No matter how much I loved a country, I wouldn’t stay without my family. I honestly think you can be happy anywhere if you have your family with you.
Then again, I don’t know what their life in the Philippines was like…
Moving back to the US after living abroad
No matter how much I loved a country, I wouldn’t stay without my family. I honestly think you can be happy anywhere if you have your family with you.
Then again, I don’t know what their life in the Philippines was like…

Our son’s first birthday is coming up, so we’re planning a party. We’ve thrown together several of these by this stage, so hosting won’t be the challenge — finding the guests will.
We have several acquaintances in Atlanta, but few friends. Throw in the fact that several guests usually bail on the day, because of illness, nap overruns, etc, and we might be faced with a small crowd.
When our son is old enough to understand these things, he might ask why there aren’t many other babies clustered around him when he blows out his candles (or attempts to, anyway). Especially if he sees photos of his sister’s first birthday bash.

In London, we were close friends with a couple who owned several pubs. My friend convinced her husband to use an upstairs room at one of them to host a rocking first birthday party for their son and our daughter.
My American friends were appalled when they heard that we were having her party in “a bar.” Of course, there isn’t an exact translation of the British pub concept into American culture.
In London, families take their kids to lunch at their local pubs on weekends. They might even bring their dog. Pubs are more like casual restaurants than bars.
Still, even other Londoners were surprised by the feat. We crammed 20 kids, 30 adults, three inflatable structures, 200 plastic balls, a balloon machine and a very cooperative kids’ entertainer into a 40 person capacity room.

It probably wouldn’t have occurred to us to turn that room (usually rented out for 30th birthday parties, wedding receptions, and the like) into a party room for the under one-set if we had had space to host a party at home.
Neither we, nor the co-host, had a yard, or a room big enough to fit all of the people we wanted to invite.
The irony is, now that we have the space (the yard, the big rooms, the works) we don’t know enough people to fill it (cue violins…).
Luckily, one-year-olds are oblivious to guest lists.

It was crowded, cold, and bordered on violent. The community Easter egg hunt we went to this morning was mobbed with little girls in pastel colored dresses, boys with well combed hair, and parents with every type of recording equipment you can imagine.
Of course, all the children carried elaborate Easter baskets, which were embroidered or painted with their names.
Our children had no baskets, because it didn’t occur to us to buy them. I had never been to an egg hunt on this scale before. In the UK, egg hunts seem to be held in parent’s back gardens. Ten or so eggs would be be “hidden” behind bushes, blades of grass, etc. So a basket really wasn’t necessary.
In the end, it worked out for the best that we didn’t have a basket today. The multitudes of plastic eggs scattered on the lawn of the Callanwolde Fine Arts Center were gone in minutes.
When they blew the whistle for the hunt to begin, the parents surged forward, kids in tow.
With their guardians’ help, each kid (and there were hundreds) packed away at least 20 eggs, thanks to the aggressive adult help, and their massive baskets.
Our daughter pocketed five. When we escaped the scrum of egg hunters, we realized that the plastic eggs contained shrink wrapped sugar disguised as candy — so it’s no bad thing that we forgot the basket.
It’s a great feeling to have the US admired again. After eight years of living out of the US, timed perfectly to coincide with the Bush presidency, I am proud to say I helped to vote Obama into office.
I do wonder sometimes whether Americans living abroad will confront angry questions from Europeans like I did about why the US is so aggressive in its foreign policy; the legality of holding prisoners in Guantánamo Bay; and why the World Series is called that when only the US partakes.
It’s fantastic to see a US First Lady on the cover of Vogue (and Oprah’s magazine! And Essence! And People!). And to see almost as much coverage of Michelle Obama’s visit to a London girls’ school as the world leaders’ G-20 summit. And it’s refreshing to see our new babysitter wearing an Obama t-shirt. I’ve never seen a pro-President t-shirt on any babysitter in any country before.
I was glad to see favorable, rather than sneering, media coverage of Obama’s trip to Europe. When Bush went abroad, European newspaper editors seemed to wait with glee for his gaffes.
And despite the highest unemployment rate in 25 years, the soaring rate of foreclosures, and the tumbling financial markets here, it’s good to know that the US is in the international headlines for the right reasons.
When I arrived in the UK back in 2001, I was sceptical of the NHS. I thought anything run by the government would be bureaucratic, sloppy and under resourced. And most Brits will have stories about long waits to see a specialist;
aging hospitals; lost blood specimens; etc.
But when I had a baby, I saw the compassionate side to the NHS. Whenever my daughter was sick, we got a same day appointment at the glossy and modern office down the street. A private pediatrician we occasionally saw in central London often couldn’t accommodate us (despite his 200 pound per 10 minute visit charge!). And any drugs our NHS doctor prescribed were free for babies, and for new mothers.
Still, I, and several ex-pat friends, gave birth in private hospitals. Hey, insurance paid for it. At the American owned Portland Hospital, we got our own rooms, a menu of gourmet meal offerings, and a minimum three night stay.
But if anything had gone wrong, we would have had to move to an NHS hospital — because that’s where the best emergency care was. Accessible to everyone, as it should be.
<a href=”“>My friend’s mom emailed me this link, so it has clearly permeated several layers of pop culture. My favorite part is when the 60 something woman joins in the line dancing in Liverpool Street Station.
Obviously, T-Mobile is behind it. But mass dancing would have been cool to witness. During my eight years in London, I saw many news reports about spontaneous eruptions of dance from crowds in train stations and other public places. But I never witnessed them myself.
Maybe it’s a trend I’ll have to start here. But I think it would be tough to get enough people to have the awe-inspiring effect.
It dawned on me during the Atlanta Marathon last month how much smaller our new city is than London. It was always tough to get a spot of ground to stand on during the London Marathon — rain or shine (usually rain). And despite the reasonably good weather here, we only saw two spectators on one spot along the Atlanta route.
I hope there were more at the finish.
I would say I was homesick, but the UK was only a temporary home. But I miss it still. Watching video of the G-20 protesters by the Houses of Parliament, overlooking the Thames, I got huge pangs for London.

When you leave a place like London, it’s easy to forget why you left: the lack of space, the traffic, the soaring prices…and remember just the fun parts: walking by Buckingham Palace on your way to a show in the West End; strolling along the river on a cool summer’s evening; catching a Shakespearean show at the Globe…

It’s also easy to romanticize the past when you’re facing an eviction from a landlord whose house is about to go into foreclosure. I had some nutty housing situations in London (sleeping on friends’ futons…. living in a tiny studio flat without a washing machine… sharing a three bedroom flat with five people who smoked…) but nothing like this.
But when you go to Holland Park on a sunny day, and the light just illuminates the trees. The sunshine rarely means oppressive heat — or even any heat. On those days when it’s not raining (few and far between, it’s true) it’s idyllic. You feel like you’re in a quaint English garden when you walk down the stairs through the manicured flower gardens.
And your kids are delighted by the wild peacocks who roam randomly through the park. They insist on going back again and again, to see the big blue birds.

And you wonder why you ever left.

I am surprised by the size and power of the protests in London today against the G-20 summit there.
There are thousands, railing loudly against government inaction on climate change, bankers’ hefty salaries and pensions, and various other political issues.
Whenever I think that the Brits can be apathetic, something like this happens. But then, the protesters seem to have come from all over. Either way, it is tough to be apathetic in a place like London, where world leaders gather, bankers get big salaries, and tabloids stoke ire by publishing the amount of those bankers’ salaries (I credit/blame them for enraging the mob that attacked the Royal Bank of Scotland’s offices. Its former chief executive got a massive payoff, despite presiding over a period of big losses for the now state-owned bank).