Five Years in the USA

 Hip hip hooray, it's five years living in the USA! 

 

Half a decade in sun kissed Atlanta, the "city of trees," the city "too busy to hate" and the God made capital of the Old South. Here I am, five years into my third continent on Planet Earth in the 21st Century. Where does the time go then, eh? Bangkok, the Big Mango, the City of Angels (and angles), seems like blooming yesterday (when all my troubles seemed so far away...)

 

Nope. No time for maudlin introspection. Just happy memories of now and then. Here's me at HQ on Soi 12 in Bangkok packing up our kit to get shipped off to Yankland. It was the end of nine years post in Bangkok, the capital city of the coup prone Kingdom of Thailand.  Nine interesting years as a male trailing spouse/ 'accompanying partner' and diplomatic other in the exotic reaches of the Far East. Romance. Excitement. Danger. Intrigue. We had it all in Thailand and South East Asia.  We had it all and then some.

 

Do I miss the heave and ho of the sweat inducing joint? Hell no. You live any longer than nine years in a steam room city like Bangkok and you go bonkers like the rest of the farangs (foreigners) out there. Trust me, I seen it and it ain't pretty. No, sir. Big shots fetching up liquid with pockets full of cash and dying broke in the gutter; guys getting tangled up in some dodgy scheme or getting set up by their old lady and pals; diplomats losing all of their inhibitions and becoming loud, abusive drunks. I seen it all in the Big Mango and the World at large.  But I must miss something, right? 

 

Find a quiet moment, close my eyes and I'm back. I can hear the national anthem played twice a day from the local park. The strange doo-wop birdsong. And I can see the smoggy glare of the Bangkok skyline rising from the canopy of trees from the balcony of our apartment. Close my eyeballs in a quiet moment and I'm back, reminding myself to pack a sense of sabai sabai from Thailand for the fearful, violent shores of the wild wild West.    

Here's a parting shot of the removal truck with our worldly goods. This was early August and we didn't see our gear again until late October. And there goes the "two for a fiver" Lonsdale knickers (black) bought at Sports Direct on Ken High Street in London. I mistakenly shipped them out with the furniture, and was sans underwear in the USA until I took a trip to Target in Atlantic Station, a creepy shopping district that reminded me of "the Village" from the 1960s TV show The Prisoner.

 

At the local branch of Publix, a popular chain of American supermarkets, I discovered the ghetto of British foodstuffs next to the Kosher and Asian quarter. The choice was more varied than the grotty old commissary at the British Embassy on Wireless Road in Bangkok. But who wants PG Tips tea when I can get Uncle Billy in Harrogate to post Earl Grey teabags from his local branch of Marks and Sparks? Marmite. English mustard. Cream crackers. But no Lucozade or Lemsip. Drat! 

 

 

Bisto Gravy. Sharwoods chutney. Yorkshire pudding mix (egad!) Wine gums and irresistibubble Aero chocolate bars. Hmm, check out the caution on how to read "European dating". You'd be in trouble if it read 13/13/13. 

 

No need to score any Marmite from Publix on that trip. This jar of the black stuff came via an old chum in Singapore. Marmite in Singapore. Who'd have thought it. Like discovering packets of ten Benson and Hedges cigarettes and Lemsip cold remedy in a Hong Kong bodega. These days, I'm reduced to smoking Marlboro Lights and waiting for cold season deliveries of Lemsip from England. Mustn't whinge. Mustn't grumble. Must troupe on. America's hardly the Third World. And I am supposed to make some effort to assimilate into the ranks of the host culture (fat chance of that). Oh hang on, I've got a shooter. And I joined the NRA. Which political party has the hottest female members? I'm off to a good start.  

 

Old habits, however, die hard. I did manage to find Dandelion and Burdock in Atlanta. This olde English soft drink, now brought back from obscurity by the Fentiman's brewery, was a favorite tipple when I was growing up in 1970s Liverpool. "It goes great with bourbon," said the fat American woman behind the till on Inman Park. I immediately bought up every bottle in the shop. Sadly, due to lack of demand, other than from yours truly, they discontinued stocking it. Colonial bellends.    

 

Active shooters. Cult leaders. Gangbangers. Stalkers. Reality TV stars turned politician. America is a dangerous and unpredictable place. Suffice to say, the gaff is jam packed with peanut butters and it's wise to tool up.

 

If you're English, and not too keen on shooters (like me and Don Henderson in Bulman), here's a handy tip, my son. Long before I got a shooter (a Kraut one), I made use of this set of golf balls, an executive gift from the British Chamber of Commerce Thailand (BCCT). 

 

I don't play golf. It's a mug's game. But, using an old white sock, I came up with a Daddy Cool idea for this unwanted corporate gift.  

 

 

Hey presto, I'm "3727 Carlin" from Scum. Yanks? This shit's 'em up. "Hey man," said a colonial badass from the local gym, "you must be some kind'a soccer hooligan or something packin' that shit." He could talk. The mug owns an AR-15 assault rifle, a .50 cal handgun and has 5000 rounds of ammo stashed in his drum. But that grockle wasn't the only shocked party. A tradesman came to do some work at HQ and noticed it sitting on my steel tanker desk next to the complete works of Sapper. "Man, I know what you got there," he laughed. Yes, I concurred, indeed. I'm a dirty little back street villain, where's your tool?    

 

One of the first things that I did upon arrival in Atlanta was go for a long stroll on the verdant lawns of Piedmont Park. Designed on a blasted patch of granite by the same firm that did Central Park in New York, it's probably the best park in the city. After nine years of flat earth, and boring tropical green, I walked barefoot on the grass and took in the hot strangeness of my new surroundings. A black guy, resting under the shade of an oak tree, waved at me and smiled like I had just come out of prison or something. Maybe I had.

 

One thing that lights the fire is quirky old buildings, like this redbrick home on Hurt Street in nearby Inman Park. Most of the homes in Atlanta are clapboard. The ivy softened redbrick also brought to mind the vermilion Gothic and Edwardian era mansions of my old hood in Liverpool. Look at that balcony with the canopy. I could do some pukka stuff out there.

 

Here's me at work at HQ in September 2012. Note the lack of furniture. Like a villain's flop. Think I was bashing up a story for the Oldie back home in London about Bulldog Drummond (spiked).  Or looking at pictures of Glenda Jackson from when she was fit. One or the other. The brown cardie is long gone. The MacBook is still going but due another service before it goes completely and utterly kaput.

Here's one of the lizards who lived in the stone walls of the old flat. We had two of them squatting on the premises. They were very sociable. When I mopped the tiled floor they used to drink up the cleaning solution and turn bright green (must have gotten them sloshed).  In the autumn months of 2012, they often rested on the lampshades to keep themselves warm. Sadly, they both died in January 2013.

 

Here's a very Thai looking view of our old backyard in Virginia Highland. Note the "grill". Yanks are mad keen for fancy pants gas fired barbecues. I only ever used it to burn incriminating paperwork and documentation. Note the absence of leaves. I was very good at keeping the deck spick and span all year round. It didn't stop, I hasten to add, upstairs neighbors brushing leaves down from their perch instead of bagging them up for the binmen. The joys of living in metro suburbia. But one mustn't grumble. It's the English way. Isn't it? Yeah. That and being a passive-aggressive cunt. Don't forget the sabai sabai. Didn't I learn anything in Thailand?  

Here's a hefty draft of the first tome in October 2012. Which reminds me, I've got to get back to work on the second one (53,843 words and counting). What am I doing this shit for nothing when I need to go and write some stuff for dough? Good question.

 

Until next time...

 

The Male Trailing Spouse.