Happy Halloween

How America handles Halloween is very different to the Irish way. 

Actually, I can only speak for the New Englanders because it may well be different again in the Mid West or over in California.  I know for example that they just don’t do Halloween in the south of Spain.  We went down to Marbella this time three years ago only to discover that it was just another day.  The children still haven’t forgiven us. There was no fancy dress party, no trick or treating, no half-deranged adults dishing out mucho candy.  Well, if we goofed (or got incredibly lucky) that year, we are definitely making up for it now.

Here in the USA, Halloween is taken to a whole new level.  The house decorating starts at the beginning of the month because you need to get an early start to get everything done.  Entire gardens are transformed into graveyards, enormous spiders hang from all conceivable hooks and gallows and every third or fourth garden has a good old fashioned hanging (of a pretend variety obviously!).  The primary component for most homes is oceans of white (or bright green) artificial spider’s web.  It spreads easily over bushes and trees.  I’ve even seen one home where they covered the entire façade of the two story house in webbing.  The result – well the neighbourhood looks a bit like a Hollywood set but its great fun and the kids really love it.  (And we are doing this for the kids – right?)

The trick or Treating is also a bit crazy.  Last year the girls came back with what would equate to two shopping bags of candy.  I went out with the younger two and we just did a few neighbourhood houses but I saw something last year that I had never seen before - ‘honesty baskets’.  This is used when the residents of the house you’re visiting have gone out too (presumably trick and treating) and so they leave a large basket of sweets on their porch.  You’re meant to take one or two bars and move on… Now, is it me?  Do I just have a bad streak, because the urge to take the whole bloody basket and run was almost too strong to resist.  I probably would have swiped the lot only my kids would have told on me.  So we just took a few bits and continued on our trek.  It was lovely to meet all the neighbours and ridiculously warm.  Have I told you that Boston is on the same latitude as Rome and so far this autumn has been glorious?   It’s 24C/76F as I write.   (To my US readers – that would be a heatwave in Ireland!)

We also have an extremely popular neighbour, more popular than any sports celebrity or movie star (well, the movie stars all live in California anyway).  He’s the guy who started Tootsie Rolls.  I don’t think we actually have them in Ireland so I’ll tell you they are to the US what Tayto Crisps is to Ireland – part of the fabric of the society.  It’s a bit like living a few doors down from Santa.  Anyway this guy has taken a view on Halloween and he gives out tons and tons of candy that night.  He literally brings a Tootsie Roll truck home for the weekend.  The thing is, word has got out.  Last year two cop cars and a passing zombie were commissioned to coordinate traffic, pedestrians and marauding werewolves.  It was utterly mad and enormous fun.

So needless to say by the first of November last year, I was a bit worried about the volume of candy in the house and thats when I heard about a new tradition.  He’s called ‘The Changeling’ and he visits your house a few nights after Halloween.  The idea is that the child leaves all the candy they still have left (and the parents haven’t consumed) in a large bag out on the porch.  With it, they leave a note telling The Changeling what they will take in exchange for the candy.  It could be a new set of roller skates or a play station – anything but candy.  That’s the theory.   This way your darling little angel doesn’t actually have to consume all the sugar he or she got on Halloween night.  My first reaction was who is taking who for a ride here?  I mean Santa seems to have gone utterly mad in the last two decades with his generosity.  I gather Chanukah is just as ‘good’ to the kids and now the Easter Bunny (who wasn’t even born when I was a kid) is in on the act and here comes a new guy - the changeling.  I’m thinking of writing him a note and saying - thanks but no thanks unless of course he would take the candy and change it for a nice new handbag….Happy Halloween!   

Love Suzanne

PS.  One Halloween tradition that the great ol’ US of A doesn’t have and I really miss is Barn Brack.  What I would give for a bite right now with some real Irish butter.  Have a slice for me!

I’m just a tourist here.........

One of my darkest moments moving to America was when I discovered that Massachusetts would not accept my Irish driving licence and I would have to resit the test.  In the past twenty five years, I have traded my Irish licence in for an UK one, I’ve had an international driving licence - can’t remember why and I’ve certainly driven all over Europe and the USA on my old and trusted Irish Licence.  That said, Massachusetts is very firm on this.  If you want to live here, you have to have a Mass drivers licence.  It’s odd because in Florida you just swap your Irish one for their local one and then I could have brought a Floridian licence up here and exchanged that for a Mass licence but that would have involved moving to Florida – which I did actually consider at one point. I was that scared of sitting the test.  Was this the first example I saw of a genuine, bona fide scam?  I think so and it gets better!

There are two parts of the test.  The theory was pretty easy because it was geared at eighteen year olds.  One of the questions for example was; if you drink a large amount of alcohol and then take some mind altering drugs a) does one negate the other, b) do they have no affect on your driving C) should you avoid driving?  I kid you not.  OK those ones I could zip through - but how many points do you get on your licence if you’re driving after curfew?  What’s a curfew?  Thankfully they were multiple choice and you only had to get fifteen right out of twenty two questions, God knows why.  Does this mean I only need to pay due care and drive well fifteen out of twenty two days?  The one rule that really knocked me sideways when I got here was that you were aloud to text and drive.  I can’t even walk in a straight line and text so the notion of moving at seventy miles an hour in three tons of metal and texting is really comical (but you’d be amazed at how reasonable it seems after a few months of living here.)  Anyway, that’s old news because they have since outlawed it.  You can still phone somebody and chat away on a hand held phone while driving.  I like that!

So back to the test.  I passed the theory using my cunning and guesswork and avoided all questions about curfews.  Then there was the practical test to worry about.  My husband got me a lesson before the test just to be sure I knew what I was meant to be doing as opposed to what I actually did when driving.  The poor instructor got an awful shock when he saw how old I was.  He was only twenty three years old which meant I had passed my test before he was even born.

He seemed pretty happy with the way I could drive and so the test date was set.  I had to take my driving instructor to the exam because you must have a qualified Mass driver in the car with you when you’re sitting the test, not counting the actual tester who I assume is a qualified Mass driver (go figure) but it’s another hundred bucks gone. I also had to rent the driving instructor’s car because mine had a foot break and not a hand break (heh?) another hundred bucks.  Somebody somewhere in Massachusetts is making a fortune out of testing fully qualified drivers.

And so the test began, the instructor in the back seat, the tester on my right and me - driving the instructor’s car.  He told me to go up to the first set of lights and take a right and I would have; only my light was red.  The tester told me to continue but I didn’t.  Then he said ‘go on,” again and I suddenly remembered the American rule you can turn right on a red on condition there isn’t a sign to say otherwise.  (It’s more sensible than it sounds.)

“Oops,” I muttered and crashed my first red light while being tested - a weird experience.  He got me to do the ever-reliable three point turn, to parallel park (mercifully in a fifty foot gap so there was lenty of room even for me) and then I had to pull out into traffic but as luck would have it there was no traffic.

The pressure was mounting, I was a nervous wreck and so I blurted out that I had been driving in Ireland for twenty five years, I had five kids and I had never had an accident but Massachusetts insisted that I resit the test.  Then to my horror my eyes glassed up.  I could sense the instructor in the back seat panicking. (At twenty five guys have no clue how to handle girls who cry, not to mention old ladies in tears) The tester wasn’t any too happy either.  He directed me back to the testing centre and opened his door to get out.  Just as he was leaving he handed me a little slip of paper and said, “Well done, you’ve passed.” I would have kissed him if he was anywhere near me but then I realised that was why he had jumped out so sprightly.  That is exactly what he was scared of!  Doubtless he had seen my kind before but for me it was a really big deal.  That said, after all the trauma and unnecessary cost there is a silver lining.

Now when I go home to Dublin, I’ll be in a rental and I can drive in the bus lanes.  If a cop catches me I’ll just produce the US drivers licence and my broadest Mid West accent and say, “Sorry Officer, I had no idea.  Ye’ see I’m just a tourist here.”

Babysitting in the USA

Babysitting is a right of passage on this side of the Atlantic, much as it is in Ireland.  Any girl with a bit of cop-on and maturity will find herself baby-sitting for half the neighbourhood in no time.  Such is the case with my first born.  Needless to say, like all things American, they take it to a whole new level over here.  The kids all do CPR training in their final year of Middle school, around thirteen years old.   It’s amazing to think she could execute a perfect Heimlich manoeuvre when I still don’t trust her with the kettle.  She can also save a choking infant,  resuscitate an octogenarian having a heart attack and err, coordinate a full emergency police and fire evacuation from a smoking building.  That last bit wasn’t exactly on the syllabus but it was how she spent last weekend.

It all started out innocently enough when a friend asked me if she was available to mind three boys.  The baby was three and the other two were ten.  My daughter was not only available but delighted to do it.  She entertained them as requested and bedded the little one at the required time, teeth clean and bed time story done.  The two bigger boys had been given permission play a new Halloween game.  It’s called Ghosting.  The concept is lovely.  The kids leave a bag of candy on a friend’s door step with a note saying “You’ve been Ghosted!” Then they hide in the garden and watch their friend’s delighted reaction.  Said friend gets a lovely bag of sweets and must pass on the good luck by Ghosting somebody else in the neighbourhood.  This new Halloween tradition ran very smoothly in these parts last year but this year it has morphed slightly.  The kids (ten year old boys in particular) have discovered that it’s much more fun to Toast a neighbour than to Ghost one…

My daughter OK’d the making of the toast.  She even reservedly OK’d the re-toasting of the bread when it wasn’t cooked enough but that’s when it all well wrong.  The first thing to howl was the fire alarm.  She had never heard anything so loud – squawking - waoh, waoh throughout the house.  Her first instinct was to get to the baby who would by now be doing a fair bit of squawking himself.  She remembered her training.  Regardless of what caused the fire alarm to go off; when it happens, it’s one out - all out and then reassess.  As she scooped up the screaming baby and swept out of the building with the two truculent ten year olds she also managed to grab the handheld phone which was ringing anyway at this stage.  Outside she answered the phone and was relieved to speak with the fire emergency department.  “What is your fire code number, madam?” the lady repeated at my daughter a second and third time after the poor girl said she had no idea.  The noise only got louder as two police cars arrived on the scene - Miami Vice style - lights flashing, sirens adding to the symphony.  They ushered everybody clear of from the house to make way for the Fire truck which arrived within seconds - its sirens adding an extra dimension to the now ear-splitting chaos. 

Neighbours gathered and my daughter although mortified to be in the middle of the emergency was fantastically impressed with the manliness of the EIGHT fire fighters, as they bravely tore into the house and opened every window there was.  Two men, dressed in full fire-battle dress, gingerly manoeuvred the smoking toaster out of the kitchen and into a cordoned off area of the garden.  Only at this point was my daughter able to phone the mother of the house and retrieve the fire code number.  Eventually the fire brigade alarms were switched off, the police sirens were put on pause and the house fire alarm was shut down too.  At this point another high pitch whine entered into the drama.  It was the burglar alarm informing her that “security had been breached,” in other words a window (or ten) had been opened.  The phone began to ring again and so, naturally she answered it.  “This is Intruder Alert security, Madam.  Please give me your four digit Intruder clearance code,” they asked. 

“Would you settle for the fire code?” my daughter tried but the operator wasn’t impressed. “I’m sorry, madam but without that code, I’ll have to send a couple of police cars over to you.”
“All right,” she sighed, looking at the street full of flashing red and blue lights.  “If I could just get back into the house, I’d make tea for everybody but I’m afraid there won’t be any toast.”

Back to school

One of the main reasons we chose to live in Wellesley is because the schools have a reputation for a very high standard of education and I have to admit that they have superseded my expectations.  Elementary School here is what we know as Primary school in Ireland. Then there is Middle and a High school.  Kids spend three and four years in each of these respectively.  I think the thing that has shocked me most is the incredible positivity.  Nothing is a problem.  There are only challenges of varying sizes that we need to take on daily.  This ‘can do’ mentality is weaved into the children’s psyche and they really believe that they can do and make anything of themselves.  It is humbling to witness first hand.

Bates is the elementary that my younger children attend. It was founded by a lady named Catherine Lee Bates who also pencilled the words to the famous ‘America the beautiful’ so - yes I know I’m in pretty rarefied air here.  They have a school nurse on duty all the time, a fitness instructor, a librarian.  There are kids with special needs in almost all the classes.  These kids have the extra attendants that they need and most importantly for me, they get to live as close to a normal life as is possible.  Also the other kids are perfectly happy living and working alongside these kids.  It in no way slows down the learning experience of the ‘regular’ kids but in my view it does enhance their school environment and interpersonal skills as they get to interact with children of varied ability.  It leads to a much healthier, more balanced life outside of school as well as within.  Speaking of health, in one of my daughter’s class the teacher has an indoors trampoline so if any of the kids are feeling frazzled or have too much energy, she just lets them jump for a few minutes… it really works.  She also has several giant gym balls so the kids can sit on them instead of chairs as they read.  It doesn’t stop them reading but they’re using all their core muscles while they work.  Don’t get me wrong, this teacher is street smart and wouldn’t let the children mess but she does recognise their need to burn more calories during the day than we adults do.

In the Middle school, they have a back to school night for the parents.  This is where we get do what our kids do in a typical day.  Instead of having fifty-five minute classes however, we have thirteen minutes and that way, we can get through eight hours of school in two.  We get to see the classrooms and hear a little presentation from each teacher.  We can sit in our child’s seat and see the parents of the kid who sits next to them.  It’s a brilliant idea and one I would suggest trying out in Ireland.  They had a similar night in the High School too.  A new High School is being built at the moment.  In order to make it all work they simply decided to build it in the car park and then when it’s done, they’ll knock down the old school and turn that into a new parking lot.  How simple and clever is that!  The cost?  One hundred and thirty million dollars – they take education very seriously.

All the schools are mixed – boys and girls and there is no uniform.  In Ireland I spent about a thousand euro a child on uniforms each year.  There is no book list at the beginning of the year here.  The school lends them a hard back copy of any books they need which they must take home and take great care of.  On the inside front page there is a list of the previous owners – usually going back four or five years.  It is quite normal to see a friend’s big brother or sister had the book before you!  If the book is damaged during the year there is a fine but so far, we haven’t damaged any books.  In Ireland we buy the books new every year – cost? About the same as the uniforms!   In so many areas, Wellesley has managed to provide a healthy, loving, cheaper, better schooling system by just using common sense.  I know this makes for a better environment both for the students and the teachers.  Did I mention that the class sizes are much smaller here too?

I think my twelve year old daughter put her finger on it when we were talking about the real differences between Irish Schools and American schools. She said in Ireland if she made a smart comment in class, the teacher would turn around and say, “I suppose you think that’s funny, do you? Well it’s not.  Now sit down and work.”  In doing so they would get her back under control but knock her at the same time.  Here the teacher is more likely to say, “Yeah, yeah, very funny now back to work,” thereby getting the nose back to the grindstone but validating the kid at the same time.

Food for thought.

Crime doesn’t Pay

OK, I think this is the beginning of what they call “culture shock.”  I knew the statistics on crime in Boston and in particular our town, Wellesley and those of Dublin before we moved.  One of the reasons we actually chose this part of the world is because it’s so safe but to know it and to actually live it are two totally different things. 

When we discovered, for example that we had no house alarm I instantly began to factor in the chore of having one installed.  There was no way I was going to live in a house with no alarm – not in crime ridden America, where they had guns.  I knew my husband would be away a lot too because of business, yet another reason to have one.  Then we had the incident of the estate agent leaving the keys in the house and the house wide open when we arrived late on our first day here.  The truth is there is just no crime here.  I think it is the fact that there is a zero tolerance for it.  The cops are perfectly lovely and will help you get your car out of a tight parking spot but if they meet a baddy, they turn into the cops you see on TV.  I once saw them pin a guy down on the bonnet of his car.  (It was just like on the telly – very exciting!) He had been speeding and gave them chase so they cuffed him and I assume brought him ‘down town.’  Do you remember The Incredible Hulk?  They’re a bit like that.  The police force is perfectly lovely but if a situation gets dodgy, they turn nasty in an instant.

Kids here get a half day on Wednesday (but before you get jealous - they start much much earlier too) so one day I was in the central shopping square when a swarm of kids arrived, looking for sandwiches and doubtless a bit of craic (fun).  It was sunny and they were just hanging around but there were quite a lot of them, maybe fifty.  By the time I had come out of the supermarket, a few minutes later, two cop cars had arrived, lights flashing (like on CSI Miami) and one of the men had a loud speaker (bull horn) telling the kids to “Dissipate or you will be arrested.  Leave the locality now or you will be arrested.” There was absolutely no messing with them.  There wasn’t a kid on the scene within five minutes.  Even I scarpered.

The biggest shock for me however was the day my eldest daughter and I went into a restaurant bathroom (restroom) together.  An elderly lady had been checking her reflection in the mirror and then turned to go into a toilet cubicle.  In doing so she left her handbag (purse) beside the sink, outside the cubicle.  Reacting quickly, my daughter stoped her politely and reminded her that she had forgotten her purse.

“Oh, that’s OK, honey.  I’ll get it when I come out,” she smiled indulgently at my little girl.  “Not enough room in here,” she whispered as if that explained it.  Then the older woman happily went into the toilet cubicle and locked the door, leaving her large handbag unguarded beside the sink in the ladies!

My daughter and I looked at each other incredulously.  Even I felt tempted to steal it.  How could anywhere on the planet still be so innocent, honest and upright?

A year on, I’ve decided not to bother with the house alarm J

Shopping - an endurance sport?

Arriving in Boston from Dublin means you are seriously jet lagged for a few days.  Naturally we were all tired the night we arrived but I hoped - after all the excitement of such a big house move, that everybody would sleep in until a civilised hour on the first morning.  We managed to stay in bed until four am L (that’s nine o clock back in Dublin so it wasn’t as bad as it sounds.) Because we were all on camping beds with sleeping bags, my husband had the rather lovely notion that we should all sleep in the same room.  It was a nice idea but it did mean one up = all up the next morning and so everybody was showered and dressed by five am on our first day in our new home.

I know usually the early bird catches the worm but there were no worms in our house, no bread, no milk, and no cereal and even if there was we had no plates, glasses or cutlery to eat with.  Clearly we had a lot of shopping to do and so we headed into town to see if we could get something to eat.  Gladly Wellesley, like everywhere else in New England opens early, real early.  We were able to get the kids fed and watered before six am.

The rest of the day was a shopping extravaganza.  Now, I know we women are famed for loving to shop but this wasn’t like that.  We headed first to the appliance store and bought an enormous washing machine and a separate dryer.  Funny I never used one in Ireland.  From a young age I had the notion that dryers eat electricity and ruin clothes – both good reasons for not wanting to use one but here I knew it would be essential.  With four months of snow outside, drying the old-fashioned way simply isn’t an option.   One thing that I did find remarkable is the size of the machines.  They are simply huge.  I knew that everybody says everything in America is bigger but this dryer could carry one of my older kids and the washer could double up as a kennel for Hogan our (big) golden Retriever.  So both machines were purchased and due to be delivered within a day or two.

Then we headed to the furniture shop.  The beds, I had bought on line and were to arrive later in the afternoon but that still left the necessity for four sofas, five arm chairs, a kitchen table, dining room table and eight seats for each, four study/writing desks, five chairs to go with them.  We needed eight occasional tables, 12 bedside/reading lamps, three free standing ones,  a complete suite for the basement/den, two large flat screen TVs and suitable stands for them, eight chests of drawers, seven bedside lockers and some other small bits and pieces.  Here’s were I remind you of the power of local knowledge.  My cousin’s wife told me about Bob’s discount Store.  I don’t even know if it’s just local to Massachusetts or it’s all over the States but I kid you not, we furnished a large family home almost completely for less than fifteen thousand dollars.  To move all our gear from Ireland would have cost more than buying everything new here.  We had been dreading the day in the store but the first nice surprise is the sales assistants are openly begging to do business with you.  They are clearly on massive commission and so they will do anything, literally anything to help you get what you want.  The real icing on the cake though, was that a quarter of the store is given over to a FREE candy store with a large flat screen showing kids’ movies.  Customers are encouraged to let their children watch a limitless amount of movies and eat as much candy as they want while the parents browse.  It works a treat.  On the few occasions I’ve had to go back to Bob’s over the last year, the kids are always very happy to oblige.  There’s limitless coffee and cookies for the adults too.  I think that’s where the kids had lunch on our first day; living in America – at an all you can eat sweet shop!

By mid afternoon we had the house furniture and white goods done and then we decided it was time to do a quick food shop before calling it a day.  The supermarkets definitely deserve a separate story but for now I’ll just tell you that we went to our local medium sized store.  While the kids threw anything that looked familiar into the shopping cart, I went off in search of customer information.  There was a lovely middle aged woman with a broad smile waiting for my enquiry.

“Hi, I’m just wondering where your wine department is,” I smiled politely, acutely aware of how strong my Irish accent is.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Suspicion as opposed to misunderstanding shadowed her face.

“Your wine department, you know to get a bottle of wine,” I tried again.

She looked visibly affronted.  “We don’t sell wine or any alcohol in these premises.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I stuttered, not quite sure what I was apologising for.  “Can you tell me where the nearest place that I can purchase alcohol is?”

She shook her head.  “Wellesley is a dry town.  You can’t buy alcohol here or anywhere near here.”

I didn’t even know what that meant.  I remembered studying the American prohibition in a very boring history class but that went out with the dinosaur, surely.  What did a dry town even mean?  I knew that I had drunk wine when I was in holidays in Florida, New York and Colorado so what kind of town was this I wondered as a mild sense of panic began to settle in the pit of my stomach.

Luggage Logistics

A house move of a few hundred miles is stressful enough but the main problem with a trans Atlantic one is that all the things that don’t fit in your suit case;  lamps, sofas, winter clothes, bednobs and broomsticks – your entire life… it all has to come with international freight carriers – another headache which I admit I hadn’t factored into my ‘new easier life,’ plan. 

First there’s the cost.  (It definitely would have been cheaper to just take a holiday in the sun.)  Then there’s the slightly messier problem of the length of time it takes.  The furniture was meant to take four to six weeks to make the journey.  It took eight!  Two months.  To make things slightly easier we were renting out our Dublin home fully furnished so I wasn’t actually taking a full house of furniture to the States.  I shudder to think what that would have cost – far more than the cost of most of the furniture.  I just wanted a few sentimental pieces, all my pictures, naturally all our clothes and most of what was in the kitchen.  If you do decide to move from Europe to the US, don’t bother taking anything electrical.  The different type of plugs is the bane of my life.  The girls are constantly looking for adaptors to use hairdryers and stereos from home.  Just leave them in Europe and buy new ones out here – trust me. 

So on the plane each child had a case full of their summer clothes – which would have to last them EIGHT weeks.  They also each had an inflatable camping bed because the house we were coming to was UNFURNISHED.  We tried hard to rent a furnished one but the Americans don’t seem to do that.  For this reason a week before we flew, I went on line and bought six beds from a shop I had never seen, in a city suburb I had never been to.  What choice did I have?  They even had a delivery roster posted on their web site so I pencilled us in for the morning after we arrived.  That meant we would have one night with no beds.  We would sell it to the kids as an err - camping adventure.

We did have a terrific cousin who lived near by and offered to put all of us up but he has two cats and I didn’t think they would appreciate a jet lagged golden retriever using their kitty litter.

My cousin did do us a huge favour on the day of our arrival, though.  He and his wife met us at the airport.  By then we were pretty shattered and the dog was really at the end of his tether.  We were very happy to load up their two cars and our long term rental with our motley crew and head for our new home.

The first inkling I got that I was in a not at home was when my husband phoned the estate agent.  We were over an hour late and she was to meet us at the house to hand over the keys and show us how some of the appliances worked. Although my husband was stressed about it, she didn’t seem bothered.  She explained that she would just leave the back door unlocked and put all the house keys in the top drawer nearest the sink.  The idea of leaving a house unlocked was utterly alien to us.  

 “If you leave the alarm off, surely it could be robbed before we get there,” he suggested.

“What alarm?” she asked.  

Fit to Fly

Did you know dogs can get passports now?  Hogan came into our lives as a rescue.  A terrific lady in Kildare found and rescued him when he was quite literally on death row.  He’s really one of our family at this stage and I feel like I owe him ever since he chased out two rather nasty burglars we had in our house some years ago.  Preparations for his move to America however were almost more complicated than ours.  Several months before we flew, he had to get his rabies shot.  Then I had to take him back for blood tests to ensure that the vaccine had taken.  He also needed lungworm medication, tick, fleas and other parasite repellents – not forgetting his annual check up, weigh in and scrub down.  The dog even got a dental check.  Hogan gets more medical care than I do!  As if all that wasn’t enough I had to get him back to  the vet THE DAY BEFORE we flew out so he could write a note to confirm that the dog was ‘fit to fly.’

How ironic is that?  If the vet had taken my blood pressure that day, I am quite sure I wouldn’t have passed the medical.  Then there was the small matter of booking his plane ticket.  I was most anxious about this because if it went wrong at the airport on the day of departure, what was I going to do with the dog? As it happens, Aer Lingus have very particular rules on flying with dogs.  You must phone in the booking exactly fourteen days before the flight is due to leave.  It cannot be done on line and you must talk to a human (funny because I didn’t think there were any humans left in airline bookings offices). Anyway I spoke to a very nice girl who took my reservation.  Her only concern was that he wasn’t a pit bull and that was that.  There was no booking reference, no flight ticket – no proof that I had in fact made the call.  What happened if this lovely girl forgot to put me in the system?  What if she didn’t input Hogan’s name correctly?  If I rang back tomorrow it would be too late.  High stress.  She assured me that the dog was on the plane.  He was even in a special pet zone that was pressurised and quite comfortable and no, he wouldn’t be tossed in with the cases.  She only had to check it by cargo control and if they had enough room (which they always did) he was in and on and sorted.  Then she told me something really nice.  The charge for Hogan’s carriage would be one hundred fifty euro.  That was a quarter the price of the kids and he’s larger than two of them.  The idea of putting a few of the children in the kennel with Hogan did cross my mind but I decided not to suggest it. 

The following fourteen days flew by in a flurry of laughter, tears and goodbye lunches and suddenly I was in the airport with Hogan, the children and my husband.  It is fair to say that the dog was not happy with the situation but our vet had insisted that he could not be sedated.  The flight was too long.  We did get quite a few looks as we got to the check in desk with all the cases, kids and the super sized dog on wheels but to be fair to Aer Lingus, Hogan was in the system.  A very nice cargo guy came and took the dog away in his cage on wheels and we waved him off.  Next time we would see our beloved pet would be on American soil – a long way from a dog rescue kennel in Kildare.

Do you take visa?

It’s all very well to say, ‘let’s move to America.’  But I really had absolutely no idea how seriously they take all this visa business.  Perhaps I have lived a cocooned life but like most young Irish, I trotted around Europe during my student days and got casual work to see me through the summers.  I pulled pints in British Pubs, cut corn in the south of France, (actually, the farmer called it castrating the maize, but that sounds a bit harsh.)  I was a DJ and a water ski instructress in Crete and I did a spot of interpreting in the United Nations – yep that is more less the life of a typical third level Irish student.  The thing is visas rarely came up.   We were meant to have one in Greece but everybody ignored that.

America is a VERY different story.   I had been on holidays in the States several times and of course that’s easy but trying to take up residence there is a lot more work.    Thankfully my husband had a business there which had been up and running for a number of years.  But no matter who you are, (unless of course you are American or perhaps you’re married to one) but other than that, if you want to take up residence in the States, you have to do ‘the interview.’ 

He went first and I did mine some time later (the kids don’t do interviews unless they are over fourteen – imagine trying to relocate a reluctant fifteen year old!)  The whole process was actually a little nerve wrecking.  I had to go to the US embassy, get through all their security stuff and then do an interview.  Yes, I did feel a little like an international spy.  What if I said the wrong thing like my great great gran was in the IRA or or I once gate crashed a party on an American Air Force Base (long story) but fortunately neither question came up...– fortunately neither of these questions came up so I was home and dry.  The man stamped my forms and smiled.  “That’s it?” I asked incredulously (almost blowing my cover) “That’s it,” he agreed quite obviously used to such idiotic questioning.  “I have passed?” I tried to grasp that this was it, I actually had the visa.  This time he just nodded clearly tiring of my particularly incredulous brand of stupidity. “The rest is just a formality,” he explained.  “You have your visa.  The family’s passports will be stamped and sent out to you in the post in the next few days.  You should have them by the weekend.”

It was that simple to do and that difficult to digest.  I went for a walk after the embassy to fully comprehend what had just happened.  Up until this point, I think the move was merely notional.  If we didn’t get the visas we weren’t going anywhere but now we had them there was nothing stopping us.  We were really on our way.  I had to sit down in Herbert Park.

What in tarnation had I started into?

Anything to declare?

I think everyone knows about the American Customs.  Since the war on terror nothing comes through customs except customers and if they’re lucky their suit cases.  Absolutely nothing dangerous and no food but worst offence of all is dangerous food.  There are signs up everywhere, I saw them.  There was to be no importing of fresh, uncooked, cooked or really any meat, fruit, veg – nothing.  Well, actually I think Pringles were all right but they’re not actually a food are they.  Reading between the lines it was probably saying, “We have loads of bloody food.  Don’t bring food into the USA (& God Bless America) and I was really OK with all of this. 

When we landed, the first thing to pick up after the cases was the dog.  I went to the large cargo reclaim area and there to my amazement was not one but three dog transport boxes.  Hogan had two buddies for the flight.  I had no idea there were so many high flying pooches.  The other two were smaller and a good deal calmer.  Hogan was standing up in his box, barking furiously and trying to eat his way through the metal cage door.  He actually looked madder in an insane (rabies carrying) sort of way than I had ever seen him before.  I knew he was slightly claustrophobic because he always has been.  We assumed that he was locked up as a puppy but being a rescue we know nothing about his past and can only guess.  But other than his claustrophobia he is a perfectly wonderful dog.  Well, except for that moment in time.  I was genuinely worried that the customs guys were going to shoot him.  He looked like a mad dog.  I tried to sooth him but he wasn’t interested.  He just wanted out of the box, which I wasn’t aloud to do until we were out of the airport.  I handed the baby to my husband and casually pushed the dog’s box towards the final customs check, trying to ignore the rabid dog inside. 

Each child had a case that went through one final security check.  The airport police dogs sniffed for cocaine, Kalashnikovs and any other sundries but I was relieved that they were happy to ignore my now howling hound.  Just as we were about to go through one of the senior customs guys called me over.  This was it; they were going to shoot Hogan on sight.

“This yours?” he asked suspiciously.  One of the sniffers and found my M&S picnic bag.  I had forgotten all about the surprise gift from my aunt.  She had packed all sorts of goodies for the flight which I have to say were very tasty but there was much too much food.  I had planned to dump it but forgot and so it was still travelling with us – full of illegal substances.  He pulled out the half eaten sandwiches with a look of disgust and dumped it in a bin at his feet.  Then using a tongs even though he was wearing surgical gloves already, he pulled out some lovely fresh wild Irish salmon and looked at me accusingly.  I’m going to jail for a year, I thought manically but smiled weakly - Hogan all the while growling and snarling.  “You know it’s illegal to import food like this” he said.  “I’m so sorry.  It was for the flight,” I grovelled.    “I meant to dump it,” I added remembering a similar line had been used by a real bad guy in CSI on the telly, just the week before.

Then he pulled out my tub of hummus.  Now I was going down for a few years for sure. The baby began to cry and Hogan looked like he was going to break the dog box open any minute.

Nothing was going to rush this man, however.  He had a very serious job to do and he was going to protect America at all costs.  With the aid of his tweezers, he retrieved a live yoghurt from the picnic bag.  Even I knew they carried l acasai immunitas.  That was it; I was probably going straight out to Guantanamo bay.  My husband would have to go on without me.  What a start to our new life.

“Who packed this bag?” he asked accusingly.  For a split second I thought about lying and saying it was me.  If they went after my old aunt at home, it would kill her but then I saw his gun and I knew that honesty was really the only option.

“It was my Aunt Liz,” I explained.  “She wanted to do it as a going away present.”

“Yeah?” he said, taking out a pen and paper.  Jesus, he really was going after her – more mad barking.

“Guess, she really loves you guys,” he said with a smile slowly spreading over his face and reaching right up to his eyes.   “Now get that dog outa here.”

Then I almost fell over as he winked at me and laughed.  “and Welcome to America,” he said, handing me back my M&S bag (with the salmon inside!)

Which faraway hill is greenest?

Did you ever wish you could escape?

Imagine being somewhere that they don’t talk about recessions or unemployment.  Is it even possible to be somewhere that doesn’t have the constant threat of national strikes hanging overhead like a great big cloud and don’t get me started on the weather.  Wouldn’t it be amazing to live in a place that has a nice climate?  I don’t mean sunshine three hundred and sixty five days a year (although that would be nice too).  No, I dreamt of somewhere with four real seasons – a hot summer, a colourful crisp autumn.  Imagine a white Christmas and then Spring bursting forward again with the promise of renewal and all things green and fresh. 

If you wished for all of the above – Hello!   Only I went one step further.  This time last year I upped sticks with FIVE children, one dog and a broad minded husband and we moved. 

If you’ve thought about moving but stayed put, it might interest or amuse you to hear about the antics and adventures we’ve experienced in the last twelve months.  Some of it has been plain sailing and we have had a lot of laughs.  But there have also been some very hard times and once or twice when I genuinely thought my heart would break in two but one thing it hasn’t been is dull.

Where to go was the first question.  The main concern for me was my children.  They range in age from a one-year-old monster to a teenager and then there’s the three in between.  The funny thing is the older kids had been very enthusiastic to go.  With hind sight now, I don’t think any of us really knew what we were talking about but we watched enough American TV to know we liked the look of their houses and they seemed like a nice enough bunch.  The rest of Europe didn’t hold much appeal as it was in economic gloom and anyway much of it has the same weather as Ireland so what was the point in going there?  And so we bought a map of America.  My husband’s business was in Florida but when we told the kids about the amount of alligators down there they weren’t so impressed.  It also had mosquitoes all year round and crime is almost as bad as Ireland and anyway it was just too bloody hot so Florida was crossed off the list early in the day. 

My older girls wanted to research California but my husband (the business brain in the family) informed us that, financially the state of California was in almost as much trouble as Europe (who would have thought, reading Hello and Grazia).  That said, the girls weren’t convinced, after all - the weather was seriously better and my youngest daughter wanted to live near the Jonas brothers.  In the end, I had the casting vote and I decided that it was just too far from Ireland.  The eight hour time difference would mean that I would be waking friends and family in the middle of the night looking for a chat and flying home would be an absolute nightmare.  That, in fact took the entire west coast and even Middle America off the ‘possible’ list and so we were left looking at the North East Seaboard.   New York?  Time Square and Fifth Avenue were nice.  Washington? We would have nice neighbours (back then everybody loved Barak).  Boston?  I had an idea that they liked the Irish (of course the Kennedys were a big Boston family) and Cheers was filmed there so obviously the pubs were good.  What more did a gal need?  A party town that liked the Irish – we had found our new home!