The Displaced Nation

A home for international creatives

Welcome to December: No place like home for the holidays (depending on where you call ‘home’)

9 Comments Posted by on December 2, 2011

Every year around this time, I dust off a CD of Christmas songs and play it – pretty much non-stop – in the car. Yesterday, after hearing Mud’s “Lonely This Christmas” once too often, my teenaged son rolled his eyes and asked, “Why are such a lot of Christmas songs so depressing?”

It’s not something I’ve really thought about before, but he’s right. “Blue Christmas”,“All alone on Christmas”, “Last Christmas” – they all tell the same sad story of being forlorn and loveless while everyone else is whooping it up at parties and wearing plastic antlers around the office.

And although I’m not forlorn and loveless, I admit that these are not the songs an expat should be listening to when family and best friends are on the other side of the ocean. No wonder I’ve found Christmas less than inspiring for the last few years, if this has been my playlist of choice.

It’s a fact of expat life that you’re not always able to be with loved ones at the moments when you should be with them. but at least there are plenty of ways to stay in touch, with email, Facebook, Skype, and so on. So many options, in fact, that sending holiday cards in early December seems almost superfluous.

Nevertheless, many of you reading this today will be staying put in your adopted countries, wishing you could be with the folks for Christmas or Hanukkah.

I’ll Be Home For Christmas (if only in my dreams)

We are here to reassure you that spending time away from the relatives isn’t such a bad thing.

For one thing, it’s impossible to argue with relatives when they’re not there. Instead, you can fondly imagine the scene at home – chestnuts roasting, carol singers outside – and ignore the probability that what is actually occurring is a fight over the remote control, a mountain of dishes piling up in the sink, and Uncle Earnest asleep in the comfiest chair, his false teeth slowly obeying the force of gravity and sliding from his gaping mouth.

Keep that picture in mind next time you feel homesick this month.

Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire – or, Home Is Where The Hearth Is

But if you’re still feeling homesick, we at TDN are here to help.

Our December theme revolves around the winter holidays, plus a look back at the year that’s gone by. You can look forward to a recap of our favorite expat books of the year (plus some new ones), our favorite TDN moments, and, during the critical time at the end of the month, The Twelve Nomads of Christmas.

We hope that you enjoy this special month with us!

And now, if you will excuse me, I’m off to make a more cheerful Christmas mix tape.

.

STAY TUNED…for Monday’s interview with Free The Children’s Robin Wiszowaty

 

Pot Luck , ,

5 things expat aid workers like…that other expats also like

7 Comments Posted by on November 15, 2011

People become expats for different reasons.

Many people do it because of a corporate move. Some travel across continents to “find themselves” in pastures new. Others abandon home to live happily ever after (they hope) with the partner of their dreams — who happens to have a different-colored passport.

The few who become expats out of a selfless desire to help the less fortunate appear to be a breed apart from those with less altruistic motives.

Or are they?

While investigating this month’s theme of global philanthropy, we came across the wonderful site “Stuff Expat Aid Workers Like” (hereafter referred to as SEAWL) and discovered that the difference is not as great as one might suppose.

1. All expats compare sparrows with jubjub birds. Because they can.

In his SEAWL post “Making Trivial Comparisons” Brian K (who also blogs at Brian’s Fellowship Musings) says

“One of the favorite pastimes of Expat Aid Workers is making comparisons. The more things you have done or seen, the more things you can compare.”

Not just any old comparisons, but trivial ones that can’t possibly have any meaningful point of reference for your average Joe back home:

Comparing airports that the average traveler has not been to, and probably will not go to. Specifically you should point out some obscure and meaningless aspect of that airport.

While most of us cannot compare the floor tiles at Heathrow Terminal 5 with those at, say, Bentota Airport in Sri Lanka, that doesn’t stop us trying to compare the gratifying welcome at the BA Business Class arrivals lounge in T5 with the unsmiling greeting from Immigration at New York JFK (but only if your audience has never been to one, or preferably either, airport.)

“If the average person would care about, or be able to extract any tangible value from the comparison being made, chances are it is inadequate.”

Of course, another word for these “comparisons” is less flattering. Normal people know it as “name-dropping.”

So you have to do it carefully, and watch out for your audience’s eyes glazing over. As a rule of thumb, assume you’ve overdone it when someone says, “You used to live in Kuala Lumpur/Sydney/Hong Kong? I didn’t know. You should have said.”

If you are the glazed-eyed person on the receiving end of these comparisons, you could do worse than to paraphrase Buzz Lightyear and say:

“Yes. But we’re not on your planet. Are we?”

2. All expats love house parties.

Well, who doesn’t?

Gatherings of like-minded people from similar backgrounds, parties in private houses

“offer a certain amount of privacy to allow the EAW [expat aid worker] to act freely and without consideration for the local culture”

– says V Stanski (Waves of Transition) in a SEAWL post on September 14.

In non-EAW parties, you can make lots of noise, drink more alcohol than is deemed seemly (glossing over the problem of what to do in a ‘dry’ country) and talk about Home while comparing it and previous places where you have lived — favorably, through boozy rose-tinted glasses — with wherever you are at present.

When you move to the next country, your previous location will join the others behind the rose-tints. This is how the serial expat system works.

The more countries you’ve lived in, the more national holidays you’ve experienced, and therefore the more excuses you have to party. Thanksgiving in Shanghai? Christmas in Abu Dhabi? Diwali in Greenland?

Bring them on. And BYOB.

3. All expats love in-flight movies.

Not the actual process of watching the movie, you understand, The experience is invariably spoiled by faceless exhortations to fasten your seatbelt, or your neighbor hiking over your knees to get to the bathroom, or the flight attendant offering you a refreshing beverage of three fluid ounces of Coke in a plastic cup.

No. The pleasure lies in the badge of honor. It’s in the ability to say, when you’re back home with the family and trying to decide which film to watch on Netflix, “Oh, I saw that when I was coming back from [insert country. It’s very important to insert country]. But no, go ahead and watch it. I don’t mind seeing it again.”

Then you can spend the next two hours laughing in anticipation of funny bits, saying, “Watch this!” and “Don’t miss this part, it’s really crucial to the plot” before leaving the room fifteen minutes before the ending while pleading jet lag exhaustion.

4. All expats either enjoy or receive a bit of one-upmanship.

It doesn’t matter how many countries you’ve lived in, or for how long; there will always be someone who has lived in more and for longer.

In the post “Putting You in Your Place” SEAWL call this character “Bob” and say of him:

“This is the bad-ass EAW who’s been there, done that. And he makes sure you know it, subtly of course.”

In corporate expat world, this character is likely to be female. We’ve come across her before in TDN, as the Red Queen during our Alice In Wonderland month:

“She reigns supreme over the expat coffee morning posse and send out Tupperware party invitations which no one dares refuse.”

While cynicism may be Bob’s weapon, the Red Queen uses the less subtle threat of excommunication from the International School’s PTA.

5. All expats love high-frequency swearing.

It’s what we call it in our house: the ability to curse in public and not have people fall over in offended shock, because you’re using words that aren’t considered rude in your present location. It’s the swearing equivalent of those silent dog-whistles.

For EAWs, it’s a bit more complicated.

On October 13, Ryan posted at SEAWL:

“Nothing makes the EAW who is trying too hard feel like he or she as ‘been around’ more than swearing in front of other EAWs in a language which is neither their native tongue nor the language of the country they are in at that time.”

Why is it more complicated for them? Because newbie EAWs are likely to be one-upped (see #4) by more experienced EAWs who can cuss at a greater depth.

But whatever your expat status, new swear words must be used with caution, especially when you’re not sure of the meaning. This is illustrated in an English friend’s story of when she was passing through a large international airport in the USA.

“British, huh?” asked the immigration official. “I got a buddy from England.” He brightened, and screwed his face up in concentration. “What is it they say over there…Oh yeah, I remember.’All right, you wanker?'”

My friend didn’t know where to put herself, or whether to explain to the official that while it can be a term of affection between two buddies at the end of a long drinking session, this exclusively British word is more usually an epithet hurled after the driver of a car that’s just cut you up.

It isn’t generally, though, a greeting given by the immigration bloke at Heathrow.

With cursing, as with most things in an expat life, context is key.

STAY TUNED for another Random Nomad interview in our global philanthropy series

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe to The Displaced Dispatch, a weekly round up of posts from The Displaced Nation, plus seasonal recipes, book giveaways and other extras. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Related posts:

 

Just for Laughs ,

DISPLACED Q: When traveling to developing countries, are you conscious of how you photograph people?

13 Comments Posted by on November 8, 2011

On July 13, 1985, I sat down in front of the TV at noon and scarcely moved for the rest of the day. Millions of people around the world did exactly the same.

It was the day of Live Aid, of course – the brain child of Bob Geldof and Midge Ure, who organized this worldwide concert to raise money for the starving in Ethiopia.

While news reports the following day stated that around £50m had been raised (and this figure eventually turned out to be much higher), seven hours into the UK concert, reputedly only £1.2m had been raised. Bob Geldof’s reaction to this information spawned what was, for me, the second most memorable moment of that day – his impassioned, four-letter outburst on live BBC TV, in which he begged the public to send in their money.

Note that I said “second most memorable moment.” The image of Live Aid that most clearly remains with me 26 years later – apart from Queen’s rendition of “Radio Ga Ga” – is the montage of film and photographs of suffering Ethiopians, set to the song “Drive” by The Cars.

After Geldof’s outburst, it is said that donations increased to £300 per second, and after The Cars’ video, the rate increased even more. While I can’t verify those facts, I do know my own checkbook came out as the last note of “Drive” died away.

A surprising legacy

One would think this global event, born from pure and altruistic motives, could only leave a trail of good in its wake. However, a 2002 report by the British VSO (Voluntary Services Overseas) called “The Live Aid Legacy” highlighted some unexpected side effects regarding the way Westerners (Britons) now saw the developing world.

Its first key finding was:

Starving children with flies around their eyes: 80% of the British public strongly associate the developing world with doom-laden images of famine, disaster and Western aid. Sixteen years on from Live Aid, these images are still top of mind and maintain a powerful grip on the British psyche.

Given my own memories of Live Aid, I can believe that.

Victims are seen as less human: Stereotypes of deprivation and poverty, together with images of Western aid, can lead to an impression that people in the developing world are helpless victims. 74% of the British public believe that these countries ‘depend on the money and knowledge of the West to progress.’

– which disturbingly leads to:

False sense of superiority and inferiority: The danger of stereotypes of this depth and magnitude is the psychological relationship they create between the developed and the developing world, which revolves around an implicit sense of superiority and inferiority.

Probably not what Bob Geldof had in mind when he wrote the first lines of “Do they know it’s Christmas?”

A picturesque plea for help, or poverty porn?

Matt Collin, author of the blog Aid Thoughts and our Random Nomad tomorrow, is in no doubt that too many photographs in the media cross the line into “poverty porn.”

In his recent post, Guardians of poverty porn, Matt takes The Guardian newspaper to task for printing a photograph which, he feels, has all the checks in boxes to qualify as Poverty Porn.

  • Very cute, if impoverished, Haitian child? Check
  • No shirt? Check
  • Other cute, impoverished children, for context? Check
  • Longing gazes upward (where you look down upon them and consider yourself gracious and merciful donor). Check
  • Hands outstretched to receive help. Check

In other words, the photo falls rather neatly under the category of stereotypical images to which the VSO report referred — nearly ten years later after the report was written.

A fuller picture – or photograph

No one is denying that humanitarian crises exist in the developing world.

Ashley Jonathan Clements, photographer of the picture above, is “a nomadic aid worker with a passion for photography.” Although he must have witnessed more devastating scenes than most of us will ever do, his photographs on his website show a more balanced picture. (Do head over to his site and take a look.)

While Ashley is not a professional photographer, his photographs show a wider perspective of humanitarian situations.

The picture of the boy with a camera, for example, was taken in Haiti, at one of Port-au-Prince’s displacement camps – as was the picture in the Guardian article.

Everyone’s responsibility

An uplifting key point from the VSO report:

More than half want the whole story: The strongest call is to media, particularly television. 55% of British people say they want to see more of the everyday life, history and culture of the developing world on television. They want to see the positives as well as the negatives, and they want context and background to a news story.

With today’s proliferation of travel blogs, it is important to remember that we are now all “media”.

So, the question is — are you conscious of how you photograph people?

.

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s Random Nomad, Matt Collin!

Img: A Budding Photographer in the Midst of Camp Chaos by Ashley Jonathan Clements

Related Posts:

7 extraordinary women travelers with a passion to save souls

RANDOM NOMAD: Vilma Ilie, Research Associate for Sub-Saharan Africa

All hail Sir Richard Branson, along with global nomads who delve into global misery

, , , , , ,

12 French cooking terms — a glossary for kitchen dummies, or anyone not lucky enough to be an expat in France

2 Comments Posted by on October 14, 2011

Although Julia Child made a career out of teaching French cuisine to the masses, not all of us have had the opportunity to practice our culinary skills to the extent that good lady may have envisioned.

Still, the good news is, sometimes we use French cooking methods without even realizing it.

For those not lucky enough to live in France or to have studied French cooking for a dedicated period, here is a short glossary of common terms — as defined by culinary experts (Master Chefs) and dummies (whose experience tends toward Gordan Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares).

1. BEIGNETS –
Master Chef Definition: Small lumps of fried dough.
Kitchen Nightmare Definition: Donut holes. (See: Dunkin Donut, Krispy Kremes, Fairground stands, etc.)

2. BEURRE NOISETTE –
MC Definition: Browned butter.
KN Definition: The realistic result of squabbling children and the following recipe direction: “Gently melt 1 ounce of butter over a low heat.”

3. CANAPE –
MC Definition: An appetizer consisting of a piece of bread or toast or a cracker topped with a savory spread (such as caviar or cheese.)
KN Definition: Ritz crackers and Marmite.

4. CHAPELUX –
MC Definition: Browned bread crumbs.
KN Definition: The contents of the toaster’s crumb-catcher.

5. CROUTONS –
MC Definition: Small cubes of toasted or crisply fried bread
KN Definition: The best part of a salad.

 6. DARIOLE –
MC Definition: A small cup-shaped mold used for making individual dishes.
KN Definition: A small cup-shaped mold in a set of six, bought in a fit of retail therapy enthusiasm in specialist kitchen shop. Used once for packet Jell-O. Now gathering dust at back of pantry, possibly with the addition of dead wasp or similar.

7. DEGLACER – 
MC Definition: To dissolve cooking juices attached to the sides of a pot or pan with a little hot liquid to create a sauce. 
KN Definition: A way of cleaning the burnt bits off a pan without using a Brillo pad.

8. ESCALOPE –
MC Definition: A piece of boneless meat, thinned out by using a mallet.
KN Definition: 1) A method of making the dregs of the freezer go further; 2) Friday night stress-reliever after aggravating week.

9. FLAMBE
MC Definition: Covered with liquor and set alight briefly.
KN Definition: A sinful waste of good alcohol.

10. MARMITE
MC Definition: An earthenware container for soup.
KN Definition:  Oh come on. Everyone knows what Marmite really is. (See “Canape”)

11. RECHAUFEE –
MC Definition: Reheated food.
KN Definition:  A fancy word to disguise the fact you’re giving the family leftovers for the third day in a row.

12. TERRINE –
MC Definition: A mixture of chopped ingredients baked in a loaf-shaped container, served at room temperature.
KN Definition: Day-old meat loaf

STAY TUNED for Monday’s Recipe Review – A Parisian Lunch in Manhattan.

Related posts:

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe for email delivery of The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of the week’s posts from The Displaced Nation. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Image: MorgueFile

Just for Laughs , , , ,

DISPLACED Q: In modern French cuisine, who wins the race — the slow-food tortoise or the McDonald’s fast-food hare?

7 Comments Posted by on October 4, 2011

In yesterday’s post on French cooking guru Julia Child, ML Awanohara wrote about the Slow Food movement, which began life in the 1980s in resistance against big international interests and, more specifically, the opening of a McDonald’s near the Spanish Steps in Rome.

Today, on its website, Slow Food states it aims to

counter the rise of fast food and fast life, the disappearance of local food traditions and people’s dwindling interest in the food they eat, where it comes from, how it tastes and how our food choices affect the rest of the world.

Valid and valiant aims in an eco-conscious world that nevertheless marches toward global homogenization.

Slow and steady? Or just slow?

Yesterday, ML also expressed her bemusement that the movement started in Italy, not France — a reaction I share with her, because if one traditional cuisine takes le gateau when it comes to drawn-out toiling over a hot stove, it’s the French.

Learning the nuances of French cooking isn’t something I’ve ever yearned to do. While I am full of admiration for Julie Powell and her quest to conquer all 524 recipes in Julia Child’s tome of French cooking, I have no desire to repeat the exercise myself.

Well, perhaps that is no more you would expect of me. I am British, after all — Brits aren’t famed for their good food, although of course I feel this reputation is undeserved — and I have lived much of my life in America, home of fast foods such as Burger King and McDonald’s.

Do I exist on cheeseburgers and fries, though? Absolutely not. Rarely, in fact. I cook most things, from traditional English cakes and roast dinners to an authentic variety of Indian, Chinese, and Thai dishes. When it comes to French cuisine, though, my repertoire is limited to creme brulee and cherry clafoutis.

My reason? I’m not prepared to spend vast swathes of my evening preparing an eighteen-ingredient, three-page recipe when I can get an enthusiastic reception from my family by cooking a Ken Hom stir fry in one-third of the time.

But no matter the nationality of food I cook, it’s rare that our family does not sit down together in the dining room and eat together. The way I see it, rather less time spent in the kitchen means more time eating and conversing as a family.

Could it be that French cuisine has shot itself in the foot with its complicated nature?

Winning by a hare’s breadbun?

In his 2008 article in The Times, Hugo Rifkind describes McDonald’s as

“France’s dirty secret.”

Three years ago, Paris had around 70 McDonald’s — or McDoh’s, as they’re known there — which is the same number as in London, in a city with a third of London’s population.

Rifkind says:

Stop any Frenchman on the street…and he will shrug and snarl and say that he doesn’t eat in McDonald’s.

But someone does, and it can’t be just the tourists.

Evidence suggests that the image of the French businessman taking a two-hour, multi-course lunch is gradually being consigned to the past, and instead of lingering over a bottle of fine red and runny camembert, Monsieur is adopting the regrettable Anglo-American habit of lunch on the hop.

One oft-quoted statistic is that the length of the average French meal has fallen from 1 hour 22 minutes in 1978 to a mere 38 minutes today.

A sad statistic indeed.

While McDonald’s is trying to cater to the French palate by introducing the McBaguette and the Croque McDo, I feel this is missing the point.

Food is not just about fueling the body.

It is about taking time out of your day to enjoy time and conversation with friends. It should be about savoring the taste of good flavors, not about stuffing a sandwich down your gullet as fast as possible so you can make that meeting at one o’clock.

In Aesop’s fable, the tortoise eventually won the race.

In this race, I hope the Snail does.

STAY TUNED for Wednesday’s guest post by a serial expat who has recently moved to Provence.

Related post:

When a Julia Child-like curiosity about French cuisine leads to a displaced life — bienvenue au October theme

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe for email delivery of The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of the week’s posts from The Displaced Nation. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Img: MorgueFile

Just for Laughs , , , , ,

Music for a road trip? Anything but a certain song…

Leave a comment Posted by on September 20, 2011

Mothers of school age children can spend hours at a time in the car — a mini road trip every day, ferrying the kids between school, karate, swimming lessons, music lessons…

This piece, originally titled “California Guys”, first appeared on my own blog, Marmite and Fluff, after I had heard a certain song on the car radio once too often..

I confess to a certain love of Coen Brothers’ movies, especially The Big Lebowski, and in particular the scene where a taxi driver hauls Jeff Bridges bodily from his cab and drives off in a fury. Bridges’ character, “The Dude,” had been stupid enough to ask the driver to change the radio station, because he’s had a rough day and he hates the f***ing Eagles, man.

Dude. I sympathize. I used to like the Eagles. Our scratched vinyl copy of their Greatest Hits proves it. But some years ago – the month we moved to America, in fact — everything changed. It started with the purchase of a Dodge Grand Caravan, an FM radio, and ten programmable presets. After two days we took the car back to the dealer. “There’s something wrong with this radio!” we complained. “It only plays ‘Hotel California’!”

The repairman twiddled with the dials, humming all the while about a dark desert highway and cool wind in his hair, and shrugged. “Seems fine to me,” he said. “That’s what it’s supposed to play.”

Later that day, pushing a shopping cart through the orange juice aisle, I heard Don Henley’s voice on the supermarket speakers, telling me that I could check out any time I liked but I could never leave. By now, I’d heard him say this so often that I was beginning to believe him, so I abandoned the juice and cart mid-aisle, in case he was serious.

After that, I could only listen to one Eagle at a time. Glenn Frey and “The Heat Is On”? You bet. Don Henley and “Boys Of Summer”? Bring it on and turn it up! But the Eagles ensemble telling me to Take It Easy would – paraphrasing slightly – Take Me To The Limit of my endurance.

Most listeners of American FM radio will know what I mean. It’s not just Eagles, of course; Elton John, Rod Stewart, Phil Collins, to name but three — all played ad nauseum. Sometimes it’s as if those artists’ peers never existed. Sometimes it’s as if the Nineties never existed. Ironically, that was what I initially loved about American radio, because I’d never graduated from Eighties’ hairbands to Seattle grunge. So I learned to live with the Eagles et al, because they’d occasionally get off the turntable and let Van Halen have a spin.

Eagles airwave-saturation could even have its advantages. No matter how much I wanted to kick The New Kid out of Town, it also seemed that Cliff Richard, a singer beloved by British radio for fifty years, and shunned by me for — well, not quite that long — was practically unknown over here. Never again would I have to listen to the Cliff Richard Annual Christmas Hit! No more Cliff Richard Recycled Golden Oldies to put me off my morning oatmeal! It was an ill wind, indeed.

And so it remained until my Dodge developed terminal transmission failure and we bade farewell. Enter another car with satellite radio. Enter the Hairbands channel, the Soppy Songs channel, and, to my kids’ dismay, the E Street Channel with 24/7 Springsteen. One day, they will avoid “Born to Run” as much as I avoided “Hotel California”. However, the driver of the car was happy, and that was the main thing.

But nothing lasts forever. Something was missing: a sparring partner, perhaps. The turning point came when I heard a new Eagles’ song and thought, “Darn it! I like this!” I found myself genuinely disappointed that I’d be Too Busy Being Fabulous on vacation at the time of their Connecticut gig. I’d come full circle. It was time to make my peace.

It’s been a gradual process, of course. I can listen to entire lesser-known Eagles songs without changing channels mid-track, but still haven’t managed all of Hotel California. Give me time. At least I no longer want to Kill the Beast.

But everything comes at a price. The satellite radio, my once-savior, turned against me. When I pulled into the garage last night, a song started playing in the car — a song I haven’t heard for a long time. Not since I listened to BBC morning radio, 3000 miles and a decade and a half away. Cliff Richard, sneaking onto American airwaves with a Golden Oldie. He wasn’t supposed to follow me over here. That wasn’t part of the deal.

Or as John Goodman in The Big Lebowski might put it, “This is not ‘Nam. There are rules.”

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe to The Displaced Dispatch, a weekly round up of posts from The Displaced Nation, plus some extras such as seasonal recipes and occasional book giveaways. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Related posts:

Img: MorgueFile

Just for Laughs ,

6 kinds of road trips and the best cars, real and fantasy, to travel in

3 Comments Posted by on September 19, 2011

To take a road trip, one must have a suitable mode of transport. Most of our road trips were made in a soccer-mom-mobile — a 1997 Dodge Grand Caravan, high in practicality but decidedly low in street cred. For our young family 14 years ago, however, it was perfect as we traveled through Maine, Quebec, Ontario, and New York.

Robert Pirsig’s Honda motorcycle, no matter how charismatic the ride or perfect the windshield-less view, would have been unfit for purpose if the purpose was to transport two children under the age of four.

So when people ask, “What’s the best vehicle for a road trip?” the answer will depend on another question:

“What kind of road trip?”

1. The Ghost Hunters Trip

The Fantasy – The Scooby Doo Mystery Machine.

The Reality – While the exact make and model of the Mystery Machine is unclear in the original cartoon, and a search on Google images brings up all manner of vehicles painted to resemble it (including a Dodge Grand Caravan — now, why didn’t I think of that?) I feel there is only one van that will fit this role: the VW camper.

A child of the hippie era, the VW encapsulates the eccentricity required for a ghost hunting trip. Film maker Elliott Bristow made a 500,000 mile trip around America between 1968 and 1982, much of it in a VW camper in which he had his own supernatural experience on an old Indian battle site.

Optional extras — large slobbering dog, at additional cost.

2. The Paris Hilton Trip

The Fantasy – Penelope Pitstop’s pink car from Wacky Races. In a 2009 survey by women’s motor insurer Diamond, around a fifth of the polled female motorists admitted to applying mascara while driving, and three per cent admitted causing an accident by doing so. These numbers statistically equate to “half a million road crashes caused by women applying make-up.” Penelope Pitstop’s pink car with its automatic lipstick applicator, therefore, would be an ideal choice for young women whose multi-tasking ability is limited to watching the road and changing gear.

The Reality — While Penelope’s car may be a reality at car shows (yes, I’ve seen it at Goodwood Festival of Speed) it probably, alas, doesn’t come with a lipstick applicator. All is not lost, though. Earlier this year, Google was lobbying for legislation to make Nevada the first state to allow their self-driving cars on the road, and which would include an exemption on the ban of texting — and therefore, one assumes, the application of lip gloss — at the wheel.

Optional extras — Bring a Southern Belle accent by all means, but leave the Southern Comfort at home. I’m pretty sure even self-driving cars wouldn’t be exempt from drink-driving laws.

3. The Girls’ Weekend

The Fantasy — A blue 1966 Thunderbird, as driven by Susan Sarandon in Thelma and Louise.

The Reality — There are still quite a few of these cars around, at varying prices. Try eBay. However much you pay for the car, don’t expect to find a hitchhiker who looks like Brad Pitt.

Optional extras — Radar detector where legal. Hitchhiker ejector seat.

4. The Flying Visit Trip

The Fantasy — Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Now, how useful would this car be? On a long stretch of dull highway or upon approaching a traffic jam, to press a button, unfold a set of wings, and zoom ahead like ET on a bicycle. Or when you come to some obstacle in the road — like, say, the Grand Canyon. (See “The Girls’ Weekend”.)

The Reality — The Terrafugia Transition. Is it a car? Is it a plane? It’s both. You land on the runway, fold up the wings, and drive home. The Massachusetts-based manufacturer estimates that the first delivery of this machine will be late 2012, and it will cost just under US$300,000.

Optional extras — Call me pessimistic, but a parachute would be nice.

5. The Great Lakes Trip — without waiting for a bridge

The Fantasy — James Bond’s Lotus Esprit. You know the one, in The Spy Who Loved Me. Roger Moore and Barbara Bach take a dive into the sea in this car, which miraculously turns into a submarine. Useful for crossing large stretches of water.

The Reality — The Lotus Elise sQuba. Concept car designer Frank Rinderknecht adapted a Lotus Elise to travel underwater. It can manage about two hours — until the batteries or oxygen run out. Sadly, this car remains just a concept.

Optional extras — As in Hitchhiker’s Guide, never travel in this one without a towel.

6. The Christmas Road Trip

The Fantasy — Santa’s Sleigh and Reindeer. I used to think Santa Claus’s transport was a very neat trick — time travel and flying deer in one machine.

The Reality — No reindeer, but an elk of sorts. This week we came across a road trip post at Sarah Melamed’s site, Food Bridge. (Do check it out. Some great photos, and other wonderful posts on food.) Sarah and her husband rented an RV for the summer and traveled from New York through Maine to Nova Scotia. The RV — pictured above — had a large dent in its front, apparently due to the previous renters crashing it into an elk in Montana. Hence the name Sarah gave it: the Elk-Mobile. The large dent, Sarah says, gave her and her husband credibility among the RV clan, even though they were “amateurs” in the RV world.

Optional extras — deer, readily available in your own back yard, to add a few dings where necessary.

If only I had known it was that simple to gain street cred when I owned my Caravan.

STAY TUNED for Tuesday’s post, on the diner food sometimes encountered on American road trips (It’s Food!).

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe to The Displaced Dispatch, a weekly round up of posts from The Displaced Nation, plus some extras such as seasonal recipes and occasional book giveaways. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Related posts:

Image: MorgueFile

Just for Laughs ,

The Displaced Q: Road trip – a simple journey, or a life-changing event?

7 Comments Posted by on September 13, 2011

Every year, a small number of people in biking leathers get on their motorcycles in Minnesota and set off on back roads toward the Dakotas. From Montana, they swerve briefly into Idaho and Wyoming, before riding across Oregon and down the final stretch to San Francisco.

They’re known as Pirsig’s Pilgrims — bikers who faithfully follow the route that Robert Pirsig took in 1968, as chronicled in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

San Francisco is not the destination, but merely where the journey ends. It’s a pilgrimage, sure — but the whole journey is the destination for these dedicated riders.

Still, the question is — Why? Why do they do this?

I’m not a fan of biking (despite being married to an enthusiast) and traveling 1700 miles in this fashion seems…well. Uncomfortable at best, downright dangerous at worst, is my view of bikes. But perhaps there’s more to this journey than the automotive experience for these people?

Pirsig’s account of the journey  is interspersed with philosophical musings, meanderings, and revelations that make light bulbs flash bright in the reader’s head.

Could his Pilgrims, in fact, be searching for an epiphany?

Many cultures demand a period of time in solitude in which to grow spiritually. Australian Aborigine adolescents, for example, would live in the outback for many months, tracing the paths of their ancestors and, one assumes, learning deeply from the experience.

Today, the nearest equivalent we have in the western world is a few years at college, and while you can argue that the experience transforms, it’s not exactly spiritual. (Not that kind of spirit, anyway.) However, many young people choose to take a gap year, remove themselves from their everyday world, and backpack their way through Asia or Australia.

Could it be that this yearning to travel to nowhere in particular, where the journey itself is the point of the exercise, is part of our make up, a necessary part of everyone’s growth?

And what if we missed out on the experience in our own youth? Backpacking isn’t for the faint-hearted, or for the achy knees that come with a certain age.

Road trips. That’s what happens.

We all know that living abroad as an expat is life-changing, but even expats want to travel within the confines of their new location. Our first vacation while living in the US was a road trip. Armed with a minivan, a preschooler, a four-month-old baby, and all the paraphernalia small children accumulate, we set off from Connecticut toward Maine, Montreal, Toronto, Niagara, and back home through upstate New York. (Readers of last week’s Libby’s Life might find some of this itinerary familiar;  I hasten to add that Libby and I have only the itinerary in common.) It was a good trip, even accounting for children’s travel sickness.

Was it life changing, though? Not really — the most memorable moment of the trip was upon checking into a hotel room in Montreal, to discover that Princess Diana had been involved in a car accident in Paris. I didn’t need to be on a road trip to be affected by that.

But one day, in a few years’ time, we will take another road trip, minus toddler and small baby, and drive across America, coast to coast. Maybe we will ditch the car for a motorcycle in Montana, and by that time I’ll be brave enough to view the Big Sky state without the encumbrance of a windshield. And maybe I’ll have that epiphany.

Or — here’s a thought. Perhaps it’s already waiting, within me. To quote Pirsig:

“The only Zen you can find on the tops of mountains is the Zen you bring up there.”

Question: Have you ever taken a road trip, and if so, was it the best or worst thing you ever did? And did it change your life? 

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe for email delivery of The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of the week’s posts from The Displaced Nation. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Related posts:

The John Steinbeck Encyclopaedia of Road Trips

Announcing September’s theme: Zen and the Art of Road Trips

Image: MorgueFile

, , ,

Announcing September’s theme: Zen and the Art of Road Trips

Leave a comment Posted by on September 6, 2011

For many of us, Autumn is a time to reassess.

The dog days of summer are over, the leaves are starting to turn, and as winter approaches it’s inevitable we wonder where time has gone – and what we have done with it — since the last snows melted.

September in my part of the world happens to be a sweet spot in the annual weather pattern. For six weeks or so, the temperature and humidity are equable, and the New England fall foliage is spectacular.

This period around the equinox, it seems, is a time for last-minute new beginnings before winter sets in; a time to think about Life’s direction; a time to blow away the cobwebs.

It is, in short, the perfect time for a road trip.

“It’s a little better to travel than to arrive.”

In the summer of 1968, Robert Pirsig made a 17-day journey from Minnesota to California on his Honda CB77 Super Hawk, with his 11-year-old son, Chris, riding pillion. With them were Pirsig’s friends, John and Sylvia Sullivan, on their BMW. While it was a time for geographical exploration, it was also a time for meditation. Pirsig commented:

Unless you’re fond of hollering you don’t make great conversations on a running cycle. Instead you spend your time being aware of things and meditating on them.

His memoir of the trip, entwined with his philosophical explorations, of course, became the modern classic “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.”

This month we will be looking at this book, and asking ourselves what lessons we can derive from it that apply to today’s travelers and expats.

“Although motorcycle riding is romantic, motorcycle maintenance is purely classic.”

A concept Pirsig explores is that of romantic versus classical approaches to life: a Romantic focuses on being in the moment, rather than on rational analysis, whereas a Classically minded person wants to know all the details and inner workings of a situation.

When we travel, who among us likes to know the story behind the places we visit — and who is content to observe the surface appearance?

“To live only for some future goal is shallow. It’s the sides of the mountain which sustain life, not the top.”

In other words, as we’ve all seen on those motivational posters, it’s the journey that counts, not the destination.

How many of us are guilty of ignoring the mountain flowers as we climb the mountain, or of ignoring the minutiae of daily life in a small town as we travel through it?

“You look at where you’re going and where you are and it never makes sense, but then you look back at where you’ve been and a pattern seems to emerge.”

And then we arrive at the top of the mountain — or at the end point of our long journey — and we look around.

“Is this it?” we wonder.

Look around. Look a little farther. Look behind you, from where you came. That long journey?  You did that. All those random events, good and bad — the pit stops at old-fashioned diners, the Good Samaritan who helped you change a tire in the middle of nowhere, the time you ‘paid it forward’ by helping someone else on their journey — they all formed a pattern that has become part of your life.

Now, doesn’t that look better?

“The place to improve the world is first in one’s own heart and head and hands, and then work outward from there.”

So this September, The Displaced Nation will be talking about all things road trips.

Who makes them? Why?

And are they really times of new beginnings?
If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe for email delivery of The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of the week’s posts from The Displaced Nation. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

 

Pot Luck , ,

Family visits — 3 universally acknowledged truths by Jane Austen

1 Comment Posted by on September 5, 2011

Summer is the time when displaced people often visit or are visited by their families, and because of the distances involved, this usually means more than just popping round for a quick cup of tea.

As easy air travel is a fairly recent innovation, it’s tempting to think of these lengthy visits as recent also. They’re not, of course. A hundred-mile trip by horse and carriage two hundred years ago to see family was as tiring as a flight from Heathrow to Sydney now, and visits would last several weeks.

It’s only the mode of transport that has changed, though.

Take it from Jane herself.

1. Eliza Bennet Syndrome

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a displaced person in possession of a new abode in slightly exotic location, must be in want of visitors from home.

I feel sorry for Eliza Bennet. Despite marrying the richest man in Derbyshire and living in a house only slightly smaller than that county, she would always bear the burden of her awful relatives.

Even Pemberley wouldn’t have been big enough when they came to visit — and visit they surely would, as Jane Austen’s characters spent much time in the company of relatives scattered around England.

Evidently, it was dangerous to do otherwise – a visit with a mere friend to that iniquitous den, Brighton, resulted in social and financial ruin for Lydia Bennet when she eloped with Mr Wickham.

A decorous horse-and-carriage trip through Derbyshire with a respectable aunt and uncle, however, rewarded her sister Eliza with a good-looking (if emotionally constipated) husband, and her share of his ten thousand a year.

The moral, gentle reader: If you do not wish to be blamed for the consequences of young visitors searching for a good time with unsuitable handsome army officers, ensure that your foreign abode is in a quiet backwater where the only entertainment is weekly bingo in the church hall. Don’t live near a British bar in Ibiza. If you can find a house big enough so the raucous tones of your visiting mother cannot be heard by you or your neighbors, so much the better.

2. Mr Woodhouse Syndrome

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that some people will never visit on your own territory, and when you visit theirs, it is never for long enough to keep them happy.

Some people will never visit you, believing flights only travel in one direction, or that you live somewhere foreign and unhealthy. It is, therefore, your duty to visit them, since you were thoughtless enough to move away in the first place.

Emma Woodhouse’s father fell into this category of people. Although his married daughter, Isabella, lived only sixteen miles away in London, he disliked visiting her because

“…the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!–and the air so bad!”

Instead, to see her father, poor Isabella had to drag her entourage of five children to Highbury, where Mr Woodhouse would offer her a nice welcoming bowl of gruel.

She had nothing to wish…but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a delightful visit;–perfect, in being much too short.

Too short for her father, that is. Not Isabella. She was just being polite. Take it from me.

The moral, gentle reader: Bring your own bottle. You’re going to need it, especially if all your folks have to offer is gruel for supper.

3. Fanny Price Syndrome

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that the longer you have lived away, the more foreign your home country will feel, and at some point you will ponder the issue of whether it is possible to go home again.

Fanny Price, protagonist of Mansfield Park, and a lesser-known heroine than Eliza Bennet and Emma Woodhouse, understood this better than most.

At the age of nine, Fanny was booted from her home in Portsmouth to live at Mansfield Park with her advantageously-married aunt, to make room for yet another baby in her own family. Desperately homesick and missing her beloved brother William, Fanny is the Cinderella of her adopted family, mocked by her society cousins, and used as whipping-girl and general dogsbody by her two aunts. It wasn’t quite Charles Dickens territory — Fanny was given proper food — but it wasn’t far off.

She did, however, have a raging crush on her cousin, Edmund. Enough said.

Regardless of Fanny’s feelings for her cousin, one might assume that she would one day be glad to leave her aunt’s house and visit her family in Portsmouth. When she eventually did, it was many years after her first arrival, and as her uncle’s punishment for refusing to marry Henry Crawford, an upper-class philanderer. The implication was that, just as Fanny had been raised in society by her uncle, so could she once again descend to her miserable roots if her uncle chose.

While Fanny’s visit in no way persuaded her to marry that cad, Henry, she did realize that her spiritual home was no longer with her parents and siblings. Her parents, whom presumably she had loved at one time, and who had never mistreated her, were a huge disappointment to her. She perceived her mother as

a partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern.

So, conveniently forgetting the unkindness of her Aunt Norris and her cousins, and the indolent neglect of her Aunt Bertram,

[Fanny] could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates, its happy ways. Every thing where she was was in full contrast to it. The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony — and perhaps, above all, the peace and tranquility of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance every hour.

The moral, gentle reader: Are you sure you can never go home — or are you, in fact, suffering from Stockholm Syndrome?

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe for email delivery of The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of the week’s posts from The Displaced Nation. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Img: 1869 engraving of Jane Austen, based on a sketch by her sister, Cassandra Austen (WikiCommons)

, , ,

← Older posts

Newer posts →