It was Dan's last weekend in the States and it felt right to honour the occasional with something quintessentially American so we spent last Saturday in hot and foggy Silicon Valley, to enjoy what might be the end of the summer, picnicking at a beach in Half Moon Bay and then made our way to Stanford University for our American sporting extravaganza number three, an American Football game. Whole months had passed since we had last been forced to rise for the national anthem. My baseball hat to heart trigger arm was primed.
The usual pomp and ceremony of the football out shined that of the baseball and ice hockey combined, but the food was much worse and portions smaller. There may or may not be a link between the two; I'll leave you to decide. The cheerleaders were cheery and the costumes suitably spangly for the pantomime that is American sport. The players alone had cheesy glittery Gladiator-style Lycra and in the time honoured way of choosing a team based on colour alone, the gold helmets of Washington State got my vote. Too bad they lost.
We were, presumably, whipped up into a frenzy of excitement before the kick off by a college student dressed as Marilyn Monroe who kept flashing his red knickers leading a brass band of sweaty and overexcited youths of indeterminable age (to me, but possibly not to their parents) the whole way around the stadium and on to the pitch. After hours of marching in the burning sun dressed in what might have once been smart red marching band jackets the poor sweaty young ones then had to perform for us before the game began. Narrated by a man who had had his shame gland surgically removed, and replaced with extra razzmatazz, the band performed a homage to swine flu. It was truly awful. I wish you had seen it, as then I wouldn't have to try to describe it, and instead we could share knowing cringes and then never speak of it again. Through my fingers, the band formed a circle, representing the Stanford bubble, according to the cheery narrator, and then some nerdy in-jokes later, a pig appeared and it all culminated in the pig 'flying.' Really, that is the best I can do. I am aware that this sounds made up. I assure you it wasn't but more frightening of all was that fact that no one in the crowd even blinked or made any furtive fearful glances or any gesture which may have suggested that this was bewildering or abnormal to them, except of course the token Brits right at the back of the stadium, one of whom was cheering for the opposition team.
When I wasn't watching the game, I was watching the crowd in all it splendiferous glory. I really fail to understand why 'crowds watching something dull' are not televised. I could watch them for hours and never get bored, although I am a snooker fan so maybe that says more about me than crowds per se. Even though I don't understand the attraction, the pull of what is essentially some blokes playing with a ball on some people is fascinating, and in some cases, wonderful. I walked around during the match, spending some time in all of the various sections. The most crowded one was the section reserved for students. All of the people sitting there were in the team colours and literally moved as one, standing up at the same time, dancing with the cheerleaders and chanting in unison. It was scary. The opposition team end was fun; Washington State supporters being a whole lot more normal and refreshingly different from one another. Around the rest of the perimeter were families, die hard fans, others like me soaking up the atmosphere, and some just soaking up the chips.
My favourite sight of the day was a man, followed by his two small daughters, strikingly similar to him, leading them in a limb thrashing follow my leader type dance to the Stanford song, not dissimilar to the chimney sweep routine from Mary Poppins. It was executed as if there was no one else but them in the world, despite the fact they were in a crowded stadium, in that wonderful totally unselfconscious way that lots of Americans seem to have.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
A letter from America
The Proclaimers were due to play a mere ten minutes walk from where we live. We booked tickets; it would have been rude not to. They are not really a band who I would necessarily have gone to see had we been back at home, but I think that just shows how much of a fool I can be.
They were fantastic. Awesome in fact, in the true sense of the word, and not the lazy Californian adjective way.
The venue was teeny tiny with a more European feel than anywhere I have been to so far in this city. It might have been because the bathrooms were disgusting (by American standards anyway, I've known worse) and the whole place was windowless and in need of a good scrub. I liked it immediately. It was like stepping into a old pair of shoes, falling apart but moulded exactly to the shape of your feet and so comfortable, you wonder why you switched to your newer and more painful shoes.
The crowd was eclectic with a sprinkling of kilts and tartan; the drinks were cheap and strong; the warm up act was hit and miss but sufficiently warming, and before we knew it there they were; Scottish twins in their 40s with guitars on the stage, singing their political tinged, pathos heavy poetry. Women of a certain age swayed misty eyed, but everyone was moved to some extent by the wisdom of the lyrics, or perhaps just a good rhythm. I think it helped that they were so few of us, and that the place had a strong community vibe, and that most of the songs were dedicated to someone. Their last gig on their US tour, they barely paused for breath, belting out song after song after song, with an incredible energy and total awe inspiring professionalism.
They were fantastic. Awesome in fact, in the true sense of the word, and not the lazy Californian adjective way.
The venue was teeny tiny with a more European feel than anywhere I have been to so far in this city. It might have been because the bathrooms were disgusting (by American standards anyway, I've known worse) and the whole place was windowless and in need of a good scrub. I liked it immediately. It was like stepping into a old pair of shoes, falling apart but moulded exactly to the shape of your feet and so comfortable, you wonder why you switched to your newer and more painful shoes.
The crowd was eclectic with a sprinkling of kilts and tartan; the drinks were cheap and strong; the warm up act was hit and miss but sufficiently warming, and before we knew it there they were; Scottish twins in their 40s with guitars on the stage, singing their political tinged, pathos heavy poetry. Women of a certain age swayed misty eyed, but everyone was moved to some extent by the wisdom of the lyrics, or perhaps just a good rhythm. I think it helped that they were so few of us, and that the place had a strong community vibe, and that most of the songs were dedicated to someone. Their last gig on their US tour, they barely paused for breath, belting out song after song after song, with an incredible energy and total awe inspiring professionalism.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Warm Beer
Last weekend in the scorching heat we ventured over to the wilds of Oakland for a free sustainable local food festival. With the sweat running down my legs and my skin being lightly sautéed, we sat on the ferry which would take us directly to Jack London Square where the festival was being held, appreciating what would be the only cool breeze of the day.
When we got there, it was in full swing and all we had to decide was what to eat for lunch from the many delicious looking and smelling options. I decided to graze and try out a couple of smaller things I had never had before, whereas Mike leapt straight in for a spicy sausage. Both strategies had their individual merits.
We had bought tickets in advance for the beer tent which promised eight generous servings of local artisan beers with a souvenir glass for $20. On the day, this seemed to have been downgraded to four half pints or less, depending on the generosity of the server (they were largely hot and bothered and seemed to have left their generous shoes at home), and a souvenir jam jar cum glass with a logo on which after going through the dishwasher has now disappeared. Not the jar, the logo.
Value for money or not, it was a lovely day as we casually drank our beer from our logo clad jam jars and shade hopped our way around the square. In between eating and drinking we sat and listened to a lecture on growing your own food and I closed my eyes and dreamt of my own smallholding, collecting still warm eggs from my chickens, inhaling the peculiar smell of a perfectly ripe tomato and sitting down to a perfect meal most of which I had grown myself.
Then I woke up and found myself in a far too crowded car on a freeway in Oakland, probably breaking the law, and definitely a story for another day.
When we got there, it was in full swing and all we had to decide was what to eat for lunch from the many delicious looking and smelling options. I decided to graze and try out a couple of smaller things I had never had before, whereas Mike leapt straight in for a spicy sausage. Both strategies had their individual merits.
We had bought tickets in advance for the beer tent which promised eight generous servings of local artisan beers with a souvenir glass for $20. On the day, this seemed to have been downgraded to four half pints or less, depending on the generosity of the server (they were largely hot and bothered and seemed to have left their generous shoes at home), and a souvenir jam jar cum glass with a logo on which after going through the dishwasher has now disappeared. Not the jar, the logo.
Value for money or not, it was a lovely day as we casually drank our beer from our logo clad jam jars and shade hopped our way around the square. In between eating and drinking we sat and listened to a lecture on growing your own food and I closed my eyes and dreamt of my own smallholding, collecting still warm eggs from my chickens, inhaling the peculiar smell of a perfectly ripe tomato and sitting down to a perfect meal most of which I had grown myself.
Then I woke up and found myself in a far too crowded car on a freeway in Oakland, probably breaking the law, and definitely a story for another day.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Thank you for allowing me to serve you
I've been meaning to write this post since just after we moved here but largely for reasons of dullness I haven't. Still, I am meant to be recording my observations, for me as much as for you (there, I've said it) so here goes.
Bag packers make me nervous and irritable.
The people who stand at the end of the standard less-than-spacious supermarket tills waiting to pack your shopping for you in theory sounds marvellous I'm sure. The truth is somewhat different. Supermarkets are set up for people with cars. Fact. They just pretend to be non-car people friendly by having doors in from the pavements. Tills are set up for people happy to stand around aimlessly while someone else packs their shopping for them. There has been room allocated for one person, one employee, at the end of the till to pack bags. The side arm of the till has actually been cordoned off with cunning use of a machine which gives you your coin change. Folded money change is dolled out in the standard way from the cashier, so you somehow have to negotiate collecting money with both hands - notes in one, coins in the other - whilst strapping your purse or wallet to your chin (I knew that unsightly Velcro patch would come in handy) and dropping anything else you may be holding on your toe. Usually a can of beans.
Paying by card is also fraught with trauma. The swiping card mechanism is much less forgiving than you would expect and I have stood there melon-like swiping and re-swiping five times before. Eyes have been rolled, however surreptitiously. Then you are asked questions before and after entering your pin number, which vary depending on which store you are in:
Do you want to donate to this particular charity today? Y or N
Do you want cash back? Y or N
Now are you sure because you might need it later for bus fare? Y or N
OK then if you are sure, are you happy with the amount for your shopping? Please note that if you press no, you will have to start again. Y or N
Have we asked you too many questions today? Y or N
Please come again soon. Bye. Love you xx
I have seen grown men weep in the face of the unrelenting questions. This isn't strictly true but I have actually seen people weaken under the pressure of the questions, stumble, fall and have to start again with the cashier cracking the whip and shouting 'faster, faster' the whole time. Wait, that isn't true either. I have seen people struggle through the whole process and I have even had to help people confused by which button to press at which time. True, but less dramatic.
Presumably while the customer is tangled up with the interrogation machine, the bag packer steps in and neatly packs all your food, frozen and fridge things all together, bread on the top of the bag, weight equally distributed, so when you emerge dazed and poorer from the instrument of doom, you are gently guided out of the door. There is a further service where the bag packer can take your items to your car and pack your boot for you. I'm sure more kindnesses will be rolled out soon like driving your poor bewildered body home, packing all your food away, heating some soup and spooning it into your face. A quick wipe up around the mouth you mucky pup, and the bag packer has left you sat on your sofa, cupboards and belly full and mercifully with no memory of the traumatic episode, ran back five miles to the store just in time to pack the bags of the next customer in line who is still struggling with the inquisition.
For those of us (me) who do not drive to the supermarket, but carry an empty backpack there in order to fill it to a certain point of just tolerable heaviness, known only to me owing to years of practice and almost back breaking episodes, the bag packing service is not required, thanks all the same. It is possible to give your own bag to the bag packer to pack for you but having once been intimidated into doing this, and suffering badly on the way home, and reduced to tears at the sight of the front door, I now wholeheartedly and firmly, sometimes rudely when all other nice options have failed me, refuse. You would literally be amazed at the added trauma this causes.
It's a tricky one. People have been employed to do this job and I don't want to seem ungrateful or portray that somehow I am superior in the back packing stakes, but at the same time, I am capable of packing my own bags quickly and simultaneously confounding supermarket staff by rolling off the answers to the ceaseless queries from machines and humans. Maybe I should list this as a talent on my CV? There are people who need this service for one reason or another, and luckily I am not one of them. But, some people insist I should have my bags packed for me, and that is where the trouble starts.
By now I moreorless know the people who will leave me alone and the ones who will help me to death. I avoid shorter queues if there is a helpful type at the end of it. Sometimes I am thwarted and the bag packers change on me mid-queue so I have to grit it out. There are two people in particular who even after a year just CANNOT comprehend my polite no thank you. One of them likes to wrestle my backpack from me and just WILL not take no for an answer. I have come up with a strategy for him which is to bring another bag for him to put some specific things of my choosing in, things that I already know will not fit in the big bag. This sounds so stupid to be even talking about. I am admitting that I have a special system up my sleeve for one belligerent man whose name I don't even know but whose sullen haughty face has been etched in my mind. He doesn't much like my special system because he wants to do it all and when I leave my bag to go to pay, he zooms over to it to do it up for me. He also doesn't like it when I thank him. He is as uncomfortable with that concept as I am with someone packing my bag - once he shrugged and said "It is my job." Next time I have decided that I will say "It is my bag."
The other bag packing chap is ridiculously friendly. He waves at me when he sees me in the queue. He turns me packing my bag into a game. Believe it or not, supermarkets are in the habit of employing grown ups and not toddlers. He knows I like the heavy things in my bag and he picks up the remainder. However as each item comes down from the cashier, he likes to check with me, loudly, grinning from ear to ear. Mine? Mine! Yours? Yours! And boy, is it fun and not irritating at all! Hey, everyone else in here, wake up from your comas. There are two people packing bags over there and it looks like fun! Maybe you could try packing your own bags, rather than standing there letting your cashier who actually has her arm in a sling pack yours? No, you didn't notice? There's a surprise.
Worse, far, far worse than all of this is the fact that every single time I pack my own bags, I am thanked. It really bothers me. It bothered me from day one and on day 406, I am still bothered. This is the dark side of the service industry as far as I am concerned. In Walgreens (sort of a strange hybrid of Superdrug and Woolworths) the end of the receipt is printed with the name of the cashier and the words 'Thank you for allowing me to serve you today.' As if they have been elected by the people to fulfill this function rather than be taken for granted as they carry out dull servile duties day in day out, smile never faltering, only for people on their phones to ignore them as they wait around for their bags to be packed. It seems to me that expectations of certain unimportant things are very high, and other far far more important matters, shamefully ignored.
My name is Karen. Thank you for allowing me to write this today.
Bag packers make me nervous and irritable.
The people who stand at the end of the standard less-than-spacious supermarket tills waiting to pack your shopping for you in theory sounds marvellous I'm sure. The truth is somewhat different. Supermarkets are set up for people with cars. Fact. They just pretend to be non-car people friendly by having doors in from the pavements. Tills are set up for people happy to stand around aimlessly while someone else packs their shopping for them. There has been room allocated for one person, one employee, at the end of the till to pack bags. The side arm of the till has actually been cordoned off with cunning use of a machine which gives you your coin change. Folded money change is dolled out in the standard way from the cashier, so you somehow have to negotiate collecting money with both hands - notes in one, coins in the other - whilst strapping your purse or wallet to your chin (I knew that unsightly Velcro patch would come in handy) and dropping anything else you may be holding on your toe. Usually a can of beans.
Paying by card is also fraught with trauma. The swiping card mechanism is much less forgiving than you would expect and I have stood there melon-like swiping and re-swiping five times before. Eyes have been rolled, however surreptitiously. Then you are asked questions before and after entering your pin number, which vary depending on which store you are in:
Do you want to donate to this particular charity today? Y or N
Do you want cash back? Y or N
Now are you sure because you might need it later for bus fare? Y or N
OK then if you are sure, are you happy with the amount for your shopping? Please note that if you press no, you will have to start again. Y or N
Have we asked you too many questions today? Y or N
Please come again soon. Bye. Love you xx
I have seen grown men weep in the face of the unrelenting questions. This isn't strictly true but I have actually seen people weaken under the pressure of the questions, stumble, fall and have to start again with the cashier cracking the whip and shouting 'faster, faster' the whole time. Wait, that isn't true either. I have seen people struggle through the whole process and I have even had to help people confused by which button to press at which time. True, but less dramatic.
Presumably while the customer is tangled up with the interrogation machine, the bag packer steps in and neatly packs all your food, frozen and fridge things all together, bread on the top of the bag, weight equally distributed, so when you emerge dazed and poorer from the instrument of doom, you are gently guided out of the door. There is a further service where the bag packer can take your items to your car and pack your boot for you. I'm sure more kindnesses will be rolled out soon like driving your poor bewildered body home, packing all your food away, heating some soup and spooning it into your face. A quick wipe up around the mouth you mucky pup, and the bag packer has left you sat on your sofa, cupboards and belly full and mercifully with no memory of the traumatic episode, ran back five miles to the store just in time to pack the bags of the next customer in line who is still struggling with the inquisition.
For those of us (me) who do not drive to the supermarket, but carry an empty backpack there in order to fill it to a certain point of just tolerable heaviness, known only to me owing to years of practice and almost back breaking episodes, the bag packing service is not required, thanks all the same. It is possible to give your own bag to the bag packer to pack for you but having once been intimidated into doing this, and suffering badly on the way home, and reduced to tears at the sight of the front door, I now wholeheartedly and firmly, sometimes rudely when all other nice options have failed me, refuse. You would literally be amazed at the added trauma this causes.
It's a tricky one. People have been employed to do this job and I don't want to seem ungrateful or portray that somehow I am superior in the back packing stakes, but at the same time, I am capable of packing my own bags quickly and simultaneously confounding supermarket staff by rolling off the answers to the ceaseless queries from machines and humans. Maybe I should list this as a talent on my CV? There are people who need this service for one reason or another, and luckily I am not one of them. But, some people insist I should have my bags packed for me, and that is where the trouble starts.
By now I moreorless know the people who will leave me alone and the ones who will help me to death. I avoid shorter queues if there is a helpful type at the end of it. Sometimes I am thwarted and the bag packers change on me mid-queue so I have to grit it out. There are two people in particular who even after a year just CANNOT comprehend my polite no thank you. One of them likes to wrestle my backpack from me and just WILL not take no for an answer. I have come up with a strategy for him which is to bring another bag for him to put some specific things of my choosing in, things that I already know will not fit in the big bag. This sounds so stupid to be even talking about. I am admitting that I have a special system up my sleeve for one belligerent man whose name I don't even know but whose sullen haughty face has been etched in my mind. He doesn't much like my special system because he wants to do it all and when I leave my bag to go to pay, he zooms over to it to do it up for me. He also doesn't like it when I thank him. He is as uncomfortable with that concept as I am with someone packing my bag - once he shrugged and said "It is my job." Next time I have decided that I will say "It is my bag."
The other bag packing chap is ridiculously friendly. He waves at me when he sees me in the queue. He turns me packing my bag into a game. Believe it or not, supermarkets are in the habit of employing grown ups and not toddlers. He knows I like the heavy things in my bag and he picks up the remainder. However as each item comes down from the cashier, he likes to check with me, loudly, grinning from ear to ear. Mine? Mine! Yours? Yours! And boy, is it fun and not irritating at all! Hey, everyone else in here, wake up from your comas. There are two people packing bags over there and it looks like fun! Maybe you could try packing your own bags, rather than standing there letting your cashier who actually has her arm in a sling pack yours? No, you didn't notice? There's a surprise.
Worse, far, far worse than all of this is the fact that every single time I pack my own bags, I am thanked. It really bothers me. It bothered me from day one and on day 406, I am still bothered. This is the dark side of the service industry as far as I am concerned. In Walgreens (sort of a strange hybrid of Superdrug and Woolworths) the end of the receipt is printed with the name of the cashier and the words 'Thank you for allowing me to serve you today.' As if they have been elected by the people to fulfill this function rather than be taken for granted as they carry out dull servile duties day in day out, smile never faltering, only for people on their phones to ignore them as they wait around for their bags to be packed. It seems to me that expectations of certain unimportant things are very high, and other far far more important matters, shamefully ignored.
My name is Karen. Thank you for allowing me to write this today.
Cashier Number One Please
I am aware of how ridiculous this is going to sound, and especially as I have just got out of bed where I was warm and comfortable to write this. I just couldn’t get bollards out of my head, and therefore sleep was out of the question until these thoughts were excised.
I have talked before, possibly at length, about the sorts of things I miss from home, mainly in regard to food. The ridiculous cravings we have for Angel Delight are nothing compared to other deep seated yearnings, for more well, bizarre phenomena.
The streets of America sound different. Obviously people talk in a different way, but that is easy to get used to. In fact now if I hear a non-American accent, my curiosity is instantly peaked as I try to work out where this intruder is from. It even takes me a while to work out that I am listening to a fellow country man. As much as I hate to admit this, I have indeed confused Brits and Australians. I know, I know…
As well as the accents, there are the sounds of big trains (notably different from a small train noises of course,) the distant hum of the Freeway and the squawk of various sirens in the distance, echoing long and loud down straight and wide streets. There is also of course my weekly world war two siren testing the emergency warning system, which I think I have just about got used to now.
But what does seem to be in short supply in the general din of this country are the familiar sounds of the likes of “Caution, Bollards in Motion,” “Cashier Number Two Please,” or the auditory treat “This vehicle is reversing.” I miss every one of those computer generated mildly smug and irritating phrases. Unconsciously, perhaps in order to comfort ourselves, Mike and I have started to say them out loud to each other, in the private of our own home, but tone, syllable, inflection, and pitch perfect. My particular favourite is the Post Office and possibly Argos, cashier beckoning instruction. I have become so accurate in my portrayal, you could be forgiven for thinking that you were in a post office in Huyton, Liverpool, in your lunch hour queuing to post a parcel watching your free time slowly ebb away.
Since meeting a man in Safeway who actually swooned when I spoke and who assured me that I should get a job in voice over work, I am seriously considering going into shops and trying out my new directional phrase. I think this will become a most profitable endeavour since we have noticed here that they actually employ people to stand at the front of the queue and tell you when the next cashier is free. Seriously. THAT much money is wasted. For, say a year’s salary, I could record my voice telling the soon to be overcome crowds which cashier was ready to serve them. It would be both more efficient and such a euphoric experience for some, that they would not consider shopping anywhere else. In fact, if they ever found themselves living in a different country, they will also rather curiously find I'm sure that they miss the comfort of my voice, and literally cannot sleep because of it.
I have talked before, possibly at length, about the sorts of things I miss from home, mainly in regard to food. The ridiculous cravings we have for Angel Delight are nothing compared to other deep seated yearnings, for more well, bizarre phenomena.
The streets of America sound different. Obviously people talk in a different way, but that is easy to get used to. In fact now if I hear a non-American accent, my curiosity is instantly peaked as I try to work out where this intruder is from. It even takes me a while to work out that I am listening to a fellow country man. As much as I hate to admit this, I have indeed confused Brits and Australians. I know, I know…
As well as the accents, there are the sounds of big trains (notably different from a small train noises of course,) the distant hum of the Freeway and the squawk of various sirens in the distance, echoing long and loud down straight and wide streets. There is also of course my weekly world war two siren testing the emergency warning system, which I think I have just about got used to now.
But what does seem to be in short supply in the general din of this country are the familiar sounds of the likes of “Caution, Bollards in Motion,” “Cashier Number Two Please,” or the auditory treat “This vehicle is reversing.” I miss every one of those computer generated mildly smug and irritating phrases. Unconsciously, perhaps in order to comfort ourselves, Mike and I have started to say them out loud to each other, in the private of our own home, but tone, syllable, inflection, and pitch perfect. My particular favourite is the Post Office and possibly Argos, cashier beckoning instruction. I have become so accurate in my portrayal, you could be forgiven for thinking that you were in a post office in Huyton, Liverpool, in your lunch hour queuing to post a parcel watching your free time slowly ebb away.
Since meeting a man in Safeway who actually swooned when I spoke and who assured me that I should get a job in voice over work, I am seriously considering going into shops and trying out my new directional phrase. I think this will become a most profitable endeavour since we have noticed here that they actually employ people to stand at the front of the queue and tell you when the next cashier is free. Seriously. THAT much money is wasted. For, say a year’s salary, I could record my voice telling the soon to be overcome crowds which cashier was ready to serve them. It would be both more efficient and such a euphoric experience for some, that they would not consider shopping anywhere else. In fact, if they ever found themselves living in a different country, they will also rather curiously find I'm sure that they miss the comfort of my voice, and literally cannot sleep because of it.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Living in a Movie
A strange set of pictures of a small part of the huge campus of the University of California, Berkeley which I visited yesterday when Mike was in a meeting. It isn't even a case of all style, no substance. This place invites envy.
One of the libraries...
Sather tower, otherwise known as the Campanile. I was there too early to go to the top which is meant to afford amazing views, but it seems likely that I will return to find out myself.
Home of good but strong coffee, and some history.
They have even branded the soap dispensers.
Another world.I even saw a group of small children lining up for summer school with their parents looking on about to embark on whatever children do in summer school, cared for only by students in matching t shirts.
I live in a 80's film. Please can someone pinch me occasionally?
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Pigs, Pets and Pastrami
On Saturday we ventured down south to sunny San Mateo's county fair. We had intended to go last year, which seemed to offer much more, but for one reason or another we didn't make it. This year we weren't going to miss out and booked tickets well in advance. We had a great time and it was unlike anywhere we had ever been before and after walking round in an excited mesmerised trance, I now find it almost impossible to describe. I'll have a go though.
We got the train and then walked the remainder in the baking heat, remembering how lucky we are to live in San Francisco which is nicely warm but not too hot for my fair skin. We were the only pedestrians on the road which looked exactly like so many other American towns we have been through, and most people were sensible enough to be encased in their air conditioned cars. On route, we passed a so-called British pub, proclaiming food treats and darts. A quick peek in revealed darkness boarding on dingy, flock wallpaper, and a funny smell. Maybe it truly was a British pub after all, but today was not a day for Britishness, it was a day for embracing American culture, or at least for sneaking a peek at how a nation without a Women's Institute does their flower arranging.
Soon, we left any thoughts of Blighty behind as we stepped into an episode of the Simpsons. It was a strange and heady mix of farm animals, vomit-causing fairground rides, amazing community craft competitions, stalls selling things which people could never possibly need or want, or certainly wouldn't come to a fair to buy, like double glazing, but which seemed to be oddly attractive after an excess of either sugar or lard, also on offer in dizzying variety. As is typical, everything was proclaimed as the 'best ever', or 'all-American', which we now know is a form of short hand for this outlandish statement.
We didn't go into the 'Great American Petting Zoo' which did have a llama and Bambi to its credit, and we didn't visit the biggest pig in the world which had been sheltered in an enormous wind breaker and cost an extra dollar. We also didn't buy a Twister Dog, a hotdog on a stick with fried potato spiralled around it;
but we did visit all of the farm animals, and competition exhibits, marvelling at the skill and sheer audacity in turn, wondering at the categories and wishing that we had entered something. I probably would have gone for the table laying because I think it needed an injection of taste. Things were seemingly haphazardly arranged with limited care, although I'm sure there must have been some sort of order. It also seemed to be missing what I like to call the all important twee and tweed factor. Sometimes you need it just to cut through the garish. A few Morris dancers wouldn't have gone a miss either.
With our free M&M ice creams melting down our hands, we happily contemplated our favourite category, the 'Produce Pet' for 'pet's' creatively made from fresh produce. This had been imaginatively placed next to the smallest mature fruit or vegetable competition which was another joy to behold. There seemed to only be two entries in produce pet corner; one involving corn strapped to a sad wilting sunflower, and one involving a cucumber with a tangerine head, mouth arranged in a silent scream, marooned on it's back with frankly useless mange tout arms which would offer it no leverage to get back up, and topped off with a largely redundant tiny carrot tail. Or maybe that is the colour of cucumber fear? Either way, it was a clear winner.
We got the train and then walked the remainder in the baking heat, remembering how lucky we are to live in San Francisco which is nicely warm but not too hot for my fair skin. We were the only pedestrians on the road which looked exactly like so many other American towns we have been through, and most people were sensible enough to be encased in their air conditioned cars. On route, we passed a so-called British pub, proclaiming food treats and darts. A quick peek in revealed darkness boarding on dingy, flock wallpaper, and a funny smell. Maybe it truly was a British pub after all, but today was not a day for Britishness, it was a day for embracing American culture, or at least for sneaking a peek at how a nation without a Women's Institute does their flower arranging.
Soon, we left any thoughts of Blighty behind as we stepped into an episode of the Simpsons. It was a strange and heady mix of farm animals, vomit-causing fairground rides, amazing community craft competitions, stalls selling things which people could never possibly need or want, or certainly wouldn't come to a fair to buy, like double glazing, but which seemed to be oddly attractive after an excess of either sugar or lard, also on offer in dizzying variety. As is typical, everything was proclaimed as the 'best ever', or 'all-American', which we now know is a form of short hand for this outlandish statement.
We didn't go into the 'Great American Petting Zoo' which did have a llama and Bambi to its credit, and we didn't visit the biggest pig in the world which had been sheltered in an enormous wind breaker and cost an extra dollar. We also didn't buy a Twister Dog, a hotdog on a stick with fried potato spiralled around it;
but we did visit all of the farm animals, and competition exhibits, marvelling at the skill and sheer audacity in turn, wondering at the categories and wishing that we had entered something. I probably would have gone for the table laying because I think it needed an injection of taste. Things were seemingly haphazardly arranged with limited care, although I'm sure there must have been some sort of order. It also seemed to be missing what I like to call the all important twee and tweed factor. Sometimes you need it just to cut through the garish. A few Morris dancers wouldn't have gone a miss either.With our free M&M ice creams melting down our hands, we happily contemplated our favourite category, the 'Produce Pet' for 'pet's' creatively made from fresh produce. This had been imaginatively placed next to the smallest mature fruit or vegetable competition which was another joy to behold. There seemed to only be two entries in produce pet corner; one involving corn strapped to a sad wilting sunflower, and one involving a cucumber with a tangerine head, mouth arranged in a silent scream, marooned on it's back with frankly useless mange tout arms which would offer it no leverage to get back up, and topped off with a largely redundant tiny carrot tail. Or maybe that is the colour of cucumber fear? Either way, it was a clear winner.
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