In Transit: April 2012

12 April 2012

Why I don't write much anymore

The reason I don’t write much anymore is because I spend most of my time writing. What! What japes are these? you may exclaim. Since January I’ve been working in the wide world of mortgage banking consulting, which most people react to with an about-face and a bland ‘mmm.’ On the How Cool Your Job Sounds scale, mortgage banking consulting is one step above ‘I’m in insurance’ but still at the opposite end of the spectrum from Supermegafamous Rockstar Deity, modern day treasure hunter, and happenin’ club owner. I’m usually quick to add that it’s actually really interesting (really interesting!) but no one ever believes me. I’ll bide my time. You’ll see, when you’re trying to get an FHA loan but have disputed and/or outstanding collection accounts exceeding $1,000 and are desperate to know if there have been any recent underwriting policy changes, I’ll have the last laugh.

You can see the fruits of my labours at http://robchrisman.com/, though my name doesn’t go on any of it because for some reason mortgage folk tend to trust people with MBAs and several decades of experience in the biz over some punk 22-year-old who has never owned a property. If you want to go all out you can even subscribe to the daily commentary and talk shop with that plethora of mortgage bankers you know. There’s always a joke at the end, and no, I have nothing to do with that part (she said humourlessly). And I do mean to be more on top of putting stuff in the blog. Really, I do.

Plus I get to do this in California, which isn’t bad at all. Tee hee.

This isn’t meant in any way to be ‘promotional,’ and I’ve decided to finish it off with a picture from the simultaneously terrifying and hilarious 90s cartoon Bananas in Pyjamas.

Somewhere along the line, there was a person who said, 'Let's make a children's show about anthropomorphised fruit that wears an article of clothing that rhymes with its name. Oh yeah, let's make them doctors too.'

Where I am

I'm actually so cutting edge that I moved from San Francisco to Oakland, which I'm told is super current; however, on general principle I refrain from making "I heard X is the new Y" statements because it became really uncool after Maureen Dowd did it. I eat a lot of organic produce, complain when the weather drops below 60F, do finance stuff during the day, and have three acupuncturists stored in my contacts who I know judge me for my fondness of early evening cocktails and whisky. Though I don't work in tech, I know a cornucopia of people who do.

Where I was

For four years, home for yours truly was a tiny and immensely picturesque seaside town in Fife, Scotland that goes by the name of St Andrews (also known as the Bubble, St Andys, the 'drews, the Drewzilles, etc). Most people know St Andrews for one of two things, so I get a lot of the following: OMG did you apply because of Prince William? and Heyyy, ever played any golf?

(The answer to both is no. William graduated long before I was here and really, honestly and truly had no influence whatsoever on my choice of universities. And this may be the ancestral home of golf, but I've never picked up a golf club in my life. I have nothing against the sport, it just doesn't get my adrenaline going the same way that plunging down a mountain on a pair of skis or piloting a two-tonne horse over a jump does.)

The town has three main streets, creatively named North, Market and South, and as such, any point in St Andrews can be reached after walking for twenty minutes. There is one Tesco, one Starbucks, one Romanian lady selling the Big Issue and an astronomical charity shops-to-people ratio. By the end of one's degree the place starts to feel distinctly claustrophobic (hence the nickname of the Bubble), especially considering that it is utterly impossible to venture out of the house without running into one or twelve people you know. Sometimes that's great; other times, you just wish you could pick up a pint of milk without having to change out of your comfortable but admittedly foul-looking jumper.

The skeletons of a castle and what would have been Europe's largest cathedral outside of Chartres call St Andrews home as well, though if the Reformation hadn't happened, they would still be intact. Our little town actually has a long a bloody history; look it up on Wikipedia.

Owing to its northerly situation, winter sees lashings of snow, ice, sleet, hail and wind that penetrate even the thickest of gloves and jackets, and it gets dark at three in the afternoon to boot. On the other hand, it's light for twenty hours a day in the summer and St Andrews looks positively gorgeous when the grass is green and the sea and sky are blue. If only it happened more often.

To summarise: it will always have a special place in my heart, and I do miss it, but not in a a wrenching, sobbing-into-my-pillow way. Just in what I suppose is a 'normal' missing way.

My digs immediately post-degree were located in the delightful and now riot-free Clapham, which, for those only familiar with Harrods and Trafalgar Square, is south of the river. The area is a mix (a heady mix?) of out-'n-proud gay men, Caribbean families and 'young professionals' like me who are figuring out what to do with their Hunter wellies and Fair Isle knits now that they live in an urban environment. And lots of Australians with a penchant for talking fifty decibels above everyone else.

Along with central tube connections on the ever-packed Northern line, Clapham's amenities include a great massive nucleus of a Sainsburys, a high street full of bars and restaurants, the green expanse of the Common and one really shitty nightclub called Infernos.

Where I'm from

It all began in 1989 just north of San Francisco, California in a place called Marin County (hop across the Golden Gate Bridge and there you are). Blessed with an embarrassment of riches in the looks department and a climate somewhere close to perfect, Marin was my day-to-day world before I moved to the frigid wind-blasted shores of eastern Scotland.

Back in the 60s and 70s there was a lot of protesting the war, hanging out in hot tubs, wearing homemade hemp clothes and having mystic crystal revelations with the help of psychedelics. Although it's still quite laid-back in comparison to pretty much anywhere outside the tropics, my mom tells me that it's gotten a lot more uptight in the past decade or so, largely thanks to an inundation of wealthy Generation X-ers.

As such Marin now has a reputation that's a weird hybrid of self-indulged, free-spirited, filthy rich, tree-hugging, Botoxed, vegetarian-friendly... After not having lived there for a few years, I'm starting to be able to look at it more objectively, and good God is it a strange place.

But oh, how fantastic-Marin sits on some of the world's most heart-stoppingly gorgeous beaches in addition to residing just a hop, skip and a jump away from the rather fabulous skiing and alpine lakes of the Sierra Nevadas and the world-class wines of the Napa Valley. And of course San Francisco, home of more eccentrics than you can shake a stick at, outstanding East Asian and Mexican food, and the US's oldest ballet company, is just across the Golden Gate. I may be slightly impartial, but I have yet to meet anyone who dislikes the place.