The Displaced Nation

A home for international creatives

RANDOM NOMAD: Lynne Murphy, American Expat in UK & Champion Linguist

7 Comments Posted by on June 13, 2012

Place of birth: Western New York State, USA
Passports: USA + UK
Overseas history: South Africa (Johannesburg): 1993-97; Texas, USA (Waco): 1997-99 — definitely a different country!; England, UK (Brighton): 2000 – present.
Occupation: Senior Lecturer in Linguistics, University of Sussex
Cyberspace coordinates: Separated by a Common Language — observations on British and American English by an American linguist in the UK (blog); @LynneGuist (Twitter handle).

What made you leave your homeland in the first place?
What made me move were jobs. I am a theoretical lexicologist. Not many places want a theoretical lexicologist, so I applied far and wide and have been rewarded with some very interesting jobs and living experiences.

Is anyone else in your immediate family “displaced”?
I was the first person in my immediate family-of-birth to own a passport.

Can you describe the moment when you felt the most displaced?
The night after the American student Amy Biehl was killed in South Africa, in August 1993. At that point, I lived in a granny flat — an outbuilding behind a house in a Johannesburg suburb. I came home to find my neighbours in the main house packing up and leaving for a safe place to stay, as they’d been robbed during the day. As they left, they told me the thieves had taken the spare keys to my flat — and had already come back to steal the bicycles from the garage. At that point, I had no car, no telephone (setting one up there took FOREVER), nowhere to go and no way to get there. I stayed up all night with the lights on and with a newspaper with the story of Biehl’s murder on the front page, feeling very alone and very scared.

Is there any particular moment that stands out as your “least displaced”?
Sometimes it’s funny to reflect on the fact that my own child speaks with an English accent, and I feel most absolutely at home with her. But I also often feel really divorced from the US when I read the news. When the hullabaloo about “Obamacare” was going on, I just couldn’t believe that I came from a place where many people seem not to see good medical care as a basic right for all. And it especially galled when I saw some Americans spreading lies about how British healthcare works and others willing to believe those lies. The National Health Service isn’t perfect, but it has saved my life, and I have more confidence in its care for me than I had in the insurance-industry-driven care I had in the US.

You may bring one curiosity you’ve collected from your adopted country into The Displaced Nation. What’s in your suitcase?
From South Africa: It’s the art that’s lasted! Two pieces by Ezekiel Madiba, a print and one of his printing blocks — which is nice because it’s sturdy enough to put in a suitcase and to hug every once in a while.
From Texas: My doctor’s instructions on what to do the next time I’m stung by a fire ant (to try to avoid being bed-ridden for a week, like the first time).
From England: My wedding ring. It’s a one-off, made by a Brighton goldsmith, and it’s a curiosity, because I hadn’t thought I was the marrying type.

You are invited to prepare one meal based on your travels for other members of The Displaced Nation. What’s on your menu?

Starter/Appetizer: South African biltong. A nice peppery one—but I don’t mind if it’s beef or game. Maybe a selection.
Main course: For this, I’ll bring together the British and the American — not fancy but delicious. I haven’t given it a name, but here’s the recipe: Toast crumpets. cover with cheddar cheese and put under the broiler/grill. Slather on A1 Steak Sauce. Eat with knife and fork.
Dessert: Eton mess with raspberries instead of strawberries.
Drinks: South African wine (I never had a South African wine I didn’t like while I was in South Africa– the exported stuff is of more variable quality, in my experience); Castle Lager (a South African beer); and Schweppes Bitter Lemon (a popular soft drink in South Africa, no longer being produced in this part of the world as far as I know).

And now you may add a word or expression from each of the countries where you’ve lived to The Displaced Nation argot. What will you loan us?
From South Africa: Putting hey? on the ends of sentences. It was so easy to start doing, since I’d grown up using the “Canadian” eh? (Though I hadn’t realized I said it till I moved from upstate New York to Massachusetts, where they don’t say it.) It’s been a while since I lived in South Africa, but I still find myself doing it.
From the UK: There are so many great expressions, but the thing that’s invaded my language most is lovely. When I write emails, I have to go back at the end and take out half of the lovelies because I say it so terrifically much.

This month we have been doing some posts on Queen Elizabeth’s Diamond Jubilee. How did you spend the Bank Holiday weekend? Did you celebrate?
We’re not much into the monarchy in my house, so we just enjoyed the extra time off. But we did go to a friend’s house and eat red-white-and-blue cupcakes — which we should probably have called “fairy cakes” if we wanted to take the whole Rule Britannia thing seriously.

A couple of us on The Displaced Nation team thinks that the Queen deserves an Olympic medal for being on the throne for so long. Do you agree?
I respect the queen for handling many awkward situations with grace, but all she has done to be on the throne so long is not die yet. She got a national holiday for the occasion—I think that’s sufficient!

Readers — yay or nay for letting Lynne Murphy into The Displaced Nation? Tell us your reasons. (Note: It’s fine to vote “nay” as long as you couch your reasoning in terms we all — including Lynne — find amusing!)

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s episode in Libby’s Life, our fictional expat series set in small town New England. (What, not keeping up with Libby? Read the first three episodes of her expat adventures and/or check out “Who’s Who in Libby’s Life.”)

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

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img: Lynne Murphy looking rather other-worldly — or  “out of this displaced world,” as we like to say — in a Brighton pub.

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THE DISPLACED POLL: Which of these 4 exotic sports should be part of the Olympics?

1 Comment Posted by on June 12, 2012

One thing everyone in Britain knows at the moment — if not everyone in the world — is that the Games of the XXX Olympiad (July 27 – August 12, 2012) are coming to London!

Although this grandest of international sporting events is still a ways off, we’re already starting to get into the mood at The Displaced Nation.

So I’ve decided to review some of the sports I’ve observed in my travels around the world that I’d like to see making an appearance at the Summer Olympic Games. And I’ll need your help with deciding on the most suitable candidate, which I’ll of course put forward to the International Olympic Committee — which will of course guarantee its inclusion if not this year then in four years’ time. Well, maybe. 🙂

Because I’m a recent addition to the population of the Southern Hemisphere, I’ve picked some of the more interesting and praiseworthy activities from my part of the world, which, I believe, have been under-represented at a set of games that had their origins in ancient Greece.

I know there’s loads of candidates in the UK, in Europe and the US — we’ve all heard about cheese-rolling and bog snorkeling and beard-growing…haven’t we? Ah well, maybe we’ll get to those crazy sports next week.

I’ll open with an oddly appropriate quote from the American sports journalist Robert Strauss, on how success is achieved:

It’s a little like wrestling a gorilla. You don’t quit when you’re tired; you quit when the gorilla is tired.

With that in mind, let’s get down to the voting for the Next Olympic Sport. Here are your four candidates:

1) From Australia: SHEEP SHEARING

It’s a job; it’s a sport; it’s a hobby…the Aussies even hold a world championship of their own! Apparently seasoned shearers (or “guns”) can have the complete fleece off a medium-sized sheep is as little as two minutes. The current champion is Aussie Brendan Boyle, who in 2007 singlehandedly deprived 841 sheep of their coats in 24 hours! Hell, I think he deserves a medal just for wanting to. Or perhaps something more akin to a straight-jacket…

2) From South Africa: OSTRICH RACING

Yes, it’s true. It’s a sport and everything! They have jockeys and racetracks and…well, everything else you would expect, though it certainly isn’t sponsored by Goodyear. There are ostrich farms that occasionally let tourists have a go — but it’s not for the faint-hearted. Not only are ostriches damn hard to get on, harder to stay on and capable of doing over 40 mph — they’re also quite dangerous. Near Oudtshoorn, where the sport is most famously practiced, there are two or three people killed every year by ostriches — and up to a hundred world-wide! Brilliant. Kicked to death by an ostrich is going on my list of all-time weirdest ways to die!

Amazingly enough, this sport is on the increase. If you happen to live in New Jersey, you might get chance to see some — there’s a camel and ostrich race coming to the Meadowlands Racetrack in four days’ time!

3) From India: ROLLER SKATING LIMBO

I know, not exactly Southern Hemisphere — but this sport is so amazing it has to be given a chance! Check it out:

Like most sports, this probably goes on in other places too. Other, equally crazy places… But for the feat of flexibility this activity requires, you really can’t beat the Birthplace of Yoga when it comes to training. In India, when roller-skating under bars and beams ceases to be enough of a challenge, they try skating under cars! And when that’s no enough — under LOTS of cars!

In October of last year, an 11-year-old boy Rohan Ajit Kokane took advantage of the 35cm ground clearance and skated, blindfolded, underneath 20 cars in a row — a new Guinness World Record! If asked how he’d felt during the challenge, I’m sure he’d have replied “a little low…”

4) From New Zealand: ZORBING

Well, it’s hard to see how rolling down a hill in a giant inflatable ball could become competitive enough for a spot in the Olympics —  unless the challenge was to see how many times you could do it without being violently sick all over yourself, whilst still inside…! (Oh yeah, that would take some cleaning up!)

As an athletic activity though, you can’t beat zorbing. Trust the New Zealanders to come up with such an immensely fun sport! I can foresee zorbing obstacle courses coming into vogue in the not-distant future — after all, you can literally walk on water in one of these things. Or, wait — is that the next Olympic sport? White-water zorbing! Now surely there’s something medal-worthy in that? As for an athlete who would like to compete? Me. I’ll do it! Please…?

So what do you think, Displaced Nation-ers?

Which of these four is worthy of being the next Olympic sport?

Cast your votes in our poll — and if you have any other suggestions, I’d love to hear ‘em! Comment below, or hit us up on Twitter: @DisplacedNation and/or @TonyJamesSlater

Img: Tony James Slater celebrates his zorbing success (2009).

STAY TUNED for Wednesday’s Random Nomad interview with a champion linguist.

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EXPAT MOMENTS: Two Englishmen in New York

1 Comment Posted by on June 11, 2012

Following last month’s post on expat moments, we start a new series focusing on little moments of expat experience — moments that at the time seemed pifflingly insignificant. This week involves a celebrity encounter. No prizes for guessing the name of the celeb.

At Columbus Circle, for a fleeting moment, an opportunity presents itself.

A sidewalk collision between two pasty-faced men is avoided as both intuitively, if ungracefully, swerve to avoid bumping into each other. They are both headed towards the same crosswalk where they wait, shoulder-to-shoulder, for the traffic to stop. An observant onlooker might guess — correctly, as it turns out — from their uncoordinated, somewhat flailing gaits that both men are, in fact, English. The onlooker might also note, despite the difference in ages between these two men, that they are dressed similarly; both wear brown brogues, blue jeans, white shirts and blue velvet jackets. However, having established that this onlooker is particularly observant he or she notices more than that; they can see that though they are dressed similarly, the clothes of one of the men — the older man — are expensive and designer label whereas the younger man’s are from a department store.

As these two men wait at the crosswalk the younger man glances at the older and, though he has never before met him, recognizes him immediately. If you were to ask the younger man, he would confirm that he holds very strong views of the older man he is stood next to. If you were to press further, the younger man would admit that he has long judged the moral character of the older man stood next to him. If you were to have asked the younger man only an hour before how he would define “unctuousness,” he would merely would have replied with the name of the older man.

The younger man considers that he could lean in towards the older man and tell him that he thinks he should go “f**k himself.” But the younger man, though he would not admit it, is enthralled enough by the older man’s celebrity that he is striken momentarily dumb.

Instead, the younger man — who in his more vainglorious moments views himself as a modern-day Frank Capra everyman — thinks homicidal thoughts. As they keep on waiting at the crosswalks for the pedestrian light, and car after speeding car passes them, the younger man thinks about how the most … “accidental” … of nudges would send the older man under a New York cab.

And those few seconds, as they wait for the pedestrian light, last for the younger man the thinking and execution of a thousand “accidental” deaths, until finally there is the glow of the pedestrian crossing light and they safely cross the road before separating to go their own ways and the younger man can go back to pretending that he’s at heart a decent chap.

This post was first featured on Culturally Discombobulated

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s post.

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THE DISPLACED Q: Does living abroad make you more or less patriotic?

13 Comments Posted by on June 7, 2012

Now then, this IS an interesting question. Very topical, especially for me, as the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee is still being televised ad infinitum here in Australia. It’s almost like the networks can’t get enough of it. At one point this week it was on three channels simultaneously!

I’m not normally very patriotic — my opinions on the state of England and the UK are…well, let’s just say, that’s why I moved to Australia!

And yet — as I watch the parades, listen to the crowds shrieking, and imagine the atmosphere outside Buckingham Palace, part of me thinks: maybe I should be there? It is my home after all…and whatever else I end up being, I will always be British as well. I can’t imagine giving it up completely — it’s my history, man! And there are still things I do love about the old country. It’s an awfully pretty place, for one thing! It’s not England’s fault it’s being run into the ground by a bunch of idiots.

Mark Twain said:

Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it.

Transferred loyalties

Oddly enough, I sometimes transfer my loyalties to wherever I call home, at least temporarily. It helps me to feel more involved with the local culture when I’m in a place, and I’m the kind of guy who’s more than happy celebrate whatever makes their country great as well.

In Thailand, for the King’s birthday, I kidnapped a gigantic yellow flag and fastened it to the back of my scooter. I saw nothing wrong with committing a minor offense to display my support for their monarch. And neither did the local police — they stopped me to applaud my efforts!

In Australia it goes without saying that I celebrate their national holiday, Australia Day. I do it for two reasons: first, I genuinely love Australia and all it stands for — it’s why I moved here as soon as I could! I really believe in their attitude to government, their national traits and their value system. Australia IS great, and it works. I think that’s quite rare in the world, and deserves recognition.

Oh and the second reason? Well, you celebrate Australia Day by going out in the sunshine, down to the river, and getting drunk. It’s not like it’s much of a hardship to get involved. 😉

But Britain is “great” — isn’t it?

Back to the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. I hear stirring speeches from celebrities and Royal Family members, and feel…I dunno. Uplifted? Triumphant? It’s hard not to feel a tickle of pride when the eyes of the whole world are on the monarch of my tiny island.

But is it rose-tinted glasses that make me tear just a little, as the cameras zoom in on the Queen smiling at a joke from the commentator? Am I just caught up in the fever of the moment? The rest of England is going crazy for this. It’s hard not to feel just a little infected by it. But what exactly is it that I’m feeling? Mere nostalgia? Fond memories and a touch of homesickness?

As already mentioned, there’s plenty of reason not to feel pride in the country of my birth. There’s also plenty going wrong in England at the moment. The wages are terrible, unemployment is rampant, the economy is in the dumps. In my humble opinion, the UK is falling apart.

But the Jubilee itself was quite stirring, inspiring even, a reminder of all that was Great about Britain, and perhaps could be again.

Then again, I can’t help but remember that the Ancient Romans had the same idea: when the masses are starving in the streets, give them GAMES! A spectacle to take their mind off the hunger, to remind them of what a glorious empire they belong to — give them a taste of grandeur whilst they’re dying in the gutters.

Okay, so that’s a pretty cynical view to take. Hey, I’m here to play the Devil’s Advocate too, right?

So here’s my question to you kind folks: does being displaced — or out of your “home” country for any reason — make you feel MORE or LESS patriotic? And why is that?

Tell me what you think in the comments, or feel free to hit me up on Twitter at @TonyJamesSlater.

STAY TUNED for our next post, which will be on Monday.

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

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LESSONS FROM TWO SMALL ISLANDS — 1) Keep Calm and Carry On

8 Comments Posted by on June 6, 2012

Justin Mussler is traveling around the world with his wife and two kids, recording their adventures in the blog “The Great Family Escape.” In a recent post defending his family’s decision to eschew a conventional lifestyle for one of constant travel, he says:

By the time it’s time to go home, we all realize that home is just not where we want to be.

Hmmmm… “Home is just not where we want to be.” Once upon a time, I could relate to those sentiments. I spent a significant chunk of my adult life living on two small (and rainy!) islands, England and Japan. I never expected to go home again.

But that was then and this is now. As regular readers of this blog will know, I’m now back in my native land, the United States — though still living on a small, mercifully less rainy, island (Manhattan).

So, can you go home again?

The conventional wisdom is that you can NEVER go home again, particularly if you spend more than three years abroad.

To which I say: “Poppycock!”

Well, not really. I’ve definitely had my Rip Van Winkle moments in attempting to get used to the United States again. Still do, in fact.

But unlike Mr Mussler and his family, home is exactly where I want to be right now.

By “home,” of course, I mean my original nation of birth. I mention that in case you’re one of those people who has lived abroad for so long that you no longer know where “home” is or have reached the point of questioning what “home” really means.

(If you are a Third Culture Kid who has never lived in your nation of birth, this post doesn’t really apply — though I’m happy to point you towards some blogs with plenty of posts that would.)

A few overall discoveries I’ve made since repatriating:
1) Travels are like stories: they need a beginning, middle — and an end — to have true meaning. By going home again, you can begin to see what you’ve actually retained from the experience. No doubt you changed some of your behavior — but how much of that was due to expediency and how much to actual lessons learned?
2) Hard as it may seem, travelers can contribute something of what they’ve learned to their native lands. Coming home again gives you a chance to do that.
3) We long-term expats, rex-pats and round-the-world travelers enjoy a good challenge. Trust me, going home again is a challenge of Olympian proportions — which just so happens to fit the theme The Displaced Nation will be exploring this summer.

Lesson #1: Keep Calm and Carry On!

And now to begin my new, occasional series for The Displaced Nation. Through my own expat-to-repat experience, I will try to demonstrate that going home again can be just as enriching as venturing across borders to travel and live.

So what did I learn from being displaced within two small-island countries for so long? I’ll start with the most obvious lesson that anyone who is at all familiar with Japan and/or England has doubtless picked up on:

KEEP
CALM
AND
CARRY
ON

In England it’s known as Stiff Upper Lip (SUL); in Japan, as gaman.

In America we use many words to describe this quality — perseverance, patience, fortitude, stoicism — but I think that’s because we don’t have a single cultural concept that corresponds to what the English mean by SUL or the Japanese by showing gaman.

This may be why I didn’t take to the concept in either country right away. On the contrary, I took to it kicking and screaming. Where the citizens of each of these countries saw grace, strength, endurance, and perseverance, I saw passivity, masochism, fatalism and pain. “Why is everyone bowing so readily to their fates?” I would ask myself repeatedly.

And, though I never committed an act of “queue rage” while standing in line at the post office in the English town where I lived, I came pretty close — especially when watching others who’d come in after I did get served before me.

On those occasions, I felt like crying out: why don’t we try a serpentine line instead? (You know the kind of line I mean — when all customers are funneled into one big snaking queue, demarcated by ropes or barriers. When you reach the head of the queue, you are directed to the next available server.*) But I was too polite to do so.
*Fellow serpentine-line enthusiasts should check out Seth Stevenson’s terrific article on the topic, published just now in Slate.

It’s the weather, stupid!

Thank you, Jared Diamond, for your book that supports, in scholarly depth and detail, the inkling I had while living in Japan and Britain that climate has much to do with how people behave. For a long time, I’d been convinced that it’s the weather on both of these small islands that builds stoicism.

My mental image of gaman is the famous woodblock print by Hiroshige depicting figures huddling under straw umbrellas as they cross a bridge in a driving, chilling rain — carrying on despite. Hiroshige was much admired in Europe for the slanting lines in his prints. But I suspect the Europeans didn’t fully understand the conditions that inspired him to portray rain in this manner — it’s a rainy (and windy) old island, Honshu.

My mental image of England is — well, in fact, it’s what happened on the River Thames Flotilla Spectacular for Queen Elizabeth’s Diamond Jubilee this past week-end. Yes, it rained on that dear lady’s parade, yet she carried on despite…

Now, I don’t mean to equate the English stiff upper lip with Japanese gaman. The Japanese have a grounding in the Buddhist religion, which shapes their understanding of this concept. In addition, they must often contend with fairly severe climactic conditions — earthquakes as well as typhoons. No wonder they tend to emphasize the fatalistic aspect of keeping calm and carrying on. There’s nothing you can do about Mother Nature’s whims, so just bow to the inevitable and make the best of it.

The English, by contrast, tend to feel that they should make the best of situations by finding some humor in them. SUL is called for in situations where you might otherwise be overwhelmed by huge feelings (to the point where your upper lip might start to tremble). Black humor along with understatement can provide some welcome relief or distraction: “I won’t let the Jerries spoil our picnic! What’s a few bombs on a sunny day?” (Hey, I wonder if the Queen cracked a joke about the rain the other day? She’s reputed to have a sense of humor…)

Respect for the aged

In my view, however, the overlap between England and Japan on this point is greater than the differences. It’s interesting, for instance, that both countries have created a special category for those who’ve mastered their professions through years of persistence. Japan confers the title of Living National Treasure, or Preserver of Important Intangible Cultural Properties, to prominent artists or craftspeople of advanced years.

Likewise in England, knighthoods and dame-hoods (is that a word?) go to artists, entrepreneurs, and other major contributors to British society once they’ve reached a certain age — Dame Judi Dench, Sir Richard Branson, Sir Paul McCartney (almost 70 and still rockin’ with no signs of stoppin’!).

And then there’s the veneration shown to Queen Elizabeth herself. Having bounced back from her self-proclaimed annus horribilis, she now finds herself admired precisely for the quality that people (myself included!) at one time loathed: her ability to keep calm and do her duty. As the political journalist Anne Applebaum put it in her Slate column this week:

…the queen, simply by living so long, has come to epitomize an increasingly rare idea of duty that many in Britain, and elsewhere, admire. She doesn’t quit, she doesn’t complain, she doesn’t talk to the press or protest when people draw nasty caricatures or say unpleasant things about her family…

My, she has aged well!

My queenly umbrella

When touring Nova Scotia in the rain this time last year, I ended up buying the exact same “birdcage” umbrella that the Queen uses. A product of the Royal warranted umbrella maker, Fulton, the umbrella is transparent so that the Queen’s public can still see her, but then trimmed with the appropriate color so that it matches her outfit exactly. (Mine is trimmed in gold.)

Notably, that’s the brand of umbrella she and Camilla were carrying as they stepped off the royal barge when Sunday’s Jubilee pageant came to an end at Tower Bridge.

I think I was attracted to the umbrella not just because the Queen uses it but because it reminded me of the transparent umbrellas you can buy everywhere in Japan — helps you to see where you’re going when you’re bent over in the wind and rain like a Hiroshige figure.

Of late a couple of my friends have remarked that I remind them of the Queen. At first I was horrified: are they trying to say I’m getting on? But I think they might have been referring to my habit of wearing hats to protect my skin from sun and rain (which I picked up in Japan, actually) — and now, of course, there’s my Fulton umbrella! 🙂

My takeaways

The lesson of “keep calm and carry on” enriches my current life in all kinds of ways and, I’m convinced, can enrich the lives of my fellow Americans. Here are a few scenarios close to some I’ve experienced, with pointers on appropriate responses:

1 — Two airplanes crash into the twin towers in your city and there are constant rumors of another attack on the subways. Keep calm and carry on — and take the bus for a change. It’s slower, but the culture is a lot more pleasant.

2 — Your dentist asks you if you mind a slight pinprick from the needle used to inject the novocaine for fixing your cavity. Keep calm and carry on — and resist the temptation to remark: “Yanks are such wimps!” Instead, make a joke: “That’s going to make it damn tricky to keep talking to you.” He won’t laugh, but at least you’ll be seizing the occasion to practice your black humor, a key component of SUL.

3 — You’ve gathered together a group of friends from your apartment building to go out for dinner. You all meet in the lobby, but just as you’re about to step outside it starts raining like it does in the tropics. Your friends show hesitancy and want to call off the evening’s festivities. Keep calm and carry on — and think of the Queen. After checking that everyone is wearing the proper foot gear (wellies), go out the door first, wielding your queenly umbrella. So what if you get a bit wet? Just smile and be regal. If anyone looks at you as though they think you’re crazy, give them the royal wave. How dare they intrude on this, your finest hour? Off with their heads!

* * *

So, tell me: does any of this make sense, or has living abroad for so long rendered me totally bonkers?!

STAY TUNED for Thursday’s post, a Displaced Q on patriotism and the expat life, by Tony James Slater.

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

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Dear Mary-Sue: The Queen’s Diamond Jubilee — not the most sparkling of times

Leave a comment Posted by on June 5, 2012

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.

Another month passes us by, Mary-Suers. It seems only moments ago that I was penning my New Year post and yet here we are at the beginning of summer. Really, where does the time fly (and how many air miles does it have)?

Anyhoo, let’s get on with the show. We were running low on submissions this month, but this week’s jubilee celebration in Ye Olde Englande seems to have got The Displaced Nation readers all a-fluster.

__________________________________________

Dear Mary-Sue,

I don’t understand all the palaver about Queen Elizabeth II and her 60 years on the throne. Why is it such a big deal when the Britain she presides over now is much reduced in prestige from the one she inherited? I mean, it’s not as though her reign has heralded a second Elizabethan Age!

Curious from California

p.s. Yes, I am an American, just like you, but that’s not the reason I hold these opinions. Most of our fellow Yanks worship the British monarchy (don’t ask me why).

Dear Curious,

Do you have any travel-related queries or are you in need of any relationship advice? That’s kind of the point of the column, honey!

Did you send this to Tina Brown first and get no response? She’s always good for some royal chit-chat.

Write back when you have some juicy sexual problem for me to pontificate on. If it involves Tina Brown all the better. Although in fairness, a lot of the relationship letters I receive seems to involve Tina “man-eater” Brown.

Mary-Sue

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Dear Mary-Sue,

I’m an American expat in England, and the Diamond Jubilee celebrations that just took place were my first big exposure to how the Brits treat their royal family. Frankly, I think they could have done better. I mean, put most of the Royal Family on a boat in the middle of the river? It’s almost as though they were setting them up as a target for anyone who would like to dispose of them in one go. And I also kept thinking that the boat could easily capsize (what in heavens name were all those other boats doing there?).

Finally, I found it disrespectful of the Brits to expose their elderly monarch to the cold and wet river conditions. What if she contracts a nasty cold and chest infection?

Lorrie from Lancaster

Not only that Lorri, but they made her sit through a concert featuring Will.i.am (or however you spell it) and Grace Jones. What 83-year-old wants to sit through all that? They should have got her whoever the British equivalent of Lawrence Welk is. My dear departed mother loved Lawrence Welk – and who can blame her? The man was a natural entertainer. They didn’t call him the Elvis of North Dakota for nothing.

Mary-Sue

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Dear Mary-Sue,

I’m a British expat in Dubai, and I am now suffering a case of acute homesickness owing to not being at home for the Diamond Jubilee celebrations. It’s not the same to watch it on TV, and the parties held by British expats here — well, I attempted to join in but just couldn’t get into watching people dressed up like Mary Poppins or Knights of the Realm. Many of the latter were parading around in a drunken stupor bellowing out “God save the Queen!”

Do you think I’m crazy to feel this way? Wouldn’t you feel odd trying to celebrate 4th of July in Britain, for instance? I expect you’d be longing for a barbecue, just as I was for an old-fashioned street party.

Debbie from Dubai

Honey, July 4th is a holiday for the whole world.

Mary-Sue

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Anyhoo, that’s all from me readers. I’m so keen to hear about your cultural issues and all your juicy problems (no doubt all about Tina Brown) then drop me a line.

Mary-Sue is a retired travel agent who lives in Tulsa with her husband Jake. She 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 tomorrow’s post. Mary-Sue has heard it’s going to be great.

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A marathon reign of Olympic proportions: Queen Elizabeth II’s Diamond Jubilee

Leave a comment Posted by on June 4, 2012

Regardless of where you were in the world at the weekend, you were most likely aware of a little party going on in Britain, to celebrate one woman’s six decades as Queen.

Queen Elizabeth II is only the second monarch of Great Britain to have reigned sixty years, the first being Queen Victoria, who was on the throne for 63 years and 7 months. Given the Royal Family’s record of longevity — the Queen Mother was 101 when she died in 2002 —  Victoria’s record could well be beaten in 2016, and Brits shouldn’t rush to chuck away the flags and bunting. They’ll probably need them in another ten years’ time for Britain’s first Platinum Jubilee.

Sixty years is a long time for anyone to be in one job, particularly when you didn’t get much say in your nomination for it. And, OK, while republican sympathizers might think a carriage clock for the mantlepiece at Buckingham Palace would be adequate recognition, millions of Brits this weekend seemed very happy to foot their share of the bill for the extravagant national celebrations.

A job for life

Most people would have quit that job long ago. The Queen, however, is made of sterner stuff, and her determination to see the job through to the end — quite literally — means, inevitably, she has seen huge changes during her reign.

Not least of these is the issue of how she came to be Queen in the first place. Forced to choose between being King and marrying divorcee Wallis Simpson, Edward VIII abdicated the crown to be with the love of his life, and in doing so made his younger brother King, and his niece Elizabeth first in line to the throne. To have a monarch married to a divorcee went against the teachings of the Church of England, of which the British monarch is Supreme Governor.

Ironic, then, that three of Queen Elizabeth’s four children have divorced, including, of course, the Prince of Wales, Britain’s next King. They all divorced or separated in 1992, the year referred to by the Queen as her “annus horribilis”.

The monarchy survived this crisis with its usual show of stalwartness and stiff upper lip, only to be hit, five years later, by a much bigger crisis — the greatest since the abdication of the Queen’s uncle in 1936.

Making a rod for one’s own back

After the sudden death of Diana, Princess of Wales, the Queen again employed a stiff upper lip in her “business as usual” approach to the tragedy, but drastically underestimated the intensity of the public’s grief at the death of her ex-daughter-in-law. The public perceived the Queen as cold and uncaring when she stayed in Scotland in Balmoral Castle while insisting on adhering to Royal  protocol by not having the flag at Buckingham Palace flying at half mast.

In an article in The Telegraph, Mary Francis, a former advisor of the Queen,  said that at the time she “feared that republican MPs would call for a end to the monarchy because of public anger at the Royal Family’s initial reaction to the death of Diana.”

In the Radio 4 documentary, “A Royal Recovery”, Mrs. Francis said:

I do remember walking into Buckingham Palace the first morning I was back. Although there were so many people around, it was very quiet. It was a threatening and rather unpleasant atmosphere.

Rising from the ashes

Incredible, then, fifteen years later, to watch the enthusiastic crowds in London at the weekend as 1,000 boats sailed up the River Thames in the largest pageant on the Thames since the reign of Charles II, 350 years ago. It was as if the Diana crisis had never happened. Or maybe it was something more – an acknowledgement, admiration, of this woman’s unswerving devotion to duty.

As my Australian friend, Kym, said to me yesterday:

“Regardless of what you think of the monarchy, it’s an amazing testament to a woman who has been in ‘the job’ for 60 years.”

Indeed. Sixty years is, in terms of Olympian feats, a marathon; one which deserves a crowd to cheer on the runner.

Our theme for summer: Olympian Feats

It’s fitting, therefore, that the Jubilee’s acknowledgement of stamina and determination should come at the time of another event when these qualities are essential:  the 2012 Summer Olympics in London.

Because of this, we have decided to revolve our summer posts around an Olympic theme — not necessarily the sports themselves, but more about the qualities required of an Olympic athlete, or a long-reigning monarch.

As we are more armchair sportsmen, however — and it is Wimbledon very soon, of course, which takes up an awful lot of armchair time —  we will be taking a break ourselves, by cutting our posts down to four per week rather than the usual five. Nevertheless, you can look forward to two new series starting this month — “Chance Encounters” and “You CAN Go Home Again” as well as the familiar Random Nomads, Displaced Qs, questions for Mary-Sue, book reviews, and bulletins from Libby in Woodhaven.

 

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THE DISPLACED Q: On your travels, what’s the most memorable chance encounter that brought you closer to The Sweet Life?

4 Comments Posted by on June 1, 2012

Since the beginning of May, I’ve been posing weekly questions as a way of getting at how we travelers experience La Dolce Vita, or The Sweet Life.

Seeking truths by your own lights — that’s what’s known as the Socratic method!

But while my questions thus far have focused on the sensory delights that travel offers — heart-stopping sights, delightful sounds, intoxicating scents, delicate flavors — today’s question is a little different. I want to know about the people you’ve encountered by chance on your travels, who’ve opened your heart and mind to the possibility of living The Sweet Life.

I’ve been very lucky in my life. I’ve met quite a few individuals who have inspired me in one way or another. Perhaps it’s because I’m a big believer in fate; I’ve always thought that everything will play out according to plan, if I just let it.

Not that I sit around and do nothing. Rather, I try to do as much as I possibly can, in the hope that I’ll end up doing enough of the Right Things to shape my life to come. Some of those things will reveal their hidden meaning only years later, in hindsight…

“Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.”

— American cartoonist Allen Saunders, 1957 (later featured in a John Lennon song)

A couple of early mentors

I owe this philosophy in part to something that happened to me when I was still living in the UK, thinking I was going to become an actor. In order to help my sister, Gillian, integrate into university life, I took her to a kung-fu class. The teacher (or sifu) became more than just a friend to her, he became a spiritual mentor.

What Gill learned passed through to me, and eventually we both attended a personal development seminar that changed our whole worldview. I became more open and generous, rejecting the lessons I’d learned at acting school about clawing my way to the top over the bodies of those less fortunate. My epiphany led me to see that acting was an every-man-for-himself type industry — not exactly good for my soul.

So I gave it up. I went traveling instead. When volunteering in Ecuador, I met Toby, who also helped shape the course of my life. Toby was my boss at the Ecuadorian animal shelter; and, as I recount in my book, That Bear Ate My Pants!, he was confident and capable, at ease in his own skin — just the way I wanted to be.

Toby told me all about his adventures as a professional diver in Thailand, and I began to crave that life as though it was the answer to all my heart’s desires.

He also tricked me into getting my head shaved, the bugger.

A Sheila who suddenly showed up in my life

After three months in Ecuador, I suffered some pretty severe reverse culture shock when I got back to England. I got quite depressed, and wanted nothing more than to leave again. Well, it’s England — can you blame me? (No offense to those who are enjoying the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee celebrations while reading this…)

Around that same time, Gillian was traveling in the USA with a bunch of friends she’d met while working for Camp America. I decided to fly out and meet up with them, in the hope that a few more adventures would dispel my unhappiness.

By the time I got there, she only had two companions left, a young Kiwi-Aussie couple called Richie and Krista. We hung out together for a couple of weeks and had fun, and one by one they, and then the two of us, left for home.

Back in England again, I busied myself trying to recapture the combination of excitement and contentment I’d found in Ecuador, but to no avail. In the end I left for Thailand, following Toby’s advice, hoping that another stint of volunteering would sort my head out.

By pure chance, Gill had invited Krista to come and explore England with her; I flew out the same day she flew in, and we met briefly at the bus station. I said my good-byes and was gone. Though my original plan was to stay away for three months, I got kind of caught up in things and didn’t come back for over two years.

The two girls meanwhile, roamed around the UK until their money ran out, and Krista flew back to Australia. Gill promised to return the visit as soon as she could afford to.

In Thailand, I neither knew nor cared about such things! I was having a great time, diving for a living and partying every opportunity I got.

Toby would be proud, I thought.

Until one day I woke up broke. I’d lost a lot of money to fraud and then had what was left stolen from my bungalow. I realized I would never survive on my meager diving wages. My friends supported me for a while, but I knew I couldn’t ask this of them for long.

It was time to face facts; I was going to have to go home.

Hang on, there’s that Sheila again!

By this time, Gill was in Australia, exploring the country with Krista in a knackered van covered in multi-colored handprints. In a series of tearful emails to my sis, I poured my heart out — telling her how much I hated the idea of abandoning all my hopes and dreams and going home.

She wrote back with an offer from Krista: I could come over to Perth and stay with her family! Krista had even lined up an interview for me with a local job agency — I could hardly believe it! I still didn’t want to leave Thailand, but at least this way I could carry on traveling. (Krista and Gill also pointed out that there were plenty of spare seats in their van…)

I flew to Australia without the price of a cup of coffee. I didn’t even own enough clothing to fill a bag. The girls met me in the airport with their crumbling van (nicknamed Rusty!), and I immediately learned a few things about Krista:

  1. She was prettier than I remembered.
  2. She was now single.
  3. She was a whole lot of fun to be around!

Six years later, after many adventures together, Krista and I were married in the grounds of Taunton Castle, in Somerset in England. Her whole family flew out to join in the medieval-themed celebration, and not long after they flew back, we followed them, back to Perth, where we now live.

Of course, it was a LOT more complicated than that.

But as chance encounters go — and in terms of the ones that influence your life the most — well, that one, for me, takes the biscuit!

What about you? I want to know what chance encounters have affected you the most during your travels — leading to new experiences you wouldn’t have otherwise had. And did they ultimately take you closer to The Sweet Life, as in my case?

Spill the beans in the comments below. (You know you want to!)

STAY TUNED for Monday’s post, a tribute to Queen Elizabeth for lasting 60 years on the throne, despite a period of displacedness.

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

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Images from Tony James Slater’s personal collection: Touring the Grand Canyon with Krista (she is in the green tee shirt), her boyfriend and his sister, Gill; his reunion with Krista and Gill in Perth, Australia, some years later (Tony is driving Rusty); all of this leading to Tony and Krista’s medieval-themed wedding in the UK (this is their “hand fasting”).

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LIBBY’S LIFE #53 – Preserved on tape

4 Comments Posted by on May 31, 2012

I stare at the dark computer screen, wondering if my overactive imagination is misleading me.

Only one way to find out. An imagination doesn’t mislead twice. Not in the face of hard facts from a digital camera.

I hit “Play” on the screen again, and scroll through our unedited wedding footage until the time elapsed says 1 hour, 25 minutes.

Act 1:

The evening party at our wedding. To the left of the stage where the band is playing a particularly sickly version of  Stevie Wonder’s “I just called to say I love you” (look, my dad booked the band, OK?) a large clock on the wall shows the time to be 9:40.

At 9:40pm on our wedding day, Oliver and I were on the other side of London, in the bar at the Heathrow Hilton, ready for our flight to Ibiza the next morning.

This is all the stuff that happened after we left our party. It’s fascinating and morbid at the same time. Like watching your own funeral.

No one appreciates the band’s rendition of Stevie Wonder, and the only person on the dance floor is a little girl in a pink frothy frock — the daughter of Mum’s cousin. Yasmin, her name is. She  twirls around in circles, round and round and round again, until she is dizzy and falls down, laughing up at the camera. The camera zooms out, and to the right of the dance floor reveals a cluster of small, circular tables, covered with empty glasses and plates of half-eaten vol-au-vents. We were supposed to have had wait staff all night at the reception, but apparently they disappeared as soon as the Adorable Couple had left the bash.

At one of the small tables, on her own and nursing a glass of what looks like water but is most likely vodka, sits Sandra. She hunches to one side, leaning against the wall, a morose expression on her face as she swigs from the glass. She’s not happy that her little boy has another woman in his life.

The camera swings down in a jerky movement and drops its gaze to the floor. A man’s foot in a  scuffed black shoe — the videographer’s. (I’m guessing he’s had quite a bit of party bubbly and is merely filming for his own amusement, since the day’s main attractions are now propping up a different bar in a Hilton forty miles away.) Then up again, focusing on the little girl in the pink dress, who is dancing a ballet routine to the band playing a different song — a slow one by Journey, I think. A few feet behind the little girl, my mother comes into view. The mother of the bride is resplendent in a fuchsia pink wedding suit that would have been more at home at a wedding in 1987. She’s heading towards Sandra.

At the little table, Mum sits down and pushes some vol-au-vents aside. She smiles brightly at Sandra; they are related now, bonded by marriage and the mutual loss of their only offspring. Mum, though, is not as heartbroken as her counterpart, because she has not really lost a daughter. Daughters are never lost; they are merely loaned to their husbands.

Sandra, however is inconsolable. Her loss is total, and she is utterly bereft. Emotion runs deep in her veins. So does the vodka.

She says something to Mum which is inaudible above the strains of the Steve Perry wannabe. She waves her glass around, and speaks some more. I know that if I could hear her, the words would be slurred.

A look of concern crosses my mother’s face.

I recognise this look. It’s the look I used to see when I came home from school, slamming my book bag on the kitchen table and muttering dire, cryptic threats against whoever had happened to piss me off that day. A quick, sideways glance, sizing up the gravity of the situation: “Is Libby really going to slash that teacher’s tyres? Do I intervene or keep saying ‘Yes, dear’?”

Mum starts to speak, and Sandra’s face crumples. Mum takes her hand and squeezes it.

I want to know more about this little scene, but the videographer is intent upon capturing Second Cousin Yasmin  and her ballet routine whose tempo is too fast for this last-smooch-at-the-disco song.

The camera zooms in on the little dancing feet in their pink sparkly Mary Jane shoes, and the unfolding drama between my mother and Sandra is lost.

Act 2

I nearly missed this part, so intent was I upon the visual aspect of the film. My mother and Sandra do not appear on the whole of the DVD again, even though there is still another forty minutes of footage to go. My goodness, but we got our money’s worth from that videographer.

A tantrum on the dance floor.

Second Cousin Yasmin has exhausted her repertoire of dance routines but, undeterred, has dragged a chair to the middle of the floor so she can show off her barre exercises.

Battements tendus — un, deux, trois. To the side — un, deux, trois.

Pleasing, perhaps, to the eyes of fond mothers at ballet school, when set to the strains of Saint-Saens and Faure, but not so pleasing to the occupants of the dance floor who are trying to boogie to the band’s version of “Love Shack.” They keep tripping over the chair and Yasmin’s outstretched limbs.

Yasmin’s father, my mother’s cousin Ted, strides onto the wooden floor. He picks up the chair in one hand, and grabs onto TwinkleToes herself with his other.

“Bang bang, on the door baby,” sings the female vocalist in little more than a whisper.

The lull in the song is Yasmin’s cue to yell, very loudly. She calls her father a name that six-year-olds are not supposed to know, let alone use in the formal setting of a wedding reception. Uncle Ted is not impressed, and tries to haul her away. It’s well past her bedtime, anyway.

Yasmin, though, doesn’t agree with this sentiment, and sits down on the floor very suddenly, knocking her father off balance. He drops the chair, trips over his daughter’s leg, and sprawls in a most ungainly manner on the floor.

The videographer, who has been professionally quiet behind the camera until this point, lets out a huge snort of amusement and backs away, towards the cluster of tables, get a better view. The band has stopped playing; I can see them conferring on stage, wondering whether to ignore the little scene, or to play a noisy song to drown it out.

In the hush, close behind the camera, a voice.

Sandra’s voice, perfectly recorded for posterity.

“I was his third. If it hadn’t been for that car accident, when Oliver and I met his other wives in the hospital, we might still all be one big happy family.”

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #54 – Opening the cocoon

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #52 – Life: A series of hellos and goodbyes

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

STAY TUNED for Friday’s post — another Displaced Q from Tony James Slater.

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Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigit

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For expat novelist Laura Graham, even a dark Tuscan alley has La Dolce Vita to spare

9 Comments Posted by on May 30, 2012

“Down a Tuscan Alley” — when I first heard the title of Laura Graham’s debut novel about an Englishwoman in Tuscany, I assumed it would be a thriller or mystery. Something nefarious would happen down a Tuscan alley, and the protagonist, whose name is Lorri, would find herself enmeshed in events beyond her comprehension, fearful of getting caught in the crossfire between rival Mafia gangs…

The book is no such thing, I’m happy to report (I’m not a fan of Mafia thrillers). Strange things do happen in the dark alley outside of the tiny flat where Lorri lives in the Centro Storico (village on a hill) of the Tuscan town of Sinalunga — but nothing worse than a peeping Tom. And at one point there’s a shady-looking man following Lorri — but he turns out to be (relatively speaking) harmless.

No, the book’s real mystery has to do with why Lorri is living in a tiny Tuscan village on her own. Well, she’s not on her own but has two cats. The last time she was in Sinalunga, it was with her husband, Richard. They had bought the flat together and Richard fixed it up. But now their marriage is over because of Richard’s infidelity. Or Lorri thinks it is over — Richard is having second thoughts.

Lorri, however, is determined. She has come to Italy to get lost in the culture and start her life again. But is she doing the right thing? Her Italian neighbors treat her with some suspicion: what’s a woman doing living on her own, with no visible means of support? (She has decided to do B&B in her little flat, but since it has only one bedroom, when the guests come, she has to sleep on the sitting room floor.)

And she also has to persuade herself to trust her gut instincts. As she says toward the start of the novel:

Am I crazy to come here? Hardly any grasp of the language, forty-seven, alone and with virtually no money? Many would think so…

Lest you think we’re venturing into Under the Tuscan Sun territory, rest assured, we’re not. Lorri does not take life, let alone her midlife predicament, too seriously. This is a flat overlooking an alley we’re talking about, not a 250-year-old villa. And so what if she ends up seizing an opportunity to get involved with the handsome young builder Ronaldo? Isn’t La Dolce Amore the quickest way to obtain La Dolce Vita?

But before I get too carried away with the story, let me turn the conversation over to Laura Graham, who has graciously agreed to answer a few questions about both her book and her life story — which, as she freely admits, the novel is based on.

The decision to write an autobiographical novel

Thank you so much, Laura, for agreeing to this chat. Your story — both in the book and in real life — neatly combines the two themes we’ve been talking about on The Displaced Nation this month: the quest for La Dolce Vita and the need for taking a “midlife gap year,” which sometimes heralds an even bigger life change. But let’s start by having you talk a little about your background — where you were born, what you studied and why you went to live in Italy.
I was born and brought up on the Isle of Tiree on the West Coast of Scotland for the first six years of my life. I then came to London and entered a convent school.

Later, as an adult, I won a scholarship to study drama at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art for two years. I received the prize for being the most promising student and immediately got a job understudying Helen Mirren in The Balcony at the Aldwych Theatre in London. I had a long and successful acting career at the Royal Shakespeare Company and the Young Vic, also on television.

When my long relationship ended with my former partner, I felt the need to turn my life around and decided to begin again in Italy. About ten years before, I’d invested £6,000 in a tiny hilltop village apartment in Tuscany, never thinking that one day it would become my permanent home. I still live in the village, but in a house, with my partner Rosalbo, a property restorer and an artist (he paints cats!). Besides writing, I run my own holiday agency, called “Laura’s Houses.”

Down the Tuscan Alley is your first novel. Have you written anything else?
I have also written a book for children called A Tale of Two Tuscan Cats, which was published last October. It has recently come out in Italian. Rosalbo did the illustrations.

What made you decide to write a novel about a middle-aged woman who is determined to change her life by moving abroad?
Because I’ve experienced it and thought it would make a good story — and might help others so inclined.

Why a novel and not a memoir?
I wrote my story in a novel form to protect the people I wrote about — I’ve changed their names, although some of them are now dead.

What audience did you have in mind when writing the book?
Women like myself, who want more from life than just settling into middle age with nothing but memories. Life is to be lived!

One of your Amazon reviewers wrote: “Brava! Brava! Brava! I loved reading Down a Tuscan Alley. The comic cast of characters brought me to the heart of bellisima Italia.” Other readers, however, said they were grateful that the book isn’t just about how beautiful Italy is. To which parts of the story have most readers responded?
The parts that are thought-provoking — about losing oneself in another culture in order to find oneself — and the humor are what people seem to enjoy.

Getting to the heart of La Dolce Vita…

From the time she arrives Italy, Lorri seems to be in touch with the little things that make her Tuscan alley so different from the Devonshire alley where she was living with friends, just before she left: the old stone steps, the steeple of the magnificent ochre-colored church she can see from her window, the birdsong… Is there something special about Italy that awakens the five senses?
In my opinion it is the light that awakens the senses. The light in Tuscany touches something in you, brings you to life — it’s like a medicine, a tonic.

Since you’re a former actress, would you say that daily life in Italy is more theatrical?
Living in Italy is certainly more theatrical than living in the UK. The people here are open and spontaneous.

And Lorri immediately becomes part of that drama. As her elderly English-speaking neighbor in Sinalunga, Lionello Torossi, says: “The people are delighted to see you…You are their portable theater.” But doesn’t some of the charm of a place have to do with its novelty value? Wouldn’t an Italian feel charmed by a Devonshire alley?
I think the Italians would be fascinated by a Devonshire back alley, if only to think — how is it possible to live there?

…and La Dolce Amore

At one point, Lorri is contemplating her affair with Ronaldo and says to herself: “How can you speak with your heart when you don’t know the words?” Call me a skeptic, but couldn’t their relationship change for the worse once their verbal communications improve?
No, I think Lorri would still find Ronaldo enchanting once she’s able to understand more of the language. But perhaps also more infuriating at times!

Lorri also says, with reference to Ronaldo: “These torrid passions are what happens to English women in hot countries.” Is romance so very different in Italy as compared to the UK?
Torrid passions indeed! The Italian art of seduction is very different from the UK. An Italian makes a woman feel every inch a woman and delights in her beauty and femininity no matter what her age.

Many of The Displaced Nation’s readers are in cross-cultural relationships. What do you find to be the biggest challenge about getting together with someone of another culture?
I cannot pretend it’s easy getting together for a long time with someone of a different culture — although it’s not the culture so much as the mentality. There are many things to learn, mainly about one’s self — and that’s always a challenge. Here in Italy, it’s the language I find most difficult and the humor, which is somewhat different from ours. Of the two, language is the bigger difficulty. Communicating is the key to success when living in another country. Otherwise, you can’t offer as much as yourself as you would like to.

The challenge of exporting La Dolce Vita

After living in a small Italian community for so long, do you think you could ever fit back into living in Britain?
No, I can’t imagine myself living again in the UK even though I go back twice a year and enjoy it. But if I had to I would adjust simply because I’m English. But the biggest culture shock — apart from the food — would be the people. I’ve grown so used to the warmth of the Italians.

Could you bottle the formula you’ve developed for La Dolce Vita in Tuscany and bring it back with you?
The only way to bottle the formula of the Tuscan Dolce Vita is to carry it inside my heart — and take it with me wherever I go.

Coming soon!

Please tell me that you’re working on another book. By the time I finished Down a Tuscan Alley, I’d grown fond of Lorri, Ronaldo and the various neighbors — and felt bereft!
I am on the last chapter of my next book: The Story of Kelly McCloud. This is also set in Italy and is about a young woman who takes a job as a housesitter in an Italian villa. Amongst an eccentric English family, a fallen angel and a dragon, she discovers how to use the whole of her brain and realizes the potentiality of the human race.

Assolutamente favoloso! Thanks so much, Laura!

Readers, you can purchase Down a Tuscan Alley on Amazon. You can also read more about Laura Graham at her author site. And, should you now feel tempted into trying out La Dolce Vita for yourself, then consider renting one of her two houses in the Centro Storico of Sinalunga. What are you waiting for?!

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s episode in the life of our fictional expat heroine, Libby, who has traded her Boston Red Sox cap for a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker in her quest to uncover her husband’s roots. (What, not keeping up with Libby? Read the first three episodes of her expat adventures.)

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img: Laura Graham, on the terrace outside her house in Tuscany.

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