You know how a song or scent can take you back in time? You catch a whiff of an ex’s cologne and suddenly you remember how poorly you handled that break-up. Or you hear ‘Wannabe’ by the Spice Girls and suddenly you’re in the car with your friend Kelly, right after the welcome back dance to your senior year of high school, having just backed into your friend’s dad’s car? (No? Just me?) For me, I’ve also noticed that occasionally, a way I lay in bed will take me back somewhere. Not in that dramatic sit-up-straight from a dream ‘where am I’ kind of thing. Just, every once in awhile, I’ll be laying in bed, having just woken up, and be somewhere else. Usually a vacation. This morning it happened again, and for maybe five seconds, I was in the twin bed in the condo my parents used to have in Lake Tahoe, Nevada.

My whole life, until two years ago, my parents had this condo in Lake Tahoe. My mom, aunt, and grandmother went in on it together, but I only remember my immediate family using it. It has fixtures from the late 70s, a red Formica counter top in the kitchen, smoke damage from renters who didn’t open the flue when they used the fire place. I think it came furnished — if I recall correctly, it was the model for the line of 30 condos in the development, so my parents just kept the furniture, which includes this piece of ‘art’ over the green couch that looks like fireworks but I think are actually flowers? No clue. It’s three stories, with a tiny basement off the garage where we used to play dangerous games of marco polo, the kitchen / living area and a bathroom (with carpet – yikes) and laundry area, then three bedrooms upstairs. ‘My’ room had twin beds, my sister’s had a double bed (and at some point gained a GIANT R.E.M. poster that was there right until my folks sold the place), and a bathroom we shared, plus my parents’ room. The bathroom my sister and I share had a door connecting straight to her room, so she could lock the bathroom door, lock her door, and keep me out. In fact, we had one bruiser of a fight that led to that lock breaking.

The condo was pretty close to the middle of town, and about a mile from the beach. It was not anything like the giant mansions off the water – the walls were thin enough that you could hear anything going on in the other units. I’m pretty sure in the nearly 40 years that my parents owned it, it barely went up in value. It was not an investment, and it’s not some glamorous vacation spot. But man, were we lucky to have it growing up. We had a built-in place that we could go to whenever we wanted. It was a five hour drive away when I was younger (and needed to stop at least three times along the way), but now it maybe 3 and a half to four hours from the home I grew up in, where my parents still live. I’ve made that drive dozens of times in my life, usually in the summer, but also in the winter (I even removed the chains from the mini-van once), through the snow, thunderstorms. But no matter the time of year, there was always this moment, when we were making the drive from Truckee into King’s Beach, where we’d summit one of the mountains and the lake would come into view. Always this deep, deep blue.

(And no joke, that lake IS deep. Like, in the middle, something like 1700 feet deep. It’s bananas. There are petrified forests down there. It’s an alpine lake, so it’s really cold, especially in the bottom. Every so often, a body will surface that has died hundreds of years ago.)

All through elementary school, the day we go out of classes for the year, we would head up to Lake Tahoe for a week. I have one sister who I generally got along with (and who is a close friend now), four years older than me. We’d sit in the back of the car, sort of doing our own thing, I think. I don’t remember car games really being something, though I have a vague recollection of a travel Guess Who? game, so maybe we did? There was a rest stop near the start of the mountains, and there was also a McDonald’s in Auburn where we would get some food (in later years, we switched to In ‘N’ Out.)

After making our way through Truckee, we’d pull into King’s Beach, knowing we were only about ten minutes from Incline Village, where the condo was. We’d perk up from whatever naps we’d taken, turn off the music (inevitably the Dirty Dancing soundtrack or some Beatles or Rolling Stones tape) and drive along the water until we pulled into the spot in front of the condo. My dad would unlock the front door (in later years, using the silly golf bag key chain I got for him one father’s day, which had a functioning zipper that he kept a $20 in), and we’d race inside. That first day was for unpacking, then making the trip up to Raley’s.

Raley’s was the giant supermarket in town. It felt kind of like a superstore before I knew what that even was. We’d split up, getting everything we’d need for the week. Sandwich fixings, snacks, root beer for floats (we didn’t have soda usually, but got it in Tahoe), ice cream, sugary cereals (again, a vacation treat). We’d pile the groceries into the car, unpack them at home, and then … go to the Hacienda.

Oh god, the Hacienda. It closed a couple of years back, and is now some sort of brew pub, which, fine. But the Hacienda was the shit. The salsa was amazing, the chips were perfect, their virgin Strawberry and Raspberry daiquiris were amazing. When I was eating meat, I’d get their albondigas soup, and a taco; later it was all about the cheese enchiladas. My parents would get margaritas, and meeting up with my parents’ good friends, Karen and John McAdams, was usually on the list that first night. After dinner, we’d order fried ice cream, the likes of which I’ve never found since. It was perfection, served in this giant sugary fried tortilla. Even though it was maybe a ten minute walk from our house, it wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I think we would walk there for dinner.

Shit, now I’m hungry. Hold on.

As a kid, our days were pretty much the same. Wake up fairly early. Make lunch – tuna sandwiches, some snacks – and always, always, a thermos of either crystal light lemonade or iced tea. Pour on the sunblock. We’d drive down to the beach, with the rafts (including one with oars), and stake our claim. Almost all the way to the west side of the beach, where there was shade from the giant evergreen trees, and picnic table where my parents and the McAdams would play cards in the afternoon. As an adult, I’m not the biggest fan of beach vacations, but as a kid, I loved it. Racing to the water, trying not to burn the soles of my feet. Jumping in even though it was FREEZING. Scoping out the clear water, making sure there was nothing I was going to step on (I have a fear of things in the water, but it didn’t keep me from swimming, because that beach had pure sand and was so clear). We’d take out one of the rafts, or get in the blow-up boat with my dad, and go out the buoys that marked the edge of the swimming area.

In some years, as the drought set in and I got taller, I could almost walk all the way out to the buoys. That was weird. My dad and John were both over 6’6” and would sometimes try to walk the perimeter of the swimming area. Usually they’d be underwater in one place, but in particularly bad years, they could make it.

We didn’t play a ton of games at the beach – at one point a velcro ball and paddles appeared, but that was about it. After lunch, sometimes I’d lay on my towel for a nap, underneath the upturned blow-up boat. We also usually got a dollar or two to visit the beach snack bar and get laffy taffy, or red rope, or sometimes warheads.

Tired from the sun, we’d eventually pack up, go home, and shower. Dinner, followed by my parents going to the Hyatt to gamble. That was their hobby – and still is. They wouldn’t spend lots of money or anything, but it was fun for them. When we were younger, we’d have a babysitter, but by the time my sister was old enough to look after me, the evening would just be us, hanging out.

After that week, we’d come back home for the summer, but then return for three weeks in August (my dad used to have a LOT of vacation time). More of the same, although we didn’t go to the beach EVERY day. Sometimes we went to a different beach that had a pool. A few times we went to the California side to raft down the Truckee river.

We’d also spend the occasional day in King’s Beach, at Mr. Boburg’s mini golf. There’s a theory that the voice that tells you you didn’t get a hole in one (and thus a free game) on the last hole is my mother’s. Seriously, it sounds JUST like her. We played hundreds of rounds of mini golf there, followed by take-out from Kentucky Friend Chicken next door.

As we got older, we could invite friends up for a visit. Their parents would meet us half way in Auburn so we didn’t have to drive all the way back down. Jen was the one who usually came up with me, from when were pretty small through high school. One summer we watched Wayne’s World every day for a week. We went to the Hacienda ourselves and flirted with the bus boys. When I made some friends up there, all of us would hang out together.

At one point I decided that I wanted to work when we were there, so for three summers, my mom and I basically lived in Tahoe for two months, with my dad and sister (who by then was in college) coming to visit. For four summers (the first one was only a couple of weeks) I worked in the beach snack bar. 9:30-5:30 every day, with free lunch and as much soda as we wanted (it’s why I like Diet Pepsi more than diet Coke). Charlotte worked the grill, and she’d been there for a long time. I want to say she was in her 60s, but I was a teenager, so she was probably younger than that. Each evening I came home smelling like fried food – it was awhile before I ate mozzarella sticks again.

My second summer working there I met a VERY cute lifeguard. It feels very Saved by the Bell: Summer edition, but we did end up dating for a bit the next year. As much as a couple of 16-year-olds can date. We’d go to the bowling ally in town and bowl or play air hockey, or sneak into the beach and hang out. I became friends with his good friend, and even after the lifeguard and I stopped hanging out, I stayed friends with that guy. Like, for years. So weird.

My last summer there I worked at the snack bar during the day and then a couple of nights a week I hostessed and bussed tables at a local restaurant. I got people their drinks, made their salads, brought them bread. And left each night with a bunch of cash. Two things stand out to me: The rolls were heated in this sort of drawer oven, that we just reached into and grabbed, and the butter was in this giant tub that we kept in a sink surrounded by ice, and we’d use an ice cream scoop to get it out.

We did also visit in the winter sometimes, though I was the only one who engaged in winter sports regularly. When we were little, we’d go sledding. But actually in winters if we went to Tahoe we’d stay at the local hotel. I think it was because it was less of a pain in the ass to not have to shovel snow and such. I skied every winter from 5th grade until early high school, but then stopped. It was a lot and I didn’t love it.

Once I went to college I didn’t make it up to visit much anymore. I think we spent one Christmas and few New Year’s Eve’s up there, and I’ve gone back for the 4th of July, which is as small town America as it gets – pancake breakfast fundraiser at the fire station, parade, fireworks over the lake. I love that time. I took my partner up, but only once.

And now, as I’m living 6,000 miles away, I think about how fucking great those times were. How lucky I was, having this special place, with these consistent, lovely memories. It’s bananas how great it was.

(Courtesy of Google maps, our condo was the second window from the right, with the entrance right behand that giant rock in the middle.)

There are so many different types of joy. There are achievements that bring joy, like completing a degree or writing a book. There are milestone moments, like getting married or, (I’m told) having a child. There are times when you see others experience those moments, and you share in their joy. And then there are moments that are so fun and unselfconscious that one just can’t help but feel joy.

Twenty five years ago, I felt that joy on a regular basis, when a song would come together, or a performance would click. Every school day I’d get an hour of singing (and two hours during my senior year!), and while not every day was full of joy, so many moments were. My high school time was absolutely fine. It wasn’t torture, it wasn’t the best time of my life. It was just a good four years where I made some great friends, learned things (both academic and practical), had some hard times.

But by far the strongest and most joyful memories I have are of my time in choir. I joined the beginner’s choir – Womens Ensemble – my freshman year. I didn’t have the strongest voice, but I could read music, and I was a hard worker. My second year I moved into the intermediate choir, for women only again, called Treble Clef. I spent two great years there, which included going on a singing tour in San Diego. And my senior year I was lucky enough to be in the mixed choir Concert Choir as well as the advanced smaller Chamber Singers. Again, I didn’t have the best voice out there – the only solos I ever had were in a musical, and playing Belle for like a minute during our pops concert. But I learned the music and worked hard.

And I had an amazing director in Ken Abrams. So amazing in fact that he took the Concert Choir on its first European tour the summer after I graduated, which meant my first time leaving North America was to sing in Germany, Austria, Hungary, and Czechia. Like, who DOES that? Who gets to hang out for two weeks with friend, singing in cathedrals and castles? It was life affirming, singing beautiful music in beautiful settings. And Abrams was exactly what one needs in a choir director: he was honest and any frustration or things that might be viewed as challenging were to make us better singers, the choir stronger, and that translated, I think, into making us better people.

(Apparently pointing at something off camera was my ‘thing’ during that trip? Look, I don’t know. I was 18 in Europe without my parents.)

Once I left high school, I didn’t really think about singing anymore. I missed it, but I had university, a new city, and just other things I was interested in. But I did remember that joy, especially when I’d be belting out along to a song on the radio. Singing is joy.

– – –

At my 20 year high school reunion, Abrams was there, which was a delightful treat, as I hadn’t seen him in about that long. A few years after that, I got an email from some people from my class about a retirement weekend for Abrams, where people were coming back to sing, and tell Abrams what he had meant to them. Because of other travel I had to the US I wasn’t able to go, but I did submit a short video for the documentary about him, talking about how the trip to Europe made such a huge impact on me. At that event there were apparently rumblings of an alumni tour, and when I received the email to determine interest, I knew I was in.

– – –

After confirming that we were a go for Portugal and Spain, Abrams put together a Google group and did a ton of work to make sure we could all learn the music. There were performance recording, rehearsal recordings, and recordings for each part. I bought my sheet music as well as a tiny keyboard so I could reactive that part of my brain.

And then we rehearsed. I learned the songs slowly, probably starting with the wrong ones, and spending time every two or three days. By Christmas it was every other day, then every day for the last couple of months. Plus there were the monthly ‘in person’ rehearsals, where I would call in via Zoom, usually at 8PM (I watched the ones that started in the middle of the night my time on replay). It was great to be conducted by Abrams again, even if it wasn’t quite the same. I did wonder how I was doing – I learned the songs and the notes and even the tones, but still, without anyone else hearing me, or me hearing the choir together, I had no real idea what I was in for. I even had a few stress dreams in the lead up to the trip. One of the things I like about choir is the community, and the remoteness of this definitely was a downside.

– – –

I have traveled on my own before. I do it nearly every month to go down to London for work, and in my 20s I took a couple of solo trips to Ireland and the UK. But this was my first time traveling somewhere without English as a main language by myself. Luckily I feel comfortable in cities, and I’d actually been to Lisbon five years earlier, so things were familiar. I got myself on the metro and to the hotel, and checked into an excellent room. And exciting, one of the people I knew from the tour was already there! I stopped in the hotel restaurant to see one of the people who I sang with in high school, went to get some snacks, and then got dinner at the hotel. The music was loud, the food was good, and I suspect the COVID was in the air …

– – –

The first morning there, we went on a visit to Belem Tower, and Abrams did what he always does – had us sing. This was the first time all of us were together, in person, and going to sing together. We sang Ride the Chariot and Ainna That Good News and it felt amazing. It was like a day hadn’t passed since I last sang in Europe. We then went inside to the top of the tower and sang Rorando Coeli, which is an echo song, and it sounded so, so cool. We were singing in a place built over 500 years ago. Who gets to say they’ve done that???

After a visit to the monastery we had our long rehearsal – over two hours of working through the set list. Ah, it was fantastic being back under Abrams’ direction, making beautiful music. The people in my section, most of whom I’d never sung with before, were so friendly, and sang so beautifully. I felt that joy again – I’d forgotten what it really felt like to work hard to make gorgeous sounds.

– – –

The afternoon of our first performance (which ended up being my only one), we had a rehearsal at the venue and it was already magical. A basilica with amazing architecture. Folks coming in off the street to look ended up watching us sing about one page of each of our songs. We returned in the evening and were given a space to warm up. I was quite nervous as again, it had been 26 years since I last sang with a choir. After watching the basilica choir sing some beautiful songs, we were up.

I remember a lot about the 30 minutes or so we were up there, mostly feeling confident in every song (except Shenandoah, when I just couldn’t find the note and so lip synced along until about halfway through) and enjoying seeing the smiles of the people in the audience. They seemed to be enjoying the music, and I was absolutely loving singing it. If you’re interested, you can view the whole performance here.

– – –

I was a bit anxious about the trip because I was traveling on my own, and had chosen to have my own room. I get overwhelmed in big groups for long periods of time, and need unscheduled downtime regularly. There were some people I knew, but not anyone I’d say was a friend.

Oh boy do I feel like that has changed. I reconnected with Beth, someone I knew when I was a little kid playing soccer together. I made new friendships with Catherine and Bryan and Charles. I felt like I could join up with any random group that was wandering around. I had lunches with folks I didn’t know before. I know I didn’t end up talking to everyone in depth – sometimes I did just get overwhelmed with the newness of so many people, but literally every singer and partner on the trip was a delight. I got to see some absolutely gorgeous architecture, take walking tours, and just enjoy being around people and places I’m not usually around.

– – –

I was feeling very run down for much of the trip, but assumed it was because of the travel and activities. I woke up in Seville feeling like a cold was coming on, so I masked up for the short bus tour and the longer walking tour, but by mid-day decided to take a nap as we had our second performance that night. I kept feeling more and more tired and just blech, so I thought I should double check I didn’t have COVID, since COVID doesn’t exactly mix with singing. I saw that black line appear and was immediately heartbroken, because my tour was over. I stayed an extra day in Seville after my fever broke, then took a (very well masked) train to Granada to rejoin the group for a night so I could catch my flight home.

– – –

Even with the devastation I felt at having my performance time cut short, that experience was still pure joy. Wonderful people, wonderful music. Working hard for months leading up to it, singing some easy and some really hard songs in my little office. I remembered what that particular type of joy felt like, and while I know part of it was down to the specific experience of having Abrams as a conductor, I also know that singing as part of a choir is something I love. So I found one here, in Glasgow! I only made a few rehearsals this autumn, but in 2025 I hope to commit to attending every week so I can have that specific type of joy in my life on a regular basis. This new choir purely sings pop songs, so no 16th century church songs, but rocking out to a mix of rock hits from the 1990s? Also fun.

And pure joy.

If you asked, I wouldn’t describe myself as a romantic, hopeless or otherwise. I’m not a fan of grand gestures; I’m more a fan of someone who shows their love every day, in small ways, like doing the chore I hate the most, or remembering my favorite drink. However, when it comes to cities? Buildings older than the U.S. constitution? I find them endlessly romantic.

I grew up in a fairly generic suburban California area. We lived just about a mile from my elementary school but never walked; cars were just how you got around. It wasn’t that long ago that I realized how close we lived to the town center (maybe 25 minute walk), and am sad we didn’t spend more time getting around on foot. But even if we had, the area, while set against some lovely hills (at least in non-drought years), trafficked heavily in McMansions. Aesthetically, it was just not my thing.

I nearly went to college in New York City, but went with Seattle because I thought I’d get more of a college feel. I lived near campus, which was fairly suburban, but I enjoyed traveling downtown and taking in the the sights of Seattle. The buildings weren’t particularly old or storied, but it was a city, and my university campus was (mostly) gorgeous — the quad is still a place I visit when in town and in need of inspiration.

After college I moved to Los Angeles. HOO BOY. Talk about a city that isn’t really a city to me. I still went on walks, at times taking the bus up to the Getty museum to have some remove from it all, but everything felt sad to me. I had a car, and if I wanted to go to other parts of the sprawling metropolis, I needed the car. I remember going to a U2 concert after work one day. We left work at 5. The venue was 10 miles away. It took us 2.5 hours to get there. Ridiculous. I could have run there is less time.

Between the architecture and the need for a car, I wanted a change. I wanted to finally make the big move to the city that was always there, in the back of my mind. The one I’d only visited twice before, but fell in love with.

New York had been, for the first 22 years of my life, the end game. The ultimate goal. I wanted to be there. Not because I imagined a particularly bustling or glamorous life for myself, but because it was a proper city. Eight million people. A functioning (ish) transit system. And buildings that were older and taller than any I’d lived near before. I suppose I should be embarrassed to say that I became enamored of it because of Stacey in The Baby-Sitter’s Club, but screw that. I loved those books, and something about Stacey’s character and living in a city seemed so fascinating. I didn’t even really process that kids lived in big cities (ah, the sheltered suburban life). But I knew that I wanted to go there.

I can still picture the first time I took the subway by myself — the A C E up towards Central Park. I was doing it! I took my grad school reading and a towel and sprawled out in the grass in Sheep’s Meadow in September. I looked at the tall apartment buildings peeking over the trees on Park Avenue and Central Park West. I was here. I had, at 22, fulfilled what at that point in my life was my biggest dream. I was living in not just any city but, for me, THE city. The only one that mattered.

I started out living in the Village, in graduate student housing. The neighborhood was amazing, and like nothing I’d ever experienced. There was a kind of odd restaurant called Fuel Ray right on the corner, where we’d go for late night snacks (including amazing s’mores). There was a delicious burrito place — Harry’s, I think — that I frequented weekly if not more. I’d walk down to SoHo (literally a block from my apartment), and spend hours wandering around the different neighborhoods. I’d get lost (this was pre-smartphone) and have to consult my Not for Tourists guide to make sure I knew where I was. Every neighborhood was different, the architecture was amazing, and I could be around loads of people without having to talk to anyone.

I lived on the Upper East Side twice, which was a bit of a trip. Lots of rich people and super fancy brownstones. I had a doorman for the first (and only) time in my life. I didn’t take taxis often, relying instead on the subway and the bus. I went to Central Park as often as I could, not because I wanted to escape the city, but because it was such a part of the city, being able to see the buildings and hear the traffic while still totally enveloped in nature.

I lived in Brooklyn twice — once in a brownstone with a nightmare roommate (who owned the place), and once on my own in an extremely tiny studio apartment. I loved that I had gotten to a point where I could support myself in my own place in a gorgeous part of the city — Park Slope. I was a block from Prospect park, but a subway ride away from Manhattan. Again I would just go wandering, exploring. I’d spend Saturday afternoons window shopping, reading in the park, or going to a tiny old movie theatre (showing blockbusters – I’m not THAT interesting). I dated a few odd dudes, earned a graduate degree, and worked for a major private company and for the City. It was fantastic.

I loved that city, but after seven years, it was time to move on. I’m not sure why — I’d probably live there again, actually, but I applied to grad school in London, another world-class city. And one much, much older than New York. I moved into grad student housing in a converted women’s boarding house. I didn’t (couldn’t) work, and treated school like a job as much as possible: class and study M-F; take weekends and Wednesday afternoons off to really experience the city.

I had started running a year prior, so used my training runs as an excuse to see more of the city on foot. I ran across Tower Bridge almost daily, marveling at the architecture. I ran along the Thames, weaving around tourists and office workers. I visited museums on my own, wandered streets and neighborhoods that were unfamiliar to me. This is what I wanted. It was New York, but bigger. Better? Unclear. But so much of London seemed to be working well – more transit, free museums, TONS of parks.

But it ended, and I returned to Seattle. I was sad, depressed even. No more underground to rapidly get me where I wanted to go — buses took an hour or more from the suburban house I was staying in. No more free museums. No buildings more than 200 years old. It was a hard adjustment. But it got better. After seven months in a poorly managed apartment, my partner and I moved into a place in the heart of Capitol Hill. We could walk everywhere – even to work. I felt more connected to the city. We even bought a townhome a mile away, just on the edge of the neighborhood but still a mere block from the grocery store.

And then … We moved to London. I didn’t think I’d ever be back, but the opportunity arose, and even though I was settled in Seattle, and loving the city, it felt right to come back. We first lived in a 200+ year old building, with two underground stations a 12-minute walk away, a bus stop in front of us. I didn’t have a full-time job for the first 11 months we were there, so I could explore. I walked miles every day, and eventually found a job I could walk to.

After six years, we made yet another move – this time buying a flat in a tenement in Glasgow. Our neighborhood is south of the city center, but right in the middle of glorious architecture (including our own building), loads of parks, and even a bit of a country in the form of a herd of highland cows within walking distance. This will be our home for years, if not forever, and I love that it is in a city but also in a highly walkable neighborhood.

– – –

I know I love the buildings and infrastructure, the ease to get around. But I think what I love most is walking. Sidewalks and paths that make it safer for me. A small grocery store two blocks away; a large one 20 minutes’ walk. A movie theatre and multiple shops nearby, and buses or the tube available to take me to another neighborhood with delightful architecture, unique shops, and restaurants.

For me, cities mean walkability and freedom, but I know that some cities don’t fit that description.

I remember the second time I visited Houston. The first time was for a conference and I stayed downtown. The second time was also for work, but it was a smaller affair — a two-day training at a government office. I didn’t rent a car because I booked a hotel that was maybe 1/2 mile from the office. It may as well have been a nation away. There were sidewalks, but I might have been the first person to use them. The front desk staff seemed surprised that I didn’t need to park there. And in the evening, after the training ended, I assumed I’d go for a walk and explore the area. Just across the road was a big shopping center, after all.

Or so the online maps said.

However, that ‘road’ was a giant highway, and the only way to the other side was to walk beyond the office (maybe a mile in total), then find a functioning crosswalk signal (I eventually gave up and just froggered my way across) to get to an underpass and to the other side. Took 45 minutes when a well-designed (for pedestrians) rout would have been maybe 15? 20?

And look, the hotel, office, and shopping center weren’t in the middle of nowhere. If sidewalks and crosswalks and overpasses were designed with the walker — or wheelchair user — in mind, more people could take advantage of the businesses without getting into their cars. With the set up as it was, to be safer, one would drive, which deprives people of some exercise and some time outside. It’s a shame.

My sister used to live in Tampa, in a little development on an eight lane arterial. In one direction I could find a neighborhood in which to safely go for a run. But crossing the highway was like blood sport — drivers turning right paid no attention to the crossing signal and would get pissed if they almost hit the pedestrian who dared be out in the wold sans auto.

Tampa is a city, and so is Houston, but those areas clearly wanted to be more like the suburbs, the ones that don’t even bother with sidewalks, because who is walking anywhere?

This is another reason why I love the densely populated areas of cities. Old cities are not as accessible for people with mobility aids, but they usually at least have cobblestones or pavements connecting everyone. You’re mean to see the world there slowly. The grocery store is nearby, as is the doctor, and school.

Whenever we visit a new country that is small, or a city that is really a town, I wonder — could I live here? We spent one Christmas on the Isle of Lewis, in the Hebrides, and it was stunning. Open air, loads of sheep, beaches, the works. I ran my best times there. But if we needed pasta, or tampons, we needed the car. There was a bus, and it came once or twice an hour, so with some planning it could work. And maybe with a cycle (something I’ve had for a few years now, and use to get further afield, to football training and choir rehearsals) it might work, but I do wonder if I would be truly happy in a place where I couldn’t walk everywhere I needed to go.

I have searched for apartments to rent many times in my life. I did it three times in college, once after, four times in NYC, three times in Seattle, and this is now my third time in London. The first time, we had no credit, no rental history, nothing, but I still found a place for us in about three days. The second time, in two days when we had enough with the first place not fixing the illegal gas line in 18 months.

This time? In London, in 2022, amidst dramatic inflation and a serious drop in real wages? It’s something else entirely. We don’t think we have to move when our lease is up in October, but last year our landlord tried to increase our rent 16%. We eventually agreed to an 8% increase, but even that is borderline obscene, so we’re wary about what he’s going to offer this time around, especially seeing what other landlords are getting.

A big caveat up front is that we have two cats, and landlords in London are deeply disappointing when it comes to pets. Legally they are supposed to be open to them, but in practice most are not. We had one estate agent tell us that the landlord’s insurance won’t allow pets. I don’t know if that was true or just an excuse, but if landlords are supposed to be open to a discussion, it seems illegal to have insurance that won’t allow that discussion.

So we know we are already picking from a limited pool. At the same time, we are both employed full-time, and make very decent wages, so we are able to spend more than a lot of people on our housing. Basically, we are in general really well positioned (other than having pets) to find a place, and yet it is still exhausting, depressing, and infuriating.

* * *

Over the last two weeks, we have sought information on 19 flats. Because we are who we are, Austin and I have a spreadsheet with a link to the posting (we scour Right Move, Zoopla, and Open Rent daily), address, viewing, status, date last contacted, and any notes. Thirteen days later, we’ve viewed eight flats, and only one was borderline okay for what they were offering it for.

Austin viewed the first one, and it was fine. Not great, not horrible. Clean (which will turn out to be a rarity) and in generally good repair. But then he received this:

Let’s talk through it.

1. Offer price – I am not buying a home. I am renting a flat. I have no information about it; I cannot get an inspection report, I don’t get references from previous tenants about the landlord. I am 100% reliant on what the landlord decides to charge. If one says it is available for £XXXX/month, I’m going to take that as the price. I’m not going to get into a bidding war to pay someone else’s mortgage.

In fact, just for fun on this one, I decided to look up what the unit sold for, assumed 20% down and looked up the interest rate that year to work out their likely monthly mortgage. They were asking for about £800 more per month than their mortgage. Even if one allows for setting aside a certain percentage for repairs and improvements, there is absolutely no reason to charge that much. None. I wanted to go back with a bid of £100 above their mortgage (so about £700 under asking) but we ended up just moving on.

2. A year is reasonable, and asking people to commit to more than that in a neighborhood they might never have lived in before, living at the mercy of someone they likely will never meet, is not.

3. Yeah, I get this. Makes sense.

4. Another flat we looked at and left after a couple of minutes had a similar process and said that if we wanted them to replace the missing washing machine (which would fit in the current GIANT HOLE in the kitchen), we should put it under requests, but we should really limit such requests. I’m sorry, what? I have a few ‘requests’ that I’ll be making of any landlord – that they have the place completely deep cleaned before we move in, that all expected appliances be installed and in good repair before we move in, that any broken cabinets, busted doors, cracks, scraped up paint, all be sorted out before we move in. None of this ‘as is’ crap, and it is obscene to make people have to accept places as is for fear of not having a place to live.

5. HELL NO. I’m sorry, but a photo and bio? Why? So landlords can pick people who remind them of themselves? So racists can rule out people of color? So ageists can avoid young people or older people? I can’t even believe this made it through because it seems like it is asking for discrimination lawsuit.

* * *

Since then we’ve seen a variety of places. There was one that had a very lovely outdoor space, but the kitchen was janky and the ‘second bedroom’ was maybe the size of one of the small meeting rooms they put in open-plan offices, that could fit a desk and maybe a plant? There was one that was absolutely fine, but there were like 15 other people there walking around and we didn’t like it enough to fight for it. Additionally, while I know everyone can make their own choices, and some people cannot wear masks for health reasons, we are still in a pandemic and would love it if people would wear masks during these showings, but it’s usually just us.

We’ve had a couple just straight up disappear on us. One was rented before anyone had the chance to view it. Another, we signed up for what we were told was the first opportunity to view it, then a few hours before our appointment the viewing was canceled because they had rented it to someone else. Just this week, one was posted in the evening, my partner called first thing in the morning, and was told it was no longer available … because the tenants were renewing. What? How does that make sense?

One estate agency that has posted a couple that we like insists on us completing an ‘application’ before we can even view the place. It’s frustrating because they do have properties that look good, but they want a lot of personal information (including the contact info of our landlord!) that I think is absurd to request just so someone can look at a flat. I don’t want an estate agent calling our landlord for a reference before we even know if the flat has a functioning refrigerator (one didn’t).

By far the most common thing we are seeing are flats that should be 25-30% less than they are due to their size and overall condition. Obviously if someone is living somewhere it isn’t going to be pristine, but these places are almost universally run down and sad, and landlords are asking for basically my entire monthly salary.

Yesterday was the worst so far though. Pictures looked great, and it was in a decent location, close to one of the better tube lines. I got there and knew within 30 seconds it was not the place for us. The two bedrooms were each a decent size, but one of them had a shower in it. Not, like, an en-suite bathroom, but just a cubicle shower in the corner of the room. And in that shower was a toilet. No, this wasn’t a boat. It was an apartment. (And there was no sign this was to accommodate any sort of disability – anyone living in that flat and accessing that shower would still need to go up a set of stairs to get to the kitchen and living room). And the person showing it seemed proud of this set-up.

The actual bathroom reminded me of my college boyfriend’s bathroom he shared with two other dudes. I didn’t go into it.

The main area could have been great – it was really big and open, lots of light. But the kitchen was in bad shape, including missing all of the kick boards under the cabinets. The ceiling had maybe been primed to be painted, and patched a bit, but looked like it was mid-renovation. It was not.

Look, these are not unlivable apartments. The electric, water, and gas all presumably work. I didn’t see evidence of mice or bugs. But they are expensive, they are poorly kept up, and people are fighting over them. This is not an acceptable way to treat people. There is absolutely no need for the housing to be this way. Yes, much of it is very old. But being old doesn’t mean it can’t be kept up well.

* * *

I know that some landlords who read this (lol, none will) will just shake their heads and say I don’t know what I’m talking about. But the thing is, I do! Austin and I were landlords for over three years after moving to London because we didn’t want to sell our home right away in case we had to move back. For the first two years we didn’t have a property manager, and we still managed to get things fixed from 6,000 miles away. The dishwasher broke and leaked, creating the need for some serious repairs. So we cut our tenant’s rent during that time, because they had to deal with construction.

The boiler acted up, and we had emergency repairs sorted out the next day. Meanwhile our first landlord here spent at least 18 months requiring us to run our gas off of giant propane tanks that ran out every three-four days, because they couldn’t be bothered to get the required permits for a legal gas connection to the mains. (They also never properly registered the address for the building, so we didn’t exist on those find my address forms on literally every website.)

As landlords we allowed multiple pets. And the rent we charged only JUST covered our mortgage, to the point that we had to dip into our savings each month. Last summer we agreed to sell because we didn’t like being landlords, it just felt … weird.

And I think it kind of is weird. Like, I get it if someone has to move away from their home but will be moving back. But owning multiple properties? Doing it as one’s ‘job’? Making one’s living off of gouging people who need a safe, secure, healthy place to live? I don’t think it’s okay, and I think it’s why so much of the housing stock available now is so expensive and so very very sad.

We have another viewing tomorrow, and we’re waiting to hear from our landlord next week what he wants to charge next year.

Wish us luck. And please wish even more luck to the people who have very little money to spend on rent and who need to move now. It’s just brutal out there, and we need to figure out a better way.

I think I realized I had a pretty cool sister when she gave me what is probably the best birthday gift ever:

A 2-liter bottle of Crystal Pepsi and a Steve Urkel puzzle.

I think I was turning 14, and I recall her handing me these gifts early in the morning. I believe she wrapped them together in the dust rag my mother kept on the vacuum.

Soda AND a puzzle? What did I do to deserve this?

***

About 80% of people in the US have a sibling, and those relationships can vary dramatically. Some siblings are so close in age that they grew up fighting constantly over everything, including friends. Some are so far apart in age that they are basically strangers to each other. Some have nothing in common, so while they are civil, they don’t, like, chat on the phone every week or two. I am four years younger than my sister, which means that I was just young enough to be annoying, but not so young that she had to, like, help raise me. I had my own friends, but I’m certain that if she had a friend over and I didn’t, I was probably bugging them.

It’s National Sibling Day on April 10th, and while having such a great sibling is something I’m sure I’ve repeatedly taken for granted, I know that having a sister — and having this sister, specifically — has improved my life in ways I’m continuing to discover.

My sister and I mostly got along when growing up, though there is evidence of the occasional fight. The biggest reminder is the broken bathroom doorknob at the vacation condo my parents own. We grew up super lucky, spending basically the whole of August at the lake, with friends visiting. We’d go to the beach or the pool most days, then spend what seemed like hours at the local video store picking out a movie to watch with the sitter who would come while my parents went out (that’s right, kiddos, we are old enough to remember VHS). My sister’s room had a door that led directly to our shared bathroom; I needed to enter from the hallway. One particularly nasty fight, I kept pushing to get in, she kept pushing me out, and boom. Doorknob broken. Whoops.

But those types of incidents were definitely not the norm, and that four year age difference proved to be kind of perfect, as we were never sharing friends or competing for the same … anything, really. My parents did everything to make sure we both felt treated equally. We both did sports, we both participated in the arts, and we even had the exact same value for our gifts at Christmas (my mom was adamant on that one – she didn’t want us to perceive any favoritism).

One area that could have been fraught is the fact that she is very tall and very thin; I am very tall and at times have been very much … less thin. That could have been a serious challenge growing up – I’ve heard of larger siblings being tormented by their thinner siblings. My sister has never said such a thing to me. She’s never looked at me eating dessert, or having other sweets and said ‘hey, maybe put that down.’ She’s listened when I’ve complained about gaining weight, but she’s never made me feel like I am more or less worthy of anything based on the number on the scale.

Her leaving for college just as I started high school was a bummer in some ways, but perfect in others, as during my brattiest years, I was essentially an only child, and didn’t take it out on her. As I got older, I could go visit her at her university – I remember one weekend where we went to see L.A. Story and halfway through she asked if there was more than one white guy in the movie. There were three, actually, but in fairness, they were pretty much visually interchangeable. Ugh, that was a boring movie.

When I got to university, she was living in LA, and then took a year-long trip to Australia. That was the hardest, because international texting wasn’t a thing then (shoot, I don’t even know if domestic texting was a thing). We had email, but it’s not like she kept a laptop with her, or had free wifi or a smart phone. I’d hope to get a call from her on a prepaid calling card on occasion, but it sucked, her being so far away without an easy way to communicate.

Since then, however, and until the pandemic, that was about the longest we went without seeing each other. I visited her when she was living in Los Angeles, and then made multiple trips when she was in Texas and then Florida. I’d often try to visit over my birthday, as it was usually close to a three-day weekend. One visit we had what I still consider to be the best restaurant dinner I’ve ever had (the perfect pork chop with this ridiculous potato dish), followed by a Jason Mraz concert. My sister is thoughtful like that — years earlier, when my family visited her in D.C., she figured out it coincided with No Doubt performing not that far out of town, so she got us tickets. There was a lightning storm, they had us all crowd in the actual seating area under cover (we had lawn tickets), and then we just … never left the fancy area. Best concert.

She’s visited me in every apartment I’ve ever lived in (except two – one because we only lived there for five months and one because PANDEMIC), and I’ve visited her. We got cupcakes together at Magnolia bakery when she visited me in NYC. We rode the Staten Island Ferry and went to the strangest museum with a lot of stuffed birds.

I’ve stayed with her a few times in Boston, and she’s always made it such a great time – last time we went to tea at the public library, and it was just delightful.

We’ve also traveled together as adults, once to Berlin, and another time to Iceland with our partners. Both times were fun in different ways. For Berlin I think I did most of the planning, and also ended up with a wicked cold for most of the trip (but I powered through!).

She did basically 100% of the Iceland planning, and it was so much fun. I knew next to nothing, so it was nice to just sort of sit back and have someone else in charge, especially someone who would know what I would and would not be interested in doing.

Traveling together is fun, but we can also just sit and hang out and talk. We once spent like two hours watching YouTube videos of 80s and 90s TV theme songs, dying with laughter while my partner looked on, eventually retreating to another room because while our laughter is infectious to each other, it’s not necessarily contagious to others. I’m sure that’s annoying, as is our ability to beat literally anyone at Taboo.

As we get older, and our parents get older, our relationship has shifted a bit, because we have to think and talk more about unpleasant things. We’re lucky in that our parents are both still healthy (and fully vaccinated now, woo hoo!), but they live in the house we grew up in, and are getting older, so we know that things won’t stay the same forever. And while our parents are seriously really good parents, we all have things that bother us, right? I have a very understanding partner, but he didn’t grow up in my house, so he can’t fully know exactly what I mean when I speak about my folks. But my sister gets it completely.

Texting and WhatsApp calls have made living overseas a lot easier, in part because I can still dash a quick text off to my sister regardless of the time of day, and know I’ll hear back from her when she has free time. It’s also allowed me to do things like give her a video tour of our new apartment, and properly sing happy birthday.

Those of you who don’t have siblings have I’m sure had wonderful life experiences that I’ll never have — having the full attention of one’s parents, not having any internalized competition with another kid in your house, not having hand-me-downs — and many probably love being an only child. I think that’s great! But I’ve only ever known a life with a sibling, and I feel so lucky.

So this National Siblings Day, if you have as great a sibling as I do, be sure to let them know.

It’s almost a new year! According to the world, it’s time to make resolutions, set new goals, recommit to being our best selves!

It’s also about to be Friday. Like any other Friday. In much of the northern hemisphere, it’s cold out. It gets dark here at 4pm. There’s nothing very motivating about knowing I’m going back to work on Monday (though I am lucky I have a job to go back to).

Do you remember this time LAST year? In the US, folks were so excited to kiss 2019 goodbye, because we knew by the end of the year, we’d (if there is a god) have a new president ready to be sworn in on January 20. Hopefully Elizabeth Warren, or Kamala Harris. But definitely not Trump.

Many of us set goals. Travel more. Spend more time with friends. Finally apply for that stretch position at work.

And then … COVID happened. For most of us, the goal became survival. For some, that was physical survival – keeping the lights on and food on the table, or avoiding getting sick while working an essential job. For others, it meant mental survival – extroverts trying to figure out how to get any energy when all social interactions are behind screens, parents trying to support kids who had no energy release or social outlets. As time went on, we saw more and more people showing how little they care for others. People taking vacations or unnecessary trips for jobs that weren’t at risk, possibly spreading the disease. People refusing to wear a bit of fabric over their nose and mouth when near others. People screaming about MA FREEDUM while dismissing concerns of people protesting for actual threats to their freedom (e.g. folks fighting to defund the police and get others to recognize that Black Lives Matter).

So much of 2020 has disappointed me. 70 million+ people thought voting for a racist rapist to have a second term in office was just fine. A smaller minority, but one that includes elected Republicans, have spent weeks claiming an election was stolen when clearly, OBVIOUSLY, it was not. A Republican Senate refusing to provide meaningful, consistent support to those who have been most impacted by the pandemic. Just so many people who do not care about anyone but themselves, or perhaps those who look exactly like them.

It is disgusting.

2020 also took people from us, whether the nearly 350,000 in the US killed by Trump’s failure during this pandemic, or beloved actors like Chadwick Boseman. It took opportunities from us. It took time with family, it took new jobs, it took money, it took energy. There is so much grief out there that so many haven’t begun to process.

A familiar refrain on social media was ‘F*** 2020’ or ‘2020 strikes again,’ to the point that some people started to get indignant at that. Their argument is that things have always been bad for some people, and it’s simplistic and ignorant to just keep blaming the year. Folks, we know that. There aren’t a lot of people out here literally thinking there’s some sort of magic that the numbers 2020 conjure to add to all the bad shit that has happened. But sometimes, one doesn’t have enough characters in a tweet or time in their mind to dive into all that has gone into making an event horrible. 2020 is shorthand for decades, centuries of crap building and building into the mountain we see before us.

My 2020 wasn’t as horrible as it could have been. I was able to see my parents in February, when my dad had surgery. I landed at SFO the same day the last flight from one country in Asia was allowed to land. I was able to visit friends in Seattle just as the first cases were showing up there. When the UK finally went into lock down I was able to seamlessly work from home without issues. And when things started to reopen, my soccer season began, which meant I did get to socialize with people weekly.

But I’ve been mentally exhausted for months. Seeing how poorly things are in the US. Experiencing the horrible response in the UK. Trying to stay in touch even though Zoom meetings suck the life out of me. I’ve been frustrated at not being able to see friends in person, not be able to travel (basically my favorite thing). Shoot, I haven’t browsed a book store in at least ten months and it’s just so strange. And, in perfect 2020 fashion, our refrigerator died on Monday night, so we go into the new year ordering take-out and making due with a mini fridge that fits a few essentials.

So now that 2021 is rolling around, I am not assuming things will be much different. Now, January 20th, that will be a good day for those of us who care about other people, who believe in justice. But we’re still be in the middle of a pandemic. A lot of people who chose to travel or spend time with family outside their bubble over Christmas will be in ICUs or dying from the pandemic, because the vaccine is going to take a long time to get to everyone.

Given that, I’m looking at 2021 as a rebuilding year. At least the first half is going to be just as hard as 2020. I’m not buying any plane tickets just yet, or scheduling any in-person events. My birthday will be spent ordering take-out, because eating in a restaurant is just another way to catch or pass the disease on to others (not that restaurants are even an option in Tier 4 London). Maybe by late spring I’ll go inside a place for more than just the time it takes to grab what I need and go (or to get yet another crown, because my teeth hate me). That’s not totally conducive to the life I want to live, so I’m going to keep focusing on the things I can do while keeping myself and others safe. Working from home (which I know is an immense privilege). Focusing on hobbies I can do at home (reading, sewing, baking). Staying connected through texts and calls. Building my physical and mental strength. And I’m going to continue to focus on building relationships from a place of compassion without compromising my values.

So Happy New Year. May we all manage our expectations for 2021, but may it at least be better than 2020.