This is the end

Oh, hey! Just to catch you up: we moved back to the United States, and they had an election yesterday.

Thank you for reading my blog. I started it, and continued it, mostly to keep my Mum up-to-date, but also to have a nice chronicle of all the fun things we were up to Stateside. Hannah got into Berkeley in 2008 through herculean effort and was kind enough to bring me along, to embark on various adventures with her, and with notable co-conspirators in fellow MBA spouse Dana and borrowed-baby Claire (who just turned 16!!) and everyone else unwittingly pulled in to be featured.

Then we got to try out the US healthcare system by having an American baby of our own, who we subsequently dragged to Vancouver, Maryland, Texas, Belgium, then back to Texas. Pete claims to be 100% American while sounding 110% British, but I'll pay for his therapy when it comes.

Through it all, I've presented myself as the witty, bumbling English(Welsh)man abroad, taking a jolly tour around this great nation, like Michael Portillo but less Tory, like Michael Palin but less funny. Oh how I laughed at the scrapes I got into, deploying my accent to charm those I met, a perennial tourist enjoying a ridiculously long vacation. I've worked to give you an amusing but factual window into the culture over here, and hopefully kept you (and my Mum) interested.

Things changed when we got a green card and permanent right to stay. After that I had to admit we'd planted ourselves, and committed to a large chunk of life overseas. We can't vote but we can vote with our feet, and had made a choice. But had we? We were quickly whisked to Belgium for fun socialist times there, and moved back while a Democrat - albeit an old white male one - was in the White House.

And now another old white male is going to follow him. The first time Trump was in power, it was all still a bit ludicrous. We were living near DC and went as political tourists to an inauguration ball, then to the women's "pussy" march the day after. We were on time-limited visas still, and wanted to witness this strange blip of the US sending a bankrupt reality TV star to power. What playful chaos! How the famed checks and balances will defeat him! And it was still not as bad as Brexit.

This second time, it's very different. We still can't vote, but here we are complicit with our presence. Trump is victorious, and I won't bother to list what he's said and done; we all know it, and everyone who voted for him knows it. With all that knowledge, he's the President again, with a Senate and a high court and probably a House to match. Worst of all, he won the popular vote. Most of the country agrees with him.

So I have misled you for a long time. I've been wrong about over half the people I've met during 15 years in the USA. Either that, or I've been floating in a hypocritical bubble of my own making, failing to pop it. I've been unwise to wittily comment on the differences I've come across, to play down the racist and sexist challenges of living here, to happily describe the experience of a white, English-speaking male as though it's the same for everyone. And I'm still doing it! "I'm just off to eat my neighbour's cat," I joked to friends after that debate, knowing exactly the group Trump's words were targeting, and not being in it.

Granted, America was always founded on myths. "All men are created equal," wrote the slave-owning authors of the Declaration of Independence. But the idea of a fundamental goodness, a sliver of the American Dream's opportunity that was actually true and not just a way to make minimum wage workers compliant, that "equal" and "freedom" were words that really did have meanings for most people, was something I naively, honestly believed. I can't believe it anymore.

So, this is the end of my blog. I'm sure it has been a bigger pleasure for me to write than for you to read, but I've been honoured by every comment anyone has ever made. I haven't been updating it much recently - my days of being an young adventurer who uncannily resembles Hugh Grant evapourated a while ago. I also, in a shock to myself, have been spending more time writing stuff that people pay me for. But thank you so much again for being here; this stands as a journal and a testament to what I thought this country was. 

That's really the reason I have to stop. My blog existed to answer the question: what's America like? And my only answer now is: I don't know.

High on a hill stood a lonely goatherd

Of all characters in fiction, it's Maria from The Sound of Music that I most closely resemble - we both sing, we both dance, we both hate Nazis. While in Europe, I was determined to find an alpine meadow to run around in. 

So like the von Trapps, we escaped to Switzerland under the cover of darkness, although our transportation was the night train from Amsterdam to Zurich. We've done this before, and it's always fun to fall asleep while trundling along and then wake up somewhere else, but trying to get washed/dressed in a tiny cabin with three bunk beds is a challenge. We left The Netherlands at 9pm and, being a Swiss train, arrived right on time twelve hours later.

Zurich is a fabulous, clean, open city, and quite cheap if you refuse to buy anything. We were soon on another train that looped its way up and up into the mountains, towards our final destination of Andermatt. It was around this time that I realised the flaw in my plan: there was snow. Lots of snow. And not nice, powdery, fun snow, but slushy and icy grey stuff, covering all the green fields and edelweisses.

We had arrived on the last day of ski season, heading in entirely the opposite direction as every other holidaymaker. Not necessarily a bad thing when you enjoy peace and quiet, but everywhere (including the hotel swimming pool) was shut. "Why did you come here...?" asked the lady in the tourist information when we inquired about nearby hiking trails. "The cable car is shut, but you can walk up the mountain if you like. It's not super dangerous," she added confidently.

But, in the Davies manner, we made the best of things! We took a train up to a ski resort, which was entirely abandoned, a sort-of post apocalyptic horror film setting, with the remnants of humanity poking menacingly out of the snow. Things were beginning to melt down in the valley, with the first buds of spring breaking through, but then the next day it snowed - like, really snowed. 40cm of the stuff, making me wonder why they'd stopped ski season in the first place. Luckily our hotel (which was as populated as The Overlook from The Shining) had sleds we could borrow, and where better than an abandoned ski slope to do that?

As quickly as the snow came, it left, making me appreciate that people who run ski resorts know more about ski seasons than me. Finally there was a chance to cavort and gambol through (quite soggy) pastures, as well as purchase myself a Swiss Army knife; surprisingly, one of the cheaper things you can buy in Switzerland.

Then it was time to say goodbye to the peaks, valleys, and clear mountain air, and take multiple trains all the way back to Brussels (the miracle of door-to-door public transport is going to be a BIG miss when we move from here). I didn't quite get to fulfil all my Dame Julie Andrews fantasies - who does? - but I climbed every mountain and crossed every stream that I could find.

Public transport: much nicer when there's less public on it.

All aboard!

Getting fancy on the night train, with a complimentary bottle of extremely cheap fizzy wine in every cabin (to help you sleep).

In Zurich. The flag's a big plus!

The trains get smaller the further up the mountains you go.

Ski Sunday.

Our "not super dangerous" hike.

Catching the train back down.

The next day, further up.

Where is everybody? Probably somewhere warm.

Danger danger!

Back in town, but not out of the snow.

We took shelter in the Victorinox store, where Pete got to construct his very own! We also held a legendary Swiss Champ XXL (every blade that Victorinox offers in one impractically toolbox-sized knife).

There's really only one blade that a knife needs.

Procuring our transport for the day.

Ski season is still over!

The effortless grace of Hannah sledding.

And Pete.

Our hotel room came with a fondue maker as standard! Because of course it did!!

The next day the snow had stopped falling, but my treasured alpine meadows remained covered.

Still, Hannah located the golf course.

A chilly dip.

One more day, and the hills are finally, vaguely alive!

By coincidence, Hannah was training to be a nun when I met her.

A sad boy heading home.

Never give up on your stupid, stupid dreams

Astute readers of this blog will notice that the frequency of posts has gone down recently. This is not only because the life of the Belgian househusband is less glamorous than that of the young, incredibly handsome, clear-eyed youth who moved to California all those years ago. It's also because I've been writing for profit.

To my complete bafflement, a US publisher has decided to release a collection of my poems. I've been writing poetry since I was at school - and this is a public apology to my friends who had to sit and listen to my impromptu recitations in the sixth form centre. I've had a few things printed in niche, unread magazines over the years, but this is first time I've managed anything...you know...legit.

The book's called "Sir David and the Green Card", and is all about going through the US immigration system. So basically a rehash of this blog, but I've heard you're meant to write what you know. The publisher actually has a "marketing department", so I'm hoping to sell more than ten copies, and appear on some talk shows, maybe Wogan or Parkinson.

So thank you to everyone who has ever been nice to me about this blog, which gave me the motivation to keep going. And now I'm available in all good bookstores! And also on Amazon. Or drop me an email for your free print-at-home copy :)

Wow - a bargain!

The age of majority

"Age is just a number," said somebody who hadn't been to the wedding of a child they used to babysit.

When young Hanno, who we'd babysat in Durham since he was 4-years-old, invited us to his wedding with Julie in Quebec, I was very touched, but naturally assumed we couldn't make it, given the logistics of getting there. What do I know? There are direct, cheap flights from Brussels to Montreal, so for the final week of the summer hols Pete and I jetted off to join the festivities.

Going from one French-speaking region to another didn't exactly feel like getting away from it all, but we've been missing Canada since moving from Vancouver, and it was wonderful to be back. Montreal is mainly an island in the St Lawrence river, and we could catch a boat to our B&B while not feeling bad about speaking French with a terrible accent, because that's what everyone here does.

Renting cars in North America has been somewhat messed up since the Covid pandemic, which meant that the cheapest deal I could find was for a truck. Pete was over the moon, fulfilling a fantasy since we moved to Texas, and we picked up a 3/4 ton monstrosity that would be illegal on European roads then headed north into the mountains.

The ceremony took place at a beautiful hotel overlooking wooded valleys. Julie is an opera singer, so the reception was stacked with world-class musicians entertaining everyone with their singing and playing. I briefly considered the alcohol-fueled idea of banging out some Billy Joel numbers on the piano, but thought better of it.

Hanno wasn't the only child I caught up with; his younger brother Nathan was there. Nathan was the first baby whose nappy I ever changed. He's now an investment banker in Munich. The existential tailspin this threw me into is difficult to describe. Later, I asked Pete if he wanted me to rock him to sleep or sing him a lullaby (he shrugged, and turned back to his iPad). But seeing kids whose life you've been involved in, however minorly, grow up and do crazy things like get married is a source of much pride. And if I can lean on some of them for free financial advice in the future, well.

After the partying was over, Pete and I continued north to spend a few days in Lac Taureau regional park, where we paddle-boarded and even swam. After a very urban summer, it was fab to get some time in nature ... until we got annoyed at how slow the wi-fi was. Then it was back on a plane to Belgium, where I'd missed the "+1 day" note on the arrival information, so poor Pete started school a single jet-lagged sleep later. Still, these are the things that make a man of you, and if he turns out half as well as Hanno and Nathan I will consider my parenting to be successfully concluded.

How it started.

How it's going. No real change, for me or Nathan.

Back in a civilised country, where the Queen's still on the bank notes.

We went to the Montreal Science Museum, where (of course!) it's all about hockey.

And kittens.

Julie introduced us to Mr Puffs, invented in Montreal and the most disgusting/delicious thing ever.

I tried to enroll Pete at the local university. Despite his genius, he was rejected for being "only ten years old". Hmph.

Our transport.

The reason we're here! Hanno and Julie's wedding.

The kids' table.

The great white north was surprisingly warm and green.

So warm that someone braver than me went all in!

A final bowl of poutine before home.

Punch it, Chewie!

While the stated reason for going to Florida was to scuba dive, the real reason is obvious: to meet Disney princesses.

Sadly, the court order banning me from coming within 50 feet of a Disney princess is in place until 2028, but it doesn't say anything about meeting other characters! And so I fulfilled a lifetime's ambition by shaking hands with someone I've always modelled my character, career, and body hair on: Chewbacca.

But this wasn't only about wookies. We drove up to Orlando and spent two days in Uncle Walt's theme park, first in the "traditional" Magic Kingdom, where American values like family and merchandise are celebrated, then in Hollywood Studios, mostly in their Galaxy's Edge Star Wars bit.

It was hot, it was humid, it was wonderful. It's just all so easy. Every member of staff greets you with a smile, and a "hello, friend", and while I know it's all fake, and I'm basically paying them to be nice to me, after another northern European winter I really don't care. This made me feel quite guilty, but when a big hairy wookie wraps his arms around you, nothing else matters.

From left to right: Walt, me, Mickey, Pete.

Off for adventure!

It's A Small World. This is as exciting as I like my Disney rides to be.

Taken with zoom lens, so technically more than 50ft away.

Magic carpet ride.

In the Hall Of Presidents. Some of the animatronics were more energetic than the real things.

I was always told that theology was a Mickey Mouse degree.

Oooh! Aaaah!

Planning our next run at the Death Star.

The family that flies together, stays together.

I find your lack of faith disturbing.

Open the pod bay doors, Hal (maybe that's something else).

There were other bits of the park but ... whatever.

Belly rubs for BB-8.

A quick drink in the cantina. They accept American dollars.

In the droid factory.

The man, the myth, the legend! And a wookie.