There's Bourbon in My Beer and Possibly Scorpions in the Grass

Not quite big sky country, but close. 

Given that we're now Californians, we decided to live the lifestyle. Mr Findingmoxie has found himself a recreation center with an outdoor pool and is seriously smitten with swimming outdoors in mid-October. In fact, he emphasized this just before blog went to press. That's how much he delights over all of you. But don't fret, dear friends, where delight ends, farmer's tan begins. Sure, you might wonder that he's swimming in the sun, but conscientious as he is with sunblock, that's one farmer's tan that's not going anywhere. That's one of the many reasons, I'm grateful to be a lady: strappy tank tops and boob tubes keep the dreaded farmer's tan away. 

California's got a lot to offer, but frankly that's proven a bit hard to believe living in the suburbs (and subtext: living with my parents makes me feel like a stroppy, bored teenager all over again). It comes as no surprise that life in Los Angeles is worlds away from our life in London, sprawling sun-land versus city-scape, but the devil is in the details. While my parents don't live in the wilds of LA county, there is still a good 5 minute drive to anything resembling coffee or life as we know it. Gone are the days of nipping out on foot to Gail's Bakery on the corner for a flat white and a scone. That small detail (besides the weather, the people, the food) is a sucker punch that gets us every time. I'll be honest, that's been a struggle and cabin fever is very much an issue. The moxies miss being able to get around on our own steam, the old get-out and get.  Granted, the upside is that my shoes will have a longer lifespan and I can take 4-inch wedges on a day out without a single qualm. Give and take, I guess.

Mr Findingmoxie working on his farmer's tan.

So, we're working on it. Working on enjoying the simpler pleasures. Like hikes. Yes, hikes. Or, as much a hike as my limited shoe collection will allow me. Mint green fitflops aren't exactly all terrain friendly. We're lucky enough to have a nature reserve just minutes away from my parents home with easy trails: El Escorpion Park. Yes, I try not to think too closely about it. For the record, I haven't seen a single scorpion in the park and I hope NEVER to. Actually, we didn't see a single critter, so maybe the park was taking it easy on us. It's coyote country and I'm not really sure I can handle that sort of outdoorsy at this point in my life. Walking a trail surrounded by canyons, the sun high and the sky wide, and the wind whispering through the long grass, is probably as peaceful as you'll ever be in the San Fernando Valley.

Forget the hiking though. What we're most excited about is the beer. Oh, the beer. Sure, England has those cask ales and stouts that I love, but here in the US, we're rocking all kinds of darling little microbreweries. So, what better way to get involved than go to beer-tastings. That is correct, beer-tastings. With pretzels to cleanse your palate and a few fingers of beer to sip, this is probably the most fun we've had with booze without the hangover. The beer-lier is nearly completely dead-pan, so you're never sure if he thinks you're funny or you're a drag. Two tastings in, I think we're winning him over; Mr Findingmoxie doesn't wish to speculate. The other patrons are just as interesting and obsessed with breweries. Brewery-lust is the new classic-car-lust. We've tasted IPAs and sampled Rich Fall Brews, and made an AMAZING discovery. A black IPA. Seriously. It's a marriage between stout and IPA--mine and Mr Findingmoxe's opposite tastes in one snazzy looking bottle with some righteously good flavour. It's Speakeasy's Butchertown and it has shifty spy EYES. I think I've also found my sipping spirit--in a beer. Turns out beer aged in bourbon barrels tastes just enough of bourbon with just enough of a burn that I can pour it into a snifter, swirl it around and drink it on moody winter nights like it is bourbon.             

Another perk of California is being back in the thick of my family and let me say that while we've been angsting about our move for the last few months, these guys have done nothing but get excited. Just the Saturday after we landed, Mr Findingmoxie got his first taste of what my extended family looks like in one room. It's fairly similar to a Liverpool party, only with louder adults and less children. Slightly uncomfortable with our newfound celebrity status, I spent most of the evening being expertly interrogated on my career prospects, relocation plans, and our philosophy on child-rearing all the while being plied with delicious Persian food. Mr Findingmoxie fared slightly better. Most people just wanted to hear his English accent. Our popularity earned us another family night, with my uncle declaring he'd come over to make his famous pizzas for us. That was the promise, but in the end, we got wrangled into doing most of the dirty work ourselves. There is a certain joy in arranging your own pizza toppings though, but I suspect that speaks more about my control issues than anything else! I will say that my cousin's advice on cutting pizza slices has changed my life. In the kitchen, anyway!

My pride and joy

Next up: we haven't been out to the beach yet, which is shocking considering that's a huge selling point for Los Angeles. Plans are for heading out on Sunday as the temperature is set to spike again. Although, have to admit that my soul feels a bit bruised by going bikini body in October, after having automatically given up on summer. Oh well, bikini is a state of mind and I hope to be there by Sunday!

The Girl is Back in the Valley

I'd venture a guess that most of you picked up on the fact that I was rearing kittens this summer. Your first clue might have been the month's worth of blog entries, detailing our progress. What was probably less apparent was that the Findingmoxies were also on the move. For the last year, we'd been jumping through government hoops and getting prodded by government doctors (Mr Findingmoxie, mostly), all to secure Mr Findingmoxie his American visa so that he could try life as an ex-pat this time. 

After 5 years, I was going 'home' in the autumn. Like all things, it sounded more exciting when we first began to plot it out. By the end of the summer, I wanted to keep two kittens and board up the door to our lovely, lovely London flat and NEVER LEAVE. Extreme? Yes, probably. 

American on the inside, British on the outside

But here's what you should know about transatlantic romance. First, the black eyes. There are more goodbyes and temporal displacement than I would wish on anyone. There is the very real risk that one of you will come out with a hybrid accent that baffles you and makes everyone else uncomfortable. There is also the certainty that you'll be deeply out of the loop on one side--culturally and logistically. Try setting up a cellular phone 5 years after you last had one. Things have changed, my friends, things have changed. You may end up having to explain your life history to the man in the shop because you know he's thinking that there is no way you could be so clueless about How Things Are--unless you just crawled out from underneath a rock. And you have no concept of what's 'normal' after 5 years. More importantly, the cultural lexicon has carried on without you. All the inside jokes, the bulk of American TV, the lame teen movies and the ever-changing radio stations have passed you by. It literally feels like you're from outer space at this point. So, while Mr Findingmoxie wants to embrace an athletic outdoorsy life in California, with less television, I want to hole up and catch up on all the television I've missed. But, I digress. 

Your In-Laws Will Indulge Any Whim On The Last Night

 Your Friends Will Respect The Leaving Party Theme

On to the feathers in the cap of transatlantic romance. You have friends everywhere. You even have a couple family homes in different time zones, all without being a trust fund baby. You have multiple stamps in your passport and have lived in exotic places like London, Chesterfield, San Francisco and the San Fernando Valley. You throw huge parties every couple of years when you relocate and all your friends and family shower you with gifts and proclamations of how fond they are of you. When you are in town, all your friends and family have to drop everything to spend time with you. You'll never need to pay for a hotel in either locale. Your friends are thrilled by the idea of holidaying in your spare bedroom and your parents have to spoil you in the hopes that you'll come home soon.  To everyone you meet, your life sounds pretty amazing--the ultimate cocktail story. Best of all, you're on an adventure with the one you love. It's Mr Findingmoxie and I against the world. 

 Anyway, we made it work. We spent two weeks travelling through Europe after I returned the kittens (another blog entry to come) and then another two weeks last-hurrahing through England and packing our stuff together for The Immigration. Pickfords International Removal sent two lively gents (who ate all our biscuits and cheerfully heckled me on how many clothes and shoes I had) to chuck all our precious things  into boxes wily nily. The Pickford's representative, our old chum Rory, sold it to us as a premiere service where we would relax with a glass of wine while experienced professionals gently and efficiently packed our life--yes, he actually said, you'll be sat there with a glass of wine, relaxing while it's all sorted for you. At which point, Mr Findingmoxie dryly reminded him that our removal was scheduled for 8:30 in the morning and not so much a wine time. Sadly. Rory had to conclude that that was a shame. Well, we didn't get wine and we certainly didn't get liveried butlers wrapping my gowns in tissue paper and dust-bagging my shoes. Given how they 'packed' Mr Findingmoxie's shoes, I'm somewhat relieved I didn't get to see them pack mine. My head might have exploded. Oh, my beautiful shoes. All tossed together with no order and mashed out of shape! I'll angst over that for another 9-12 weeks.

In the end, what we didn't ship, we gave away or ruthlessly chucked out. We ditched some in front of the charity shop late on our last eve, surreptitious-style. We bartered 2 bottles of fine single malt Scotch for two croissant sandwiches the morning of our departure. Still think we got the better part of that deal. We finally found ourselves in Heathrow with 5 suitcases, a painting and a top hat. And so very sad to leave it all behind. Thanks, London for the love, the laughs, the hustle, the sights, the late nights, the trains, the house parties and mixing drinks in the office, the camping, the kittens, the Scotch eggs and Sunday roasts, the winters, 2 months of Christmas, the Guinness, the fashion, and the privilege of saying we were Londoners. As we will always be. 

findingmoxie In A Nutshell: Whimsical, Brightly Coloured&Never Packing Light

Next up: the moxies in the Valley and findingmoxie, at 30 something, living with her parents again. Spoiler: there will be angst and hijinks. 

Mr Findingmoxie, Outdoorsy At Last