How choral music got me home

            Scientific studies have proven that singing in a choir is good for your health. But I can now prove it’s good for international security, too.

            Bear with me. I owe my re-entry into the United States of America to my choir membership. I’m not making this up.

            Picture it: London’s Heathrow Airport, Sunday, Aug. 21, at the hairy crack of dawn. Your intrepid traveler is joining the masses, hordes and throngs whose sole aim is to board an aircraft. Trust me: NOBODY is more eager to go home than I am. After 67 mostly cloudy, chilly days away from Charleston, I am itching to get back to my house and into the spiritual and literal warmth of the Lowcountry.

            Don’t get me wrong. I had some extraordinary experiences this trip. Unfortunately, “summer” and “comfortable accommodations” weren’t among them.

            So by the time I enter the controlled chaos of Heathrow, I’m on a mission and heaven help anybody who stands between me and that American Airlines jet.

            No lines at the automated check-in kiosk. Got my boarding pass in record time. Sweet. This is a breeze, I thought. Next stop: The baggage drop-off.

            My heart sinks when I see the line -- at least 75 bag-laden passengers ahead of me. OK, remain calm, I tell myself. I’ve got plenty of time. Relax. Try to ignore the pain in your legs and back.

            Whoever came up with this new “time-saving” check-in procedure at American Airlines is clearly insane. They might as well put up a sign that says “Fly Delta! We’ll get both you AND your luggage there hassle-free!”

            But anyway, after about 40 minutes (during which time the line swelled even more), I finally make it up to one of the handful of AA agents manning the baggage drop-off desk. We exchange pleasantries. I hold my breath as she weighs my suitcase; I do a happy dance when it’s NOT overweight.

            Oh, boy, I’m home free!

            Oh, no, I’m not.

            “Were you asked any security questions this morning?” AA agent asks. I allowed as I hadn’t, figuring I was about to quizzed on whether I was carrying any weapons or pointy-shaped objects onto the plane.

            She begins her interrogation. Where have I been during these last two months?  What have I done?  Why?

            I answer truthfully. Life’s an open book, that’s me.

            Then she switches course. What do I do for a living? Oh, what did you do before you retired? Nonprofit fundraising? What does that involve? How did you do that? For whom did you raise money? What’s the best way to do it?

            I’m babbling by this point, wondering where she’s going with this inquisition. It occurs to me that I’m in a parallel universe – one in which I never get on that plane! Does she really want a mini-seminar in the principles of fund development? I mean, I could rant on and on, but it’s just too surreal to comprehend…           

Meanwhile, I can imagine that the Syrian suicide bomber in the line behind me is getting worried that his device is going to detonate before he makes it onto his own flight.

But if Girlfriend wants to talk about fundraising, and if it aids my own cause – GOING HOME – by jiminy, I’ll talk about fundraising. I launch into a scholarly discourse contrasting the benefits of cause-marketing versus major gift fundraising. I am now officially in Airport Hell.

Five minutes of my making the case for a donation of $10,000, and I’m certain one of two things are about to occur: A British security operative is going to materialize and cart me off to an underground bunker, or my spiel will appear in the next episode of “Monty Python.”

Finally, she seems satisfied with my qualifications as a fund development professional. I hold my breath. After all, the wild horses that were going to keep me from getting on that plane have not yet been bred. My ornery Inner McCarn (from Mama’s side) was just about to rear her ugly, stubborn head. Surely I’ve passed the final security hurdle.

No, not by a long shot.

“So, what do you now that you’re retired?” she asks. Apparently, she has all the time in the world – unlike the passengers in line, whose numbers have now swelled into the thousands.

“Well, I travel….” I cleverly offer. She is still looking expectantly. “I read a lot, and do a little writing.” She appears blank. “And I sing!” A chord has been struck (no pun intended), and she’s launched into an entirely new line of inquiry.

Where do I sing? What’s the name of my choir? What do you sing? “I sing in Charleston, South Carolina, with the Charleston Spiritual Ensemble. We sing gospel and spirituals in the African-American tradition, and yes, I realize I’m a white woman, but it’s a culturally and racially diverse group, and fortunately they let me in, and we sang our last two concerts in a Jewish synagogue,” is my earnest reply.

Meanwhile, the swarthy dude near the back of the line has used this time to recruit and train his newest ISIS cell of terrorists…And still I babble on, praying I actually make it back to Charleston in this lifetime.

I’m just describing myself as a choral music junkie when Girlfriend scrapes deep onto the bottom of the interrogation barrel to ask, “Where do you rehearse?”

“Second Presbyterian Church in Charleston’s historic district downtown,” I offer eagerly.

THAT must have finally done the trick. I must have passed the test. Hallelujah for the Presbyterians and choral music! She cranks up the conveyer belt, sends my suitcase on its way, hands me my passport and boarding card, and wishes me a good flight.

I nearly break out in song right there. How d’ya reckon the al-Qaida lieutenants still in line would have enjoyed a spirited solo version of “God Bless America”?

And that, friends, is how choral music helped avert an international security crisis!

           

                       

           

           

           

           

Looking at US through British eyes

            Winding down this incredible summer in England…I’m eager to come home, but I’m well aware it’s been a privilege to be here. There have been some lows, to be sure, but far more highs. As always, I feel my horizons have expanded.

Anybody who persists in believing that the USA is the center of the universe, and that Americans are superior to every other creature on the planet, should try living abroad for a while. Don’t get me wrong: Open one of my veins and I’ll bleed red, white and blue. I’m damned proud to be an American and have no problem sharing my love of country to anybody who wants to talk about, say, politics – which get asked a lot about these days.

But are we better than anybody else? Just because we’re the world’s ATM and weapons arsenal, have we earned the right to assume our way is the only way? On the other hand, we are all interrelated. What we do in the U.S. has a domino effect all over the world. Being out of the country this summer has put some things into perspective, especially with regard to our current political landscape.

Virtually every Brit I’ve run across is scared rigid of Donald Trump and the prospect of his being elected President. Without exception: Every. Single. Person. Whether they voted to leave the European Union (the “Brexit” voters), or whether they voted to remain. Whether they’re members of the Conservative or Labor Party. The thought of Trump having his thumb on “the button” with the potential to trigger World War III is real over here, and to the Great British public that’s absolutely horrifying. Forget the menace of Islamic terrorists; at the moment, Trump is universally perceived as a much bigger threat. Parallels with Hitler and Stalin have been mentioned. I’m not exaggerating.

I’ve realized anew that the American electorate has an enormous responsibility not only to each other, but to the entire world. What we voters do in November is going to be historic, regardless of the outcome, and will have an epic global impact. The stakes have literally never been higher.

The world will be watching with baited breath on election day. If you know me at all, you know I believe there’s only one choice, and a brilliant one at that. Which is why I’m enthusiastically voting for Hillary. Every Brit to whom I’ve spoken – and there have been many – is praying with me for her to win. The future of the civilized world depends on it.

I dread the campaign between now and Nov. 8, and I’m sure I’m not alone.  It’s going to get even more brutal, ugly and divisive. More than once I’ve marveled at how restrained, efficient and enlightened the leadership election process was over here in the U.K. back in June. No muss, no fuss. Took less than a week, and Theresa May was the new Prime Minister!

Anyway, back to fun things I’ve done since my last posting: First, the Shrewsbury Flower Show, which bills itself as the oldest flower show in the world. Don’t know the veracity of that boast, but it is evermore glorious! Spread over a 30-acre public park along the banks of the River Severn in the oldest part of town, it is a combination of crafts fair, music festival, horse show and flower exhibition. The highlight for me at all of these typically British fetes is the competition among amateur floral designers for the best arrangements. Themes are announced in advance, and entrants then create these stunning displays to carry out the theme they’ve chosen, such as “Heavy Metal” or “Dinner with…” or “Inspired by Monet” or “Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations.”  

Even at massive undertakings like the Southern Home & Garden Show have I ever seen anything quite like the highly imaginative arrangements on display at British flower shows. They’re extraordinary! The creativity and beauty are stunning, and this year at Shrewsbury’s show (founded in 1884, I think) was no exception. I love, love, love going to these things, and am never disappointed.

The 90-minuite concert by a military band wasn’t too shabby, either. And the weather even cooperated. A splendid day out.

The cherry on top of the sundae here near the end of this trip was my visit with a chap whom I’ve known since first grade at Cecil School in Lexington. Randy Perryman and his wonderful wife, Lynn (whom I’d never met), live half the year outside Winston-Salem and half the year at a house they’ve bought in Weardale in the northeast of England. Their love of the U.K. rivals my own. We’ve made noises about trying to get together over here in previous years, but it had just never worked out.

This year all the stars aligned and a plan came together. I had spent scant time in their part of the country before taking the train up there on Sunday. WOW! The wild, unspoiled dales have a magic all their own. I loved seeing and learning about this extraordinary part of England from their eyes, having great conversations, and getting to know Lynn, who (though she didn’t grow up in Lexington) is a ”keeper”! I had been sliding into a bit of funk, and this side trip – underpinned with exceptionally fine weather – was exactly what I needed. The Perrymans couldn’t have me feel more welcome, bless them.

And now, get me on a big ol’ jet plane, because I’m ready to come HOME!

Much Ado About Frostbite

This year’s the 400^th anniversary of William Shakespeare’s death, so there are understandably lots of commemorations all over the English-speaking world. If you read of my trip last month to the epically treacherous Minack Theatre in Cornwall, you’ll know that I’m trying to do my bit to mark the occasion. This week in Shrewsbury was my second tip o’ the hat to The Bard.

Unfortunately, the elements were not in my favor here any more than they had been when I risked life and limb on that rocky cliff in Cornwall.

Like the Minack, the grounds of Shrewsbury Castle provided a physically stunning setting for the comedy “Much Ado About Nothing.” In many respects it felt like a late season football game in Chapel Hill or at Panthers Stadium in Charlotte: Ice-cold temps, people bundled up like Eskimos against the biting wind, stadium chairs in tow, tail-gate picnic hampers filled with goodies, an expectant air on the lawn. It was a sell-out crowd.

The only flaw here: IT’S AUGUST. And most of us are bundled up in winter gear, except for the fools who are determined to gut it out in sandals, short pants and cotton tops simply because the calendar says IT’S AUGUST.

Me, I was wearing layers of every heavy garment I had packed, including wool socks, a turtleneck sweater, sweatshirt and fleece jacket, plus two scarves. Vanity flew out the window here; practicality ruled. It was damned COLD, and I didn’t really give a flying fig what I looked like. After all, castles are fortresses built on top of hills, with absolutely nothing to break the effect of the wind that was whistling down from the North Pole on this particular evening. This AUGUST evening.

No foolin’, folks: It was in the forties. By the end of the first act, I could no longer feel my face or fingers.

The woman I was with (incidentally, one of the fools wearing sandals) laughed and said this – sitting in unspeakably uncomfortable conditions -- was what the English considered fun. You can imagine my reply.

By the interval (intermission), I had had enough. Shakespeare or no Shakespeare, I didn’t give a flying fig how those silly love triangles were going to get resolved. Despite the heroic efforts of the energetic actors, I was over it. There were not enough clothes in my suitcase to have warded off the bone-freezing chill on that hill.

Fortunately, sandal-girl was also ready to leave, so we packed up our gear and left without ceremony. Wild horses couldn’t have made me stay. What football fans see in torturing themselves in frigid conditions like that, I have no idea. Maybe they inherited a death wish from their English ancestors.

Despite the continued unfortunate weather, there have been more agreeable outings this week, thankfully. Yesterday I drove about an hour north to the ancient city of Chester, which was settled by the Romans in the first century AD. Went first to a terrific organ recital at Chester Cathedral, and then grabbed a double-decker bus for a guided tour of the city. One of the most memorable sight was a restaurant called Hickory, advertising “authentic American barbecue.” Yeah, right!

I’m trying to keep up with the Olympics, but as I found out four years ago when I was over here during the London Games, the BBC is interested only in “Team GB” – the British athletes. You’d barely know there were any other competitors from any other country. The Americans? Well, I’m assuming they’re in there running and rowing and diving their little hearts out, but except for the magnificent Simone Biles and our other lady gymnasts, I’m unable to follow any of Team USA on TV.

Go to NBC online, you say? Think again: NBC blocks online coverage to anybody trying to access it overseas! Isn’t Michael Phelps swimming again? How’s he doing?

It's a fact: Sunshine causes traffic jams.

I continue to hear about the blistering heat back home in Charleston. Color me jealous! As for myself, I’m more concerned about frostbite. A sunny day is so rare over here, it not only makes headlines, but it causes traffic jams. I am not lying.

Saturday I decided to celebrate the sunshine by taking a drive into neighboring Wales to see a famous garden. Apparently I was not the only one who had this notion. The main road leading from Shrewsbury to Llangollen in northern Wales was backed up so far that it took me over two hours to cover 20 miles. Naturally, I thought at first there must have been an accident up ahead. For the massive delay, there should have been at least a multi-car pile-up if not a nice severed limb in the road. But no.

After creeping at a snail’s pace for all that time (and having to deal with a stiff clutch, which I hate more than lancing my own boils), I finally found a place to stop for lunch.  Asked in the café what was causing all the traffic. The answer? “It’s a sunny day.” Seriously?! No festivals, no parades, no public hangings; just the SUN!

Never did make it to the garden. At the rate the traffic was going, it would have taken another week or two, and my legs were aching so badly from those loathsome gears that I was nearly lame. I settled for tea and a slice of cake in the courtyard of the medieval Chirk Castle on a hilltop with a stunning view. Not a bad compensation, eh?

In fact, last Friday and Saturday was the first sun I’ve seen since the week in Cambridge – a six-day stretch the weathermen are calling “Summer 2016.” Otherwise, it has been overcast and chilly the entire time I’ve been over here. Cloudy, sometimes with rain, but steadfastly damp and chilly. I hate it. Wearing layers of sweaters and socks in July and August verily SUCKS.

I readily admit that this trip is too long. It’s my own fault, of course, but I just didn’t count on being homesick for Charleston and the heat and the sun and my house. So homesick, in fact, that last week I bought shrimp at the supermarket and fixed gumbo over rice for dinner – as close as I could come to a Lowcountry meal. If I’m cooking, you know I’m near the Edge (read: crazy)!

I must say, however, that I haven’t tasted anything that good since I left June 16. It wasn’t exactly what we eat back home but it was damned close. Fling enough hot sauce into the pot, and anything is gonna taste pretty fine, even made with packaged shrimp from Vietnam.

I shouldn’t leave the impression that I’m entirely dissatisfied. Weather drama aside, there are still plenty of high spots on this trip. Visits with my friends Tom and Jane in Newbury, and Hazel and Marcus in Nottingham, were certainly memorable. In Norfolk my fellow Charleston Spiritual Ensemble singer Doreen – a Brit who spends half the year over here and half the year in Charleston -- took me to a remarkable concert featuring a choir of 160 voices performing a Renaissance work in 40 parts. Whew!

I arrived July 27 in Shrewsbury, an ancient market town with half-timbered buildings that scream “movie set,” where I’ve settled into house swap #3. I’ve actually house exchanged near here before, in 2003. Last week I looked up my home exchange partners, Val and Pat, out in the tiny village of Withington. We didn’t meet back then, but when I called them last week and asked to drop by, they readily agreed. We spent a lovely several hours in their conservatory, which had inspired me to have my own sunroom built onto the back of my house on Ideal Way. Lots of tea was involved, and it was a jolly visit.

Back here in town I’ve gotten to hear the National Children’s Choir of Great Britain – 300 voices strong. One of their four ensembles sang a familiar spiritual called “Total Praise.” OK, there were only a couple of kids of color, but their conductor evermore brought out their soul in that powerful piece. It brought me to tears because it was the sound of home!

A couple of the older churches in the town centre – including Shrewsbury Abbey, famous as the setting for the “Brother Cadfael” Medieval mystery series -- offer free weekly recitals, which are a most welcome way to while away a midday hour. The private Wollerton Old Hall Garden about 15 miles north of here was a magnificent surprise last week, especially since there was a break in the clouds and the sun actually shone for a bit. Simply gorgeous! I got to chatting with a lady who was also wandering on her own, and stayed until the staff closed the grounds and kicked us out.

This evening I’m heading to Shrewsbury Castle for an outdoor production of “Much Ado About Nothing.” Can’t get that ambience even along the Battery in Charleston. But unlike there, I’ll be enshrouded in a turtleneck, scarves and layers of fleece.

Brain cramps in Cambridge (it's a good thing!)

     Yes, it’s now a proven fact: One’s brain can burst.
     Mine did just that last week at the University of Cambridge.
     As it happened, I had a couple of weeks to kill between House Swap #2 (in Cornwall) and House Swap #3 (in Shropshire). Essentially I was going to be a homeless person until I could reasonably show up at my exchange house in Shrewsbury. What shall I do, where shall I go?? I had British friends I wanted to see in Newbury, Norfolk and Nottingham, but I couldn’t very well pile in on them for the whole time.
     Rather than looking at this gap as a problem, I decided to head back to Cambridge, where I had so happily attended a weekend seminar two years ago. The timing of the Institute for Continuing Education’s International Summer History Programme was perfect. After hocking a kidney to pay the tuition, I signed up.
     This time I stayed on the actual Cambridge campus. We Cambridge students don’t say we stay in dorms: It’s referred to as staying “in college.” Specifically, my “student accommodation” was at Selwyn College, where I slept and took my meals in the dining hall.
     Typical of all 30-odd colleges comprising the University of Cambridge, Selwyn College is a group of stately, vine-covered brick buildings forming grassy square called a quad on which no one steps. Ever. Except the fairies, who must perform their maintenance duties in the dead of night because the grass is kept perfect at all times – nary a weed or blade out of place.
     Behind the quad is an idyllic garden and a path leading to a cluster of classroom buildings that serve students enrolled at Selwyn and several other nearby colleges.
     The week I was there, about 100 people from virtually every corner of the world were enrolled in the history institute – some for credit, some (like me) for enrichment and for the fun of learning. We were young and old, from what seemed like every background imaginable, as culturally and racially diverse a group as I’ve ever been a part of.
     As soon as I met somebody new from a foreign country, the first thing out of their mouth was something like this: “Donald Trump is the scariest person who has ever lived! Tell me that Trump doesn’t have a chance of winning! What ARE you thinking about over there, letting him run for President? It’s a joke, right?” Or words to that effect. I’m telling you, the dude has serious credibility issues with people from Australia to Zimbabwe. They’re terrified of such a loose cannon having his hand on the trigger of the deadliest arsenal the world has ever known.
     I totally understand their anxiety.
     As a lifelong Democrat and proud Hillary supporter, I tried to allay their fears, but it wasn’t always easy, especially with Donald the Demagogue spewing his message of hatred and bigotry at the Republican convention during that same time.
     But back to my fabulous week at Cambridge. I had anticipated two lectures a day. In fact, I had FOUR, which meant I went from 9:15 a.m. to 9:15 p.m., with only a couple of hours down time in the afternoon – barely time to rest my aging, overloaded brain. I don’t know about you, but at this stage in my life, if something goes INTO my head, something else has to come OUT. As it was, with the extraordinary scholars I was hearing all day and night, my little gray cells were being scrambled all which-way!
     I’ve never thought of myself as the brightest bulb in the hall, but I’m not the dimmest, either. I can hold my own – barely – in most intellectual settings. I read books. I can usually keep up. Dumb, I’m not.
     But this week, ladies and gentlemen, was a righteous challenge! All I can say is that it was a damned good thing I wasn’t doing it for a grade. No papers to write, no exams to take: Whew!
     A sample of the lectures I got to hear, all presented by Cambridge faculty members who were experts in their field:

·         “Winston Churchill – Anti-Revolutionary?” by the Trustee of the Churchill Foundation. Lots of personal anecdotes about the great man and his viewpoints on a variety of topics, including his opposition to women’s suffrage (!).
·         “Breaking the Code: The Work at Bletchley Park” by a theoretical physicist and mathematician (and colleague of Dr. Stephen Hawking) who brought an actual Enigma machine for a demonstration of how the British intelligence service used their brains instead of bombs to help defeat the Nazis during WWII.
·         “From Boudica to Bond: The British Heroic Figure” by a social historian who traced the evolution of the concept of hero in British culture. Want to guess his top three? (3) James Bond; (2) Harry Potter; and (1) Doctor Who!

·         “Gorbachev to Putin” by a Russian scholar who has marched in Red Square.

      ·         “America in Vietnam: A Political Revolution” and its aftermath.

     And those were just the plenary sessions. My two in-depth courses met daily and were on the topics of the Victorians’ view of history and the British in America from Sir Walter Raleigh to 1776. (Or, as the instructor referred to it, “the crisis of the late 18^th Century.”)   
      Frankly, the class on the Victorian era was somewhat of a dud because I just couldn’t catch on to the professor’s plot. I'm sure he's a brilliant scholar and all, but either I was too stupid or he was too obtuse. I’m going with “obtuse.” I picked up a few stray, arcane threads here and there, but he just could never knit his thoughts into a scarf.
     On the other hand, the course on the British in America was exceptionally cool. After all, in school we Yanks learned American history from our viewpoint, right? WE won; WE wrote the history books. But here I had the unique opportunity of hearing American history from the perspective of a Brit. Or, rather, technically, from an Irishman who is now a Brit.
     He raised an interesting concept that was new to me and every other American in the class. Some scholars, he argued, believe that the war we Americans call the Revolution didn’t begin as a war for independence, but rather as a British civil war. Huh??! He said that independence was obviously a by-product of the conflict, but that most American colonials still tended to view themselves as British and were initially waging a civil war with their fellow Brits across the ocean because of Parliament’s refusal to grant them the rights they believed they deserved as British subjects.
     I’d love to hear what Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson and John Adams would have had to say about that. I didn’t dismiss this argument completely at first, because it was tasty food for thought, but now that I’ve chewed on it for a week, I’ve decided it’s hogwash.
     Anyway, by then my brain was so scrambled I couldn’t have argued that the earth was round.
     Though I went to bed mentally exhausted every night, however, I absolutely loved that lofty academic atmosphere. I’m so grateful for the privilege of experiencing it!  It might not have raised my IQ by a single point, but boy, did I feel smarter just being there.
     Now I’m wondering what useful factoids were squeezed out of my brain in order to absorb all that new learnin’. With any luck, it’ll be totally irrelevant stuff, like how to operate my kitchen appliances or the vacuum cleaner…

The Parables of the Ice Cream Cone and the Prime Minister

             Two parables today, one personal and one general.

The first lesson deals with my tendency to spoil myself. After all, why can’t I have it all, I ask? I’m worth it, right?

            But sometimes the Universe just has to jerk me back to reality. There are consequences to one’s indulgence. Last week brought a small but expensive illustration of that point.

Filled with gorgeous countryside and dramatic coastline, Cornwall is made for driving, sun or no sun. One afternoon last week I found myself at the seaside town of Perranporth, about 10 miles from where I’m staying in Truro. OK, it’s a bit on the cheap, touristy side, but there was a big parking lot right beside a wide sandy beach. Since there aren’t many beaches of this nature in Cornwall – accessible by car, rather than by hiking on foot – it was a popular place. I got the last spot in the privately-owned car park and fed 1.50 GBP into the machine, which I thought had bought me 90 minutes.

After lunch I sat in the tepid sun and watched the lobster-hued bathers shiver in the chilly breeze coming off the ocean. I’ll give it those Brits: They’re going to have their fun at the seashore even if the water is ice-cold and their teeth are chattering! By jiminy, it’s July and that means it’s summer and they’re going to swan about in bathing suits and shorts and sandals if it kills them!

I don’t have a watch, but I knew my hour and a half was about up. However, in the summertime spirit I decided I did have time for ice cream. Popped into the shop across the street, got my dollop of ice cream – which turned out to be only the size of a golf ball, or a tumor – and went back to my bench by the sea to enjoy it.

Here is the heart of my mistake.

Ten minutes later I headed to my car, which was only a few feet away from me, just as the attendant was pasting a ticket on my windshield. I was over my limit by TEN MINUTES.

And all because of that blasted, microscopic ice cream cone.

Want to know how much this blunder cost me – all because I didn’t have an extra pound coin to feed the meter? Sit down. SIXTY POUNDS. And if I fail to pay the fine within two weeks, the penalty increases to ONE HUNDRED POUNDS.

The only silver lining here is that the British pound is weaker against the American dollar now than it has been in many, many years. But still, by today’s conversion rate, 60 GBP equals $77.87.

What have I learned? Sometimes an ice cream cone is just ice cream, and sometimes it’s the biggest billboard the Universe can send that YOU DON’T NEED THAT ICE CREAM, FAT GIRL!!!

Thus endeth the first lesson.

                                                 # # #

The second lesson is entitled “How to Choose a New Leader in One Month or Less.” Americans, take note.

As most of you know, on June 23, a week after I arrived over here, the U.K. voted to leave the European Union, an action Prime Minister David Cameron and his Conservative Party opposed. The damnedest thing is, Cameron himself had called for the referendum, and then boom! The Great British people surprised him and voted to leave, and so he found himself sort of a lame duck without sufficient support in Parliament to continue in office. Like a proper British gentleman, he announced he'd resign.

Several candidates stepped forward to jockey for his job, but in extremely civilized fashion, as they tested the political waters, one by one they dropped out. In a mere two weeks that left only one standing – a woman, Theresa May, the current Home Secretary (the equivalent of our Homeland Security Secretary). Today's news reports say that Cameron will submit his formal resignation to Her Majesty tomorrow or Wednesday, and then it looks like the party’s election of May as Prime Minister could take place as early as this weekend!

These events are extraordinary on so many levels that I’m practically dizzy watching them. First of all, nobody has blinked once over the fact that Britain may have only its second female prime minister in history. Second, as a Conservative, Theresa May actually opposed “Brexit,” and yet as Prime Minister she’ll be tasked with negotiating the orderly exit of the U.K. from the European alliance.

And third, who can believe the refreshingly blinding speed with which this whole process is taking place?  

Of course, there are several snags on other parts of the political front. The leader of the Labor Party is stubbornly hanging on despite 98% of his constituents calling for his resignation, and the head of the Liberal Democrats just up and quit. Curiously, it’s hard to find anybody who now claims they supported Brexit, even though that side won.

So in reality, with the Prime Minister out and everybody else in power jumping overboard, the ship of state is pretty rudderless at the moment.

But at least they’re not embarking on a two-and-a-half-year campaign to select Cameron’s replacement like some democracies I could name.

Let’s review: In the U.S. we’ve been involved in our wretched Presidential campaign for what seems like two decades now, and still have another long, tedious three and half months to go. Show me one voter who isn’t exhausted and fed up by this malarkey. Is anybody even paying attention anymore? Who’s mind isn’t already made up?

And yet the Brits are accomplishing the same thing – the selection of a new leader, one of the biggest players on the world stage, a woman who'll wear the mantle of the likes of Winston Churchill  – in less than a month! The commentators were speculating that if it takes a day or so longer, it’s because Mrs. Cameron couldn’t pack fast enough…

Of Fats Waller and German engineering

     Arrived Thursday at House Swap #2 in Truro, the capital of Cornwall, which to my eye is one of the most beautiful, magical places on earth. Would that I had the writing gifts of a travel scribe like Bill Bryson to do it justice.

     This weekend I’ve been settling in and getting my bearings. The house itself is very nice indeed – even has a dishwasher, clothes dryer and Skye TV, which as we know are not standard over here. There have been the usual hiccups with plumbing one has learned to expect – let’s call them “Adventures in Toileting” – which I’ll mention later. But perhaps the most remarkable feature is the car I received as part of the exchange.

     When my exchange partner, Chris, asked a few months ago whether I was OK with driving a “performance car,” I must admit I didn’t know what he meant. Since my pedestrian Hondas have always served me in good stead, I haven’t seen any need to venture into anything more luxurious. Put key in, step on gas, go. So long as the thing has automatic transmission, wheels and air conditioning, that’s the extent of my driving requirements.

     Well, due to issues with Chris’s insurance, he couldn’t let me drive his modest Ford Focus, which would have been fine with me. Instead (beat me, whip me), I have to drive his wife’s practically new Audi convertible – the one that gives whole new meaning to the word “automobile.”

      I don’t mind saying that at first I was a little bit intimidated. I mean, here’s a serious piece of German engineering with SIX forward gears and more horses under the hood than I’ve ever handled. The dashboard would rival that of a Boeing jet. Even adjusting the seat is no small feat, especially for a hefty Brunhilda like me to feel comfortable and fully in control of all that horsepower.

      Finally squeezed into the cockpit, I had to face the clutch. Oh, dear. The clutch, brake and accelerator are about as close together as hangars on a sales rack at TJMaxx. Or imagine a fork, knife and spoon lined up next to a plate on your dining table. Then imagine pressing down the fork and knife at the same time – with your feet – without disturbing the spoon.

     Some of you might know the Fats Waller song from the Broadway show, “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” called “Your Feets Too Big.” Well, depending on her shoes (which are definitely giant-sized), Brunhilda’s feet are too big for this driving machine! If she punches in the clutch, her left foot tends to stomp on the brake at the same time. And her right foot seems to cover both the brake and the accelerator. This pedal ballet is not cool. Adjustment in footwear was required.

     OK, clad in different shoes, provided with a tutorial at the Audi dealer on the electronics, and with a firm resolve, Brunhilda was finally ready to tackle the highway. I had found my way to and from the grocery store and the movies OK. I had even located several of the six gears on those in-town journeys. But the real test was going to be on what the Brits call a “dual carriageway,” which to us is simply a four-lane road. Many stretches have no speed limit. Let’s see what these Germans call a “performance car.”

     I am not a weenie. I’ve got German immigrants’ blood in my veins. I can do this. I can do this.

     OMG, OMG, OMG! It took less than a mile before I found my American mojo. Just a wee tap on the gas pedal and WHOOSH! Off I tore like a hormone-crazed teenager!

     THIS is driving, folks! I was evermore sailing down the highway before I could even blink, and it felt like I was standing still. See a Mercedes coming up on my rear? Oh, no you don’t, buddy; eat my dust! Dale Jr., you have nothing on me, pal!

     It took me a few minutes to calm down and become a sane person again, and I reached my destination – a choral concert in Plymouth about 50 miles away – safely, at a reasonable speed and without incident. But boy, oh boy, that baby provides one sweet ride.

     And I have it for two whole weeks!

     Still waiting for the weather to cooperate so I can put the top down. I may wet my pants.

Weathering Brexit, Iceland and those pesky Hobbits

Drama of epic proportion continues here in the not-so-united kingdom. As if it wasn’t enough that voters chose to leave the European Union, the British national football team LOST to Iceland Monday in some big European Cup thingy, which is roughly the international Super Bowl of soccer. Imagine if, during the run-up to the NFL championships, the Carolina Panthers lost to Central Piedmont Community College. For British footie fans – and that’s everybody with a belly button – the humiliation is biblical in scale.

So as I wrap up the first leg of my holiday, there’s a wave of collective national depression. Even the talking heads on the staid BBC are in as much of lather as I’ve ever seen them over last week’s “Brexit” vote. And now there’s this football mess with Iceland, a country with the same population as the city of Coventry in central England.

Brits, as most of you probably know, never get all that worked up over anything, and even when the news is upsetting, they always put a modest spin on things. A train derailment leaving dozens of people maimed or dead would rank quietly as a “minor accident” – unless a dog were also found in the wreckage, and then the tone would turn to despair. But in the best stiff-upper-lip tradition, witnesses would simply step stoically over the dead human bodies, remain calm and carry on. Bless their hearts.

The media get absolutely giddy about stories involving dogs. A heroic pooch is certain to make national headlines. Not sure what the BBC would do if a terrorist’s German shepherd rescued a tot from drowning in the Thames…

But I digress. The fallout over the U.K.’s referendum to leave the EU – and now defeat by ICELAND, for heaven’s sake -- has sent everybody into a tailspin, the media included. Nobody seems happy with the outcome, even the Leavers, and they won. It doesn’t help that the weather is crap – relentlessly rainy and cool -- and that summer is stubbornly refusing to arrive.

 I’ve never seen commentators and citizens alike in such a state of agitata. The politicians continue to resign in droves, insults are loud and ugly, and accusations of lies, misrepresentation and racism during the campaign are being slung by both sides toward one another. Kinda reminds me of the mature rhetoric we hear in Washington…

Naturally, the coach of England’s football team quit in disgrace, as well.

One thing’s clear: People are tired of business as usual in their government. They’re tired of immigrants coming into the country and taking “their” jobs away from “real” British citizens. (Sound familiar?) The vote last week represented a desire for change. But what kind of change? Armageddon is being predicted.

One positive dividend: Amid all this turmoil, the value of my American dollar has gone up again. Since I didn’t have any skin in the Iceland match, I’m OK there either way.

But having to deal with the cool, rainy weather and the enraged, hammer-wielding Hobbits who inhabit the boiler in this house has stomped on my very last nerve. Being awakened every morning at 6 by all that knocking and banging is making me lose the plot…The boiler repairman came and went, and yet the Hobbits remain. The racket has gotten worse, and I have advised my home exchange partner that she needs to consider both a new boiler and an exorcism.

###

When I arrived over here June 16 I was in a cultural coma from Charleston’s brilliant Spoleto Festival. Of course, I had been determined to sample some of everything on Spoleto’s spectacular bill of fare, which meant that by the end of the festival I was in an exhausted stupor – in a good way, of course. Coming to the U.K. was sort of like jumping from the cultural frying pan into the fire.

Out here in Devon the goodies involve stately homes, gardens and magnificent scenery. Beat me, whip me, make me visit a National Trust property. The performing arts? Let’s just say I’ve learned to trim back my expectations.

As the 400^th anniversary of Shakespeare’s death, 2016 is seeing a lot of tributes to the Bard, and of course that suits me down to the ground. Up the road on Sunday afternoon was one such choral concert held in the great hall of a Medieval mansion. What better setting could one ask for? I loved the readings from his sonnets and plays interspersed with a string quartet and a fabulous soprano soloist. There was a choir, too. Their attempts were, let’s say, ambitious. Bless their hearts.

Though my pace has been casual, I’ve also managed to check out three National Trust estates in Devon, including the home of the great Elizabethan courtier Sir Francis Drake (who defeated the invincible Spanish Armada), a working Benedictine abbey, and the outstanding Royal Horticulture Society’s Rosemoor garden.

Also visited two private gardens whose owners open them periodically in exchange for a donation to their favorite charity. The National Garden Scheme lists literally thousands of such homeowners around the country – assuming you can find them. Directions are often a puzzle wrapped up in an enigma, and since I don’t have a GPS, it’s usually quite a navigational feat. But I love having the opportunity to meet these passionate gardeners and see the fruits of their efforts. Haven’t met a gardener yet who wasn’t proud to show off her little patch of England – justifiably so.

Now I’m evermore ready to move on to my next exchange house in Cornwall. I’m praying for some quiet on the domestic front. Anything shy of a bed in a bowling alley will be an improvement.

So long, EU. (Subtext: So what?)

What a week here in the U.K.! As you may have seen in the news, the Great British public held an historic referendum to decide whether to leave or remain in the European Union, which as best as I can ascertain, would be the equivalent of Charleston’s decision to leave or remain in South Carolina. The average British man-on-the-street doesn’t seem to know exactly what the European Union is, or what leaving will actually entail, but a majority of the people voted to leave, and so leave they shall.

From what I’ve been able to gather, the campaign – Leave vs. Remain – split along the same fault lines as our ideological Red State/Blue State debate. Lots of rhetoric on both sides that went something like, “Y’mama sucks!” and “Oh, yeah? Blow me!” Except with an English public-school accent, which of course makes it all sound extremely classy and cultured.

The issues seemed to be centered around emotionally charged issues like immigration, jobs and loss of independence to lawmakers abroad. An undercurrent was “terrorism,” which is always guaranteed to heat up any discourse regardless of which side you’re leaning toward. I think it might have been sort of like throwing around a heated topic like taxation without representation 250 years ago in Philadelphia or Boston. That led to a big “Leave” vote, too.   

And now there’s a similar reaction: Yikes! NOW WHAT??!  A lot of people are nervous, even though they’re still not sure what the European Union is, or what it does (or doesn’t do), and how the U.K. is going to cope on its own. One immediate outcome has to do with the exchange rate, which has a positive impact on my pocketbook already. When I left home ten days ago, it cost me $1.56 to buy one British pound. On Friday, the day after the referendum, it cost me only $1.36 for a pound. I’ll give the terrorists that one.

Just like our Red State/Blue State divide, the kingdom was split in its decision. Most of England – with the exception of London and its suburbs – voted to Leave. However, Scotland voted solidly to Remain, as did much of Wales and Northern Ireland. The Scots wasted no time to renew the issue of independence for itself, and are threatening a new vote as soon as they can get it on a ballot. Who knows what the Irish or Welsh will do, but there are nationalistic rumblings all over the news here. In a year or two, the unthinkable may occur: the United Kingdom may split and be united no more.

Buckingham Palace, as would be expected, has been quiet since the vote, but one can imagine that Her Majesty is not amused.

Meanwhile, Prime Minster David Cameron – who called for the referendum in the first place -- has resigned, as have a passel of his Cabinet ministers. I don’t understand why the PM just didn’t leave well enough alone. If he liked the EU so much, why raise the question of leaving in the first place? But British politics are never simple, it seems.

Not to be outdone, leaders on the other side of the political aisle have also resigned in droves this weekend. Why, I cannot fathom, since they won. So it leaves one to wonder who’s in charge. I hope the terrorists haven’t noticed.

And in an even stranger bit of drama, the media’s talking heads are surmising that the frontrunner to replace Cameron as Prime Minster is one Boris Johnson, an egotistical, roly-poly oddity with wild, unruly bleached-blond hair that looks like he just stuck his finger in an electrical socket and who does not own a comb. Sound like anybody familiar? I’m not making this up.

She's ba-a-a-a-ck!

Well, folks, after a two-year absence, I'm happily back “home” in England. I didn't kiss the tarmac at Heathrow (I'd never have been able to get back up!), but I surely felt like it.

I was fortunate enough to organize THREE back-to-back house swaps this summer. Seems that my new residence of Charleston is just a wee bit more attractive to prospective vacationers than Charlotte. Imagine! Not that Charlotte is a bad place to visit, but without an ocean, to say nothing of distinctive architecture, culture, history and its own distinctive cuisine, it’s certainly no Charleston.

And if anybody surmises that my plan to be away from the Lowcountry during the hottest and most humid time of the year was deliberate, bingo! A no-brainer. It’s a win-win as far as I’m concerned, although I think my British visitors may be in for a climatic shock…

So here I am at House #1 – in the village of Ashburton in south Devon between Exeter and Plymouth. My exchange partner, Lindy, is a retired teacher; she is staying in my house in Charleston with her friend Jenny, a retired nurse. I got to meet them briefly before I left on my own journey. We each have arranged for our friends to reach out with hospitality, which is one of the nicest bits of house-exchanging, I think. Two of my neighbors at The Elms have taken them out to dinner and a concert already, and my exchangers have introduced me to several lovely ladies here in the village who have given me a warm welcome and taken me on outings, as well.

Ashburton is on the edge of Dartmoor National Park, a rather stunning spread of geography that includes windswept vistas and dense forests through which runs the River Dart. My house, in the center of the village within walking distance of lots of locally owned shops, has a little patio enclosed by an old stone wall covered with climbing roses. Virtually on the other side of the wall is a 900-year-old Norman church that chimes the hour round-the-clock. I find it very comforting.

Naturally, it wouldn’t be an Emily trip if there weren’t a few glitches along the way. I’ll try not to bleat on and on about all the annoying little issues that tend to crop up on my trips, but already I’ve had to contend with two amateur mistakes I’ve made from the get-go.

One: I failed to bring an ice tray. Because the Brits would rather pull their own molars than drink an iced beverage, I’ve learned over the years to bring my own plastic, throwaway trays. Had ‘em at home; didn’t pack ‘em. Stupid mistake.

Second: I ended up packing only one extra bra. What was I thinking?! Got over here with three – count ‘em – THREE new tubes of mascara, but only two bras. Got the eyes well and truly covered, but mammographic support? Tragically, my bosom-to-lash ratio must have been skewed in my mind.

So on my first full day in England, when I was also forced to sort out a proper plug/adapter/surge protector for my laptop, it occurred to me that I might as well address the foundation garment issue, as well. Headed to the nearest big town, Torquay. Fortunately, being in a civilized country proved fortuitous, insofar as the big-box computer store was right across the car park from Marks & Spencer (think Belk’s), who gladly served me a tasty lunch and sold me a fine, hefty bra. Popped into the neighboring Sainsbury’s and did a week’s grocery run all in one productive outing.

Like all of Europe I’ll be watching the outcome of the big referendum tomorrow, in which the Great British public will vote to remain or leave the European Union. Much drama there. The media pundits and politicians alike are predicting Armageddon regardless of which way it goes. It appears to be an extremely close call, with no clear winner in sight. Mark my words: Whichever side wins, the other will cry foul and will contest the result for years to come.

As I swan around the country over the next two months – details to unfold eventually – I’ll be sharing some of my escapades and observations. I’m not much of a photographer (don’t have the tech support, unfortunately), so think of these blog entries as my “word postcards.”

Of course, I can’t promise to ignore all of those household issues that can tend to drive me absolutely nuts. The ancient boiler in this house springs immediately to mind. Let me just get it off my chest: This contraption is programmed to cut on twice a day – one of which is 6 a.m. When it does, imagine a platoon of belligerent Hobbits armed with sledgehammers living inside it, hitting pipes as hard and as relentlessly as they can for three hours! The racket is enough to raise the dead not only in the cemetery behind me but throughout Ashburton! "LOUD and obnoxious" doesn’t even touch this noise.

So every morning at 6 I’ve been awakened by the Hobbits and their hammers knocking on the gates of Hell. Sleep is out of the question as soon as the cacophony commences, and for the three hours thereafter. As those of you who know me well can attest, I am SO not a morning person. Nothing of any consequence occurs before noon. One does NOT disturb Emily in the morning! Therefore, nerves are shot; good humor has evaporated.

I emailed Lindy about this deafening din; she claims not to have noticed it. In my mind, that’s like claiming that you live in the infield of Charlotte Motor Speedway and have never noticed the sound of the cars. However, she has given me the name of her boiler man, who is coming tomorrow morning to take a look at it. Stay tuned.

Having mentioned the boiler, however, I do intend to dwell mostly on positive things – the obvious being the huge blessing that I’M BACK IN THE MOTHERLAND! Hallelujah -- and God save the Queen!