I find him on a park bench in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Sam’s idea, not mine. He lives just down the road in Holborn; a one bedroom flat he has been renting since his divorce. I wish we’d gone there. In the park, it’s way too cold, and despite my thick wool coat, lined boots and heavy scarf, I am shivering head to toe.
As I approach, he smiles and waves, and I can see the sliver of skin left uncovered by the thick glove that’s too small for his hand. “Hi Sam,” I say as I arrive in front of him. He stands and bends to a 90 degree angle to plant a kiss on each of my cheeks
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he exclaims, standing up straight and clasping his hands together. I examine his face, flushed red and partially covered by his curly brown mop of hair. He looks good, more self-assured than last time I saw him. He’s wearing a long brown cashmere coat that appears to be of good quality and his eyes are the same bright blue as always, contrasting with the gray of the buildings behind him.
“What’s new?” I ask, somewhat awkwardly, and he chuckles, which puts me slightly more at ease.
“Shall we sit?” he asks, gesturing at the bench behind him.
I consider the cold metal and shake my head. “I’m freezing. Let’s walk for a bit.”
We walk, and immediately, I’m straining to keep up with his long strides, running alongside him as he follows the curve of the large circular path around the park. Finally, he looks down at me and laughs . “Sorry,” he says, slowing considerably so that I can keep up. “Sometimes I forget my size.”
I laugh too, glad the ice was easily broken. We walk in comfortable silence for a minute, and then he turns to me. “So how are things?” he asks.
I shrug. “Pretty good, actually. Thanks for asking.”
“Is the blog going well?”
I sigh. “It’s sort of the bane of my existence. I feel obligated to write it and it’s agonizing, yet I always feel good when I do, even though I hate what I’ve written.” I laugh. “It’s a complex love-hate relationship.”
He nods, looking down at his worn brown shoes as he walks. “I can understand that.”
I’m silent as I craft a response, turning it over and over in my mind. Eventually I say, “Of course you can. You’re a musician.” The words hang in the air. They sound right. I’m pleased.
Sam raises an eyebrow and looks at me sideways. “That’s not my day job, though.” He says it with a slight intonation at the end, as if it could be a question.
“You’re right. It’s not,” I reply, gaining confidence. “You’re an accountant, but a musician is really what you really consider yourself to be.”
He roughly pulls the glove off his right hand and examines his callused fingers, worn from years of guitar playing. His face breaks into a huge grin. “Yeah, I do. I do consider myself a musician. If I could accommodate the lifestyle to which I’ve grown accustomed based entirely on the money I generate doing gigs, I would be a happier man.”
I nod, chuckling at his enthusiasm.
We reach a wooded portion of the park, and watch as several squirrels dart across our path. Even in the winter, when the trees are bare and the skies gray, London’s largest public square is majestic and beautiful. It’s no wonder Sam loves this place.
“I love this place,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. “It reminds you of your mother.”
He stops walking and gazes across the park into a grassy clearing in the far left corner. I watch him. His face is pensive, concentrated, somewhat forlorn maybe.
I have an idea. “Why does it remind you of her?” I venture.
He’s quiet for a minute, and then he answers in a soft but confident voice. “Before, well,” he pauses, “before you know what.”
He casts me a meaningful glance. I do not, in fact, know what. “Before then, she used to bring me here. She’d sit over there, and I would play with my brothers while she read her books.
“Usually, I’d play for a short while, gradually get tired of their teasing, and then I’d go sit down next to her. She would read aloud to me.” He giggles softly, briefly covering his mouth with his hand like an embarrassed teenager. “She was always reading one of those romance novels. The really sordid ones. But she would skip over the juicy bits when she read to me. She thought I didn’t notice, but I was always perplexed by why the men seemed to be going about ripping bodices for no good reason.”
I imagine the scene he describes. I picture his mother, too young and too beautiful to have three sons in school, lying on a blanket in the sun. I envision her with her shoes off and her brown curls cascading over her shoulders, taking advantage of rare moments away from her controlling husband, losing herself in the impossible lives of fictional heroines.
Then I picture his brothers, Charles and Liam, long and lean but nowhere near as big as Sam. “Why did they tease you?” I ask. I am having a hard time picturing this enormous beast of a man as the subject of any sort of childish ridicule.
He shrugs. “I might have been the biggest,” he says. “But I was always the weakest. People always expected me to be an athlete,” he chuckled, “and sometimes I got away with it because of sheer brute force. But I was very slow and never very coordinated. Charlie and Liam took the piss every chance they got.”
I think of Sam’s propensity for girlish outbursts of clapping and giggling; I see their point.
He begins walking again, shuffling his feet through piles of leaves on the ground. He seems to lose himself in thought for a while, and consequently, I do too. I’m trying to get a step ahead of him, trying to decide who he is before he fills in the details, trying desperately to develop an interesting, multifaceted character.
He finally looks up and I’m surprised by his expression. Gone is the reliable joyful countenance I’ve come to expect from Sam. It seems his face has somehow aged in the past hour; the lines in his forehead have deepened and dark shadows have appeared under his eyes. “There’s quite a bit of sadness,” he says finally.
For a fleeting moment I feel guilty, but quickly I’m defiant. “Yes, but that’s life,” I say, somewhat impetuously.
He nods and continues shuffling his feet among the dry crackling leaves. I start to regret my harshness. Not everything has to be dark and gloomy. I throw him a bone. “Okay, listen Sam,” I say, trying to sound cheery as I struggle to keep up with his gait. “Things are good for you. You have your music…”I pause grabbing onto the sleeve of his coat, “…and you have Beth.” My voice is suggestive, almost teasing.
He looks at me, seemingly considering my offer. “You’re right,” he says finally, but still looking grim. “I do have Beth.”
I smile, relieved, and suddenly we’re back at the park bench where we began our walk. We stop and look at each other for a moment. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I ask him, trying to pretend I don’t notice his strained expression.
“Not sure,” he says, gesturing his head toward High Holborn. “I was thinking I might go and explore. Walk around a bit. I don’t know London very well.”
I’m confused. “But you’ve lived here your whole life.”
He looks at me strangely. “Yes, but you haven’t,” he responds. He puts a hand on my shoulder and looks down into my eyes. “Research,” he says, a grin pulling at his mouth. I’m still confused; I decide to ignore him.
“Okay, well have a good day Sam,” I say warmly.
“Goodbye, Alice,” he says. “Til next time.” Sam turns and walks toward the road, his shoulders hunched to the cold, his strides long and deliberate, until he disappears from view.
Part One
Part Two
Friday, December 12, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
2008 Gift Guide: The Expat Edition
Every year around Christmas, you search tirelessly for the perfect gift to give to that special Expat in your life. You reject American flag boxer shorts, football paraphernalia, and McDonalds vouchers, determined to find anything—anything!— uniquely American in this age of globalization.
Sound familiar? I thought so. Lucky for you, this year, the OckleShow has compiled a list of perfect presents for those of you Americans struggling with what to buy for the Expat Who Has Everything.
1. Giant bottles of drugs
No matter where your expat is living, it’s likely she/he has a headache. The reason for this twofold: 1) he/she lives somewhere where drug companies don’t peddle meds at every turn and therefore people don’t generally take them unless they have the Plague and 2) even when you do get painkillers, they come in this paltry little boxes of like, 6, which frankly wouldn’t get most Americans through the afternoon.
Do your expat a solid and hook a sister/brother up with one of those cheap-as-dirt super-bottles of Advil/Tylenol that simply don’t exist outside of the good old medicated U.S. of A. Bonus: Here’s your chance to get a glimpse at what it’s like to be an international drug trafficker….without having go through all of the swallowing a balloon unpleasantness.
2. Canned green chillies
Unless your expat is living in, say, Mexico, he/she is probably not getting his/her fix of Mexican food.* Sure, the foreigners try to capture the flavours we Americans so love from our south-of-the-border fare. Sadly, they only really manage to get as close as that crappy American chain with the weak margs and gloopy mole sauce that you only patronize where you’re really desperate. In fairness, a large part of the reason for their failures is likely the dearth of authentic Mexican ingredients abroad.
Here’s where you come in. Canned green chilis, corn tortillas, that great enchilada sauce that comes in a can, black beans, queso, Jose Cuervo Gold—all is fair game for under the expat Christmas tree. Ole!
*This also applies to all Southern food: grits, cornbread mix, etc. I would suggest okra too, but I don’t think you could get it past the Beagle Brigade.
3. Flat sheets
I can’t speak for all countries, but for some reason, Brits generally sleep under a comforter only. Finding a flat sheet to go in between your shivering cold body (because the heat is never warm enough) and the duvet can be like looking for a peanut butter M&M in a sea of Smarties (see next entry).
If you’d like to treat your expat to some good old-fashioned bed-making with a bit of a challenge, snag a flat sheet from your local Bed, Bath and Beyond. If you’re feeling generous, present it with an electric blanket and a UK plug adapter. Voila! Instant warm wishes from the homeland.
4. Anything with peanut butter
Here in the UK, peanut butter is relegated to a single shelf, and there’s usually only one variety—the natural kind. To add insult to injury, the candy shelf is conspicuously absent of peanut butter infused treats as well.
Fortunately, I do love me some natural PB, but every now and then I crave crunchy Jif and Skippy like a crack-addled street urchin. Sometimes, I would actually consider maiming someone for peanut butter M&Ms or Reese’s peanut butter cups. I’m sure your expat feels the same. Don’t be stingy—there will never be any shortage of PB&J in America!
5. Zip-loc bags
Remember when you were a kid (if you’re my age) and they came out with those fancy zip-loc bags that combined blue and yellow to make green? Remember how great that was and how amazed you were that once green, those handy little bags held your leftover chicken noodle soup no matter how much you sloshed it around in your bag?
Most of the world never experienced that phenomenon. Why? Because they don’t have anything by way of food storage that even remotely holds a candle to Zip-loc. Also because they are technically reusable, it truly is the gift that keeps on giving.
6. Crystal Light (or really anything with sugar substitute)
The Brits tend to be purists when it comes to sugar. Something about the fake stuff eating your insides and giving you cancer. All I know is that sometimes, you need some low-calorie, low-sugar treats to make you feel satisfied with less guilt (strictly in terms of saving calories, which, let’s face it, sometimes seems more important than the fact that your intestines are disintegrating).
My personal favourites are Crystal Light lemonade and iced tea and Nutter Butter 100-calorie packs, but really anything marked low-fat, low-sugar, low-calorie is hard to find outside of the States. Go nuts.
7. Whitening strips
We Americans didn’t get those pearly whites by drinking massive amounts of Diet Coke. Stinging gums be damned—we like to bleach our teeth. Other countries? Not so worried about that.
Go ahead: Pick up an extra set of Rembrandts at your local drug store, and give the expat in your life something to smile about.
8. American board games
It’s not like other nations don’t produce board games, but the American citizen living abroad has to be armed with his/her old reliables just in case. Just in case of what you ask? Well, I’m sad to report that our somewhat ethno-centric American education system has generally failed to teach us much by way of global trivia…plus the celebs (my usual strong suit) are different elsewhere.
Therefore, it’s best to distract our foreign counterparts with our own region unspecific favourites like Scattergories, Cranium and Taboo. Help your expats avoid embarrassing situations by sharing the board game wealth.
So there you have it, folks—a complete guide to Christmas shopping for your special expat. I’m sure that he/she would love to receive any mail from home, but the addition of any one of these items will make it even more exciting. That's not a hint at all. Happy shopping!
Sound familiar? I thought so. Lucky for you, this year, the OckleShow has compiled a list of perfect presents for those of you Americans struggling with what to buy for the Expat Who Has Everything.
1. Giant bottles of drugs
No matter where your expat is living, it’s likely she/he has a headache. The reason for this twofold: 1) he/she lives somewhere where drug companies don’t peddle meds at every turn and therefore people don’t generally take them unless they have the Plague and 2) even when you do get painkillers, they come in this paltry little boxes of like, 6, which frankly wouldn’t get most Americans through the afternoon.
Do your expat a solid and hook a sister/brother up with one of those cheap-as-dirt super-bottles of Advil/Tylenol that simply don’t exist outside of the good old medicated U.S. of A. Bonus: Here’s your chance to get a glimpse at what it’s like to be an international drug trafficker….without having go through all of the swallowing a balloon unpleasantness.
2. Canned green chillies
Unless your expat is living in, say, Mexico, he/she is probably not getting his/her fix of Mexican food.* Sure, the foreigners try to capture the flavours we Americans so love from our south-of-the-border fare. Sadly, they only really manage to get as close as that crappy American chain with the weak margs and gloopy mole sauce that you only patronize where you’re really desperate. In fairness, a large part of the reason for their failures is likely the dearth of authentic Mexican ingredients abroad.
Here’s where you come in. Canned green chilis, corn tortillas, that great enchilada sauce that comes in a can, black beans, queso, Jose Cuervo Gold—all is fair game for under the expat Christmas tree. Ole!
*This also applies to all Southern food: grits, cornbread mix, etc. I would suggest okra too, but I don’t think you could get it past the Beagle Brigade.
3. Flat sheets
I can’t speak for all countries, but for some reason, Brits generally sleep under a comforter only. Finding a flat sheet to go in between your shivering cold body (because the heat is never warm enough) and the duvet can be like looking for a peanut butter M&M in a sea of Smarties (see next entry).
If you’d like to treat your expat to some good old-fashioned bed-making with a bit of a challenge, snag a flat sheet from your local Bed, Bath and Beyond. If you’re feeling generous, present it with an electric blanket and a UK plug adapter. Voila! Instant warm wishes from the homeland.
4. Anything with peanut butter
Here in the UK, peanut butter is relegated to a single shelf, and there’s usually only one variety—the natural kind. To add insult to injury, the candy shelf is conspicuously absent of peanut butter infused treats as well.
Fortunately, I do love me some natural PB, but every now and then I crave crunchy Jif and Skippy like a crack-addled street urchin. Sometimes, I would actually consider maiming someone for peanut butter M&Ms or Reese’s peanut butter cups. I’m sure your expat feels the same. Don’t be stingy—there will never be any shortage of PB&J in America!
5. Zip-loc bags
Remember when you were a kid (if you’re my age) and they came out with those fancy zip-loc bags that combined blue and yellow to make green? Remember how great that was and how amazed you were that once green, those handy little bags held your leftover chicken noodle soup no matter how much you sloshed it around in your bag?
Most of the world never experienced that phenomenon. Why? Because they don’t have anything by way of food storage that even remotely holds a candle to Zip-loc. Also because they are technically reusable, it truly is the gift that keeps on giving.
6. Crystal Light (or really anything with sugar substitute)
The Brits tend to be purists when it comes to sugar. Something about the fake stuff eating your insides and giving you cancer. All I know is that sometimes, you need some low-calorie, low-sugar treats to make you feel satisfied with less guilt (strictly in terms of saving calories, which, let’s face it, sometimes seems more important than the fact that your intestines are disintegrating).
My personal favourites are Crystal Light lemonade and iced tea and Nutter Butter 100-calorie packs, but really anything marked low-fat, low-sugar, low-calorie is hard to find outside of the States. Go nuts.
7. Whitening strips
We Americans didn’t get those pearly whites by drinking massive amounts of Diet Coke. Stinging gums be damned—we like to bleach our teeth. Other countries? Not so worried about that.
Go ahead: Pick up an extra set of Rembrandts at your local drug store, and give the expat in your life something to smile about.
8. American board games
It’s not like other nations don’t produce board games, but the American citizen living abroad has to be armed with his/her old reliables just in case. Just in case of what you ask? Well, I’m sad to report that our somewhat ethno-centric American education system has generally failed to teach us much by way of global trivia…plus the celebs (my usual strong suit) are different elsewhere.
Therefore, it’s best to distract our foreign counterparts with our own region unspecific favourites like Scattergories, Cranium and Taboo. Help your expats avoid embarrassing situations by sharing the board game wealth.
So there you have it, folks—a complete guide to Christmas shopping for your special expat. I’m sure that he/she would love to receive any mail from home, but the addition of any one of these items will make it even more exciting. That's not a hint at all. Happy shopping!
Monday, December 1, 2008
The Questioning: Part 2. "Sam I Am"
“So how did it go?”
Sam is more engaged today. I can tell by the fact that he has bothered to leave his tie on for our meeting. Last time, it had been removed from his neck and stuffed haphazardly into his pocket.
“I think it went pretty well,” I say. We are seated across from each other again, the metal tabletop between us reflecting the glow of the room’s single light bulb. “Several people dropped me a note to say they enjoyed ‘The Questioning’ blog post.”
Sam claps his hands together gaily, which strikes me as an oddly childish action for such an imposing man. “Fantastic!” he booms, his deep voice reverberating around the small sparse room. “That is such great news.”
Then he pauses for a moment as his ruddy face flushes even redder. “And did they like…” he begins, then pauses shyly.
“Did they like you?” I offer.
Sam looks at me expectantly, even pleadingly.
“Yes,” I say, matter-of-factly. “They did.”
He grins and claps his hands again. “What did you tell them about me?”
I wince slightly and lean back in my chair. I hadn't planned on telling him this bit. “Very little,” I admit, “and I’m not sure I got it right. I told them you’d been raised by wolves and became a cop. I said you’d become a sort of gang czar on the force.” I blurt it all out, hoping to soften the blow.
Sam looks surprised for a moment, then his expression shifts to puzzlement. A minute passes as he stares thoughtfully at the wall behind me; I shift uncomfortably in my hard steel chair.
Finally, he looks at me beneath a furrowed brow. “Are those things true?” he asks softly, seemingly steeling himself against my answer.
Now it is my turn to be pensive. To be honest, I had filled in Sam’s background more for comedic effect than anything. Staring at him across the table, I'm not really sure he belongs here in this sparse room. Despite his size, he doesn't seem like a cop to me, or really any sort of authoritative professional. While I don't think he had much by way of a childhood, I wouldn’t call his family members “animals” per se.
“No, Sam,” I say kindly, reaching across the table to take his enormous hand. “I don’t think they are.”
He exhales loudly and a big smile breaks out across his face. “Oh, great. That is so great, Alice. Thanks so much. I just knew that wasn’t me.”
We smile at each other for a minute, my hand resting on his thick upturned palm. I wait for his inevitable question. Then suddenly it comes, more infused with expectation and longing than I’d thought it would be: “So do you think you might write me again?”
I tilt my head to one side and feign innocence. “Write you?”
“Write Sam,” he explains. “Make me a character.”
I draw my hand back slowly and look down at my lap. “How do I do that?” I ask softly.
Sam laughs. “You’re the writer,” he says. “You’re the reason I’m here. But right now, I only exist here with you in this room.” He motions wildly around the concrete walls, his eyes finally coming to a rest on the big steel door. “I don’t even know what’s on the other side of this room. All I know is that I’m big and beefy; I have piercing blue eyes; and sometimes I can’t be bothered to leave my tie on.”
“You also clap your hands like a little girl,” I add, hoping to remind him that I also have the power to make him quirky, even slightly effeminate, if I so desire.
His face only lights up more. He is obviously so enchanted by the idea of being written that he’ll take it warts and all. He reaches across the table to take my hand again. “That’s the sort of stuff I want to know,” he says earnestly.
I consider his proposition. It sounds like a lot of work, and frankly, I'm not sure if I am any good at this whole character development thing anyway. I waver for a moment, but his eyes are begging now. “Please, Alice,” he says. “Please write me.”
I sigh. I like Sam, and even I have to admit that I am curious about him. I take a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll write you, Sam, but I have a lot going on so you’ll have to be patient with me…”
Before I can even finish, Sam is on his feet and running around the room cheering and clapping in excitement. The table shakes with his every step. I can't help but smile. As it turns out, Sam is the sort of person whose enthusiasm is contagious.
Eventually, he stops in front of the large door to the room and considers it cautiously. Then he turns to me, his arm stretched toward the knob. “May I?” he asks.
I sigh, and leave my chair to stand behind him, his giant body dwarfing mine. “You may,” I say, and Sam flings open the door.
Sam is more engaged today. I can tell by the fact that he has bothered to leave his tie on for our meeting. Last time, it had been removed from his neck and stuffed haphazardly into his pocket.
“I think it went pretty well,” I say. We are seated across from each other again, the metal tabletop between us reflecting the glow of the room’s single light bulb. “Several people dropped me a note to say they enjoyed ‘The Questioning’ blog post.”
Sam claps his hands together gaily, which strikes me as an oddly childish action for such an imposing man. “Fantastic!” he booms, his deep voice reverberating around the small sparse room. “That is such great news.”
Then he pauses for a moment as his ruddy face flushes even redder. “And did they like…” he begins, then pauses shyly.
“Did they like you?” I offer.
Sam looks at me expectantly, even pleadingly.
“Yes,” I say, matter-of-factly. “They did.”
He grins and claps his hands again. “What did you tell them about me?”
I wince slightly and lean back in my chair. I hadn't planned on telling him this bit. “Very little,” I admit, “and I’m not sure I got it right. I told them you’d been raised by wolves and became a cop. I said you’d become a sort of gang czar on the force.” I blurt it all out, hoping to soften the blow.
Sam looks surprised for a moment, then his expression shifts to puzzlement. A minute passes as he stares thoughtfully at the wall behind me; I shift uncomfortably in my hard steel chair.
Finally, he looks at me beneath a furrowed brow. “Are those things true?” he asks softly, seemingly steeling himself against my answer.
Now it is my turn to be pensive. To be honest, I had filled in Sam’s background more for comedic effect than anything. Staring at him across the table, I'm not really sure he belongs here in this sparse room. Despite his size, he doesn't seem like a cop to me, or really any sort of authoritative professional. While I don't think he had much by way of a childhood, I wouldn’t call his family members “animals” per se.
“No, Sam,” I say kindly, reaching across the table to take his enormous hand. “I don’t think they are.”
He exhales loudly and a big smile breaks out across his face. “Oh, great. That is so great, Alice. Thanks so much. I just knew that wasn’t me.”
We smile at each other for a minute, my hand resting on his thick upturned palm. I wait for his inevitable question. Then suddenly it comes, more infused with expectation and longing than I’d thought it would be: “So do you think you might write me again?”
I tilt my head to one side and feign innocence. “Write you?”
“Write Sam,” he explains. “Make me a character.”
I draw my hand back slowly and look down at my lap. “How do I do that?” I ask softly.
Sam laughs. “You’re the writer,” he says. “You’re the reason I’m here. But right now, I only exist here with you in this room.” He motions wildly around the concrete walls, his eyes finally coming to a rest on the big steel door. “I don’t even know what’s on the other side of this room. All I know is that I’m big and beefy; I have piercing blue eyes; and sometimes I can’t be bothered to leave my tie on.”
“You also clap your hands like a little girl,” I add, hoping to remind him that I also have the power to make him quirky, even slightly effeminate, if I so desire.
His face only lights up more. He is obviously so enchanted by the idea of being written that he’ll take it warts and all. He reaches across the table to take my hand again. “That’s the sort of stuff I want to know,” he says earnestly.
I consider his proposition. It sounds like a lot of work, and frankly, I'm not sure if I am any good at this whole character development thing anyway. I waver for a moment, but his eyes are begging now. “Please, Alice,” he says. “Please write me.”
I sigh. I like Sam, and even I have to admit that I am curious about him. I take a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll write you, Sam, but I have a lot going on so you’ll have to be patient with me…”
Before I can even finish, Sam is on his feet and running around the room cheering and clapping in excitement. The table shakes with his every step. I can't help but smile. As it turns out, Sam is the sort of person whose enthusiasm is contagious.
Eventually, he stops in front of the large door to the room and considers it cautiously. Then he turns to me, his arm stretched toward the knob. “May I?” he asks.
I sigh, and leave my chair to stand behind him, his giant body dwarfing mine. “You may,” I say, and Sam flings open the door.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)