The Displaced Nation

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Category Archives: Just for Laughs

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

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

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Dear Mary-Sue: Gap year destinations and learning to speak properly

Mary-Sue Wallace, The Displaced Nation’s agony aunt is back. Her thoughtful advice eases and soothes any cross-cultural quandary or travel-related confusion you may have. Submit your questions and comments here, or else by emailing her at thedisplacednation@gmail.com.

Dear Mary-Sue,

I’m in my last year of school, but instead of just mundanely heading off to university next September I’m planning on taking a gap year. I have some older friends who went on gap years and I was really impressed with how it rounded out their CVs. I was initially thinking of going to an ashram, but then I thought that I should go to where I can be the most useful. As I’ve heard you’re such a font of knowledge when it comes to matters of travel and international relations. Any suggestions?

Archie, Bath, England.

Dear Archie,

Go where you are most needed, sweet noble prince.  I say Somalia. Or Fresno.

Dear Mary-Sue,

I love reading the little globules of wisdom you spit out for us. I think we must have been separated at birth! We’re like two peas in a pod. Like you, I live in Arizona and I love all things British. Even the crap stuff like Torchwood. Anyhoo (wonder who I learned that term from? I love it! Use it all the time) I have one teeny query re: my one little teeny — my 13-year-old son, Scott. The other day I was watching Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince for, like, the thousandth time and I was thinking: why can’t my Scott speak like one of those lovely Harry Potter teenagers? I want him to sound a little more Dan Radcliffe and a little less Dan Ackroyd.

Susie-May, Arizona

p.s. Want to meet up?

Dear Susie May,

I have two words for you: Nicholas Witchell. Being a committed member of the sisterhood of the tea cosy (that’s the Mary-Sue term for an anglophile), you doubtless knew about the divine Nicholas W. His fiery red hair matching his fiery red passion. He’s clearly sex-on-legs — am I right or am I right, girls? Being the BBC Royal Correspondent, Nicholas not only has brains but also a healthy, deferential respect for constitutional monarchies. Now what I suggest is that you go onto YouTube and find all the Nicholas Witchell footage that you can find. Now your son Scott needs to spend at least an hour a day listening to Nicholas’s dulcet tones. Hopefully, he’ll do it willingly, but if he doesn’t then you may need to strap him down to a gurney. Also, if you take the audio from the videos and burn it onto a CD, you can make sure when Scott goes to bed, he turns on the CD. While he’s asleep the soothing voice of Nicky W. will be playing in Scott’s ears. Subconsciously, Scott’s brain will absorb all of Nicholas Witchell’s good speaking habits and before you know it little Scott will be like your own Little Lord Fauntleroy.

Mary-Sue

p.s. No.

Anyhoo, that’s all from me readers. I’m so keen to hear about your cultural issues and all your juicy problems. Do drop me a line with any problems you have, or if you want to share your fave meatloaf recipe with me (yum! yum!). As they say in Italy, “ciao!”

Mary-Sue is a retired travel agent who lives in Tulsa with her husband Jake. She has taken a credited course in therapy from Tulsa Community College and is the best-selling author of Traveling Made Easy, Low-Fat Chicken Soup for the Traveler’s Soul, The Art of War: The Authorized Biography of Samantha Brown, and William Shatner’s TekWar: An Unofficial Guide. If you have any questions that you would like Mary-Sue to answer, you can contact her at thedisplacednation@gmail.com, or by adding to the comments below.

STAY TUNED for Monday’s post.

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

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.

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Dear Mary-Sue: Things to do in Paris

Mary-Sue Wallace is back and she’s dishing out advice to the helpless like it were soup, soup from a big tureen of common sense in the soup kitchen we call the blogosphere … or something like that. If you are looking for solace, then you need Mary-Sue Wallace. Submit your questions and comments here, or if you are a shy bunny requesting anonymity then you can email Mary-Sue directly at thedisplacednation@gmail.com.

Dear Mary-Sue,

Growing up here in Japan as a big-time Francophile, all my life I’ve wanted to visit Paris. This fall I finally have a chance to go visit it for myself. I am so happy at the thought. I will get to stroll the streets and eat plenty of good food. Being such a travel expert could you give me a list of the top things you think I should do when visiting Paris?

— PA, Kyoto

Dear PA,

Ol’ Coley Porter put it best when he wrote that lovely classic of his, I love Paris. “I love Paris in the springtime / I love Paris in the fall / I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles / I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles.” And that sums up so perfectly and so succinctly my own thoughts about this darlin’ city. No matter the time of year, I fall in love with it. Whenever I arrive in Paris, I always make sure on that first night that I go for a stroll along the Seine. Ah, bliss. And when that’s over I go to a little cafe that I adore that is called…

….wait a moment….

….hmm….

….I’m sorry about this, PA, but I just noticed that you wrote that you’re from Japan. In that case, forget Paris. It’s overrated. Have you thought of visiting Malmo? I hear there’s also an interesting cement works in Frankfurt, you could go there. I’m sure it’s fascinating. And people keep telling me Swansea is the Paris of south Wales…

…Aw, shoot. As a loyal Mary-Sue-ite, you deserve a fuller explanation from me, PA. A Japanese Francophile finally visiting Paris after a lifetime of waiting? Aw, honey, sounds like you could be a prime candidate for Paris syndrome. Certain places just seem to have a strange effect on people. Believe me, I know this only too well. It’s why I’m never going back to Jerusalem. Went on a cruise there with my hubby Jake a few years back. Darn it if he didn’t come over all Messianic on me – thought he could walk on water. Well, the fine people at Cunard weren’t too impressed when he went overboard when trying to be all Matthew 14.

And Paris syndrome ‘aint no picnic either, honey. You can end up psychologically destabilized, suffering anxiety, hallucinations, feelings of persecution. Many Japanese visitors to Paris go there with such a romanticized image of the city and its occupants, that it’s a place of sophistication and politeness, that when they finally get there and see for themself the surly, rude reality of Paris they simply can’t cope. 

So PA, I ask again, have you thought about going to Frankfurt? 

— Mary-Sue

Anyhoo, that’s all from me readers. I’m so keen to hear about your cultural issues and all your juicy problems. Do drop me a line with any problems you have.

Mary-Sue is a retired travel agent who lives in Tulsa with her husband Jake. She has taken a credited course in therapy from Tulsa Community College and is the best-selling author of Traveling Made Easy, Low-Fat Chicken Soup for the Traveler’s Soul The Art of War: The Authorized Biography of Samantha Brown, and William Shatner’s TekWar: An Unofficial Guide. If you have any questions that you would like Mary-Sue to answer, you can contact her at thedisplacednation@gmail.com, or by adding to the comments below.

img: Close, by Corina Sanchez.

STAY TUNED for Monday’s post.

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

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

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

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.”

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

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 FantasyPenelope 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 FantasyChitty 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 RealityThe 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 FantasyJames 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 RealityThe 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!).

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Image: MorgueFile

Dear Mary-Sue: Tempted to make invidious cross-cultural comparisons

Mary-Sue Wallace, The Displaced Nation’s agony aunt is back. Her thoughtful advice eases and soothes any cross-cultural quandary or travel-related confusion you may have. Submit your questions and comments here, or else by emailing her at thedisplacednation@gmail.com.

Dear Wallace-sensei,
As a Japanese expat living in New York, I’m finding myself becoming increasingly unsympathetic to my adopted city. Don’t get me wrong, Wallace-sama, I love it here. It’s just that I’ve found the hysteria surrounding first the earthquake and then Hurricane Irene a little hard to take considering the natural disasters Japan has had to deal with this year. Any advice for how I could stop these uncharitable thoughts that I am having?
— SY, New York City (originally Tokyo)

Dear SY-san,

Let me tell you a little story. There was once an attractive, physically fit young girl. She wasn’t from anywhere exciting, just a small town girl from West Virginia. Her father was a police officer in the town. When this young girl was 10, her father was shot and killed when apprehending a robbery. The girl was sent to Montana to live with her uncle. She didn’t like it in Montana, certainly not on the sheep farm her uncle owned. She tried to run away, to where she didn’t know, she just knew she wanted to be anywhere but Montana. But as she ran she witnessed something awful, the lambs from her uncle’s farm being slaughtered for market. She heard their cries, she still does, SY. She still does — when she dreams. It didn’t stop her running, though — she kept running this small girl.

The girl spent the rest of her childhood in a Lutheran orphanage. It was okay, though she still dreamt of the lambs. The girl was smart, though: she had gumption, she had tenacity and she was able to enroll into the University of Virginia on a full scholarship. When she left college, she applied to the FBI’s training academy. It was the late 70s, it wasn’t easy being one of the only women in the academy. But this girl got on with it. She was uncomplaining, and she was the best, she knew that. None of that sexist bull sticks when you know that.

On completing the training, this girl, now a young woman, joined the Behavioral Science Unit. She was part of a team that traced down serial killers — tried to get in their heads, think like they think. She was sent to a Baltimore asylum for her first interview, to meet with a serial killer who just might be able to help her with the case she had been assigned…

…Sorry, I digress, but the point, SY-san, is that that young girl was, in fact, little ol’ me. Yes, hard to believe, I know. I wasn’t always an agony aunt. Anyhoo, the point is some serious s**t went down. Some really creepy, really heavy stuff. So when I get invited round to Valerie Johnson’s for our book club meeting (second Tuesday of the month — we’re reading The Help at the moment; FABULOUS, you MUST read it), and Valerie starts recounting how she thought there was a robber in her garden the other day and she feared she was going to die — even though it just turned out to be Miguel, her 60-year-old Hispanic gardener — I just bite my tongue. Of course, I want to tell Valerie that she doesn’t know fear until she’s been trapped in a house with a serial killer knowing only one of you is going to get out of there alive. No, that would be rude. So I just sip my raspberry lemonade and nod politely as Valerie talks. New York, dear SY, is your Valerie Johnson. Tolerate her, SY, no matter how much you’d like to wring her neck.
— Mary-Sue

Anyhoo, that’s all from me readers. I’m so keen to hear about your cultural issues and all your juicy problems. Do drop me a line with any problems you have, or if you want to share your fave meatloaf recipe with me (yum! yum!). As they say in Italy, “ciao!” — or, as my (still!) unmarried youngest son (he’s nearly thirty, I despair of him, I really do) might say: “See you on the flip.”

Mary-Sue is a retired travel agent who lives in Tulsa with her husband Jake. She has taken a credited course in therapy from Tulsa Community College and is the best-selling author of Traveling Made Easy, Low-Fat Chicken Soup for the Traveler’s Soul The Art of War: The Authorized Biography of Samantha Brown, and William Shatner’s TekWar: An Unofficial Guide. If you have any questions that you would like Mary-Sue to answer, you can contact her at thedisplacednation@gmail.com, or by adding to the comments below.

img: Close, by Corina Sanchez.

STAY TUNED for Monday’s post, on the wide variety of vehicles that have been used for road trips.

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The Displaced Nation’s Agony Aunt: Introducing Mary-Sue

Please give a warm welcome to Mary-Sue Wallace, The Displaced Nation’s agony aunt. We’re delighted to have Mary-Sue on board and know that her thoughtful advice will be able to ease and soothe our readers with any cross-cultural quandary or travel-related confusion that they may have.

Mary-Sue is a retired travel agent who lives in Tulsa with her husband Jake. She has taken a credited course in therapy from Tulsa Community College and is the best-selling author of Traveling Made Easy, Low-Fat Chicken Soup for the Traveler’s Soul, The Art of War: The Authorized Biography of Samantha Brown, and William Shatner’s TekWar: An Unofficial Guide. If you have any questions that you would like Mary-Sue to answer, you can contact her at thedisplacednation@gmail.com, or by adding to the comments below.

I’m a 68-year-old retired insurance salesman from Buffalo, NY. Six months ago I got married for a second time to a woman that I met on www.meetukranianbrides.com, an international matchmaking site. My new wife, Oksana, is 24 and she seems increasingly distant with me. I’m worried that she doesn’t like Buffalo as much as I thought she would and that she’s having second thoughts about me. What can I do? DP, Buffalo.

Oh, DP, I think it’s time to start turning that frown upside down, don’t you? As you write in your letter, you’re a retired insurance salesman from Buffalo. What’s not to love about that? How can that fail to get the passion inflamed? My husband, Jake, is a retired insurance salesman from Tulsa, and let me tell you, I could not be happier — both in and out of the bedroom.

I bet you have a nice little pension from a life spent working hard. Now is the time to open up that wallet and throw the moolah around a bit. That way you can have a romantic time while also showing off all the best that Buffalo has to offer. Take her to Country Buffet or to Cracker Barrel, order her the meatloaf, she’ll soon stop her pining for Odessa. And over your romantic all-you-can-eat buffet, why not take this time to open up about yourself. Us gals love to know how our hubbys tick, believe me. Tell Oksana about your time as an insurance salesman. Tell her precisely how premiums work. Explain how your job was to give peace of mind to your average Joe. Believe me, Oksana will be reminded of just why she fell in love with you in the first place, that magical moment when she logged into her email and saw the JPEG file of your passport photo you’d sent her.

As an Irish Expat in Austria I sometimes have a hard time connecting with people. It seems humour-wise I’m on a different wavelength to everyone else. I’m used to using humour to diffuse situations or to put people at ease, but every time I make a joke here it’s met with stony silence. The sort of stuff that they laugh at I get really confused by. How can I bridge this humour gap? MA, Vienna.

It’s Austria, stony silence is a good thing. It’s when they start laughing at your jokes you’ve got a problem — that’s the time you really need to ask for help.

img: Close, by Corina Sanchez.

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s post, on celebrated women travel writers of old.

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!

Cross-cultural marriage? 4 good reasons not to rush into it…

painting of Pocahontas and John Rolfe, by J.W. GlassAs announced last week, The Displaced Nation is honoring Pocahontas this month for the role she played in advancing communications between two very different cultures.

This week, we take a closer look at Pocahontas’s decision to marry the Jamestown settler John Rolfe.

Did the Rolfes have an easy time of it in their married life? History doesn’t tell us, but as the veteran of two cross-cultural marriages myself (first to a Brit, now to a Japanese), I tend to think not.

Sure, the union had its advantages for both parties. We know for a fact that two years after marrying Rolfe, Pocahontas was invited to voyage to England with her husband, where she met many prominent people, including King James I.

We know also that Pocahontas’s father, King Powhatan, gave the newlyweds property just across the James River from Jamestown, spanning thousands of acres.

But being in the mood to play devil’s advocate, today I will make the case for why Pocahontas and Rolfe should have hesitated before tying the knot.

Here are my top four reasons for cautioning against cross-cultural marriages like theirs:

1. Marriage across cultures is rarely seen as one of equals.

Rolfe felt he had to defend his decision to marry Pocahontas to his fellow colonists. Here’s what he wrote in a letter addressed to Sir Thomas Dale:

Nor was I ignorant of the heavie displeasure which almightie God conceived against the sonnes of Levie and Israel for marrying strange wives, nor of the inconveniences which may thereby arise,…which made me looke about warily and with good circumspection, into the grounds…which thus should provoke me to be in love with one whose education hath bin rude, her manners barbarous, her generation accursed, and so discrepant in all nurtriture frome my self.

After much soul searching, Rolfe decided he could marry Pocahontas despite her crude education, barbarous manners and different colored skin — as long as she converted to Christianity.

In the above portrait of the couple, by J.W. Glass, Rolfe is instructing Pocahontas in Christian doctrines.

And now let’s turn to Pocahontas. Did she see Rolfe as her equal, given that he was a mere tobacco farmer, and a foreign invader, and she was the daughter of the most powerful chief in the region?

According to historical records, the news of the liaison was well received by the Powhatan tribes, helping to create a climate of peace toward the Jamestown colonists for several years.

I find it instructive to compare Pocahontas with Cleopatra on this point.  Faced with the rising tide of Roman expansionism, Cleopatra seduced Julius Caesar and Marc Anthony to protect her country from being swallowed up. Likewise, Pocahontas may have seen it as her duty to marry John Rolfe, as it meant she could continue working on behalf of her people. (In that sense, Disney may have been right about Pocahontas’s preference for Captain John Smith — but only because he had more power than Rolfe.)

2. The fantasy quotient in such marriages can lead to huge disappointments.

In Glass’s portrait of the couple, John Rolfe gazes down lovingly into the eyes of a young woman with long, straight, dark hair. He seems to be thinking of Pocahontas as his trophy Indian princess — how exotic she is compared to his English wife (who died on the boat coming over).

But what if, at that very moment, Pocahontas is calculating the advantages that could accrue to her and her tribe from their liaison — including representing her father’s tribes to the powers-that-be in London and arguing against their displacement.

Would it crush Rolfe to learn the practical agenda she had in mind for their marriage?

At the same time, though, the painting shows Pocahontas gazing upwards at her husband-to-be. A young girl, she must have harbored a few fantasies as well. Maybe she found Rolfe much more refined than the Indian men she had known — she’d already had an Algonquian husband by then.

In that case, how disappointed she must have felt when, after the wedding, she discovered his habit of chewing and spitting tobacco, overheard him swearing like the sailor he once was, and noticed his tendency to stomp around the place. Why can’t he be more like an Algonquian man and walk as quietly as a leopard?

3. Sons tend to turn into their fathers, and daughters into their mothers — but how can you possibly anticipate this if you can’t read the culture?

Having been married to a Brit myself, I find it amusing to pretend that Pocahontas met Rolfe’s parents before deciding whether to marry him. In my imagination, she, like me, fails to pick up on all the important cues — things like the necessity of being able to produce a Sunday dinner of roasted meat, potatoes, and two veggies, while her husband rests up from his weekly labors. (Rolfe, by the way, is credited with the first successful cultivation of tobacco from the colony of Virginia.)

Likewise, had Rolfe been able to meet Pocahontas’s mother, I imagine he would have thought of her as a kindly Indian squaw — having no idea of her ability to control, coerce and manipulate others to her will.

4. In times of strife, the last thing you want is a cross-cultural misunderstanding.

We marry for better or for worse, but during the worst of times, most of us could do without a partner who is culturally clueless.

For example, if Pocahontas received word that one of her close relations had died — how would she feel if Rolfe resorted to trying to cheer her up with sarcastic British humor: “Well, at least that’s one less Injun for us to worry about!”

By the same token, if Rolfe’s tobacco crop failed due to drought, he may not have felt like dancing with Pocahontas, despite her insistence it would bring on the rains.

* * *

Most of the above, of course, is pure conjecture, but it is also based very closely on my own observations. I’ve witnessed quite a few romances in the Rolfe-Pocahontas mould — particularly while living in Japan. And I’ve seen quite a few of them turn sour.

I’ve also experienced firsthand how devastating it can be if one’s spouse can’t communicate properly when the going gets rough and you don’t have the energy to make allowances for the fact that they come from a different culture.

In my experience, the most important quality one needs to have for a successful cross-cultural marriage is that of being a glutton for punishment — a quality I just so happen to have in spades.

Not wanting an easy life — that’s what it all boils down to. And, unless you have a calling for handling complication piled on complication, then I would suggest choosing a mate who lived in the same neighborhood as you growing up — preferably next door.

Question: Do you agree that cross-cultural marriages are unusually challenging?

img: Detail of “John Rolfe and Pocahontas,” by James William Glass (early 1850s), courtesy Wikipedia (public domain)

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s RANDOM NOMAD interview, in which our special guest will answer a Pocahontas-related question.

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