Simon's Stuff

Land of The Definite Article

Northern California is not merely a different country from the rest of the USA, it is a seperate universe. Linguistically it is, at least. When speaking with the locals, you must remember that nowhere else exists. "The City" always means San Francisco, not one of the thousands of other incorporated areas in the USA, and certainly never New York. "The Bay" is invariably San Francisco Bay. "The Valley" is the Santa Clara valley, or Silicon Valley as its more widely known. "The Bridge" is the Bay Bridge, especially to those who drive across it every day, or occasionally the Golden Gate Bridge, to those who don't. "The Wine Country" is Napa and Sonoma, and not the Central Valley (oh, there's another) where most Californian wine is actually made. Its "The Golden Gate", "The Peninsula", and so on ...

Having lived here for a while, I can see why. Pretty much everything a sensible person could possibly want in life is availale within four hours drive of San Francisco. Why think about anywhere else?

Wine Country

Last Sunday, a new friend and I took a trip to Sonoma, the smaller and prettier of the two valleys that make up the Northern California wine country.

We took the Jeep, which gave my friend an experience of open air driving in the Bay Area that caused him to put on his jacket and pull the hood up. It takes a good five minutes to pull the top on a Jeep, fit the door frames, attach the rear quarter windows, fit the rear curtain, and finally attach the upper doors. Jeeps are not luxury vehicles. As a consequence, once the top is down I tend to keep it down. But the problem with this policy is that as you drive north towards San Francisco, somewhere between highway 92 and interstate 380, it starts to get a bit chilly. By the time you are standing in traffic in the city itself "quite cold" might be a better description. The Golden Gate Bridge is positively arctic. But once in Marin county with the mountains between you and the sea, it warms up again. Now, personally I'm used to this. I used to live in Edinburgh, for goodness sake, and I'm still chuffed to be able to own a convertible car. Open air driving strikes me as the second most enjoyable experience one can have with one's clothes on. After skiing. But I've noticed that when giving rides to other Californians they often express a desire for more warmth. Wimps.

Anyway, Sonoma was warm and sunny. We stopped for a burger and a glass of Pinor Noir, the only full glass of wine I had all day (driving, good boy, see?), at a strategically placed bar and grill just outside Sonoma town itself. Incidentally, my dad tells me that since the release of the movie "Sideways" sales of Merlot have plumetted, and sales of Pinot Noir have soared. I really despair for the human race sometimes. What kind of person likes Merlot, a grape that makes reliable blackcurranty reds, sees a movie, and then decides, on the basis of the opinions of a pretentious wine bore in said movie, that they want to drink Pinot instead? Not that there's anything wrong with Pinot. Its just that based on the sales figures, that person is out there somewhere. If you see him, ask him for me.

Anyway, we did a fairly predictable tour of the wineries, visiting, if I remember rightly, Valley of the Moon, Wellingtons, Chateau St Jean, and Kaz. And yes, I did pour most of each glass away. Although I draw the line at spitting. Valley of the Moon had a very nice Merlot, and a good Chardonnay, but I ended up buying a couple of bottles of the Sangiovese. Wellington's had nothing very special. The Merlot tasted like ribena, and the Chardonnay like apple juice. Fruit is one thing, but you can take it too far. They gave me a free bottle of the the Merlot for knowing Mormons are not allowed to drink Caffeine, though. Those weeks in Utah had to be good for something. Chateau St Jean had Spanish style chateau gardens that were most relaxing, and a similarly attractive group of girls hanging around, but the tasting room smelled of floor cleaner and the tasting menu did not look very interesting, so we did not bother with the wine.

There's a clear business model to the larger winery tasting rooms, described by my cynical friend as "get them drunk, then sell them overpriced wine and crap". The wine is indeed a tad on the expensive side, although no worse than you would buy the same stuff for in the City, but it is certainly true that the shops that accompany most of the tasting rooms are full of tat.

Kaz was a little different. They're a small winery that does small runs, and has its tasting room in a barn. The people attending to the tasting room are, in fact, the owners, Mr and Mrs Kaz(imir) themselves. There's no tat for sale (although there is mustard) and the tasting fee is only two bucks. The wine is thoroughly decent too. I bought bottles of the Cabernet Merlot and the Pinot Noir (which I plan to mix together to confuse gullible Sideways fans), although I was tempted by a couple of others.

On the journey back, I gave in and put the roof on the car. It would have been distinctly freezing by the time we passed through the City at 7pm.

What I Did With My Car Allowance

For the first three months I was here, I was driving around in a Chevrolet Classic. Or a Chevy Boring, as it should be known. Its not as underpowered as a Cavalier, and therefore does not make that entertaining screeching noise of an automatic gearbox trying to make up for what the engine lacks. But it is dull. Very dull. I wanted a car that was fun. And I wanted four wheel drive. Because its nice to know you can climb a 20 degree muddy slope if you need to, and because it means you don't need snow chains.

Our CFO had previously shown a marked reluctance to pay for a new car for me, apparently preferring to leave me with the Chevy Boring. I solved this problem by showing him the receipts for the rental car insurace. After he had recovered, he agreed to give me a car allowance. I spent it on this:

That is a 1997 (TJ) Jeep Wrangler SE. Only the 2.5L model. Wanting a convertible with four wheel drive leaves you with a distinct lack of options in today's car market, and anyway, I always thought Daisy Duke's Jeep was cooler than the General Lee.

See what I mean? Okay, that was gratuitous, but that really is the best picture of the car on the web. Its a choice between a plastic model, or having most of the photo occupied by Jessica Simpson, or by Catherine Bach. I know which one I'm choosing. And look at it this way, aren't you grateful I didn't buy a Hummer?

Hnnnggh ?!

Having been recently reminded our illustrious host that I have one of these weblog thingies, and persuaded to clean up the many thousands of comment and trackback spams infesting its pages, it occurred to me that I have not posted anything for quite some time. Two months, in fact. Not quite a record, but still a substantial hiatus.

When I restarted this blog back in April, it seemed that being a newly-arrived Brit in California would provide plently of material. It has in fact provided quite a bit of material, but I've been enjoying myself and never got around to posting any of it. In short, I've been trying to get a life, with a bit more success than I've usually managed in the past. Right now, things are a little quieter, for reasons I may get around to commenting on, and I may get around to posting a few entries describing what I've been up to. Or I may not ...

If you're too impatient to wait, or in doubt of my good intentions (and who could blame you ?) I've met several British guys since I got here, and they have several experiences in common:

1. Buying a convertible car. There is, after all, some point in owning one here. Not so much in England.

2. Losing weight. This one is rather a mystery. There is, after all, no shortage of food in California, and much of it is bad for you. My theory is that exercise is more pleasant when it isn't raining.

3. [censored] What? I have to keep you in suspense about something, don't I?

Jet Set

My apologies to anyone who actually reads this for the recent lack of posts. I recently made my first return trip to the UK since moving to California. Due to a choice of bed and breakfast that had no advantages whatsover I was without internet connectivity, except from work, for the duration.

Its my intention to make return trips every six weeks or so to soak up the collective wisdom of the R&D team. On this occasion there was an ulterior motive. My sister had long planned to return from her own exile in New Zealand to vist my brother and I in Cambridge, and my parents showed up as well. Of course, not only have I left the country, but my brother has decided that Cambridge was a mistake and decided to take a year off. The irony of coming from, repsectively, half way, a quater way and a very small part of the way around the world to meet up in a place where none of us actually lives any more was not lost.

Having got back on Monday, I'm still somewhat out of sink with local time. The flight itself and the routine that goes with it has become like commuting, albeit now reverse commuting, but the jet lag is still a killer. I'm experimenting with melatonin tablets. They do help me stay asleep somewhat, but they don't seem to have much effect on my body clock as a whole. The only thing that seems to thoroughly reset that is getting drunk.

Which reminds me of the family part of my trip to the UK. It happened to coincide with the Cambridge beer festival, an annual event sponsored by the beard and sandals brigade at CAMRA, but very enjoyable nonetheless. My brother and spent a very happy evening there sampling the bizarrely named merchandise. Unfotunately we failed to persuade our sister's new(ish) boyfriend to join us. My brother seems on vastly better form that last time I met him. It seems Cambridge just did not agree with him. In fact, for once, the whole family seemed in pretty good shape. Dad is facing a tricky career decision, but a positive one, fortunately.

My apartment here is California is nearly sorted out. The belongings I shipped from the UK are meant to finally escape from Los Angeles airport tomorrow morning, so I should soon have my pictures on the walls and some books to fill my Ikea bookcase (note only one bookcase - most of my books are still in my parent's garage). I just need some patio furniture and a fruit bowl and I should be all set. This result will have nothing on Mark's efforts or even on my own humble flat in the UK (which took a hell of a lot longer than a month to decorate), but it'll be habitable.

Mythconceptions

The British and Americans share a set of stereotypes about one another, in a way possibly only rivalled by the British and French. The British are supposed to be polite, cultured, snobbish, old, and surrounded by history. Americans are supposed to be yong, rough, direct, demotic, and unaware of the past.

There's probably an element of truth to that, but considering the extent to which these preconceptions are shared, its remarkable how wrong they are. Consider the matter of politeness. One of the pleasantest things about the USA is the habit of routinely greeting strangers with a "hello", "how are you ?", or at least with a smile. In Britain two hikers, 25 miles from the nearest other person can pass one another on a goat track in the pouring rain and not even make eye contact. Smile and say "Hi" to someone in an office carpark or the supermarket and they'll look at you as if you are insane.

Then there's modes of address. In Britain, the standard way for store staff to greet customers is with a grunt, or the word "yup", or if you're lucky maybe "how can I help you ?". In the USA, staff almost invariably call customers "sir". That does not seem to be a sign of the gentlemans-club obsequiousness that you would get in very smart British establishments, since strangers who need to address one another generally seem to be begin by saying "excuse me, sir" as well. If someone address you as "sir" in London, there are only four possibilities: you are being ripped off for a large sum of money, you are in a very pukkah establishment, you are a knight of the realm, or they're taking the piss.

So where does this idea that the British are polite come from ? Well, the British are certainly diffident. We're prepared to wait, to pass the initiative to the other person, to complain in private after the event. These are not normally American characteristics, and they do comprise a kind of politeness. A willingness, however grudging, to set one's personal desires aside. I don't think I'm being unfair to say that Americans do not normally practise that virtue, or even see it as one. Americans, however, are courteous to one another in a way that Brits generally are not, except in extremely formal situations. Its hard to overstate how much pleasanter that makes everyday life here.

Along with American courtesy goes a kind of general helpfulness. The amount of free stuff, and the number of offers of lifts and assistance in moving that I've received since getting here is extraordinary. Another side of that is a sort of civic-mindedness one rarely sees in the UK. I'd hate to try dropping litter in downtown Mountain View or Los Gatos. I remember being astonished in downtown San Jose, as a colleague and I ate a late dinner, to see the results of a minor parking collision. In the UK, it would not be terribly surprising to see the driver just pull away and drive off, and for the passers by to ignore it. There, not only did the driver get out and start asking after the owner of the other vehicle, but various pedestrians stopped and offered assistance.

Of course, the other side of that civic-mindedness is interfering busy-bodyness. From the advice I've received so far I could compose a short pamphlet entitled "How to Find a Girlfriend in California". I doubt it would be much use to anyone, but my colleagues could distribute it on street corners, to save themselves the trouble of reciting it every so often. I recently heard another English immigrant to the USA point out that you could travel by tube from Kings Cross to Liverpool Street, one of the busiest train journeys in London, with a large ink stain on your face (he had actually tried this) and not receive so much as an odd look. It would be rude, you see, to comment. Here, if you walk in the exit door of a supermarket by accident, three people will tell you about before you've so much as found a basket.

As for age. Well, Americans do tend to be younger than Europeans, because they still have remarkably generous attitudes towards immigrants. But the United Kingdom was founded in 1706 by the Act of Union between the Scottish and English parliaments. The United States was founded by its constitution, which became effective in 1789. Since both countries are well over two hundred years old, two of the oldest polities in the world, in fact, I don't think 83 years makes much of a difference.

Sun Burn

Its not exactly a well-kept secret that part of my reason for moving out here was the proximity of Lake Tahoe and its associated ski resorts. What with the visa process, apartment-hunting, shopping at Ikea, and the Bank of America's apparent conviction that I'm a convicted felon whose cheques must be inspected in minutest detail before being paid, I have not had the chance to get up there since moving here. Until this weekend.

On Friday, after a rather depressing experience in trying to wrap my head around the available health insurance policies, and my colleagues' view that none of them was going to pay for any treatment you'd want anyway, I was sufficiently drained I jumped into the car and drove for four hours, in the hope of being able to fall down some mountains for a day or two.

Of course, since most of my worldy goods. including all of my ski equipment, are still struggling to escape from my parent's garage, I was not exactly well equipped, and ended up skiing for a day without any waterproof trousers, gloves, eye protection, or, most critically, sunscreen, and in rental boots to boot. As a result, I have a blister on my left thumb, where I was apparently gripping my pole rather tightly, a friction burn on my left shin from one of my boots, and rather painfully sunburned eyelids. If I thought there was any point, I'd go to a doctor.

It was a fine day skiing, though. Warm and sunny, and plenty of snow left on the mountain. Squaw Valley had the Siberia, Shirley's Lake and Granite Chief lifts running, providing a fair bit of skiable terrain, including pretty steep runs down Siberia and Headwall, and down the back side of Granite Chief. I'm sure he didn't mind.

I am not a number, I am a ... oh

Today I finally got someone to tell me my social security number. Is it wrong that this seems like an achievement ?

The degree of bureaucracy in the US has definitely increased since last time I worked here. It used to be possible to apply for a visa by post, and for your SSN at the same time, and the social security people would give you your number over the phone. Now everything has to be done at the office, in person, with photographic identification.

Anyway, the sternest woman in the USA was not there today. Possily gone off to become a dominatrix. Definitely the career natured intended for her. I also only had to wait for half an hour, and, possibly as a consequence, did not break anything while waiting.

Election ? What Election ?

Its quite possible the upcoming British general election on Mya 5th will be the first one since I turned 18 that I have not voted in. I am entited to a postal vote, for which I have applied, but which has so far failed to show up. As ever, I was reluctantly planing to vote for the Liberal Democrats who will, as ever, come third. While their economic policy is basically nonsensical, and their policies on everything else are rank opportunism, they are the only party in partliament that has consistently stood for civil rights and against ignorant prejudice. For once, my vote would actually be cast in a marginal constituency that my chosen candidate might win, against a government minister, no less. Ah, well.

The Labour party will win this election just as it has the last two, although it will lose suburban seats to both the Tories and the Liberal Democrats, because of the war and the loss of trust that has gone with it, and because of a vague sense they are becoming complacent and corrupt.

In spite of my preference for the Liberal Democrats, it is similarly inevitable that when Labour finally is defeated, the Tories will form the succeeding government. For this election, though, they seem content to shore up their reputation as the Nasty Party, by bashing gypsies (of whom Britain has almost none - the people they are having a go at are mostly Irish, and there aren't many of them either), immigrants (who make up less than 10% of the population), refugees (who you might think have enough problems without being made into a political issue), and the European Union (to which the French are about to strike a serious blow, saving the British the trouble). That and their sinister slogan, "Are You Thinking What We're Thinking ?", seem designed to appeal to their core supporters: people who read the Daily Mail, a habit that tends to misinform and frighten those who engage in it.

Really, I cannot bring myself to care much about my missing postal vote. The overall result is a foregone conclusion, and it all seems a very long way away. If Ann Campbell is returned with a margin of one vote, I might be slightly irritated,

The Pile

Since my trip to IKEA last weekend, I have been steadily unpacking and assembling my new belongings, and nipping out to acquire more. It is remarkable how many unremarked items you need to make a place habitable, and how few of them I thought to bring with me. Some of them seem difficult to find here. Decent electric kettles seem in especially short supply, although I have found a plastic one that will do.

I now have a gargantuan pile of packaging material in my living room. Its doing quite a good job of filling the space I do not yet possess the furniture to fill. I have some bossy instructions from the apartment complex telling me how to dispose of it, but I am considering keeping it, calling it an abstract sculpture and giving it a name. Boris, perhaps.