Classified information

At lunch yesterday with a visiting fellow American, we somehow stumbled on the topic of class divisions. Or rather class identification.

I mentioned that another friend of mine, who just moved back to Sweden after living eight years in London, was dismayed because his English girlfriend was ashamed of the fact that he worked as a hairdresser.

I said that it would probably be the same in the States.

"Yeah, I guess," my American friend said.

Foreigners

Last night, I received a letter from a friend of mine. She and I live remarkably similar lives, only reversed : she is an American, living in the States, married to a Dutch fellow. They speak Dutch in their home, so that their two children will be able to communicate with the Dutch part of the family. We speak English in ours, so that our children can chat with my family.

clap clap clap...collapse

Everybody put your hands in the air, like you really really care! Now... keep them there!

I went to a ballet last week, and I’m still thinking about it. In particular, I’m thinking about how much we clapped. We clapped until our hands were absolutely numb, and then we stood up and we clapped some more. And although fifteen minutes of solid clapping seemed a pittance considering that the performers had been dancing non-stop for ninety minutes, it also seemed like an awful lot of human percussion.

Neither here nor there

If you want to know how it feels to be Lost In Transit, may I recommend a Working Holiday visa. Over 40,000 people come wandering over from the colonies each year, all leaving behind friends and jobs and families to spend two years in the UK.

The honeymoon period is delicious. Everything you see and do is new and exciting, sometimes scary. Every day is stuffed with opportunity and adventure. With no real committments, responsiblities or money, life is pared down to the essentials - work, drink, shag, travel.

To pack or not to pack, that is the question

Supermarkets. Love them or hate them, they can reveal so much about the culture within which you reside.

Announcing Foreign Substance

Allegedly we've inspired someone, people:

Foreign Substance is a new site that aims to 'capture the pulse of planet'. Lost in Transit was one of the inspirations for our site, where bloggers from around the world post dispatches about what's going on in their neck of the planet. Check out the site, let us know what you think about, and feel free to sign up as a correspondent and (cross-) post stories.

How to Survive an Interview

As a foreigner living in a country with very few foreigners, namely Siberia Sevastopol Slovenia, there's always a good chance I will be called upon by a journalist to give an opinion about the country "through foreign eyes." It's basically just me and some Mormons here, and since the Mormons only want to talk Christ, it pretty much leaves only me. These interviews are always a delicate situation, requiring a Metternichian sense of diplomacy and tact. I don't have this at all but, nevertheless, here are some of the things I have learned:

Just Another Morning At The INS

3:30 AM:
The alarm clock interrupts my dreams merciless. I take a shower and wake up my 14-year-old daughter Sarah which is a major challenge at this time of the day. I feed the dog and walk him. Just another morning at the INS is ahead of us.

4:15 AM
We start off not without having checked if we have everything required: 3 INS photos from Sarah, the letter that says that her conditions have been removed from her greencard, her new German passport, her old German children passport with the stamp that proofs she is a lawful conditional resident, and my passport as proof of identity.

4:45 AM
We arrive at the INS. We are lucky and get a parking space right in front of the entry where people have already started to line up. I take my note pad with me - I decided to write a journal of this morning to use the time. It's still dark though and I have no torchlight with me.

4:50 AM
I take my space in the line. Beneath me, a pile of cloth. Later I find out that there is a snoring human being under this pile of cloth.
Sarah stays in the car - please don't fall asleep; I can't leave my spot without loosing it. I mentally prepare to stand here in the cold and darkness of an early California morning for the next 2 hours until they open at 7 AM. 2 hours are not bad. I remember that in February 2001, during the internet boom, I waited six hours to be among the lucky ones who gets one of the tickets that allows you to enter the INS. The first time I was here, I had to go home after waiting five hours because the tickets ran out before it was my turn to receive one. Times have changed - less .com companies, less jobs, less H1B visa applicants, less people waiting.

5:00 AM More people have arrived. 10 more INS customers are already standing behind me. It fills up fast now. It seems we arrived just in time to be among the first batch that will enter the INS once they are open.

5:30 AM
I look around me: A Russian couple is waiting in the front of the line; they are propably in their sixties. I deny the offer of my frontman, a friendly Taiwanese student to take one of his cigarettes and hope he is smoking into the opposite direction as I have asthma. He does and starts a conversation with a beautiful young woman from Marseille, France, an exotic dancer as she tells us. The Mexican family behind me is having breakfast. They are equipped with camping chairs, hot coffee, cereal, milk, a radio, and churros which they offer me. I take one, and a cup of coffee. Good opportunity to brush up my Spanish - not bad at all, it's still there just a little dusty and rusty.

6:00 AM
Sunrise; the snack car is arriving and people are buying hot coffee for a ridiculous expensive price. The snoring blanket moves and a Middle Eastern man is rising and bends towards Mekka. I bend towards the fence to circulate the blood in my hurting back. Afterwards, he tries to enter the line and is shocked how many people have arrived since he fell asleep. I allow him to enter in front of me - nobody complains - after all, he was here first. Unspoken rules - never questioned.

6:15 AM
The line is dwindling now. There are about 150 people waiting to speak to the INS officers. An odd collection of ethnicities, backgrounds, ages, and hopes. "The pioneers of today" comes into my mind. Like the pioneers in the old days we have to overcome obstacles to settle in California. Hey, I am proud to be one of them. "You have to have some chaos left in yourself to be able to give birth to a dancing star", I smile when Nietzsche's saying comes into my mind. We are all heroes in some way. Sarah mentions later at home that "all those who fight in wars should be forced to wait in front of the INS to get to know each other better - then they would not be able to kill each other anymore". Not a bad thought for a consume oriented teenager of 2004.

6:25 AM
Some of the newcomers try to post themselves in the front of the line but get hushed away immediately to the very end. "Screw you" sounds similar in Russian, German, Mandarin, Suaheli, French, and Vietnamese. Funny!

6:30 AM
The sun is now warming my face - what a good feeling. My legs are heavy and start swelling. Sarah joins me in the line and gets milk from the Mexican family. She starts playing with their two little boys.

6:45 AM
An INS officer comes out and buys coffee at the snack car. He walks around, looks at us and disappears.
More people are arriving.

7:00 AM
Three officers are coming out, raising the American flag. One yells into the crowd to get rid of cellphones, bottles, and food.

7:15 AM
The yelling officer is now checking our id. He tells us first 11 people, in a lower voice now, to take off belts and chains. Then he yells at an old Chinese woman who has just arrived, " This is not the park, lady, don't stand here." When the lady does not move, he sends her to the end of the line.

7:30
It's time to say good-bye to my INS friends of today. We are ready to enter. I leave the Mexican family behind, waiting.

7:45 AM
We go to the security check, have to take off our shoes, and then we have to line up at the first counter. There we receive number D 403. We sit down in the hall waiting that our number appears on the screen. All counters are still closed except of number ten. It's doing good to sit after standing in the line since 4:45 AM.

8:00 AM
We are still waiting. Only two numbers have been called since we are here. A lawyer is involved in a discussion at counter number 10. Two more counters are opening plus the spot number seven where they take photos for Employment Authorization Cards. This spot is immediately busy.

8:15 AM
I can see the Mexican family trying to get in with all their camping gear. The officer refuses entry and seems to explain something to the father. The daughter is translating while the mother tries to catch the two younger boys. The father leaves the camping gear outside and the family can enter.

8:30 AM
It's our turn. The screen directs us to counter number ten. The officer is nice, asks a few questions, and starts to take Sarah's finger prints. We have to wait again, then we get back Sarah's passport with the new lawful permanent resident stamp. Her permanent resident card will be mailed within six months and will be good for 10 years. This is a good feeling, welcome to America. Now its only me left who has to wait for removal of conditions. With a little bit of luck, there is only one more trip to the INS left, for me, and then we are ok for the next ten years. Today is our fifth trip, our fifth morning.

9:30 AM
We leave the building and head to Flames on Winchester for hot chocolate and a hearty breakfast. Then we go home to take a nap. It takes us until the afternoon to recover from this field trip.

Right Royal Frenzy

England's well known for it's obsession with royalty. Just visit any tourist shop in London and you'll be staggered by the range of royal memorabilia you can take home and treasure. But why on earth anyone would want a tea-towel with a grim-faced Queen Elizabeth II printed on it is a bit beyond me. Ditto for a postcard of the long-dead Diana, Princess of Wales (I mean, who would you send that to?) or a coffee mug with Prince Charles' jug-eared face adorned on it.

So it came as somewhat of a surprise to find that the Danes are almost as obsessive about their royal family . . .

I come from Ljubljana with a banjo on my knee

I have to hurry up and post this pointless travel bit before Michael M., who lives there, writes something here and makes it obsolete. I went to Slovenia a few weeks ago on business and it was like time-travel.