Wherein I whine about how difficult everything is...

When we moved to the UK, there was a lot to learn quickly. The insane tax system, with its mysterious income tax (you don't get the breakdown on your paycheck to know what money goes where), council tax (like a property tax, even though we only rent), the TV tax (which was significantly more if you dared have a color television), and the 17% VAT tax (that's a sales tax), was the first labyrinth we navigated.
     
The next obstacle was driving. It turns out that you can drive on a US license in the UK for 12 months, at which point you need to obtain a UK license. And there's no shortcut - you have to get the permit ('provisional license'), take the written theory exam, a 'hazard perception test' where you identify potential hazards in a series of 30-second video clips of driving, and the practical exam.
      
This wouldn't have seemed so daunting if not for a few things: my (admittedly minor) car accident one-hour into driving in the UK, a truly disastrous driving hour with an instructor recommended by a colleague at work (he picked apart everything I did - when I shifted, when I depressed the clutch, where my hands were on the wheel - to the point where I was literally afraid to do ANYTHING and doubted whether I had been fit to drive for the previous 9 years; it may not have helped that he had an inpenetrable Scouse accent and I had been in the country for about 4 days at that point), and the awful stories from everyone I met when I brought up the driving exam. I am not kidding - literally every person I told shuddered at the memory of their exams, told me they didn't think they could pass now, that they'd only gotten harder since. I met two people (2!) who told me they had passed their first time - everyone else told me it had taken them three, four, even seven times to pass the exam. A colleague who had grown up in the UK and travelled to the US to work for my company and had to get a US license called to tell me how much more difficult it was to pass the UK exam.
       
All this basically resulted in me relying on my favorite fallback option: procrastination. I elected to NOT think about it for as long as I could.
     
Each month, my boss would worriedly call me into my office and ask me about my progress. I would promise, each time, that I would make a more concerted effort to do something and then push the idea as far from my mind as I could.
      
I should add here that at this point, I had bought my own car with great difficulty - I have no UK credit, so obtaining financing was awful. I was denied seven times at a number of dealerships, until work was able to find a Ford dealership who offered me 18 percent financing over a term that lasted as long as my contract, no more. With the restrictions placed by work on the minimum model I could buy (a Ford Focus or larger, diesel, 2 liter engine), and what they had in stock, I was looking at my choice of 2 £6,500 cars. They were both 2005 models, which meant that I would be spending as much on my car here (without including financing) as I spent on my BRAND NEW 2005 Hyundai when I graduated college. But I'd be paying over 3x more per month for it, and it would have over 50,000 miles when I started. For those of you doing the quick math, that was over £300/month, or almost $500 USD/month I'd be paying for my used Ford Focus.
        
And that doesn't even BEGIN to address the difficulty I had obtaining car insurance. People literally laughed at me when I called for quotes, and when I could get a number from them it was generally between £5,000 and £6,000/year, or even higher. I eventually found a bare-bones plan from the Post Office that would take into account my US license, and my 3 years evidence of having made no claims on my policies, and offered me a quote of £2300/year. For those of you doing the conversion in your head, that meant I was paying over $3600 USD per year for my insurance. The last policy I'd paid for in the US was from Progressive, fully comprehensive, and cost me $400 USD.
       
But what could I do? I needed to drive for work, so I sucked it up as best I could and paid. All the while my boss harangued me about getting my UK license, he kept telling me how much cheaper it would be to insure myself. And that made sense, given my experience trying to get insurance on my US license, right?
      
Let's fast-forward. After passing my written exam and hazard perception test, I did a driving hour with someone recommended by a fellow dog-owner from the park. This experience was markedly different from my last, as he told me I was great and just needed to make the appointment and we'd practice some of the manouvers.
      
I made the appointment, but the soonest I could get was two months away, the day after we would be returning from the US for a friend's wedding. I was nervous, but before I left did a few more hours and I could feel my confidence improving.
           
I showed up for the exam and it was fine. It took almost 45 minutes from start to finish, but I answered the instructor's questions and made myself relax as we drove around town, parallel parking (they call it 'reverse parking' here) three-point turning, pulling over and doing my best to obey speed limits. I was pretty relieved I didn't have to reverse around a corner or backing into a parking place (though I had practiced them to death and was pretty sure I'd have been ok). When we returned to the test center, my instructor turned to me and smiled - she said it had been flawless, no marks, and I had passed the test. (Sidenote: you're allowed 15 minor infractions, like not checking your mirrors enough, doing things in an incorrect order, crossing your hands on the wheel, etc; but if you didn't check your mirror and there had been a car there, or you hit the curb, or continued with a manouver and there was a pedestrian anywhere nearby, etc, you would immediately fail)
         
I did a little dance in the parking lot, proudly showed my instructor and brought my test sheet into the office to show off. All day, I felt great, like a giant weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I got home, took the dog for a walk and gloated to all our dog walking friends about my success. They all encouraged me to call my insurance company when I got home, and that's just what I did.
              
That's where, if this were a movie, you'd hear the soundtrack stop and with stunning clarity you would hear the voice on the phone telling me that with my updated information, the computer model saw only that I was a brand new UK driver, without taking into account my years experience driving in the US, but apparently still taking into account my age and no claims (3 years, remember) from the US. And now my annual premium was £5036, which meant that the outstanding balance I had (to cover my insurance from January 26 to March 26) was £411.
               
I'm not going to lie, there were tears. I spoke to their manager, and their manager above them. I was informed that I could cancel the policy, but then I would be uninsured - and it was already 8pm, too late to call many companies to get a quote for a new policy. Additionally, by not finishing my year with a single company, I would lose any ability to claim the last year I was in the UK as a one year UK no claims bonus. I had a business trip the next morning, and didn't know what to do. I called my boss in Dubai and woke him up (it was midnight there) but he had no better ideas.
                   
I was shocked, left without a choice, and subsequently made £411 poorer.


I'm still trying to figure out what to do next... 
                  
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On a lighter note, Miller is sporting some new head gear. We picked him up from the farm in Wales after travelling back from the US. As usual, he smelled awful but was bounding around as if he owned the place. We took him home, gave him a bath, and settled in.
                   
A few nights later, we noticed he was scratching and biting a spot on his back where we'd noticed a bump before. The vet at the time had thought it was an ingrown hair and would go away, but now as we felt it we could feel it was raised much more and could feel other bumps nearby.
                        
I took him to the vet Friday afternoon and she shaved off some fur to get a better look. The poor pup had so many bug bites! She suspected that it was an insect/flea from the farm, and said our monthly Frontline treatments might not deter all the different fleas. So Miller got a steroid shot, a fancy skin soothing shampoo, and a cone of shame.
                             

             
The vet said he would get better about walking around it in, but as far as the furniture, stairs, and the backs of our legs are concerned, we haven't seen any improvement. 

July in Ireland

Mark joined me at the tail-end of a whirlwind business trip in Ireland(to be honest, there’s really never any other kind) to spend the first weekend in July in Cork and Co. Kerry.

Mark arrived on Thursday night, and I was pretty wired about an important sales presentation the next day. That meant a pretty mellow evening, but we still stumbled upon a great bar, Pavilion. It’s an old art-deco movie theatre, and the upstairs features dancing and live acts while the downstairs boasts a long bar, cool lights, and plenty of seating on the sidewalk outside. We enjoyed a pint or two of the local brew, Murphy’s (amazing, it was introduced to me by Char in Montreal as the best way to close out a cinq à sept) while waiting for a table to open up across the alley, at a little Mexican restaurant. The food (and company) was great, although we could have done without the play-by-play of the golf games of our nearest neighbors, an irritating foursome of US tourists.

The next day I went to visit a few customers while Mark worked from our not-so-great hotel room, until noon when he walked diagonally across the block to our mega-sweet-hotel room. We scored an awesome room with a last-minute booking on Expedia; the view was amazing, with a balcony overlooking the River Lee and much of the town, and only a few blocks away from High Street (the city center).

(On my way to the hotel, I swung by the airport and picked up our rental car. Normally, I would not bore you with these details, except: I got a Fiat. And some of you may be thinking - what do we have coming with the Chrysler buyout – and all I have to say is that I loved the Fiat Punto. It’s awesome, it’s little, it handled really well and I just loved it. Mark made fun of me for it, but I literally did a little dance every time we walked up to it in the parking garage.)

Friday night we had a few pints with my colleague Matt, who had a late flight back to Liverpool and thus got a chance to hang out with us and make us feel less anti-social. We spent some time in the sun outside Pavilion before grabbing some truly mediocre eats at an Italian restaurant nearby.

After we’d walked Matt back to the hotel to pick up his stuff and get a cab to the airport, we walked across the River Lee to another hopping area of Cork – this time, to find a bar we’d read about in a recent 36 Hours In… travel piece with in the Times. Unfortunately, we took a slight detour into a truly authentic old man bar. What is it with you and old man bars, Mark?

We don't have photos (Mark wouldn't let me) but there was two guys at the end of the bar, surrounded by a five foot wall of farts. They were incredibly drunk, but the reason they drew us in, the reason we politely ignored the aroma and initially didn’t notice the drool – were their hand puppets. One resembled a fox in a three piece suit, the other was a badger in similar attire, and they were both waving up in the air, singing Irish songs, and taking swigs of their own beer (resulting in some very wet sleeves). Amazing.

Anyway, we finished our beers rather quickly and headed down the street to the real attraction, Sin E. This pub used to be a barber shop, and still has barber chairs sprinkled about the place. It was full of people and had a great atmosphere from the moment we walked in. Mark grabbed a few pints, and we grabbed a few stools by the wall. We were seated right next to a corner table packed with a mixture of young and old fiddlers, flutists, drummers, and guitarists. We got comfortable and enjoyed the Irish music, played jam/jazz style, for a few more pints (and would have stayed longer, if only my head wasn’t drooping closer and closer to the bar).

The next morning we had a quick breakfast and got in the car for a trip to Killarney, in County Kerry. The family of Colin O’Sullivan, one of Mark’s friends from Japan, still lived in Killarney and Mark had met them years before, so we decided to take a drive. It took a few hours, but the countryside was beautiful and we got to have an quick visit with the O’Sullivans, which was great:

While we chatted with Colin’s family, I mentioned that my family was from the area, and they asked my surname. I was surprised to find out that Colin’s mom was a Brosnahan before she got married – and said, ‘wow, you’re like, family!’ The awkward silence that followed ensured that I stopped bringing up the whole family thing for the rest of the trip (really, how many Irish Americans do that? Cringe.).

We had a pub lunch before getting back in the car and heading toward Cork – and Mark was happy to find that we would make it in time for a visit to the Jameson distillery, in Midleton just outside the city.

It was actually really interesting, and we had a great time (but I could have done without the gazillion references to the ‘Jameson Experience,’ which was a bit cheesy). At the end, Mark volunteered to taste a variety of whiskeys and became a certified Irish whiskey taster! Seriously, we have the diploma and everything, so feel free to send all whiskey-related queries his way. It’s practically a PhD.

By the time we made it back to the hotel, we were both pretty tired but were trying to rally each other. But a 6-pack of Tuborg and two trays of sushi later, we were laid out on the bed flipping TV channels until we passed out. Only three cans into the six pack.

The next morning, we packed up our things and decided to go on one more road trip – to the end of the scenic drive along the southeast coast of Ireland. We basically headed toward Waterford (making it as far as Dungarvan) before ducking down a tiny road and following the farm roads back along the coast. I saw a bit of this on my last trip and was eager to show Mark, but I have to say that the view was way better at high tide.

All in all, we had an amazing time. I think we both had visions of moving to Ireland as we sat in the airport that Sunday, and we hope to head back soon.

Maydays, Maydays, Maydays

It’s been a crazy few weeks, and I’ve owed an update to the blog for some time now. Since Mark’s last post, we’ve welcomed the other Yates brother to Liverpool, explored Manchester through the lens of 80s post-punk bands Joy Division, New Order, the Happy Mondays, and others, celebrated a birthday (Mark’s thirty-third) and I’ve visited Finland, among other marathon business trips, for work. After all that, I was left holding down the fort in Liverpool with Miller while Mark headed home for some much-deserved R&R and time with friends. I kept meaning to post while he was gone, but we got some long-awaited sunshine and warm weather, and I found myself restless in the house and every time I opened the laptop, I would shut it again to grab Miller’s leash and head outside.

First things first: besides the Factory Records tour in Manchester, we also showed Bill some of the local sights here in Liverpool, including another visit to Crosby Beach. I think we can all agree that we don’t need to take anymore people here. Plus, it just seems to get sadder and bleaker with every visit (see previous references to British litter). 

But his trip was quick, and before we knew it we had dropped Bill off at the airport. That night, I took Mark out for a great meal at 60 Hope Street, our new favourite restaurant in the city, as part of a belated birthday celebration. Then, it was off for a few nights visiting customers down south and then back to Liverpool to catch a flight to Helsinki.

I had been really excited for my Finland trip, but I can’t say that it was particularly memorable. I hadn’t mentally prepared myself to spend over nine hours a day in a trade show booth, and our hotel location (abutting the airport, a €30 taxi ride from the city) didn’t lend itself much to exploring. Nevertheless, we managed to see a bit of downtown and enjoyed the crazy daylight hours (the sun didn’t set til after 11pm each night) while walking the cobblestone streets of Senate Square. I also managed to convince my colleagues to spend our final evening having dinner in this gem of a restaurant, and I highly recommend you take some time to explore the website and the dinner menu. I had the sautéed reindeer, which was… interesting. Glad I tried it, but don’t know if I will be having it again any time soon.

My arrival home was bittersweet, as I only had two nights with Mark before he departed on his own trip. I dropped him off at the airport at 445AM, bleary-eyed and with a confused Miller in the back, and couldn’t help but feel jealous.

That weekend, to stave off depressing homesickness and loneliness, I took Miller for a long early morning walk (we’ve got some friends along the route, now) and returned home to find 20 roses on our doorstep; a seven-year anniversary gift from Mark.

I cleaned up the flowers and then headed in to the farmer’s market. There was fresh rhubarb and tiny strawberries, asparagus, lettuce, and all sort of other gems. I found myself filling my bag with all sorts of vegetables, fresh bread (though, to be honest - £2 for a loaf of bread is just stupid), and some spicy North African merguez sausage, pushed into my hands by a very vocal butcher armed with a knife the size of my thigh. I couldn’t say no.

The streets were also full of photographers, armed with digital SLRs and patrolling our little street and the Lark Lane market. I did a little sleuthing online and discovered this flickr photo set and thought I would share. The shots of the street full of plantings and flowers is our street, and the guy with the crazy hair is our kayaking neighbour. I think his name is Steve, and he literally kayaks almost every day - though I’m not sure where. All the flowers are grown and taken care of by another neighbor, Brian, who is also helping me plant some flowers in our backyard.

The rest of the weekend was spent doing errands, cleaning, long walks with the dog, cooking some more and trying desperately not to eat all the strawberry rhubarb crumble immediately. I succeeded, but only kind of. (I saved a bite for Monday morning, just so I could say it lasted three days).  

And, actually, the rest of the week was sort of more of the same.

I have to confess, another reason I haven’t posted is because I’ve been fighting a sort of, not really, but kind of can’t ignore maybe-depression. Chalk it up to homesickness, belated adjustment to a new home, or a combination of other things (and those of you we’ve been speaking to know what I’m talking about), I’ve just been finding it more and more difficult to ignore.  I am trying to stay focused on the positive, though, and am looking forward to my own trip home as a way to recharge.

So, come to think of it, I’d better head to bed. My 4AM wake-up is only five hours away...

Spring is springing

So I've been informed by not one, but several people in my family that I'm slacking on the blog. I apologize, and submit the following post as part of my apology:

Mark and I had a great time with Jeremy - Mark's older brother came for a few days this past week on his way to Switzerland - but I'm going to let Mark blog about that. More pressing is the fact that spring has sprung in Liverpool! Crocuses have popped out along Lark Lane and throughout Sefton Park, and we have daffodils straining to bloom out of their buds in our backyard/patio.

Awesome. But let me back up:

We spent Saturday doing laundry at the laundromat (ugh - I thought I'd left that behind in college, but nay), cleaning, getting cable installed, and getting library cards at our local library. It's tiny, so I wasn't expecting much - but it was breathtaking inside. I see myself spending many summer mornings coming in, picking out a book, then taking Miller down to the park to read and watch him run around and make friends. 

The library looks like a small Tudor cottage from Aigburth Road, the closest main road to our little neighborhood. It has a small lawn and an unassuming plot - but inside are original windows facing toward Sefton Park, high ceilings and a narrow balcony circling the main room. The interior itself was completely refurbished a few years ago, but it's endured a lot in the past several decades. There's a photo display as you enter - black and white photos of patrons standing knee-deep in rubble as they wait to check out their books, and a gaping hole in the roof of the main room of the library, devastated by German bombs in WWII. 

Now it's populated by gregarious older ladies proud to show off their state-of-the-art computer systems (I get to scan the books myself! And it doesn't even need to see the bar code!) and their collection - impressive, considering the library's small size. Absolutely adorable. I will post pictures next time we visit.

We also drove up to Bootle, on the north side of Liverpool, to finalize my plans to purchase a new (used) car. I've been driving a hired Ford Focus, but the hire was coming to an end and I needed to suck it up and go to a few dealerships. For those of you on the opposite end of teary phone calls and exasperated shouts (and possibly whines) during my last car purchasing adventure, then you know what Mark's been putting up with. I hate buying cars. 

Let me make that clear: I loathe buying cars. 

I like to know what I am talking about, I like to be an educated consumer, I like to look at a price tag and know immediately whether I'll take it or not.

I do not like walking into a dealership to be accosted by salesmen. Particularly salesmen who act and speak exactly as you expect salesmen to speak. I do not like trying to read up on cars and then looking at cars and realizing I am still at a complete loss. I do not like being pressured to make decisions. I do not like negotiating (my recent course notwithstanding) and I do not like it when I tell a salesman frankly what I am looking for and what I am willing to spend to have it promptly ignored.

Whew. Now that all that's out of my system: I have bought a used 2006 Ford Focus. Paperwork still to be finalized - but it looks like I will pick it up on March 2nd. This will be my first car to have six (six!) gears, reverse not included, and it is pretty snazzy looking, if I do say so myself. (Pics to come...)

Mark was an excellent fiance and accompanied my to this and many other car dealerships. I knew he'd rather be somewhere - anywhere - else (and who wouldn't?) but he sucked it up and came. Especially after I begged.

But secretly, let me admit something: even though I told him that I wanted him there for moral support, it was really that I just appreciate having him there. And this weekend, after everything had been finalized to the point that me going to the dealership was really just a formality and filling in paperwork, and it meant that he didn't go skateboarding in order to sip terrible coffee and pretend to make conversation with Peter across the desk, I didn't really need him there. But I still made him come.

I am not really adjusting to the whole sales/travel thing particularly well. I don't know if it's just that I've grown to depend on Mark like a crutch, or that we're really that disgustingly in love, but I hate leaving him. I hate leaving our home and our routines to spend nights away in an empty hotel room. I do little things to make it better: watch movies, take baths in extravagant bathrooms, read books late into the night... but the truth is, I'd rather be growing exasperated with his sighs and moans as I turn another page and keep the light on for a few more minutes than to roll over in bed and realize he isn't there.

(Well, in truth, some giant extravagant bathtubs do make me feel a little bit better...)

I'm sorry if that just made you throw up a little inside your mouth, but it's the truth. And all this weekend I was dreading going to the airport. Dreading packing, dreading all the time to myself. Because even though I'm lucky enough to meet lots of nice, interesting people when I travel, sales is pretty lonely.

The airport was everything I dreaded, but I arrived in Cork to sunshine and a beautiful spring day. Crocuses and even some daffodils bobbed along the side of the road as I made my way out of the airport and toward Carrigaline. I passed rolling hills patched like eathen quilts - shades of green and gold edged by hedge rows, and ancient stone walls, and the remains of castles and churches, overgrown by ivy in some cases, lovingly tended in others.

And I perked right up. I still missed Mark, but I started to enjoy the adventure a bit.

Ireland

I have been quietly but hugely excited to come to Ireland. I've been dreaming of coming for years, from back at McGill and years earlier - but Monday morning I found myself seated on a plane, albeit an hour later than planned, ready to hurry up and get there already.

Monday morning Mark and I awoke to several inches of fluffy snow coating the cars and the streets of Liverpool. It was still dark as we made our way to the car, and it seemed our neighborhood hadn't yet woken up. It was the perfect way to enjoy a rare occurrence of snow in northwest England, and we squeezed each others hands as we quietly made our way to Manchester for my flight.

Upon my arrival in Ireland, however, a flurry of different sorts awaited us. People were panicking on the television, the terminal, and the car hire. People were panicking on our visits, leaving early or not coming to work at all. People were... clearly using the snow as an excuse to call in to work, since though we saw alot of snow in the air, not too much stuck to the ground. Here's a terrible webcam of the snow outside my window in Dublin (you should normally be able to see the harbor outside): 

Scratch that, uploading the damn thing was more trouble than it was worth.

The past few days have been a flurry of activity and I'm learning a lot. Everyone here has been very friendly, even if I can't understand them (we were in Northern Ireland the other day and I met a guy with a Celtic accent, apparently, and I still have no idea what he said. I did try to laugh when he smiled, but that's all I could do). The only downside thus far was a five hour traffic snarlup that Matt and I found ourselves in last night, trying to get back through Dublin and out to Tullamore in the midst of rush hour traffic and the snow... It's hard to believe we only travelled 60 miles from 4pm until 9...

Tonight we're in Clonmel, and I've returned to my hotel room from a few pints of Guinness in front of the Liverpool VS Everton FA match. To those of you not in the loop of English competitive football, these two teams are ranked 2nd and 4th (?) and have already played once to a 1-1 draw. We're now in extra time and it's still 0-0, but they'll play until someone wins. Apparently the FA cup is one of several that football teams compete for here, and it's supposed to crown the best team in the UK Premier league. I think. Liverpool is chock full of Irish that never made it across the Atlantic, so they're one of the most popular teams over here - meaning we weren't the only ones interested in the Liverpool match at the hotel bar.

The best part of the evening (besides being hit on by an 80 year old from County Kerry named Willie - apparently I just need to head down there and tell everyone that I know Willie, since he once ran for office on the slogan 'don't be a sillie, vote for Willie' so they'll know who I'm talking about) was listening to two dozen older men from County Kerry (one of them a Brosnan or Brosnahan!) converge on the hotel bar, drink several pints, and launch into song after song. It seemed like I was stuck in a Maeve Binchy movie, and apparently all the old guys do it, but it was a lovely way to meet these characters, and even though it was corny I loved every minute of it. I'm looking forward to coming back.

Now back to my chips and gravy, and then a well-deserved sleep. I miss you all.

Arrival

Welcome to our new blog! Our hope is that this serves as a spot for friends and family to stay updated on our adventures and also a travel journal for us.

(Quick aside: The blog title is a reference to our minor adventure discovering the Brits' unabashed love for mayonnaise. It's inescapable. It's gross. It's pretty much the worst.)

I've been informed that I need to write the first entry, since I was the first to arrive some fifteen days ago. We're still without internet at home, so these first few posts may be a bit erratic, but we'll try to be better about updating the site once we're able to work from home.

I arrived early one Sunday morning and was picked up at the airport by Joyce, my new HR manager, and an absolute godsend these past few weeks. I'm afraid I didn't make much conversation, but arrived at the apartment and collapsed for several hours in bed. I woke up in the early afternoon and tried to venture out in the neighborhood, but everything in walking distance appeared to be shut down and the one open store wouldn't take my credit card (the British seem really fearful of "fraud" and all their cards are microchipped, which has made using our American cards a bit hit or miss, particularly in smaller local shops). I wandered back to the apartment as night fell (ahem, at 4 o'clock in the afternoon) and made some tea before unpacking a bit and falling asleep. There was no TV/internet at home, so I read a 1000 page book that Sunday, too, and then knitted myself to sleep the rest of the week (until pilfering a laptop and some DVDs from work).

My first week at work was pretty uneventful, except for the fun of convincing the local HSBC branch that I only wanted to open a checking account (and not launder money)... what else... Oh, yeah, in the first hour of having access to a car here, I knocked the passenger side view mirror off. In front of my boss. Awesome. Definite confidence-booster.

You'd think the problem would be staying on the left-hand side of the road, but the issue is really drifting left (since you're used to centering yourself in the lane from the left-hand side of the car). The "accident," if you would even call it that, was really so minor, but it definitely startled me a bit. The following night, my satellite navigation crashed mid-route home, but I was proudly able to get myself home.

And that's pretty it, for my first week or so in Liverpool, until Mark arrived! I was missing him so much, and we had some fun activities planned for that first day...