English Countryside

There’s nothing like the pastoral serenity of the English countryside. Neatly cropped fields. Dry stone walls. Sheep nibbling grass. Hedgerows stretching far and wide. Undulating terrain. The occasional old stone church, steeple reaching to the sky. Farmer in his wellies, sheepdog by his side. Lush green beauty as far as the eye can see.

For the truly English experience, you can enjoy this scenery from the huge plate glass windows of a slow moving train. And, if you’re like the chilled out group of four beside me, instead of plugging in your iPod and turning up the volume while tuning out this pastoral beauty, you’ll open up your picnic hamper, pull out four stemmed glasses and crack open two bottles of wine. Cheese and biscuits, anyone?

Tubs, Madam!

Cultures are a funny thing. Just when you think you’ve got a good grip on one, something crops up to remind you just how far off base you can be. Usually it’s an embarrassing slap in the face.

My first day in England, I was wandering around my new town, getting myself oriented, when I spied a gorgeous corner Jacuzzi bathtub in the window of a Dolphin Bath Shop. I decided to go in to have a closer look.

No sooner had I found my dream bath and was having visions of myself luxuriating in the spa, than a saleswoman began to zero in on me. She was the typical picture of the prim and proper, dignified English woman, in her tweed skirt and silk blouse, except that she was also a bust size 48EE, easily. As she strolled up to me, she asked, “May I help you?”

Well, since I couldn’t yet afford this lovely bath I was drooling all over, I replied, “No thank you. I’m just admiring your tubs. They really are exceptional!”

For some reason, the woman’s face turned crimson and the English friend I was with grabbed my wrist and immediately yanked me out of the store and onto the street, pulling my arm out of the socket in the process.

“What!?” I asked.

“Why did you say that!?”

“Say what?” My naïveté was evident.

“Why did you say you were ogling her tubs?”

“Ummmmm…. Because I was? Is that against the law?”

Although the saleswoman was very dignified and likely wearing an armour-plated Maidenform bra, like I said, she was easily a very large 48EE.

And what I didn’t realise is that in the United Kingdom “tubs” are slang for breasts.

When I realised this, of course I was looking for the trap door in the sidewalk to swallow me up.

Well, they have a saying here in the UK which goes, “Start as you mean to go on…”.

So, having started off on an embarrassing foot, culturally, I can only say I must have meant to continue in the same vein one day when I was at work and the woman at the desk next to me decided to tell me about her daughter.

“She’s a right madam”, she said.

Being from the United States, the only “Madam” I know of is the manager of a brothel. I find it curiously interesting that this woman is so relaxed and open about her daughter’s profession, because, to the best of my knowledge, prostitution is illegal in the United Kingdom, but she’s talking about it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Really?” I ask. “Tell me about her.”

“Oh, yes”, she said. “She’s always on her high horse.”

Hmmm… If this woman runs a brothel, then either she must have a high and mighty attitude about it, or else she has some kind of interesting hobby horse I probably don’t want to know about. Sometimes cultures can be tricky. Not being quite sure yet what her meaning was, I said, “Interesting. Tell me more.”

“Well she’s forever getting into trouble!”

Well, of course she would, wouldn’t she, breaking the law like that! What does she expect?

I said to her, “I find it curiously interesting that you’re so relaxed about your daughter’s profession. How long has she owned a brothel and is it in London where the rest of your family is?”

Ever have one of those lightbulb moments?

After picking herself up off the floor, my work colleague explained to me that in the UK, a little madam is a female child (or an adult, for that matter) with a selfish, stroppy, tantrum-like attitude and has nothing whatsoever to do with a house of ill repute.

Good thing she’s not up-the-duff.

Here’s another confusing one for my non-British mates. If something in the UK is awful, we say that it is “pants” or “bollocks”. However, if something is totally awesome, we say that it is “the dog’s bollocks”.

Now I’ve asked several Brits (English, Scottish, Irish, and Welsh alike) and none of them seem to have an answer. Why is it that if something is exceedingly great, it is described as being a sweaty, hairy, gross pair of canine genitalia?

Cultures. :-)

How it all Began

I’d say I was probably born with wanderlust. When I was ten years old, my parents were divorced and my Dad took a transfer to Bermuda. My younger brother moved there with him and would tell me all about this strange and magical place he was now living in. The island was only one mile wide, he said. Well, in the United States, that’s the length of some people’s driveways! And thirty-six miles long, I think he said. Well, that’s not much – only to the next town! He told me it was an island surrounded by ocean (“wow!” I thought.) and there were coconut trees and everything! Having grown up in freezing cold Minneapolis, I could only imagine what a coconut tree looked like. This place, Bermuda, must be truly magical. He said that he and Dad went sailing every weekend (another “wow!”)

and that there were near-zero cars in Bermuda. This, to me, was unfathomable. If there were no cars, how did the people get about? How did they go to the store to buy their groceries? How did they go to school and work? My brother said that everyone had either a bicycle or a moped. My Dad explained that because the island is so small, there is no room for big cars on it and that since the weather is generally nice, mopeds work just fine for people. I was amazed. This little place surrounded by lots of ocean and having no cars sounded truly wondrous. And then my brother blew my mind. He told me that he was the only white kid in his school.

Tilt. If the kids aren’t white, what are they? I thought Martians only existed in fiction! He said all the kids in his school had black skin and that he was the only white kid.

Having grown up in white, suburban America, up until that point in my childhood I’m not sure I’d ever seen a black kid before. And now my brother is telling me he attends an entire school full of them! What an incredible place this must be! I wanted to jump on a plane and go right there and then!

Sadly, I never got the chance. I think my mom was afraid that if she let me go, I wouldn’t want to come back. This place sounded so magical, that she was probably right.

However, I did have the opportunity to travel very soon after that, when my Dad then took a job in Ottawa, Canada. By now my brother was back home with my mother and I, but during the school holidays (vacation), we were put on a plane to go spend the summers (3 full months!) with our Dad. Every year I looked forward to this with great adventure. And Canada never disappointed me.

The stewardess always seated my brother and I in the bulkhead, where she could keep an eye on us. From there we could take a sneaky peek at the cockpit and the pilot flying the plane. My brother thought that was well-cool. We would look out the window and marvel at how the cars looked like my brother’s Hot Wheels and the houses looked too small for my Barbies.

Upon landing, we had our first taste of Customs. To a wide-eyed innocent child, the interrogation of the Customs Official was intimidating and strange.

“Are you carrying any produce?” he asked in an ominous tone.

“What’s that?”

“Fruits and vegetables.”

Suddenly I felt sick because I’d eaten an apple on the plane and I knew now that I was going to get in trouble for bringing it into Canada. I just stared at my shoes while I waited for the police to come and take me away and throw me in prison. Luckily, my brother said, “No”, and the Customs Official let us pass.

Although my brother and I had three months off school, my Dad still had to work during part of this time. Go figure. Some days we would stay at his girlfriend’s house and some days we would find our own amusement.

The first time we stayed with my Dad’s girlfriend, I remember she told my brother and I to put on our “runners” and go outside to play. Hmmmm. I knew that we were supposed to play outside, but I was a bit confused about what we were supposed to do before that. I looked at my brother who just gave me a wide-eyed shrug. So, we sat and waited for a clue to fall from the sky into our laps. When we didn’t move, Sandy again suggested that we should put on our runners and go outside. The only “runners” I knew were the carpets in the hallway and the long strips of cloth on dining tables. I was pretty sure she didn’t mean to put these on, so I was still confused. Upon asking, she laughed and explained that “runners” were tennis shoes, track shoes, Nikes.

Another day, as my Dad was leaving for work, he left some money on the dining table for us and said that if we wanted to, we could get a pizza-to-go and eat it on the beach across the street. My Dad lived in a beautiful flat overlooking the Rideau Canal and Mooney’s Bay.

So at lunchtime, we ventured out onto the street and walked down the road to Cicero’s Pizza. We asked the gentleman for a Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza. He looked at us strange and asked, “what?”

“Canadian bacon and pineapple”, we said.

“There’s no such thing as Canadian bacon.”

We were taken aback. “Yes there is! We eat it all the time!”

“Then what is it?” he asked defiantly.

I giggle to myself now as I remember two little kids trying to describe Canadian bacon to the pizza dude. “It’s a little round meat”, we said.

He held up a piece of every round-shaped meat he had.

“No. That’s pepperoni!” “And that’s salami.”

“Wait! It’s that one!” we yelled and pointed as he brought another tray out of the cooler.

“That’s back bacon”, he said matter-of-factly.

And I knew then that this Canada was a cool and different place.

I’ve had the travel bug ever since.

Cyprus

I’m thinking about Cyprus this week, since a friend of mine is going on a cultural exchange program there in just a few days. I’m excited for her, because I’ve had a little taste of what she’s in for. She’ll be staying near Limassol and, if she’s anything like me, her stay won’t be anywhere near long enough.

I found the Greek Cypriot people to be so warm and friendly, so kind and giving, and they have such a great sense of humour, that I could have easily stayed a year. I felt so at home there and it wasn’t just down to the Mediterranean sunshine.




I fell in love with the golden sand beaches and the warm, salty water, so clear you could see forever.






Because the water is so gorgeous, you had a hard time getting me out of it at all. The snorkelling and scuba diving there are first rate. Visibility is forever and the creatures are so beautiful, with a wide variety of flora and fauna placing themselves on display. I easily spent full days under the surface of the ocean, exploring. The experience was absolutely amazing – breathtaking!







But if scuba’s not your thing (and how could it not be? It’s so incredible!), there is plenty to do on the surface of the ocean: jet ski, paragliding, swimming, sailing, etc. You will never be bored in Cyprus.




I hope my friend has the opportunity to see Capo Greco.


It is a picturesque (with 30-some varieties of orchids), protected national park and is famous for its sea caves. The scenery is spectacular – stunning cliffs dropping down to crystal blue sea.

A word of advice when you go to Capo Greco: always carry a bottle of water with you, as the sun can take it out of you before you know it, and be careful not to step on the tiny but beautiful lizards that make their homes in the rocks.


There are some beautiful places of worship on the island and they are well worth seeing, as I’m sure my friend will. Out of respect for the faith of the Cypriot people, it is expected that visitors to any place of worship will show the courtesy of not wearing bathing suits or skimpy hot pants and strappy sun tops inside the church (it is expected that you will cover up with long pants and long sleeved shirt), and will obtain permission before taking flash photographs, as the flash can, over time, ruin artefacts and murals.



If you have the opportunity to attend a worship service, that’s even better. Greek Orthodox is the predominant faith throughout the non-Turkish part of the island. According to the Acts of the Apostles it was founded by Barnabas, Paul, and Mark (45 A.D.). The presence and the contribution of the Orthodox Church are significant to the historical, cultural and social life of Cyprus and the Church’s presence is felt throughout the culture, which is, I’m sure, one of the reasons why these people are so generous and loving.


Like I said, I’m envious of my friend and I’m cheering her on all the way. I hope she falls in love with Cyprus like I did.

Mornings

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Arguably, there are few times of day better than sunrise. The human world is all hushed with quiet, still asleep. There is no traffic noise, no noisy neighbours. Just a quiet stillness, quivering with anticipation for the day ahead. The plant world is awakening to a mist of dew and is stretching out limbs of green foliage to reach the first rays of sun as they peek over the horizon. The animal world is alive and active, with birds singing and seeking insects, bunny rabbits hopping through the fields, all the animals foraging for their first morsels of the day – breakfast.

Little wonder then when my own cat does the same thing.

This is Tigger.

And he has developed an interesting technique for foraging for his breakfast. Generally speaking, between 05:00 and 07:00, he likes to jump on the bed (oof!!) while my partner and I are fast asleep. He makes sure he does this with the full force and complete weight of his body, such that my partner and I wonder if maybe we’d just forgotten last night’s party and had passed out on the trampoline in the neighbour’s back yard.

If catapulting us to the ceiling doesn’t get any attention, he will then stand on my chest and, while purring loudly in my ear, rub his cheeks against my cheeks, to remind me how much he loves me at this time of day. He has chosen me for this special honour because my partner is immune to his charms before sunrise, lost in the blissful oblivion of sleep. Tigger has figured out that I’m a real softie and that it’s difficult for me to yell at him for waking me up two hours before the alarm goes off when I’m feeling all loved up by him. He just purrs and rubs and rubs and purrs, secretly laughing to himself.

He missed his calling. Tigger should have been a psychologist.

So now that I’ve dragged myself out of bed and have fed my poor, starving, and obviously malnourished cat (or so he would have me believe at this time of day), I’m peacefully sitting on the sofa, sipping a mug of hot chocolate, watching the sun come up against the background of birds fluttering in the trees.

And all is right with the world.