Postcards From Across the Pond

Leaving

Usually, the thing I worry most about on these trips is whether the cab will show up or not. This time, it’s whether we’ll be sitting on the wing.

You see, we don’t have seats on the flight. Four thousand pounds spent on air fare, and we’ve been told to go to the airport, at which time they will tell us if they can fit us on the flight. We only found out about this yesterday afternoon, and I worried about it for an hour before I realized that the worst that can happen is I won’t be able to go on a trip I really wasn’t keen to go on in the first place. The American Boarder Security and TSA are being forced to work without pay, and they are abusive and surly at the best of times; I can’t imagine how they are going to be now.

Later

We got seats. Now I just have to sit for nine hours. That’s like a full day at work, the kind where, when you’re finally walking out the door at quitting time, and the boss goes, “Hey, have you got a minute?”

When lunch was served, I told the stewardess (sorry, Air Crewess) I wanted something non-alcoholic to drink. She told me all she had was beer and wine. Since beer doesn’t go with chicken, I took the wine. She then went into her serving trolly and came up with a tray containing my chicken, a salad, a small bottle of white wine, and a bottle of water.

Is it me, or …

Anyway, the meal was fine. Palatable, and served with a cloth napkin, metal silverware, and a glass glass to drink my wine from (not a wine glass, but still). And when I finished my wine, she offered to bring me another. I declined; not only do I need to remain sober, but I’m also sitting here without my wife and, although my seatmate is cordial, she’s now asleep, so I’d be drinking alone, and that’s a bad sign.

Chicago

Having heard about Chicago being a war zone, I was a bit dubious about flying into O’Hare for our connection, but it was fine. All we needed was some light cover-fire while we went from Terminal 5 to Terminal 1, and we took a few sniper hits on take-off, but nothing to write home about.

North Greenbush

We made it to my son’s house without incident, which was a miracle. The rental car we got was not the one we booked because—as a favour to us—they upgraded us to a huge gas-guzzler that no one wanted. It comes with a plethora of warning buzzers, beeps, and flashing lights, but since I don’t know what any of them mean, they are not keeping me safe or informed, and the shifter is located where the turn signal ought to be, making it probable that I will eventually shift from Drive to Reverse when attempting to make a left turn. And most unsettling, it suggests—nay, demands—that I inspect the back seat every time I turn the engine off. What are they afraid of, that there might be a serial killer lurking back there, or that I might forget the children?

We have not been to America in two years, so we didn’t know what to expect, but everything seemed about the same. Panera Bread had put in a Self-Service till, which I did not count as an improvement (we opted for the human) but their coffee and bagels were still just as tasty.

When we caught up with the G-kids, I found that Number 1 was now taller than me, Number 2 was nearly as tall, and Number 3 was catching up, which I found disconcerting. In my mind, they are still about waist high.

As usual, we stayed in the spare room at my bachelor son’s flat because the G-kids’ house is too full and hectic. This works well for all of us, except the cats.

On the first morning there, I got up early and decided to make coffee. I have not used an American drip coffee maker in decades, but I thought I recalled a 2:1 ratio, so I put two scoops of coffee into the basket for each cup of coffee I was making. Essentially, I made espresso, and it tasted foul. My son poured it out and made a new batch and thereafter got up before me to make the coffee. Result!

Notes on America: your bathtubs are shallower than ours, and they sit at floor level. As an American, I know this, but it is startling when I re-encounter it. And we did a bit of shopping at The Market 32 and found it had a surprising variety of produce and an impressive array of cheeses. When I lived here, there was only cheddar and Monterey Jack. So, well done, America.

During visits, I have a mental tick-list of things I need to see and do and taste. So, we went to the Valatie Café to check a few off. First of all, just going to the café, as it is traditional Americana, counts, and while there I can get corn beef hash and American biscuits. Tick, tick, tick.

After that, it was The Circuit: a drive through Kinderhook, past my old house, and on to the Sand Bar in Stuyvesant Falls. The big change here was discovering that my boyhood home is now up for sale. End of an era.

Then we went to the Alexa Diner where I had a Rueben. Tick. Tick.

Monday was a holiday, but my son was working and everyone else was busy, so my wife and I decided to tick off another activity by hiking another bit of the Empire State Trail. We walked from Niverville to Valatie, and would have gone farther if it hadn’t been raining. The path took us through wetlands where we saw herons, blue jays, cardinals, sparrows, blackbirds, and deer. I remain in awe that a government actually managed a project like that, one which has no monetary value, and gives no return to the Government, and is strictly for the benefit of the people. I mean, how the fuck did this happen?

At the end of the week, we went to the Old Chatham House (tick). It has changed a bit: the deer head and rifles are gone, as are the old men holding up the bar, and it has a more modern feel while still preserving the colonial charm. We met some friends there and had a grand time catching up until the band started (a band? Seriously!) and then none of us could hear anything, so we left.

During our final weekend, we went to a place called June Farms and had a nice walk, along with about two-hundred-and-fifty-seven other people. But there were pigs and chickens and goats and sheep and horses and, strangely enough, highland cows. People in Scotland go out of their way to see highland cows, so you can imagine what a draw they were in North Greenbush.

The next day, before heading back to Britain, we had our traditional family meal at Cracker Barrel, where the old logo remained and the rustic rocking chairs were still out front. Tick.

Observations

Buying Goldfish crackers is no longer any fun because I can now buy them at Mr. Simms on West Street. I never do, but I can, so why buy them in America? (No tick here.)

While visiting my brother, he noted that his wife had recently taken a job with the County (which comes with health benefits), and remarked, “now we can go to the doctor,” a statement which I found chilling.

During breakfast at a diner, my wife noticed there were about a dozen different types of French Toast—all featuring whipped cream, icing sugar, and maple syrup—and mused that, if she could get some plain French Toast, she would ask for ketchup* to go with it, just to see the reaction.

A new café opened in the plaza next to the plaza where Panera Bread is. It’s called Uncommon Grounds. We decided to try it, but it was unbelievably packed, so we went to Panera instead. My son told me it was popular because it was good. So, we went back when it was not as crowded and I ordered a bagel and coffee, and both were uncommonly good. Now I understand. And another tick has been added to the list.

Home

We arrived without incident: ICE did not arrest us, and the TSA agents did not ransack** our suitcases and steal my cigars and whiskey, so I’m counting this as a win.

* To the uninitiated, my wife calls French Toast “Eggy Bread” and has it with ketchup.

** Don’t think I’m over-reacting; they have done this twice to me.

Coming up:

Our side-trip to Concord, Massachusetts.