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LIBBY’S LIFE #56 – Falling up

1 Comment Posted by on July 26, 2012

I’m trapped in a dream and am falling, falling, falling, towards a pit of boiling lava. It serves me right, I tell myself in my dream, for believing pink satin pointe shoes would be appropriate attire in which to climb Mount Etna. Having lost my balance while performing an arabesque on the rim of the volcano, I’m now drifting towards the centre of the earth at a languid pace. “If I’d only practised harder at ballet, this would never have happened,” I admonish myself on the way down, regardless of the fact that I’d never taken a ballet class in my life, and wouldn’t know an arabesque from the macarena.

With a jolt and a kick to the duvet, I wake myself up just before my satin-clad feet hit the churning lava.

Sweating slightly from the warm night, and from relief that the dark nightmare has ended, I lie still, breathing hard. The relief doesn’t last long, though, because after a few seconds, my brain kicks into semi-wakefulness and the real nightmare comes flooding back — the one in which my husband came home last night to a silent house, made a secretive phone call to a mystery woman — of course it was a woman — and immediately went out again to see her.

That is not a nightmare I can wake up from. When we were kids, we used to say that if you actually hit the ground in that falling dream, it would be too late and you’d be dead for real from a heart attack. For a second I contemplate the possibility of finding a high building, enacting the dream, hitting the ground and ending it for real, but the obligations of being a mother to Jack and the twins are too great, and—

The twins. I spring upright in bed, and strain my eyes to see the time on the digital alarm clock. It’s getting light outside; I have slept — I do a quick calculation — six hours straight, and neither twin has woken me for a wee hours feed.

I swing my legs out of bed, pull on a dressing-gown, and pad over to their matching Moses baskets, under the window in the alcove of the bedroom.

The baskets are empty, the covers pulled back.

I panic. You hear of these kidnap-to-order abductions. Then — oh, thank God! — I hear a muffled cry from somewhere else in the house. It’s George, not Beth; George’s cry is hoarse, loud, and very persistent.

I run out of the bedroom, in the direction of the stairs, and stop when I hear the cry again. It’s coming from the spare bedroom where Oliver has slept for the last six weeks or so.

Pushing the spare bedroom door open, I peer across the room. Oliver lies in the middle of the bed, a twin snuggled under each arm. His right hand is awkwardly curved round as he holds a bottle of milk to George’s mouth.

I reach to the side of the door and turn the landing light on. Oliver looks up. He gives me a half-smile, then mouths “Shhh.”

Shhh? I don’t think so. For the last three months, I have single-handedly looked after our three children and run our home while Oliver indulged himself in his midlife crisis. Knowing what I do now, after last night’s little secret-phone-call episode, I’m in no mood to Shhh.

“What are you doing?” I ask. My voice sounds very loud in the dawn quiet, when even the birds are still rubbing sleep from their eyes.

“I’m feeding the twins. This is George’s second bottle. He eats a lot, doesn’t he?”

If Oliver had paid any attention to his children over the last few weeks, this wouldn’t have been a revelation to him.

“Why are you doing that?” I ask.

Oliver shifts slightly in the queen-sized bed, and removes the bottle from George’s mouth with a gentle popping sound. George lies back, his eyes almost closed, a dribble of milk running from one side of his mouth. Automatically, I reach into my dressing-gown pocket for a clean tissue, and lean forward to wipe the dribble away before it solidifies in the folds of his fat little neck.

“You needed a break,” Oliver answers.

Sorry. It’s too late for that. “Guilty conscience at last, eh? Or did she tell you to keep me sweet? ‘Oliver, you must be nice to poor Libby.’ Well, I’m telling you, I’ve managed perfectly well since April, and just because your fancy woman tells you to feel sorry for me—”

“Wait.” Oliver tries to raise his head, but Beth whimpers in protest at the change in her sleeping position. “Wait. What woman?”

“The one you were out with last night!” My voice is raised now, but I don’t care. “I heard you on the phone, making plans for a hot date. ‘I can see you now,’ you said. ‘She’s in bed,’ you said. ‘See you in fifteen minutes,’ you said. Who is it? Did Melissa Harvey Connor finally get her claws into her latest victim?”

I stand back, arms folded.

To my astonishment, Oliver starts to laugh.

“How dare you laugh!” I shout, and both babies fling their arms out, startled. I can’t remember the last time I screamed like this at my husband, but it feels good. All the pent-up anger and frustration is coming out now — and yet all he can do is laugh?

Oliver stops laughing. “You thought I was out with Melissa? Please.”

“So who was it?”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“There is no one else. I was at Maggie’s.”

I’m silent. I can’t think what to say.

“Why?” I ask eventually. “Why with Maggie and not with me?”

He breathes in, holds it for a few seconds, then lets it out in a rush.

“Because she wanted to bawl me out. She thinks I’ve been a complete bastard.” He looks down at Beth and drops a kiss on her head. “And she’s right,” he said quietly.

I sit on the edge of the bed, but still don’t say anything.

“My father,” Oliver says hesitantly. He takes another deep breath. “I know you know about it. I should have told you before, but my mother made me promise never to say anything. You know what she’s like, not that it’s an excuse, but…I should have told you. I should have broken that promise to my mother.”

He stops. The light coming in at the window is stronger now, and I can see tears shining in his eyes.

I can’t help it. Despite everything I’ve gone through recently, despite the way he’s behaved, I feel sorry for him. When all’s said and done, he’s my Oliver, we have three children together, and we owe it to them, and ourselves, to make this work.

“When you’re ready,” I say, and reach across and squeeze his hand.

He squeezes mine in return. We glance shyly at each other, then look away.

It’s going to be all right, I think. It will take a while — but it’s going to be all right.

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #57 – Coming clean

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE  – Oliver’s side of the story 

A note for Libby addicts: Check out Woodhaven Happenings, where from time to time you will find more posts from other characters.  Want to remind yourself of Who’s Who in Woodhaven? Click here for the cast list!

Read Libby’s Life from the first episode.


STAY TUNED for Monday’s post.

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Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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LESSONS FROM TWO SMALL ISLANDS — 3) Keep calm and eat curry

Leave a comment Posted by on July 18, 2012

Mid-July in Manhattan, and I’m thinking that New York deserves its reputation as The City That Never Sleeps. Not because we’re all out partying — far from it. We’re lying there tossing and turning because we can’t regulate our air-conditioning units.

“High” puts you in Siberia; “Low” sends you down into the Tropics. There are no in-betweens, except for the brief period just after you’ve gotten out of bed to adjust the setting. But by then you’re awake again…

It has always surprised me that New Yorkers are willing to put up with such primitive cooling methods. It’s not like them to suffer silently. My theory is that they simply don’t know any better. As the world begins and ends in New York (isn’t Times Square supposed to be the center of the universe?), this must be the best of all possible air conditioning systems.

Regardless. The point is that I am finding summer a terrible trial now that I’ve repatriated — one that at times requires Olympic strength and endurance.

As summer wears on, I wear out. Not only do I never sleep but I never eat — or eat only minimally. My appetite dwindles at the thought of passing yet another uncomfortable night at the mercy of Simon-Aire products.

All of that changed, however, a few nights ago. Actually, the night had started normally enough: I had gone to bed and was freezing cold so couldn’t sleep. But just as I was lying there thinking about getting up to turn the air con down or else searching the closet for another blanket, I had a sudden, heartwarming thought: “I could kill for a curry!”

How did I go from cursing Dr. Cool, whose workers had installed a supposedly upgraded Simon-Aire unit in the bedroom at considerable cost, to a happy craving for curry? I can only surmise that my subconscious mind was trying to restore my spirits by reminding me of my curry-eating days in the two small islands where I’d lived as an expat, England and Japan. I felt calm again, and my appetite returned…

America — a nation that has deprived itself of a serious curry experience

When I first moved to New York, I was beyond thrilled to discover that the Indian actress and cookbook author Madhur Jaffrey lived here, too. To my utter surprise (and delight) — I had always assumed she lived in London — she has been residing in an apartment on the Upper East Side for the past several decades. (She also has a farmhouse in the Hudson Valley.)

Surprised in a good way, yes — but also somewhat mystified. Why would Jaffrey choose to live in America for so long, given the sorry state of Indian cuisine in this part of the world?

I guess it has to do with husbands — she came to the city with her first husband, the Indian actor, Saeed Jaffrey, and then after their divorce, married an American.

Or perhaps she just likes a challenge? In Jaffrey’s very first cookbook, An Invitation to Indian Cooking, written not long after her arrival on American soil, she says she is writing the book because

there is no place in New York or anywhere in America where top-quality Indian food could be found, except, of course, in private Indian homes.

That was nearly forty years ago, and I have to say, her efforts to improve the situation, beginning with that book, have yet to pay off. Manhattan now has a couple of Indian restaurant neighborhoods, and then there’s Jackson Heights in Queens — but in general curry hasn’t caught on in a big way with Americans. If we want to eat spicy food, we usually turn to Mexican or Thai, not Indian.

As Jaffrey herself put it in an interview with an American reporter last year:

America as a whole has not embraced Indian food like they have with Chinese, or with sushi. It’s beginning to change, but only in big cities. Something is needed, something real. I have waited for this revolution, but it hasn’t happened yet.

This is in stark contrast to England and Japan — both of which embraced the curry cause on first exposure and now behave as though they’d invented certain dishes. Indeed, chicken tikka is considered to be a national dish in the UK, while “curry rice” (pronounced karē raisu) rapidly achieved the status of a national dish in Japan.

Nostalgia: Going out for a curry in England

England, my England — where Madhur Jaffrey is a household name, and curry houses abound!

Britain got the hots for curry during the 19th century, when there was an enthusiasm for all things Indian. And I got the hots for the Brits’ late-20th-century version of curry when living in an English town as an expat. My friends and I would spice up our evenings by going out for curries. We always ordered a biriani, chicken tikka masala, and a couple of vegetable dishes (one was usually sag paneer, which remains a favorite to this day).

Our starters would be onion bhaji and papadums, and drinks would be pints of lager. If we had the space for dessert, it was usually chocolate ice cream — none of us ever acquired the taste for Indian desserts (dessert of course being an area where the British excel!).

But even more special were the times when friends invited me to their homes for meals they’d concocted using Madhur Jaffrey’s recipes. One memory that stands out for me is an occasion when my former husband, a Brit, and I joined four other couples for a friend’s 40th birthday party. The hostess, the birthday-boy’s wife, presented a dazzling array of Madhur Jaffrey dishes that looked like something out of a food magazine. I’ve been to much ritzier birthday parties before and since, but none have struck me as being as elegant as this one — partly because of the splendid display and partly because by then I knew how much chopping and dicing of garlic, ginger and onion, how much grinding of spices must have been involved. What a labor of love!

Yes, by then I’d begun experimenting with Indian cookery myself thanks to the influence of a very good friend, who’d given me the classic Madhur Jaffrey work, Indian Cookery (which had been a BBC series), along with all the spices I would need for making the recipes: nutmeg, cinnamon, cardamon, mustard seeds, coriander, cumin turmeric, cloves… To this day, I always keep an array of Indian spices in my pantry so that I can make my own garam masala at the drop of a hat. Now if only I could find some friends who would drop their hats! (Hey, I even have the old coffee grinder ready for grinding the spices, just as Jaffrey instructs.)

Nostalgia: Curry rice & curry lunches in Japan

Eventually, I moved away from England to another small island, Japan — where I was relieved to discover I would not need to give up my new-found passion for Indian food (though I would be foregoing my beloved basmati rice unless I smuggled it in at customs).

Thankfully, the Brits had gotten there about a hundred years before me and had introduced curry to the Japanese, with great success.

Because of “r” being pronounced like an “l” in the Japanese language, we foreigners couldn’t resist making many tasteless jokes about eating curried lice, but that didn’t stop us from having our fill of the tasty national dish, curry rice.

As in the UK, I found it a nice contrast to the traditional fare, which, though healthy, can be rather bland.

At this point, I’d like to loop back to Madhur Jaffrey and note that she disapproves of the word “curry” being used to describe India’s great cuisine — says it’s as degrading as the term “chop suey” was to Chinese cuisine. But I wonder if she might make an exception to the Japanese usage? Apparently, Indians themselves when speaking in English use “curry” to to distinguish stew-like dishes. And Japanese curry rice is the richest of stews, made from a “roux” that can be bought in a box if you do it yourself.

My first box of curry roux was a gift from a Japanese friend. It was accompanied by her recipe for enriching the stew with fresh shrimp and scallops. Oishii!

Still, the curry I crave most often from Japan isn’t curry rice at all, which I find on the heavy side. No, my deepest nostalgia is reserved for the set lunches in Tokyo’s Indian restaurants, which I used to partake in with office colleagues.

The (mostly Indian) chefs have tweaked the ingredients to appeal to the Japanese palate: little dishes of curry that are artistically arranged on a platter, accompanied by naan. freshly baked (fresh is very important to the Japanese) and a side of Japanese pickles: pickled onions, or rakkyōzuke (a tiny, whole, sweet onion); and pickled vegetables, or fukujinzuke.

(The addition of Japanese pickles, by the way, is genius! Try it — you’ll love it!)

All of this is capped by coffee or masala tea, both of which are so well executed they can fill in as desserts.

My takeaways (I wish!)

I fear there may not be many takeaways for my fellow Americans from Lesson #3. After all, the world’s leading authority on Indian cuisine has tried to convert us and failed.

Nevertheless I’ll suggest a few scenarios, with pointers on how you might attempt to introduce a curry-eating tradition into your circle:

1 — Summer is getting to you, so you suggest to a group of friends that you all go out for a curry. When they stare at you blankly, do a little head bobble, smile charmingly and say: “Why ever not?”

2 — Summer is getting to you, and you decide to build a shrine to Madhur Jaffrey in your home by buying as many of her books as you can — including her children’s book on the Indian elephant, Robi Dobi, and her memoir of her childhood, Climbing Mango Trees. You arrange them around a screen that is playing Shakespeare Wallah, a film she appeared in in the 1960s (directed by James Ivory and starring Felicity Kendal). Invite some friends over and when they ask you about the shrine, start talking about the joys of Indian cookery and see if you can make some converts. Perhaps offer to lend out a book or two. (I might start with her newest work, which emphasizes “quick and easy” methods — bless the 78-year-old Jaffrey, she’s indefatigable!) And you can always dip into the books yourself if the heat is making you sleepless. Jaffrey writes beautifully.

3 — Summer is getting to you, but you decide that when the heat breaks, you will start up a Curry Club with a few of your friends, encouraging everyone to contribute one Madhur Jaffrey dish or a Japanese curry made from roux. Even if most of them drop out and you end up cooking a dish for yourself, perhaps this exercise will satisfy your craving until winter. (I find I get these cravings roughly every six months, usually in summer and winter.)

* * *

Well, I’m off to see if I can resume my sweetly fragrant dreams of my expat culinary adventures — just hope it does the trick of distracting me from my ancient “aircon” (popular Japanese contraction) units!

In the meantime, let me know what you think of this lesson. Are you a curry lover? And if so, could you live in a nation that doesn’t share your craving? How would you put some spice into your life under such sorry circumstances? Do tell!

STAY TUNED for Thursday’s post, another in our “Expat Moments” series, by Anthony Windram.

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Image: MorgueFile

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We interrupt this Olympic broadcast…with breaking news about a travel book that’s going for free on Amazon!

2 Comments Posted by on July 17, 2012

Now as some of you may know, Displaced Nation contributor Tony James Slater is also an author. What you don’t know (yet) is that for today and tomorrow — 17th & 18th July — his book will be available FREE to download from Amazon! Take it away, Tony! If anyone can sell us something, you can! Except in this case, we don’t even have to pay… 🙂

Hi there, folks! Yes, I’m here today to do a bit of shameless self-promotion. Can you ever forgive me? Listen, my book is called That Bear Ate My Pants. As the title suggests, it’s a ridiculous romp of a travel book, based in an animal refuge in Ecuador where I spent three months volunteering. (Some of you have already had a taste of these adventures from the first post I wrote for the Displaced Nation: “I traveled in search of adventure, and ended up embracing a simpler life.”)

To say that working for an Ecuadorian animal shelter was a struggle is an understatement. To say it was a struggle to stay alive — and avoid being eaten by bears and other exotic animals — well, that’s a little closer to the truth…hence the book’s rather provocative title!

Writing a book has often been likened to a Herculean task (usually by the author responsible, who inevitably believes himself to be unappreciated!)

Well, this one — my first — took me six years to complete. Not because the level of effort needed to write it was greater than for any other book; rather, because  — to continue the Olympic analogy — I’m an exceptionally lazy athlete. I’m pretty much guaranteed to come last, but then, nice guys usually do. 🙂

In fact, the only thing remotely Olympian about this book is the number of free downloads it’s had! In one sense, new authors and budding athletes are exactly alike: we all REALLY care about are our stats! My book has only been available for free on Amazon once before, in February, and there were a staggering (if I say so myself) 22,701 copies downloaded in just two days! Needless to say, this earned the book a place right at the top of the charts, which is exactly here I’m hoping to send it today.

So without further ado, here is a brief excerpt from my adventures, to tempt you, and all of your travel-(and animal-)loving friends, to want to read more.

Excerpt from That Bear Ate My Pants!

“MONKEY!” I shouted, as a brown blur swung out of the cage and onto the path.

The chase was on.

He skipped away with incredible speed, dodging around the corner and heading for freedom as though he’d thought of nothing but this moment for years. I bolted after him, grabbing the edge of a cage to swing me round in hot pursuit. The monkey was a good way ahead of me, and far more maneuverable. But I was faster on the straight. I accelerated down the narrow corridor between enclosures, and was closing the distance between us when he reached the steps down to the main road through the farm. This was my chance — if he paused, if he found the stairs confusing, I’d be on him. But no. Being a monkey, he didn’t have much use for stairs. He just jumped.

He made the ten-foot leap to the ground with ease, landed on all fours, and scurried off down the road. Pounding along behind him I had less than a second to make the choice. If I slowed to negotiate the stairs even part of the way down, it would all be over. Once he reached the trees by the first bend in the road he’d be gone for good.

Time was up. I reached the top of the steps at a dead run and launched myself over the edge.

In the seconds I was airborne my entire life flashed before my eyes. I seemed to have spent a disproportionate amount of it chasing monkeys.

Somehow I landed on my feet, with bone-jarring force. I was only a step behind the monkey — my leap had taken me considerably further than his — but my body was moving too fast for my legs. I managed to push off with my feet at the same moment as I started to fall headlong on the ground. The result: I bounced forwards another metre, sailing high above the form of the fleeing monkey, then crashed to earth and flattened the fella.

The impact knocked the stuffing out of me. It temporarily turned the monkey two-dimensional. Pain shot through me. I felt like I’d fallen ten feet onto a small primate. For the monkey it must have been like being beaten around the head with a banana tree. For a split second neither of us could move.

He recovered quicker than I did. Amazingly he wriggled out from under me and leapt towards freedom, just as I, still lying prone, reached out with both arms and caught him.

Unfortunately I could only catch him around the middle. Which meant that while he wasn’t going anywhere, he wasn’t particularly happy about it.

In far less time than it takes to tell the monkey writhed around in my grasp and sank his fangs into my hand.

“ARGH!”

The monkey switched his attention to my other hand and bit down hard.

“Arrr!” I shrieked. I let go with the recently bitten hand, but I had no other options — I had to grab him again or lose him. As I tried to grab his neck he bit me again, puncturing the thick leather glove easily and scoring my vulnerable flesh. Again and again he bit down, faster than I could even register the damage.

I lay on my belly, flat out on the floor, both arms outstretched in front of me and both hands wrapped around a frantically flailing ball of teeth and rage. There was sod all I could do — without my hands free I couldn’t get to my feet, and without standing up I had no way of controlling the beast. It was not the first time I had the thought; what the hell was I doing in Ecuador?

To Be Continued…

*  *  *

So if you’re a Kindle owner (or want to be), head straight on over to Amazon and grab a copy while it’s free.
If you’d like to read a copy but don’t have a Kindle, here’s a link to the free software that allows you to read Kindle books on any PC or Mac, tablet or smartphone.  (Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the paperback…)

And let me know what you think in the comments!

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s installment in ML Awanohara’s new series, “Lessons from Two Small Islands.” NOTE: The post by Tony James Slater that was scheduled for today — a Displaced Q on the Olympics and nationalism — has been postponed to early August.

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: Tony James Slater in Ecuador with his simian “friends”; book cover.

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LIBBY’S LIFE: Oliver’s side of the story

1 Comment Posted by on July 12, 2012

A note from Kate: After the last episode, I thought Oliver should be given a chance to explain things, so this episode is told by the man himself. 

In the last episode, Libby waited up for Oliver, wanting to confront him about her recent discovery. Before she could make her presence known in the darkened house, she heard him on the phone making murmured plans with someone she could only assume was another woman. 

Here he is, at the other woman’s house.

*  *  *

I ring the doorbell, and after a couple of seconds the door opens.

“You took your time,” she says. “It doesn’t take fifteen minutes to get here.”

“Diversion to the liquor store.” I hold out a bottle of Pinot Grigio. “For you.”

I know how to get round women. A good bottle of white never fails.

She takes it from me. “We’ll open that later.”

I follow her along the hall and into the kitchen.

“And Libby doesn’t know you’re here?” she asks. She opens the fridge and puts the wine inside.

“She was asleep. The house was dark. She doesn’t even know I came home.”

“That makes things easier.”

She reaches into a cabinet and gets out two wine glasses, ready for later in the evening.

“Have you eaten tonight?” she asks.

I try to think. To be honest, I’m not sure when I last ate. I tell her this.

She shoots me a disapproving look. “You need to look after yourself, a young strapping man like you. I was about to have a tuna sandwich. Care to join me?”

I hate fish.

“Perfect,” I say.

She starts rattling baking trays and tin openers around, and I lean against the doorjamb, watching her.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask.

She stops banging stuff around long enough to think about the question. “In this house? A couple of years. In Woodhaven? Pretty much since 1976, give or take.”

She opens a tin of tuna and mashes it with mayonnaise. When she finishes with it, it looks like cat food.

“I’m going to make tea,” she says. “Could you get me one of those teapots from that shelf?”

I cross the kitchen and reach up to the high shelf above the window over the sink. “Any particular one?”

“The ginger tabby.”

The shelf is crammed with teapots shaped like cats. I’ve never seen anything so hideous.

“What’s the story with the cats?” I ask. “That’s quite an impressive collection you’ve got there. You must have an eye for antiques.”

Wrong thing to say. She’s not fooled for a minute.

“You’re so full of it,” she says. “They’re awful and you know it.”

She gives me a stern look that makes me feel as if I’m back in my junior school headmistress’s office, hauled onto the carpet for dipping Cheryl Atwood’s ponytail in red paint during art class.

“You’re not going to charm your way into my good books that easily,” Maggie says.

* * *

Oh, come on. Give me some credit. You didn’t think I was going out to meet some fancy woman tonight, did you? I saw Maggie this morning while I was out early walking the dog, and she asked me to come here tonight. Said she had something to tell me, but not to say anything to Libby.

If it was any other old biddy, I’d have told her to keep her nose out, but this is Maggie, and she’s not someone you can just say No to like that. Besides, she’s been good to Libs, so I supposed I owed her this much. And I thought I might get some decent food. Wrong again.

Now I wish I’d gone with my first instincts and told her to mind her own business. I’ve got a feeling that all she wants to do is give me a bollocking.

Can’t blame her, either, to be quite honest. If I’d been a fly on the wall of this house these last couple of months, I’d be thinking, “Oliver, you bastard” too. Any reasonable bloke would just sit down with the wife and try to sort things out, right?

But it’s not as simple as that.

Things never are.

* * *

“About this morning, when I saw you walking Fergus,” Maggie says, when we sit down in her living room, a plate of tuna sandwiches between us on the coffee table.

“What about it?” I ask. The smell of the fish makes me want to throw up.

“I asked you to come round here tonight because Libby told me something that I think you should know.”

I wonder what it could be. Perhaps Libby’s arranged an entire family reunion party at the Holiday Inn.

“And the thing is,” Maggie says, “it’s difficult for me to tell you because I promised her mother I wouldn’t interfere.”

I can’t help it. I snort, although I manage to turn it into a kind of sneeze. Again, Maggie isn’t fooled, and she fixes me with another of her headmistressy stares.

I straighten my face.

“As I was saying,” she continues after a pause, “I did promise her mother I wouldn’t interfere. But it seems that her mother, by not interfering herself, is just as much to blame for the circumstances you and Libby are currently in.”

She puts down her old-lady china plate decorated with gaudy red and orange roses, and starts to pour two cups of tea.

My headmistress never gave me tea after I’d dyed Cheryl’s ponytail.

Maggie passes a cup to me. “More sugar?” she asks.

I sip, then shake my head. This situation is bizarre. I wonder when she’s going to get the cane out. If Maggie ever needs a bit of extra income, she could always go in for private S&M sessions. She’s one scary lady.

She smiles at me. “Good.”

Sips her tea.

“She knows all about it, Oliver.”

The room, still warm from the heat of the day, suddenly feels icy cold.

“Knows what?” I ask, although it’s a rhetorical question. I’m only playing for time, putting off the moment.

“You know what,” Maggie says.

* * *

“I wanted to tell her,” I say after a few minutes have passed. Maggie’s a master in the art of silence, and eventually I had to break it. “But you see…that would have meant breaking a promise to my mother.”

“Tell me.”

“She made me promise I would never tell anyone about what really happened to my father. As far as anyone else was concerned, he ran off with a librarian when I was five.”

“Is your wife ‘anyone else’?”

I open my mouth to answer, “Of course she isn’t” and then stop.

Because if I haven’t told her what really happened to her father-in-law, then that’s what she is, right?

* * *

Most married men have two women in their lives. A wife and a mother. Some manage the two together without any problem.

The others have to make a choice. I thought I’d made my choice the first time I met Libs. She literally took my breath away. Every time I saw her, I had difficulty breathing. She’s the one, I thought.

Now, as Maggie tells me every last thing that Libby has found out from our hitherto unplayed wedding video, I realise I’ve been fooling myself for the last ten years.

More to the point, I’ve been fooling Libby.

.

This was originally published on July 8 at the Woodhaven Happenings site, a blog where you can find extra posts by other Libby’s Life characters. Need reminding of the characters? Check out the Who’s Who.

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Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #56 – Falling up

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #55 – Dark Secrets

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Stay tuned Monday’s guest post by Matt Krause, author of “A Tight Wide-open Space”!

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

Img: Map of the World – Salvatore Vuono

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Dear Mary-Sue: Should expatriates do patriotism, even if it is July?

Leave a comment Posted by on July 10, 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.

I hope you’re having a better July than I am, Mary-Suers. Ol’ Mary-Sue is not a happy bunny, let me tell you that, NOT A HAPPY BUNNY AT ALL. Some neighbor of mine — let’s for the sake of argument call him Gary Geshke, and while we’re at, let’s assume that this Gary Geshke was the most incompetent realtor in town, and let’s also assume that most of the women in the neighborhood wonder how Linda Geshke can stomach staying with him.

Whoops, I never finished my sentence. Anyway, this “Gary Geshke”  was struggling — as usual — to do the most basic tasks with just the tiniest of competency. This is the sort of guy you worry is going to chop off a toe when mowing his lawn. Well, he was having a fireworks party for the 4th and instead of blowing an arm off, as would be more in line with his reputation, he managed to have one of his fireworks land on my roof nearly causing the whole thing to burn down. Thankfully hubby Jake was quick on the scene before we nearly had a disaster on our hands the likes of which we haven’t seen since The Towering Inferno.

Gee, I could skin that guy alive. I know his wife sometimes visits The Displaced Nation, so if you have are reading this post, Linda, Gary is an ingrate.

Anyhow, I’m in a FOUL mood so let’s get the July questions over with quickly so I can get back to watching some soap operas as well as the marvelous summer barbecue that I am going to organize and pointedly not invite Gary and Linda to.

Yeah, you read that right, Linda!

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Dear Mary-Sue,

I grew up Catholic in Northern Ireland, I was only too happy to get out of Belfast when the opportunity arose to take off for Canada came along.  I’d never have to deal with nonsense like The Glorious Twelfth.

That was before I realized Canadians are mad about Canada Day on July 1.

I know, I know, it could be worse. I could be in the heartland of American watching people wave flags on July 4, or in Paris on July 14, not able to cross the streets because of the Bastille Day pomp and circumstance. But what is it about July that makes people embrace their motherlands? I just don’t get it…

Brendan, Nova Scotia

Dear Brendan,

April is the wettest month. July is the most patriotic. November is the most miserable, but June is the sexiest. March is chaste while September is outrageous. May oftentimes pretends to be coy, while October smells like an old man’s pipe. January is nice-looking, but her acting in Mad Men was wooden.

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Dear Mary-Sue,

As an Englishman in the United States on July 4th, I thought I should hide my accent. I made a few jokes about this to my American friends, but they didn’t seem to get it. They told me July 4 was for barbecues, so just have a hamburger and enjoy myself.

I ask you, did we fight a war or didn’t we?

Henry, Houston, Texas

Henry,

I normally have time for Limeys, but I’m not in a great mood at the moment. Who does an agony aunt write to? That’s what I really want to know.

Anyway, on your minor case, I would say, “let it go.” People invited you into their homes. They were nice to you. They watered and fed you. Yes, they didn’t laugh at your jokes. Do people often laugh at your jokes? Seems like you were going for a way-too-obvious topic, so I would wager no. Hubby Jake makes me laugh because he does an amazing John McCain impression that’s always a hit at parties. Perhaps you could work on something similar. Or you could just be really clumsy and knock over a jug of Sangria — as seems to be Gary Geshke’s party trick.

Also, if you want everyone to start bringing up that time their country had a war with England, pretty soon the only people you’ll be able to speak to will be the Portuguese.

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Dear Mary-Sue,

I’ve heard it said that you make the best 4th of July potato salad in the world. What is the recipe and method? Would love to try it. *hint,  hint, hint.*

Susie-May, Arizona

Aw shoot!

Susie-May!

And you were doing so well in following the restraining order in not making any contact with me. First, there was the incident in Krogers on Tuesday — and now this! Also, don’t think I don’t know it wasn’t you who sent me some hair clippings in the post. That’s just weird Susie-May. Get a grip!

Anyhoo, it is true that my potato salad is the best. Secret is never use mayo. Mayo is the devil’s work. Or Paula Deen’s — one of the two.

Also don’t parboil the potatoes — that’s a rookie’s mistake. You just want to steam them. After steaming, crush them a bit, not too much. Then season them with salt and pepper. To that, add a dash of olive oil, a dash of cider vinegar, and a tablespoon of Dijon mustard. Then throw chopped up green onions and some fresh cilantro. Mix it all together and then squeeze some lemon juice over it before serving. (Gary and Linda Geshke wish they could have some of that!)
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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. Do drop me a line with any problems you have, or if you want to talk smack about Delilah Rene.

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 Random Nomad, who is attempting an epic expedition…

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Culture collision: How American is England?

29 Comments Posted by on July 5, 2012

Last week’s Random Nomad interview with Melissa Stoey spawned a lively discussion on the subject of loving the romantic image of a country — namely England — rather than loving that country “as it is.”

However,  the definition of “as it is” deserves its own debate. During the comments discussion, Melissa pointed us toward two posts on her site, Smitten By Britain: the first, “England Would Not Be England” by British gardening celebrity Alan Titchmarsh, and the second, “What England Is Really Like” by guest poster Tim Gillett, founder of Tourist Tracks.

They make interesting reading. Both are lists of items which in the authors’ opinions are representative of England, and yet, comparing the two lists, you could be forgiven for thinking they referred to different countries on opposite sides of the globe.

Titchmarsh’s version conjured up a gentle, genteel picture of eating cucumber sandwiches by a croquet lawn; indeed, his list included cucumber sandwiches (although not croquet.)  Gillett’s list brought to mind a less poetic image of England: a picture of stuffing your face with doner kebabs in the High Street on Saturday nights, while stepping over puddles of lager-infused vomit.

Perception — or memory — of a country?

The thing is, though, there’s little I’d disagree with on either list. Maybe the “knotted hankies” on Titchmarsh’s list belong to the seaside excursions of fifty years ago, when Titchmarsh himself was a youngster. Then again — how many Ford Cortinas, an item on Gillett’s list, are still driving around in the UK? 1,317, according to the data on howmanyleft.co.uk., so they’re not such an everyday sight as they were twenty years ago.

No doubt age plays a part. I don’t know how old Mr Gillett is, but I’m hazarding a wild guess that he’s younger than Alan Titchmarsh, who turned 63 in May. From my own experience of reverse culture shock, I know that current perception is often confused by past recollection — my fond imaginings of England are rooted somewhere around the time when people wore Walkmans and acid-wash jeans.

But what really is “Typically English”?

What really struck me about the list by Tim Gillett, however, was the number of items that, while English, could also typify other countries. Titchmarsh’s list, for the main part, was stoically English, with the inclusion of Jane Austen, The National Trust, The Beano, Chatsworth, and Blackpool rock. Whether or not you agree that they are important or representative of England, they are nevertheless unique to that country.

Gillett’s list, on the other hand, had items such as “Misogyny”, “Reality TV”,  and “Appalling public transport” — all of which could be placed on a list to typify America, when you consider the current abortion rights battles, the Kardashians, and the lack of buses everywhere. “‘Baby on Board‘ and other pointless car stickers”? Yes; and try the little stick figure families stuck on the rear window of every soccer mom’s SUV. “Almost everyone believing what they read in the papers”? Fox News. “Visible thongs”? OK, you’ve got me there — I’m hoping they will soon be a thing of the American past thanks to this tasteful little invention being sold on TV.

Coloring outside the cultural lines

What I’m saying here is not that Tim Gillett, in his funny, wry list, has come up with suggestions that are too general to be exclusively English (he also includes “EastEnders“, “Local pubs and real ale”, “Wayne Rooney“, and something so obviously English and cringeworthy I can’t believe I’ve never thought about it: “Ill-fitting brassieres”) but that cultural borders are gradually smudging.

I would love to know what a similar list would look like in another twenty years — so, please, let’s have your suggestions for how the American and English cultures will differ or be the same when the 2032 Olympics roll around!

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STAY TUNED for Monday’s Displaced Q!

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EXPAT MOMENTS: What to wear for an Independence Day Party

2 Comments Posted by on July 4, 2012

Another in our series focusing on little moments of expat experience — moments that at the time seemed pifflingly insignificant.

As far as I can gather, the main advantage of Independence Day for many people seems to be the opportunity to dust off and wear that stars-and-stripes leather jacket that they bought back in 1979.

Wishing to get into the Independence Day spirit, it was clear that I also needing something “appropriate” to wear if I wanted to blend in successfully so I headed over to Target, a fine American corporation that would hopefully have even finer American clothing for me to purchase.

Finding the Target employee that looked the most patriotic — the telltale signs are a sensible haircut, good posture, and a strong jaw line — I asked where I might find the most patriotic T-shirts in store. Leading me to a selection of T-shirts featuring the stars and stripes, it was difficult for me to contain my disappointment with this somewhat anemic selection.

“Hmmm, do you have anything more patriotic?” I asked.

The patriotic youth seemed a little confused, a look that made him seem increasingly un-American.

“I was,” I said, “looking for something with a little more pizzazz. Something more OTT. I was kinda hoping you’d have one where Jesus is cradling the liberty bell while a bald eagle looks down approvingly?”

He just stared back at me. I’d been wrong about him. His jaw line was not as strong as I’d thought, his posture a little crooked, and his hair-style now I was closer was greasy and ostentatious.

“Why would we have that?” he sneered.

“Because you love this country — that’s why!”Though difficult, I tried to calm myself down and keep my temper in check. “Okay, have you got anything with a bald eagle in full flight in front of the stars and stripes, but, and this is the important bit, with a kick-ass explosion going on behind the flag? No? Nothing?”

“Have you tried Wal-Mart?”

I wandered off disappointed. This must have been how Benedict Arnold felt. You try and give this American lark a try, but you just end up getting kicked in the teeth. And that was when I saw the above little number, which I decided would from now on be my Independence Day T-shirt.

A version of this post first appeared on Culturally Discombobulated

STAY TUNED for Thursday’s post, in which Kate Allison debunks some common myths about the UK vs the USA.

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THE DISPLACED POLL: Which of these 4 travel champions deserves an Olympic gold medal?

Leave a comment Posted by on July 2, 2012

Hi there, folks! In keeping with our summer theme — we’ve been talking up the Olympics, in case you haven’t noticed — today I’ll be taking a look at some travely-types who have performed what can only be described as Herculean endeavors.

Which one of these travel worthies would you vote onto the gold medal podium for their efforts? Register your choice in our poll below.

1) THE SPRINTER: Gunnar Garfors

The 30-something Norwegian Gunnar Garfors (he’s a tech and new media guy as well as an avid traveler and former footballer) will never forget where he was on June 18th, 2012. Because he was in Istanbul (Asia), Casablanca (Africa), Paris (Europe), Punta Cana (North America) and Caracas (South America). Yup — all of ’em! He managed to create a new world record by visiting five different continents in one day!

Although the “day” was quite a long one, as Gunnar used the advancing dateline to squeeze a few more hours into his schedule.

It’s hard to believe that something like this is possible… I’m guessing he didn’t use Qantas for any of the flights. (Okay, that little dig was meant for Australians!)

Seriously, he makes me tired just thinking about it! Can you remember what you did on Monday? I think I got a hair cut…

Definitely an Olympian achievement.

2) THE MARATHONER: Jean Béliveau (no, not the ice hockey icon; we’re talking summer Olympics!)

Montrealer Jean Béliveau took a little longer to accomplish his feat than Gunnar Garfors — because Jean walked all the way around the word. No, really! 47,000 miles… It took him 11 years — and 53 pairs of shoes!

At 45, Jean went through a mid-life crisis with the failure of his neon sign business. In his own words:

“I played the game. It left me empty.”

Jean liked the idea of sailing around the world, but ocean-going yachts cost too much. Instead, he began to imagine running away as far as he could.  He started jogging and working out but told no one of his plans — not even his life partner, Luce Archambault. When he finally told Luce, she gave him her blessing — but insisted that he do it for a cause. Jean chose world peace and the safety of children, something no one could disagree with (at that point, he was after some peace of mind).

He began by running south, but by the time he’d reached Atlanta, his knees had started bothering him, so he switched to walking. He waked through the rest of America, Mexico, Latin America, Africa, Europe and Asia — six continents and 64 countries.

His interest in promoting peace didn’t stop him from being mugged, as well as imprisoned (the latter in Ethiopia). But he carried on and eventually even came to embrace his cause, telling people that to achieve peace, we must see the world through “eyes of love.”

It’s an achievement so staggering it begs the question: what can he possibly do next? Where do you go from there?

“Hey honey, let’s celebrate with a holiday…”

“NO! Already been there.”

Another record, of course, belongs to Luce, who has remained loyal to Jean despite his absence of 11 years from their home in Montreal and his falling for a woman in Mexico. Once a year, she would come to him and they would spend three weeks together, in one place.

Jean walked back into Montreal in October of last year. How does the couple find it being under one roof again? Rumor has it, they’re writing a book together! Talk about Olympian challenges…

3) THE PREPOSTEROUS POLYGLOT: Benny Lewis

Brendan (Benny) Lewis is a polyglot who hails from Cavan County in Ireland. (No, “polyglot” isn’t a type of glue; it’s a person who speaks four or more languages fluently.) Benny earned this title — he is also a vegetarian and a teetotaler — after nine years on the road, during which he taught himself to speak eight languages fluently (with more than a smattering of half a dozen more).

I know nothing about Benny’s musculature, but it’s clear his tongue has gotten plenty of exercise.

Benny now considers himself to be a “technomad” — a full-time technology-enabled globe-trotter. His Web site, Fluent in Three Months, is a treasure trove of tips and tricks for picking up languages (called “language hacks”), as well as a tribute to his mind-boggling achievement. (I’m actually surprised that his head hasn’t exploded from the pressure of all that knowledge.)

According to him, it is no big deal — anyone can do what he has done. All they need is dedication, hard work…and more of the same. (Times a million!)

You know, I have to hand it to Benny, he’s the very essence of — sorry, I can’t resist — a cunning linguist. (Well, I said I was sorry! Please stop throwing things at me.)

4) THE MASTER OF EXTREME ENDURANCE: Ben Hatch

The British novelist and travel writer Ben Hatch is the author of a hugely popular (and very entertaining) book about a recent adventure of his: driving 8,000 miles around Britain in a cramped Vauxhall Astra, while researching a guidebook for Frommers.

“But why is that worthy of an Olympics gold medal?” I hear you ask. “Novelists usually aren’t athletes. And he only traveled around his own neck of the woods, Britain.”

Well, there are lots of reasons I could pick: because he practically lived in his car for five months, because he purposefully inflicted dozens of tourist attractions on himself every week, because he had a car crash en route, or because he stayed in a haunted Scottish castle.

But the one I like best is the fact that he did all this with his wife and two children — aged four and two! — in tow.

Can you imagine? While the family was attempting fine dining in a posh hotel restaurant, his children engaged in food fights and eating mashed potatoes with their bare hands. There were tears and tantrums in the car — every single day. For months. It sounds like my worst nightmare! And I don’t even have kids…

The resulting trauma became his best-selling book Are We Nearly There Yet? 8,000 Misguided Miles Round Britain in a Vauxhall Astra — which I can only assume was written cathartically, in a desperate attempt to cling on to what remained of his sanity after such a grueling experience. I think he deserves a medal just for surviving the first week. And of course, once the kids are old enough to read what he’s written about them, he’ll be in for a whole new world of trouble…

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Right! There’s my suggestions. What do think. folks? I just know there are loads of people out there making epic journeys, achieving the unachievable, and generally making the rest of us look like couch potatoes in comparison. Do you know of any? (Olympians, I mean, not couch potatoes — I’ve got enough of the latter in my house.) BTW, I toyed with the idea of including an older traveler, as unlike sport, there seems to be no real age limit on world travel, especially with all the recent growth in the international cruise-ship industry (see photo above).

In any event, I’d love to hear from you — let me know in the comments, or hit us up on Twitter: @DisplacedNation and/or @TonyJamesSlater

And don’t forget to vote in our poll!

STAY TUNED for Tuesday’s post on a historical traveler worthy of a gold medal or two.

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LIBBY’S LIFE #55 – Dark secrets

9 Comments Posted by on June 28, 2012

A note before Libby begins her journal entry: If you’re a Libby addict, check out Woodhaven Happenings, where from time to time you will find more posts from other characters. The latest is a post from Maggie, describing her side of the story of last week’s meeting with Libby. Want to remind yourself of Who’s Who in Woodhaven? Click here for the cast list!

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The babies are in bed. They have been bathed, fed, patted, soothed, and tucked up for the night. After protesting at similar treatment at a too-early hour, Jack is also away for the night.

I sit in the gradually darkening den, watching the sun set behind the trees in the back yard, and wait for Oliver. This is the room he usually heads for when he comes through the door. The temptation to turn on the TV is great, but I resist, knowing I need to channel my thoughts and energy into the inevitable scene that lies ahead tonight, not into another episode of How I Met Your Mother. Also, if I am quiet, I will be able to hear him arrive home.

Oliver’s evening arrivals have been getting later and later. When I comment, mildly, upon this — I never question — he replies in a tone that indicates it’s hardly worth him opening his mouth. “Work,” he says. “Overtime.” “Customer with a problem.”

“What about a wife with a problem?” I want to scream. “Don’t I deserve some of your overtime too?”

But I never do. I’m my mother’s daughter, after all. After the brief interlude here when she abandoned her role as Dutiful Wife To Keith in favour of Fun-Loving Single Woman For Now, she’s back to tiptoeing around the house and fetching Dad his warmed slippers. She gave me the hint about Oliver’s parentage, but I can’t work out what I was supposed to do with the information. Silently store it and sympathise with Oliver, I think she meant.

Thankfully, I have another mother who is not afraid of sticking an oar in when necessary, even if it means breaking a promise to not interfere.

“I used to interfere,” Maggie said, after she had hauled me, the children, and Fergus back to her house earlier today. “All the time. Making that promise to your mother not to get involved nearly killed me.”

“But you decided to go ahead and get involved anyway.”

“You’re like a daughter,” Maggie said, “the daughter I haven’t had for twenty-five years. I could no more stand by and watch you fall to pieces than I was able to watch Sara.”

Maggie sat in her wooden rocking chair, gazing out of the window at the maple tree in the yard. Her eyes were open very wide, as people’s are when they are trying to make tears disobey gravity. Half of me wanted to ask more about the mysterious daughter, but the other half didn’t want to rake over old memories for Maggie.

Also — I have to be honest — I was more intent on getting my own life straightened out. Whatever happened to Maggie and her daughter twenty-five years ago has little to do with what is going on now between me and Oliver.

“What shall I do?” I asked her instead. “How do I talk to a man who won’t talk back?”

Maggie turned slightly, blinking.

“I can’t tell you that,” she said. “You know your own husband. At least, you thought you did. But however you do it, you have to keep telling yourself that you deserve better than this.”

I didn’t dare ask her what she meant by that.

* * *

The sun has been below the horizon for fifteen minutes now, and an occasional firefly flickers among the rhododendrons. The den is completely dark. Oliver is still not home. I curl up on the sofa without bothering to turn on the lamp beside me, and rehearse tonight’s conversation in my head. It’s difficult, of course, because in this imaginary exchange Oliver answers the way I would like him to. We have a reasoned, adult conversation, resulting in a reasoned, adult compromise. He does not mutter monosyllables, or stomp upstairs to the guest bedroom where he has taken to sleeping under the pretext of not getting enough sleep in the same room as the twins, who supposedly wake him up every time they murmur in the night.

I hear the rattle of the garage door and the hum of the car engine as it pulls into the parking bay. The back door opens, then closes again. Oliver’s uncertain footsteps into the unlit kitchen, heading into the hall, then back into the kitchen. Apart from a nightlight glowing on the landing upstairs, the house is in darkness.

Oliver’s footsteps stop. I hear the fridge door open, and the faint light from the fridge interior illuminates the hallway outside the den. Funny how a small light can make such a difference in a dark house. I am reminded of my grandfather’s stories of German air raids and belligerent blackout wardens.

The fridge door closes, the light goes off.

The pop and hiss of a Coke can top, some glugs. A stifled belch.

Another noise. Beeps — ten of them.

I stiffen, listening hard.

Then a quiet voice from the kitchen, speaking into a cellphone.

“Hey. It’s Oliver.” Silence, broken by the tossing of an empty Coke can into the recycling bin. “Change of plan. I can see you now…Yeah, no problem. She’s in bed. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

The back door opens and closes, the garage door rattles open, and the car engine hums again as Oliver reverses onto the driveway.

I stay where I am, motionless, and watch the fireflies for a long time.

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Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE: Oliver’s side of the story

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

Need the 411 on characters in Libby’s Life? Click here for  Kate’s page  of Who’s Who in Woodhaven.

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


STAY TUNED for Monday’s post.

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

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RANDOM NOMAD: Melissa Stoey, Former Expat in UK and Incurable Britophile

29 Comments Posted by on June 27, 2012

Place of birth: Northern Virginia, USA
Passports: USA
Overseas history: England (Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire + Shefford, Bedfordshire): 1988-91.
Occupation: Research technician (basically I do data analysis) and part-time professional blogger.
Cyberspace coordinates: Smitten by Britain: Home of the Britophile (blog); @SmittnbyBritain (Twitter handle); Facebook page; and Pinterest.

What made you leave your homeland in the first place?
I’m intrigued by other cultures and more specifically by the British culture. I have been fascinated by Britain since I was a young teen. I have always had the itch for travel and I knew I definitely wanted to visit the UK, if not live there. My love for travel one of the reasons I joined the military. I put England down as my first choice for duty station and I got it!

Where were you stationed?
At Chicksands air base (Chicks for shorts). It’s now Royal Air Force (RAF) Chicksands. Britain’s Ministry of Defense has since taken it over.

You ended up marrying a Brit, right?
Yes. My first husband, and the father of my son, was stationed at what was then RAF Brampton, which is in Cambridgeshire. At first we lived in Huntingdon, but then he got transferred to a base in Hitchin, which is closer to Chicks, so we moved to Shefford.

Is anyone else in your immediate family “displaced”?
Ironically, my brother was stationed at Chicks three years before, so it sort of felt like I was meant to go there. Right now, I don’t have any displaced relatives, but my son is a dual national between the U.S. and U.K. I suspect at some point he may move to the U.K. after he fulfills his dream of living and teaching in Japan for a year. We’ll see! It may be a case of like mother, like son.

So you and your son now live in the United States?
Yes. His father and I are divorced. We came back and lived in Texas for a year, then West Virginia. We now live in Pennsylvania. Meanwhile, his father has gone back to Scotland, where he is from.

How often do you return to the U.K.?
My son and I, and my second husband — I am now married to an American! — try to go every year or at least once very two years, depending on funds and time off.

Can you describe the moment in your association with Britain when you felt the most displaced?
The first night I was in England the culture shock was horrible. I lived around sixty miles north of London in a small village where there were no street lights, and when I looked out the window there was complete and utter darkness. It felt as if I’d landed on a different planet with no signs of life. This was 1988 when almost everything closed much earlier than it does now and wasn’t open on Sundays. If you switched on the radio you might pick up two or three stations, the television had only four channels and of course there was no Internet. It felt much more isolating than if you moved to England today; it has changed by leaps and bounds in the last 25 years as far as conveniences go. I envy current expats who have so many wonderful resources available to help limit the culture shock and make the transition easier.

Is there any particular moment that stands out as your “least displaced”?
We had a great night back in July of 2010 when we met a Glaswegian couple at a curry house in the west end of Glasgow. They invited us to the pub for drinks where we spent the night taste testing different whiskies. I felt totally at home, like I had known this couple my whole life. The Scots have a way — similar to Americans — of making one feel welcomed and accepted. I can say this because of having once been married to a Scot and having spent a lot of time there. My ex-husband was, and still is, one of the friendliest people I know.

You may bring one curiosity you’ve collected from your adopted country into The Displaced Nation. What’s in your suitcase?
My bag is always full of tea and sweets from England. I never return without them. I always pack a few British newspapers as well because my parents are Anglophiles, have been to England many times and enjoy reading them. Rumor has it that some of you Displaced Nation citizens are avid tea drinkers and readers, and that you rarely turn down sweets.

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

I will fix my favorite meal which is a nice Sunday roast that includes roast beef, roasted potatoes, carrots, peas, and Yorkshire pudding (I don’t do sprouts, thank you.) We’ll finish it off with a nice pot of tea and a slice of Victoria sponge, with jam and whipped cream.

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?
I’m feeling peckish. I say that quite often and it always results in the odd look or two. It’s just not used here, at least where I live. To feel “peckish” means to feel slightly hungry.

Earlier this month, we did a series of posts on Queen Elizabeth’s Diamond Jubilee. Incurable Britophile that you are, I presume you celebrated from a distance?
I watched the River Pageant, which was on early in the morning East Coast time, and then hosted my own Diamond Jubilee lunch (see photos on my blog). The food was great — we nibbled on leftovers for days! Even though I didn’t have a big party (it was just for my family), I was glad to do it to show my blog readers that you don’t have to be in Britain to celebrate properly. You can still enjoy yourself and take part in your own little way.

A couple of us on The Displaced Nation team thinks that the Queen deserves an Olympic medal for having survived almost being displaced by Princess Diana. Do you agree?
I don’t agree that the Queen was almost displaced by Diana; if she was going to be displaced it would have been due to her actions (or lack of) that left the British public feeling as if she was heartless and out of touch. However, I still don’t think she would have been displaced. Time heals and I think many of us now understand the dilemma she faced as a grandmother trying to protect her grandchildren who just lost their mother. However, as Head of State I do wish she had at least made a televised message to the public within the first 24 hours. Waiting five days was a bit much.

Americans seem to love the Royal Family. Do you think the United States might benefit from having one?
The idea of the United States having a royal family at this point is a silly one. It doesn’t fit our history or where we are headed as a country. Let’s leave that to the nation that does Monarchy the best.

Readers — yay or nay for letting Melissa Stoey 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 Melissa — 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: Melissa Stoey at Stirling Castle, Scotland, then and now — in 1989, when she was displaced (and cold!), and in 2010, when she was visiting (and warmer!).

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