Father's Day

photo by Tarah Coonan

My mom and I were really close when I was growing up. If I needed advice, someone to confide in, a shoulder to cry on - I went to my mom. Despite that, I recognized pretty early on that I was much more like my father in many ways.

Perhaps because of that, I had a much more complicated relationship with my father when I was a child and, unsurprisingly, through my teenage years. I remember complaining to my sister, who was and still is the peace-maker of the family, that I'd inherited all of Dad's flaws; I didn't like seeing them in him and he didn't like seeing them in me. Honestly, we didn't know how to be easy with each other, and our interactions up until I graduated from college were generally tense.

In the last few years, though, our dynamic has changed. It's strange to realize that your parent is a fellow adult, but that understanding has transformed my relationship with my father. I'll always be his child, of course, but we've somehow switched gears and now see each other much more as peers, with imperfections that are unique to each of us and have nothing to do with the other. He is his own person as I am mine, and I think that the moment I acknowledged that was the moment I accepted that I don't get to decide who he is based on his relationship with me. He is so much more than just my dad, and all those other things that make him happy are just as important as his role as father.

I'm so glad I saw that - better late than never, I suppose! - because, really, all I want for him is to be happy. Since I told you to read this, Daddy, I write now directly to you: sorry I gave you a really hard time for the first two decades or so. I love you.

Jon's America V (Washington, DC)

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my family’s visit to the USA, beginning with our romp through NYC. Watching my family squabble over who ordered what overpriced pastries they’d ordered at the Time Warner Center, a sharply dressed businesswoman remarked that we were “the cutest thing ever”, and it was in that spirit that we descended to DC. Rather than give a blow-by-blow account of the rest of the trip (we did all the DC tourist stuff imaginable, you get the idea), I shall offer a few insights into this city that I gleaned through this hosting experience:

• The tour boat from Georgetown to Alexandria is excellent, and comes complete with an incredibly cheesy recorded commentary on the sights to be seen around you – its relentlessly positive note and swelling music struck a jarring tone with my typically cynical British family. “Did you know that the President doesn’t have just one jet, but TWO?” burbled the disembodied voice of federal largess as we cruised past Reagan. We imagined how a group of British people would react to the idea of David Cameron getting two private planes, and the subsequent outraged tutting (equivalent to a small riot in British terms) that would follow a similarly chirpy announcement. Still, a stand-out moment was early on, as we chugged past the Watergate Center, and our enthusiastic hostess fell mysteriously silent…

• The concept of a free zoo is mind-blowing! We happen to live five minutes’ walk away from the National Zoo, and I think I’d gotten entitled regarding its presence in my life – of course I should be able to stroll through a free zoo at any time the fancy strikes me and go talk to the friendly bison, that’s a basic right. Anyway, everyone was incredibly impressed with Bao Bao the baby panda and, just as importantly, Bao Bao Mission Control. If you’ve been, you’ll know what I’m talking about – banks upon banks of screens showing every conceivable angle of the enclosure, and stern faced “researchers” monitoring and recording every last cute thing, for science! There are major NASA missions that get less support. The zoo also provided my sister with the opportunity to try Dippin’ Dots for the first, and now most probably the last, time. Mum had originally attempted to get them while on a quest for gelato at the Nats’ stadium, and I had to stop her from purchasing the lumpy frozen remnants of an industrial accident before she experienced a profound case of culture shock from which she may have never recovered.

• On an unseasonably hot day, starting at the Jefferson Memorial and attempting to walk down the length of the Mall to the Capitol Building, whilst trying to see everything on the way, is as a classic example of commendable ambition and terrible planning. We made it as far as the White House before my family decided they’d got the general idea of DC (don’t worry, they did end up walking around the Capitol Building eventually).

Finally, and perhaps most importantly of all, DC comes across as a fantastic place to live. I had been a little concerned that, after the glitz and excitement of NYC, my adopted city might pale in comparison. But that wasn’t the case; my family loved the greenery, the relaxed yet cosmopolitan atmosphere, the restaurants and the neighborhoods we passed through – not just the touristy areas, but the living, breathing city that most of us actually experience every day. The fact that everything was half the price of New York didn’t hurt either. Sure, DC’s got its problems – WMATA makes Transport for London looks like a shining bastion of competence – but, seeing the city through my family’s eyes, I was glad to call this place home.

Lessons from Mom

In no particular order, here are ten of the most important things my mom has taught me over the past 28 years.  Happy Mother's Day, Mom.  Thanks for all the lessons, even - especially - when I didn't want to learn them.  I love you!

1. There's always room on the bed for the dog.

2. Every relationship involves give and take; the ratio doesn't have to be 50:50 for the relationship to be equal.

3. There's no shame in crying at everything/anything.

4. Pick your battles.

5. Losing with grace can be just as effective as winning.

6. Fresh air and exercise will almost always make you feel better.

7. When fresh air and exercise fail, turn to chocolate.

8. It's okay to put people on pedestals.

9. It's okay to keep them on pedestals even when you know they don't really belong up there.

10. If there isn't room on the bed for the dog, get a bigger bed.

Jon's America IV (New York City)

My family made good on their threat to come and visit me in the USA a few weeks ago, and I’m pleased to report that everyone had a rollicking good time! My parents and my younger sister flew into New York to kick off their trip with three days in the Big Apple before heading down to DC. Bear in mind, my sister had never been to the USA, my mother last visited in the mid-80s (and saw a very different NYC), and dad hasn’t been here for at least fifteen years. So when cultured people gave me helpful advice on where to take them, along the lines of “Oh, you must see such and such exhibit at MOMA”, my slightly-deflating response was generally “Thanks, but I think we’re starting with the Empire State building and working our way down from there.”

They arrived late on Monday night (staying on 42nd, several blocks away from Times Square), and, despite their jetlag, our immediate attentions turned to finding a bar nearby to catch up in. After a disastrous foray into what way very clearly a gay bar with thumping techno music - I did try to warn them - we wound up in an “Irish” bar, with mum prodding buffalo wings with all the professionally detached concentration of a scientist examining a hitherto undiscovered form of life. We had a brief catch up and then headed off to bed.

Tuesday was our “going south” day, beginning on the High Line (which tourists must now visit by law). It was a great way to get a feel for some of the older, lower-rise neighborhoods and watch the city go about its day. Stopping off at Chelsea Market for a tasty brunch, we then walked down through the East Village while Dad and I did our best to keep everyone out of the shops (they’re literally exactly the same as in London!!). While Anthropology did a lot of damage to his psyche, Dad hit a low point emotionally in Steve Madden, until he realized that was the guy who had the disastrous IPO in Wolf of Wall Street, at which point he cheered right up and started quoting the film.

We continued walking all the way down to 1WTC and Ground Zero. Politics and dubious architecture aside, the memorial pools themselves are powerful, beautiful and emotional, and it was moving to visit such an important place to New York. One thing I do hope, though, is that eventually there will be a sense of life being lived in that space, and more of the buzz of the city as the new office buildings start to fill up. Right now it is busy with people reflecting, and silent except for the measured roar of the water, endlessly cascading. I’m not sure it should always stay that way; wouldn’t the most powerful thing be to create a space that remembers and commemorates what took place there by celebrating life, rather than remaining static and somber? I hope that it will come evolve in that direction; almost anywhere you go in London, you walk on the site of a tragedy from one era or another, and if you were to declare each space as hallowed ground, upon which you can only remember, there would be no city left. That’s just a personal opinion though, and I respect that many will disagree.

After continuing on foot to Battery Park, we hopped on the free ferry to Staten Island, which is just a no-brainer if you want to show off NYC to anyone. Not only are the skyline views magnificent, but you go right past the Statue of Liberty without really having to make any effort to see it. We were amazed by the coastguard escorts, though – a commuter ferry protected through the whole journey by a tripod-mounted machine gun, which added to the sense of occasion but seemed a little over the top.

Running out of steam after getting back to Manhattan, we hopped in a taxi up to the Upper East Side for a lovely meet-up with Betsy’s grandparents, after which we walked across Central Park for some super-authentic pizza on the Upper West side and then called it a night.

Next up: the gajillion photos Betsy took on Top of the Rock!

Post Host

As I type this, I'm sitting in my living room, sipping my coffee, basking in the sun that's streaming through the corner windows, and waiting for my hair to air dry.  The paraphernalia of having used the couch as a sleeper sofa has been put away; Jon's study, which Ellie was using as the guest room, is tidy.  It's the first morning since last Tuesday that we haven't been with Jon's family and it feels... weighty.

Jon and I started dating six and a half years ago.  We both lived in London for three of those years, nearly a year of which was spent cohabitating, and we visited Jon's parents in Suffolk more times than I could count.  I know the books on the shelves in Jon's childhood bedroom as well as I know the ones lining the walls at my parents' house: first the Redwall series, then Terry Pratchett's Discworld, then every Sharpe installment ever written, then a selection of Steven King.  (Can you blame me for falling in love with him after seeing that adolescent history?)  Even now, though I've since moved back to DC and my time in England is limited and precious, a transatlantic flight means a trip to the countryside just as much as it does to London.  I feel very much a part of his family, of the place in which he grew up, and of his life in England.

Having his parents and sister here in the States - in New York, certainly, but especially in DC - was incredible.  At first, the visit was simply a way to return the favor of how easily and comfortably they'd brought me into their life and family but now, in the quiet of their departure, it feels like more.  It feels like validation.

I'm sure they wouldn't see it that way; my mother-in-law would protest that no approval is needed.  But sharing our home, our world, and the life we've made here with Jon's family makes what we've built feel more anchored.  They've been here, they've been a part of it, and they loved it.  If that's not a blessing for our future in Washington, no matter how long that time might last, I don't know what is.

A Transatlantic Holiday PSA

Being in an interfaith transatlantic marriage means that Jon and I and our families get to celebrate twice as many holidays.  We do Hanukkah and Christmas, Thanksgiving and Guy Fawkes Day - the list goes on.  It's a lot of fun, and I love introducing Jon's family to my family's traditions (and vise versa, I think)!  But one of the hardest holidays to celebrate from the wrong side of the pond doesn't commemorating any national or religious occasion; it's personal.  It's Mother's Day.

This year, Mother's Day in the UK is March 15 - in the US, it's May 10.  Mother's Day sneaks up on you when you're in a different country than your mom.  You don't have all the Hallmark advertising around to remind you which Sunday it is, and it's almost impossible to find an appropriate card for such a specific holiday out of season.  And, if you forget to send a card on time, it's a lot more complicated to call because of the time difference and dropping by with flowers or bagels for a surprise visit isn't an option.

Jon, of course, planned ahead when he moved to America* and packed a Mother's Day card that he'll send to his mum back in Suffolk tomorrow  And now, thanks to the internet, you can find relevant cards from the US to post to the UK in time.  So consider this your heads up in case you forgot, British expats in the United States - it's time to get your Mother's Day card in the mail!

NaughtyLittleCards on Etsy

*That's one way to explain the British Mothering Sunday card in Jon's desk drawer.  Is it also a possibility that Jon just threw the contents of his desk in London into his suitcase when he moved over and this card is, in fact, a card that should have been sent in 2014.  But let's give him the benefit of the doubt, shall we?

eShakti in the Leaves

This past Sunday, Jon and Charlie and I headed to Pierce Mill in Rock Creek Park to meet my friend Sara for a little family photo session.  We'd had outing planned for a few weeks, and when eShakti reached out to ask me to review their service, I knew that the shoot would be the perfect opportunity to debut my new dress!

Honestly, the hardest part of using eShakti was picking which dress I wanted because there were so many choices.  Plus, all the items are totally customizable; I clicked on one dress that I wasn't as crazy about, just to see what I could do to it, and the website gave me the option of changing the neckline, the sleeves, and the length.  I also knew I could put in my own measurements when I ordered, which opened up a range of styles I don't usually wear.  In the end, though, I went with a dress I knew I'd wear all the time into the colder months: a plaid flannel shirtdress.

Ordering was a breeze.  I used my measurements and opted for a slightly longer hem than on the model, and that was it!  I placed the order on October 27 and it arrived on November 6, much quicker than I expected.  The quality is fantastic; the dress is lined, which gives it slightly more structure, and the flannel emerged unscathed from our romp in the leaves.  I do wish the dress had darts under the bust, but that's fixable by going to a tailor and, really, it was my choice to not get a more fitted shape in the first place.  Regardless, I absolutely love the dress and know it'll stay in the rotation until spring!

Based on my experience, I would totally recommend purchasing a dress from eShakti.  If I were to get another, I think I'd pick the red cotton poplin belted shirtdress!  If you find one you want to buy, use the code "betsytransatlantically" for 10% off your order through December 12.  Let me know if you have a look around and what you like!

(By the way, you'll hear more about Sara, who also took these photos for me, next week!  Don't go away, dear readers.)

Please note:
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All photos were taken by Sara Conklin Photography.

I was given this dress for free to review; as usual, all opinions are my own.

Veteran's Day: Pappy's Context

A few months ago, my grandmother emailed me the link to a Dropbox account.  She'd uploaded hundreds of family photos dating back to the 1920s, photos I'd never seen before - photos that showed me an entirely new side to my relatives.  I had a blast scrolling through the folders; there's a photo of my great-uncle wearing a cap and short pants in the early 1940s and pictures of Nana, impossibly glamorous, traipising through Europe in the 1950s. There's a school portrait of my mother from 1964 and a candid of my uncle as a teenager in the 1970s with long wavy hair.  The photos I paused over the longest, though, were of my grandfather's time in the army as a medical officer.

Pappy's the last person in the world I can imagine holding a gun, let alone shooting one.  He's a doctor, a cardiologist, and he's pretty passionate about the fact that, deep down, we're all the same and we shouldn't hurt each other.  (There's a story about him giving up his seat on the bus to a black woman in Baltimore in the late 1940s and getting reprimanded for it but not caring, to give you an idea of who Pappy is.)  I knew he had served in Korea, but for some reason I didn't realize that he had actually experienced war.  I don't remember him ever talking about it while I was growing up - in retrospect, I think I just never asked.  Buried in the family photos in the Dropbox account, though, were pictures from his army career.  There were posed sepia-toned photos of Pappy in his uniform, the kind that you imagine men giving to their sweethearts before going off to fight, and silly snaps of Pappy goofing around with other men in his unit, and there's one photo of Pappy, standing in profile, looking very serious and aiming a gun at a target off-camera.

I called him yesterday, in honor of Veteran's Day, to ask what it was like to serve in the army.  He volunteered for the reserves in 1951 - it was that or be drafted, he told me, and he had been promised that if he volunteered he'd be allowed to finish out his year of residency but he was called to active duty and assigned to Ft. Belvoir hospital earlier than expected - and spent twelve months and one day in Korea at the 171st Evacuation Hospital and at the 3rd and 12th Field POW Hospital.  Serving these days must be totally different from serving in the 1950s, I said to Pappy; everyone who was sent to Korea had seen men returning from World War II and knew, intimately, what it meant to go off to fight.  I don't think we have that context anymore, I told him.  "No," he replied, "we don't - and it's too bad."

Once you’ve served and you’ve seen people wounded and you’ve seen people killed, you come back a very different person. Americans on the whole now can’t appreciate what war is because we’re not affected by it – the war isn’t here and it doesn’t affect everyone. When there was a draft, even though the war wasn’t here, everyone was affected. Everyone knew what it meant to serve and everyone respected war and respected people in the military.

I don’t think most people understand that these days. If we had a draft, we would all understand what it means to go to war in a much more real way and we’d behave very differently. We'd make very different decisions as a country.  The past decade would have gone very differently if there had been a draft and if we were all forced to be personally involved.

The army teaches you diversity and tolerance.  When there was a draft, everyone had to serve, and it teaches you what the country is all about. I was a Jewish boy from New York and I grew up in a mostly Jewish neighborhood.  The army introduced me to all sorts of people I probably wouldn’t have met otherwise. It was a totally new experience. We all had our eyes opened and were more understanding because of it – and we learned more about our country because of it.

Thank you, Pappy, for telling me your stories, and thank you to all who have served in the military.  I hope that, though I can never truly understand what it's like, we will always respect what you have done and continue to do for our country.

35 Years

Mom and Dad in Cambridge in the mid-1970s (I think)

This is slightly belated, but my parents were in France last week and (since I hope they weren't checking my blog while on holiday) I wanted to wait until they returned to wish them a very happy 35th wedding anniversary!

Mom and Dad, watching you together is the best way I could possibly hope to learn about marriage.  You might not realize it, but every day you teach me about love, about selflessness, about patience, about compromise, about teamwork, and about faith.  Thank you - I love you both so much.

(See a photo from their wedding in 1979 here!)

A Treat From Toko

I may be one of the luckiest girls in the world: my mother-in-law and her sister co-own a small jewelry company stocked with the most beautifully curated ranges of gorgeous pieces.  Toko has been a labor of love for Jon's family for nearly 30 years, and it's been a character in and of itself throughout my relationship with Jon.  Of course, it was only fitting that Ellie, Sarah, and I all wore Toko jewelry at our wedding!

My Toko trove has grown over the years and each piece has a memory attached to it.  It's always special to open a black and silver box at Christmas and know that Jon or his mum has picked out this necklace or that pair of earrings especially for me from everything they have in stock.  I love hearing stories from Ged and Annette's buying trips to Italy, Mexico, Poland, and Hong Kong - sometimes they go out with an idea of the collection they want to round out, but other times they stumble on new designs that blow them away.  (By the way, did you know that most of the amber in the world comes from the Baltic region?)  Jon worked behind the counter at Toko for years, and it's brilliant to be married to someone who knows so much about jewelry because I can completely trust his judgement.  Here are some of my favorite pieces from their current collection:

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 

Toko has three locations in the south of England (one in London, one in Richmond, and one in Suffolk) but they've also just launched a new website and I wanted to help them spread the word.  They're very generously offering a 15% discount to Betsy Transatlantically readers through the end of September plus a free pair of freshwater pearl studs with your purchase - use the code "Betsy" and you'll be all set.  Toko is only shipping within the UK right now but I don't want those of you who live elsewhere to miss out on all the fun, so Jon's mum agreed we could do a giveaway open to everyone!  As of the writing of this post, I'm not exactly sure what the winner will get because I haven't picked it out yet, but make sure you're following me on Instagram if you want to virtually come along to the Suffolk shop with me to choose the piece.

Do check out the Toko website and let me know if you place an order from them.  Yes, that's my sister-in-law modeling their lines.  It really is very much a family business, you know!  I'm sure you'll love their jewelry as much as I do.

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wedding photos by Tarah Coonan

Thoughts On August

Welcome to August, the month in which bloggers’ yearning for autumn, which has been pitched at a gentle whine for weeks, works itself up to a fevered roar.

I feel differently. I want it to stay summer forever. I love autumn as much as the next boot-wearing, pashmina-wrapping, and chai-drinking 20something, but I’m not ready to admit that this summer is almost over because Jon’s arrival is still nowhere in sight.

We’ve been wrong every time we’ve guessed when he might be able to expatriate. First we thought March, when we misunderstood the difference between the petition being approved and the visa being granted; then we thought June, when we assumed the I-129F would come through first; since then, once the I-130 was sent on from USCIS, we’ve been saying August. “Before the end of the summer,” we’ve assured ourselves and everyone who’s asked. “Jon will be here by autumn.” But it would be a miracle the likes of which the State Department has never before experienced if Jon’s visa were granted in the next few weeks. I know everyone – members of our family, close friends, casual acquaintances, strangers we meet at dinner parties - asks how things are going because they care and are concerned for us, but here's the reality they aren't really prepared to hear:

We’re miserable. We’re miserable and there’s very little we can do about it.

Yes, I know our situation could be worse. I really do know that, I promise, and I know that this whole post is, like I said yesterday, a a self-indulgent wallow. I’m not writing it to gain sympathy – I know I have from you it no matter how hard I smile and promise you that it’s fine and we’re fine and everything will be fine in the end, and that does help a little. But, in a bit more detail, here’s the reality:

Jon and I have been long distance for 797 days. In that time, we’ve spent a total of nine weeks together, most of which fell before our wedding. The vast majority of our first year of marriage will have been spent on opposite sides of an ocean.

The average cost of a non-stop roundtrip ticket from Washington to London is about $1,000. Unless you get really lucky, the cheapest flights start at $700 and it’s almost impossible to find a flight for less than $1,200 each at peak times (like August and Christmas, when we’re most likely to travel given family/work schedules).

Even without visiting each other, the financial consequences of being in a long-distance relationship are difficult to budget for given that we don’t know how long our situation will last. And even with the visits, the demands we’re placing on our families is unquantifiable; both Jon and I have been forced to rely on our parents and sisters for support, both practical and emotional. We should be able to draw strength from leaning on each other, but instead we feel dependent on everyone around us and it's taking a toll on our relationship as a result.

If autumn comes and Jon still isn’t here, we’ll have spent nine seasons apart. We’ll have missed our first wedding anniversary together, plus four out of five birthdays. All of our guesses about when he’d arrive and how hard this whole experience would be will have proven woefully inadequate. So summer, my plea to you is this: stay. Please, August, last a very long time. We can move into autumn once Jon gets here, but until then let it still be summer.

Peach Picking

Last summer, on a muggy Sunday at the end of July, my mom and I drove out into the rolling hills of  of Maryland to go peach picking.  Just down the road from where we picked blueberries the other week, Homestead Farms boasted an abundance of delicious yellow and white peaches plus blackberries that were just beginning to ripen.  I won't be able to go back before the end of the season because of a quick visit to Charlottesville this weekend and my trip to London in August, so I'll have to relive the memories through the photos I took then - and, hopefully, by stealing some of the peaches Mom picks when she goes later this summer!