National Health Service

We were given mixed reviews of the National Health Service (NHS) before we moved here. Some people told us to expect long queues and months of wait time for referrals to specialists.  Others told us to anticipate top rate medical care at little to no monetary cost, and to opt for all medical procedures while we are covered under NHS.  So far, we have experienced a little bit of both.  Our experience with the NHS began the first Wednesday we arrived and registered with the health system, and I made my first GP appointment for the following Monday.  I asked the receptionist how much the appointment would cost, and she gave me a look that said, “Did you just get off the boat?” but graciously responded with, “Um, it’s free of charge”.  That was a new experience!  The doctor with whom we met could not have been more pleasant.  We spoke with her about continuing in the fertility process, and handed over the small book that has been created as the result of the accumulation of my lab work and doctor notes.  She looked it over and noted that we had been doing due diligence.  However, she was also frank with us: if we wanted immediate fertility service, we would have to go to a private fertility doctor and fork over £500, or we could get put on a public queue and wait.  Our GP was very supportive and said that she understood the emotionality associated with this topic.  Therefore, she said that she would do all that she could to expedite the queue process since I have already had all of the initial lab work and treatment.  We found out a couple weeks later that although we will have a wait in queue, it will be relatively brief due to strings pulled by our doctor.  Our current opinion on the NHS seems positive.  Our experience has shown us that if one needs to see a GP for a procedural visit, an appointment is readily available; in order to see a non-emergency specialist, then one must pay with time, instead of with time and money.  For example, when we moved to Michigan and were trying to get into the fertility specialists at U of M, we had to wait around two months, and pay for the services.  Here, we are waiting roughly the same time period but without the pain to our wallet.  As we further venture into the world of nationalized medicine, I am sure that we will experience some speed bumps (sorry, “humps”) which may tarnish our view of the system.  But for now, we are enjoying the services provided by our NHS cards – yellow cards which remind us to “ensure that our GP, eye doctor or dentist participates in the NHS Trust” (otherwise the doctor would be a “private care” physician and we would pay out of pocket).  Participating in the UK method of caring for the health and well-being of its people is meeting our expectations thus far.  Our GP has been most helpful in helping us navigate through NHS bureaucracy as we find the rhythms and customs of another culture’s methods of healthcare.  

Valentine's at Robinsons

This Valentine’s Day marked our seventh Valentine’s Day together, our fifth as a married couple, and our first in Europe.  Therefore, we looked for a special place to eat on this international night of romance.  Our real estate agent (property agent over here) recommended Robinsons as a good place to go out.  We already had name recognition of this place, as it was directly behind our hotel.  We learned that Robinsons is an establishment which houses five venues under one roof.  Those venues range from a “spit and sawdust bar” to a “New York styled nightclub”.  We opted for the “Bistro”, which advertised a modern and elegant dining experience.  The night started off right, with our taxi driver arriving promptly to whisk us away to a night of delight.  Our taxi driver was very conversational and asked us what we thought of Belfast thus far.  We told him that it was much more pleasant than the news media portrayed it, and how everyone had been so welcoming to us in our new city.  He responded with, “Aye, the Irish love er'one, except fer other Irish.”  As we approached Robinsons, the taxi driver asked us if we knew that it was across the street from the Euorpa Hotel.  We responded that we did, that we would walk by it on our way to our hotel where we had stayed our first ten days in Belfast.  He went on to inform us of an anecdote about the Euorpa Hotel: it was (and still is) the most-bombed hotel in all of Europe, thanks to the Irish Republican Army (IRA).  What a charming piece of knowledge, given that we lived for ten days within a stone’s throw from this infamous building.  We tried to set the scary piece of historical trivia aside as we went to eat in an establishment facing the notorious Europa.  Thankfully, the inviting atmosphere of Robinsons quickly put us at ease.  The initial venue in Robinsons through which we walked en route to the Bistro gave one the sense of an old-fashioned Irish pub, with the regulars noticing us newcomers sticking out like two cats in a dog house.  We quickly made our way up to the Bistro, a site which could be plucked out of an IKEA catalogue, with modern furniture and curio adorning the floors and walls.  After settling into our booth, we ordered the highly recommended shepherd’s pie with a secret ingredient.  Dave also ordered a pint of a locally brewed stout, otherwise known in the U.S. as Guinness, the taste of which he described as carbonated dew drops from heaven.  After our main course arrived, we both agreed that it was worth the wait to have a proper British shepherd’s pie.  It was the most light and fluffy shepherd’s pie I have every eaten, and I was only disappointed that I became filled up and couldn’t fit anymore in my belly!  They wouldn't tell me the secret ingredient, though, so I won't be able to recreate it anytime soon.  The highlight of the night came when I asked for a box to take home my remaining shepherd’s pie, something I never thought twice about when dining in the U.S.  The waitress brought out a piece of tin foil, explaining that was all she had in the way of a “doggie bag”.  I must have given her a quizzical look, because she then came in close and, in a hushed voice, told us to quickly wrap up the shepherd’s pie as it was, including its small casserole dish.  She said this might offer a more sturdy transportation device, but to not let anyone know we were walking out the door with Robinsons’ crockery.  Dave suggested afterwards that he should have asked for a box for his Guinness so as to receive the Guinness mug as his transportation device, but felt that might have been pushing our luck.  So, now thanks to Robinsons, we have a sturdy miniature casserole dish to add to our cupboard, which we can use to remember our first European Valentine’s Day over and over again.  It truly made our European Valentine’s Day one to remember.

Victorian Bling

Dave and I had decided that we wanted to tour some of the buildings around Belfast.  On Saturday morning, after Toby’s long walk, we journeyed over to the Botanical Gardens.  We traveled into the greenhouse dubbed "The Tropical Ravine"; for a few short minutes, we forgot we were in the middle of winter in the far north and enjoyed a visit through an exotic rainforest.  Next, we ventured into the Ulster Museum.  We easily could have spent an entire day looking at all of the fascinating exhibits.  Because we were trying to make the 2:00 p.m. tour of city hall (a twenty minute walk away), we picked and chose what we wanted and saved the rest for another venture.  Down the congested city centre streets we walked, getting closer and closer to the gem in the middle of the city.  We were especially anxious to take a tour of city hall's interior architecture and history, since its exterior had proven such a feast for the eyes.  We excitedly crossed the street towards the rear of city hall, but noticed something amiss: the city hall courtyard and the adjacent streets were peppered with police officers.  Furthermore, all of the gates surrounding the building were locked with reinforced steel chains, eliminating the option of a 2:00 p.m. tour.  As we walked around to the front of the building, we could start to see a collage of tri-color union jack flags marching atop the assembled crowd.  Dave suggested we not act like gawking tourists and instead ask a police officer if he knew if there was going to be any tours that day.  He replied, “Well, as you can see, there is a wee protest in front right now, but they will be done by 2:30, so check back then.”  He directed us towards the tourism board’s souvenir shop to bide our time.  Soon enough, 2:30 came and the protest dispersed.  It was worth the wait; I don’t think that my jaw picked itself off the floor until well after we were outside the gates after the tour.  Our tour guide described city hall as "Victorian Bling", which doesn’t even begin to describe the elegance of the structure.  The tour guide went on to inform us that the builders spared no expense in the construction of this miniature palace, and that was most evident as we continued on our tour.  Out of solid marble staircases climbed solid marble columns, soaring towards the heavens. Each room was grander than the next, with wool and silk blended carpet padding our steps and paintings inspired by the Sistine Chapel hanging above our heads in the rotunda.  Expert craftsmen, some of whom worked on the Belfast-built Titanic, displayed their works in meticulously carved thrones awaiting the Lord Mayor’s presence (in which we got to sit!).  It's fair to say that the tour was simply overwhelming to the senses.  We have both decided that we could easily repeat the tour and learn more about the building that we missed as we were drooling over the ornate architecture.  But, we have some time to fit it in, in addition to the other free tours we keep finding, over the course of this next year in Belfast.

Dave in the Lord Mayor's chair

Sarah in the Lord Mayor's chair

And Toby Makes Three

It has occurred to me that I have not written much about Toby, our beloved 10 pound Yorkie mix.  Given how stressful it was to get him over here, it seems he deserves his very own blog post.  When we started to prepare for this journey at the beginning of November, I never could have predicted how many hoops through which I would jump for the sake of transporting our little boy.  Dave and I debated whether to even bring him, given the stress of flying internationally with a pet.  We decided since we would be gone longer than 6 months, it would be fairer to him to be with us instead of staying with our family.  I started looking online at the UK “Pet Scheme”, also known as the rules for transporting a pet to the UK.  As of January 2012, the six month quarantine for dogs brought into the UK had been lifted, and all one needed was to follow the five outlined steps: (1) have the dog micro-chipped; (2) have the dog vaccinated against rabies no fewer than 21 days prior to entry into the UK; (3) obtain an EU pet passport for the dog coming from EU (European Union) countries, or obtain an official veterinary certificate with an official raised seal for the dog not coming from EU countries; (4) have the dog treated for tapeworm no fewer than 24 hours and no more than 5 days prior to entry into the UK; (5) arrange for the dog to travel with an approved transport company on an authorized route.  I clicked on the link for an “authorized route”, and found Belfast unlisted.  After some additional digging, I was eventually put in contact with Breeny Kennels and Quarantine.  It turns out that they are the only “approved transport company” in Northern Ireland.  Over the course of several emails, we were able to start getting the proper documentation for Toby’s travel.  Fast forward several weeks, and we had our plane tickets booked.  I notified Breeny about our flight details, and they alerted me to the fact that since we were arriving on a Saturday, Toby would not be able to be checked in to the UK, as the animal customs department is only opened 9 a.m. to 1 p.m., M-F.  It was around this time that we realized that our work visas were not going to get mailed back in time due to holidays and an unforeseen increase in requests for UK work visas, so we paid the fee to re-book our plane tickets to arrive between 9 a.m. and 1 p.m. on a week day.  In the meantime, I got to work filling out the paperwork for Toby and making arrangements for vet appointments to obtain their signature and USDA appointments to obtain their raised seal of approval.  Toby and I got all ready for his first vet appointment and arrived at the vet’s only to discover that the vet appointment for his physical had to occur on the same day as the tapeworm treatment (which was scheduled for a few days later in order to fall within the 1-5 day parameters).  That left us going home and calling the USDA to reschedule our “raised seal” appointment.  A few days later, back to the vet’s we went.  A few shots, a rectal probe, a pill swallowed and a blood draw later, Toby and I headed to the USDA for our “raised seal” appointment, and got ready for our last days in the US.  Up until we left Toby at the manifest cargo area at United Airlines, I wasn’t totally sure I was ok with shipping him.  Dave will attest to the fact that sometimes I worry, and I was extremely worried that Toby would accidentally get sent to Brazil instead of Belfast.  In fact, the original papers they had for Toby at United was for Brazil.  When I saw that, I made the agent make triplicate copies to prove Toby's ticket destination was changed to Belfast.  A reassurance for me throughout our layovers was that I was able to call United Airline’s PetSafe program to check on him and make sure that he was safe.  In fact, I think they started to recognize my voice because the process went more quickly each subsequent time I called.  As worried as I was about bringing him, I am so grateful that he is here.  He has ensured that I get outside at least twice a day for two good walks, and has caused dozens of strangers to stop and marvel at the wee dog with the wee red coat.  Even when I was at my most stressed out point in the hotel, I could count on Toby to make me smile by bringing me his Kong and reminding me that life can be just as simple as chasing an odd shaped piece of bouncing red rubber.  Now, Toby, Dave, and I each walk in together to Dave’s work and then Toby and I bid Dave adieu and head home to begin our day of Kong throwing and bird chasing on walks through various parks.  He is slowly starting to adjust to the new food, noises, smells, and looking in the opposite direction for cars when crossing the street.  After all of the stress of preparing for Toby’s travel, the reward has proven him as a source of light and familiarity amidst the stress and transition into a new life in a new continent.  

No Hot Coals

Although a walk about Belfast’s City Centre would suggest otherwise, Belfast is on the cutting edge of waste disposal.  Take, for instance, their weekly curbside compost pickup.  When we moved into our home, we were given a tidy small green box, no larger than a three gallon bucket, and told to use it for our food waste and put it out front each Wednesday.  Our faces must have looked dumbfounded: in the States, we had done composting ourselves, creating a jerry-rigged food waste system starting in our kitchen and ending with turning over the garden soil with the unused natural products.  Here, we could let someone do this for us without paying them?!  What a novel idea!  Furthermore, their weekly recycling bin will accept most anything, save a small selection of plastics and food wrappers.  Both the compost bin and the recycling box are free for use; the trash container, which is only collected every other week, requires a one-time fee.  When we arrived, our trash (sorry, rubbish) container was missing, so our landlord purchased us a replacement.  However, with all that we are putting in the compost bin and recycling box, we have been here nearly a week and only used a plastic grocery bag’s worth of trash.  A warning to us on our trash container is “No Hot Coals”, because in Belfast there is a real possibility for that to be of concern.  One of the homes we toured had a coal box out back where one could store coal for heating the house.  Yes, you read correctly: coal for house heat.  Another ancient way of heating one’s home is the use of heating oil (which is what our home uses).  I know of places in northern Michigan which used to burn heating oil but switched to alternatives once dinosaurs stopped roaming the Earth.  Heating oil is quaint, but that’s about it.  I find myself walking around with thick socks, thick sweaters (sorry, jumpers), my robe, a blanket wrapped around my body, and Toby’s head sticking out of all because his little ten pound body won’t stop shivering.  And I'm only slightly exaggerating.  The oil-primed radiators give off heat, but not near enough for someone raised on central heating.  Thankfully, though, our home has double-glazed windows (an apparent rarity here) which cuts down on some of the brisk drafts.  The technology-driven double-glazed windows are more than I can say for some of our plumbing.  Used water from our sink or washing machine can be observed pouring out of our exterior wall.  Two holes peeking out of the brick are connected by rickety PVC piping which directs the waste water into a designated drain adjacent to our home.  It appears that the Victorian-era house has not quite caught up to the modern-day plumbing or heating.  The city has forward thinking waste removal, yet a heating & drainage system stuck in time.  The quirks of Belfast never cease to amaze me and continue to provide amusing ambiguity around every corner.

Belfast Weather Primer

The weather in Belfast is akin to a 15 year old hormonal girl: its mood changes unpredictably from one minute to the next.  An umbrella is a must when venturing out into the elements, even if it is blue sky overhead and the BBC Weather forecaster has said there is only a 1% chance of showers.  This can make running in Belfast a bit of a challenge.  Don’t get me wrong, I have run in my fair share of weather, such as hail, sleet, snow, rain, and am accustomed to weather not being perfect when I run.  However, this is not just any weather, it is Belfast weather.  The other day I went out for a run, and halfway through the skies opened up with rain and sleet.  Luckily I was at a turnaround point, so I headed back, thinking it would be like other times I had been caught in the rain on a run.  Then the weather seemed to take a direct aim at my unprotected face, as though I had personally offended it and now was reaping the consequences.  As if the forceful precipitation wasn’t enough, the wind decided to jump in the mix and try with all its might to push me in every direction but straight.  Finally, I made it home and safe inside from the brutal and punishing weather, which is naturally when the clouds rolled away and the sun took center stage amidst the blue backdrop.  Getting used to so much precipitation takes some time, and I think I finally may be starting to pick up the rhythm.  When I see clouds starting to peak over Cave Hill (which incidentally we were told is the location that the police would use to scout trouble brewing between the two Christian sects of Belfast pre-Good Friday Agreement, but I digress), I know I have roughly a 7 minute window before the moisture of the clouds reaches my doorstep.  The variety of weather rolls quickly through Belfast thanks in part to the winds that blow off the North Atlantic.  In fact, the other night we experienced the howling of 60 mph gale force winds brought to us from that sea.  Most days I don’t have to look very hard to witness the clouds getting pushed around like forgotten plastic bags by the blustery air above.  Umbrellas frequently get turned inside out by an unwelcome gust, and birds often seem to fly in place as they flap against the punishing air stream.  Those few priceless days, when the rain holds off for a full 24 hours, generates immense celebration and merriment within us, and allows us to safely exhale and put down our guard against the rain.  One piece of weather we were told not to expect while we were here was snow; however, when we woke up one morning to fluffy flakes on our front step, it essentially completed the weather package we’ve experienced thus far.  Belfast’s skies have trained us well within a short period of time: we always travel with insulated raingear and windbreakers, preparing as best we can for the fickle climate.  The weather keeps us alert, keeps us tuned in, and keeps life interesting on the Green Isle.  

Tea with Jesus

Finally, after a ten day wait… We. Moved. In.  We checked out of our hotel before 8:30 in the morning and took a taxi over to our new home.  We decided the rare blue sky overhead was a good omen, and the taxi driver told us to take a picture of it because it will be a long time before we see it again.  Before we spent ten days in a 12x12 room, I had no idea how much I take a home for granted.  Little things like a refrigerator, an oven (sorry, a cooker over here) or a sink become much pined for when they not available.  Even though our refrigerator is the size of a large dorm fridge, and our cooker would not hold half of a Thanksgiving turkey, they are now finally available to us whenever we want.  Toby is also starting to perk up, too, in our home.  The past ten days without a proper spot to throw his precious Kong/toy has taken its toll on him and he is making up for lost time.  After the three of us started to settle in yesterday morning, the deliveries began.  As Toby and I returned from a quick walk around the block, we found the heating oil truck was parked out front delivering fuel to keep us warm.  Next, the Asda groceries were delivered right around the same time as the cable guy came to install our cable and internet.  Gordon, the cable guy, started getting visibly frustrated with the daft American and her inability to comprehend the UK television remote control until I buttered him up and told him that I had great-uncle named Gordon and thanked him for being so patient with me as I learned a foreign system.  He at least stopped walking away from me towards the door and one-last-time went over the buttons.  In the midst of all this, a red-head with tattoos for skin showed up and began painting the entire downstairs.  With the scent of new paint wafting in the air, we baked our gluten free pizza and settled in on the couch.  Sunday morning found us walking to church.  The first impression that struck us both was the elaborate architecture.  Flying buttresses soared in between music notes that were pumped out of an antique pipe organ.  We found our seats in pews built to make sure you don’t get too comfortable, let alone fall asleep.  We settled in as best we could onto our plank and listened to the service.  At one point, they invited the children up front to have the day’s gospel broken down into child-friendly language.  They were told that Jesus was so friendly that he would even have tea with people that most people didn’t like.  You could see the visibly shocked faces of the children as it registered with them that if Jesus drank tea with undesirable people, then that meant they would also have to drink their tea with people they don’t like.  Dave and I, too, had marked expressions on our faces, but it was more to do with learning about Jesus drinking tea.  However, it should be considered par for the course, as it seems everyone drinks tea all the time here, just like everyone drives on the wrong side of the road, and everyone is welcoming to the two Americans and their wee dog as they find their own niche in Belfast.

North Irish Calzone in a Swedish Food Mart

Tomorrow (Saturday) will mark the end of a very long and draining ten days.  We have decided that a hotel is fine for a long weekend, but gets wearing after a long week.  We are feeling physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted, and are looking forward to being rejuvenated when we move into our home tomorrow.  We received the keys today, and when the heating oil gets dropped off in the morning, we move in.  Our landlord was very personable and helpful, too.  We walked through the home to make sure all was in order, and poor Dave had to keep ducking as he went through doorways so as to not clip his head in the frame.  Ah, to be a tall Dutchman living within North Irish architecture.  After we got the keys, Dave’s boss, Alberto, drove us to Ikea to pick up a few things.  We originally had planned on buying a clothes rack (the North Irish don’t use drying machines) blanket, pillows, and sheets.  An American Ikea can be confusing enough to navigate, let alone one that uses European lingo (hint: a “clothes rack” is actually a “clothes horse”).  After asking around to several employees, we came across one who found our American accents endearing and gave us a quick tutorial in European bedrooms.  First of all, a flat sheet is not necessary.  While they do sell them, no one buys them (except for uneducated Americans).  The only needed sheet is a fitted sheet, which is sold separately from flat sheets.  Next, one needs a duvet, and a duvet cover.  Duvet cover sets include pillow cases (rather, pillow coverings).  So, we ended up with a duvet, a duvet cover, a fitted sheet, pillows, the clothes horse and a small throw blanket.  As we were leaving the checkout area, Dave pointed out that in the restaurant area dubbed “Swedish Food Mart” they were serving North Irish-made calzones.  Perhaps someone in Sweden decided that calzones are universally beloved and consumed and therefore would fit in somewhat inconspicuously amongst real Swedish food.  Either way, the calzone got us thinking about pizza.  Dave asked Alberto if there were any good pizza places around and he pointed out one along the road that served pizza that was, in his words, not bad.  However, he went on to say, as a native Italian, there were no good pizzerias in Northern Ireland.  Tomorrow, we are receiving a food order from Asda (owned by Wal Mart) with a frozen gluten-free pizza.  I’m sure it won’t live up to the gluten-full pizzas to which Alberto referred, but it will be a nice hot meal cooked in our very own North Irish home.