Toogood?

It’s hard to stay anonymous in Bermuda. I try. I’m not proud of this, but retaining anonymity has been a habit for a long time. I discovered while pregnant that I loathe unwanted attention. I hated not being able to go to the grocery store or a coffee shop and just go about my business without all the questions, “When are you due?” “Is it a boy or a girl?” and on and on. And it’s not like I was a run-of-the-mill, cute, little pregnant lady. No. I was a huge, bloated mess. I endured months of questions and well-meaning, but hurtful comments. “A month? I thought you were due any second!”

“Why or why can’t I just blend in and be normal and average?” I’d think to myself.

Well, I have a talent that’s hard to disguise and has brought me a degree of notoriety. I play tennis well. Not very well. I mean, there are levels. If we’d moved to Southern California, my arrival would not have caused a ripple of attention. I would be a lowly, over-populated rabbit in the food chain – not the majestic, endangered wolf. But in Bermuda, I am a wolf and news is spreading. The tennis pro at Coral Beach passes my name around. I beat the best player at our club 6-1, which was the first set of singles I’d played in 5 years. Bermuda’s competition is less than stellar. My opponent told me that there are four women (including me) that play reasonable tennis.

It could be worse, of course. I suppose in a place this small, I was bound to be known for something.

But now, I’m recruited to play in tournaments and in tennis leagues. I feel a bit like I don’t have a choice really as to who I want to be in Bermuda. At first, moving here felt like starting over. There’s a freedom in nobody knowing you. And now I’m pigeon-holed. “Someone else told me that we really have to get Heidi Coleman out on the court so we can post some wins,” Victoria, the captain of Coral Beach’s team, tells me.

I’m Heidi Coleman, the tennis player. I’m too good – to blend in and be part of the many. I’m too good to be ignored.

Before I started working, I played in a Monday tennis group. There was a woman there who came a bit reluctantly, so we bonded. She’s competitive and a crafty player. Her best sport is squash, and she doesn’t take tennis very seriously. I can’t tell you why exactly, because we didn’t talk a lot, but I could tell that she’s someone I could be friends with. I haven’t made friends yet with anyone. I haven’t felt the need for a social circle. When we were leaving I asked her name, so that our husbands might connect for squash, “It’s Toogood. Carolyn Toogood.”

I kid you not.

Pete tells me, “I made so-and-so up into a friend.” Lately, he’s “making up” a lot of kids into friends.

We’ll see if I make Carolyn Toogood up into my friend.

More Bermudian History – Pete Style

“Do you know what, Mama?”

“No. What?”

“The settlers didn’t have toothbrushes. They built their houses from sticking together stone blocks. And they didn’t have bathrooms. They pooped in a bucket.”

(Pause)

“Do you know what else?”

“No.”

“The settlers came to Bermuda on a boat called the Sea Venture, but it wrecked.”

C-cow

“Mama, do you know that a c-cow is a bird?” asks Pete

“No Pete, I didn’t,” I reply, wondering where this is going.

“It’s not like a cow. It doesn’t go ‘moo’ or give milk. It flies.”

He continues, “The settlers ate the c-cows. They ate them, so there was none left. Then Mr. Wingate found three, but one flew away.”

Pete is learning about Bermuda’s history in school. Out of the blue, he’ll share these tidbits, usually at dinner or at bedtime.

He’s clearly learning a lot and so am I. He was a little confused about pronouncing the bird’s name. It’s cahow.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bermuda_Petrel

So, you’re from California?

This is what I hear all the time. And it brings me back to my days living in Italy. My Montessori trainer, Camillo Grazzini (imagine a short, white-haired, chain-smoking Italian man), would say, “Miss Wallenfels, you’re from California, and as we know all things new start in California.”

“Actually, I’m from Washington State,” I’d clarify.

“So, in your state of California…” he’d continue undeterred.

I think I corrected him again and then stopped. This was his way. Was he arrogant or was I? Is it too much to think that people outside the US should distinguish between California and the rest of the West Coast?

Well, I have to admit that I had to look up where Bermuda was when I first met Paul. And people in Seattle often confused Bermuda with the Bahamas. So I guess it’s no big deal.

I’m the girl from California – give or take a thousand miles.

Poby or Teter

Our neighbors, the Gibbons, have two children Kaylie (7) and Toby (5). Jones lane is girl-heavy. Kaylie has lots of friends to play with, but apparently there’s been a dearth of boys – until we moved in. As luck would have it, Toby and Kaylie also attend Somersfield, although Toby and Pete are not in the same class. Still, it felt like a connection. On one of our first nights, Toby came over to introduce himself. An energetic, friendly boy with a slight frame and a high-pitched voice – identifiable at great distances, Toby was ecstatic to play with a boy his own age (Toby and his parents were confused about Pete’s age for quite a while). Pete, who had long been surrounded by girls, was equally taken with the idea of playing with a boy.

They’ve become inseparable with whole weekends spent in and out of each other’s houses.

Although I’ve come to loathe celebrity couple nicknames like “Bennifer” or “Brangelina”- to amuse ourselves Paul and I call them “Poby” or Teter (behind their backs, of course.) Sometimes, we call them Tete – but that seems too mean.

Neighborly

Pete looks like my dad. My dad chats to everyone. He’s a master. Dad’s the type who knows everyone in the neighborhood and everyone knows him. I’m the introverted type who hides from my neighbors.

When Pete was little, I wondered if he would be like my father, as well as look like him. I imagined a future where Pete would be greeting people on the street, while I ducked behind the bushes.

As Pete’s personality emerged, it became clear that while he outwardly resembles my father, he’s very much a mixture of Paul and me – shy and shier. I forgot about my premonition – until we moved to Jones Lane.

The culture of Jones Lane is that the neighborhood children wander about and play with each other and at each other’s houses in a very relaxed informal manner. Not a lot of arranged play dates – more of a show up and play sort of thing. Parents phone each other to make sure so-and-so comes home for dinner. It’s not unusual to wind up with odd shoes or raincoats or toys in your house.

A couple of weeks ago we had a knock on our door. Isabelle, a bright, friendly girl of nine was going door-to-door with her mother selling wrapping paper (yes, Erika – we have to sell that damn paper in Bermuda too. Everybody does!) We introduced ourselves to our new neighbor and mentioned that we have a daughter, Ellie, and a son, Pete. We were all crowded around the door at this point. She looked at Pete and said, “Yes, I know Pete. I think he’s been at my house a number of times.”

Shy Pete apparently knows the whole street. Not only knows them, but has played in their houses. How did this happen? Well, Pete met Toby – and Toby became his entrée into Jones Lane society.

 

Rain, Rain, Go Away – Not really

It rained all day yesterday. Torrential downpours ruined my tennis plans, but that’s okay.

Bermudians acquire a very personal appreciation for rain. In spite of being surrounded by sea water, Bermuda does not have a natural source of drinking water. There is a desalination plant that strips the ocean’s bounty of salt – in case of a drought. But by in large Bermudians collect their own rainwater for drinking and bathing.

A Bermudian roof collects the rain in a large gutter, which funnels it down various pipes at the corners of the house. The rain then travels down the interiors of the stone walls to an underground water tank. Apparently, Bermudians used to put algae-eating fish in the tank to keep it clean, but Paul assures me we utilize more modern methods. I’m not sure what those are and when I asked Paul for more information – I got the feeling that “ignorance is bliss.” (Imagine me covering my ears, saying “La-la-la-la-la-la!”) I guess we clean it once in a while – but not too often.

Moving on – the children are enrolled in a country-wide fluoride distribution program. Parents sign a release form for the schools to give out fluoride tablets to Bermuda’s children.

The tiered construction is not for rain collection, but rather for withstanding hurricanes. Don’t ask me to explain the physics. I write what I’m told.

Here are some pictures:

No Winter Swimming

The Mountlake Terrace Pool, 15 minutes (in good traffic) north of Seattle, buzzes with children taking swim lessons year round. It’s an indoor pool with different areas for various aged children. After the half hour lessons they can play in the free swim portion, which is shallow enough for three year olds to “swim” without an adult in the pool, although one must watch from the sideline. A slide, small geysers, a waterfall, and movable swim toys – such as plastic sharks entertain the children, as they feel free to explore and experiment with the skills they’ve just learned.

Pete and his cousins – Sophie and Kate took swim lessons there all last winter. The winter nights in Seattle are long. It’s dark before 4:30, which means a lot of inside time. Swim lessons seemed like the perfect thing, when trips to the park, riding bikes or playing in the dirt were untenable. They need to learn and it keeps them active.

By the way, Pete loves to swim. Something happens when he gets into the water. It’s as if he’s been returned to his natural habitat and a look of pure joy illuminates his face.

We swam a lot during the summer, but we discontinued the bi-weekly lessons. Finally able to go outdoors, I opted to let them make sandcastles at the beach and run around a soccer field, rather than commit them to the lessons. I thought that we’d swim for fun and resume formal training once fall/winter came around.

I assumed that would be possible in Bermuda. But guess what? Swimming lessons are only given in the summer! There is no indoor pool in the entire country (according to Paul – but I’ve asked around a bit and this seems to be true). January and February temperatures drop down into the 60s. It can be rainy and chilly. Not good swimming weather.

When I asked around about swimming lessons, people looked at me as if I were crazy. Or a look of pity crossed their faces as they said, “It gets awfully cold in the winter.” They (and I mean more than one person) said this as if they were thinking, “Poor thing, she’s confused Bermuda with the Bahamas, she doesn’t realize we have seasons here.”

Yes. I educated myself on Bermudian weather before I came. I just didn’t think swimming stopped completely in the winter. Am I the crazy one? Or are the Bermudians off their collective rocker?

They might give some thought as to why they’ve never produced an Olympics-caliber swimmer.

I had a hard time – a very hard time – coming to terms with the fact that Pete, my lovely aquatic ape, has to wait a whole year before resuming swim lessons. I finally let it go yesterday and made a new plan for his activities this winter. He’ll be fine; it’s me who feels defeated.

Not getting what I want, when I want it – was something I didn’t anticipate minding. Paul brought it up before we moved. We wondered if we’d gotten soft, living in the US, but I couldn’t imagine wanting something so badly that I just couldn’t wait.

See, it’s the unanticipated things that blindside you.

Coffee or Tea?

I planned to give up coffee upon moving to Bermuda. You see, I am a spoiled Seattleite. The best cup of coffee in town awaited me every weekend morning at Hiroki’s – just a two minute walk to ambrosia. Unfortunately, he doesn’t open early enough weekdays to satisfy my addiction, but there were three acceptable alternatives a minute up the road from him.

Once I decided to save money by making my own cup. I bought the filters, the coffee, a little, red, plastic thingy where the filter goes – but the results were dreadful. I experimented with different amounts of coffee; I tried grinding my own beans and trying various degrees of grinds. All with terrible results. Discouraged, I went back to walking down the street or shopping at Whole Foods (excellent coffee).

I knew there was no way I was getting coffee up to my standards – as spoiled and ridiculous as that sounds. There isn’t even a Starbucks, because Bermuda doesn’t allow chain restaurants (KFC was grandfathered in).

So I made the decision to leave my coffee in Seattle and take up tea drinking. That lasted all of …. Well, it didn’t last. Let’s face it; as much as I enjoy a good cup of afternoon tea at Coral Beach, tea is no substitute for coffee.

I love the taste of coffee. I love the smell. For a long time, I loved everything about it except for the caffeine. That was pre-children. Now I love that too.

There are coffee shops in Hamilton and the first few weeks, I walked around quite a bit – running errands and grabbing a cup various places. Most days I was able to buy a cup, even if I had to wait until the afternoon. The quality varied from sub-par to par. There is one place towards the back of town – on the way to TCD – that sells good coffee. Not Hiroki coffee, but it tastes good. Unfortunately, it’s really out of the way.

Now that I’m driving and fairly settled, I don’t go to town every day. I don’t go grocery shopping every day. And soon I’ll be working all day for four months. I grew concerned about my coffee consumption. How would I get my fix? I realized I would have to make my own.

So I bought some Godiva coffee at Miles (the fanciest grocery store in Hamilton) and took out my never used French press. The results have been very good. I was so surprised. It took a couple of times playing with ratios, but I found the formula.

Isn’t that good news? Coffee gives a smackdown to tea every day of the week. It’s comforting to know my addiction survived the move.

Made in China

This label on clothes and merchandise permeates Bermuda. Everything sold here was made in China. I realize this phenomenon isn’t unique to Bermuda. Certainly, the U.S. imports from China. But it seems different here. It must have to do with how expensive it is with shipping and import duty to buy or sell any good in Bermuda. The cost of living is quite high – even with all the Chinese imports.

Someone from the UW Writing program wrote an article about avoiding buying anything made in China – for one month while living in Seattle. The writer had spent a great deal of time in China and was aware of the working conditions. Apparently, it was quite difficult (the student was from the year before I attended). I defy anyone to go a week, much less a month without making a “Made in China” purchase here. Can’t be done.