I recently lived a dream that I had dreamed and ached for for many years. I became a chef. A real working chef in one of the best places in the world to cook. London.
When I trained under Chef Roberto Argentina in California, I fell in love with professional cooking. What started as a lark, inspired by watching too much Anthony Bourdain and Gordon Ramsay, turned into to something that infected my soul.
Chef Roberto was passionate, emotional, sometimes angry but always an artist. When I left his kitchen I knew how to hold a knife, plate a dish and shut my mouth. I also learned a lot of fundamentals. But shutting up was the hardest to learn. It has paid off.
One of the reasons that I came to London was to cook. When I first got here, I took a none cooking job to pay the bills. One day Jemma said; "Go cook. You came here to cook. Just quit work and go cook". Everything I was taught to think as a husband, father and provider told me that I should just stay at the job, enjoy the unattainable idea of being a proper chef as a fantasy and do nothing too dangerous.
But Jemma cared enough to say it and mean it. My brother and sister in law encouraged me. I came to London to take risks and find the "real me". The next day I quit working at the hospital and started looking for a chef gig.
After trolling ceaselessly through the job postings I got a call from the head chef of a soon to be opening restaurant in London Bridge. I went to the interview and was hired as a commis chef.
My first couple of weeks of "cheffing" had nothing to do with cooking. The restaurant was a building site. The stoves and refrigerators were bought used at an auction. In short, they were grungy, sticky, smelly and dirty. My days were spent with the French sous chef scrubbing sanitizing re cleaning, loading vans and carrying equipment up stairs.
After a lot of hard, dirty work, opening day was close. One of the most exciting thing ever said to me was "when you come tomorrow, bring your knives". My brother Gordon and my wife Jemma bought me some really kick ass Wusthof professional knives (kinda like buying a Porsche for a 16 year old).
We spent days prepping, chopping, pealing and cleaning. Always cleaning. I learned the magic of jus. A proper veal au jus sauce takes days of simmering, skimming, watching and loving. Chef Jake would make us tell the jus that we loved it. But the more you love the jus, the more beautiful it becomes.
Our first night was friends and family night. I was lucky enough to secure an invitation for Jemma, Aarti and Gordon. I was scheduled to work my first long shift (7:00am to midnight). I was so nervous. The feeling in my gut before service can can be compared to getting married, having a child or trying to kiss that girl for the first time.
Then the unthinkable happened. Jake told me "your station is up front tonight Pat". What? Up front? In an open kitchen where paying customers actually see you cooking their food? I was really nervous.
When we opened, the place was packed with a lot of London's movers and shakers. Everybody was a VIP. We were on stage and I had a speaking part. The biggest VIPs in my heart were Jemma, Aarti and Gordon. I couldn't wait to see them.
Guests kept coming up to the pass to take pictures of the kitchen and the chefs. Then a moment that has been etched in my heart happened. Jemma came to the pass to take my picture. I was beaming.
I prepped and cooked my ass off that day. I felt like I was way out of my league. I was on the line with two incredible chefs making real gourmet food. They made it fun. These guys couldn't stop screwing around. They were working like dogs and at the same time, totally screwing around and having fun. I was more in love with cooking than ever. I had my first taste of hard core, front line, high pressure cooking.
Everybody in the kitchen was great. The chefs were all patient and eager to teach. Everybody was a real team. Sometimes it felt like it was us against the world and look out world.
I got to stay at my station in the kitchen. I had become a proper chef. The fact that I was the oldest guy in the kitchen (by an average of 15 years) and the lowest ranked chef was only more a source of pride for me. I made the journey and won.
One of the downfalls of professional cooking is that it takes a long time in the business to make decent cash. I'm not a rich ex-pat with deep pockets so I had to leave the kitchen. I was gutted.
Working in the kitchen, the camaraderie, the love and support in my endeavor from my loved ones has been one of the most beautiful blessings in my life and I have no regrets.
At the expense of sounding cliche' I will say find your dream. Do something crazy. Defy conventional wisdom. Your bank account may not grow, but you will be richer.
Thank you Jake!!
Thursday, 5 August 2010
Friday, 5 March 2010
My Neighborhood
I love London. I am "in love" with London. It is a living, breathing place. There are people here from all over the world. People of every race, religion, culture and economic status. They all live together (not always in harmony, but together) in this over crowded, expensive, noisy, dirty wonderful beautiful place.
My neighborhood is in South London. Camberwell to be exact. One night at a club a young posh, drunk London woman asked me where I lived. When I told her that it was Camberwell, she called it a "proper shit hole". Well sister, it stopped being a shit hole the second you left.
Camberwell is a working class area full of immigrants. Myself included. The number 12 bus is a mini United Nations. Get on that bus in the morning and you will hear languages from all over the world. African dialects, Polish, Hindi, Urdu, Italian, Chinese dialects, Jamaican Pigeon, Spanish and English. All of these folks pack the number 12 bus to go into central London for work. The majority of these folks don't look like the are going into offices in Whitehall or Parliament.
Camberwell's streets are packed with an assortment of shops. At first glance, every other shop appears to be either a dodgy chicken and kebab place or a hair dresser. But look closer. The main road, Walworth Road, is full of clothing stores, cleaners, small markets, appliance stores, health food stores, butcher shops and any other type of business that a small town needs to survive. Most of these store are independent, locally owned family affairs. The shop keepers represent the wide number variety of cultures and cater to their specific tastes and needs. This helps make Camberwell a diverse and exciting place to live and explore. You can get Turkish groceries, Thai food, Chinese herbal medicine and African food here.
The one thing that I can say that I actually hate about my neighborhood is the amount of gambling halls and betting parlors. Between my street and the Elephant and Castle tube station there are no less than seven of these places. This is in a distance of about one half mile. I had mentioned that most business on Walworth road were locally owned family establishments, these gambling halls are not. They have no real stake in the community. If they fail, they just lock their doors, fire the staff and chalk it all up to a business loss.
I am a fan of free enterprise and I believe in free choice. But these gambling halls sole reason for saturating a working class neighborhood is to separate the poor and working class of my neighborhood from their money. They offer bright and shiny false hope to poor men (yes usually men inhabit these places). These black holes take money out of the community and repay its citizens with husbands and fathers who's non-disposable income is quickly disposed of. These places need to be zoned out of existence.
There is an area of Camberwell called East Street where, for six days a week, vendors set up stalls selling anything from fresh vegetables and Halal meat to blue jeans and knock off Gucci purses. East Street is alive with all kinds of people crammed into a small area hawking products, buying products, haggling, arguing, laughing and living. People of many races, religions and cultures all work together on East Street. You have to see it to believe it.
If you were to give Camberwell a quick glance you may come to the conclusion that it is a dirty, poor place, full of hard people. It is an easy mistake to make. Camberwell is packed. There are many people here who have just arrived from other countries and are in different stages of culture shock. I think a lot of people go into defense mode. It has to be quite a shock to be in a village in Nigeria one week and then in a city of eight million people (most of which don't speak your language) the next week.
People aren't always going to smile at you as you pass them on the street. This ain't Mayberry. But behind the stoic veneer of foreign faces there are people. People with families and children, parents and grandparents who they love. People who brought their families here for a better life.
Camberwell is full of people who just want to live their lives as best as they can. It is an active community with theatres, libraries, volunteer opportunities and places of worship. It is a place where, women from the African Methodist Church walk down the street dressed in their brightly colored head dresses along side women in hijabs. It is a place alive with dreams and aspirations. A place where people, above all, try.
Is Camberwell posh? Is it on the cover of any glossy European travel brochures? No. But Camberwell is real, it is alive and now it's home.
My neighborhood is in South London. Camberwell to be exact. One night at a club a young posh, drunk London woman asked me where I lived. When I told her that it was Camberwell, she called it a "proper shit hole". Well sister, it stopped being a shit hole the second you left.
Camberwell is a working class area full of immigrants. Myself included. The number 12 bus is a mini United Nations. Get on that bus in the morning and you will hear languages from all over the world. African dialects, Polish, Hindi, Urdu, Italian, Chinese dialects, Jamaican Pigeon, Spanish and English. All of these folks pack the number 12 bus to go into central London for work. The majority of these folks don't look like the are going into offices in Whitehall or Parliament.
Camberwell's streets are packed with an assortment of shops. At first glance, every other shop appears to be either a dodgy chicken and kebab place or a hair dresser. But look closer. The main road, Walworth Road, is full of clothing stores, cleaners, small markets, appliance stores, health food stores, butcher shops and any other type of business that a small town needs to survive. Most of these store are independent, locally owned family affairs. The shop keepers represent the wide number variety of cultures and cater to their specific tastes and needs. This helps make Camberwell a diverse and exciting place to live and explore. You can get Turkish groceries, Thai food, Chinese herbal medicine and African food here.
The one thing that I can say that I actually hate about my neighborhood is the amount of gambling halls and betting parlors. Between my street and the Elephant and Castle tube station there are no less than seven of these places. This is in a distance of about one half mile. I had mentioned that most business on Walworth road were locally owned family establishments, these gambling halls are not. They have no real stake in the community. If they fail, they just lock their doors, fire the staff and chalk it all up to a business loss.
I am a fan of free enterprise and I believe in free choice. But these gambling halls sole reason for saturating a working class neighborhood is to separate the poor and working class of my neighborhood from their money. They offer bright and shiny false hope to poor men (yes usually men inhabit these places). These black holes take money out of the community and repay its citizens with husbands and fathers who's non-disposable income is quickly disposed of. These places need to be zoned out of existence.
There is an area of Camberwell called East Street where, for six days a week, vendors set up stalls selling anything from fresh vegetables and Halal meat to blue jeans and knock off Gucci purses. East Street is alive with all kinds of people crammed into a small area hawking products, buying products, haggling, arguing, laughing and living. People of many races, religions and cultures all work together on East Street. You have to see it to believe it.
If you were to give Camberwell a quick glance you may come to the conclusion that it is a dirty, poor place, full of hard people. It is an easy mistake to make. Camberwell is packed. There are many people here who have just arrived from other countries and are in different stages of culture shock. I think a lot of people go into defense mode. It has to be quite a shock to be in a village in Nigeria one week and then in a city of eight million people (most of which don't speak your language) the next week.
People aren't always going to smile at you as you pass them on the street. This ain't Mayberry. But behind the stoic veneer of foreign faces there are people. People with families and children, parents and grandparents who they love. People who brought their families here for a better life.
Camberwell is full of people who just want to live their lives as best as they can. It is an active community with theatres, libraries, volunteer opportunities and places of worship. It is a place where, women from the African Methodist Church walk down the street dressed in their brightly colored head dresses along side women in hijabs. It is a place alive with dreams and aspirations. A place where people, above all, try.
Is Camberwell posh? Is it on the cover of any glossy European travel brochures? No. But Camberwell is real, it is alive and now it's home.
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
Old Dogs, New tricks
Why are you moving to London? Why did you move here? Isn't London cold rainy and expensive? Isn't California warm and full of movie stars? These are questions that I have been asked over the past two years or so since I decided to come here.
Other questions were asked. Questions from friends who have known and loved me long enough to not worry about offending me or hurting my feelings. What are you running away from? Are you trying to become someone who you aren't? Yes I am trying to become someone different. Not someone who I'm not, but someone who I always knew I was.
I am sometimes a weak and frightened man. Lets get that straight from the get go. I am a creature of habit but also incredibly impetious. A million times in my life I have tried, failed, quit and screwed up. Plans, jobs, ideas, anything that I tried to do to become the person that I knew was on the inside failed because of my own lack of real courage. I am changing that and taking charge.
I think that there is someone inside all of us who we really want to become. We let too many things get in the way of that. Too many obsticles, crutches and comfort zones. I had bored my loved ones at home with my "big plans and ideas". They all knew who they thought the real Pat was. Anytime I wanted to make a real change in my life, I allowed artificial boundries to wall me in. I had assumed that people knew the old Pat, with all of his history and bad habits and would not allow the new or the real Pat to evolve. I guess I needed a blank canvas.
This is not an indictment on my dearest of friends and family. Just the opposite. This is more of a revelation of my weaknesses and downfalls. Be that as it may, I had to reach deep inside and find the real me. The person who I knew I was and the person that I was not allowing myself to be in the states. I am trying that here. I am focusing on things that I have always wanted to. It sounds selfish, contrived and small minded perhaps but for once in my life I am trying to create the person who I want to be. It is odd to say "create the person who i want to be". This isn't easy and everything comes with a price. I only hope that it is worth it.
I don't know what is at the end of this adventure. I know that it is not failure again however. In the three months that I have been here so much has happened. There is no turning back. I am going to become the Pat who I always knew I was. I just hope I like like him.
If I can offer some unsolicited advice, that would be to take chances, do something crazy.
This blog has been one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. Thank you for putting up with it.
Other questions were asked. Questions from friends who have known and loved me long enough to not worry about offending me or hurting my feelings. What are you running away from? Are you trying to become someone who you aren't? Yes I am trying to become someone different. Not someone who I'm not, but someone who I always knew I was.
I am sometimes a weak and frightened man. Lets get that straight from the get go. I am a creature of habit but also incredibly impetious. A million times in my life I have tried, failed, quit and screwed up. Plans, jobs, ideas, anything that I tried to do to become the person that I knew was on the inside failed because of my own lack of real courage. I am changing that and taking charge.
I think that there is someone inside all of us who we really want to become. We let too many things get in the way of that. Too many obsticles, crutches and comfort zones. I had bored my loved ones at home with my "big plans and ideas". They all knew who they thought the real Pat was. Anytime I wanted to make a real change in my life, I allowed artificial boundries to wall me in. I had assumed that people knew the old Pat, with all of his history and bad habits and would not allow the new or the real Pat to evolve. I guess I needed a blank canvas.
This is not an indictment on my dearest of friends and family. Just the opposite. This is more of a revelation of my weaknesses and downfalls. Be that as it may, I had to reach deep inside and find the real me. The person who I knew I was and the person that I was not allowing myself to be in the states. I am trying that here. I am focusing on things that I have always wanted to. It sounds selfish, contrived and small minded perhaps but for once in my life I am trying to create the person who I want to be. It is odd to say "create the person who i want to be". This isn't easy and everything comes with a price. I only hope that it is worth it.
I don't know what is at the end of this adventure. I know that it is not failure again however. In the three months that I have been here so much has happened. There is no turning back. I am going to become the Pat who I always knew I was. I just hope I like like him.
If I can offer some unsolicited advice, that would be to take chances, do something crazy.
This blog has been one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. Thank you for putting up with it.
Monday, 25 January 2010
One Way Tickets
Everything was sold, given away or in storage. Our daughter Meagan was living with her fiance and Ryan was working at the bakery and "couch surfing" until he found a place.
My brother Robby had a Halloween/birthday/going away party for us that was great. Many many of our friends showed up and even a couple of people who I had not seen in over twenty years. My sister Kathie even came out from Indiana. I can't describe how wonderfully surreal it is to see ones friends in ghoulish make up and filled with beer, some near tears, saying "I love you dude, good luck". I was more than choked up myself. It kinda felt like the final nail in the coffin.
We stayed at Robbie's for the last few days and the kids came to see us the morning we left. It was so hard to say goodbye to my kids. Ryan is 18 and Meagan is 21. I still refer to them as my babies. When we pulled up to the terminal at LAX, half of me wanted to make a u-turn and the other half wanted to bolt to the ticket counter without kissing my brother goodbye.
Airports are weird places. They are the places where grandmothers see grand babies for the first time. They are the places where we greet our returning soldiers when they come home. They are also the places where we see people for the last time, often without knowing it. When you kiss someone goodbye at the airport, remember it.
The flight was a blur and customs was a breeze. When we got to the airport, our friends Barbara and Nadeem picked us up. This is the same Barbara who was working with Jemma at the Grove High School. She made the leap across the pond a few months earlier.
Gordon and Aarti were waiting for us with open arms at their home. They both let us know (and continue to do so) that we were welcome and at home with them. Without there support, encouragement and love, this adventure would never have happened. They are mentors to both Jemma and I.
It seems like we just took our luggage upstairs and set it on the bed and we were off. Literally. Within an hour or so after arriving, we were on the bus, Oyster cards in hand, on our way to Borough Market. We wasted no time in starting our adventure. All I remember about that trip was getting snapped at by a vendor for touching his cheese. I just looked at him with that "duh" look on my face and stumbled off. I think I was a tad bit punchy.
The very next day we were off with Aarti and Gordon to a fundraiser for a friend of theirs who is raising money for a school he is helping to build in Uganda. Forty eight hours and I think that we still hadn't unpacked.
The first week was a blur. We had to get bank accounts, register with a GP and look for work. Gordon advised us to chill out and not be in such a hurry but I just wanted to get established. Until I got my ducks in a row, I wouldn't feel like I was really here. One of the first things I did was sign up with an employment agency. I was working within a week after registering.
One of the great things about coming out here is family and friends. We didn't land on Ellis Island with our suitcases and a few pennies in our pockets. We have family and friends here. Dear friends like Barbara and Nadeem and old friends like James and Ian up north. All of these people greeted us with open arms.
Aarti and Gordon are amazing people. They are kind and warm. They had a really cool thing going on before we came. And for no other reason than because they love us, they opened their home and their lives to us. That is a really nice feeling. Some of their friends have become our friends. Aarti's family has become part of our family. Gordon and Aarti have exposed us to so much of what life has to offer on this cold and wet island. They are socially active and conscious. We debate, cook, drink wine and watch movies (and yes....East Enders) together. When I say debate, I don't mean "how 'bout them Dodgers" kind of debates. Be warned, if you want to debate either Gordon or Aarti, come prepared and be prepared to have your point of view challenged and perhaps changed. Do not bring a knife to a gun fight. Aarti's got "guns"!!!
The beginning of this journey has been wonderful. It has also been bitter sweet. Not a minute goes by when I don't think of my "babies" back home. I miss them so much. Remember, when you kiss somebody goodbye, be it at the airport or your brother's driveway you better mean it and remember it.
My brother Robby had a Halloween/birthday/going away party for us that was great. Many many of our friends showed up and even a couple of people who I had not seen in over twenty years. My sister Kathie even came out from Indiana. I can't describe how wonderfully surreal it is to see ones friends in ghoulish make up and filled with beer, some near tears, saying "I love you dude, good luck". I was more than choked up myself. It kinda felt like the final nail in the coffin.
We stayed at Robbie's for the last few days and the kids came to see us the morning we left. It was so hard to say goodbye to my kids. Ryan is 18 and Meagan is 21. I still refer to them as my babies. When we pulled up to the terminal at LAX, half of me wanted to make a u-turn and the other half wanted to bolt to the ticket counter without kissing my brother goodbye.
Airports are weird places. They are the places where grandmothers see grand babies for the first time. They are the places where we greet our returning soldiers when they come home. They are also the places where we see people for the last time, often without knowing it. When you kiss someone goodbye at the airport, remember it.
The flight was a blur and customs was a breeze. When we got to the airport, our friends Barbara and Nadeem picked us up. This is the same Barbara who was working with Jemma at the Grove High School. She made the leap across the pond a few months earlier.
Gordon and Aarti were waiting for us with open arms at their home. They both let us know (and continue to do so) that we were welcome and at home with them. Without there support, encouragement and love, this adventure would never have happened. They are mentors to both Jemma and I.
It seems like we just took our luggage upstairs and set it on the bed and we were off. Literally. Within an hour or so after arriving, we were on the bus, Oyster cards in hand, on our way to Borough Market. We wasted no time in starting our adventure. All I remember about that trip was getting snapped at by a vendor for touching his cheese. I just looked at him with that "duh" look on my face and stumbled off. I think I was a tad bit punchy.
The very next day we were off with Aarti and Gordon to a fundraiser for a friend of theirs who is raising money for a school he is helping to build in Uganda. Forty eight hours and I think that we still hadn't unpacked.
The first week was a blur. We had to get bank accounts, register with a GP and look for work. Gordon advised us to chill out and not be in such a hurry but I just wanted to get established. Until I got my ducks in a row, I wouldn't feel like I was really here. One of the first things I did was sign up with an employment agency. I was working within a week after registering.
One of the great things about coming out here is family and friends. We didn't land on Ellis Island with our suitcases and a few pennies in our pockets. We have family and friends here. Dear friends like Barbara and Nadeem and old friends like James and Ian up north. All of these people greeted us with open arms.
Aarti and Gordon are amazing people. They are kind and warm. They had a really cool thing going on before we came. And for no other reason than because they love us, they opened their home and their lives to us. That is a really nice feeling. Some of their friends have become our friends. Aarti's family has become part of our family. Gordon and Aarti have exposed us to so much of what life has to offer on this cold and wet island. They are socially active and conscious. We debate, cook, drink wine and watch movies (and yes....East Enders) together. When I say debate, I don't mean "how 'bout them Dodgers" kind of debates. Be warned, if you want to debate either Gordon or Aarti, come prepared and be prepared to have your point of view challenged and perhaps changed. Do not bring a knife to a gun fight. Aarti's got "guns"!!!
The beginning of this journey has been wonderful. It has also been bitter sweet. Not a minute goes by when I don't think of my "babies" back home. I miss them so much. Remember, when you kiss somebody goodbye, be it at the airport or your brother's driveway you better mean it and remember it.
Friday, 15 January 2010
NHS
I am going to digress from the time line format of my blog to talk about something that is of great interest to me, The National Health Service. Those of you out there that are my conservative friends should get out your poison pens because this is going to be contrary to many of your beliefs. If I do my job correctly I hope I will open your eyes and cause you to think just a little differently. Perhaps I will even nudge you across a threshold and down that slippery slope that you fear so much.
I spent much of my adult life as a strict political conservative. I voted for both Bushes both times. Hell in 1992 I voted for Pat Buchanan in the primaries. But even when I was at my most conservative, I was for socialized medicine. Yes I said socialized. We should call it what it is.
Many of my friends and loved ones know that I came from a financially poor family. Really poor. Five kids in a two bedroom house, buying shoes at Thrifty's, welfare and food stamp poor. As children if we got hurt or sick it usually meant a trip to "County USC Medical Center" in Boyle Heights Los Angeles. For my none Angeleno friend, County USC is a hospital where the poor and uninsured go. It is understaffed and underfunded. The Doctors and staff are dedicated but over worked. As soon as their time is done most choose to move on to higher paying positions. The service is substandard. Even third world.
When I was 22 years old Jemma rushed me there for an unknown ailment. We drove from Pasadena, past Huntington Memorial Hospital (which is a first class hospital primarily for the insured). I could barley walk. My joints were incredibly painful. I was the sickest that I could ever remember being. I was scared and thought that I might even die. I laid on a gurney for 18 hours in terrible pain before I was even seen by the person who took my vitals. An old Korean lady on the gurney next to me died before she was admitted. This is how we treat uninsured people in America.
I mentioned that I have always been pro socialized medicine. I wont pretend to be unbiased. I have studied and listened to the debate in the United States over health care reform. I listened to many conservative pundits describe socialized medicine as evil, Draconian, and of pour quality. Intellectual giants on the right such as Sarah Palin have even said that if America has socialized medicine, or Obamacare, there will be "death panels". Government appointed pencil pushers who decide if you grandma lives or dies. In my opinion Obama's plan is wishy washy and lacks true leadership. He doesn't go far enough.
When we moved to London I wanted to find a job fast. Well I kinda needed to find a job fast. I dropped my CV off at an agency that helps to staff two of the local hospitals, Guys and Saint Thomas'. The agency called me the next day and said that if I agreed to and passed a criminal records check that they may be able to get me a position at St. Thomas' Hospital. I passed the test. I guess Scotland Yard doesn't have the phone number to the South Pasadena Police Department (just kidding).
The assignment was working in the "materials management" division. Basically it involves collecting medical supplies from the sub-basement and delivering them to the wards. These are supplies such as syringes, IV tubing, tracheotomy tubes and even body bags. I guess Sarah Palin is partially correct, people do die under socialized medicine. The assignment is pretty physical. We have to move the carts full of products through the labyrinth of a sub-basement to the different wings and once there, we have to take these carts up elevators to the wards. All of the other support departments at the hospitals are trying to do the same thing at the same time in a hospital is hundreds of years old. It is congested and everyone is competing for space. This is about as blue collar of a job that I have ever seen. It really is hard work.
I am a history buff and an arm chair sociologist. I was, and am, fascinated by this place. It is ancient. The basement area has all of these really cool brick walled corridors. There are hidden places all over. The hospital is directly across the Thames from Parliament. A lot of the building is below water level.
As old as this complex is, it is undergoing constant modernization. Workers are all over the place stringing cable, jack hammering and spending a lot of tax payer's money to keep this place the first class facility that the citizens of London deserve and pay for.
One of the first things that struck me was the dedication of the staff. I am not talking about just the clinical staff. I will get to them later. The folks I am talking about are the ones who take out rubbish, mop floors, haul clean and dirty sheets around, the food people, porters, and the materials management people. These are the people that I fight with for elevator space at 8:00am. These are some of the most dedicated people that I have ever seen. I have sat around the lunch table and heard these guys talk about why they do what they do. It ain't for the money, it is because they care. The people that I work with are as diverse as the United Nations, male & female, White, Black, and Asian.
When we talk about heroes, we often talk about soldiers, firefighters and world leaders as examples of heroes and many are. But someone who sat on a crowded bus in the rain at 6:00 am to come to a cold damp basement and pick through seemingly endless boxes of medical tubes and gizmos and hump them through a Victorian maze and do it right is just as much a hero in my opinion. Remember, this isn't just taking stuff from point a to point b. They have to know what the product is, if they don't people will die. These people know that they can make more money elsewhere. The do it because they want to be here. I do not believe that these folks are are at the bottom of any food chain or the bottom rung of a ladder. They are the foundation of a world class organization. No structure can exist without a foundation. Here in the U.K. they are actually treated with respect, though they deserve much much more.
Working in the wards gives one an incredible insight into how the clinical staff works with patients. One of the fears in the US when it comes to socialized medicine is the quality of doctors, nurses and other clinical staff. These people the best that I have seen. They are hard working, team players, dedicated and empathetic beyond belief. I often work in some of the pediatric intensive care wards. There are some really sick babies there and it can be heartbreaking. Every time I walk into these wards I see worried, sad and desperate parents. Parents whose children might (and some do) die. But what I also see is first class people with first class modern equipment doing their best to make these babies and children well. There are play areas for the older kids. Musicians come in and play guitar and sing with the kids. I see nurses holding and feeding babies as if they are their own. Any sadness that the suffering I see is outweighed by the miracles that happen here daily. The wards are run efficiently by head nurses called sisters and matrons. These are the NCOs of the hospital world. They know where everything is, how its done and how to bust chops. They are incredible people.
What I don't see at St. Thomas' Hospital is a billing department. I don't see financial councilors working on payment plans with parents whose children are on life support. I don't see overburdened parents worrying about how they are going to pay a bill.
This place is not perfect. There are downfalls. There are few private rooms. Some rooms don't have T.V.s. Shit, I think that is it.
Ronald Reagan once said that America can be that "city on the hill", that it is "morning in America". As Americans, we pride ourselves on being the best at so many things. We are now and have been looked up to by the rest of the world for so many things. We are compassionate, caring, charitable and loving. We are smart. We should be smart enough to know when something is broken. Our health care system is broken. I hear health care workers that I know in the US complain about "welfare mothers" and "illegals" taking advantage of "our system". Illegals with no insurance clogging the emergency room because they have a sniffle. If those unwashed poor had access to socialized medicine, they could go to a doctor and receive preventative medicine.
Taxes are high here. The VAT is over 17%. Some of that goes to health care. Everybody pays. Even the unpleasant, un-pretty "illegals" that we see in London. Everybody expects and pays for top quality first world health care. There is no "County USC Medical Center". In fact, County USC Medical Center deserves the same funding and dedication from the US Government that St. Thomas' Hospital gets from the British Government and the British people.
We can't take what the U.K. has and just put it into implementation in America, but we can use it as an example.
The first thing we need to do is take out the profit motive for hospitals and health care in general. Many of us have seen the video of a cab dropping an old lady off on skid row in front of a homeless shelter. That lady was still sick. She was in her backless hospital gown. She was dumped there because she couldn't pay her bill. That is a crime. I talk a lot with the people at work. I am often asked about the American Health care system. The Brits are perplexed that we let sick people die because they don't have money. Did you hear what I just said, WE LET SICK PEOPLE DIE IN AMERICA BECAUSE THEY DON'T HAVE MONEY!!!
My conservative friends, the next time you feel like "they" are taking advantage of the system in America, I want you to go and tell an uninsured, critically ill child's mom and dad that their hurting baby, the love of their life deserves second best because they don't have insurance. I want to go with you and watch you look into their eyes when you say it. Then I want you to turn the tables, put yourself in their shoes and think about that when you kiss your own baby goodnight.
I spent much of my adult life as a strict political conservative. I voted for both Bushes both times. Hell in 1992 I voted for Pat Buchanan in the primaries. But even when I was at my most conservative, I was for socialized medicine. Yes I said socialized. We should call it what it is.
Many of my friends and loved ones know that I came from a financially poor family. Really poor. Five kids in a two bedroom house, buying shoes at Thrifty's, welfare and food stamp poor. As children if we got hurt or sick it usually meant a trip to "County USC Medical Center" in Boyle Heights Los Angeles. For my none Angeleno friend, County USC is a hospital where the poor and uninsured go. It is understaffed and underfunded. The Doctors and staff are dedicated but over worked. As soon as their time is done most choose to move on to higher paying positions. The service is substandard. Even third world.
When I was 22 years old Jemma rushed me there for an unknown ailment. We drove from Pasadena, past Huntington Memorial Hospital (which is a first class hospital primarily for the insured). I could barley walk. My joints were incredibly painful. I was the sickest that I could ever remember being. I was scared and thought that I might even die. I laid on a gurney for 18 hours in terrible pain before I was even seen by the person who took my vitals. An old Korean lady on the gurney next to me died before she was admitted. This is how we treat uninsured people in America.
I mentioned that I have always been pro socialized medicine. I wont pretend to be unbiased. I have studied and listened to the debate in the United States over health care reform. I listened to many conservative pundits describe socialized medicine as evil, Draconian, and of pour quality. Intellectual giants on the right such as Sarah Palin have even said that if America has socialized medicine, or Obamacare, there will be "death panels". Government appointed pencil pushers who decide if you grandma lives or dies. In my opinion Obama's plan is wishy washy and lacks true leadership. He doesn't go far enough.
When we moved to London I wanted to find a job fast. Well I kinda needed to find a job fast. I dropped my CV off at an agency that helps to staff two of the local hospitals, Guys and Saint Thomas'. The agency called me the next day and said that if I agreed to and passed a criminal records check that they may be able to get me a position at St. Thomas' Hospital. I passed the test. I guess Scotland Yard doesn't have the phone number to the South Pasadena Police Department (just kidding).
The assignment was working in the "materials management" division. Basically it involves collecting medical supplies from the sub-basement and delivering them to the wards. These are supplies such as syringes, IV tubing, tracheotomy tubes and even body bags. I guess Sarah Palin is partially correct, people do die under socialized medicine. The assignment is pretty physical. We have to move the carts full of products through the labyrinth of a sub-basement to the different wings and once there, we have to take these carts up elevators to the wards. All of the other support departments at the hospitals are trying to do the same thing at the same time in a hospital is hundreds of years old. It is congested and everyone is competing for space. This is about as blue collar of a job that I have ever seen. It really is hard work.
I am a history buff and an arm chair sociologist. I was, and am, fascinated by this place. It is ancient. The basement area has all of these really cool brick walled corridors. There are hidden places all over. The hospital is directly across the Thames from Parliament. A lot of the building is below water level.
As old as this complex is, it is undergoing constant modernization. Workers are all over the place stringing cable, jack hammering and spending a lot of tax payer's money to keep this place the first class facility that the citizens of London deserve and pay for.
One of the first things that struck me was the dedication of the staff. I am not talking about just the clinical staff. I will get to them later. The folks I am talking about are the ones who take out rubbish, mop floors, haul clean and dirty sheets around, the food people, porters, and the materials management people. These are the people that I fight with for elevator space at 8:00am. These are some of the most dedicated people that I have ever seen. I have sat around the lunch table and heard these guys talk about why they do what they do. It ain't for the money, it is because they care. The people that I work with are as diverse as the United Nations, male & female, White, Black, and Asian.
When we talk about heroes, we often talk about soldiers, firefighters and world leaders as examples of heroes and many are. But someone who sat on a crowded bus in the rain at 6:00 am to come to a cold damp basement and pick through seemingly endless boxes of medical tubes and gizmos and hump them through a Victorian maze and do it right is just as much a hero in my opinion. Remember, this isn't just taking stuff from point a to point b. They have to know what the product is, if they don't people will die. These people know that they can make more money elsewhere. The do it because they want to be here. I do not believe that these folks are are at the bottom of any food chain or the bottom rung of a ladder. They are the foundation of a world class organization. No structure can exist without a foundation. Here in the U.K. they are actually treated with respect, though they deserve much much more.
Working in the wards gives one an incredible insight into how the clinical staff works with patients. One of the fears in the US when it comes to socialized medicine is the quality of doctors, nurses and other clinical staff. These people the best that I have seen. They are hard working, team players, dedicated and empathetic beyond belief. I often work in some of the pediatric intensive care wards. There are some really sick babies there and it can be heartbreaking. Every time I walk into these wards I see worried, sad and desperate parents. Parents whose children might (and some do) die. But what I also see is first class people with first class modern equipment doing their best to make these babies and children well. There are play areas for the older kids. Musicians come in and play guitar and sing with the kids. I see nurses holding and feeding babies as if they are their own. Any sadness that the suffering I see is outweighed by the miracles that happen here daily. The wards are run efficiently by head nurses called sisters and matrons. These are the NCOs of the hospital world. They know where everything is, how its done and how to bust chops. They are incredible people.
What I don't see at St. Thomas' Hospital is a billing department. I don't see financial councilors working on payment plans with parents whose children are on life support. I don't see overburdened parents worrying about how they are going to pay a bill.
This place is not perfect. There are downfalls. There are few private rooms. Some rooms don't have T.V.s. Shit, I think that is it.
Ronald Reagan once said that America can be that "city on the hill", that it is "morning in America". As Americans, we pride ourselves on being the best at so many things. We are now and have been looked up to by the rest of the world for so many things. We are compassionate, caring, charitable and loving. We are smart. We should be smart enough to know when something is broken. Our health care system is broken. I hear health care workers that I know in the US complain about "welfare mothers" and "illegals" taking advantage of "our system". Illegals with no insurance clogging the emergency room because they have a sniffle. If those unwashed poor had access to socialized medicine, they could go to a doctor and receive preventative medicine.
Taxes are high here. The VAT is over 17%. Some of that goes to health care. Everybody pays. Even the unpleasant, un-pretty "illegals" that we see in London. Everybody expects and pays for top quality first world health care. There is no "County USC Medical Center". In fact, County USC Medical Center deserves the same funding and dedication from the US Government that St. Thomas' Hospital gets from the British Government and the British people.
We can't take what the U.K. has and just put it into implementation in America, but we can use it as an example.
The first thing we need to do is take out the profit motive for hospitals and health care in general. Many of us have seen the video of a cab dropping an old lady off on skid row in front of a homeless shelter. That lady was still sick. She was in her backless hospital gown. She was dumped there because she couldn't pay her bill. That is a crime. I talk a lot with the people at work. I am often asked about the American Health care system. The Brits are perplexed that we let sick people die because they don't have money. Did you hear what I just said, WE LET SICK PEOPLE DIE IN AMERICA BECAUSE THEY DON'T HAVE MONEY!!!
My conservative friends, the next time you feel like "they" are taking advantage of the system in America, I want you to go and tell an uninsured, critically ill child's mom and dad that their hurting baby, the love of their life deserves second best because they don't have insurance. I want to go with you and watch you look into their eyes when you say it. Then I want you to turn the tables, put yourself in their shoes and think about that when you kiss your own baby goodnight.
Friday, 8 January 2010
Hopes and Hoops
During the summer of '09 I was working at a locker manufacturer as a blueprint reader and estimator through a temporary agency. The owner of the company was the iconic micro manager. He reminded me of a villain from a Dickens novel. Needless to say personal calls and cell phones at work were not part of the program.
One day I did get one of the cell phone calls. It was from the British Consulate in Los Angeles. I had my phone on vibrate and when the call came through I ignored it, excused myself to the bathroom and saw a number that I did not recognize. I snuck outside and dialed. A very proper woman answered the call and explained to me that there were some "issues" with my application and they had to be resolved now. My heart stopped.
My only option was to call Jemma. The conversation went like this "look babe, that lady at the consulate needs this and this. I need you to get it done for us right now or we're screwed. I gotta go. Did you get that? Right now or we're screwed. Oh yeah, I love you. Bye". I must have sounded like a scared jerk. In hindsight I should have told my boss to take a hike, gone home and handled the issues myself. But I panicked and dumped on Jemma. I was a scared jerk.
I felt terrible putting all of this on Jemma. I hate "right now" stuff. When somebody tells me "right now". I usually respond with two other words myself. Jemma handled it. She handled it like a pro. The very strict sounding, proper consulate lady gave us a very short, non-negotiable time table to work with and she had no problem telling me how busy she was and what a favor she was doing for us by giving us this impossibly short amount of time to jump through firey international bureaucratic hoops. I thought chefs were mean.
The consulate rep made it clear that after we sent her the required information, we were to have no contact with her. They would email me. Waiting really sucks but the next day the email came. I had a proper U.K. settlement visa. I was in. I got past the velvet rope into the club. When I got my passport back with my U.K. visa I must have just stared at for hours.
One day I did get one of the cell phone calls. It was from the British Consulate in Los Angeles. I had my phone on vibrate and when the call came through I ignored it, excused myself to the bathroom and saw a number that I did not recognize. I snuck outside and dialed. A very proper woman answered the call and explained to me that there were some "issues" with my application and they had to be resolved now. My heart stopped.
My only option was to call Jemma. The conversation went like this "look babe, that lady at the consulate needs this and this. I need you to get it done for us right now or we're screwed. I gotta go. Did you get that? Right now or we're screwed. Oh yeah, I love you. Bye". I must have sounded like a scared jerk. In hindsight I should have told my boss to take a hike, gone home and handled the issues myself. But I panicked and dumped on Jemma. I was a scared jerk.
I felt terrible putting all of this on Jemma. I hate "right now" stuff. When somebody tells me "right now". I usually respond with two other words myself. Jemma handled it. She handled it like a pro. The very strict sounding, proper consulate lady gave us a very short, non-negotiable time table to work with and she had no problem telling me how busy she was and what a favor she was doing for us by giving us this impossibly short amount of time to jump through firey international bureaucratic hoops. I thought chefs were mean.
The consulate rep made it clear that after we sent her the required information, we were to have no contact with her. They would email me. Waiting really sucks but the next day the email came. I had a proper U.K. settlement visa. I was in. I got past the velvet rope into the club. When I got my passport back with my U.K. visa I must have just stared at for hours.
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Stuff
After we returned to California from London in Feb. '09 we started putting things into high gear. I was still training at the restaurant and Jemma was still working at the Grove School.
We starting simplifying our life and getting rid of the things we did not need. Craig's List and Ebay became our friends.
I thought that selling and giving away things would be just "getting rid of stuff". It couldn't be further from the truth. We really had to decide what we were going to keep and what would go. For me books were some of the hardest things to let go of. Books that I had for twenty years were going off to charity shops. I loved those books. Would the person who bought them have the same emotions and excitement that I had? Would they appreciate them the same as me?
Then as time grew nearer, it was furniture, pictures, clothes and all the other "stuff" that helps make a house into a home. In one night our dining room set and livingroom set sold and went away. One of the strangest things was haggling over something that we were selling at a yard sale. I just wanted to yell "you dick, my wife gave that jacket". We decided that the really personal stuff that was too big to store or too big for the kids to take would be given to close friends. I think that made it a little better.
I was really sad. My family had a lot of real good times sitting around that table. Our whole family sat on that brown leather couch and laughed, cried, fought and loved. It seemed like we were giving part of us, the McVey's away. I was really sad about that. People say it's just stuff, but that was my stuff, our stuff the stuff that belonged to the McVey's. The eminent split up of us living under one roof was staring me in the face and I felt a deep loss.
Meagan had already moved in with Greg and Ryan was making plans. I felt a weird kind of guilt. I felt like I was orchestrating the premature death of us a nuclear family. It was surreal.
When we started planning this adventure, I always was focused on the outcome. I never really gave more than a passing though to the actual mechanics of dismantling a home. It sucked.
The kids put on brave faces. They told us how much they would miss us, both in their own way. We talked about future trips.
Since I was at home during the day, I was able to spend time with both Meagan and Ryan. Sometimes I forgot that we were going. That is until I noticed a picture missing or a piece of furniture that I cuddled my kids on gone.
After we sold, gave away and threw out most of our possessions, our entire belongings where condensed into 22 boxes and four suitcases. Those 22 boxes hold all the "things" that we could not part with. Pictures, things Meagan and Ryan made us when they were kids, over 250 CD's (I counted and alphabetized those 10 times I think), knick - knacks and keep sakes. Those boxes, our life together before we came here, our "life part 1" are in my brothers garage. I never thought I would miss "stuff".
We starting simplifying our life and getting rid of the things we did not need. Craig's List and Ebay became our friends.
I thought that selling and giving away things would be just "getting rid of stuff". It couldn't be further from the truth. We really had to decide what we were going to keep and what would go. For me books were some of the hardest things to let go of. Books that I had for twenty years were going off to charity shops. I loved those books. Would the person who bought them have the same emotions and excitement that I had? Would they appreciate them the same as me?
Then as time grew nearer, it was furniture, pictures, clothes and all the other "stuff" that helps make a house into a home. In one night our dining room set and livingroom set sold and went away. One of the strangest things was haggling over something that we were selling at a yard sale. I just wanted to yell "you dick, my wife gave that jacket". We decided that the really personal stuff that was too big to store or too big for the kids to take would be given to close friends. I think that made it a little better.
I was really sad. My family had a lot of real good times sitting around that table. Our whole family sat on that brown leather couch and laughed, cried, fought and loved. It seemed like we were giving part of us, the McVey's away. I was really sad about that. People say it's just stuff, but that was my stuff, our stuff the stuff that belonged to the McVey's. The eminent split up of us living under one roof was staring me in the face and I felt a deep loss.
Meagan had already moved in with Greg and Ryan was making plans. I felt a weird kind of guilt. I felt like I was orchestrating the premature death of us a nuclear family. It was surreal.
When we started planning this adventure, I always was focused on the outcome. I never really gave more than a passing though to the actual mechanics of dismantling a home. It sucked.
The kids put on brave faces. They told us how much they would miss us, both in their own way. We talked about future trips.
Since I was at home during the day, I was able to spend time with both Meagan and Ryan. Sometimes I forgot that we were going. That is until I noticed a picture missing or a piece of furniture that I cuddled my kids on gone.
After we sold, gave away and threw out most of our possessions, our entire belongings where condensed into 22 boxes and four suitcases. Those 22 boxes hold all the "things" that we could not part with. Pictures, things Meagan and Ryan made us when they were kids, over 250 CD's (I counted and alphabetized those 10 times I think), knick - knacks and keep sakes. Those boxes, our life together before we came here, our "life part 1" are in my brothers garage. I never thought I would miss "stuff".
Saturday, 2 January 2010
Transition.
When I mention that leaving my job in the wholesale lumber industry was the best thing in my working life, I wasn't lying. I suddenly had time to myself. Time is a commodity that few people in the western world actually have.
I got to read, bring infinite amounts of diet coke to Jemma and her best friend Barbara work and I got to relax. I didn't think about working or applying for work. I had a small severance and a little (very little) cash saved so I relaxed. After over twenty years in the same field I needed something different, I just didn't know what.
One afternoon while screwing around on the computer I came across an ad on Craig's List,"Help Wanted, Chef". I thought, "hey I love cooking". "If Anthony Bourdain and Gordon Ramsay can do it, so can I". I answered the ad. I asked for an apprenticeship in the kitchen. The owner said yes. Two things. If you know me, you know I'm impetuous and a bit crazy. I will ask anybody anything about what they do just so I can see what they're about. The second thing is, this restaurant was no joke. When I say fresh, first class and non - corporate, I aint joking.
The restaurant was Farm Artisan Foods in Redlands. The chef and owner, Roberto Argentina was kind enough to meet with me and let me begin apprenticing in his kitchen. I am not certain if this was a test but I spent my first shift peeling hard boiled eggs. Six hours. I came back. I did mention that I was a bit crazy.
I apprenticed for just over four months. In that short time, I fell in love with food. Real food. Roberto's restaurant is one of the best around. Everything is hand made. I learned how to make pasta my hand, duck and pork sausage by hand, breads, salads, sauces, the list goes on. I was hooked. I even got to help butcher a pig one night. Working at the restaurant was a life changing experience. I could never begin to repay Roberto for the education that he gave me. He helped me find something that my life was lacking, a passion to create something.
I decided that when I came to London, I would cook.
During this time, Jemma and I took a trip to London together. We stayed with Aarti and Gordon who have a home in the southern London. A borough called Camberwell. I went from being hooked on London to falling in love with it. Aarti and Gordon are the consummate hosts. They love London as well. We were taken to non touresty places. We met Aarti's family (A quick note, if you ever go to Aarti's mom's house, go there hungry. You wont be hungry when you leave. Aarti's mom is the best). It was a wonderful trip. The wheels were in motion.
Life Part 2 Part 1
Before I do anything I want to dedicate this blog to my wife Jemma who has been my strength, my muse and my soulmate for 22 years. I also want to thank our brother and sister, Aarti and Gordon for the kindness, generosity and support on this adventure. Last but not least, I want to thank my kids. Meagan and Ryan wake up everyday knowing that they have crazy parents who packed up and moved halfway across the world. I miss my kids every minute of every day and cannot wait until I can hug and kiss them again.
It really stared about two years ago. My wife Jemma and I had been living in the same house, in the same town for six years. Longer than we had stayed put in our entire lives. Redlands California is a great place to live. It is a cultural island in the wasteland that is the called the Inland Empire in Southern California.
It started as an idea. "Wouldn't it be cool to live in London one day"? Like so many ideas and daydreams that we talked about, I figured that it was just that, a day dream. I was wrong and I am so happy I was. We planned, talked and discussed the idea with out kids. Their response was "okay momma and dada, you standing in front of the T.V.".
My first trip was in January of 2008. Jemma sent me out alone so I could get an unfiltered idea of what the U.K. was like. I remember getting my first passport. I felt like James Bond. My first trip was awesome. I was so excited when I landed at the airport that I had to tell the customs official that it was my first trip out of the U.S. He looked up at me and said in a smug way "welcome to the world sir". He stamped my passport and I was on my way.
I spent nine days purposely getting lost in London, dropping off resumes (CVs), visiting museums and soaking it in. I was hooked. London is a huge, imposing, old and crowded city. I couldn't get enough of it.
When I returned home, I knew I would be back. We sold our house in Redlands and moved into a rental. We were actually starting to make concrete plans. Then the best thing in my career happened, I was laid off, made redundant, fired, shit canned. It was the happiest day in my working life. My hand was forced. I couldn't just tread water and say maybe someday. I had to do something.
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