Have I forgotten?

 It was my first day back at school and I had the scaries.

I tried it all.

 I begged, “Do I have to?”

I cried, “But I don’t feel well.”

I bargained, “Just one more day. I’ll go tomorrow.”

And I lied, “I don’t know where my shoes are and my trousers are too tight.” 

Okay, so the trouser thing wasn’t a lie as I have been on holiday to America. Unfortunately, there was no Mum, exasperatedly telling me that I had to go because she was sick of me under her feet ALL SUMMER LONG! WHY DO THEY HAVE TO HAVE SIX WEEKS OFF? WHAT A WAY TO SPOIL AUGUST!

No, it was all down to me to be the adult to my scared inner child and my adult was useless. The Long Suffering Husband was playing golf but he would have just encouraged me to join him in early retirement. 

“What if I can’t remember how to teach?” I asked myself.

“You probably won’t. It’s been a while and you’re not getting any younger!”

“I don’t really know what I’m going to do with them.”

“You shouldn’t have spent the whole six weeks gallivanting then. I did tell you. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail!”

“I feel so tired already.”

“Ha! That’s nothing. All your friends have retired already. Maybe that’s telling you something?”

If you have children who were wobbly about going back to school and you were railing against the latest TikTok trend of making a ‘back to school box’, filled with beige but aesthetically pleasing items then it’s worth remembering that their teachers were feeling the same.

Usually, as soon as you have 30 small faces in front of you, some reflecting your fear, others mirroring your tiredness and one or two hanging, adoringly on your every word, it all comes back.

It didn’t.

I have forgotten how to teach. I’ve forgotten so much about teaching in six short weeks. I’ll make a list of the things I’d forgotten.

1. How noisy schools are.

2. How much children want to touch you.

3. How difficult it is to stay upright when a child sees you from across the playground and decides that they absolutely have to launch themselves at your knees.

4. How many acorns can be slipped into your coat pocket on playground duty.

5. How small my bladder is after 6 weeks of going to the toilet whenever I like.

6. How my room isn’t quite big enough to keep all the children who shouldn’t be together apart.

7. How I work is Satan’s Armpit. The rainforest has nothing on the humidity of my room.

8. How completely unable I am to say No

9. How many children fart after lunch

10. How hungry everyone is. (9.30 conversation through tears: I’ve missed my lunch)

11. How much cake is always on the staff room table.

12. How attractive murder Tv programmes or books are after a long day of teaching. 

13. How much work there is to do before and after you go to work. 

14. How  dangerous staples can be.

15. How honesty isn’t always the best policy. 

16. How competitive children are and how you can get them back on side with a challenge.

17. How good a weekend feels after a week at school, especially on NationalReadABookDay. (Isn’t that every day?)

Trolleys, trams and waymos

 Our final full day on the Long Suffering Husband’s 60th birthday adventure was spent exploring the transport of San Francisco. After yesterday’s hilly walking, I relented and bought a day’s Muni pass. However, as you age your mapping skills become worse and you find yourself panicking (or arguing) about the location of the bus stop and the direction of travel. All of this is made worse by the fact that you have never had a sense of direction and the LSH has a Samsung phone.

“It’s ridiculous,” he huffed, “You’d think in this day and age you’d be able to get on the internet almost anywhere but especially in a big city.”

We are both on the same network but my iPhone was having no trouble at all.

“It’s Silicon Valley. Maybe you just have the wrong phone?” I joked.

The LSH was not amused. Luckily, I am an IT expert and so on the penultimate day of our holiday I googled how to fix the problem. 

In the meantime small fierce women at bus stops were there to help us. All women in San Francisco appear to be short, forceful and opinionated. Americans in general are so loud but San Franciscans come with some added quirks. They like to tell you about Harry and Megan living in Santa Barbara, are extremely disappointed when you say you have no opinion on it and when you say, ‘Thank you,’ their reply is always, ‘YES.’

Once we got the hang of it, though, riding the buses was much easier. It feels as though you are going round in circles because streets are exceptionally long. You can start on one bus, getting on at Sutter, travel for a mile. Get off and catch the next one from a stop you turned right to get, travel another 3 miles and get off at Sutter. 

“They only go in straight lines. It’s very confusing,” I complained, “It feels as though we are going around in circles.”

“We are,” replied the LSH, who was grumpy because of his phone signal. 

Once it was fixed, however, he realised that the reason they travel in straight lines is because they are trams; early electric vehicles that get their power from overhead wires. 

The modern electric vehicles make the whole of San Francisco sound like the set of Logan’s Run, which although the cars on that film were solar powered, the film makers accidentally captured the noise perfectly. San Franciscans have completely embraced the electric car and the whole city thrums with the sound of them. They even have driverless electric Ubers. 

As you walk around you start to get used to empty driver’s seats. The little white Waymos begin to have a personality of their own. Sensors spinning on the top and sides, you sense their cautious anxiety, even though you know they’ve been programmed by a laid back dope-head in an air conditioned office just outside San Jose. 

One bus stop woman told us that she’d seen one with a child in the front passenger seat. “Now, who would think that was a good idea?” she shouted.

Anyone who hasn’t read the Passengers by John Marrs who is under 40 I suspect. (Do read the Passengers - it’s a brilliant novel). I could certainly see the appeal of never having to do the school run, or drop off for ballet classes again. Just pop them in a Waymo on their own and they don’t even have to talk to strangers. 

She also told us a funny story about them. Apparently, they live in the posh end of town. They have a parking lot where they sit and wait to get your buzz from the app. Never turning off. Awake all night. Waiting. No wonder they’re anxious. Anyway, residents of the expensive condos that neighbour the parking lot have been complaining that the Waymos have been disturbing their sleep. The company in Mountain View explained the problem. The poor little things are not coming back home after an hard day at work and partying all night long but instead they’re getting confused. They are programmed to beep to avoid low speed crashes and when they get too closely packed together these sensors are activated. They’re a bit like the sea lions, who honk all night and bash necks if they get too close.

We were not brave enough to try a Waymo (I’ve read the Passengers and I think too much) but we did go back in time and ride the trolleys, which require a strong man to operate, engaging and disengaging them from the cables with a foot pedal and pulling the brake on with a hand lever and another to stand at the back and make sure no one falls off. Such fun! It appears that we are not adverse to danger, only we prefer the old fashioned kind. 

I hope you die

 San Francisco is full of small, fierce Chinese women. We started our day walking to pier 33 to catch the Ferry to Alcatraz and as we walked through Chinatown the first thing we heard (and saw) was a small woman get out of a taxi. She looked furious - her brows were knitted and she pulled her shopping bags from the backseat with the kind of force usually reserved for helping an elephant out of sinking sand. She slammed the door and leant into the passenger window and shouted, with a heavy Chinese/San Fran accent, “I hope you die!”

It was a shock. Especially as on the morning of his 60th Birthday he had been contemplating his mortality. 

Alcatraz was his choice of Birthday destination. It was fascinating but there were a number of prisoners who had pre-echoed the words of the small woman.  Exploring San Francisco on foot will leave you wondering if you are going to make it. The hills, the hills, the hills. Such steep hills. I know we should have caught a tram but as I said to the LSH, you get to see so much more on foot.

I’m not sure but I might have heard him whisper, “I hope you die,” under his breath.

Favourite tree

 Everyone should have a favourite tree. If you’ve not thought about it then you should. I like a huge singular oak tree, one in the middle of a field that has witnessed years in splendid isolation. I was quite impressed with the lone Cyprus at Pebble Beach for its ability to grow where nothing should but with golf anything is, apparently, possible so I’m less impressed. Also, I’m not that keen on a pine - they’re a bit sappy. 

The Long Suffering Husband had wanted to go to Mariposa Grove in Yosemite because he thought big trees were his favourite. When we got there he was disappointed. 

“Maybe these aren’t the trees you are looking for,” I said mangling a movie quote. I’m not sure what it is about America that makes me talk movies.

“Maybe it’s Redwoods I need,” he agreed.

We managed to squeeze in a little stop at a redwood forest on the way. Henry Cowell Redwood Forest in Felton, San Diego was the perfect place to stop. A little forest bathing before nearly dying from the stress of driving in San Francisco was what we both needed. Our powers of prognostication were obviously good. 

“That’s better,” said the LSH, “These are the trees I’m looking for.”

I have to admit they were quite magnificent, if a little too close to each other and sappy for my liking. 

The LSH has a new phone with an AI camera. It has irritated me a little, while I’ve been lying on the forest floor and playing with focal length and shutter speed, he can get a better snap, even while his phone case is flapping. This makes his photos near giant redwoods like being in the hall of mirrors. 

I can see the appeal of a tree that makes you look tall and skinny. 

I have lost my camera lead so all photos from now on in my Facebook photo dumps will be phone photos. 

His bookshop

 Regular readers will know that it’s a bookshop (or a library) that makes my heart sing but for the Long Suffering Husband it’s golf. In the way that my nose twitches as we walk along a street with a bookshop he has a sixth sense for golf courses. We can be driving along and he’ll say, “Look at that course!” or “See those bunkers!” I will squint off into the distance until I see a few Steves in poloshirts and a Michael Jackson glove. (If you want to test my theory then stand on the edge of a golf course and shout, ‘Steve!’.

Monterey is the most beautiful place. Our hotel is perfect and it happens to be where the US open golf tournament is held every year. 

Pebble Beach is a community for rich golfers. There are 5 courses, next to the sea with huge houses and country clubs, built around a road called 17 mile drive. For a small fee of $12 you can spend all day exploring this 17 mile road. Women were looking right, towards the sea and men were looking left, imagining taking that shot or critiquing the drives they had just witnessed.

Seeing the LSH so happy in the beautiful relaxed place may have been the best part of this holiday, so far. 

John Steinbeck worship

 Before we left home I made a list of bookshops because if I’m  overwhelmed or a bit anxious a quick sniff of some lovely new books can set me right. With such a full-on trip I knew there would be moments. Once I’d made the list, though, ticking them off has become a challenge. Not that we needed any extra challenges. 

We had a long drive from Yosemite to Monterey. It wasn’t very exciting, except for the acres and acres of tree farms. Unfortunately, the Long Suffering Husband wouldn’t let me stop to buy 20 avocados for a dollar, although on reflection I don’t know what I’d have done with 20 avocados. 

I was quite excited to find that we were booked into a hotel on Cannery Row. John Steinbeck was the first literary author I enjoyed. My classmates complained about having to read such a boring book but I read all night with my torch under the covers, crying over poor misunderstood Lennie and bristled with injustice. I went on to read The Grapes of Wrath and East of Eden but so many books, so little time has meant that my reading of Steinbeck stopped there. Cannery Row has been on my TBR pile for a while.

John Steinbeck grew up in Salinas, which was on our way and his family home has been turned into a restaurant run by enthusiastic middle aged Steinbeck fangirls. I felt right at home. 

As we were leaving one of the women beckoned me over and surreptitiously shoved and handful of something into my hand, placing her finger to her lips and looking round. This is where pockets in clothes come in handy, they are perfect places to hide contraband. 

“What did she give you?” the LSH asked as we left.

I shoved my hand into my pocket and pulled out enough printed paper coasters to host my very own drinks party. I’ve been chuckling about it ever since, although I think book club will enjoy them. 

I know an old lady

 I know an old lady who swallowed a fly, now I know why.

She hired a bike to explore the valley floor of Yosemite National park. I have swallowed enough flies to consider going into hibernation. My protein intake is definitely up. You think, “I’ll just keep my mouth closed. You are meant to breathe through your nose unless you are swimming or doing certain yoga breaths. Just breathe like a normal person,” then the Long Suffering Husband asks a direction related question and you have no option but to eat another couple of flying bugs. 

Apart from the flies I can thoroughly recommend it. The wow factor goes up a notch. 

After, we went on a bear discovery walk. (To learn about them not see them). They estimate there are 300-500 bears over the whole of Yosemite (747956 acres).

Ranger Will, who seemed a little lost without a surfboard told us that bears hibernate once they’ve eaten enough. A little girl told him about the time she saw a bear and he said, “Cool. Gnarly dude!” The LSH couldn’t stop saying ‘gnarly’ after that and I fear it may become his favourite word, which might push me into wishing to be a bear even more. They are solitary creatures who live alone, spending 20 hours a day foraging.  Berries are their favourites but quite like an ant or several. They only consider flies when preparing to sleep for the winter. This is a great holiday but the idea of being on my own and sleeping for the winter is appealing.

The downside to being a bear in Yosemite is if you find a good source of food the humans will catch you, give you an earring, call you something stupid like purple 12 and take you miles from where you found the good food. Bears worked out that the best way to get food from humans was to scare them into dropping it. Now the park has a motto: Scare the bear. How the tables have turned!

Our final adventure in Yosemite was to scare ourselves. We drove up to the top of the world (Glacier Point). 

I know an old lady who swallowed some flies.