Save the Last Dance for me!

Today was my last day dancing in Chicago and I have to say I'm really going to miss it. It feels like I'm back in uni again, dancing for hours every day and working in small groups to help each other figure out the combinations and although I still have American voices shouting at me, this time they are all positive (DT needs to learn a lesson here from her fellow yanks, I work much better with encouragement than with criticism).

All this week I have been dancing with The Dance COLEctive headed up by Margi Cole. My flatmate Liz is a member of TDC so it was great seeing her do what she does best. It was also great doing partner work and being lifted for a change. I am always, always, always the lifter never the liftee. I understand why and I even do it myself when I'm choreographing. I'm tall and fairly strong so when I lift dancers they really fly through the air and it's much more impressive than a small person lifting me and my legs still dragging along the floor. Margi, who is 5'2", showed me different lifts where height differences don't come into it and she actually got me quite a distance off the ground. Something to bear in mind for future.

I also Fedexed my dance clothes home today. Mum, if you're reading this, I'd open the box in a well-ventilated area if I were you. Sorry. I went into the Fedex office yesterday to pick up a box and the address form and even after I asked if I needed an international form he still gave me a US airbill. I filled it in but didn't attach it to the box as I was pretty certain he'd given me the wrong form. Sure enough I took my parcel back in this morning and asked again if he was definitely, positively, without a doubt sure that he'd given me the proper form... "Oh no, you need an International form for that". Deep breath, Susan, count to ten.

After class I cycled my last cycle over to Mindy's house to return her bike. It was quite sad saying goodbye to her as she's similar to Sarah in a lot of ways, not least her youthful face, and I enjoyed hanging around with her. She's planning a trip over to Scotland at some point so fingers crossed we'll meet up again. This time I can take her out til 5am, although probably more like 9am if we're really in the mood!

Ah'm Pure American So Ah'm Ur

Last week at the end of Cindy's class we were all reclaiming our water bottles. They tend to move around the room as we take sips (gulps) then move to new spots. Mindy Meyers had collected all the bottles and was calling out, "Who's is the Evian?",
"Who's is Volvic?",
"Who's Fiji Water?",
"Who's Pure American?"

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!

That's mine, I'm Pure American!!!

Needless to say nobody else in the class could understand why this was so funny and even after trying to explain the Glaswegian use of the word 'pure' it still didn't really translate. It was pure dead brilliant though!

Even In Blackouts present The Larry and Raul Show!

Liz C (flatmate) and I went to the Even In Blackouts gig last night at Simon's Tavern on N. Clark, a dingy but nice wee bar with regular live music. Even In Blackouts were great as always, despite being a little unrehearsed. Luckily they have enough talent and charisma to pull it off and nobody minded them forgetting words, coming in at the wrong time or not knowing which song to play next. They also made me feel really welcome, asking after my family, chatting away about time spent here and in Glasgow and letting me steal hats. N.B. Liz E (EIB) has promised to come shopping next time and I'm determined to hold her to it.


Entertainment was also supplied by The Larry and Raul Show. Two men in their 60s who came and sat next to Liz C and I because we were in 'their' seats. We were about to make our excuses and find another table but they were harmless and so funny so we stayed. Things started off well enough, a polite enquiry about the band, did we mind them joining us but this was their usual spot, nice weather we're having and then... the question that opened up a whole can of worms:

Raul, "Where are you from?"
Me, "Scotland"
R and Larry, "Oh wow, she's from Scotland, hey did you hear that? This girl's from Scotland. All the way over there in Europe. Scotland, huh? Wow"
Me, "Yeah, Scotland, it's nice"

I then spent the rest of my evening answering a barrage of questions and trying to answer them truthfully whilst not being sure if they're winding me up or not. I came to the conclusion that they weren't winding me up and they really didn't know anything about the world outside America. Questions included:

What language do they speak in Scotland?
Do they speak Garlic like the Irish? (Gaelic)
Do you have Mexican food in Scotland?
Do you have Spanish food in Scotland, cos that's different ya know?
Is it all mountains in Scotland?
Do you have freeways in Scotland?
Do you have Chinese food in Scotland?
Do you have Italians in Scotland?
Do you have Poles in Scotland? (I assume they meant the people not upright cylinders but you never know)
How do you say love in Scotch? (they very quickly were told off for saying Scotch)
How do you say cheers in Scottish?
Where exactly is Scotland?
Oh, it's part of England is it? (I nearly stopped talking to them at this point but Raul saved the day when he told Larry it wasn't)
Do they have Indian food in Scotland?
Do they have McDonald's in Scotland? (Even Baghdad has McDonalds. This was lost on them as they didn't know where Baghdad was either)
Do they have Burger King in Scotland?
Do they have Wendy's in Scotland? (No. Oh that's a shame, they don't have Wendy's in Scotland, they don't have them. Tsk tsk)
Do they have their own money in Scotland? (On payday we do!)
What's the food like in Scotland?
Is Scotland where 'haggish' is from? (He meant haggis)
Why do you have to have a big bag on the bagpipes? (Erm, cos without the bag they'd just be pipes)
What's the capital city of Scotland? (Larry then tried to correct MY pronunciation of Edinboro!)
They really have Mexican food in Scotland?

I would have mentioned the fact that we only just got electricity and running water but I thought my sarcasm would have been lost on them so it was better sticking to the facts. Liz C, Phil and Gub were really embarrassed about them, thinking that I would think all Americans are as thick as Larry and Raul but it was fine because I know that it's only the majority who are as thick as them and at least they were asking questions.

I should also mention that every question started with "Hey, Scotland"!

Live to Work or Work to Live?

I've always thought of myself as a 'Work to Live' type of person. I'm very fortunate that I love my job (that's what happens when you turn a hobby into work) but ultimately I work so I can have nice things, go out with my friends and go abroad. Being a freelancer my work schedule varies a lot, sometimes working 12 hour days most of the week and sometimes only a few hours a day. Either way, it's my choice.

Here I have discovered that a full time job demands 60 hours per week to our 37.5 hours. On top of that most people do overtime, often unpaid, to take their weekly working time up to 80-100 hours per week. They get up at 5.30am, are in the office at 7am until 8pm at night then bring their laptop home and do a few more hours before bedtime.

With them working such long hours you'd think they'd be compensated with annual leave, right? Wrong. Americans are only entitled to 2 weeks annual leave. 2 weeks! Then with medical insurance averaging at 350 quid a month, sales tax which varies from state to state, food which is even more expensive than Waitrose or M&S and a minimum wage of roughly 2.50 an hour the only bonus to living in America is the housing. Much bigger flats than ours for a fraction of the price and even the worst of the Government housing, equivalent to our Housing Association, is spacious, well-maintained and somewhere I'd be happy living... if I could transport it back to Scotland that is.

P** B*** and Pushy Pests (*edited at Mum's request)

P** B*** works. Especially when used in conjunction with I****** tablets. I know a lot of you may think this is overkill but I have always been desperate for a tan. Growing up as the 'white chicken' of the family is no fun, surrounded by dark haired people who tan easily and don't have to deal with comments like, "I thought you were on holiday? Was it not sunny?" was rubbish. But lately, since my 3 weeks in India, I've been tanning more and with my new found lotion and potion I'm actually going properly brown. Not just my usual freckly and golden but properly brown. People who don't know me are even commenting on my nice tan which is a first. All my hard work lying on the beach for hours every day has been worth it especially since I've had to deal with the aforementioned pushy pests.

American men are forward, desperate, pushy and don't take no for an answer. Last night I was meeting Mindy at the North Avenue Beach House to reshoot some material when I was approached by some random asking if he could borrow my cell phone. Taken by surprise I agreed (yeah, I know it's unlike me) and he made a call looking for his brother who didn't answer. It was only later I realised this was a crafty way of getting my number without directly asking for it. He spent the next 20 minutes (my cycling is getting faster so I was early) talking about how he was just back from Czechoslovakia (doubt he can even spell it) and how different it was to America. Duh! At one point he even said how weird it was that black people and Asian people spoke Czechoslovakian! Oh my God! Really?!? You mean they speak the language of the country they're from?!?! Wow!

After him rambling on about this and me checking my watch every 5 seconds waiting for Mindy he pops the question: Did I want to go for a drink. Sorry, no. Why not? Well, I'm meeting my friend tonight, I have a boyfriend and I'm just not interested in ignorant midgets who think America is the centre of the universe (ok, the last one I just said in my head). Another 10 minutes he stood asking the same question. Take the hint mate, NO.

Then again at the beach today, 2 young guys set out their towels and CD player (Maroon 5!) quite near me before one of them comes over with a piece of paper with both their numbers on it for me to choose which one I wanted to go out with. I didn't even take the piece of paper and they still spent the next 10 minutes saying where each of them would take me for a date. I was looking for Cilla and our Graham with the round up.

I'm enjoying being here, I know just enough people to hang about with and still have my moments of anonymity but the pushy pests are getting on my nerves. I can't imagine this unrelenting technique of chatting someone up would ever actually work but it seems to be the main method here. Very strange.