It Don't Come Easy

Still settling in

Moving is wanting it all to click into place magically. I don’t like waking up crying, dreaming of our old house in Catskill that I actually often despaired of—all the things we’d never get around to fixing or changing. I love our new house, so much, and feel incredibly grateful we found this place. Inside the house I’m great. Outside, is more challenging - I’m in another country, right? Even though I’ve spent lots of time in England, it’s always been as a visitor. As resident, I can’t help but want to instantly be the star of the show My New Life instead of a struggling extra or bit player, just out of shot, obnoxiously trying to insert myself in a scene — “I’m here, look at me, somebody, anybody! Welcome me, acknowledge me—know I’m here…” Or at the very least, just let me feel comfortable.

All (most?) “…the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” said Thoreau. When you’re caught up in life, you don’t see how everyone’s going about it — you’re not observing, just living: this task, that job, these friends; the family, home, doing laundry, buying food, putting gas in the car. Relocating puts you off to the side, like one of those merry go rounds they’ve probably outlawed from playgrounds, where you waited in the dirt as the other kids spun around on that slightly-rusted metal disc, laughing and screaming in joy and fear. You stood watching and waiting for that moment when you could jump on board, grab the metal bar or, failing that, a random child. Once you were on the ride, it seemed impossible to imagine how you got there, as you looked at another kid standing where you’d been, willing themselves to try and jump on.

I remember this feeling, from living in France. The French were on another planet culturally and language-wise, but the dance of figuring out their ways had a formality to it - we were after all, visitors on their patch (see already I’m picking up the lingo here in England, it’s osmosis, it’s immediate AND gradual, “I’M FITTING IN!” everything said with a little wink, or a wince…don’t want to act too familiar, too soon - membership must be earned, can’t just be pasted on.) Back in the Limousin, I spent loads of energy trying to not put a foot wrong with the French, but with the British expats I felt I should at least be able to let my hair down a little. I wanted to unload, tell my origin story to somebody, anybody, at a bar or a party or a laundromat, but it just wasn’t done - except maybe, maybe after a large amount of wine.

There’s this casual thing — is it particular to the Northeast US, or maybe the whole of the USA? A built-in easiness bonding strangers together in public— bus running late, broken washing machine at the laundromat, plane stuck on the runway —that launches people into performance mode, every individual with the potential to kick into a one-man or one-woman show. We can perform as if for our very lives — I see it so clear from outside, from a safe distance in another country. Luigi Mangione making moves only an American can make - moves only an American would be driven to make: advantages multiplied by lack of a social safety net coupled with expectations only an American has - to be and have it all. Posing for the camera at the check-in, in a taxi, because in our minds, there’s always a camera. And an audience. If we’re not always ready to perform, we’re always ready to applaud, Americans will start clapping at the drop of a hat.

Or maybe that’s just me? That’s another thing I remember from France—and maybe it’s what drove me to start writing songs forty years ago, and then simply writing in earnest - that need to know the answer to “am I the only one who feels this way?”

All of these feelings of “where do I fit in?” have been heightened because a) it’s the holiday season and b) I left my bag of toiletries in a hotel in Bristol a few weeks ago. In my previous post I talked about the hilarity at our local post office when I estimated the bag weighed five kilos when I purchased postage to mail from the Premier Inn where we’d stayed. The hotel desk staff, who I’d gotten to know by name (Mandy’s on 8 til 5, etc) had kindly agreed they could mail me back my things when they received the mailer.

The whole experience kicked my feelings of insecurity into high gear: wouldn’t it have been better to go with a carrier where tracking’s part of the deal? I didn’t want to hold up the line at the post office, Eric warned me the people could turn vicious if kept waiting (husbands aren’t above a little gentle hazing, or it’s possible he really means it). Maybe I should’ve gone for UPS or Fed Ex, but do people use those here? DHL maybe? I felt daunted trying to navigate a different system, so I went with the post. In general I’m amazed how quickly packages arrive within the UK. The whole width or breadth of the country could practically fit inside the state of Pennsylvania. Even Scotland is closer to us than Cleveland or Pittsburgh.

But once I’d sent off this bag with postage I started accepting that I would never see my products again, and that sent me into a spiral of loss, mourning my items whose equivalent I either can’t find here or wouldn’t want to spend the money for again— like I needed to punish myself for screwing up. A Catholic childhood rears its anguished head forever! Dental floss waxed in a particular way they just don’t do around here…that damn eyebrow serum that costs a lot and I’m still not sure I want to keep using…my brand-new Jones Road mascara, if it’s available here must be nearly twice the price…that new Charlotte Tilbury eyepencil… my Supergoop GlowScreen sunscreen I wear in all seasons…omg my estrogen cream.

I imagined the whole country laughing at me: Bristol Premier Inn staff, Post Office, even a lonely cowherd somewhere on the road from the West Country to Norfolk. They all saw my cluelessness and had a good laugh.

And then…as if by magic but really just by good old post - the toiletry bag arrived! We were out of town when it happened, but the previous owner of this house had a Nest system installed and so we have a Nest camera, like a combo concierge/security detail, that even from a hundred or even three thousand miles away shows if someone’s at the front door. It almost feels illegal. But there we were in Cambridge, where Eric was opening for the Lightning Seeds, and I could see the postman in his bright red jacket at our front door holding the very bag I’d mailed to Bristol, filled to the brim with my precious products. I nearly fell to my knees with joy and relief. The post actually works, most people are good and do what they say they will….I am paranoid and negative and need to relax.

Our house is beautiful! It has this kinda sinister camera though…

So I go about my business fortified with my confidence-building products that are really nothing that special but they’re mine and connect me to the self who packed up a suitcase back in New York a number of months ago. They call alcohol Dutch courage but I think I’ll call my beauty products Catskill Courage. I’m counting on them to get me through this next patch— the other kind, not the British slang kind which is a territory or area someone knows very well. This is the opposite of that, but I’ve got my GlowScreen back so I’m golden.