British Courtesy

 

 

I hope this won’t come across as a rant. It isn’t meant to be. It’s just some wonderings and musings about things I’ve read as well as things I’ve observed.

Recently I’ve seen a number of people online who say they’re from the UK complaining about Americans. It took me aback because I always thought we liked each other. And these are not political statements, simply the expressions of people who have observed Americans either on TV or in person. Also, my experience in traveling has shown me that people in the UK are very nice to me, an American.

Granted, the current political climate has made the US anathema to many of our former allies. I’m ashamed of that and horribly embarrassed by what has caused that, even though I had nothing whatever to do with it. I’m not terribly keen on America myself these days. But enough of politics.

Admittedly, I’m an Anglophile. It’s not the, “Ooh, I love your accent.” It’s “I love your country. I love that it’s not all asphalt. I love that, in some places, there are cows or sheep on the roads. We don’t have that where I’m from, and we didn’t even when I was growing up among geese, chickens and nearby orchards. I love that it’s not mini-America. (For one, your television shows are better.)

Yes, people employed at B&Bs and hotels are supposed to be polite. That’s not always the case. I’ve seen people being less than polite to others at restaurants and hotels – and I’m talking about the employees, not just some guy on the street.

But there are people who don’t have to be that have been kind. For example I’ve had several people offer me their seat on the underground when it was crowded, especially if I had a suitcase.

Yes, I know that there are signs on the underground telling the riders to give up their seats to pregnant women, the elderly and those with disabilities. Okay, I’m old enough to be considered “elderly,” I suppose. I am retired. But I don’t think I look so old that I need a seat.

While it’s kindly meant, it’s embarrassing, especially if I’m only traveling one stop. Otherwise, yes, because it’s expected, I’ll take the seat.

I’ve been in underground stations that had neither escalators nor elevators (few and far between, but I assume they’re very old stations that can’t be retro-fitted). No matter how lightly I pack, I’m usually there for at least two weeks, and my suitcase, although a carry-on, is heavy. 

Anyway, looking up the long stairway with suitcase beside me, I take a deep breath and brace myself to get up the stairs. Invariably, someone comes along before I’ve put foot on the first step, and takes my suitcase to the top and waits for me to catch up. These people have my undying gratitude because there have been other situations in which I had to struggle up a few flights of stairs with said suitcase.

People in the UK are helpful when I ask for directions or other help. But I approach quietly and ask politely. I don’t act like an entitled person.  I don’t push my Americanness as if it were a rite of passage card. I say please and thank you, excuse me, and could you help me. I thank people even if they’re unable to direct me to where I need to go. And of course, my first line of seeking information is a policeman or an information center – or the front desk of the hotel I’m staying in. I suppose I’m desperately afraid of making a mistake and being considered rude.

Yes, I know there are loud, obnoxious people from the US, with lots of money and not much in the way of manners. I shudder when I’m in the queue behind them because I don’t want to be tarred with their brush. Sometimes I find myself apologizing for my fellow countryman’s behavior because I want those who come into contact with Americans to know that we’re not all like that. Some of us were not raised in a barn.

It’s true we Americans have some confounding ideas. We’re used to free refills of salads and soft drinks in many places, we expect ice in our drinks even in the winter, and sometimes we fail to recognize a serving size because ours are so huge. But I tend to do as the natives do. I’ve surprised more than a few waitresses when they asked if I wanted ice in a drink, and I said, “No, thank you.” I’ve learned what a biscuit is and that tea is actually a meal. But I’m sorry, I will never be able to eat baked beans at any meal. I’ll take the toast, thanks, but give the beans to someone else, please.

I’ve never had an issue with the people in any part of the UK when I’m traveling, and I don’t understand the people online who are from there and have such negative things to say about Americans.  Yes, they may have run into some of the rude ones – there are rude people in just about every country, but I let it go because the nice ones outweigh the rude ones – and maybe they’re playing up their own vitriol, but every time I see something like that online, I wonder if the next visit is going to be the one where I get treated like a blight on the world for where I come from. I certainly hope not. But I will continue to employ good manners wherever I go.

I was raised with the notion that when you travel, whether it’s to a relative’s house a half hour away or to another country, you are a guest. You don’t own the place. You are in no way entitled to anything. If it isn’t yours, you don’t touch it without invitation. You are, as a guest, there by the kindness of your host.

I may sound old-fashioned, but, well, I am old enough to be one of those people you give up a seat on the tube for. I’ve never found courtesy hurt anyone. A please, a thank-you, even – or especially – if the other person is being rude, often goes a long way toward good-will. But if all else fails, it’s fine to just walk away. No expletives or derogatory remarks needed.

I look forward to the next time I get to visit the UK. There are so many places I haven’t seen yet, and I love discovering new places. I have several trips worth of places. It’s also nice to know that there are two people there who enjoy spending time with me. There may be more.  I never assume.

I have distant relatives in the UK and Ireland whom I’ve met, and they’ve all been amazing, even though one, who I will assume was teasing, said, once we’d met, “Well,  you can check off that you’ve met me now,” as if I were only meeting people to say I had. I want them all to know I’m extremely jealous that they get to live where I wish I could, that they live in the culture while I only get to look in the window.

The next time I go in summer, I want to see the Orkneys and the Shetlands, and if time permits, possibly the Outer Hebrides.

I also still haven’t seen the Channel Islands or the Isles of Scilly. And I’d like to spend some time in Yorkshire. I’ve been to York but not the outlying area. I suppose I’ll need a car. (Yes, I’ve driven in the UK before, so I can deal with driving on the left, and I spent most of my adult life driving a standard shift car, so that’s not a problem) I particularly want to go to a town called Langhorne, since the next town over from the one I grew up in was called Langhorne, and was the “big town” in the area at the time.

The ideal thing for me would be to spend a few months traveling around the UK, but I’m not sure my husband could deal with my not cooking dinner that long, and my dog would miss me. But who knows? Maybe the dog and Jeff would finally bond!

Friends

 

 

I think it’s safe to say I’m very self-reliant. I’ve always had to be. 

The extroverts among you can most likely say you have lots of friends. You can probably say you have a core of friends you can rely on. You can even, I suppose, say that there are people who encourage you in your endeavors.

I cannot.

I’ve met with a lot of you can’ts in my life. Once I was responsible for myself without parental interference in my decisions, there were a lot of “hold my beer” moments from me, some successful, some not.

This runs through every aspect of my life, most importantly, my professional life. I’ve had bosses who had a certain image of me – usually wrong – and tried to stick me in the corner as a gopher to do their bidding, without any interest in what my professional interests were. As the youngest in my family, I will take the liberty of saying, “Nobody puts Baby in the corner!”

And I left each of those jobs because I won’t work where I’m not respected.

When I was studying for my career, I had teachers who simply weren’t available. They were either too busy cozying up to the higher-ups who might advance their careers, or trying to be cool by ingratiating themselves with students they wanted to socialize with. And some were just not interested.

I remember going to see one instructor during her stated office hours to discuss an issue with a project for her class. It would have taken less than 5 minutes of her time, but she simply breezed on past with, “Make an appointment for another time,” and left with another instructor.

One wasn’t supposed to need an appointment during office hours. And when something in my project was wrong as a result, she wanted to know why I hadn’t bothered to ask.

Well, I tried. She blew me off. I was putting the finishing touches on the project when I went to her to ask the question. I had already waited a few days until she actually had office hours, and the project was due the next day, so “making an appointment at another time,” wasn’t feasible.

I had other instructors who, after complaining about how needy my classmates were, couldn’t understand why I hadn’t asked for help.

Well, past experience had taught me, for one, and their attitude for another. They wanted us to stand on our own two feet and be independent, then complained when we did just that.

I didn’t have friends from class to get feedback from, either. My classmates were too busy, didn’t know or couldn’t be bothered.

And I’ve always loved the, “If you didn’t understand the assignment, why didn’t you come to me to ask?”

Really? See above for the answer. I recall telling one instructor that I wasn’t aware that I didn’t understand the assignment or I would have tried coming to her.

One teacher told me my mind always seemed to be elsewhere. Yeah, it’s trying to figure out a solution because I couldn’t get hold of an instructor who would take two minutes to answer a question. I also spent two solid years of being a commuter student who was utterly exhausted all of the time.

The job I truly loved, writing, hasn’t met with much success. Oh, I have books out there. On Amazon, because I can’t seem to entice an agent, a publisher or anyone else. Good story, but not what we’re looking for just now. (Form letter, and they probably didn’t bother to read the story.)

No, they’re looking for mystery stories or romance novels. I never read mystery stories because they make no sense to me, whether in book form or on TV. Romance novels make me ill. I can’t write what I can’t fathom.

Or they’re looking for non-fiction. I’m clearly in the fiction world. Real life is too hard and angry and – Kardashian. Fiction is far more interesting. Besides, if I tried to write non-fiction, my sarcasm gene would kick in too strongly.

I’ve participated in Author’s Day at Princeton Library several times. Sounds like something that should be really cool, right? I’ve seen people there who have great success. Once or twice some of my friends even attended – and I tell everyone I know every time I’m going to be part of it.

Once or twice I even sold a couple of books there. But most of the time people look, but don’t buy at my table. They don’t stay long enough for me to attempt a conversation with them, while they cluster at the next asking the other author all sorts of questions, and buying those books.

I’ve listened to fellow writers in my friend set, who have far more success than I have, talk about email lists and all sorts of things that are mysteries to me. How do they find these people? Where do these lists come from?

Oh, ask your friends. I have 10. Maybe. Now what?

Get your colleagues to fill out questionnaires. I’m retired. 

Even when I wasn’t retired, I knew no one in my life who would bother with a questionnaire. I did try.

Not long ago I asked someone I didn’t know well to read a piece. It was far from finished. In fact, I was just getting my feet wet on the story, and didn’t have a good direction for it yet. After some initial questions, I didn’t hear back. Since I didn’t know the person well, I simply concluded after several months that I wasn’t likely to.

I was surprised to get feedback long after I’d despaired of it. It was actually quite harsh. It was kind of a relief from the, “That’s really good!” that I often get with no other comment. That’s not what I’m looking for. I want to know what works and what doesn’t. What’s interesting and what’s boring?

This person told me what was boring, what didn’t work and what they didn’t like. It actually sounded angry. Kind of like handing in an assignment late that the teacher didn’t like, harsh. I let the comments sit for a bit – a couple of weeks, actually. Then I read them again, along with the story.

The person was quite right. I was telling, not showing, etc. But it was only more of a concept of the story I wanted to write than the actual story. And the critique actually spurred me on to rewrite the whole thing (I’m glad I wasn’t farther than chapter 5, and the chapters were all short). I have, so far, written far more than is going to be in the book because I need to know the background, history, geography, civics and characters of the world I’m creating. But at least now I know what I’m not putting into the story because it doesn’t work as part of the story.

Not long ago, my husband finished writing the novel he’s been working on since before I ever met him – we’ve been married for 31 years. About the same time, I finished my most recent novel, one of which I’m particularly proud. It took far longer than any of my others to write.

I read his novel. I think it’s well thought out, and a fantastic story, even if that seems like a biased statement. Ever since then, he’s been doing re-reads and revisions of his book, getting his friends to read it and give critiques. He has some friends who are really brutally frank about giving critiques, and have great suggestions.

Oh, has he read my novel? He has not. He never reads any of my novels, ever. And it isn’t because I haven’t asked. The only writing of mine he’s ever read/edited/critiqued are my blogs, and he gave me excellent advice on those.

But I seldom ask anymore. I got tired of begging. Have you read the blog yet? No, I was too tired. No, I didn’t get to it yet. Three weeks later: did you read the blog yet? Oh, I forgot all about it. Then, perhaps spurred on by guilt, it gets read and critiqued.

Meanwhile, I’ve also been re-reading, editing and so forth with my novel.

I tried taking a page from his book, and asked if any of my friends would be interested in reading and critiquing  any of my novels. Three people raised their hands, so they were sent manuscripts.

One of the three came through for me with some helpful critiques. That’s a first for me.

The others? I assume life got hectic, but I had no response. I got back to them. They apologized and said they would read it. They didn’t. When several months later I got back to them again, they had not read it, and now had reasons why they could not do this for me.

I suppose I’m unreasonable expecting people to do something if they said they would. But that’s probably just my internal ethic, not theirs. Am I the only person on the planet who, when I give my word to do something actually does it?

So, I am self-reliant out of necessity.

I told my husband I wished I had friends like his. He claims he had to hound his friend to get their responses. Yet when they’re together, they’ll spend hours discussing plot and structure.

What has happened for me in the past is this: The first time, the response would be (if there even is one), “Oh, I didn’t get a chance to finish reading it because of X,Y, & Z. My life is busy. But I’ll get to it.” The second time, perhaps weeks or months later, the response would be, “You know, I just don’t have the time to do this. Sorry.” I’m simply bothering them by even asking if they’ve done what they promised to do. How dare I?

This makes me want to scream. Why did you volunteer if you couldn’t do it?

I mean, really I should know. Even my blogs don’t get a response. Maybe five blogs out of the over one hundred I’ve written since 2017 have had a comment, and some of those have been sarcastic comments that are an attempt to be funny.

I was told to start a writing Facebook page. I did. No one responds to anything on it. I’ve invited people to follow, and apparently they missed or deleted the invitation, and because they didn’t respond to it, I can’t re-invite them. I don’t know how. There doesn’t seem to be a way.

I was told to go onto Twitter, or whatever it’s called now. I did that. What do you do there? No one was home. Where are the people on Twitter?

Oh, you have to follow people. Where are they? And even if I followed them, then what? That’s their interests. Even if I respond to them, I would either get nothing more than a thumbs-up or get blasted because they didn’t agree with what I said. I did make a post there once. Apparently to the void. No one responded.

And if I bring up my writing, maybe someone will say, “Oh, you write? That’s cool.” And then silence. I don’t have to go on twitter to know that.  I’ve lived it on Facebook, in AOL chatrooms, on Myspace. Why would yet another forum be any different?

I recently tried Reddit. It took forever to find anything. It looks more like a space for the tall-thin- gorgeous- raccoon-eyed blondes of my youth who now have followers and are called “influencers.”

I’m not looking for people to influence me. I’m not a sycophant who distributes cutesy hearts on people’s fan pages. Nor am I looking for people to do that to me.

My husband provided me with links in Reddit that specifically are supposed to be for writers. I read some posts, even replied to a few, and made my own post.

Silence. Well, not silence, exactly. I did get a thumbs-up. One.

All I want is to be able to engage in serious conversation about writing, exchange information and not be called names by someone trying to inject politics into absolutely everything. I would like someone who knows answers to the questions I have to provide me with information the way I provide information to people who ask questions that I know answers to.

I thought about going back to college to get a master’s in writing, just so I could get some critique of my work. My husband doesn’t think I need a master’s degree. According to him, I already know the necessary things to be a writer.

But I’ve been told the most horrible thing: Somehow, I’m supposed to find strangers somewhere, and talk to them. Be able to think of questions to ask them that would further my chances of getting my books out there. Actually talk to them, send emails and follow-up emails if they don’t answer (how many times are you supposed to do that before you finally realize that they will never reply?)

Are you kidding me? Talk to strangers? Actually be able to say something, follow them, don’t take no for an answer until you get a door slammed in your face (which believe me, happens faster than you’d find a second question)?

Put me on the stage at Carnegie Hall and let me sing for thousands by myself – or, hey, I’d gladly sing a duet with Josh Groban. Or Johnny Mathis. Or Paul McCartney. Piece of cake. I’d love it. I’d have the time of my life!

Let me act in a play, as long as I don’t have to do some dance routine. Equal love there. I don’t need to win an award, just have the chance to do it.

Don’t get me wrong; I love writing as much as I love singing or acting. It’s like breathing for me. I couldn’t not do it. It’s all the other stuff that goes with promoting my work, the begging with zero results because I don’t know how to do it, the finding things when I don’t know where to look that’s so maddening. There's no card catalogue! I need someone who knows how to do those things. Yet, those are the same people with the form letters: sorry, we’re focused on a different type of writing just now.

But talk to strangers? Are you kidding? I don’t know how to do that.

Yeah, yeah, the people who know me will swear I talk non-stop. They’re not strangers, and we have common talking points. And yes, I’ll ask a stranger – usually a policeman – in New York for directions.

But talk to a stranger? Do you have any idea how hard that is? Have you ever tried it, especially when you’re asking them for a favor? I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ve been through this before.

In college, I went through 11 roommates in 13 terms. I know people are thinking (although they don’t say it), “What’s wrong with you?” Well, beyond asking their name, their major and where they’re from, it’s desperately hard to think of something to say to them. Sometimes, “What kind of music do you listen to?” works, and you are lucky enough to find common ground. Often, we don’t like the same music, and maybe after several weeks I’ve thought of some other things, but by then, usually, they’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t like them, or we’re not compatible or whatever their excuse is, and they move out. Sequence rewind.

Yes, alone, I could probably formulate questions, and maybe even anticipate replies. But then, try whipping out a piece of paper when you want to talk to someone. They’re gone before the paper is unfolded. And if they stay, they never stay on-script. How can you ask the follow-up when they go off-script?

Maybe I should just try to figure out a way to get a singing gig at Carnegie Hall and hope Josh Groban hears it and is interested in joining in.

People of a Certain Age

 

 

A couple of years ago, I was startled and a bit taken aback when I visited the UK, specifically London. Taking the underground from Paddington to Whitehall, I was surprised when I stepped onto the train and someone stood up from their seat, tapped me on the shoulder, and gestured for me to sit in the seat they’d just vacated.

Kind and polite though it was, given how crowded the train was, I didn’t fail to notice that the sign at that particular seat said to surrender the seat to the elderly or handicapped. And there was a woman struggling with a couple of kids and a suitcase nearby to whom no one offered a seat.

I am not handicapped. Neither do I consider myself “elderly.” To me, elderly is 80 or older. Elderly is someone with a cane, perhaps a bit of a hunched back, white hair, who possibly has movement issues – basically, someone who looks like what I consider a grandmother.

I have none of those things, although I admit the hair color is the product of a bottle, not naturally occurring anymore. But I’m not ready to embrace white hair, and I don’t like the look of iron grey hair on anyone. So, I’m not going to do it. I figured 80 was soon enough to consider no longer dyeing my hair.

While I admit I am “of a certain age,” – I’ve only just turned 70 –haven’t they said 60 is the new 40? --  I don’t really think about what I look like unless I’m facing a mirror. Yes, I have wrinkles, and when I smile, they’re kind of deep. I blame a good bit of weight loss several years ago for that. Until then, I really didn’t have much in the way of wrinkles.

But I still haven’t reached my weight-loss goal.

So, what’s the plan when I do? Well, it won’t be Botox, collagen injections or butt fat implants. They’re all temporary, and frankly make people look like clowns. I never aspired to Barnum and Bailey.

I’ve toyed with the idea of maybe getting a facelift. Maybe. The old-fashioned kind. Once. When it’s run its course, that’s it. I don’t want the Joan Rivers look where one wonders if the two sides of her face actually meet at the back of her head.

But those things are expensive. And considering two hair transplant surgeries eventually failed, I’m not sure it would be worth the expense.

Somehow, I don’t think I look old. I probably do, and I’m still living off the picture in my mind of me at 25.

Still, some of the things that are asked, I consider a bit bold – in the British sense of the word.

I recently had to find a new doctor because mine suddenly died. Apparently the whole way of practicing medicine has changed since the last time I changed doctors.

It used to be you could change doctors as easily as changing clothes. Pick up a phone, dial the number and make an appointment as a new patient.

Not so now.

It took an entire day of making phone calls. I wanted an individual doctor. There are none. They all belong to groups. What that means is a revolving door of doctors, and possibly never seeing the same one twice.

Worse, if you’re a new patient, you can wait anywhere from three to six months for an appointment. To my mind, if you have to wait that long, the doctor has too large of a caseload. And this is a group of doctors! I think it's a practice somewhat like hazing, where the person has to wait it out to prove their worthiness as a patient. (Or die trying.)

I was nearly out of a prescription that I require for continued good health. For that reason, I was able to whittle down the wait time to about three weeks, leading me to the assumption that they actually have open appointments, but they don't want to give them to anyone new. Their snide comment when you say you need something sooner is to tell you that you can go to an urgent care facility.

Right. I discovered that you not only have to fill out a lengthy questionnaire for them, most of which is about mental health – I suppose they realize that filling out lengthy forms when you need urgent care is likely to drive you to mental health problems – but you only get your first visit for “free,” by which I mean you aren’t charged a service fee that is not covered by your insurance, Medicare or anything else but a credit card. And this fee has nothing to do with the actual visit, and is rather expensive out-of-pocket.

And again, you may never see the same doctor again, so there’s no continuity of care.

In any case, I was able to see my new doctor for what she called an annual physical. This wasn’t anywhere near as complete as what I had from my now-deceased previous doctor.

She asked me if I experienced dizziness. Not sure why she asked. Nothing I told her about my medical history indicated that I might. She asked me if I had fallen. I don’t know why for the same reason as the dizziness question.

I walked into the office on my own, without cane, walker or any other mobility device. In fact the last time I used a cane was many years ago for about three weeks when I had surgery on my knee.

Okay, she probably had to cover all of the bases because I’m a new patient.

A couple of weeks later I went to a specialist with whom I have an annual appointment. I was asked the same questions, which I thought was really weird, since this wasn’t the first, second or even third time this doctor had seen me. And then she told me I should probably have a cane with me.

WHAT??

I can’t imagine what I would need a cane for, other than to bash doctors about the head for suggesting that I need a cane. My balance is fine. There’s nothing wrong with the way I walk. I have no mobility issues. Therefore, there’s no reason for me to have a cane. (Perhaps they're thinking of introducing Vaudeville medicine?)

While I do have some arthritis here and there that bothers me occasionally, I’m an occupational therapist. I know what to do and how to minimize pain. My house is safe. I work out at the gym three times a week, and the only reason I no longer take kick-boxing classes is that they got too expensive and then the facility I used to go to closed after the Covid-19 shutdown. I’m perhaps more sedentary than I’d like, but I now have a dog who doesn’t hesitate to tell me when he wants a walk – and is very insistent on it.

I recognize that David Bowie and several other rockers died a year younger than I am now, but I don’t have cancer or any of the other issues that took their lives. I’ve lived longer than my father did, but not longer than my mother yet.

We live in a world where we’re living longer and better than our parents and grandparents. There’s more of an emphasis on healthy foods and healthy lifestyles despite the obesity epidemic and people’s preference to take a pill to solve their problems than actually doing something positive.

Personally, I’d rather focus on health and the positives.

And you can keep your cane, and unless I have a suitcase, give up the seat to the lady with small children.