I’m back in New York, and it still smells like rotting garbage. The same garbage I smelled twenty years ago, when I arrived from post-Soviet Russia high on Woody Allen movies and armed with a dream of making it in America—without having the slightest idea what “making it” actually meant.

I can’t think of a better place to spend my twentieth anniversary in America. Frankly, I don’t want to leave. There’s something comforting about returning to a city where anyone and anything belongs. No one cares where you come from, what you’re wearing, or how many times you’ve had to start over. As long as you don’t block the sidewalk or the subway turnstile, you’re fine.

Yesterday, we watched a man drag a large coffee table onto the train. No one batted an eye.

Some people say New Yorkers are rude. I think they’re kind but real.

Before I leave, I wanted to share an essay I wrote about my very first day in New York—the day I would later call the “first day of my life.” If you’re nostalgic for the world before smartphones—or you’ve ever arrived somewhere convinced your whole life was about to begin—I think you’ll enjoy it.

The Stench of Possibility

If you want to know how confusing language adjustment can be, imagine walking into a Manhattan hair salon and asking for a “haircut and a blowjob.”

In 2006, at twenty-one, I left a Russia still catching up with capitalism and moved to New York City on a hot August day with two thousand dollars and a dream. Back then, quitting my journalism job to make it in America made perfect sense. I arrived with no phone, no bank account, no computer, and no plan. Yet I’d never felt more alive. It was the pre-Instagram era, and I had no one to compare myself to. Looking back, that was a freedom I didn’t know I had.

On the Bowery, I checked into the first—and last—hostel of my life, one I’d carefully chosen months in advance for its private “room.” Upon inspection, the room looked more like a closet—and not a walk-in one, either. Once I wheeled my suitcase inside, there was barely enough room left to stand. It was my first lesson in Manhattan real estate.

I rushed outside to call my mother in Russia from a payphone, using quarters I had left over from the taxi ride. I barely had enough time to tell her I’d made it and that I was happy before we got disconnected. Luckily, I didn’t get a chance to tell her that I was also terrified. At the airport in Russia, Mom cried and Dad rolled his eyes, convinced that I’d be back in three months. Five years would pass before I saw him again.

Those years were made longer by the lack of FaceTime, WhatsApp, Skype, or anything like it. My only possession was a little MP3 player that held a few Beatles albums and enough Bob Dylan songs to keep me going.

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I spent my first hour in New York trying to figure out where to buy shampoo, which I eventually purchased in mangled English from a corner store. Soon, I’d discover the Duane Read and the Rite Aid—stores that take the word “pharmacy” to a whole other level.

By then, I’d been awake for two straight days, but I was too excited to sleep. I washed my hair and stepped back out onto the Bowery, still home to the legendary CBGB. Fueled by Woody Allen movies and Sex and the City, I was desperate to get to know the city of my dreams.

Around the corner from my hostel, I noticed a cocktail lounge, packed with well-dressed couples, clinging to their drinks and shouting over the music. I was mesmerized. Who were these beautiful people? Would I ever be like them? With that thought, I headed for 72nd Street. First on my list was Strawberry Fields, a John Lennon memorial in Central Park, next to the building where Lennon lived and died.

On my way uptown, I was struck by the smell of garbage.

It was late in the day, and large black garbage bags lined the Manhattan sidewalks outside stores and restaurants. Mixed with the August heat, they created an unforgettable stench. That night, I called my mother again and cried, “The city of my dreams smells like a dumpster!” These days, I don’t notice the smell anymore—one of the many survival mechanisms I developed in New York.

I walked nearly forty blocks, starving. Finally, I worked up the courage to enter a two- story deli in Times Square. Overwhelmed by the unfamiliar menu, I headed for the salad bar, which seemed like the safest bet.

It was not.

I watched other people and copied their actions: grab a box, pick the ingredients, add the dressing. The dressing. Growing up in Russia, the only condiments I’d known were mayonnaise and ketchup. So I picked up the first bottle I saw, which turned out to be balsamic vinegar, and drenched my salad in it. I sat in the corner, choking on my lunch and silently studying other people, still not able to tell the tourists from the New Yorkers.

I reached 72nd Street and Central Park West by 10 p.m. I stood in front of the Dakota building, unable to believe that on this very ground John Lennon once stood. Standing there, I thought: if an unprivileged young woman from provincial Russia could find herself standing in front of the same building where a Beatle once lived and died, then anything in life was possible.

Ignoring the dangers a woman can face at night in Central Park, I made my way to Strawberry Fields, where a small group of seemingly homeless but spirited men had gathered. Without hesitation, I approached them to ask if this was the John Lennon memorial. I was reassured by the man I got to know as the “Mayor of Strawberry Fields,” or simply Gary, the memorial’s unofficial keeper. On my very first night in New York, I was already making friends with some of its classic characters.

“Welcome to the jungle!” one of Gary’s friends shouted, after my brief introduction. “Thank you!” I replied, meaning it. They felt more welcoming than anyone I’d met all day. I stayed for a few stories I could barely understand and a cigarette or two. Finally, after midnight, one of the “residents” pointed me towards the C train, and I set off on the first subway ride of my life.

Somewhere between the garbage bags on Second Avenue, the disastrous salad, and a midnight cigarette with strangers in Central Park, New York had stopped feeling like an impossible dream. I was going to make it.

Now, twenty years later, I return to New York for the first time in years, and the familiar smell of midsummer garbage hits me on a sidewalk in Brooklyn. New York trash really does have its own stench. Today, it smells like possibility.

I’m no longer wide-eyed, but I’m just as clueless, in the middle of another big life transition, asking the same questions I asked at twenty-one. The difference is that now I know something I didn’t then: if everything falls apart, I can come back to the city that raised me. It’ll take me back exactly as I am, no questions asked. And if I have to begin again, I already know I can.

A month later, we found out I was pregnant. Three months after that, the pandemic hit. From there on, our American life turned into a circus of culture shocks and paperwork.

It seemed like my stepdaughters’ American dream was over before we reached our rental flat.

“This is it?” one of them asked, looking out the cab window on the way from JFK to Brooklyn.

Having arrived in New York myself twenty years earlier, fresh out of Eastern Europe, I knew exactly what she meant. There is a special kind of disappointment that comes from stepping out of the world of American movies and into the reality of New York City.

These were some of their very first impressions.

American schools look like jails

When my 10-year-old step-daughter joined a (well-ranked) public school in Brooklyn, she asked me why schools in New York looked like jails. I got defensive, but I knew what she meant. Bleak corridors, colorless rooms, barred windows, lack of fresh air, metal fences around the building — nothing about her school was “cozy,” the word so loved in her home country.

Back in Denmark, famous for its architecture, the girls’ public school looked like a building out of a design magazine. It wasn’t a repurposed structure, as it’s often the case in America, but a well-thought-through environment, meant to stimulate children’s development and growth. It provided more than just desks. The rooms were airy and filled with light. There were areas for play and relaxation, nooks for reading, and various outdoor spaces for play and studying.

It reflected the Danish belief that growing up, especially for younger kids, is not about academic success but about playing, exploring, taking risks and connecting with the outdoors.

In Brooklyn, my step-daughter often spent her days in poorly, if at all, ventilated rooms, with very short outdoor breaks. For a child used to having at least two hours outside each day, regardless of the weather, it was shocking. She was also given very little time to play with her classmates and, needless to say, was having a hard time adjusting.

In Denmark, they believe that a secret to a happy society is in its youngest members. If so, shouldn’t we, in America, take greater care at accommodating their childhood needs instead of forcing them into mini-adulthood?

American groceries are expensive

When my ex-husband returned from his first grocery shopping trip in Brooklyn, he told me that he must have accidentally gone to a fancy store that sold expensive milk. He was surprised to find out that C-Town was a modest supermarket chain.

After six months of overpriced food shopping in New York, we spent three weeks traveling across country by car, only to confirm that food shopping anywhere in America was expensive, compared to Europe.

Even in expensive cities like London or Copenhagen, groceries are often cheaper and noticeably better quality. In Denmark, organic products cost the same as their non-organic versions, so buying conventional rarely makes sense. And my English friend used to joke that California raisins cost less in England than they did in California.

Jokes aside, my ex pointed out that in America, it was cheaper to eat at McDonald’s than to buy fresh food.

American supermarkets might be big and entertaining, but they fail at one simple function: to provide its citizens with healthy nutrition that’s affordable. Like healthcare, food shouldn’t be expensive but in the U.S., it sadly is.

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There’s too much fear in America

There was a hot tub in our building in Los Angeles with a sign that read “No Lifeguard On Duty,” followed by a long list of all the things that could go wrong while you’re “enjoying” yourself.

Like schools, the hot tub was also surrounded by a jail-like fence, even though we lived in a gated community. We got discouraged before we even got in.

This obsession with warning signs, slapped on every beverage and a piece of equipment, followed us from state to state, from city to city.

To an outsider, this much is obvious: America runs on fear. You’d think in a wealthy and democratic country people should be happy. Instead, they spend a lot of time worrying about things that could go wrong and who to sue if they do instead of just, you know, enjoying life.

Everything, from unleashed dogs to slippery sidewalks and Russians, is a potential threat to an American, on a personal or national level. It seems that no one is ever safe. While a lot of it has to do with fear of litigation, it’s far from being the only cause of paranoia in the U.S.

Europeans, Danes included, have a much more relaxed attitude towards life and fix problems as they arise, instead of constantly anticipating them.

My Danish family’s advice to America was: chill out.

America is technologically behind

Eight years ago, I stood in front of a tanning salon in Denmark perplexed: there were no employees to let me in, even though it was within its opening hours. With a help of my translator app, I was able to figure out that, in order to tan, I had to download the store’s app, add a credit card, select my location and choose the tanning room. As I pressed “Submit” on my phone, the door sprung open and in I went (don’t judge me, unless you’ve spent a winter in Scandinavia!).

Welcome to Denmark, where everything, from your child’s education to your healthcare, is run on apps.

In America, it was my ex-husband’s turn to be perplexed. As he pointed out, for a country that invented the iPhone, the U.S. is surprisingly behind when it comes to technology and digitalization.

We were still figuring out how to use chip credit cards or, even worse, writing checks, when Europe has moved on to contactless or phone pay exclusively. We still rely heavily on paper bureaucracy, while in Denmark paper transactions, and paper mail, have been as rare as cash for years now. We’re learning to use self-checkouts at supermarkets, while in Denmark groceries can be scanned and paid for on your phone. New York City’s MTA is falling apart, while in London and Copenhagen many trains drive themselves. The list goes on.

I think we can all agree: America has a lot to learn about efficiency from its European colleagues.

Americans talk too much about politics

When my oldest step-daughter landed in the U.S., she was 12 and obsessed with Friends. After a year of following American news online, all she wanted to talk about was politics. I was surprised, but not really.

Of all times, 2020 was an odd year to start your life in the U.S., and a perfect year to get a crash-course in American political madness. My Danish family’s takeaway - Americans are too obsessed with politics.

We don’t just exercise our right to vote, we use it to breed hate and anxiety, and turn citizens of the same country on one another. Somewhere along the way, politics in the U.S. stopped being civic participation and became a national personality disorder.

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At the time, I thought these were funny cultural misunderstandings. Europe being Europe. America being America.

But seven years later, after a pandemic, a pregnancy, a failed business, a divorce, and a growing sense that many Americans themselves are exhausted by the systems around them, these observations hit differently.

First, I defended the country. Then I started taking notes.

I’d like to say I was doing something glamorous, but mostly I was just… dealing with life. Logistics, chaos, and the usual cross-cultural confusion.

But I missed this. And I missed you.

So here we are. Let’s pick it back up.

Years ago, I had to explain America to someone who had never lived in it. That someone was my Danish husband.

He had a lot of questions—endless, simple, impossible questions.

Back then, I laughed them off. Now, I’m not so sure.

The marriage has since ended. And so has the blog I built around my husband’s opinions.

But the questions stayed. Only now, they’re mine.

Below is a piece that was written before the divorce, full of the kind of naiveté only an outsider can produce.

Having a foreign partner is sometimes like having (another) toddler in the house. The questions never end. To many of them, I have no answers. But just like with kids, you make it up as you go along. Here are some of my favorites.

Why are the trash cans so big?

My husband and I went trash can shopping the other day and he noticed something so obvious for the first time — we in America are obsessed with giant trash cans.

“Why do people live with all this garbage in their kitchens?” he asked me.

I blanked. It’s not until you visit Europe, or talk to a European, that you understand how odd those enormous trash receptacles we put in our houses are.

“Trash is something that belongs under the sink, not on display,” my husband pointed out.

That means daily trips to the bins, but many Europeans wouldn’t have it any other way. My own Eastern European dad dutifully ties up his tiny bag of kitchen garbage and carries it to the dumpster every single day. And so does my husband. OCD, perhaps? But a cleaner way to live for sure.

What the hell is a quarter of a mile?

Unlike Europeans with their simple metric system, where everything revolves around liters and meters, here in America we like to keep things complicated. I had to use Subway sandwiches to teach my husband about feet and inches: “Small sandwich — half a foot; big one — a foot.” He dutifully noted. Now, whenever he has to measure anything, he thinks of a Turkey sub.

Driving is a whole other story.

“What the hell is a quarter of a mile!” my husband yells at the GPS.

I Google frantically: “It’s 440 yards.”

“Yard? What the hell is a yard!”

Google: “One yard equals 3 feet.”

Husband: “Three big sandwiches?”

We miss the turn.

And then there are beverages.

“It’s a gallon of milk but a liter of juice and a quart of coffee creamer?” my husband asks, as he pulls his hair out in the supermarket.

“I give up!”

And since there was no analogy I could think of to help him learn Fahrenheit (“Only in America and Belize!”), in our family, we still speak Celsius. My husband did, however, learn one thing living in Los Angeles: 100 degrees is very hot.

Needless to say, he still doesn’t know his weight in pounds. And unlike me, he doesn’t need to, since he’s thin as a rail.

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Why do Americans need so many rooms?

One of my husband’s favorite discoveries in America was HGTV. He can’t get enough of it. Yet he has the same reaction to every episode of “Love It or List it”: “Why do they need so many rooms?” After ten years of living in tight quarters in New York, I don’t have an answer for him.

“What’s a mud room?” and “What the hell is a drop zone?” my husband continues.

Then: “Why do they have so much shit in their closets?” He’s on fire.

To a minimalist Dane from Copenhagen, with some of the world’s tightest and most expensive real estate, I have nothing to say other than it’s in people’s nature to expand and take up as much space as they’re given. And that America is a land of contrasts. While some are enjoying their bonus rooms, others are using the alley behind our supermarket as a home.

Here in Santa Monica, California, our daughter sleeps in a walk-in closet and our neighbor - in a cardboard box.

Why so much ice?

“Why did they put so much ice in it?” my husband used to ask me every time he ordered a beverage in America.

I guess when you’ve spent most of your life in a cold country, the last thing you want is more ice. But, frankly, nowhere in Europe, even in the southern parts, have I seen so much ice as in America.

“Don’t people understand they’re paying for ice cubes in their drinks?” my husband wondered.

It’s a good question. Why do we pay four dollars for a cup of ice with a bit of coffee on top? I taught my husband a simple trick of asking for “light ice” everywhere he went and he never looked back.

Why do I have to tip for a takeaway coffee?

We all know how Europeans feel about tipping. It’s just a foreign concept to them or a personal choice at the very least. In my husband’s home country of Denmark, tipping can even be seen as rude, implying that a person being tipped doesn’t make enough money. Because in Denmark, they do. Even their McDonald’s employees make $22/hour.

My husband barely learned to let go of the extra 20% for every restaurant meal he ate, when he noticed that even registers at our local coffee shops and cafes started asking for a tip. He muttered something under his breath, as he pressed the “No tip” button.

“Was that supposed to make me feel bad?” he rightfully complained afterward.

“Do they really expect us to add a 20% tip for a cup of already overpriced takeaway coffee?”

I didn’t know but wondered what the employees themselves thought. Has the tipping obsession in America gone too far?

Why is our daughter’s bed a hazard?

Every time we leaned down to pick up our daughter from her old crib, we faced a large bright-colored sign warning us that babies have suffocated in these beds.

“They sure know how to kill the vibe,” my husband commented.

“How stupid do they think we are?” he asked, referring to the endless warning labels surrounding us, as he dutifully hung a blanket over the one ruining our daughter’s bed.

Danes are oh-so particular about the way things look and make us feel. Everything they touch turns into coziness. So an ugly label will never go unnoticed in our household.

And then there was the hot tub in our old rental building in Los Angeles, tastefully decorated with numerous warnings of “risk of injury” or “risk of death” and, our favorite, the importance of not using the tub if one had an “active diarrhea” recently.

“What’s a passive diarrhea?” my husband wondered, as he stepped into the water with bright lights shining in his face. Cozy was he not.

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Why are there layers of (dirty) bedding?

The bedding solution in Europe is simple: a duvet, also known as a blanket, which is inserted into a duvet cover. The latter is used daily, then washed regularly and put back on. It keeps things simple and clean. The American layering system has never appealed to me personally. And to my husband, it’s a nightmare. Luckily, our European bedding needs are solved by a trip to IKEA. Yet, when it comes to traveling, he inevitably gets frustrated with hotel beds.

“This is disgusting” my husband complained during our first road trip, as he lifted a blanket (or was it a comforter?) covering the flat sheet he was supposed to sleep under.

“Do you think they ever wash these?” he asked, hoping I’d say yes.

I explained that the idea was to use the always-clean flat sheet to protect yourself against the washed-sometimes-comforter on top. This only works in theory, of course. In reality, you wake up with the sheet on the floor and the comforter on your face. Yikes.

Sure enough, my husband ended up spending the night shivering under nothing but a single sheet, after losing his battle with American bedding layers.

Why are the shower heads stuck?

“Where’s the regular shower?” my husband stared at our new bathroom set-up in his first American home in Brooklyn.

“What do you mean?” I asked him, but I already knew the answer.

Europeans prefer hand-held showers, which are considered much easier to use for washing both yourself and shower walls.

My husband tried to rotate our shower head, but it didn’t budge. I defended the system: “You move and angle your body under the shower instead of angling the shower around your body.”

“It’s like moving a paper under a pencil to draw instead of moving the pencil,” he answered and went to look for a hand-held shower head on Amazon.

Indeed, given that most American kitchen faucets come with a pull-out hose these days, it’s strange that our showers still don’t.

Why can’t we poop in privacy?

Let’s start with the word “restroom.”

“Who’s resting in there?” my husband wondered after I gently reminded him that in America, we don’t “go to the toilet.” Instead, we “use the restroom.”

He persisted: “And why is there no privacy in your so-called restrooms?”

“Sure, there is privacy,” I defended America once again, “In the stalls!”

But I realized he was right. The doors in our stalls are a joke: thin and with massive gaps at the top, the bottom, and the side. I once used a public restroom in Central Park where a door was so short that my face was fully visible when I stood up. Even better, it looked out straight into the park through the open entryway. Here I was, peeing in Central Park on full display.

Many European bathroom stalls, on the other hand, are fully enclosed and private, as you would expect in a place of doing “business.”

“So the American government doesn’t trust its people to poop without doing something stupid?” my husband laughed.

He had a good point. Why are we in the U.S. so often treated like children who need to be watched every step of the way?

On the flip side, in America, I get to pass the toilet paper to a girl stranded in the stall next to me.

At the time, I thought that these were funny cultural misunderstandings. That my ex would adjust. That I already had.

But he didn’t.

And slowly, I realized something unsettling: I had simply stopped questioning the world around me. That was the beginning of unlearning everything I thought I knew about America.

And here I am. More soon!

Hello readers,

First of all, happy Thanksgiving!

Having survived a trip to Turkey with a 5-year-old and my parents (aged three, it seems, these days), it’s been nearly impossible to post anything. I’m coming up for air now and planning a reboot of this newsletter in the next two months, so hang in there. Really, please, do. I have many more things to share.

Then, it’s hard to be positive about the U.S. these days, but every year around Thanksgiving time I think of the many things I’m actually grateful for in this adopted country of mine. After all, I’ve been an “American” for 20 years now. For all it’s shortcomings, it does have a few things to offer that remain consistent and that I, and maybe others, appreciate.

1. The true and unmatched diversity of people.

2. The unmatched diversity of climate.

3. Easy smiles.

4. Trader Joe’s and its employees.

5. There’s always summer somewhere.

6. Freedom of speech and press (compared to, say, Russia).

7. Small talk.

8. The diversity of people.

9. It’s never too late to start over (without judgement).

10. It’s always okay to say “hello.”

11. Gorgeous Fall on the East Coast.

12. The unmatched diversity of nature.

13. You won’t be judged for wearing sweatpants (to just about anywhere).

14. The diversity of animals.

15. Thanksgiving.

16. Birthright citizenship.

17. Not just one but two oceans.

18. Something is always open late or 24/7 (try shopping after 7 PM or on Sundays in Europe!).

19. Mac and cheese.

20. Good steak. The best steak.

21. Californian wine.

22. Farmers’ markets.

23. In and Out Burger.

24. The New Yorker.

25. New York itself.

26. It’s okay to be weird (unlike in, say, Scandinavian countries).

27. Resilience and entrepreneurial spirit.

28. The can-do attitude.

29. The friendliness of most people I meet.

30. Comfortable road trips.

31. Hardworking people (often overworked.)

32. Muffins.

33. Donuts.

34. Seinfeld.

35. Baseball (that I understand so little of yet am so fascinated by).

36. New York pizza.

37. LA tacos.

38. Manhattan skyline.

39. New York’s Chinatown.

40. Customer service mentality (compared to just about every place I visited in Europe).

41. Our mailman. Every mailman. Knowing your mailman.

42. Prospect Park in Brooklyn and Griffith Park in LA: urban wilderness.

43. National parks.

44. Apple pies.

45. BBQ.

46. Ice whenever and wherever you need it.

47. Free (tap) water anywhere you go.

48. Water fountains.

49. Free restrooms everywhere (outside of New York).

50. Opportunities for growth.

As I typed this, I realized how many things on this list are of material nature. But hey, comfort counts for something, doesn’t it?

What would you add to (or take off) the list?

Dear readers,

This month, I continue my soul searching while being back in the UK, followed by trips to Turkey and Spain with my 5-year-old in tow. It’s been a month since we left the U.S., and I look back at our summer in Los Angeles, trying to understand how a place so promising could turn into such a disappointment.

Does the premise of the American Dream not imply the quality of life for all?

While traveling in Europe, I’m reminded that we in the U.S. lack the basic liberties that other civilized countries enjoy, despite being promised “liberty for all.” Here are just a few of them.

1. Good public transport — freedom to move

Good public transportation is so much more than a European gimmick — it’s freedom. Freedom to go anywhere you want anytime without having to buy a car, get a driver’s license, pay for car insurance and gas and spend countless hours in traffic. Freedom to have a drink and fall asleep on the train ride home and not behind the wheel. And freedom to move and be active instead of being stuck in the car seat.

I experienced this for myself many times, having moved from New York to California, then to Europe and back to California. Every time I landed in a car-dependent place, I felt disempowered. Despite having access to a car in LA, I never learned to love the sedentary lifestyle that came with it. Movement is everything, but so many in the U.S. have no idea.

Not only is commuting by public transport better for the environment (and your wallet), but it’s better for your health and body, too. How do you think Europeans stay so fit while consuming large amounts of delicious bread and butter?

And let’s not forget mental health. That chilly walk to and from the train might just be what your mood needs.

2. Free healthcare for all — freedom not to worry

While our friends in Europe enjoy lives free of worries about medical bills, so much of our lives in the U.S. revolve around health insurance, or lack thereof. We’re at the mercy of our parents, colleagues and employers to provide us with medical coverage and a peace of mind that should be given to us for free in the first place.

Imagine how much more productive our society could be if no citizen ever had to worry about being able to pay for maintaining their health?

If only it all ended with the never-ending bills, co-pays and deductibles. But even if you have the brains and the means to sort out your health coverage, your time is the next precious resource that will be drained. Because in the U.S., dealing with any doctor’s office or insurance company means engaging in endless paperwork and a useless mail bonanza.

Living in the U.S., I’m reminded of my health coverage (in many different languages), my rights, benefits, future appointments, co-pays, appointments I should make and flu vaccines I should get five days a week (or so it feels). All on paper. It enrages me.

Why does having health insurance in the U.S. feel like a part-time job? The one we have to pay for, too.

Yet, there are still people in the U.S. who prefer our way of handling medical care, for the fear of turning into “socialists.” Those, of course, are the people who can easily spare both time and money.

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3. Support for families — freedom to love

Yet another shocking concept to an American that’s in full use in other developed countries: government policies that support families. From government-subsidized daycares that provide socialization for young children and help parents return to work, to generous or at least decent parental leave, to free or affordable educational programs for young children, and to many more easily-accessible parks and playgrounds — there are so many ways in which we can say yes, children are our future, so let’s do our best to support them.

Instead, we have turned childhood into a business opportunity, where basics like childcare or sports lessons for the little ones cost a fortune. Yet what can be more logical than investing in tomorrow’s people today?

Freedom to love your family without having to worry if you can afford it in the first place is, perhaps, the most important one of all.

4. Free or affordable education — freedom to grow

Education helps people to make better life decisions and have more choices for their future. Education is freedom, which so many in our country lack. Yet, good education for all shouldn’t be a privilege but a given for any civilized country. Because a country of educated people is a better functioning and happier one.

Still, quality education, from pre-schools to colleges, remains a privilege for the wealthy few in the U.S., who in turn earn more money thanks to their good education, so their children get to enjoy better education, and so on. It’s a vicious circle.

No one should start off their lives with debt. It’s the opposite of freedom.

5. Good working conditions — freedom to work and rest

Here’s another obvious one: happier workers make for happier citizens. They’re also more productive and (probably) more willing to pay their taxes. Instead, many people I’ve met in the U.S. felt like they were being ripped off by both the government and their employees, which made them resentful.

In Denmark, where I spent a year, for example, workers enjoy shorter work days, with no overtime ever, five weeks of mandatory paid holiday leave (plus public holidays!), generous maternity and paternity leave, as well as livable unemployment support for up to two years.

Here in the U.S., a friend of mine told me he hasn’t taken a vacation in ten years because he “can’t afford it” (and for the fear of being replaced). How civilized can a country be if there are hardworking people who can’t afford a week’s worth of rest?

Let’s reevaluate our relationship with freedom, America, and agree that there’s more to it than the right to carry a gun.

Dear readers,

After 20 years of living in America, I learned that if you live in the U.S. and often find yourself stressed, overworked, or dissatisfied with your life, it’s (most likely) not you; it’s them.

This may come as a surprise, but somewhere on the way to providing “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” the American government has taken the wrong turn. These days, we find ourselves with policies benefiting the rich rather than the common man, and the ideology promoting financial gain over well-being (and often confusing the two).

When spending a year in Denmark a few years ago, voted the second happiest place on Earth (the U.S. landed at #19), I observed what a people-friendly government can do to actually provide happiness for its citizens. Since then, I’ve researched policies in Scandinavia and beyond to find similar results across the board.

It’s becoming clearer that GDP has little to do with a society’s happiness levels and the United States is a great example. Measuring well-being in dollars can only take you so far. Eventually, you’ll find yourself in a divided country full of struggling and anxious individuals, on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

City by city, state by state, we could revisit our policies and make them more people-centric, one by one, and watch the life satisfaction levels improve. There are places in the country that are already doing just that (looking at you, Boulder, CO) and the results are in.

Here are just a few thoughts on how this could be done.

Providing free healthcare

Free healthcare for all means having free time that’s not wasted on insurance plans, mountains of paperwork, phone calls, fights with insurance companies, and crying over medical bills. It’s the time that could be spent on family, friends, or hobbies. As simple as that.

Free healthcare also means having one less thing to worry about in life. And when you know that no matter what happens to you or your kids, you won’t go into debt just to get help, you can enjoy life a bit more.

Every other developed nation has figured out this much. Why can’t we?

Developing pedestrian-focused cities

It’s well-known that physical activity improves not only physical but also mental well-being. Yet if your entire life revolves around driving places it might be hard to find extra time to move. That’s why cities that invest in pedestrian and cycling infrastructure alongside public transport systems have higher life satisfaction levels.

This may come as a shock to many Americans, but being car-dependent does nothing to improve your well-being. However, if you were born into a car-obsessed culture, you might not know any better.

There’s an amazing YouTube channel that explains why North American cities benefit car manufacturers and not pedestrians and demonstrates how European cities are planned or re-planned to promote movement. I recommend Not Just Bikes to anyone who’s interested in urban design and its effects on people living in cities.

Providing access to healthy foods

Healthy food shouldn’t cost more than McDonald’s. Yet in the U.S., it does. Anyone who thinks this is normal or acceptable has never traveled outside the country (understandably, since most people are too overworked and underpaid to afford such a luxury).

Even in London, the city known for its high cost of living, finding cheap, healthy foods is easy, and junk food is never your go-to solution for a meal. Every supermarket chain sells ready-to-go healthy lunches for under five Pounds and the stores can be found every few blocks, even in the busiest and most expensive areas. Likewise, health-food chains like Itsu can be found all over London serving lunches for under ten Pounds and as cheap as four Pounds. The list goes on.

I’ve done some of my healthiest and cheapest eating out right here, in England’s capital. And if you travel across Western and Eastern Europe, healthy food options only become cheaper and more interesting.

Even in Denmark, one of the most expensive countries in the world, regular groceries are way more affordable than in the U.S. In the UK and across Europe, many healthy foods are subsidized by the government, and affording them is never an issue.

In America, the land-of-junk-food country, I’m disgusted by how few options are available to people on middle or low incomes, in both eating out and grocery shopping.

Those who eat well feel well, both physically and mentally. It’s not rocket science. Yet in the U.S., it might as well be.

Providing free or affordable education

Educated people make educated citizens who make better life choices.

Education shouldn’t be a point of struggle or a project to be saved up for 18 years. Quality education should be accessible to anyone who’s willing to study and not to the rich few. And begging for scholarships shouldn’t be the only way for lower-income kids to attend good schools or colleges.

Just about every government outside of the U.S. understands that free or affordable education is as essential for a country’s well-being as free or affordable healthcare.

Yet in America, we’re still fighting for the basics. Without the basics, happiness is for those who can afford it.

Providing maternity (& paternity) leave & subsidized childcare

Children are the future. Happy parents raise happier children, who in turn make for a happier future. Yet another simple concept we struggle with in the U.S. As of today, we have the shortest maternity leave in the developed world, followed by the highest rates for early childhood care and education.

While the rest of the civilized countries take it for granted that mothers need recovery time, dads need time to bond with babies, and both parents need affordable childcare, so they can return to work when they’re ready, we in America still expect our women to return to work broken, leaving their newborns with strangers, or forget about work altogether and become stay-at-home moms.

This barbaric approach leads to stressed-out parents, divorces and fewer women in the workforce. None of these is a happy scenario.

Before we can talk about building true well-being, let’s look at what other countries have done to provide the basic needs of their citizens, leaving them more time and freedom to explore what happiness is.

Dear readers,

Sorry, it’s been a while since I posted, for a simple reason: I’ve been overwhelmed by being back in the U.S.

Coming back to the coastal side of Los Angeles has been far less glamorous than it sounds: it’s painfully noisy, even more painfully expensive and overrun by homeless people to the extent where walking around isn’t always safe.

Our electric bike and bike trailer were stolen after a month of cycling. A borrowed car became the solution that soon became another problem: constant traffic, honking, some of the worst driving I’ve seen and (yet more) homeless people walking up and down car lanes.

Our quiet life in London began to seem like a science fiction movie. My daughter, who spent the last half of her life in England, was complaining about noise and grumbled at drivers, no doubt copying me. It wasn’t working for us.

So after nearly three months in LA, we’re traveling back to London (via upstate New York) for a month before reuniting with my parents in Turkey. With all of my unfinished business nearly finished, I’m not sure I’ll ever be returning to Los Angeles for more than a visit. It offers little in terms of life quality, unless you’re wealthy and/or genuinely enjoy driving (in traffic), but it demands a lot in return.

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All this got me thinking of an old piece of mine that’s relevant yet again.

When my sanity is at stake, I remember my Danish ex-husband’s suggestions for how to stay sane in America. Here are some of them.

Get a pair of noise canceling headphones

It took my ex no time to find out that America was a loud country. What’s worse, he was coming from a country that was quiet by default, with great respect paid to silence inside and out. Less noise equals less stimulation and more brain space for your own thoughts.

The constant yelling, banging, beeping, and rattling of everything in America soon began to drive him crazy.

“They’re either trying to drown out people’s thoughts, or stimulate them, or both,” my ex thought out loud.

The worst part is that people here don’t seem to mind all the noise, as we both observed. They’re more than happy to contribute with their own loud conversations in public. And then there is the excessive honking, unnecessarily loud sirens, music blasting in stores and cafes, even self-check-out registers and ATMs that beep too loudly.

Just spend half an hour in the middle of your local Home Depot (as my ex-husband often did) and you’ll understand what he’s talking about.

“Does being loud mean being visible?” he wondered.

“Or is it the only way for people in America to feel important?”

Either way, there’s something sad about a country where banging and yelling is the best way to assert yourself.

Don’t read (American) news

During his first few months in America, my ex-husband couldn’t get enough of American television. It was exotic, sensational, and highly addictive. Yet he quickly learned that in America, it’s not news, it’s “anxiety reports.”

“It seems like the only purpose of TV or newspaper reporting in the U.S. is to give you anxiety,” my ex noticed.

After a few months of following the Los Angeles and New York Times, he gave up and went back to reading Danish newspapers. He realized that American media was stress-inducing even in the best of times and became pretty much unbearable during COVID.

“Even if nothing bad is happening, they’ll find something to scare people with,” my ex-husband concluded after reading the New York Times.

“It’s like people here are always under some threat. If it’s not Russians, it’s germs, or terrorism, or white privilege, or Trump’s return. It’s hard being an American,” he laughed.

Learning that U.S. media wasn’t good for his mental health, my ex wished that more people here would understand the same.

“America would be a better place if more Americans watched less television and formed more of their own opinions about the state of the world,” he concluded.

Find your community and stick to it

My ex left his tiny-spot-on-the-map home country of Denmark to arrive in a place that might as well be its own planet (for reasons that go beyond geography). To a Dane who’s used to crossing his land in one four-hour trip that was a scary proposition.

He learned that to stay sane in the U.S., it’s better to stay local.

“There are so many crazy people in this country that you have to find your like-minded community to survive,” my ex-husband discovered.

Indeed, landing in the wrong place with the wrong people in America can screw up your life.

“Luckily, there’s something for everyone here,” my ex noticed, pointing out how many microcosms we’ve seen while traveling across cities and across the country.

“In America, no matter how right, left, crazy, eccentric, rich or poor you are there’s a community somewhere out there for you.”

Keep on walking

Coming from a tiny country where the main mode of transportation is a bicycle, my ex-husband had a lot to learn about car culture so essential to the U.S. His favorite discovery was the good old “drive-thru.”

“It’s scary how many Americans don’t like to be inconvenienced even a tiny bit,” he commented while watching a drive-through line at Starbucks in the middle of the day.

He was even more puzzled when he learned that we always got our coffee faster by using a walk-up window.

“They’d rather wait longer in line without leaving their car than be bothered to walk a bit and get some fresh air,” my ex noticed.

“That’s bad news for their bodies and for the environment,” he concluded.

We pledged to never become car zombies and, luckily, found one of the few cities in California (Santa Monica) where walking and biking were more popular than driving. And that, according to my ex-husband, is the key to staying sane in America.

Don’t get sick

For all the fame the American medical establishment gets, my ex learned that a major part of staying sane in our country is staying healthy. More than in any other developed country, in America, getting sick means dealing with excruciating bureaucracy, endless wait, and complicated bills.

“In America, you might end up even more sick after going to the doctor’s office, from stress alone,” my ex-husband noticed.

Not a fan of medical check-ups in general, in the U.S. my ex won’t set a foot in a doctor’s office unless it’s an emergency. And with three kids, we had plenty of those.

“What’s the point?” he says, “They’ll just prescribe you more medication you don’t need.”

And keep laughing

Thanks to my European ex-husband, I learned that the best defense against all the craziness going on in our country is a sense of humor.

“You can’t take America seriously. If you do, you’ll get depressed. Just keep laughing,”my ex prescribed.

And that is the best advice I can give to anyone.

Dear readers,

Amidst life’s confusions, I’m planning a trip to Istanbul to meet my parents (one of the few places they can visit without a visa), which makes me nostalgic for our last trip there two years ago, with my two-year-old in tow. It turned out to be a challenging place for my toddler (and her caregivers), but that’s a story for another time. It was also a city of many contradictions, much noise and even more cats.

Yet what struck me the most on the trip was seeing how much humanity there was all around me, despite the obvious challenges the country, the city and its citizens were facing. Coming from Los Angeles, it was a welcome change.

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In America, we stay in the city of Santa Monica, where LA meets the ocean and, ironically, humanity is not all that visible here. “Every man for himself” seems to be the way of life in this part of the U.S. I do meet nice people almost every day, but they’re often nice in different, less genuine ways.

So it was all that much more surprising to see those who are nowhere as well-off as my fellow citizens display greater kindness towards each other and my family (even if the treatment of tourists in public places was some of the worst I’ve ever seen).

Here are a few small signs of humanity I witnessed in Turkey’s capital.

Free candy for my daughter

More than once, I visited one of Istanbul’s many tiny grocery shops with my daughter, only to leave with some free candy for her. Just like that, a man behind the counter would hand my candy-deprived child a small bag of gummy bears from his display for nothing but being a kid.

I can almost imagine this happening in a New York deli, where I myself received free donuts and tea, but not in Los Angeles and certainly not in its wealthiest parts.

A chair to rest on

Since the streets in our neighborhood were pretty much unwalkable with a stroller or a toddler on foot, anything outside of a ten-minute walking radius had to be reached via taxi. We chose to use an app for that (a poor version of Uber) since hailing one meant being ripped off like, well, a tourist.

One day, waiting for a taxi to arrive, which could take ages, we stood on the side of a busy street, next to a rooster in a boarded-up cage (why not), bickering from stress, while my daughter screamed: “Chicken!”

Nearby, a middle-aged Turkish man stood on a step of a municipal building. Witnessing our distress, he left and returned with a chair, which he silently offered to my mom, who must have looked that miserable.

The taxi never came, so, after a little rest, we packed up and went back home.

A warm room

Likewise, I once returned to the park where my parents were babysitting my sleeping (in the stroller) daughter to find them cooped up in a tiny room with a security guard who forced my parents inside to get warm.

None of them spoke another’s language. So they sat in silence, smiling at each other, until I returned to escort them home.

Sharing food with a stranger

Every day on our trip, my dad took pride in walking to the nearest tiny supermarket to get fresh water and milk for my daughter. It was his “getting away from it all” time.

Once, he returned home with the cutest story.

While my dad was looking for milk, the store clerk was having a snack of (delicious) Turkish bread and cheese. Without a word of English between the two of them, he offered my dad to try the food, and try it he did.

Just like that, my dad shared a snack with a stranger, paid for his beverages and went about his day.

Free Starbucks coffee

On my first day in Istanbul, I was being a tourist and carried no cash but a foreign debit card. I also craved a coffee and needed to use a restroom (story of my life). Both of those needs could be satisfied at Starbucks, so off I went searching for one, like a true American.

Only to realize that my foreign debit card refused to pay for my latte (and the American Starbucks app was of no use). I was flustered.

“No worries, pay for it next time,” said a kind (and cute!) barista.

Blushing, I thanked him and sheepishly waited for my coffee, trying to sort out whether I looked better than usual or if Turks were just that nice.

The kindness of a stranger at IKEA

We spent the first few days of our trip hiding from pouring rains and somehow found ourselves at a local IKEA, attached to a mall, attached to an aquarium.

My daughter was excited, then tired, then cranky, then had a full-blown tantrum when she couldn’t take a display train with her. As our pathetic attempts to console her were failing, a kind stranger woman dropped what she was doing and ran up to us, smiling and waving at my daughter and, I assume, asking her to lighten up.

When that didn’t help, she pulled out her phone and opened a gallery of (her own) dog videos. That was a hit with my animal-loving toddler. Startled by a stranger or pacified by dogs, she stopped crying and we continued with our IKEA experience.

Fresh free fruit

Almost daily, we visited our local produce stores. Whenever I came in with my daughter, both she and I would inevitably get a piece of fresh fruit to try (for free, of course).

Now, spoiled by the free candy she got around the corner, she wouldn’t always eat her apple right away, but the gesture made me feel both welcome and warm.

A free bus ride

I’m sure this happened to me in other places, but when the four of us climbed into a bus in Istanbul, only to discover we were one ticket short, the driver waived my mom in.

He probably just didn’t want to deal with our traveling circus, but hey, we were grateful and surprised by how nice the bus ride turned out to be.

And, of course, cats

No article about Istanbul could be complete without mentioning its very very many cats. In this case, it’s the way they care for their street felines that touched my heart. Forget animal control. These furry friends are loved and cared for by strangers, as if they were the city’s mascots. And in many ways, they are.

It’s amazing how, after visiting a place that didn’t seem too welcoming to strangers and, clearly, had a lot to work out, I still left feeling reminded of what humanity looked like.

Surely, some or all of these things could happen in big-city America, but not all at once within a couple of weeks. This, my friends, was the way of life in Istanbul.

Dear readers,

Last week, I found myself at Whole Foods looking to buy organic milk for my five-year-old and staring at 15 different options and prices that the rest of the world would laugh at (while I cry). Having lived in the UK for the last 15 months, I simply forgot that grocery shopping could be this complicated.

And just like that, I was back to America, where you find the world’s unhealthiest food or pay the world’s highest prices.

As I sat down to write about all the shocks of coming home, I realized I already ran a piece named exactly that exactly a year ago, on my first visit back. Sadly, not much has changed. I’ve been back for a month and a half now and so many things just seem… different, as a polite Englishman would say. Different from living in Europe that is, even if my “Europe” is London. And even if my “America” is Santa Monica, where Los Angeles meets the ocean.

There are the usuals: the air of anxiety, the casual clothing, the easy smiles and the small talk. It begins when you get on the plane home and it ends… never. But a few things jumped out at me in these last few weeks.

Here are just some of them.

Noise pollution

You’d think coming from the world’s capital I’m used to noise. Wrong. I spent my first week in residential London doing nothing but enjoying the quiet. People spoke softer, cars didn’t beep, music in stores and cafes was non-invasive or non-existing. With a flare of drama, I told my friend back in the U.S., “I feel like I escaped a war zone.” When I did eventually walk into a London store that was blasting pop music, I rolled my eyes and left. That’s when I knew I was in trouble.

A year-and-something later I found myself back in LA, startled by constant honking and my own quiet (and not) screaming, “Why!”

Why, indeed? The honking, the talking, the music, all of it.

Then, just as I thought I’ve heard it all, I was at a children’s event at a local park last weekend where a DJ played music so loud I thought I accidentally walked into a rock concert. Out we went, missing out on the free stuff but holding on to the last scraps of sanity.

When even childhood is not protected from noise pollution, where do you hide?

Expensive groceries

If I seem obsessed with food prices, it’s because I am. After healthcare, what’s more basic for our survival?

Yet every time I re-enter the U.S. I’m shocked by both the quality of food in the supermarkets and its prices. There’s no argument that could justify the seven-dollar organic milk and everything that’s wrong with conventional milk in North America. Click on the link to begin your journey into the scary place that is our commercial food industry.

In the UK, I enjoyed the two-pounds-fifty organic milk and my search for grass-fed variety resulted in… nothing. It turned out that cows in the UK are grass-fed by default, and any organic milk-producing cows are fed a 60%-grass diet by law. In America, the term “grass-fed” is just another unregulated marketing scam and means little, unless you search for a special “Certified organic grass-fed diary” stamp on the package and pay the price. The best part? I don’t drink milk and never have. All this is me trying to be a good parent.

And then there’s bread.

In London, every major supermarket has its own bakeries popping out fresh affordable bread daily. Sure, it loses its taste quickly, so my daughter and I bought a fresh loaf once or twice a week and ate all of it in two days. Bread lunch! Bread dinner! Chewy and sugary American bread puzzles me, so I’m happy to report I’ve been living low carb since getting here.

But it’s not just the milk and bread. It’s every. Single. Thing. Overpriced, over-sugared and underregulated. Grocery shopping in the U.S. is a complicated affair. While I love the smiley cashiers and people bagging my items (though I all but rip a bag out of their hands and do it myself), I’m perplexed by just about everything else.

Tipping gone mad

The tipping situation in America went from bad to worse to ridiculous. Leaving a few bucks here and there for good service is one thing but being expected to tip for a cup of (very expensive to begin with) takeaway coffee is a whole other ball game. Americans, have you lost your mind? You’re paying more for basic goods and services than anyone else in the world and you’re tipping two dollars for a seven-dollar cup of coffee (seen with my own eyes). Stop it.

This weekend, my friend and I had dinner at a restaurant, only to receive a bill that had “gratuity” included with a line requesting a tip amount underneath, gently calculating a 20% or 30% percent tip for you. So some “nicer” people than us were walking out of there paying exactly double for their dinner, with service that deserved a dollar. Watch out, Americans!

And where has the subtlety of tipping gone? When I dropped off my a friend’s car at a car wash the other week, I was asked up front if I was going to tip in cash or card. That’s after being lured in by a billboard advertising a discount that wasn’t there. I told the cashier I was going to think about it. Of course, I politely tipped afterwards.

Since I tipped (or was expected to tip) all of zero times in my fifteen months in England, all of this came as a bit of a shock.

Target jails

And while I was sipping my seven-dollar coffee I stopped by Target to buy some deodorant, only to discover all of them, and their neighboring toothpastes and shower gels, were locked behind glass doors. I had to chase down a Target worker to unlock one of those treasure troves for me and make small talk over my shoulder while I decided on which one of the twenty varieties of Secret to buy. When he asked me if I needed anything else (which would require unlocking another cabinet and more small talk), I laughed nervously and rushed home to shop on Amazon.

In three months, I managed to forget that in America, a solution to poverty and homelessness is building deodorant jails. If this does not scream third-world country then what does?

I still love Target though. I just stick to the isles of notebooks and home decor that seem to be enjoying their freedom for now.

Unsolicited calls

While all this was going on, I was receiving unsolicited phone calls every ten minutes, reminding me of every debt and opportunity that was coming my way. My lord, I was popular in America!

In over a year London, I received three phone (that I remember) calls: one from my landlady, one informing me that my daughter was now registered with the local council (what?) and one from a guy I was buying a bike from. My phone had a boring life in England where there’s been a crackdown on cold calling and most communication seems to be done online.

Regardless of these and many more little (and big) shocks, we’re still having a good summer in LA. The key here (and everywhere) is to enjoy what you can now (and always) and rant about the rest on the internet. So here’s to predictable summer weather, outdoor pools and beach access!

Be well, friends!

Dear readers,

After two years of staying in London, followed by 15 more months and many visits, I find myself missing a few things that made living there so enjoyable (sorry, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland I’m sure you do it just as well, but I’m yet to visit).

Now, having returned to the U.S. for a while, I find myself thinking about what and why we could borrow from the English to improve our life quality.

Sure, it would be nice to have free museums, as they do in London, but that’s like saying it would be nice to have free universal healthcare: dream all you want, but it’s not gonna happen in our lifetime.

In the meantime, here are some not-too-far-fetched ideas we could borrow from across the pond.

Public meeting places

While we do have bars in the U.S., they contribute little to our quality of life and serve no practical purpose to those past their 30s.

Pubs in England, on the other hand, are so much more than a drinking establishment. Short for a Public House, a pub is a place where community members of all ages and classes come together for a drink, a meal, or a cup of tea. Seniors, kids, and dogs are all welcome.

In fact, local seniors are my favorite people to watch in pubs, and I always feel an itch to join them and listen to a story or two.

When my ex-husband and I moved flats on our trip to London, the first thing we did was find the nearest supermarket and then a local pub. We would visit often and become “regulars,” as a way of anchoring ourselves in a new neighborhood.

Without a place for a local community to come together on a regular basis, how do you become a part of your community?

Sure, we have plenty of bars in our hometown of Santa Monica, but they’re neither cozy nor affordable.

I joined Nextdoor, only to receive anxiety-inducing headlines in daily emails.

Perhaps, a cheap drink or two is just what Americans need.

Green spaces

The English may not have the diversity of nature and climate we have in the United States, but their devotion to their green spaces is truly remarkable (again, sorry, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland, I’m sure your nature is just as lovely).

When I first moved to London from New York years ago, I had no idea that a big city could be that green. People are often surprised when I tell them that 47% of London is made up of green spaces. You can’t throw a stone in England’s capital without hitting a park.

In the somewhat prosperous city of Santa Monica, where Los Angeles hits the ocean and where I’ve been living on and off for five years, the parks are tiny, scattered, overtaken by the homeless, and surrounded by much car traffic. Ironically, I found it much easier to be out and about with my four-year-old in London than in my own neighborhood.

Since nature is essential for both our mental health and air quality, abundant green spaces would be an incredible resource for the stressed out and overworked people of the United States.

Imagine if every community had a park within walking distance, and every child had a nearby playground.

Respect for traditions

Watching the English come together over the death of Queen Elizabeth II a while back got me thinking about the importance of traditions in our lives. I came to the sad conclusion that after living in the U.S. for nearly twenty years, I can barely name any local traditions, other than the Thanksgiving dinner (which I cherish).

And what is a country without traditions?

Sure, monarchy is not everyone’s cup of tea, but the English don’t stop there.

For example, while living in London, I discovered Sunday roasts: a custom of making meat and vegetable roasts on the last day of every week. I think I’ve had more roasts in my two years of living in England (served in both homes and pubs) than I had in the rest of my life.

Another must-love English obsession is tea-drinking accompanied by cake-eating. Again, it’s not about the tea (except when it is) but about the familiar ritual it symbolizes.

Wouldn’t it be lovely to have some American traditions that everyone in the country respects and follows? But then again, you’ll say, the country is too diverse to agree on anything.

Relaxed attitude toward dogs

No one loves and understands their dogs better than the English (yes, not even the “dog moms” of America). And no one has better behaved canines.

Watching the locals walking their dogs was a little hobby of mine while living in London and walking my own two very-American dogs. Mostly, I was trying to figure out what it was that made their dogs, and their owners, so relaxed, and how they managed oh-so-well without leashes.

I concluded that the English let their dogs be dogs, not babies, and projected an air of calm when in their presence, rather than constant anxiety so common in the U.S. Coupled with early socialization and off-leash training, those worked wonders.

In London, I have not once met a dog who’d be described as “anxious” by its owner. In the U.S., I meet them every day.

Perhaps, it’s time we take a step back and look at our dogs as dogs and not furry babies who need to be dressed, carried, and wheeled around?

City farms

If green spaces weren’t enough, the English invented another way to bring nature into cities — a city farm. First established in London in 1972, city farms became places for locals, especially kids, to connect with nature and wildlife without leaving their cities.

So far I’ve counted fifteen city farms in London alone, most of them free. I’ve visited five of them, one of them three times (with my daughter), and those were some of the best memories I have of my life in England’s capital.

Every city farm I visited provided (cheap) farming-related classes and activities for kids and often adults, as well as volunteer opportunities.

A big lover of both nature and animals, I fell in love with this simple yet powerful concept. And so did my daughter.

What if we in the U.S. embraced a powerful connection between humans and animals and made it accessible to city dwellers and their children, instead of monetizing it?

While some of my suggestions are light-hearted, others very much could be and should be implemented.

If I had to pick one wish off my list, I would go with abundant green spaces for everyone.

What would you pick?

Dear readers,

It’s been a while.

The longest while during which I packed up our belongings in London, put most of them in storage and travelled back to my America with my daughter ,for the unforeseeable future.

After a week of jet leg and the most severe reverse culture shock I’ve experienced yet, I came back to life and my computer.

While I re-adjust and gather (and write down) my thoughts, I’ll share this odd piece about the time I found a literal manual to the United States.

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While Googling “American traditions” for another piece of my mine, I came across a neat document titled “American Culture: The Basics” meant to serve as a manual for foreign students at a U.S. university.

Finally, I thought, someone summarized America so well and briefly. And for once, I don’t have to take the blame for the observations made.

So this is how you explain America to a foreigner, according to this “manual.”

First things first

This opening couldn’t sum up the U.S. better:

The United States is a diverse country, with many customs and traditions. It is difficult to be specific about U.S. culture because of the many regional, religious, and national differences.

This is something I talk and write about a lot: America, as I see it, is not a country but a conglomerate of fifty countries, each with its own topography, climate, and religious and political views.

Verbal and non-verbal communication

The manual goes on to list “some key values and generalities” that help to understand Americans and their culture.

“Small talk” includes topics, such as sports, weather, jobs, or past experiences. Most people do not talk about religion, politics, or feelings with strangers. Sex and bodily functions are not discussed. People do not usually talk about the personal lives of their conversation partners. This emotional distance does not mean people dislike you, but personal lives are discussed only with close friends and family.

I guess I won’t be talking about my bowel movements next time I’m out shopping.

Eye Contact: During a conversation, the speaker looks briefly into the listener’s eyes, briefly away, and then back at the listener’s eyes.

I wonder if there are cultures where this is different? Nothing like an uninterrupted gaze while talking to a stranger.

Touching: Touching people often makes them uncomfortable. Men are especially nervous when touched by another man.

Space: You do not have to touch people to make them nervous. People expect others to be at least an arm’s length away from them. If you get closer than this, people will move away from you; they do not dislike you; you are “in their space.”

The space and touching hang-up always me chuckle when traveling abroad. Watching a local breathing down the neck of an American tourist in line at an Italian supermarket is nothing but comedy.

And as my Russian mother pointed out, annoyed, I myself became touchy about my “personal space” since moving to the U.S. nearly twenty years ago.

U.S. values

The manual goes on to sum up “some characteristics” of the U.S. people.

Most people in the US believe that the ideal person is independent and self-reliant, and most people think of themselves this way. People in the U.S. do not think of themselves as representatives of their families, communities, or social class.

For better or worse, the American obsession with individualism is unique compared to many foreign countries’ focus on collective good and the “we’re all in this together” mentality.

But is there such a thing as too much individuality?

Success in the United States is often measured in dollars. Many people think about money and material possessions as much as time. As a result, you may think that people ignore more important things in life, like love and friendship. This is not true; like people in every country, most people in the U.S. value friendship more than wealth.

Do they, though? Do they?

Misjudgments and differences

After explaining that people in the U.S. have no problem with touching or handing you objects with their left hand, and have no negative association with the soles of the feet, the manual goes on to explain that:

Many people are easily embarrassed by sex, religion, and politics, and may assume that those who mention such topics are rude.

Yet we as a nation fight more about those issues than any other society on earth.

People are uncomfortable with silence.

This would explain the music playing in every store and cafe across the country. Believe it or not, outside of the U.S., it’s possible to shop or eat in silence.

International students often think that people in the United States are incapable of deep conversation or thought.

I guess you can’t small talk your way into people’s hearts.

Relationships in the U.S.

After a brief talk about religion in the U.S. (“Many people in the United States believe in God, and the majority of people are Christians”), the manual moves on to handshakes and the proper use of names.

Then comes my favorite part:

Meeting people in the United States is not easy. Because of the problems mentioned previously, internationals sometimes stick together and avoid contact with people who live here.

I respectfully disagree. In my experience, meeting people and making connections is way easier in the U.S. than in many European countries I’ve lived at or visited.

Clocks are very important to American life. “Wasting time” or not doing anything, is considered a bad thing, although many people still do it.

True, the American obsession with productivity knows no limits. So much so that even innocent things like a child “just” playing, an enjoyable extended lunch or, say, a vacation are all considered a waste of time.

When people seem warm and open with new acquaintances, this does not mean that close friendships are forming.

Sadly, this has to be spelled out to foreigners.

The majority of friendships in the United States tend to be shorter and shallower than those of other cultures. People have different groups of friends: “work friends,” “school friends,” “family friends.”

Is it just me, or Americans are starting to look like a shallow bunch?

In the United States, relationships between members of the opposite sex are generally less structured than in other countries.

They go on to talk about platonic relationships, sex, and condoms, but, interestingly leave out one major difference I noticed between dating in the U.S. and the rest of the world: so-called “exclusive relationships.”

I wonder if only in America people assume that it’s okay to date (and have sex with) several people at once until you become “exclusive?”

Is there a more un-romantic way to start a relationship?

Parenting in the U.S.

After discussing social gatherings and RSVPs, arrival times, and thank you notes, the list moves on to:

US individualism shows in attitudes toward children. In the U.S., a few religious groups emphasize the importance of large families, but most people think one or two children are enough, and many couples have no children. Because taking care of a child is very costly financially, emotionally, and socially, many couples view large families as a disadvantage. Having many children would restrict the freedom and individualism of the parents as well as the other children in the family.

Let’s just call it what it is: most people in the U.S. can not afford to raise and educate more than one or two children because we’re the only developed nation in the world without universal health care, maternity leave, subsidized child care, and just about any other type of care provided by the government.

Parents want their children to be healthy and happy, and to have a better life than the parents. Families spend a lot of money to give their children what they want: nice clothes, many toys, adequate health and dental care, and a good education. Many parents give up time with their children to pay for these things. In most two-parent households, both parents work to support this lifestyle, leaving their children with babysitters and child care programs for eight, nine or ten hours a day.

It’s getting more and more depressing.

Children, especially boys are expected to be energetic and assertive. That does not mean, though, that they are allowed to “run wild” in public. Parents are expected to keep their children under control at all times, particularly in public places and in the homes of others.

Are we talking about children or dogs?

If a child misbehaves, only the child’s parents may discipline him. Other adults should not interfere unless the child is doing something which may be harmful to himself.

It’s true that in many places I visited it seemed okay to tell someone else’s kid to behave. But in the U.S., we’re precious about who and how address our children.

If I were a foreign student reading this manual, I’d probably pack up my bags and try my luck someplace else.

But then you never know what shallow friendships you might miss out on.

Dear readers,

When I left LA a year and three months ago, I told my ex I felt like I escaped a war zone. So great was my relief from the big and small irritations of living in (that particular part of) the U.S. Yet, here I am, about to travel back to the city that now looks like an actual war zone.

To lighten up the room, I’d love to share one of the stories of my early days in America, nearly two decades ago. The good old days before googling and iPhones, when life was an adventure. And when landing alone in New York, young, foreign and clueless meant something.

If you’re not a paid subscriber and would like to read the whole thing, just message me!

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What’s In the Name?

On one of the longest days of my life, I found myself wandering the streets of Russian-speaking Second Avenue in Lower Manhattan. Ukrainian immigrants made the area their New York home base, while the Russians ended up all the way up the ass of Brooklyn (annex that, Putin).

Establishments like Veselka, an old Ukrainian eatery now popular with tourists and NYU students and Ukrainian National Home made it an entertaining walk for me. Since I recognized every other word of Ukrainian language, I was, momentarily, in an only-a-half-foreign country.

There was even a stand with local newspapers in Russian, among others. Even better, these newspapers were not chained to their shelves but laid out in the open outside, waiting to be picked up and paid for inside. “That’s crazy,” I thought. Not just the papers but the stand they come with would be ripped off and carried away in Russia. “What kind of an advanced society is this?” I wondered and picked up a copy of Russian Bazaar.

I had just returned to the hostel I earlier checked out of on nearby Bowery Street, only to be turned away and sent into the wild streets of Manhattan in search of another accommodation. After handing my ugly suitcase over to the hotel clerk (surely, to never be seen again), I headed straight for Second Avenue, resentful of my dependency on my native language but reminding myself that beggars can’t be choosers.

I knew of no other hotels in the area, owned no phone or map, knew no one, and spoke just enough English to ask “Where is the toilet?” There were two thousand dollars in cash in my wallet, which was barely anything for a barely-adult with no plan. “Make it last,” were my mom’s last words before my departure, and make it last I did.

In Russian Bazaar, I circled a few ads for roommates in Brighton Beach, a Soviet shithole of a neighborhood at the far edge of Brooklyn, and found a payphone. With the last of my quarters, I called not one but three rude Russians all of whom told me “no” for reasons I don’t care to remember.

Out of ideas, I walked up and down Second Avenue until I stumbled upon the famous Ukrainian National Home, a building so odd it deserves its own essay. In front of it, stood three men, middle aged, drunk and speaking Russian. In the act of total desperation, I approached them with “Hello, I’m here alone, and I have nowhere to stay tonight. Can you help?”

The two men laughed, reminding me why I left Russia in the first place, but the third one said nothing. I walked away. Less than a block later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the silent man, the one who took pity on me. He told me nothing other than to meet him on the corner across the street in 30 minutes, before rushing back to his drunken pals.

I circled the street for the next half hour, afraid to walk too far. In exactly 30 minutes, I positioned myself on the corner, making sure I was visible from all directions. Then I saw him, a tired and rugged figure of a middle-aged man, with immigration and vodka-inspired wrinkles, walking towards me. My savior. An unnamed hero of my life.

He briefly introduced himself and told me a story of his wife passing six months ago and a room standing empty in his Brooklyn apartment. A room he wasn’t planning to fill but that he was offering to me now, because he felt sorry for me. “I’ll take it” I blurted out. The room and the pity, I’ll take it all. He told me he would charge me $300 a month, which seemed like a good deal, even in 2006. I wasn’t sure where Brooklyn was (“Sex In the City” didn’t cover that, and neither did Woody Allen) but I didn’t care. I was going home.

I was told to collect my suitcases and return to Second Ave in exactly an hour, where I was to meet Savior in front of his daughter’s building. It’s only after I walked away when I realized that I didn’t remember the man’s name. “I’ll figure it out later,” I thought. In an hour, I stood with my bags exactly where I was sure I was told to be, or so I thought.

Fifteen minutes later, I still stood there, now attracting two women who stopped to ask if I was okay, attention a stranger rarely gets in New York. “Your English is very good” they politely reassured me, as did everyone else in America in my first year of living here. Just then, to add insult to injury, a policeman stopped to examine the situation and with it, my Russian passport.

Surely, my time in America was coming to an end, I thought…

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They tell me in America, you’re born with freedom. It’s your given right.

Freedom of speech. Freedom of religion. Freedom of assembly. Freedom to petition the government. And, of course, freedom to bear arms.

We brag so much about freedom, yet the only liberty we have that doesn’t exist in every other first-world country is the right to buy a gun in Walmart and shoot your neighbor for trespassing.

As great as that sounds, here’s a long list of liberties I would rather see. Yes, even if it means paying a slightly higher tax for it. Or taxing the rich.

But then maybe it’s just me?

Freedom to have an abortion.

Or the freedom to have a baby, or two, because your government will support you.

Freedom to have a paid maternity leave, without fear of losing your job.

Freedom to return to work when you’re ready, not when you’re forced to.

Freedom to return to work because you have high-quality childcare, subsidized by the government.

Freedom to focus on your work because you know that both your children and their teachers are well taken care of at school.

And, of course, freedom to not have to save up for your child’s college education from the moment they’re born.

Freedom to have a drink in the park on a hot summer day, without judgment or a ticket.

Freedom to smoke a cigarette outside, without judgment or a ticket/lecture.

Freedom to walk your dog without a leash when appropriate, without judgement or a fight.

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Freedom not to work overtime.

Freedom not to work on weekends.

Freedom to take a long vacation every year, without fear of losing your job.

Freedom to take a day, two, or three off when your child is sick, without fear of losing your job.

Freedom to never have to rely on your employer for healthcare.

Freedom to plan your life according to your interests, without having to sell your soul for health insurance.

Freedom to plan your life without having to worry whether your spouse, child or aging parent will get medical treatment when needed.

Freedom to sleep at night because no matter what life throws at you, you’ll receive medical treatment, regardless of your income or employment status.

Freedom to never have to go broke to pay for medical treatment.

Freedom to enjoy your life instead of having to navigate very complex medical and insurance systems.

Freedom to send your children to school without fear of them being shot.

Freedom to walk your dog off-leash, without fear of it getting shot.

Freedom not to be shot for your skin color.

Freedom to not be shot for trespassing.

And freedom not to know what trespassing is.

Freedom to live your life freely without having to fight for basic human rights.

What would you do with all this freedom?

Dear readers,

Pretty much all I can think about these days is returning to the U.S. Having to return to the U.S. At least for a while. Because of (what’s new?) work and money and a few personal things.

Having lived in England for the last 13 months, I’ve gotten used to such basics of a civilized society as free healthcare and a functional public transport system. And don’t get me started on raising a child in Europe vs America. I could write a whole other piece (a whole other Substack!) on it. I probably should.

But for now, I get to theorize from the distance about what’s gone wrong for me and for the country.

Today, I look back at my ex-husband’s arrival to America from Denmark and all the (very many) opinions he had about it. Some readers will remember that this Substack was nothing but his opinions when I got started. I’ll share a few that stood out and still ring true today.

After all, there’s nothing like seeing your country from an outsider’s perspective.

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In America, we so often focus on fixing problems that we forget how much easier it would be to prevent them in the first place.

When my ex-husband moved to the U.S. from Denmark, rated the Second Happiest Country on Earth, he quickly learned that our country was all about quick-fix solutions. While many other societies are moving forward with forward-thinking ideas, we’re patching up holes in the system that’s largely broken.

We’re still scamming people out of their money and their time. Distracting them with noisy stores and noisy politics. Spreading anxiety and fear. Promising them the riches if they just work harder.

“The size of the country doesn’t excuse any of it,” my ex commented.

“No matter how big the society is, you can still put citizens’ well-being first, or at least try to.”

When I look around me, I wonder if the only way forward for the U.S. is to sacrifice a bit of our oh-so-favored individualism for the collective good? Because a country full of angry individuals is hardly a happy one or the one making progress.

Is going back to the basics the only way forward?

Thanks to my ex, I thought of these (and many more) examples of outdated thinking mentality we in America hold on to, even though it’s dragging us down.

Lack of work-life balance

When my former husband read in the news that many remote-since-pandemic workers across the country didn’t want to return to their offices and were choosing to quit rather than go back to the old routine, his reaction was:

“I don’t blame them. Work life here is so stressful.”

Scandinavia is world-famous for its work-life balance, meaning work days are short and regulated, vacation time is generous and mandatory, maternal and paternal leaves are a given, and conversations about work stay at the office.

While living in Denmark, I was blown away by how easy it was to leave the office early to pick up your kids or attend to any other family-related need, which would rarely be tolerated in the U.S. Long lunches were a norm and not eaten at your desk. Coffee breaks were plentiful. And “Friday cake” was a thing. In my co-working space for small businesses in Copenhagen, “Friday beers” were so normal (and provided by the company) that it was common to see people drinking at their desks as early as 1 PM. I’ve never seen a happier bunch of workers.

“Sure, we may be a bit lazy and spoiled in Denmark but we love our jobs and we get things done, eventually,” my ex explained.

There’s an actual word in Danish (“arbejdsglæde”) that means “Happiness at work.”

Maybe it’s time we in the U.S. think about making our employees happy, instead of squeezing the last drop of blood out of them in an attempt to get short-term results?

Lack of affordable quality childcare

Since having a baby in Los Angeles, my ex-husband discovered yet another obstacle to working in the U.S. — a lack of affordable childcare.

In Scandinavia, government-subsidized quality daycare centers are the norm and allow parents to return to work when they’re ready.

In Los Angeles, my ex was surprised by local daycares charging at least $1500/month (some as high as $3000) for 4-hour days.

“Who picks up their kids at 1 PM?” he asked me, with genuine surprise.

I explained to him that stay-at-home moms were common, and so were the nannies.

“No wonder so many of your mothers don’t return to work,” he concluded.

In Denmark, daycare centers stay open until 5 PM and cost relatively little, based on a sliding scale. Kids spend most of their days outside, rain or shine, and frequently in nature. They take risks. They play. And they don’t start formal schooling until the first grade of school. It’s a dream.

“Quality childcare shouldn’t be a privilege but a given in a healthy society,” my ex complained.

Likewise, when he found out that most schools and kindergartens in LA closed for the summer, leaving parents with no option but to pay for (expensive) summer camps, he was outraged. In Denmark, schools and kindergartens provided some kind of free care throughout most of the summer.

“They turned childhood into a moneymaking machine,” my ex sighed.

Indeed, how will we ever move forward as a nation before we learn how to take better care of our children? A happy parent is a happier worker and a happier citizen.

Like medical care, childcare should be a government’s priority and not a moneymaking opportunity.

After all, a happy and healthy adult starts with a happy and healthy child.

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Lack of gender equality

While in Denmark and the rest of Scandinavia, true gender equality has long been a reality and not a political slogan, women in the U.S. are still fighting for basic rights, such as equal pay or having an abortion.

And those who do choose to have children are not well-supported. Instead, women are held back by ridiculous maternity leave, lack of quality childcare and places to breastfeed or pump, inflexible work hours, unequal pay, and their husbands’ and fathers’ opinions.

My ex-husband put it straight: “By treating women like second-hand citizens in America, you waste so much brainpower.”

Indeed, hasn’t the world suffered enough from the macho mentality?

“When everyone can contribute equally, you have a much happier nation,” he concluded.

It’s about time we in the U.S. recognize the value women bring to the table.

We’re not a threat to your masculinity and not your support system. We are amazing thinkers and multitaskers, without massive egos getting in the way.

Lack of basic support from the government

This shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone, but my ex-husband didn’t fully get it until he moved to America: in the U.S., your basic needs are not covered by the government.

“No one in a civilized country should be okay with not having affordable healthcare or childcare,” he pointed out.

Yet in the States, people so often are. And so many here would rather suffer, or let others suffer, than get help from their government and pay a bit more in taxes.

“This manufactured fear of “socialism” in America is hilarious. It only serves the rich. Don’t people see that?” my ex laughed.

Lack of government efficiency

My ex-husband often characterized America as “nothing works.” Sometimes, he laughed about it. Other times, he got frustrated.

Of course, he was lucky to witness the country at its most incapable — during the Coronavirus outbreak. It’s as if the U.S. took an excuse to really let itself go. What was unforgivably difficult to do in the first place became impossible.

Even now, when we’re supposedly back to normal, there are many things we still can’t get to work.

“Getting a driver’s license shouldn’t be that difficult, especially if you’ve been driving for twenty years,” my ex stated after multiple attempts at exchanging his foreign driver’s license.

“Every encounter with the DMV is like visiting a comedy club. It’s so bad it’s good!”

After a few frustrating phone calls to the Social Security Administration, my ex-husband found out that to get his Social Security Number he had to make an appointment by sending a fax. He actually googled what a fax was! Denmark skipped faxing altogether, as it was considered “useless technology.”

When it comes to American bureaucracy, sometimes all that’s left is to hit your head against the wall.

“It seems that all this paper-pushing is convenient for someone, just not the regular citizens,” my ex speculated.

“Americans should demand efficiency,” he concluded.

Perhaps, when we in the U.S. switch from a short-term gain mentality to long-term thinking, as so many other civilized countries did, we as a nation will begin making progress.

Dear readers,

People often ask me: “So where is life better, in Europe or America?”

I wish I had an easy answer. But if I learned anything from moving back-and-forth across the Atlantic three times is that it all comes down to you, your preferences and your needs at the moment.

So here I am, reevaluating my own (and my daughter’s) needs for the fiftieth time, trying to figure out just where I belong. Until then, I’ll be making a list of all the things I’ve enjoyed in the UK so far, especially those I can’t get in America (hello, drinking on a park bench!).

I’ll start with a few less spoken-of, yet fundamental, differences between England and America that are not as essential as, say, free healthcare, but do point to a more lighthearted attitude towards life. Which, frankly, we could all use at the moment.

Happy drinking

Nothing helps you to blow off steam better than a good drink. And boy, do we have steam in America. Yet when it comes to alcohol, among other things, we are prudes.

What is it about drinking that we find so shameful? Does it smell of socialism? First, you’re having a beer in the park, next you’re demanding free health insurance.

Surely, in a country where a person can drive a car at 16 and buy a gun at 18, they should be able to get a beer to celebrate their new toy. Yet our legal drinking age remains the greatest American hypocrisy.

England, on the other hand, enjoys a healthy relationship with alcohol. Maybe not in the literal sense but in the enjoying-life one.

While drunk soccer fans is not something I miss about living in London, the freedom to enjoy a drink whenever and wherever I want is. Walk through the city at 5 PM and you’ll see bars crowded inside and out, with co-workers sharing a drink or two at the end of the day. You have to see it to believe it.

When ordering a beer with your lunch is a menu special, you know you’ve come to a non-judgmental place. What might have you labeled as an alcoholic in the United States is simply a way of life for many Brits.

A nation that doesn’t enjoy a drink is a nation that takes itself too seriously. Let’s lighten up and get drunk, America.

Dirty words

For all the Englishmen’s reputation for being uptight, I found them to be some of the silliest and jolliest people I’ve ever met. While they may not be ready with a smiley hello and upbeat small talk, get to know them, and you’ll see a nation quick to poke fun of themselves, tell a naughty joke, or have a gin & tonic for lunch.

And how can you not love a country where it’s perfectly okay to have a pub named “Dirty Dicks” or “The Famous Cock”? I can imagine scandalized American parents covering their kids’ eyes upon seeing such “inappropriate” signs.

“Lighten up!” I would say and head over to “Filthy Fanny” for my lunch pint.

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(Self-deprecating) humor

We like to tell jokes in America. But for all of our sitcoms, late-night comedy shows, stand-up comedy, and what have you, we as a nation have no sense of humor.

It’s not something I ever gave much thought to until I moved to England and learned that humor, too, can be a national treasure.

Subtle, dry, and self-deprecating British humor might not be as pompous and punch-line driven as its loud American cousin, but it packs a stronger punch.

Whether it’s an Oscar-acceptance speech or a train announcement, modest and never-boastful Brits don’t seem to take life, or themselves, too seriously — something we in America do oh so well.

Kids on leashes

When first coming to London with my then-two-year-old, I paid attention to how local parents navigated the busy streets with toddlers in tow. One of the things that stood out to me out was how many of them used child leashes to keep their little ones close by.

It’s not that the idea never occurred to me before. It’s that I would never dare to execute it back home in California. From what I remembered, child leashes were hated in the U.S. because they “restricted a child’s freedom.” And anything that interferes with our liberties has no place in America.

Yet when I watched my fast-running toddler sprint down the London sidewalk as the cars whizzed by, I couldn’t help but wonder if a leash was such a bad idea. In line at the London Zoo, on my daughter’s second birthday, I caved in and bought her a tiny adorable backpack that had a detachable leash. In a crowded zoo, it seemed like the best solution.

Yet by the time my daughter got used to wearing her backpack, we were back in Los Angeles and the handy little lead remained unused. While I don’t see a problem with the occasional use of such a safety device, I can’t stand the thought of glances or, even worse, lectures coming from fellow Americans.

Dogs without leashes

While child leashes seem popular in England, their dogs remain leash-free. They also remain the best-behaving dogs I’ve ever seen in my life. Due to either early off-leash socialization or the calmness of their owners, almost every dog I’ve met in London had the manners I could only dream of.

Failing to control your pet off-leash could raise a few eyebrows among the locals. I remember neighbors gossiping in the park nearby my flat in London referring to a woman who never took her dog off leash: “She must have issues.” I wasn’t sure if they were referring to the dog or the owner.

Can it be that it’s our collective anxiety that’s contributing to the anxieties of our dogs in America? Do we project our own fears onto our pets, or find it easier to control with force rather than voice?

One day, I’ll have all the answers. For now, I can only attest that we do have some of the world’s most stressed-out dogs.

While a pub name with the word “cock” in it might not seem so significant to most, to me, it’s right up there with free health care. After all, a society that doesn’t take itself too seriously is a healthier one.

Dear readers,

As I prepare for our return to the U.S. this summer (am I crazy?), I think of our rescue dog Teddy, born and bred English, who is about to undertake the trip of his life and leave the carefree leash-free life in the UK for the dog-park existence in California (and an occasional beach run!).

See, Like Americans, the English are big dog lovers but their attitude towards them is different. Instead of the anxiety and fear-driven mentality so favored in the U.S., dogs here are allowed to roam freely, without leashes, in many public places, including parks, public transport, cross-country trains, stores and pubs. They’re also never carried and almost never clothed. Both dogs and their owners in England seem more relaxed, and dogs as a whole are seen as friendly creatures. Probably, because in England they are.

I’ll keep you posted on Teddy’s mental health once he reaches California. In the meantime, here are my few thoughts on dog ownership in the America, collected over nearly two decades.

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A week after I moved back to New York from Denmark five years ago, an off-duty Secret Service agent fatally shot a neighbor’s dog outside of our building in Brooklyn. When I looked out the window, the dog was lying on the sidewalk with a leash still attached to it.

Later, the man explained that the leash was dragging on the floor, not held by the owner, presumably giving him a permission to shoot. To my horror, in a heated media debate that followed, some people were justifying the agent’s actions.

While many people raged at gun violence in America, I had a different issue on my mind: why is America the only First World country where not having a leash on your dog can get it killed?

Having spent more than half of my life in Europe, I grew accustomed to seeing dogs of all sizes roam free just about anywhere, from parks to trains to restaurants, without leashes or “service animal” excuses, most of them well-behaved and unnoticed by fellow citizens.

And then I came to America. While dogs were all around me, most of them were leashed, “anxious,” “shy,” or plain aggressive. A lot of them have never been farer than their backyards or “around the block.” Their owners were often tense and anxious too, towards their dogs, other dogs they met and each other.

In the world of American dog ownership, something clearly went wrong.

I have a few guesses.

Americans don’t trust one another

Years ago, fresh out of Denmark, my ex-husband was shocked by a dog walking scene in our then-local Brooklyn park. After being yelled at for walking an unleashed dog, for the first time in his life, he turned to me and asked if Americans didn’t just trust each other to do the right thing? Of course, he continued, he wouldn’t let his dog off leash if it wasn’t friendly.

I laughed at his cute European ways. When it comes to other people’s dogs, our own dogs, children, political or religious views, and just about anything else, we in the U.S. are in a constant state of distrust, alertness and anxiety.

In America, a leashed dog is seen as a sign of respectful behavior. In Europe, people simply trust other people to put their dogs on leash if they might pose any threat to others. Just like they trust each other not to fall off of bridges, eliminating the need for high fences and other safety precautions. And that is a sign of true respect.

Overly protected every step of the way, people in America forgot what it’s like to have common sense and trust others to do the same. Instead, we leave it up to lawmakers to tell us how to behave. Yet without the safety of this bubble, people can actually grow more responsible and sensible. And without being constantly restrained by leashes, dogs can become more relaxed, better socialized and less aggressive.

Why, in America, do we need so many rules to tell us what’s right and what’s wrong? Isn’t common sense enough?

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Americans don’t trust dogs

An unleashed dog walking down the road in Europe is barely noticeable. In fact, my neighbors in London gossiped about a woman in a local park who never let her dog off leash. “The dog must have issues,” they concluded, in quiet whisper.

This was rare to them because dogs in England are expected to be well-behaved and welcomed in many public places, with or without leads. Instead of cute clothes and carriers, so favored by Americans, they’re given proper socialization, training and exercise. As a result, these dogs might not look like as “cute,” but they’re easy to be around.

In America, on the other hand, a dog walking without a leash is seen as a threat. Sadly, a lot of them are indeed under-socialized and overexcited, or even aggressive. Stuck in their backyards, dragged “around the block” or, even worse, carried around, most of them will never know what it’s like to get proper exercise or accompany their owner on a train trip across town. Less is expected of them and less is given to them, creating fearful and anxious animals, who in turn are perceived as such.

Why did we forget that dogs, if treated like dogs and not furry babies, are at their core friendly and accommodating creatures?

Americans are too fearful

On top of that, being able to walk your dog off-leash requires a state of mind that projects confidence, in yourself and your dog, which a lot of American pet parents simply lack. One too many times I’ve met dog owners in the U.S. who were too afraid to let their dogs run free, even in places designated for that. One day, I even saw a woman walking her dog on the leash in her gated front yard. This neuroticism is, sadly, common in America.

I guess, when worry is your default setting, it’s easy to forget that a pup is just as interested in losing you as you are in losing him.

Why are we so driven by fear in America? Surely, accidents will happen, but living in constant anticipation of them is just too exhausting.

Americans are too quick to tell on one another

While living in the UK, I noticed that greeting and touching a passing dog seemed as stranger as greeting and touching a stranger’s child. Minding your own business is the way of life in this part of Europe.

In America, on the other hand, a country where small talk and overfamiliarity with strangers is common, people are all too quick to approach and comment on other people’s dogs, or children, and make a fuss about things.

In New York, a woman once went as far as telling me that she would call the police if I didn’t leash my skinny and doing-his-own-thing Whippet puppy. Likewise, when a Russian friend in Brooklyn quietly left her (bundled up) baby on the balcony one winter to get some fresh air, as they do all over Northern Europe, she discovered that her neighbors called the building management to complain.

Why is it that Americans are all too quick to tell each other how to do things, or even threaten with police or litigation? Perhaps, it’s a false sense of power or superiority, or plain boredom.

I can’t help but wonder: can’t we just live and let live?

My hope for American dogs, and people, is that we all spend a bit more time exercising and training our pets, and a bit less time being scared of one another and everything that can go wrong.

Dear readers,

Today I remember how nearly 20 years ago, straight off the boat from Russia, I landed my very first job in America—in retail.

First, at a tiny jeans store in Manhattan and, two long weeks later, at a chain music store in Times Square of all places. I felt like I was on top of the world. I called my parents to tell them I got a cashiering job in the heart of New York City, and we all agreed that I made it in America.

My music store career went on for nearly two years. And in those two years, I learned the foundation of life in America. The working class life that is.

While other Eastern European girls I met were utilizing their beauty to land rich boyfriends and later husbands, I preferred the company of struggling musicians and hanging out in then-poor Williamsburg in Brooklyn. Surely, I could have done better. But then I wouldn’t have my stories.

So here are a few things I learned about America from working in retail.

Workers are underpaid

While the requirements to get a retail job are not very high, neither are the salaries. I’m sure there are exceptions and trendy retailers who treat their employees well, but from what I’ve seen, it’s a barely-scrapping-by pay.

Most of my co-workers commuted from far away and had roommates to make it work. A lot of them were young and had more important things going on in life (their art) and didn’t want or couldn’t get demanding jobs.

For many, myself included, it was a decent starting point before moving on to something less soul-crashing and more rewarding. Unless…

You can make a career out of it (without an investment)

One of the things I liked about working in retail was that all around me, there were people who made careers out of it, without having to invest much in job-specific education. They were people from different countries and backgrounds, and the only requirement for going up the ladder was working hard.

What a very American idea: no matter who you are, if you work hard, you’ll do better.

You won’t be rich working in retail in the U.S. but you can have stable growth without too much fuss. I’m in touch with some of the people I worked with way back then, and they’re still in retail, having moved up to more comfortable positions.

Lunch is a popular topic

I don’t know what it is but I noticed that people working in retail always talked about their lunches. Who’s going on lunch and when. What they’re going to eat. Who was late coming from lunch or didn’t take any lunch at all. It’s lunch lunch lunch. To this day, I overhear these discussions while shopping and it takes me back.

And it’s not talking about lunch the way the French talk about lunch which, for them, is a sacred affair and the highest point of the day. No, people around me in American retail talked about lunch in a desperate attempt to escape where they were. I know, I was one of them.

It didn’t matter what you ate (Chipotle or Subway for many) or how (sitting on a curb is fine). You were out and you were free, if only for 30 minutes.

I myself would gladly sit by the fountain overlooking Rockefeller Center and dream about the Big American Life that lay ahead of me. Before heading back to the windowless store and awlays-clogged toilets.

No one likes the customers

Little can annoy a retail employee more than a customer. I guess it’s because people as a whole are not the smartest and most considerate bunch. And when you get to see dozens of them every day, the annoying behaviors are magnified.

I’ll go as far as to say it’s almost impossible to work in retail and not end up hating people at least as little bit. At least in the U.S.

Of course, there were plenty of good customers and—my personal favorite—“regulars” who come in just for a nice chat. They made it all bearable. And, of course, lunch.

People are disposable

Working in retail in America, you can’t help but feel disposable. Because, honestly, you are. The turnover is high and you can be replaced by a guy off the street tomorrow.

Everyone is welcome and everyone is welcome to leave if they have a problem. Unless you work for Apple or Trader Joe’s. In which case, can you, please, write an article about that?

My retail career lasted two years. I still remember my co-workers as some of the sweetest people I’ve ever met and think of those days as some of the best times I’ve ever had. I was new to America, making “real American” friends and real American dollars, I had my whole (American) life ahead of me and everything was possible.

After living and walking in London for a few months, my daughter and I came home to Los Angeles last summer and decided to give driving another go.

We stayed in our old neighborhood (sorry, city) of Santa Monica, the most walkable area in and around Los Angeles. I took advantage of that for years, even when it meant being one of a few local weirdos who did everything on foot. And, probably, the only local mom whose main mode of “transportation” was a stroller.

Yet this summer, I arrived there sick, jet-legged and a single parent. It was also the first time I decided to spend the summer in the U.S. and not in Europe with my parents or traveling. And summer in LA means it’s hot, there’s no shade, and I’m sweaty and disgusting. Pass the car keys!

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I thought I wouldn’t know how to drive anymore but sure enough, just like riding a bike, it all came flooding back. In no time, I was driving, cursing and sweating for all the new reasons. At four years of age, my daughter learned the words “traffic” and “parking” and started saying things like “I really good at parking!” I figured any new experience was good, as long as it was temporary.

For three weeks, I was blown away by all the things I was accomplishing while driving here and there. I could now run three errands in a day and still get work done. I didn’t have to stroller-haul groceries anymore. And gone are deserted sun-scorched intersections that only I and the local homeless used.

And then I found myself crying in the car.

The car wasn’t the reason for my tears but it didn’t make it any better. I drove home in tears, while yet another jerk honked at me for not turning right on red fast enough (why is this even allowed?). There was no parking on my block and no stroller to carry three Trader Joe’s bags back home. I lost the gas tank cover at the gas station and I was pretty sure I scratched the bumper parking (didn’t want to look).

I got home, just as sweaty and angry at LA drivers, cried some more and realized something had to change. The last straw came on a day when I stepped on the scale to realize I gained weight in the weeks I spent behind the wheel. I was still doing my 10,000 steps but the cardio effect of running from the parking lot to the store door and back 10 times a day was just not the same.

My body and my mind were missing being on the move. On my feet.

It’s no wonder the happiest nations in the world are also some of the most active ones and biking, walking and outdoor life are the pillars of their everyday life.

The next day, after I took my daughter to preschool (when the car was truly a God-sent) I looked up the drive to an urgent care clinic to have my knee checked. Then I considered the parking, the prices and the stress of it all and drove home instead, parked and walked to the clinic, despite the bad knee that needed checking and the fact that “time is money.”

Yes, I was lucky to live in an area where I could walk to a clinic in 20 minutes. Still, most local people I knew didn’t.

Here are all the wonderful things that happened when I did something as simple as taking a walk.

• I found a Korean church two blocks from my house and found out what a Korean church was.

• I was smiled at by a pedestrian, and I smiled back.

• I found a cool modern building and wondered what it would be like living there.

• I also found a homeless woman sleeping with all her belongings in front of that new modern building and wondered if the (liberal) residents who paid $3000/a month for a studio were okay with that.

• I wandered into Trader Joe’s without dreading their parking structure, just to grab a snack and a coffee.

• I walked across the street and had my snack and a coffee in a park while watching the ducks walking around.

• I noticed all the flowers that were blooming.

• I raised my heart rate enough for my watch to assume I was working out (it doesn’t take much but still, it never happens when I drive).

• I talked to a nanny in the park who offered me her seat.

• I did my Amazon shopping while waiting for the lights to change.

• I listened to an audio book with intention and wrote down some quotes.

• I stimulated my brain enough (coffee helped) to write this piece in one go as soon as I got back.

For the hour it took me to walk there and back, I was alive. I was smelling and hearing all of the life around me, even if it got too loud at times.

I wasn’t in a moving metal box isolated from everyone and everything, getting more and more stressed with every stop sign and traffic light.

For one hour, I looked people in the eye, I smiled and nodded and thanked.

Above all, I realized how much walking has shaped me by taking a break from it.

No matter where you are in the world, find a way to take a walk, daily if you can, and experience the magical power of moving your body in the way it was intended.

Dear readers,

Last year has been a particularly difficult one for me. When my marriage, and life as I knew it, broke down, I (literally) got my shit together and jumped on an opportunity to spend time in London with my four-year-old daughter.

As I type this, I’m burnt out after a British winter, interrupted by a trip back to burning Los Angeles, and I could write a book on wrapping a child in three layers of clothes and hauling her to school via what seems like London’s two most unreliable bus routes.

And yet, aside from my every-other-day existential crisis (on the bus), I somehow find myself in a better place, mentally. Often in an under-stimulated and cold place, yes, but a calmer one, too. Getting away from the scene of the crime (my ex) surely helped, but it’s the break from America that served me best.

That’s right, living in a busy world’s capital is akin to a mental health retreat for those (like me) arriving here from a large American city.

Because, let’s be honest, for all the pride and money we put into American medical system, there’s something fundamentally wrong with our health in the U.S. — our chronic anxiety levels are through the roof.

If only we put as much energy into reducing the country’s stress levels as we put into producing anti-depressants. It clearly pays to keep America stressed.

And stressed we are. Current politics aside, here are just a few reasons why, as I see it.

We’re overstimulated

As my dear (European) friend noticed, “America is a giant amusement park.”

Oversized billboards.

Endless TV commercials.

Anxiety-inducing news reporting.

Death-threatening medical ads.

Insane warning signs.

Incessant noise from machinery, stores, restaurants, cars, TV screens, you name it.

Loud political campaigns.

Loud voices.

Even dogs are louder.

Surprise-surprise: constant stimulation is not good for your mental health.

We’re in survival mode

If constant overstimulation wasn’t enough, we in the U.S. are in survival mode to begin with.

Unless you’re one of the few lucky ones, you probably have to hustle your way through life here, save up for college or take out loans, work overtime to pay them off, pray you don’t get sick, and save up some more before you can “afford” children, then save up again, so they can go to daycare and college.

When your life is a grind, there’s not a lot of space left to contemplate and think about happiness. So we take whatever we’re sold: happiness is a by-product of achievement. Off to the rat race we go.

When indeed, true happiness is feeling like you don’t have to race anywhere to have a decent life.

Not knowing how you’ll pay for college, an unexpected medical treatment, or your next rent bill is not good for your mental health.

On top of that, we’re so often gaslit into believing that America has everything you need to be happy… as long as you work hard for a long time. And if you’re not happy, you just didn’t try hard enough.

And that is a set-up for a lifetime of anxiety.

We’re drowned in noise

Speaking of loud voices…

On my last visit, I was in a cafe in Los Angeles where a live band performed while the TV was playing at high volume. Welcome to the every-day life in the U.S.

Unfortunately for me, and millions of others, chronic anxiety often leads to noise sensitivity. With that in mind, it’s often hard to stay relaxed in America.

Here are just some of the noises I was exposed to daily in my life in an American city: loud cars without mufflers, honking for no reason, people using phone speakers to talk, music blasting in stores and cafes, multiple songs playing simultaneously in the same place, excessively loud sirens, beeping ATMs and check-out registers, strangers talking for the whole street to hear. The list goes on.

Sometimes a cacophony of sounds was all I could hear when I stepped out of my house.

I can judge my anxiety levels just by how much the outside noises are affecting me. On a good day, I barely notice them. On a bad one, they make me want to run back home and shut the windows.

Living in much-quieter Europe made me realize just how (unnecessarily) loud America was. Quietness is essential for self-reflection, and self-reflection is an important step to happier well-being.

Do people in the U.S. need to make noise just to hear and acknowledge each other?

We have few community values

I used the Nextdoor app to virtually connect to my community in Santa Monica, CA. There, members can introduce themselves, exchange information, or arrange meet-ups.

Yet through daily notifications, I noticed that many forum threads were filled with complaining, bickering, anxiety-spreading, and even hostility (I could do a separate piece just on that). I never engaged but I did follow, out of curiosity.

This got me thinking about the (lack of) community values in the United States. Or any values for that matter.

When people are out to out-do one another, to gain wealth and possessions, instead of investing in their communities and building relationships, you have a recipe for anxiety and depression.

Healthy relationships have long been proven to improve our mental health, so let’s remember to invest in people in our lives before we invest in more crypto.

So if you ever feel like you’re going crazy, just remember it’s probably not you, it’s the U.S.

On the positive side, next week, I might dive into what helps to boost my mental health here in leafy London. It’s not what you think.

Dear Readers,

Before I get into it, I wanted to thank a few recent paid subscribers - Daniel, Shae and Darrell - for your trust in my work and hope that one day, I might just make writing my main job again.

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These days, my thoughts are with America, and I’m reflecting on how taking a break from it all has improved my mental health. Tune in next week for more.

For now, I’d like to share this piece with a few observations on our relationship with money in the U.S.

Let's Be Real About Money, America

I remember the day when my Danish ex-husband was visiting his bank in Los Angeles and was advised to get a credit card, so he could “stop using real money.”

Recently, a dear American friend told me she had forty thousand dollars in credit card debt but she just couldn’t stop spending. As is often the case in the U.S., her lifestyle didn’t fit her income.

It got me thinking that we in the Sates, have a sick relationship with money. Almost a disorder-like one.

But it’s not just the credit card debt. It’s how we talk, or rather don’t talk, about money.

Here are just a few things I noticed. Am I the only one bothered by them?

Hidden school tuition

Every time I looked up a graduate program or a preschool for my daughter in the U.S., I’d have to go digging around for tuition prices. It used to drive me nuts, but I got used to it and didn’t give it another thought.

Until I came to England. Here, I noticed that every time I searched for a program of any kind the price was always right there on the page with the program’s description. Can this be because education is cheaper in the UK? Or because they have a more straightforward relationship with money? Perhaps, both.

Still, literally hiding the enormous costs we’re asked to pay for every kind of education in the U.S., from a child’s music class to a grown-up’s graduate program, is an unhealthy solution.

Let’s put those prices right there at the top of the page, so we can be reminded just how much we’re being ripped off.

Early childhood education prices

Speaking of pre-schools. I used to reside in Santa Monica, where Los Angeles meets the ocean, and a local pre-school there cost somewhere between fifteen and thirty-five hundred dollars a month. When my ex found out about the costs of early childhood education in New York and then Los Angeles, he was appalled.

“Doesn’t your government want happy socialized kids and parents who can go back to work easily?” he asked me, as if I knew the answer.

In his home country of Denmark, as in many European countries, early childhood education is not only wonderful but heavily subsidized by the government, so parents pay up to a few hundred dollars a month, depending on their income.

Yet I noticed that no one I ever spoke to about preschools in LA talked about outrageous tuition and how they could afford such an expense on top of their rent or mortgage.

Next time, instead of asking another parent about what preschool their child is going to, I’d like to ask: “How can you afford it?”

Let’s stop acting like anything over five hundred dollars a month is not a lot to pay for a small child’s care and let’s start expecting more from our government.

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Farmers market prices

I used to go to a local farmer’s market in Santa Monica, because that’s what you do in big-city America if you don’t want plastic supermarket tomatoes.

I’m not sure what bothered me more there: cheese that cost ten dollars, or the fact that many vendors didn’t even list their prices. You would think that at a place where bread costs eight dollars and quail eggs are ten, one might want to know the prices before filling up their bag. But it seems like it was only me.

When my ex first set foot at the market, he was chuckling.

“I guess if you need to know how much something costs, it means you can’t afford it,” he laughed, referring to the lack of price tags at the farmer’s market and many other places he visited in the U.S.

Yet only once did I hear someone whisper: “Ouch, that’s a lot of money,” referring to “artisan bread.” Thank you!

Unlike my shy ex-husband, I had no problem asking what something costs. And walking away if I could get a better deal.

“It almost seems like bad taste to ask how much anything costs in America,” he concluded and stopped coming.

Am I the only one who’s bothered by all this?

“Trendy” supermarkets & grocery prices

While we’re on the subject of food.

I remember when my friend in Santa Monica told me of a local supermarket chain called Erewhon.

“It’s for people who don’t want to be shopping with people like us at Trader Joe’s,” she joked.

Yes, supermarkets in the U.S. are a status symbol, too. For regular people, you have your Trader Joe’s. If you’re a bit fancier, you go to Whole Foods. And if you’re very important, you go to a place like Erewhon.

I had to see it for myself, so I went. I wasn’t disappointed. Nine-dollar bread. Thirty-three-dollar-a-pound cheese. Twenty-dollar milk. My ex-husband and I had a laugh at the prices and customers willing to pay, took some photos, and left.

While people in England pay two Pounds for a loaf of decent bread, we in the U.S. are happy to shell out nine bucks. We don’t care that the less privileged can’t afford to buy healthy food. As long as the lucky ones can show everyone that they can afford to pay extra. Subsidized food would make them feel too poor, I guess.

A my ex often laughed about prices in America: “Don’t worry, it’s not too affordable.”

Doctors’ orders

Let’s forget for a moment that while the rest of the civilized world enjoys free universal healthcare, we’re still paying co-pays on top of monthly payments. And that’s if we’re lucky to have any health insurance at all.

Let’s just think how every time a doctor wants to keep you or your dog overnight “for observation,” the cost of the matter is never mentioned. What about those endless, and some pointless, vaccines and treatments the vets are paddling as if they were free?

Am I the only person who always asks a doctor how much anything is going to cost before I commit to it? They certainly act like I am.

Let’s stop pretending that what a U.S. doctor recommends always serves a purpose. It might just be another rip-off.

Obnoxious Starbucks drinks

I remember when I watched my (American) friend walk into a Starbucks and order an eight-dollar drink as if it was completely normal.

I asked her if, perhaps, it was too excessive, and all she could answer was: “But that’s what I want.” What could I say?

How did we get to the point where people think it’s okay to pay eight dollars for a gross sugary drink? It’s not only bad taste but bad money management. Yet people in the U.S. do it every day without giving it another thought.

Stay classy (and hungry), America.