Their conversation gets quieter so I can' t hear. Eventually she cuts in again.)

Woman: But going back to the face thing-- I mean, don't you think you can tell a lot from a woman's face?

Man #2: Look- when you're doing the dirty, you can ignore her face, but you can never, ever ignore the body, can you?

Woman: No I guess not. (Beat.) That makes sense.

Man #2: Don't worry about it. You've got nothing to worry about.

(Conversation dies down again. My mom and I have both been eavesdropping on this conversation (the apple doesn't fall far from the tree). We give each other knowing smiles. )

The Network (Huff Po piece)

Posted yesterday on Huffington Post.
You may recognize this as a revised version of an earlier post here-- based on some of your helpful comments emailed to me (thanks!). Sometimes it takes a few tries to figure out what one actually means to say.

Incidentally, I've spent the last week traveling around the US-- in Baton Rouge yesterday, in Albany today. The difference in environmental consciousness from the UK are striking. I have to admit it's been a (temporary) relief to be driven around in cars again, to drink water out of plastic bottles, and not feel as if you're being labeled. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, you don't feel as bad about this kind of stuff if the people around you don't either. Which is the whole point of the HuffPo piece.

I did find it strange, however, that nearly every airline in-flight magazine I read this week had several mentions of environmentalism and the need to reduce emissions. An entire issue was dedicated to this on Sky (Delta's inflight magazine) without mentioning that air travel is one of the industries that will require massive overhaul.

Corrections

When I started this blog, it was a bit of an experiment with voice. I thought I'd be a little less careful with my opinions than I'd been in the past, when I was being paid to represent an idea or institution. I thought I'd just say what I actually thought and discover (and learn from) when I was wrong.

So, here are a few cases where I was wrong.

First off, my snarky comment about people claiming that London's weather is mild. I wrote that "mild" was a strange description for a place where it rained nearly every day, regardless of the season. Well, I'm in NY and DC this week on business. Today as I walked to the metro and was surrounded by snow flakes in the air, I realized I hadn't seen these little white things in quite some time-- certainly not in London. Not to mention that the grass in London stays green throughout the seasons. So, "mild" may not be my description of choice for London weather, but it's not a crazy description as I originally wrote.

Second, my rather silly entry about taking pictures on the shortest day of the year, in December. I wrote that the darkness was depressing and taking photos helped to make it a little less depressing. The truth is, that was crap.

Short days suck, cameras or no. The exercise was an interesting one, but well, short days still suck.

Overheard in...: A Party at the Institut Francais

The "Overheard In..." category for the blog recalls snippets of conversation I happened to stumble across that for some reason stand out as indicative of cultural differences, or cultural issues I'm trying to understand. (And all subtly prove that reality is stranger than fiction.)

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The Setting: A party following an Arab film festival at the Institut Francais in Kensington, London. Tons of Arabic fusion music playing, lots of people dancing (lots of women doing belly-dancing style stuff), no one taking themselves all too seriously. About 80 percent of the crowd were of middle-eastern origin. One of the coolest parties I've been to since moving to London. This conversation happened while I and some friends went to the balcony (where the smokers were) to get some fresh air. Or some smoky air, as it were.

The Characters (2): (1)A woman in her late twenties/early thirties, brown hair with blonde (bottle) highlights, curvy, wearing a long skirt and a top with Indian beadwork on it. She is smoking a cigarette. (2) Me.

The Scene:

Me: Did you get to see Persepolis? (This was the film before the party that I was dying to see, having adored the comics, but the film had been sold out.)

Her: Yes. It was great. I had bought the books years ago but never read them. (I notice she has a North American accent)

Me: Oh, they're such an easy read. You can read them in like half an hour, and they're great. Definitely read them.

Her: Are you American?

Me: Yes. You? (It's always a strange thing when someone asks you if you're American here. The question does not usually come across as a positive one. Usually feels a bit mixed, just in terms of gut level perception when the question comes at you.)

Her: Well, no, I'm Canadian but originally from Iran and Syria. But I lived in DC for a little while and did some graduate work there. My husband's American.

(Some small talk.)

Her: So who did you vote for in the primaries?

Me: Interesting you should ask. (I don't particularly want to answer her question.) You know the thing is, I'm actually excited about all three of the candidates that are left in the running.

Her: Really? How could you not support Obama?

Me: What do you mean?

Her: He's the one guy who takes a stand. He refuses to accept money from lobbyists. And he was against the Iraq war.

Me: Yes, but that was before he was in national office, so I suppose you have to take that with a bit of a grain of salt.

Her: No, it wasn't.

Me: I think it was.

Her: I'm positive. Besides, you know how they had the democrats abroad global primary-- and about 66 percent of the vote was for Obama. That's because Americans living abroad know how much America is hated these days. Think about it. If the US had a president with the name Barack Hussein Obama, they would love you guys in the third world again.

Me: Do you think that's why?

Her: Definitely. You know, I was living in DC at the time of 9/11. I don't know if many people know this but the defense department put out leaflets asking for creative ideas for how to deal with what had happened. I thought that was amazing. The basic thinking was-- it was career people with a certain kind of thinking who had made the policies thus far, so maybe some out of the box thinking would help. Out of the box thinking from the community, people outside the system. I thought that was amazing.

Me: You're right, I never did hear that.

Her: That's why you need someone like Obama, someone out of the box like that. I mean, my friends tell me I shouldn't interfere, it's not my country. But you have to know this. You have to know what this will mean for you guys.

Me: No, it's good, it's fine, I like hearing people's opinions on this kind of stuff.

Her: Well, I'm going to go inside and dance. Good luck with your decision.

Me: Yeah, nice to meet you. (She goes inside.)

Overheard in...: The Supermarket

The "Overheard In..." category for the blog recalls snippets of conversation I happened to stumble across that for some reason stand out as indicative of cultural differences, or cultural issues I'm trying to understand. (And all subtly prove that reality is stranger than fiction.)

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I found myself today in the same supermarket near my house where they'd given me a free low-energy lightbulb at checkout-- several months ago now, probably. I wrote about this topic in my last post. This blog entry probably only makes sense if you read the last one, as the conversation is about that giveaway.

The Setting: Waitrose supermarket, an upscale supermarket near where I live. Tea and coffee aisle.

The Characters: Two young women in their mid-twenties. One Australian, one North American. Very pretty girls-- one wearing fancy tight jeans with embroidered pockets, with blond hair, the other wearing boots and a short skirt and designer glasses.

The Scene:
Australian girl: Have you used your lightbulb yet?

North American girl: No. (beat) Have you?

Australian girl: No. Well, I haven't needed to, really.

North American girl: Yeah, me too. I suppose I'll eventually need a lightbulb in the bathroom, so maybe I'll use it there.

Australian girl: (nodding). Yeah.

North American girl: Oh, remind me I need to buy toilet paper.

Australian girl: Sure. Do you think you should replace the bulb, even if it's not burned out? I mean to save energy and all. (pause) I mean, would you waste the old lightbulb which is still perfectly good?

North American girl: (Shrugs.) Dunno, really. I think you do what you want with these things.

Australian: Yeah. Okay. (pauses, as if thinking through... I of course, watching, impute my own feelings of guilty conscience on her, which are probably not there, or at least I'll never know.)

(silence-- somewhat long-- at least a few seconds.).

North American girl: So do you think they'll like it if we make quiche?

(They turn the corner and I lose the conversation. I make a mental note to self: it's not only me thinking through all this stuff, not knowing quite how to handle it. Thank goodness.)

Polish Jokes, Lightbulbs, and Planet Earth

I have to admit that, like many people, it was only recently that I woke up to the importance of global warming.

Before that, environmentalism was always someone else's issue. Something I was sympathetic towards, but in a vague kind of way. I recycled, poorly. I argued with my parents about their recycling habits (because, hey, what good is having parents if you can't act like a self-righteous teenager with them, even when you're a full-fledged adult?). But that was about the extent of it. I figured that there were good people who already cared about saving the environment. And I thought I should let them do that while I focused on my own issues-- human rights, democracy, that kind of stuff.

Like many people, I woke up one day about a year and a half ago, following a hurricane and a brilliant documentary, and found that somehow, suddenly, everyone seemed to finally admit that global warming was a real problem. My mom had suddenly bought a Prius. Because, she told me, it was the right thing to do. (The right thing to do!) Green websites were sprouting up like, um... weeds. Like everyone else, I too started to really pay attention.

But I realize now that my awakening of a year and a half ago was only half-baked. Because-- and here's the zinger-- I didn't change my behavior. Not a bit. Okay, maybe I spent more time talking with others about the issue. But I didn't even take the time to recycle more carefully than I had been doing before.

When I moved to London last year, I suddenly found myself surrounded by an incredibly environmentally aware group of people. Partly it was just the network I was dealing with. These were professionals and activists who focused on international poverty issues-- and as they were already tremendously conscientious about global issues, they were likely to be far more sympathetic to those related to the environment as well.

But it wasn't completely selection bias. While America has older and more developed environmental NGO networks, there are ways that environmentalism has worked its way into everyday life here that it hadn't in the US (at least by the time I'd left). For example, I went into a large supermarket chain to get my groceries a few months back. When I checked out, I noticed that in addition to giving me a "bag-for-life" (a very thick bag I could reuse indefinitely), they also threw an energy-saver lifebulb in my sack.

"That's not mine," I said to the check-out guy, confused. "It's a freebie," he replied. A promotion, obviously, but this stuff is in your face here in a way I'd not encountered before.


Or in the office of the non-profit where I worked downtown, there were constant reminders to be aware. The lightswitches for example.


Or the garbage area, which even had composting, despite some logistical challenges in that regard (and everyone in the building knew to take out the orange peels from the compost because they did something bad to its chemical make-up.).

Or the tub for "washing-up" with reminders on a sign above about saving water by washing things in batches rather than under a running faucet. (The tub is ubiquitous, it seems, in British households.).

Mind you, I've also been chided quite a few times, gently and not so gently, for my behavior. I stayed with a wonderfully generous (and very environmentally conscientious) woman my first few weeks here. One day, when coming back from dumping our recycling in the bin for the apartment complex, she came back with a furrowed brow on her face. "Paula," she said (and I could tell she was searching for the right words), "You haven't really gotten the hang of recycling yet, have you?" And she proceeded to explain that if I didn't wash my yogurt pots before putting them in the recycling, the food residue would basically contaminate the whole lot.

Other friends have had long arguments with me about my flying habits (which are mostly for work, but still pretty heavy).

And the thing is, I'm ashamed to say, even after all of this bombardment, my behavior still hasn't changed as much as it probably should have. I suppose I turn off power switches more often than I used to. I do wash the yogurt pots now before I put them in the recycling bin. (Ahem. Usually.). I have cloth bags for when I go to the grocery store, but honestly, I forget them far more times than I'd like to admit. I didn't have a car to begin with... but much more importantly (and definitely most confusing-- I'm going to dedicate a whole blog entry later to this issue), I haven't stopped flying.

Partly it's my frustration at what seems to be an overemphasis on individual solutions-- and our lack of willingness to tackle the bigger political questions at stake with climate change. But let's face it. That's not an excuse for my own laziness.

So where do Polish jokes fit in to this?

Growing up, my brother and I used to tell each other a whole series of them, which inevitably began with a line like, "How many Poles does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" They were never actually funny, but we amused ourselves with the thought that they should be funny, maybe, to someone, somewhere. And they were terribly politically incorrect, and in poor taste, but since we are technically mostly of Polish descent, we thought we had a free ticket to tell them.

Recently, though, I've been thinking we should invent a line of jokes along the same lines about human behavior more generally, and how ridiculously difficult it is to get people to change, even when they know it's the right thing to do. Particularly when they know it's the right thing to do.

Because the immediate impetus for my writing this post is a simple, depressing fact. I'm here, sitting at my desk, and that free energy saver lightbulb they gave me at the grocery store, over a month ago, is sitting right beside me, next to my laptop. Still in its box. Not screwed in.

How many (people of Polish descent, like me!) does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

How many times do people have to learn about an issue before they actually take action?

I don't know the punchline, but I'd venture it goes something like: A hell of a lot. An awful, painful, crazy, ridiculous hell of a lot.


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Postscript: After writing the post, I did, finally, screw in the lightbulb. It took about 2.5 seconds in total.

Proof Positive of Global Warming

This I received in a chain email from my colleagues in Hartlepool, where I stayed last night. (Apologies for my silence over the past week-- have been up around the NE of England doing tons of archival work and interviews for my research. So a quick post and much more substantive stuff coming...)

Overheard in...: A Train

The "Overheard In..." category for the blog recalls snippets of conversation I happened to stumble across that for some reason stand out as indicative of cultural differences, or cultural issues I'm trying to understand. (And all subtly prove that reality is stranger than fiction.)

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The Setting: Early Saturday evening, on a fairly crowded train from Brighton to London.

The Characters (4): A crowd of friends-- British, late twenties/early thirties, dressed up to to go out in London for the evening. Two males and one female. (Didn’t get the best look at them as they were behind me, but all fairly attractive, professional looking types). And then me. We’re all passing time on the train.

The Scene:

(I picked this up in mid-conversation.)

Guy 1: ...So there she was in the computer store and she had a short skirt on and underneath this sort of …con*trap*-tion… so that she could tie up the laptop under her skirt.

Girl: Really?

Guy 1: Yes, indeed. But luckily the guards caught her before she got out and managed to stop her.

Guy 2: Can you imagine? She must have had to have put the laptop under lengthwise… because if it were width-wise…

Guy 1: Right. What would the guard say? “Um, is that a laptop under there or are you just happy to see me?”

(Briefest pause, then firing back and forth in quick succession.)

Guy 2: Right. Or better yet, if the computer were Siemens… “Excuse me, but have you got Siemens there between your legs?”

(all laughing.)

Guy 3: No, no, no. The best is, “What the Dell is going on down there?" (laughing, then repeats it.) “What the Dell is going on down there?” That’s what the headline would have been if The Sun had gotten hold of the story—and that would have been just brilliant!

(more chuckling and the conversation dies down into other subjects I can’t hear. I'm on the other side of the train, smiling, and wondering how on earth people come up with stuff like that...)

From Revolution to Fashion Trend

A funny thing happened on a recent trip to Spain with friends. As we wandered around some of the towns and villages, we kept seeing people wearing keffiyahs, the wrap/headscarf traditionally associated with Palestinian nationalism. These were people from all walks of life, from hip young kids to professionals to even kindly looking pensioners.

In the US, people I know who might wear keffiyahs would do so as an overt political statement-- to express solidarity with Palestinians. But as we noticed this overflowing sea of keffiyahs all over the place, something seemed off. Had the whole nation of Spain suddenly discovered its heartfelt loyalty to the Palestinian cause? Or was something else going on?

We decided to ask. Here are some of the responses we got, in rough translation from Spanish.

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Setting One: A Massive New Years Eve Party in the Town of Gandia, Valencia Province. A huge outdoor tent, with mud floors, loud music, and lots of young people.


Emma: Out of curiosity, why are you wearing that scarf? In the US, it would be a political statement. Is that why you are wearing it?

Guy #1: No. Well my mom went to Turkey on holiday and she got one for me. And it's really warm. Cold tonight, isn't it?

Emma: Cool, can we take a photo with you?

Guy #1: Um. Sure.

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Paula: Hi, mind if I ask you a question? Was wondering about the keffiyah you're wearing. Do you call it a keffiyah?

Guy #2: Oh, this palestino?

Paula: Right. The palestino...I was curious as to why you're wearing it. Palestino- that means its about the Palestinians?

Guy #2: (Shrugs). It's fashion, I think. It's trendy.

Paula: Okay. Interesting. Could we possibly take your picture? (Guy shrugs indicating mild unenthusiastic consent)
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Setting #2 - Valencia Town

A bougie couple chooses from many different colored variations of the keffiyah, some even with gold or silver decorative thread.

Emma later asked the shopkeeper later whether there was any politics involved at all with this item. He said no, it was just a fashion trend.




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Setting #3 - Barcelona

Two Australian tourists in a cafe wearing keffiyahs. And lots of gold and pearls. And headbands. Eating delicate pastries. An interesting combination.

Emma: Hi there, out of curiosity, where did you get those scarves?

Taller girl: Oh these, don't remember.

Emma: Is it a political statement about Palestinians?

Taller girl: Oh, no, not at all. They're nice looking. They're warm.

Emma: Yeah, they are nice. Would you mind if we took your photo?

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(Two Taiwanese tourists looking around Gaudi's La Sagrada Familia.)

Me: Hi there, just out of curiosity, I was wondering about your scarf. Did you get it here in Spain?

Girl with Scarf: Um, I think so. Where are you from?

Me: California.

Girl with Scarf: Oh. I'm going to be a student in the U.S. I'm from Taiwan.

Me: That's great. (Some small talk.) So, do you know where the scarf comes from?

Girl with Scarf: I don't know. I just liked the way it looks.

Me: Do you mind if we take your picture?

Girl with Scarf: (Hesistates.) Um. Um, yeah I guess. If you take one of me with my friend.

--------

And the grand finale:

Dog with keffiyah! Bright and orange, no less.











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Dry, academic commentary:

Wikipedia actually has a fabulous entry on this topic: how keffiyahs came to the west first as statement of lefty/radical politics and gradually just became a fashion item as they got more trendy. I gather that in Spain, the importation of the keffiyah happened first amongst separatist nationalist movements-- in Catalonia and Valencia for example (which happened to be where we were traveling). These were people who, rightly or wrongly, associated the plight of the Palestinians with their own plight in Spain.

In the beginning it was probably somewhat of an overt political statement. Then it became more just a hip thing to wear in left-leaning circles, acquiring general overtones of liberal/radical politics, but losing its literal association with Palestinian nationalism. And finally, shopkeepers realized they could make some money by selling them cheaply, so now they are in every street corner shop, at about 4 Euros each or even cheaper.

The story of the keffiyah trajectory- from revolutionary garb to fashion trend-- actually is extremely relevant to my current project about how social causes go mainstream. One thing that always happens as a political idea or symbol reaches mass popularity is that it loses some part of its original meaning. In this case, it lost almost all of it.

I'm sure the people who originally brought keffiyahs to Spain probably now look with disdain at the masses who wear them. This is another thing that usually happens. The original proponents of an idea or cause-- the purists-- tend to walk away when they see their cause diluted by popular participation. It's quite ironic, as the whole point of advocating on a social issue is to change everyone's minds and behaviors about that issue. But there is always a tension between depth of understanding and breadth of public reach. It's usually nearly impossible to get mass 'consumption' (not sure if that word choice was intentional or subconscious) of a social cause without diluting it to some degree.

--------------
(Many thanks to Emma and Adrianne, my co-conspirators on these photos)

A Multi-Polar World

Amazing article just published today in NYT on America's decline and the rise of Europe and China.

I have to say, it's hard to disagree with. When I read these articles, I get a pit-in-my-stomach feeling, wondering what life will be like for my (as of yet non-existent) children and grandchildren and their generations. Indeed, I wonder what life will be like for *myself* in twenty years, and how the US's shifting place in the world will change and constrain my own choices and opportunities.

But I have to think that a bit of competition in the world is a good thing at the end of the day.

Indeed, for the past few years, I've been noticing how lazy we in America have gotten as a country. I think we face a severe crisis of leadership-- a vacuum of morality in which the original ideals upon which the country was built have gotten lost in the games that people play to advance their own private gains. Winning has become more important than doing what's right. And in the process, we've come to simply expect certain privileges as a country (and as individual citizens), forgetting that those privileges were hard-earned by previous generations and easily susceptible to loss.

Maybe a little competition will remind us what we have to lose. Maybe it will flatten out a bit of the arrogance that is slowly eating away at the substance of the country I was raised to be proud of.

Such competition, by the way, was inevitable. Americans have no monopoly on talent and innovation. And thank goodness.

But we have a choice about how we react to the competition. It can do us in, or it can be an immense opportunity for regeneration.

Post-Capitalism. Really?

The other day I was having dinner with an old friend of mine in London, someone I' d gone to high school with in California, and who has been living and working in Europe for the past 9 years in a corporate analyst type gig. As we reminisced and talked about future plans, she began to muse:

"You know, Paula, I've been starting to think about a post-capitalist era. I've been starting to think a lot about what it's going to be like to run businesses in that era."

There must be something in the air. Especially here in England. Because she's not the only one who has said this to me. In the last two weeks, at least five people have said to me something along those same lines--people from all walks of life, from a pastor in the midlands to a manager at a big supermarket chain. If it had just been my dear friend from high school, I might have written it off. We both studied political economy, so would be prone to these types of discussions. But it's coming at me, this question of "post-capitalism," in all directions.

And the thing is-- I don't think I agree. What on earth does post-capitalism *mean* anyway?

Yes, we've got serious environmental problems, and yes we will need to move to a post-carbon economy. But a post-capitalist economy? Yes, globalization has exacerbated inequalities, and that also needs to be addressed. But does that mean by an entirely new kind of system? If so, what kind?

The answer is always sort of fuzzy. It involves buzz-words like: Local. Less Inequality. Sustainable.

Perhaps I lack imagination. When I think of alternatives to capitalism and democracy, I think of failed Marxist experiments, which scare me, or thousands of years of feudalism, which also scares me. I'm also not particularly prone to romanticize notions of local indigenous culture as being the answer to all of our woes.

Which all leads me to think that what we need is some serious, gut-wrenching reform to our global system. Reforms in the direction of sustainability, and all of the buzzwords floating about these days. Reform that will take tremendous effort, courage, and yes, time.

But a whole new system?

I'm willing to listen on this one. I really am. I just haven't heard anything yet that makes a whole lot of sense to me.

Overheard in...: The Tube

The "Overheard In..." category for the blog recalls snippets of conversation I happened to stumble across that for some reason stand out as indicative of cultural differences, or cultural issues I'm trying to understand. (And all subtly prove that reality is stranger than fiction.)
--------------

The Setting: A quiet Saturday morning, around 9am, on the Jubilee line tube between Finchley Road and Bond Street.

The Characters (4): (1 and 2) A couple in their sixties, presumably English-- neatly dressed-- him in trousers and a button down shirt and sweater, she with died brown hair and well-applied makeup; (3) a man in his forties, also presumably English, thickish glasses, straight gray hair, casually dressed; (4) me.

The Scene:
The 60-something man and woman are reading a newspaper, which they’ve split between them. The woman has a facial twitch of some sort. Every so often, her face and neck just out oddly and then go back to normal for about ten to fifteen seconds.

The woman has a nice leather bag with different colors of leather diamond shaped patches sewn together. She rifles through the bag fumbling for something and her hand shakes a bit. Every so often she also asks a question to her husband, analyzing something concerning going in the news, that I can’t quite hear.

The train stops at Bond Street and the couple fold up their newspapers and get up to leave. They don’t move quickly but get off the train. The 40-something aged man who was sitting across from them notices they’ve left their umbrella.

40-something man: (shouting to outside the train) Your umbrella!

60-something woman: (shouting in) What?

40-something man: Your umbrella.

He stands up and realizes quickly that he can’t get off the train or it will leave without him. So he grabs it and throws it to her right before the door begins to close. It lands on the floor on the platform outside the train.

60-something woman: Thank you. Thank you very much, indeed!

(Door closes).

40-something man nods and smiles. But the smile, the smile… the smile is one of the loveliest I have seen in a long time. It is broad but not self-satisfied. Genuine. He holds it on his face for a few seconds after the door closes. Such a beautiful, beautiful smile. An expression on his face as if to say, “Yes, of course. That’s what we’re all really for here at the end of the day, isn’t it?”

And the fourth character, me… I found myself smiling also, on the other end of the train carriage. Because—basically—that is what we’re here for, right?

Overheard in...: A Cafe

The "Overheard In..." category for the blog recalls snippets of conversation I happened to stumble across that for some reason stand out as indicative of cultural differences, or cultural issues I'm trying to understand. (And all subtly prove that reality is stranger than fiction.)

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The Setting:
Costa Coffee (a decently sized chain in London-- also decent coffee, as it happens) a few blocks from my house, on the high street. The scene took place while waiting in line to place an order, around 2pm on a weekday.

The Characters:
(1) A 60-something posh English woman, very well-put together and proper looking, dyed blondish hair, an insanely huge diamond ring on her finger, a face perfectly done up and which looks like it may have had a facelift... She is first in line to order (2) a young American woman in front of me (behind the English woman), in gym clothing-- oversized t-shirt and sweats, no makeup, hair in a pony tail, a bit flushed from her workout; (3) A North African (I think?) employee of Costa Coffee, tallish, short curly dark hair, wearing a Costa Coffee Uniform. (4) me.

The Scene :

North African Coffee Guy: (to the English woman who is first in line)
Hi yuh. (thick foreign accent.)

Posh woman: (clipped accent)
Yes, I'd like a hot chocolate please.

Coffee Guy:
Sorry? (Pause) Sorry, could you...

Posh woman: (Annoyed tone. But she also appears to be slightly hard of hearing)
Wh... What? I said a hot chocolate please.

Coffee Guy:
Meee- dium? Meee-dium, yes, it's okay? (He proceeds to take quite some time to try to input this order into the computer. He's fiddling with different keys on the keypad.)
Sorry. I... (mumbles something indecipherable. I gather he's just started to work there. Finally he succeeds in punching the right button.)
...Dats Two-fouh-ey. (or similar sum, I don't remember exactly.)

Posh woman:
What?

Coffee Guy:
Two-fouh-ey.

Posh woman:
That's ridiculous.

(She fumbles through her[nice, expensive, designer] purse to get change. The huge rock on her finger is flagrantly noticeable, unable to be ignored. She reluctantly puts the money on the counter-- but does so with a bit too much force. I hadn't really been paying attention, but now I do. While the coffee guy is making her drink, the posh woman turns to the young American woman in front of me.)

Posh woman:
They're all coming here, people like him. And they don't even know what they're doing. They can't even communicate properly. They don't speak our language.

American woman:
Oh, he' s just started. Give him a few weeks and come back and I'm sure he'll be perfect.

Posh woman:
They shouldn't allow people like that to work here.

American woman: (polite, measured tone)
Well, maybe you should talk to your government because they won't let *me* work here. And I do speak your language. We're all strangers at some point. It's not easy.

(Coffee guy is getting change for Posh woman. The American woman turns to me.)

American woman: (softly, incredulous.)
Did you hear all of that conversation?

Me: (nodding, also incredulous)
Yes. Unbelievable.

(The posh woman walks over to the other side of the counter where the coffee guy is finishing the hot chocolate.)

Posh woman: (agressively.)
It needs to be hot. You need to make it hot. (Pause.) Did you hear me?

(He nods. He sets the drink on a tray for her.)

Posh woman:
Is it hot? Did you make it hot?

(He nods, again. If it had been me I would have wanted to punch her in the face, but he simply demurred. She takes the mug away, shaking her head in disgust.)

Pro/Con #1: Socialized Medicine

When I first got to London, completely abuzz and overwhelmed by the size of the city and the unexpected culture shock, I sent an email to one of my dearest friends in SF, summarizing my early assessment of London. It went something like this:

Pro: It's a huge city with tons going on.
Con: It's a huge city with tons going on.

Pro: There are lots of Europeans here.
Con: There are lots of Europeans here.

Con: It's really expensive.
Pro: ... um...

(etc. The list continued for several pages)

In the same vein, I'm going to keep an ongoing pro/con list and actually elaborate on some of these subjects. They're interesting. And if I sound a bit sarcastic at times, I'll fill you in on a little secret. I actually really like it here. Maybe not quite as much as SF, but I like it. Even when I complain and tell you that I'm homesick and hate the weather and don't like it here. It's all true, but I still like it.

------------------


Pro/Con #1

Pro: There's socialized medicine here.
Con: There's socialized medicine here.


On the pro side...
It's not quite the miracle that Michael Moore makes it out to be, but it is a miracle.

When I first signed up for my GP, as all users of the National Health Service are required to do, the nurse in the 'surgery' (surgery in British English just means a doctor's office) took me through my medical history. She then warned me about my doctor. "She's perhaps the best and most attentive GP in all of London," she said, "but she has no sense of time management. Expect to wait. Hours. For any of your appointments." Fair enough, I thought. Honestly, I was simply grateful to have free health insurance. I'm dirt poor trying to make it here on a US research grant (basically double the cost at half the wages)-- so this generosity is a godsend.

I went to see Dr. Berger (not her real name) two days ago and fell in love with her and her quirky, heartfelt style. I did, of course, wait about 45 minutes in the waiting room, even though mine was the first appointment of the day. When she called me in, she apologized profusely, about a million times. "I'm really sorry," she said-- and then again, with her charming accent, "really terribly sorry." I'd already said it was okay a few times, but she continued. "So sorry. Sorry to keep you waiting. Sorry."

She was probably in her fifties and probably Jewish and had ever-so-slightly frazzled brown longish hair and a long stylish skirt and sweater. She moved around her office with frenetic energy. Every time she needed me to do something so she could examine me (like roll up my sleeve for a blood pressure test, or lift my shirt so she could see the skin on my back), she'd also thank my profusely. "Thank you," she'd say, "Thank you very much, thank you."

She cared. She asked me about my research. And my family. And my impressions of the country. And we got into a long discussion about how she'd been tempted to go to the US -- doctors there make much more money. But she couldn't. She never could, she said, because in her eyes, everyone is equal and everyone deserves to be seen by a doctor. She couldn't live with a completely privatized system.

It wasn't hard to see why she keeps her patients waiting hours to get seen on any given day. But that was just her style. Her absolute commitment was that patients should get care, regardless of their background, regardless of the bureaucracy. And there is plenty of bureaucracy, as I will get to shortly. But all in all, I left getting what I needed. And I honestly couldn't have afforded it without the good graces of the socialized system-- as presumably was the case for many people in that waiting room. Pensioners, single mothers, people of all ages, races, and sizes, all entitled to healthcare. I would call that a miracle. Or maybe not. Maybe it's just a travesty that it doesn't exist more broadly, especially in societies as wealthy as the US.

On the con side...
I wrote that I left getting what I needed. That isn't the complete truth. The complete truth is that I left with referrals to go through ridiculous bureaucratic hoops to eventually get what I needed.

For example: My GP in the US, many years back, had noted that I have some moles on my back and I might want to get them looked at every once in a while just to make sure they're not growing or changing shape. It had been a while so I asked Dr. Berger to take a look. "Why?" she asked, furrowing her brow. "Why are you concerned? What's your specific reason for being concerned?"

I explained what my earlier GP had said-- he'd always managed to just look quickly and assure me things looked fine. But Dr. Berger asked me a million detailed questions and finally said she wasn't qualified to take a look, even casually. Instead, she had to refer me to a dermatologist. And I'd have to wait- months and months- to get seen. Unless she stretched my explanation a bit and said instead that I had good reason to think they were cancerous, in which case I could get them seen in a few weeks.

Similarly--(apologies in advance if this is too much information.) I'd injured a toe earlier this year and the toenail was growing back oddly, with a strange color, making me think it was infected. "I need a toenail clipping to test it," Dr. Berger said, "but we're not allowed to do that for you anymore. You'll have to take this specimen folder home and do it yourself, then bring it back. Then call us in two or three weeks to get the results."

Now, I'm a student, and my time is flexible, so it's wasn't a big deal for me to walk back the next day, toe nail specimen in hand. But if I'd had a 9-5 office job, I'd have had to come in late on not one, but two mornings-- first for the appointment, and second to drop off the specimen (since the surgery doesn't open until 9:30 am.) Not exactly ideal for running efficient businesses.

Survey says:
Warts and all, it's a still a miracle, as I said before.
-----------------

On a tangential note, Michael Moore makes the UK and French systems out to be angelic and the US system to be demonic. I actually liked the film, but as I watched it last year, I couldn't help but wonder if US citizens (by virtue of our fully privatized system) were funding medical innovation from which the whole world benefited, thereby allowing countries like the UK the luxury of not needing to go the private route themselves. The truth is, the profit motive in pharmaceutical research has saved lives. And without it, we wouldn't have the kinds of medicines we have today. It's also developed wasteful medicines and drugs are shamefully maldistributed... but if all rich country govts had socialized medicine, what would that mean for slowing down innovation in the medical industry? Is there some middle ground?