One year on and I still can’t get a decent cuppa

Last weekend I passed my one-year mark living in San Francisco, and it made me ponder all of the adjustments I have had to make over the past 12 months.

I just about know how to get a decent sup of tea: It’s a cliché, but it’s true – Americans just don’t do tea. The funny thing is, in California especially, they think they do. Many times I’ve asked for tea and been directed to a menu with a dozen or more ‘teas’ of every hue and permutation. But not tea as a Brit would know it. Not black tea. Prime among the culprits is Four Barrel. Yes, it’s a coffee establishment, but they do have a whole ‘tea bar’… that steadfastly refuses to serve you a proper cup of tea. A bearded hipster will construct a whole science experiment for you though, with different leaves, a filter, and a back story about the growers, before finally serving you with a flourish something that is completely undrinkable. In a beaker.

Those establishments that do serve tea will very often give you a cup of hot-ish water and a tea bag. No milk, unless you ask for it, and even then you are very likely to get cream, or a strange thing called Half and Half, which is half disgusting and half repulsive.

So I tend to carry tea with me. Proper tea. Twinings. Even PG Tips will do. That way, if I get blank stares when I ask for tea, I just ask for a cup of boiling water and a small jug of cold milk. It mostly works.

The coda to this is that a year ago, when I started working in our San Francisco office, tea was a foreign concept. We have about a half dozen different coffee makers, which between them seem to employ more technology than the Apollo space program did, but no (black) tea bags, no milk, and no facility for boiling water. So I took matters into my own hands and set up a tea point, complete with kettle, tea bags and even, on occasion, biscuits (note: not cookies).

Slowly, others started joining me in my afternoon ritual of a cup of tea. You can just about squeeze seven cups out of the kettle and now, some days, I have to refill it, such is the love of ‘tea time’. (“It’s cute.”) I like to think I have been a civilising influence.

I know how to cross the road: This is actually a bigger deal than you might think. It took me a while to get into the habit of looking the right way, for a start. And, unlike London, where you take your chances running between the traffic just to get to the other side of Charing Cross Road, here you will rarely see anyone attempting to cross the road except at the crossing, for to ‘jaywalk’ invites the opprobrium not just of motorists but of your fellow pedestrians. Far from embodying the revolutionary spirit you might think, San Franciscans like to follow rules – at least when it comes to crossing the street.

I know how to order breakfast: I am writing this on a flight from San Francisco to Philadelphia and had time for breakfast at the airport before I boarded. While an American breakfast does not hold a candle to the Full English (even my US colleagues agree), the process of ordering bacon and eggs can be baffling for the uninitiated. For a start, there are about a dozen different ways of having your eggs and approximately 18 different kinds of bread for your toast. An English muffin bears no relation to anything you would get in England, bacon is not bacon as we know it (it’s some crispy distant relative), sausages could include turkey, chicken or any other combination of meats, before pork is a consideration, and ‘tater tots’ defy description. So you have to know every possible combination before you sit down. After 12 months, I think I have it down.

I translate: With all of these adjustments and more, I could probably slip by unnoticed, were it not for my accent (Americans still love it, even if they do think I’m Australian half the time) and the language I use, which often baffles people. So I do translate certain terms, just to make myself understood. On the flight earlier, I had to ask for ‘waddurr’, as ‘water’ just wasn’t getting through.

A year in to my American adventure I’ve adjusted pretty well. But I won’t lie, my Britishness does make me something of an exotic creature, which is a nice feeling.

Now, where in Philadelphia can I get a decent cup of tea?

 

 

That’s not quite what I meant…

On a recent trip back to London, my friends were surprised that in the eight months I’ve now been living in San Francisco, I have not picked up an accent. They seemed most disappointed that I was not elongating my Rs, but even more so that I was not using American expressions.

“You mean you don’t say sidewalk, instead of pavement?” Asked Friend No 1. No. “And you don’t say faucet instead of tap?” said Friend No 2. No. After forty-odd years of speaking in a particular way, with a particular vocabulary, you don’t change that quickly, I explained.

But actually, it’s not as cut and dried as that.

I am surrounded by Americans every day. And while people I meet (even the ones who think I’m Australian, which happens about three times a week) love the accent, and my colleagues enjoy the novelty of having a Brit in the office, I don’t really want to be a source of amusement. And certain things I say really are a source of amusement, either because of the way I say them, or because they are expressions that simply haven’t crossed the pond. So while I don’t go around high-fiving people and proclaiming everything ‘awesome’, I do adapt certain pronunciations, and substitute some words or phrases. It just avoids all the quizzical looks. Here are just a few:

Things I only say to Americans:

• Elevator: I don’t care how long I live here, to me it will always be a lift. A Lyft meanwhile is San Franciscans’ preferred alternative to Uber.
• Tomato (as in tomayto, not tomahto): But a potato is a potato. Just don’t ask for a jacket potato.
• Check: ‘Can I get the check please?’ avoids lots of confusion and/or hilarity in restaurants. A bill is a note – something you spend, not something you write. In fact that’s another one – ‘can I get’ instead of may I have’.
• Schedule: Pronounced ‘skedule’ here. I have to check myself every time, but it saves the mocking ‘shedjooooool’.

Things I’ve learned not to say to Americans:

• Plasters: I cut my finger the other day and asked my girlfriend if we had any plasters in the house. ‘What?’ she asked, incredulously, as blood pumped out all over the kitchen floor. ‘Plasters,’ I said, waving my bloody digit in her face. She could hardly contain her mirth as (eventually) she applied a Band-Aid. It seems there are lots of everyday products that Americans refer to by the name of the leading brand name. See also: Saran Wrap (cling film, to you and me.)
• Horses for courses: A perfectly acceptable expression, I thought, for describing… well, it’s bloody obvious what it means, isn’t it? (Apparently not.)
• Using a sprat to catch a mackerel: OK, this one is perhaps not in common parlance even in Great Britain, but I have yet to find a US equivalent that means the same.
• Anything my dad used to say: He had some colourful expressions, some of which I have adopted, which leave everyone flummoxed, a prime example being: “It’s a bit black over Bill’s mother’s.” Actually quite a useful expression in the Bay, where the weather is so changeable.

Things that mean something different to Americans:

Food and drink is the most confusing area. I’ve noted before how San Franciscans will queue for anything, especially where food is concerned. I admire it, actually. Getting a sandwich in the UK means something cold and limp from the chiller in Tesco, but here few people would think of getting a sandwich not made to order. You have to be on your game, too, ready to answer a dozen questions: What size? What type of bread? (some of which I’d never come across before moving here); do you want it toasted? And then there are the fillings and the sides…

• Chicken salad: Now, I thought this was sliced chicken with a bit of lettuce and tomato. No. It’s a kind of mush, that may or may not once have been in contact with poultry of some kind.
• Pickle: Branston, right? Wrong. If you nod when asked if you want pickle (this is usually the eighteenth or nineteenth question, so I’ve usually given up and started saying yes to everything by this point) you will get what appears to be a gherkin of some kind, to accompany your enormous sandwich. And chips, of course. (No, not that kind.)

Best of all though, is the word ‘quite’. This is not a question of pronunciation, but one of meaning. I suppose, strictly speaking, our American friends use it correctly, where as the Brits use it to mean a multitude of things. Much like ‘interesting’.

If I’m asked my opinion on something and I say it’s ‘quite good’, I actually means it’s good. An American describing something in this way would really be saying it is sub-par. ‘Quite good’, as in ‘not completely good’.

I also use it (as do most Brits) to mean ‘I agree’. This is very confusing to my American friends and colleagues; it sounds to them as if I don’t entirely agree. But what’s the alternative? You won’t catch me saying ‘word’.

Mincemeat and Quality Street: Explaining a British Christmas to an American

Adjusting to a new life in America is one thing, but explaining some of our peculiarly British festive traditions is quite something else…

It’s been a while since my last post, and a lot has happened. The posts I almost wrote but didn’t include:

• Playing dress-up: Hallowe’en in the US is scarily crazy
• Crying fowl – a turkey’s eye view of Thanksgiving
• 101 ways to try to forget Trump is about to become President

Maybe I’ll still do that last one at some point.

It’s been busy, then Buzzfeed made me question the value of this blog by summing up (as only Buzzfeed can) everything I’ve wanted to say but couldn’t, in a single post.

But now here I am, staring down the barrel of Christmas, back in the UK for the first time in three months, and looking forward to welcoming my partner to Britain on her first trip here. And that’s rich source material, right there.

The run-up to Christmas – or should that be ‘The Holiday Season’ – in San Francisco has been an interesting one. In many ways it’s not that different from the last 40-odd I have spent in Britain – twinkling lights, a too-drunk workplace Christmas lunch, a huge tree in the square (Union, rather than Trafalgar) and Christmas songs on the radio (albeit, thankfully, without any Cliff Richard). But like everything, it’s just a few degrees off what I am used to. And with the GF getting increasingly excited about her trip, and curious about what is in store, I have found myself trying to explain or describe a number of things that I have always taken for granted but that actually make no sense…

1. Christmas crackers: “They are cardboard tubes wrapped in coloured paper. You and the person sitting next to you take an end each and it makes a cracking sound… No, I don’t really know how that works… and whoever gets the biggest end gets what’s inside. Which is usually a really bad joke…. Yes, just like the ones I make… a useless ‘gift’ like a miniature screwdriver set or spinning top, and a paper crown. No, I don’t know why. Always assumed it was something to do with the three three kings or something. Anyway, everyone wears their crown for the whole of Christmas lunch… no, no, it’s not a forfeit, it’s, er, fun.”
2. Mince pies: “They are little pies, filled with mincemeat… No, not minced meat, not meat at all, actually, it’s fruit… what, why is it called mincemeat? Er, no idea. Why isn’t it called a fruit pie? No idea. What sort of fruit? Oh, it’s, y’know. Fruit. The fruity kind. Anyway, you have to eat them all over Christmas. Even if you don’t like them. Which lots of people don’t. No, I’ve no idea why. And you can have them cold or hot, and if you have them hot you have cream with them. Or…
3. Brandy Butter: “It’s a bit like butter, but not. I mean it’s made with butter, so I suppose technically it is butter, but it’s also got sugar in it. And brandy, obviously. And you have it with mince pies. No, I’ve never had it with anything else, and never at any other time of year. You can make it yourself or buy jars of it. I think my mum still has a jar in the back of the cupboard, from about 1974.”
4. Quality Street: “Ah yes, they are assorted chocolates. They’ve been around for about a hundred years… no not the actual chocolates, they never last beyond New Year. Except the Orange Cremes, nobody likes those. Anyway, there’s about a dozen different varieties and they come in a big tin – or they used to, at any rate. And everyone has a favourite type. You have to go rifling through the tin when it gets passed around, to find the one you like best, but make it look all nonchalant, like ‘I don’t really mind what sort I get’ when secretly you’re thinking ‘If some selfish f*cker has eaten all the Caramel Swirls my Christmas will be ruined.’ I’m sure you can buy them at other times of year, but eating them outside of the Christmas period just wouldn’t feel right. A bit like Twiglets. Hold on, I’ll come back to that. Anyway, you know Christmas is really here when the supermarkets have aisles full of Quality Street. A bit like when the newsagent gets the Christmas edition of…”
5. The Radio Times: “It’s a TV guide. What? Well I guess it dates back to when there was just radio, and no TV. Anyway, it’s published every week but at Christmas they publish a bumper two-week edition with all the listings for Christmas TV. Yes, I know there are apps for that, but it’s a tradition. Anyway, everyone buys it and goes through it, circling the programmes they want to watch, record or fight over. Like…”
6. Christmas episodes of soaps: “These are wildly and unfathomably popular, and unremittingly miserable. Someone always dies. Yes, I know, very Christmassy.”
7. The Queen’s Speech: “It’s a Christmas message from the Queen, broadcast on the main channels on Christmas Day. What does she say? Well I’ve never watched it but it’s probably something like ‘At this time of year our thoughts to those less fortunate… which is basically everyone in the whole world.’ Anyway, some people take it very seriously and insist that Christmas lunch is finished in time for them to watch it ‘live,’ even thought they could record it if they wanted to. And it’s recorded in October. Mind you, although I’ve never watched it, I’d still rather watch that than…”
8. Mrs Brown’s Boys: “The most popular programme on television over the whole of Christmas. Awful. Unwatchable. Enjoyed by the kinds of people who voted for Brexit. Probably.”

So that’s most of what any American needs to know about Christmas in Britain. Oh, except for Only Fools and Horses, drunken violence in most towns and cities on Christmas Eve, and don’t expect a big ham.

Happy holidays, everyone.

Now pass the Twiglets…

A Tale of Two Cities

San Francisco is a city of fantastic wealth… and terrible poverty.

While I have begun to settle in to my adopted city of San Francisco, I am still able to view it with some detachment, and it is certainly a city of contrasts.

Many who work in Silicon Valley live in San Francisco, and the high salaries that so many there are able to command means the city is home to countless high end restaurants and boutiques, and houses that go for eye-watering amounts, even by the standards of someone who spent so long living in London. This wealth, combined with a growing population crowding into a city that, due to its geography, cannot really expand, means that accommodation prices are pushed up across the board. (My one bedroom apartment costs about the same to rent as I am receiving in rent from my three bedroom London flat.)

But not everyone lives and works in the high-paying tech bubble of Silicon Valley. San Francisco is a functioning city, with the same need for street cleaners, shop workers, teachers, civil servants… And they do not share in the city’s wealth.

This was brought home to me earlier this week when my work colleagues and I volunteered at the San Francisco and Marin Food Bank. I had been expecting a modest operation – maybe a few racks of shelving with canned food and a drop-in center of some kind. No. The Food Bank is a huge warehouse, and its distribution network is massive and highly sophisticated. We were told the Food Bank distributes 50,000 lbs of food every year. Where does it all go?

San Francisco has a large and highly visible homeless population. I looked it up: There are 795 homeless people here for every 100,000 – second only to New York. There are whole communities of people living in tents, cheek by jowl with the city’s wealthy (and which some billionaire tech investors simply want swept away). I had assumed that it would be these people that our efforts at the Food Bank would be helping, but I was wrong. The majority of the Food Bank’s aid is directed at what they call the working poor, people who hold a full time a job – sometimes two or three jobs – but still find it hard to pay the rent and feed their families in this expensive city. It’s a sobering thought.

The people I see in the Tenderloin neighbourhood, close to where I live, are a visible reminder of San Francisco’s social problems – homelessness, poverty, addiction, mental illness – but there is a whole world of poverty that is largely hidden, and no less troubling.

If this is the tech capital of the world, how come chip and pin is such a problem?

As well as the many contrasts with the UK, San Francisco is also full of contradictions…

I could write a book, let alone a blog post, on the challenges of opening a US bank account. OK, not a very interesting one, but a book nonetheless. And a long one, at that. But now I have a US account, it has highlighted for me one of any number of contradictions I have noticed about my new home: Paying for stuff by card.

I don’t know whether it’s a San Francisco thing or a US thing generally, but cash isn’t really done – except for tips, of course (and there’s probably a whole post around that, too). So everything is paid for by card. This is actually fine, because unlike the UK, there is a charge for withdrawing cash from an ATM that is not your bank. But three things have struck me as odd:

1. Silicon Valley is actually pretty analogue: As a European, who has lived with chip and pin since the early 2000s, it is very strange to be asked to sign a piece of paper to authorize a payment. OK, sometimes you sign a screen at the terminal, but even so. I seem to remember when chip and pin was introduced in Britain, the hateful Daily Mail and their ilk were frothing about the lack of security, as well as the fact that this was something being ‘imposed’ by ‘Europe’. But here, more than a decade later, in the tech capital of the world, there is still a suspicion about chip and pin. Even among young people. Get with the program, guys!
2. Security is non-existant: Cyber security (or ‘the cyber’, as The Donald calls it) is big business. Tech companies in Silicon Valley make billions of dollars from offering sophisticated anti-fraud protection. And yet, unless I am missing something, restaurateurs in particular are at risk every day from the most basic form of card fraud. Here’s how it works: I go to a restaurant, I ask for the bill. (Sorry, the check.) The check comes, I give them my card. They take it away, run it through the machine and bring it back for me to sign. I sign, I leave. Nobody compares my signature with the one on the back of my card. What’s to stop me signing ‘Mickey Mouse’ or ‘Mark Zuckerberg’? Or, more to the point, what’s to stop anyone who got hold of my card doing the same thing? Here’s an idea: Chip and pin.

For clues as to why the US is determined to have the world’s least secure credit cards, see this excellent article in The Atlantic.)

Now, don’t get me started on the challenges of changing your iTunes account from the UK to a US one….

There’s Nothing Funny About Nob Hill: Five Things I Learned From My First Week Living in San Francisco

Before moving here last Friday, I had already spent quite a bit of time in San Francisco – I’ve been back and forth five or six times this year, I think – but there is a big difference between visiting somewhere, even frequently, and living there. Here’s what I have learned so far…

1. There’s nothing funny about Nob Hill. Without exception every one of my British friends has sniggered like an 11 year-old schoolboy when I told them I was going to live in Nob Hill. Responses ranged from “I bet you are” to “You can get an ointment for that”. This has thrown highlighted for me one of the major cultural differences between Brits and our American cousins – the sense of humor. While I was raised on a diet of Carry On films, On the Buses and Viz, this type of saucy seaside postcard humor does not translate. There is nothing funny about Nob Hill to a San Franciscan. Nor is there anything funny about the area between Nob Hill and the Tenderloin, known as… Tendernob. (I know.)
2. George Bernard Shaw was right when he said “England and America are two nations divided by a common language”. It’s not like I have difficulty making myself understood; I’ve spent long enough in the company of Americans to know that rocket is arugula, a queue is a line and shrimps and prawns are essentially the same thing, but there are still linguistic surprises at every turn. The California Girlfriend (CGF) is particularly fond of pointing these out. Use of the phrase “good job” (as in “good job I brought a jacket”) never ceases to amuse her, and I spent several minutes trying to explain what cling film is. I still don’t know what she calls it.
3. San Franciscans love to queue, or should I say ‘stand in line’. I mean, I thought Brits loved to queue, but San Franciscans will queue for anything, quite happily. I don’t just mean for a good brunch spot, just this morning I’ve seen lines stretching half a block for ice cream, baked goods and coffee. Coffee! I mean you can get coffee anywhere. Especially here, were it is some sort of religion, as far as I can tell.
4. No-one has a washing machine. I thought this was just a convenient plot device in The Big Bang Theory, but it’s true. I mean I haven’t not had a washing machine since Before Bill Clinton was President, but here it’s perfectly normal to undergo the weekly ritual of traipsing down to the laundry room and returning later to find your wet clothes on the floor.
5. Drinking is not a national sport. I sort of knew that Brits drink more than Americans, but this was brought home to me when a colleague suggested we all go on a bar crawl. I suggested a kitty (another word they had not come across and found both hilarious and perplexing) and they bought into this idea. I don’t think we even spent it all. We ended up in a Chinese restaurant (as many a bar crawl is wont to do) but this was after all of two We drank Chinese tea. To paraphrase Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz: “We’re not in Camden anymore.”

It’s been a great first 10 days, with everything you could hope for from this great city: sunshine, fog, hills, amazing sunrises and sunsets, every type of food and today, just for me, rain – the first the city has had since May. It’s full of little differences, each one to be celebrated.

 

The Long Goodbye (Part 2)

On my last day in London, my thoughts turn to my new life, and what it holds in store.

In my last post, I pondered answers to questions I have been asked a lot – what I will most miss about London, and what I won’t miss. But the other questions I have been asked a lot in recent weeks are about what I am most looking forward to in San Francisco, and what I am most nervous about.

What I am looking forward to in San Francisco

1. The discovery: I am excited not just about discovering the city and its environs, but also acquainting myself with a different way of doing things. You could say that moving from London to San Francisco is “emigration lite”, but that doesn’t mean there are not marked differences between the two. Everything from food, to working patterns, everything is just a bit different from what I am used to – and discovering and acclimatizing to that is all part of the journey on which I now find myself.
2. The access: I love to travel, and have made good use of having continental Europe on my doorstep these many years. But now, I will have a whole new part of the world to discover. Outside of the US itself (which is vast and diverse and awe-inspiring), I will have easy access to Latin America, whose surface I have only scratched up to now. I plan to clock up plenty of air miles.
3. The CGF: She merited a passing mention in my last post, but the California Girlfriend (CGF) is what I am most excited about. Long distance relationships may appear terribly romantic but they aren’t easy. Being in the same time zone is going to be a huge help!

What I am nervous about

1. I don’t know anyone! My long round of goodbyes has reminded me how many good friends I have in London and the UK. But in San Francisco, outside my work colleagues – who have been incredibly gracious and welcoming and enthusiastic about my joining them – I know one and a half people. Now, I’m reasonably gregarious but if there is one phrase guaranteed to strike terror into the hearts of most Brits (besides “No we don’t serve tea”) it’s probably “Tell us a bit about yourself”.
2. What if it all goes wrong? My employers have been fantastic about the move, my colleagues excited and the CGF pretty much beside herself, but one or all of those things could easily go t*ts up. And then I’ll be slinking back to London with my tail between my legs, never to blog again.
3. Er… that’s it. That really is I’ve been trying to think of a third but the truth is that the positives far out-weight any trepidation I have.

I’m sure I’ll discover other stuff that fascinates or infuriates me about my new home. But that can wait. The journey starts here.

 

The Long Goodbye (Part 1)

The answers to the questions everyone has been asking me.

My last couple of weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind, making final preparations for my move to San Francisco and seeing friends and relatives for one last time before I head off. It’s been a lot of fun and, I admit, a little emotional.

In all of these interactions, I have been asked the same questions a lot: What will I miss (and not miss) about London; what am I most looking forward to about San Francisco; and what am I most nervous about?

That’s worthy of a blog right?

To be honest, when asked, I have struggled with the answers, but as I contemplate leaving the city that has been my home for 25 years, here’s my attempt at answering the first part:

What will I miss most about London?

1. Friends and family: It should be taken as read that my friends and family top the list. Indeed, this whole process has weirdly brought me closer to many. My (first) leaving drinks party was a bit like attending my own wake, with people from all different spheres of my life coming together, people I have known for decades meeting for the first time. Quite emotional. And at the weekend I had lunch with my siblings, their partners and my mother for the first time in…. well, ever? (I think it’s fair to say that as a family we are more like the Simpsons than the Waltons.)
2. Brixton: Brixton has been my home (on and off), or at least my centre of gravity, since I first moved to London in 1991. It’s changed a lot, of course, not always for the better (although those who bemoan the gentrification are viewing the recent past through rose-tinted spectacles). But it’s my home. Yes, there are decent bars and music venues and restaurants in San Francisco, but that doesn’t mean I won’t miss The White Horse, the Brixton Academy and the vibrancy of Brixton Village. And my own flat, of course, which will be someone else’s for the next three years at least.
3. Those ‘London moments’: London is an ever-changing city that never fails to inspire, surprise, thrill… even after all these years. But anyone who, like me, grew up elsewhere and made London their home later in life, knows what I mean when I talk about ‘London moments’. For me it was always crossing the Thames in a black cab late at night, on my way home, and seeing the city in all its glory: St Paul’s to the left, the Palace of Westminster to the right, and realizing this great city is home, and what a privilege that is.

What will I not miss about London?

1. The Central Line: This past week has been a week of ‘lasts’: Last drink with so-and-so, last weekly meeting on this or that, last Pret breakfast… But one thing I can’t wait to come to an end is travelling on the Central Line. The California Girlfriend (CGF) just reminded me that not everyone will knows what that is, so for the benefit of my American friends, the Central Line is the tube line – the red one on the map – that runs East to West through London. And it’s awful. Always busy, always hot, whatever the weather outside. Honestly, walking down into Chancery Court station is like descending into the seventh circle of Hell. Rarely have I been so intimately acquainted so many of my fellow Londoners’ armpits.
2. Paying £12 for a vodka and tonic: By any measure, London is an expensive city, and you kind of get used to it. But it is ridiculous. I mean everything is expensive. Now, having spent some time in San Francisco already, I know that it’s not exactly a bargain basement city either, but honestly!
3. Fad-ism: Keeping track of the latest ‘thing’ can be exhausting. And the ever-evolving nature of London means there is always a new thing to supersede the last one, which quickly becomes sooooooo last week. From cocktails to clubs, music to memes, fashion to food, the pace is dizzying. Many of my friends got off this roundabout long ago, opting to freeze their lives some time in the early 2000s, but if you work in communication like I do, and are surrounded at work by millennials, you can’t help but get sucked in to the fad vortex. And it’s exhausting!

If I appear to be in a reflective mood, it’s because I am. It’s my last working day in the city that has been my home for a quarter of a century, and on the threshold of a new adventure.

 

 

One hour (and one minute) later…

The ‘interview’ at the US Consulate was to be my final hurdle. I was nervous…

Everything about the process of applying for a US visa so far has made me think it is so complicated that not that many people would see it through. I was disabused of this view when I turned up yesterday for my interview at the US Consulate in London, the final hurdle in the journey.

My appointment was 8.30am and, it being another sunny morning in London (I know, right?), I thought I would walk from Oxford Circus to the imposing US Embassy in Grosvenor Square. (I’ve walked through the Square many times, and maybe it is because of late I have been more attuned to London, knowing that I will be leaving it, but for the first time I noticed the statue of FDR.)

Anyway, I rounded the corner just after 8am, to see a gazebo emblazoned with ‘Visas’ outside the Embassy, and a long line of people snaking around the Square.

This was not what I had expected. When I was told I would have to attend an interview at the Consulate, I had imagined sitting in a windowless room with two stern FBI-types firing questions at me, like something out of a movie or a police procedural. If I had given it a little more thought I would have realised that there are so many people in the UK applying for US visas that there was no way this would be practical. (I looked it up later; 137,000 in 2015.)

Oh dear, I thought. This could take some time.

But the staff were very helpful and very efficient, and I was at the front of the line in no time. (See, I’m already saying ‘line’ instead of ‘queue’!)

Having negotiated security (the sign said ‘no guns’ – the irony!) and been given a number I entered the cavernous waiting room. There were about 200 people in there. My number was N136 and the board was showing N66. Any hope of this taking ‘no more than an hour’, as I had been told, was fading fast.

But things moved quickly here, too, and before I knew it I had been fingerprinted and was standing before a little window, a bit like a ticket office. So not like Jason Bourne or Blue Bloods at all.

A pleasant American man (the first I had encountered that morning!) wearing a rather fetching Battle of Hastings tie asked me a few questions – and a minute later that was it. I was approved. The next time I see my passport it will have my visa attached.

As I left the Embassy I looked at my watch. It was 9.25am. The whole process had taken an hour. Just as I had been told.

 

 

No, I am not the kingpin of the illegal trade in human body parts

My experience of moving from the UK to the US would make you think nobody has ever done it before… and wonder whether it’s worth it…

It’s a warm-ish day in early September and I am sitting outside the Ritzy Cinema in Brixton, London, my move to San Francisco just less than three weeks away, and I am contemplating all of the obstacles I have had to overcome in order to get even to this point.

I do wonder if the process is deliberately designed to make it as difficult as possible, to put people off. “Give me your poor, your huddled masses…” But only if you can fill out this 16 page questionnaire first. And prove that no American can do the job you are coming here to do. And that you’re not here to incite revolution. Oh, and did we mention we have a few questions…?

Ah, the questions.

As part of my visa application process I had to complete a very long and detailed questionnaire. I understand why, of course – any country needs to protect its borders and be sure that the people it is letting in are not undesirables. So I settled down one evening with a cup of tea and set to it.

Name, date of birth, address… fine. Last three addresses? Well, OK. Complete work history, including names and telephone numbers of my “supervisors”… this left me scouring the memory banks – and Google; some of those companies don’t even exist anymore. But OK. On we go. Names and dates of birth of my parents… no matter that my father passed away more than 30 years ago and my mother is now a little old lady living in a bungalow in Derby – hardly a criminal mastermind or part of an international terrorist network. Name of my ex-wife. (Shudder.) Address of my ex-wife? No idea. As far as I know she hasn’t moved, but I’m hardly going to ask her. At this point I begin to wonder why the US authorities want all of this information. Are they going to call my ex and ask her if I am a trustworthy individual? If so, I really am f***ed.

Then, about halfway through, the questionnaire takes a turn for the comic – a series of yes/no questions: Have you ever been a drug abuser? Nope. Are you coming to the United States to engage in prostitution or unlawful commercialized vice? Nope. Or have you been engaged in prostitution or procuring prostitutes within the past 10 years? Er, no. Wait, what about that trip to Amsterdam? No, no. Have you ever been involved in, or do you seek to engage in, money laundering? Well I did accidentally leave some dollars in my jeans when I washed them after my last trip; does that count? No.

It goes on… Have you ever committed or conspired to commit a human trafficking offense? Do you seek to engage in espionage, sabotage, export control violations, or any other illegal activity while in the United States? Have you ever committed, ordered, incited, assisted, or otherwise participated in torture? Have you ever engaged in the recruitment or use of child soldiers? Have you ever been directly involved in the coercive transplantation of human organs or bodily tissue? No, I am not the kingpin of the illegal trade in human body parts.

Don’t get me wrong, I perfectly understand that these are things the US authorities need to know about people wanting to enter the country. But here’s the thing: Surely there’s a better way of finding out than simply asking? If that’s all they are relying on then I’m beginning to think the much vaunted US security services are not all they’re cracked up to be. I mean, there’s this thing called lying. I gather it’s quite common.

Anyway, I assume that my answers were sufficient as a little over a week later my visa application was approved.

And now it’s real. It’s happening.

I’m moving to San Francisco.