“I’m sorry,” I asked sheepishly, “Could you take my picture?” He was the fourth random person I’d asked in about 20 minutes of fjord exploring. There are only so many angles you can get taking selfies, as any good former emo would know.
I pushed away my flapping shrug- I was layered up today, in anticipation of the cold Norwegian sea air- and smiled. He pressed the button once. “That alright?” he drawled, handing the camera back to me. Another Texan. There were so many Southerners here. And Germans and Australians. I barely glanced at the photo- beggars can’t be choosers, and it looked fine to me- “Yeah, it’s great!” I exclaimed with what was hopefully a friendly grin, “Thanks so much!”
You never know how nice people can be until you travel alone. Whether they’re strangers offering to take your photo for you or temporary hostel roommates telling you their life story before they even tell you their name.
When I first started planning this solo endeavor, I got a lot of “But you’ll meet so many people”. I didn’t believe it and I didn’t care. I’m naturally a bit antisocial, more than a little shy, and awkward in spades. I’m the type of person who goes to concerts alone, museums alone, movies alone. While there are definitely frequent periods where I crave attention, and I hate knowing there’s a party going on without me, that doesn’t mean I’m not ok doing my own thing. That includes traveling.
But how many people have I met during this trip? There was the 35 year-old Mexican woman in Rome, traveling on her own for the first time. She went to Circus Maximus to cheer on Mexico in the World Cup on the big screen.
The girls from Montreal in Munich- I coincidentally met them at Dachau only to discover, oddly enough, we were hostel roommates. Their endgame was Paris, they viewed their traveling as a window for international partying.
Then the Austrian girl in Copenhagen, there for a conference to finish her Ph.D. She spent a semester in Maine and seemingly enjoyed it, lighting up when speaking about the hiking she did there. I remember she loved Denmark’s affinity for bike lanes.
Those Irish sisters in Oslo. One had just finished their equivalent of high school, the other had embarked on a new job in Scotland. Excited for a karaoke bar the first night I spoke with them, they planned on belting out ABBA, a band from Norway’s rival Sweden. One helped me find an international bookstore.
The Dutch girl in Bergen, explaining her study abroad term at university in Norway. The Americans who run the hostel, all Christian, all excessively smiley, all friendly, all with familiar Midwestern accents, out of Illinois. After answering I was a creative writing major back home, one asked me what I liked to write. I probably answered more honestly than I would someone back home.
These are only a few of the people I’ve spoken to, but can I name a single name? No, and none of them would know mine. I’m a traveler, a nomad, here today and quite literally gone tomorrow. Nothing ties me to these people besides exploring the same city, and even that only holds for a day, maybe two. They can tell me their thoughts, confide their feelings, because they know I have no permanence in their lives. I do the same with them, because I know the same thing. These people know my fears about graduation, they know what I hope to do with my life, they know my more immediate anxieties about where I am now, literally and figuratively. But not a single one could remember my first initial, if they even knew it in the first place.
The fjord tour boat we’re on approaches a spectacular waterfall, slowing to a stop in front of it for the best photo opportunities. These fjords really are too awesome for words, and I’m not going to cheapen them by trying to describe them now. I hold my camera to my face and smile, then repeat, trying again and again for a decent picture. In between my frustrated snapping, I make eye contact with a middle-aged woman. “You want me to take picture?” she asks in accented English, pointing to my camera. I hand it to her.
“Yes, yes I would. Thanks so much!” I smile.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Norge
I’m currently sitting in a train car, staring out my window at snowcapped mountains.
The power of them is overwhelming, the beauty is unbelievable. Mixed in with the patches of white are swaths of dark green scrubby grass, slate gray boulders dotting the landscape, and the occasional roof topped with vegetation, as if any humans habitation could exist here. Icy water rushes in curling lines throughout these valleys, their genesis unknown, likely from one of these grasping peaks.
I’ve seen mountains. I’ve skiied mountains. I’ve been to mountains in California and Colorado, Pennsylvania and most recently Spain. But these FEEL different, as if that makes any sense. These feel like home.
Wherever I lived in a past life, there were mountains.
Each meter we move on this train brings me farther from the earth’s equator than I’ve ever been before. I’m on my way from Oslo to Bergen, a completely new and different experience in almost a month, no, six months of new and different experiences. I’m starting to feel travel fatigue but then the scenery sent a lighting bolt flash straight through my system.
The train announcer crackles on the PA. First he says some things in Norwegian, and then pauses and begins in heavily accented English. The particularly white summit across this short valley from our train is a glacier. The ivory snow battles for space with the dark stone, all the while blending in effortlessly with whispy clouds that drift below the peak. The train stops, and I jump out quickly with a group of other people, strangers, all brought together in awe of the glacier. The cool breeze- more suitable for a Wisconsin early March than June- feels refreshing on my bare arms. It’s a relief to escape the stuffy train car for a few moments. I snap a few pictures- typical- though none in the world could ever do it justice. The whistle blows a warning, and I get back on the train.
I’ve been traveling for awhile now. Early June I left London for Spain, and ten days with my dad. I saw the Mediterranean for the first time, glinting between hills dotted with Spanish villas and the occasional forgotten castle. I marveled at the Alhambra, navigated the Jewish Quarter of Sevilla, sang along with Freddie to Barcelona. Solo, I left for Rome- I wandered the ruins of the Roman forum, climbed the stairs of the blood-baptized Colosseum, joined the faithful and the curious in the Vatican. I felt tremors of real anguish at Dachau and listened to the bells chime in Munich. In Copenhagen I wandered the clean streets, basking in Danish sunshine. Forward, always moving forward, became my mantra.
None of it prepared me for Norway.
Oslo was nice, but it’s a modern city. Bygdøy reminded me so much of Wisconsin, down to the same trees and similar houses. I could’ve been walking around Delafield. The countryside around Oslo was similar as well- the hills were a little it higher, making them mountains, and the lakes a little larger, but for all I could tell, I was on my way to Arcadia and the appropriately named Norway Valley to visit relatives on the farm. I could’ve been outside of Sparta or LaCrosse.
But this is beyond words. The mountains reached higher and we climbed to meet them, the scenery changed, the trees became strong pine until we soon advanced to high there were no trees at all.
I now know why so many Norwegian tales feature dragons. The overlapping boulders forming the mountains look like scales on a massive beast, the contours of the ridge naturally curve into a body. I wait for the snowy covering to lift as wings.
Every tunnel we pass through leaves me empty, yearning to catch another glimpse of the rocky crests. I know now why my favorite color since I could ever remember is green- from the glossy green of the trees before to the dry green of the grass and brush that fights to survive in this permanent winter.
How could my ancestors have left this place? How could they forsake this landscape for something similar, sure, and beautiful in its own right, but a cheap imitation of this world?
Ever since I made up my mind, Eurail pass in hand and split from my dad, that I was somehow going to make it to Norway before my European adventure was over, it’s called me like a dream. Rome was hot and sunny, Munich cold and rainy, Copenhagen a balance of the two. From there my train went through Sweden until it passed the border and the landscape seemed to shift for me, growing in beauty, before the announcer even came on and announced we were in a new nation. Norway’s been beckoning me for months. My aunt mentioned last April how she always wanted to go, and my mom’s been talking about visiting for years- just vague ideas, maybe for one graduation, then after that passed, maybe for another. It was always “next summer.”
I’ve always been aware of my Norwegian roots. My grandma collected rosemauling and spoke the language as a child. My family are almost all blonde-haired, blue-eyed giants. Whenever we take pictures of the cousins at gatherings, I’m the one who sticks out, with hazel eyes and dark hair, my skin not quite as fair and my height a bit shorter. I’m the least Norwegian of us all.
But this kingdom of snow and ice makes me feel a sense of belonging to a place I’ve never quite felt before. Sure, I feel like I belong in Wisconsin, for short stretches of time anyways, because I’m familiar with how things work there, I’ve grown up there. I feel a sense of belonging in New York City, ever since my first visit there with my mom in junior high, mostly on an intellectual level- my mind is in love with New York, because the pace is perfect.
But coming back to Norway, I can understand why people get so caught up in “their” land, about belonging to a certain landscape. Why Southerners never leave the Deep South, or Native Americans never leave their ancestral homelands. Because on a gut level, on a spiritual level, I BELONG here like I’ve never belonged anywhere else.
I’ve never felt like this before.
I’ve been to Germany, another place where I can trace my roots. My dad’s family came in part from Munich, one of the only places in the world where Wimmer is considered a somewhat normal name. But I never felt this pull, this sense of it being MINE while I was there.
Maybe it’s because I’m, ethnically, more Norwegian (half, along with a quarter Irish). Maybe it’s because I’ve learned more about what it is to be Norwegian-American then I have to be German-American. Maybe it’s because some of the Norwegians in my family haven’t been here as long. Or maybe it’s just all in my head, a product of too much time spent on the road, or, as the case may be, train tracks. I’ve been alone with little in the way of meaningful human contact for ten days now. That’s got to affect my psyche in some way.
But what if it’s real? What if there is something primal calling me here, something whispering that what I’ve been looking for hasn’t been some distant, far-off land from my future, but one from my past? Norway is part of what makes me, me. It doesn’t matter the generations that have past, my family still keeps in touch with the albeit distinctly American brand of Norwegian we’ve become. There’s something familiar here, like a half-forgotten memory struggling to break through the haze of my mind. It’s not just my contact-starved mind, or an idea I’m trying to make out of nothing. My family was in Norway for centuries, probably millennia- a few generations in the US can’t lessen the hold it’s had on our blood. And from the tenacity of the weeds clinging to a rocky surface, the unbending cliff faces, the sprinting currents of the rivers, the altogether eternal feeling of this place, there’s one thing about Norway that’s undeniable- it’s STRONG. Unshakable mountains and immovable valleys are a testament to the intransigence of this land. If there’s one place that won’t let go, it’s Norway.
We travel on, making our way to Bergen. I spend a few days there before heading to Stavanger. I stare out my window. I may keep moving forward, but something’s left behind.
The power of them is overwhelming, the beauty is unbelievable. Mixed in with the patches of white are swaths of dark green scrubby grass, slate gray boulders dotting the landscape, and the occasional roof topped with vegetation, as if any humans habitation could exist here. Icy water rushes in curling lines throughout these valleys, their genesis unknown, likely from one of these grasping peaks.
I’ve seen mountains. I’ve skiied mountains. I’ve been to mountains in California and Colorado, Pennsylvania and most recently Spain. But these FEEL different, as if that makes any sense. These feel like home.
Wherever I lived in a past life, there were mountains.
Each meter we move on this train brings me farther from the earth’s equator than I’ve ever been before. I’m on my way from Oslo to Bergen, a completely new and different experience in almost a month, no, six months of new and different experiences. I’m starting to feel travel fatigue but then the scenery sent a lighting bolt flash straight through my system.
The train announcer crackles on the PA. First he says some things in Norwegian, and then pauses and begins in heavily accented English. The particularly white summit across this short valley from our train is a glacier. The ivory snow battles for space with the dark stone, all the while blending in effortlessly with whispy clouds that drift below the peak. The train stops, and I jump out quickly with a group of other people, strangers, all brought together in awe of the glacier. The cool breeze- more suitable for a Wisconsin early March than June- feels refreshing on my bare arms. It’s a relief to escape the stuffy train car for a few moments. I snap a few pictures- typical- though none in the world could ever do it justice. The whistle blows a warning, and I get back on the train.
I’ve been traveling for awhile now. Early June I left London for Spain, and ten days with my dad. I saw the Mediterranean for the first time, glinting between hills dotted with Spanish villas and the occasional forgotten castle. I marveled at the Alhambra, navigated the Jewish Quarter of Sevilla, sang along with Freddie to Barcelona. Solo, I left for Rome- I wandered the ruins of the Roman forum, climbed the stairs of the blood-baptized Colosseum, joined the faithful and the curious in the Vatican. I felt tremors of real anguish at Dachau and listened to the bells chime in Munich. In Copenhagen I wandered the clean streets, basking in Danish sunshine. Forward, always moving forward, became my mantra.
None of it prepared me for Norway.
Oslo was nice, but it’s a modern city. Bygdøy reminded me so much of Wisconsin, down to the same trees and similar houses. I could’ve been walking around Delafield. The countryside around Oslo was similar as well- the hills were a little it higher, making them mountains, and the lakes a little larger, but for all I could tell, I was on my way to Arcadia and the appropriately named Norway Valley to visit relatives on the farm. I could’ve been outside of Sparta or LaCrosse.
But this is beyond words. The mountains reached higher and we climbed to meet them, the scenery changed, the trees became strong pine until we soon advanced to high there were no trees at all.
I now know why so many Norwegian tales feature dragons. The overlapping boulders forming the mountains look like scales on a massive beast, the contours of the ridge naturally curve into a body. I wait for the snowy covering to lift as wings.
Every tunnel we pass through leaves me empty, yearning to catch another glimpse of the rocky crests. I know now why my favorite color since I could ever remember is green- from the glossy green of the trees before to the dry green of the grass and brush that fights to survive in this permanent winter.
How could my ancestors have left this place? How could they forsake this landscape for something similar, sure, and beautiful in its own right, but a cheap imitation of this world?
Ever since I made up my mind, Eurail pass in hand and split from my dad, that I was somehow going to make it to Norway before my European adventure was over, it’s called me like a dream. Rome was hot and sunny, Munich cold and rainy, Copenhagen a balance of the two. From there my train went through Sweden until it passed the border and the landscape seemed to shift for me, growing in beauty, before the announcer even came on and announced we were in a new nation. Norway’s been beckoning me for months. My aunt mentioned last April how she always wanted to go, and my mom’s been talking about visiting for years- just vague ideas, maybe for one graduation, then after that passed, maybe for another. It was always “next summer.”
I’ve always been aware of my Norwegian roots. My grandma collected rosemauling and spoke the language as a child. My family are almost all blonde-haired, blue-eyed giants. Whenever we take pictures of the cousins at gatherings, I’m the one who sticks out, with hazel eyes and dark hair, my skin not quite as fair and my height a bit shorter. I’m the least Norwegian of us all.
But this kingdom of snow and ice makes me feel a sense of belonging to a place I’ve never quite felt before. Sure, I feel like I belong in Wisconsin, for short stretches of time anyways, because I’m familiar with how things work there, I’ve grown up there. I feel a sense of belonging in New York City, ever since my first visit there with my mom in junior high, mostly on an intellectual level- my mind is in love with New York, because the pace is perfect.
But coming back to Norway, I can understand why people get so caught up in “their” land, about belonging to a certain landscape. Why Southerners never leave the Deep South, or Native Americans never leave their ancestral homelands. Because on a gut level, on a spiritual level, I BELONG here like I’ve never belonged anywhere else.
I’ve never felt like this before.
I’ve been to Germany, another place where I can trace my roots. My dad’s family came in part from Munich, one of the only places in the world where Wimmer is considered a somewhat normal name. But I never felt this pull, this sense of it being MINE while I was there.
Maybe it’s because I’m, ethnically, more Norwegian (half, along with a quarter Irish). Maybe it’s because I’ve learned more about what it is to be Norwegian-American then I have to be German-American. Maybe it’s because some of the Norwegians in my family haven’t been here as long. Or maybe it’s just all in my head, a product of too much time spent on the road, or, as the case may be, train tracks. I’ve been alone with little in the way of meaningful human contact for ten days now. That’s got to affect my psyche in some way.
But what if it’s real? What if there is something primal calling me here, something whispering that what I’ve been looking for hasn’t been some distant, far-off land from my future, but one from my past? Norway is part of what makes me, me. It doesn’t matter the generations that have past, my family still keeps in touch with the albeit distinctly American brand of Norwegian we’ve become. There’s something familiar here, like a half-forgotten memory struggling to break through the haze of my mind. It’s not just my contact-starved mind, or an idea I’m trying to make out of nothing. My family was in Norway for centuries, probably millennia- a few generations in the US can’t lessen the hold it’s had on our blood. And from the tenacity of the weeds clinging to a rocky surface, the unbending cliff faces, the sprinting currents of the rivers, the altogether eternal feeling of this place, there’s one thing about Norway that’s undeniable- it’s STRONG. Unshakable mountains and immovable valleys are a testament to the intransigence of this land. If there’s one place that won’t let go, it’s Norway.
We travel on, making our way to Bergen. I spend a few days there before heading to Stavanger. I stare out my window. I may keep moving forward, but something’s left behind.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
England Adventures
It pretty much all started cause I was bored.
Everyone had gone home for break, and I had just recently gotten back from visiting my aunt in Germany (more on that some other time, I just can’t find it in me to write about it now). After the third day in a row going to Oriental Star and hanging out at the O2 Center for no reason, I decided it was time to actually go out and do something.
So, last Thursday, I hopped a train to Canterbury with the promise to myself that I wasn’t coming back for the entire weekend. It wasn’t completely spur of the moment- I had gotten my parents’ ok, I was now in possession of a nice backpack with a laptop sleeve. I had researched costs, gotten a guidebook to Britain, and looked up places to go, mainly through Wikipedia, sure, but accurate nonetheless. I was ready to go it alone, doing the whole backpacking thing, have a test run for when I hopefully am able to do the Euro version in June. This is pretty much what happened:
Thursday
7 AM, my alarm went off. I’m not at all a morning person, but I had been training myself to wake up early for the days beforehand. I didn’t want to ruin my trip by sleeping in until noon every day.
I made my way to St. Pancras (which I still call St. Pancreas in my head after Kim and Mia did the same thing) and promptly missed my train to Canterbury. It was fine, I made another, though I would have to transfer. Little did I know, but I wouldn’t have the chance of a direct train ride for the rest of the trip. I marveled at the green of the English landscape, filled with rolling hills that could just as easily be evidence of an ancient Saxon settlement or Roman fort. From my abnormal amount of reading on crime scenes, I know that no matter what, no matter how careful you are, there’s no way you can set foot inside a room, any room, without leaving a piece of yourself, changing the setting in some miniscule way. I can’t help but realize that this is true of landscape as well, and the marks of our ancestors still mar every path we choose to walk on.
After a couple hours on the train, I made it to Canterbury, with the Cathedral in the distance. I knew instantly I had to see it in person, right away. With my heavy backpack I wandered the streets of Canterbury, eventually finding my way to the massive church. Last semester I took a class on Chaucer, where we had to read some of his most important works, spending over half the term on the Canterbury Tales alone. I wanted to see what the fuss was all about, why all these massively different characters went on a pilgrimage from Southwark, London, to Canterbury to see some dead guy’s bones.
It didn’t disappoint. The cathedral is massive, with ornate carvings and beautiful stonework. I happened to be reading the book “Pillars of the Earth,” by Ken Follett, which is incidentally all about building a cathedral in Medieval times and namechecks three of the places I visited on this weekend. I was beginning to understand the importance of these cathedrals, not just as a tourist attraction and historical landmark, but to the people that built them.
St. Thomas Becket’s shrine was destroyed five hundred years ago, but the space where it stood is still respectfully empty. Where he was brutally murdered by four knights is marked with a cross of swords, and takes the place as a new sort of shrine. The Black Prince, who you might recognize in the not-historically-accurate-at-all Knight’s Tale, is entombed at the Cathedral as well. I was getting ready to leave when an old reverend made his way to the lectern. I recognized this from Westminster Abbey. The tourists milling about still give hope to the religious leaders that they could possibly entice a few to join their flock, and so in every cathedral I’ve been to, they stop several times a day for a moment of silence and a prayer. The old man started a prayer, and invited everyone in the Our Father.
It was then it hit me that 16 years of Catholic school doesn’t just go away.
Out of instinct I made my way to a bench and sat down, habitually joining in, mumbling the familiar words even though they differed slightly from the Catholic version. From St. Mary’s grade school to Catholic Memorial to Fordham, New York’s Jesuit university, I’ve always gone to Catholic school. This semester at King’s College in London, a secular university though with Christian roots, is the first time I’ve gone to a non-Catholic school since preschool in the basement of a Methodist church. I’m not particularly devout. I don’t consider myself Catholic by any means, and don’t go to church unless forced to. I didn’t choose my grade school or high school, and I really chose Fordham mostly cause I wanted to go to a university in New York City, not because I wanted something Catholic. Sure, I have my personal beliefs, but they’re just that: personal. But maybe it was all the cathedrals, maybe it was reading about the super devout who built them, maybe it was a million different things. But I started feeling like maybe God wasn’t so much of an abstract concept anymore.
Religious speech over, I moved on from the cathedral to a museum centered all around the Canterbury Tales. I really don’t 100% get this city’s fascination with them. I mean, I know it has the place name right in the title. I know it depicts the type of people who would make the pilgrimage to Canterbury. But if you read it, you realize- there’s not a whole lot in there on Canterbury. It could just as easily have been referring to any other of the myriad pilgrimage sites in England or even all of Europe. The focus isn’t the destination, but the characters and their individual stories. Don’t tell that to Canterbury, though, which has built up a tourist industry around the stories. The museum was odd- in an old church that actually did date from Chaucer’s time, they gutted the inside and made a semi-interactive exhibit where you listen to animatronic characters tell a few of the tales. It was... eerie, really, more than anything.
After I called up the hostel and booked a room. A woman answered the phone and I made sure to spell my name- people misspell Anne all the time (I’ll never accept Ann as a legitimate spelling) and Wimmer can just end up a mess. After hitting up few other sites, including the Canterbury history museum, I walked out of the walled town and got to the hostel.
The lip-ringed guy who answered the door was almost too-friendly. “Well, if you booked a bed, you’re lucky, cause we’re all out,” he explained as he made his way to the computer. After a pause of him checking the records, he asked me to repeat my name. I did. Another pause. “Just a question,” he started, “Did a Romanian woman take your call, by any chance?” I had no idea. “Just because there’s no Anne Wimmer in the database, but there IS... no way.” He started to laugh. I started to get annoyed with his constant smile and multi-colored lip-ring. I mean, how do you even eat? “Well, there’s an Anemia here... Anne Wimmer, Anemia... I guess that’s you.” Great. I’m a disease. And not even like, an interesting disease either. I’m one that’s characterized mainly by sluggishness. I grinned and nodded along with Mr. Lip-ring and duly followed as he showed me around.
Eventually I was freed, and although I was invited for “pub night,” I wasn’t really interested. By nature I’m kinda an antisocial person, especially around people I know I’m never going to see again. I collapsed in bed, congratulating myself on picking the regular hostel instead of the youth hostel, mainly because it was closer. This pride was short lived, however, when my roommates started to file in. First, there was a random French girl my age who clearly didn’t speak a single word of English. It was still fine, though, and I just shrugged and returned to reading my book, taking a break from my traveling day and getting ready to settle in for an early night. Then a twitchy Asian kid who asked if I wanted to borrow his headphones to watch a movie every single time I opened my laptop, clearly not listening to my reassurances that my computer was on silent, I wasn’t going to interrupt his rapid fire texting, and I was just checking facebook. It still seemed so far so good, until a group of five middle aged men came in, claiming the remaining beds. At least the other two kids where my age. These guys were my parents’ age, and I wondered why they were staying at what was clearly a hostel aimed at people in their twenties. It was a little on the creepy side. I slept in my clothes.
Friday
This what I like to call The Day of Random Michael Jackson Songs, but that’ll become more relevant later. I also like to think of it as The Day Anne Finally Realized She’s An Idiot, alternately The Day Anne Nearly Abandoned The Trip Altogether. It started off fine, really. I left the hostel early, to begin a busy day and to escape the flatulent weird old men in my room. I headed immediately for St. Augustine’s Abbey. I knew it wouldn’t exactly be a massive building or anything, but I wasn’t expecting forking over five pounds (that’s nearly ten bucks, my American friends) to see a bunch of rocks in a vague approximation of an abbey. There was a mini-museum talking about how mighty and awesome the Abbey had apparently once been, and it made much over the fact that along with the Cathedral it was a World Heritage Site. Then I stepped outside to see... stone piles. The Abbey had began in Saxon times, flourished in the Medieval age, took a hit with the Tudors when it was made into a royal palace, and even survived becoming a dwelling to some random rich guy in the Stuart era. Then it fell into disrepair, exacerbated by some enterprising Victorians who got it in their minds to “fix” the Abbey, adding their own flourishes to make it look more “authentic”- of course, making it as inauthentic as possible. Those “repairs” have been demolished, so now when you go see it you see a bunch of rooms outlines in ancient stone, sometimes with a sign saying where you’re standing.
I think I can be pretty decent at visualizing stuff. But it’s sort of difficult to stand in a grassy patch, with a soccer field a couple yards away and cars honking away trying to think to yourself “Ok, this was where the monks ate.” I didn’t spend much time at the Abbey, and gave up on the included-in-the-ticket-price audio tour after about five minutes of some old guy slowly regurgitating all the information I had just read in the museum.
After hitting up the Norman Castle briefly (pretty, but mainly an empty shell of stone in a park) I did what any good tourist would do, and went to the gift shop. I learned A) Cathedrals do, in fact, sell shot glasses and B) the owner of this particular shop apparently favors Michael Jackson, and plays a mix of his songs for any shopped. And not just like, hit songs either, but not as popular ones like “Rock My World.” That was Michael Jackson Randomness number 1.
I hopped a train heading to Winchester, and when I say that I really mean a train going back to London with a transfer there to Clapham Junction and then the Winchester. By the time I arrived, it was already dinnertime, but I thought it was ok since I had a really great guidebook and knew exactly where the youth hostel was supposed to be. And I was sort of right, my guidebook ended up being totally invaluable, but I was cheap and went to the Book Warehouse and got it really cheap, not paying attention to the fact that it was the 2004 edition. Apparently, a lot of things changed in Winchester in the last six years, most notably, they don’t have a youth hostel anymore.
I learned this the hard way. Showing up to the spot where my book claimed was a hostel, I couldn’t find it. Thinking it was possibly me just being an idiot, I kept looking, at one point randomly ringing a doorbell to the supposed address (no one was home). I wandered into a pub that thankfully had internet access, when “The Way You Make Me Feel” came on. Michael Jackson Randomness number 2. Luckily I found a cheap hotel offering rates the same I would’ve paid otherwise, and booked a room online, leaving the pub.
Turns out this hotel was a mile away. Uphill. But I was ok with it, because although I was cursing myself for being stupid, I thought I was still within reach of a bed. I was wrong. The online booking hadn’t gone through, they had no record of me, and didn’t have a single room open for the night. I was out on my own again, with the day slowly turning into night.
I thought, ok, no problem, I’ll find a place. I stopped at two more full hotels before I nearly started to panic. I finally just walked into a random pub and started asking directions. Sensing my impending freak-out, the people were extremely kind and helpful. As they patiently explained the directions to yet another hotel (that later ended up being full), “Thriller” played, followed by “Beat It.” The ringleader, a woman who even offered to walk me to the hotel, was wearing a Michael Jackson’s “Bad” album shirt. Michael Jackson Randomness 3 and 4.
I left the pub, wandering around Winchester in the dark, losing hope. Oh, I think I forgot to mention one little thing: I had absolutely no phone credit. Mine had all ran out, and phone stores apparently close before 5 in this country. I could receive calls, which is how I was able to update my parents every hour or so, but I couldn’t make any, which is why I couldn’t just grab a phonebook and book a hotel that way. Dejected and anxious to get out of the dark, I walked into a McDonald’s, where for the first time ever I actually won something useful in that Monopoly game (ok, it was a sundae, not super useful, but it was better than oatmeal. I always win oatmeal). As I peeled the Monopoly sticker off my meal, I was surprised (and frankly starting to get a little creeped out) when “Black or White” blasted over the intercom. Michael Jackson Randomness number 5.
Finally, around 10 PM though feeling much later, just as I was calculating how possible it was to find a pub or something in Winchester open 24 hours where I could just sit and wait out the night (not very, it’s impossible to find someplace like that in London), I stumbled upon- almost quite literally- on an inn with one open room. Which they were willing to give me for a reduced price. With an included full-out breakfast. And my own bathroom. MY OWN BATHROOM.
I think I almost passed out.
Saturday
I checked out of the hotel and quickly went out for an early lunch. I found out A) people in England start drinking at 11:30 in the morning, and normal people too, since it was a young business woman type ordering a rum and coke and B) the Michael Jackson Randomness had one more thing in store. As I took out my guidebook, excited for the day and glad that everything from the night before was resolved, the jukebox softly played “One Day In Your Life.” I literally can’t think of a Michael Jackson single more obscure. It’s a song from the 70’s, in that weird limbo time in his career when he was no longer with Motown, his voice had changed, but he was still performing with his brothers and hadn’t even recorded “Off the Wall” yet. Michael Jackson Randomness number 6 would be the last, and most random.
Winchester, for all its grief, was actually totally worth it. In Medieval times it was the second most important city after London, and the king had a favorite residence there. His brother was the bishop. Then trade dried up, and Winchester hasn’t really changed, at least the center, much since Medieval times. Which is actually awesome, since that means it’s pretty well preserved, historically.
I saw the Great Hall first, all that remains of the once great palace, and home to the Winchester Round Table. People claimed it was King Arthur’s, but of course the wood dates from Medieval times and the paint, emblazoned with the names of all the Knights and a portrait of Arthur that looks suspiciously like Henry VIII, is Tudor. It’s absolutely massive, hanging above the hall.
Then I went to the Winchester Cathedral. It’s absolutely uggo on the outside, squat and with minimal flourish. But overall, I think it’s one of my favorites. It has the longest nave (which is pretty much the aisle) of any Medieval cathedral in Europe, where Mary Tudor (Mary I) married the Spanish Philip II, and is the final resting place of Jane Austen. She’s just sort of chilling on the side, with an epitaph that pretty much only talks about how she was a nice minister’s daughter with no mention of her books or writing.
After the Cathedral and a few other major sites,I was ready to leave Winchester, and set off for Stratford-Upon-Avon, staying at a hostel I booked the night before. Just to be safe.
Sunday
Ok, I knew Stratford-Upon-Avon was going to be big on the Shakespeare thing. But I didn’t know they went absolutely mental for him. There is literally nothing about Stratford that isn’t some way related to the guy. They have Shakespeare cookies, restaurants, teddy bear shops, and of course, book shops and theaters. Shakespeare statues are everywhere, and nearly every shop has some sort of Shakespeare reference- like a place called “As You Like It- Shakes’ Shakes.” I’m completely serious. It was like Shakespeare Disneyland. They took Shakespeare the man and made him into a fictional character. Instead of commenting on the controversy surrounding his existence and how little we actually know about old Bill, and instead present a lot of conjecture as absolute fact.
I’ve never really been as into Shakespeare. I don’t know why. Maybe because I resented that he’s always been someone we HAVE to read. I’m sure if I kept an open mind and just read his stuff on my own, I’d like it a lot more. But even I visited Stratford because I knew as a good little English major I should.
My first stop was appropriately his birthplace. I did the whole tour thing, and stood in one of the rooms as the tour guide said, “Shakespeare walked this very ground. It’s quite a sobering thought.” Try as I might, I couldn’t envision it. I couldn’t see in my mind’s eye the young man, dreaming of a playwriting career in London, living with actors and other artistic people low on the social scale, bursting with ideas. I failed to envision his young wife, a woman with no idea how much she was going to be left on her own. I saw... nothing. I mean, I’m not talking about this in some weirdo psychic way. I’m referring to, as childish as it sounds, imagination. I know, sounds freakish, right? But I always like to do that at these historical places- try to see the place as it once was, writing mini scenes in my head of what had happened there. At Shakespeare’s house, nothing, and nothing at the other two homes I visited that were owned by himself or his family.
My last stop, also fitting, was his grave. Then I was done with Stratford.
Monday
Lincoln was a day trip. I was ambivalent about it until the night before, when I finally decided that I actually did want to be that geek who visited all of the top 5 medieval cathedrals of England, and Lincoln’s always on that list (with Westminster Abbey, York Minster, Winchester, and Canterbury). So I went to Lincoln and saw the cathedral and the castle, nearly dying while scaling a street appropriately named Steep Hill (which I didn’t actually think would be a mountain, but I was wrong). I was impressed by the cathedral, along with its famous Lincoln Imp, a little carving of a devilish creature.
But I was getting history fatigue. I started finding myself thinking, ok, another cathedral, so similar to all the others, another castle, almost all the original building gone, the stone walls present but that’s about it. Just another old building. I was getting tired, and the thrill was gone. I couldn’t take it anymore, I found myself excited to head for home- London. It was overall exciting and absolutely worth it. I got to see a lot of England I’d want to see. But in the end, I was tired, and knew I needed to take some time off from history in order to enjoy it again, so it would no longer be a chore.
Everyone had gone home for break, and I had just recently gotten back from visiting my aunt in Germany (more on that some other time, I just can’t find it in me to write about it now). After the third day in a row going to Oriental Star and hanging out at the O2 Center for no reason, I decided it was time to actually go out and do something.
So, last Thursday, I hopped a train to Canterbury with the promise to myself that I wasn’t coming back for the entire weekend. It wasn’t completely spur of the moment- I had gotten my parents’ ok, I was now in possession of a nice backpack with a laptop sleeve. I had researched costs, gotten a guidebook to Britain, and looked up places to go, mainly through Wikipedia, sure, but accurate nonetheless. I was ready to go it alone, doing the whole backpacking thing, have a test run for when I hopefully am able to do the Euro version in June. This is pretty much what happened:
Thursday
7 AM, my alarm went off. I’m not at all a morning person, but I had been training myself to wake up early for the days beforehand. I didn’t want to ruin my trip by sleeping in until noon every day.
I made my way to St. Pancras (which I still call St. Pancreas in my head after Kim and Mia did the same thing) and promptly missed my train to Canterbury. It was fine, I made another, though I would have to transfer. Little did I know, but I wouldn’t have the chance of a direct train ride for the rest of the trip. I marveled at the green of the English landscape, filled with rolling hills that could just as easily be evidence of an ancient Saxon settlement or Roman fort. From my abnormal amount of reading on crime scenes, I know that no matter what, no matter how careful you are, there’s no way you can set foot inside a room, any room, without leaving a piece of yourself, changing the setting in some miniscule way. I can’t help but realize that this is true of landscape as well, and the marks of our ancestors still mar every path we choose to walk on.
After a couple hours on the train, I made it to Canterbury, with the Cathedral in the distance. I knew instantly I had to see it in person, right away. With my heavy backpack I wandered the streets of Canterbury, eventually finding my way to the massive church. Last semester I took a class on Chaucer, where we had to read some of his most important works, spending over half the term on the Canterbury Tales alone. I wanted to see what the fuss was all about, why all these massively different characters went on a pilgrimage from Southwark, London, to Canterbury to see some dead guy’s bones.
It didn’t disappoint. The cathedral is massive, with ornate carvings and beautiful stonework. I happened to be reading the book “Pillars of the Earth,” by Ken Follett, which is incidentally all about building a cathedral in Medieval times and namechecks three of the places I visited on this weekend. I was beginning to understand the importance of these cathedrals, not just as a tourist attraction and historical landmark, but to the people that built them.
St. Thomas Becket’s shrine was destroyed five hundred years ago, but the space where it stood is still respectfully empty. Where he was brutally murdered by four knights is marked with a cross of swords, and takes the place as a new sort of shrine. The Black Prince, who you might recognize in the not-historically-accurate-at-all Knight’s Tale, is entombed at the Cathedral as well. I was getting ready to leave when an old reverend made his way to the lectern. I recognized this from Westminster Abbey. The tourists milling about still give hope to the religious leaders that they could possibly entice a few to join their flock, and so in every cathedral I’ve been to, they stop several times a day for a moment of silence and a prayer. The old man started a prayer, and invited everyone in the Our Father.
It was then it hit me that 16 years of Catholic school doesn’t just go away.
Out of instinct I made my way to a bench and sat down, habitually joining in, mumbling the familiar words even though they differed slightly from the Catholic version. From St. Mary’s grade school to Catholic Memorial to Fordham, New York’s Jesuit university, I’ve always gone to Catholic school. This semester at King’s College in London, a secular university though with Christian roots, is the first time I’ve gone to a non-Catholic school since preschool in the basement of a Methodist church. I’m not particularly devout. I don’t consider myself Catholic by any means, and don’t go to church unless forced to. I didn’t choose my grade school or high school, and I really chose Fordham mostly cause I wanted to go to a university in New York City, not because I wanted something Catholic. Sure, I have my personal beliefs, but they’re just that: personal. But maybe it was all the cathedrals, maybe it was reading about the super devout who built them, maybe it was a million different things. But I started feeling like maybe God wasn’t so much of an abstract concept anymore.
Religious speech over, I moved on from the cathedral to a museum centered all around the Canterbury Tales. I really don’t 100% get this city’s fascination with them. I mean, I know it has the place name right in the title. I know it depicts the type of people who would make the pilgrimage to Canterbury. But if you read it, you realize- there’s not a whole lot in there on Canterbury. It could just as easily have been referring to any other of the myriad pilgrimage sites in England or even all of Europe. The focus isn’t the destination, but the characters and their individual stories. Don’t tell that to Canterbury, though, which has built up a tourist industry around the stories. The museum was odd- in an old church that actually did date from Chaucer’s time, they gutted the inside and made a semi-interactive exhibit where you listen to animatronic characters tell a few of the tales. It was... eerie, really, more than anything.
After I called up the hostel and booked a room. A woman answered the phone and I made sure to spell my name- people misspell Anne all the time (I’ll never accept Ann as a legitimate spelling) and Wimmer can just end up a mess. After hitting up few other sites, including the Canterbury history museum, I walked out of the walled town and got to the hostel.
The lip-ringed guy who answered the door was almost too-friendly. “Well, if you booked a bed, you’re lucky, cause we’re all out,” he explained as he made his way to the computer. After a pause of him checking the records, he asked me to repeat my name. I did. Another pause. “Just a question,” he started, “Did a Romanian woman take your call, by any chance?” I had no idea. “Just because there’s no Anne Wimmer in the database, but there IS... no way.” He started to laugh. I started to get annoyed with his constant smile and multi-colored lip-ring. I mean, how do you even eat? “Well, there’s an Anemia here... Anne Wimmer, Anemia... I guess that’s you.” Great. I’m a disease. And not even like, an interesting disease either. I’m one that’s characterized mainly by sluggishness. I grinned and nodded along with Mr. Lip-ring and duly followed as he showed me around.
Eventually I was freed, and although I was invited for “pub night,” I wasn’t really interested. By nature I’m kinda an antisocial person, especially around people I know I’m never going to see again. I collapsed in bed, congratulating myself on picking the regular hostel instead of the youth hostel, mainly because it was closer. This pride was short lived, however, when my roommates started to file in. First, there was a random French girl my age who clearly didn’t speak a single word of English. It was still fine, though, and I just shrugged and returned to reading my book, taking a break from my traveling day and getting ready to settle in for an early night. Then a twitchy Asian kid who asked if I wanted to borrow his headphones to watch a movie every single time I opened my laptop, clearly not listening to my reassurances that my computer was on silent, I wasn’t going to interrupt his rapid fire texting, and I was just checking facebook. It still seemed so far so good, until a group of five middle aged men came in, claiming the remaining beds. At least the other two kids where my age. These guys were my parents’ age, and I wondered why they were staying at what was clearly a hostel aimed at people in their twenties. It was a little on the creepy side. I slept in my clothes.
Friday
This what I like to call The Day of Random Michael Jackson Songs, but that’ll become more relevant later. I also like to think of it as The Day Anne Finally Realized She’s An Idiot, alternately The Day Anne Nearly Abandoned The Trip Altogether. It started off fine, really. I left the hostel early, to begin a busy day and to escape the flatulent weird old men in my room. I headed immediately for St. Augustine’s Abbey. I knew it wouldn’t exactly be a massive building or anything, but I wasn’t expecting forking over five pounds (that’s nearly ten bucks, my American friends) to see a bunch of rocks in a vague approximation of an abbey. There was a mini-museum talking about how mighty and awesome the Abbey had apparently once been, and it made much over the fact that along with the Cathedral it was a World Heritage Site. Then I stepped outside to see... stone piles. The Abbey had began in Saxon times, flourished in the Medieval age, took a hit with the Tudors when it was made into a royal palace, and even survived becoming a dwelling to some random rich guy in the Stuart era. Then it fell into disrepair, exacerbated by some enterprising Victorians who got it in their minds to “fix” the Abbey, adding their own flourishes to make it look more “authentic”- of course, making it as inauthentic as possible. Those “repairs” have been demolished, so now when you go see it you see a bunch of rooms outlines in ancient stone, sometimes with a sign saying where you’re standing.
I think I can be pretty decent at visualizing stuff. But it’s sort of difficult to stand in a grassy patch, with a soccer field a couple yards away and cars honking away trying to think to yourself “Ok, this was where the monks ate.” I didn’t spend much time at the Abbey, and gave up on the included-in-the-ticket-price audio tour after about five minutes of some old guy slowly regurgitating all the information I had just read in the museum.
After hitting up the Norman Castle briefly (pretty, but mainly an empty shell of stone in a park) I did what any good tourist would do, and went to the gift shop. I learned A) Cathedrals do, in fact, sell shot glasses and B) the owner of this particular shop apparently favors Michael Jackson, and plays a mix of his songs for any shopped. And not just like, hit songs either, but not as popular ones like “Rock My World.” That was Michael Jackson Randomness number 1.
I hopped a train heading to Winchester, and when I say that I really mean a train going back to London with a transfer there to Clapham Junction and then the Winchester. By the time I arrived, it was already dinnertime, but I thought it was ok since I had a really great guidebook and knew exactly where the youth hostel was supposed to be. And I was sort of right, my guidebook ended up being totally invaluable, but I was cheap and went to the Book Warehouse and got it really cheap, not paying attention to the fact that it was the 2004 edition. Apparently, a lot of things changed in Winchester in the last six years, most notably, they don’t have a youth hostel anymore.
I learned this the hard way. Showing up to the spot where my book claimed was a hostel, I couldn’t find it. Thinking it was possibly me just being an idiot, I kept looking, at one point randomly ringing a doorbell to the supposed address (no one was home). I wandered into a pub that thankfully had internet access, when “The Way You Make Me Feel” came on. Michael Jackson Randomness number 2. Luckily I found a cheap hotel offering rates the same I would’ve paid otherwise, and booked a room online, leaving the pub.
Turns out this hotel was a mile away. Uphill. But I was ok with it, because although I was cursing myself for being stupid, I thought I was still within reach of a bed. I was wrong. The online booking hadn’t gone through, they had no record of me, and didn’t have a single room open for the night. I was out on my own again, with the day slowly turning into night.
I thought, ok, no problem, I’ll find a place. I stopped at two more full hotels before I nearly started to panic. I finally just walked into a random pub and started asking directions. Sensing my impending freak-out, the people were extremely kind and helpful. As they patiently explained the directions to yet another hotel (that later ended up being full), “Thriller” played, followed by “Beat It.” The ringleader, a woman who even offered to walk me to the hotel, was wearing a Michael Jackson’s “Bad” album shirt. Michael Jackson Randomness 3 and 4.
I left the pub, wandering around Winchester in the dark, losing hope. Oh, I think I forgot to mention one little thing: I had absolutely no phone credit. Mine had all ran out, and phone stores apparently close before 5 in this country. I could receive calls, which is how I was able to update my parents every hour or so, but I couldn’t make any, which is why I couldn’t just grab a phonebook and book a hotel that way. Dejected and anxious to get out of the dark, I walked into a McDonald’s, where for the first time ever I actually won something useful in that Monopoly game (ok, it was a sundae, not super useful, but it was better than oatmeal. I always win oatmeal). As I peeled the Monopoly sticker off my meal, I was surprised (and frankly starting to get a little creeped out) when “Black or White” blasted over the intercom. Michael Jackson Randomness number 5.
Finally, around 10 PM though feeling much later, just as I was calculating how possible it was to find a pub or something in Winchester open 24 hours where I could just sit and wait out the night (not very, it’s impossible to find someplace like that in London), I stumbled upon- almost quite literally- on an inn with one open room. Which they were willing to give me for a reduced price. With an included full-out breakfast. And my own bathroom. MY OWN BATHROOM.
I think I almost passed out.
Saturday
I checked out of the hotel and quickly went out for an early lunch. I found out A) people in England start drinking at 11:30 in the morning, and normal people too, since it was a young business woman type ordering a rum and coke and B) the Michael Jackson Randomness had one more thing in store. As I took out my guidebook, excited for the day and glad that everything from the night before was resolved, the jukebox softly played “One Day In Your Life.” I literally can’t think of a Michael Jackson single more obscure. It’s a song from the 70’s, in that weird limbo time in his career when he was no longer with Motown, his voice had changed, but he was still performing with his brothers and hadn’t even recorded “Off the Wall” yet. Michael Jackson Randomness number 6 would be the last, and most random.
Winchester, for all its grief, was actually totally worth it. In Medieval times it was the second most important city after London, and the king had a favorite residence there. His brother was the bishop. Then trade dried up, and Winchester hasn’t really changed, at least the center, much since Medieval times. Which is actually awesome, since that means it’s pretty well preserved, historically.
I saw the Great Hall first, all that remains of the once great palace, and home to the Winchester Round Table. People claimed it was King Arthur’s, but of course the wood dates from Medieval times and the paint, emblazoned with the names of all the Knights and a portrait of Arthur that looks suspiciously like Henry VIII, is Tudor. It’s absolutely massive, hanging above the hall.
Then I went to the Winchester Cathedral. It’s absolutely uggo on the outside, squat and with minimal flourish. But overall, I think it’s one of my favorites. It has the longest nave (which is pretty much the aisle) of any Medieval cathedral in Europe, where Mary Tudor (Mary I) married the Spanish Philip II, and is the final resting place of Jane Austen. She’s just sort of chilling on the side, with an epitaph that pretty much only talks about how she was a nice minister’s daughter with no mention of her books or writing.
After the Cathedral and a few other major sites,I was ready to leave Winchester, and set off for Stratford-Upon-Avon, staying at a hostel I booked the night before. Just to be safe.
Sunday
Ok, I knew Stratford-Upon-Avon was going to be big on the Shakespeare thing. But I didn’t know they went absolutely mental for him. There is literally nothing about Stratford that isn’t some way related to the guy. They have Shakespeare cookies, restaurants, teddy bear shops, and of course, book shops and theaters. Shakespeare statues are everywhere, and nearly every shop has some sort of Shakespeare reference- like a place called “As You Like It- Shakes’ Shakes.” I’m completely serious. It was like Shakespeare Disneyland. They took Shakespeare the man and made him into a fictional character. Instead of commenting on the controversy surrounding his existence and how little we actually know about old Bill, and instead present a lot of conjecture as absolute fact.
I’ve never really been as into Shakespeare. I don’t know why. Maybe because I resented that he’s always been someone we HAVE to read. I’m sure if I kept an open mind and just read his stuff on my own, I’d like it a lot more. But even I visited Stratford because I knew as a good little English major I should.
My first stop was appropriately his birthplace. I did the whole tour thing, and stood in one of the rooms as the tour guide said, “Shakespeare walked this very ground. It’s quite a sobering thought.” Try as I might, I couldn’t envision it. I couldn’t see in my mind’s eye the young man, dreaming of a playwriting career in London, living with actors and other artistic people low on the social scale, bursting with ideas. I failed to envision his young wife, a woman with no idea how much she was going to be left on her own. I saw... nothing. I mean, I’m not talking about this in some weirdo psychic way. I’m referring to, as childish as it sounds, imagination. I know, sounds freakish, right? But I always like to do that at these historical places- try to see the place as it once was, writing mini scenes in my head of what had happened there. At Shakespeare’s house, nothing, and nothing at the other two homes I visited that were owned by himself or his family.
My last stop, also fitting, was his grave. Then I was done with Stratford.
Monday
Lincoln was a day trip. I was ambivalent about it until the night before, when I finally decided that I actually did want to be that geek who visited all of the top 5 medieval cathedrals of England, and Lincoln’s always on that list (with Westminster Abbey, York Minster, Winchester, and Canterbury). So I went to Lincoln and saw the cathedral and the castle, nearly dying while scaling a street appropriately named Steep Hill (which I didn’t actually think would be a mountain, but I was wrong). I was impressed by the cathedral, along with its famous Lincoln Imp, a little carving of a devilish creature.
But I was getting history fatigue. I started finding myself thinking, ok, another cathedral, so similar to all the others, another castle, almost all the original building gone, the stone walls present but that’s about it. Just another old building. I was getting tired, and the thrill was gone. I couldn’t take it anymore, I found myself excited to head for home- London. It was overall exciting and absolutely worth it. I got to see a lot of England I’d want to see. But in the end, I was tired, and knew I needed to take some time off from history in order to enjoy it again, so it would no longer be a chore.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Brighton Beach (England) Memoirs
*Note- This American werewolf is currently in Germany, but decided her time would be best served updating the blog. So, here’s an account of Brighton, England. Germany’s to come shortly.
“Guys,” I smiled, bouncing up and down in my seat, “Aren’t you excited? We’re on a TRAIN. To BRIGHTON. On a FIELD TRIP.” I kept fidgeting like a little kid at Disneyworld. “Come on, aren’t you at least a little happy?”
Jack sighed and buried his head in his hands. “Someone, please, calm Anne down before she wets herself.”
“It’s just Brighton,” said Josh, characteristically the Debbie Downer. “And stop taking pictures!”
Of course I had my camera out. I had just picked it up an hour before. It had been getting repaired ever since a tragic run-in with the hard floor of a pub. Unable to go more than a couple days without my beloved camera, I lied and told the people at the shop that I had a trans-Atlantic flight to make, shortening their normal repair time from 5-7 business days to 2. “Anne, I’m serious, I might just stab you in the eye if you take a picture of me putting on my make-up.” Ally waved the applicator around menacingly. I took one anyways. But hey, I was excited.
It all started the day before. My roommate Jess was pacing the room, deciding on an outfit and clearly angry at having class on an uncharacteristically sunny London day. “Ugh, I can’t believe I have stupid Latin when it’s summer.”
“Um,” I answered, looking up from my computer, “It’s March and windy. Not exactly summertime yet…”
“You don’t understand, Anne, you haven’t been in England long enough yet,” Jess replied, throwing her books in her bag, “Summer in England is whenever the sun shines!” Sadly, she looked out the window, clear cerulean expanding out into the distance. “It doesn’t happen enough for separate seasons.”
I shrugged. I’m more of an indoors person. I like museums. While I sometimes find myself worshiping the sun in an effort to bask in its heat, I don’t really mind if it’s cloudy. Jess, however, needs sunshine. “I know!” she said out of sudden epiphany, “Let’s go to Brighton tomorrow! It’s still supposed to be nice then, and we can go to the beach!” Jess then commenced to text everyone we knew with the random plan.
Which is how we found ourselves on a train from London Bridge heading south, to the Channel coast, and a little seaside place called Brighton. I was just happy to be with friends and to experience something different, a change of scene from our normal hang-outs, and what I kept calling a “cultural experience,” because I’m a massive nerd and the only American out of a group of eight university students. After getting up early to rescue my camera, I started snapping pictures immediately. This meant that we were only halfway through the hour long train ride and everyone was already sick of me.
The train reached the station while it was still early in the afternoon, and we immediately made our way to the ocean. The entire time I had Queen’s “Seaside Rendezvous” stuck in my head, with visions of a sandy umbrella-filled beach, bright blue water, and clear skies. After picking our way down the hill I soon saw this was not the case. There is a beach, per se, but instead of sand it is made up of rocks, similar to gravel, that were nearly impossible to walk in for any long amount of time. The water was a churning gray, with a sky to match, and instead of sun we got clouds and wind. Instead of Sanibel Island on the Gulf of Mexico, I got Milwaukee and Lake Michigan, at least coastwise. Clearly the town of Brighton itself had missed the memo, as it made up for its lack of familiar beach trappings in spirit. But more on that later.
“Guys, we need to get Brighton Rock!” exclaimed Jess, and Ally quickly agreed. Dumbly I thought, “Rock? But, they’re EVERYWHERE…” until we stumbled upon one of those old timey candy shops, run by a helpful little old lady filled with everything sugar imaginable. Rock, it turns out, is like a massive candy cane only minus the curvy part and in pretty much every flavor you can name. I got mint, which had a red outer shell and white inside, with the words “BRIGHTON ROCK” emblazoned even on the inside, reminding you what you’re eating with every bite.
The main attraction of Brighton, however, is the pier. Brighton Pier is like Chicago’s Navy Pier and San Francisco’s Pier 39 combined. It has a little amusement park, which was closed due to weather, and an arcade, surrounded by those little wooden things you stick your head in for a picture. Naturally, I made us stop at every single one of them.
Our destination was the noodles. I think the only reason a couple members of our group even went all the way to Brighton was on the promise of world-class noodles, made in a little stand on the pier, by a random guy. Everyone makes fun of me for eating Asian food, ok, specifically Oriental Star all the time, but I didn’t make everyone come out with me an hour away for a noodle stand. But, as much as I hate to admit it, the noodles were worth it, even though we were given covers for our food as seagulls have been known to swoop down and take the noodles right off your fork. Literally the only time we spent on this famous Brighton Pier was in pursuit of noodles. I never thought I’d write an entire paragraph on noodles, but there you go. They were probably 90% of the reason we went to Brighton in the first place.
Uncomfortably, we sat in the gravel, on the beach itself, watching the waves crash on the coast. Three additional members of our group, Alliey, Chris, and Lucinda, joined us from London, though sadly sans noodles. Our little tribe basked in the lack of sun, lying in the dearth of sand, and listened while the gray sea made the acquaintance of the rocky shore. It was wonderful, and I mean that completely without sarcasm. It was one of those simple moments you never pay attention to, and I couldn’t have been more content. Even when Jack hit a random person in the face with a rock, the rest of us at least were still able to enjoy the ocean atmosphere, with that calming influence water inevitably has on us. The sea stretched into oblivion, gray on the gray sky, seeming to form a monochromatic wall that while not altogether bright, still had a sort of quiet, unassuming beauty. I knew theoretically France was on the other side, and with it, Europe, but as far as I could tell, the ocean went on forever.
I’ve always been surrounded by random bodies of water. I grew up a short drive away from Lake Michigan, and lived for years as a child on an inland lake until my parents' divorce when I was 6. Since I was 15 I’ve lived on Pewaukee Lake, which, though of course pretty small, treats us with views of sailboat racing during the summer time and ice fishermen in the frozen winter. Ever since I was a toddler, I’ve made the trek, often several times a year, to a family-owned condo on Sanibel Island, off the Gulf coast of Florida. Some of my earliest memories involve scampering along the beach, looking for treasures washed up on shore, and sometimes finding them in the form of stingray eggs or live octopi stuck in massive shells. I grew up knowing more about the different species of Gulf of Mexico fish than all the animals in Wisconsin, as my dad took my siblings and I fishing since pretty much birth. One of my earliest memories is, as a six-year-old, “helping” my dad reel in a six-foot tarpon, after a day of deep-sea fishing. I didn’t understand the ecological dangers of fishing, or the environmental concerns. I just knew I was excited whenever we caught a massive cow ray or black-tipped shark, because I wanted to see it, to feel it, to be somehow close to something that I would never just see on my own. We would go out with the net, pulling to shore and subsequently freeing the hermit crabs, baby pufferfish, and minnows we’d find caught. Maybe it was animal cruelty, but as a kid, I loved it. I could identify the different species- ladyfish, grouper, red snapper, sheepshead- by sight, and got excited to walk on the beach and see an area cordoned off, with a sign labeling it as the nest of a loggerhead turtle. I haven’t gone to Sanibel since I turned 18, but that moment at Brighton Beach made me miss it more than any family vacation photos ever could.
All eight of us spent a good amount of time skipping stones, or at the very least attempting to, while I snapped away on my camera. Laughter was punctuated by the satisfying ker-plunk of rocks meeting the surface and the cries of seagulls overhead.
We were interrupted by a couple of kids our age, offering us free vitamin water if we posed for a picture with it, debating the pronunciation of the word “vitamin.” In America, it’s “vie-dah-min,” with a long i and the t pronounced like a d, but to the Brits, it’s “vih-tah-min,” which of course meant another all-the-English-kids-gang-up-on-Anne moment. If I hear one more “But we invented the language,” I might have a mini freakout.
Then Jack handed me a rock, as part of the “traditional English rock, um, tradition,” where, according to Jack and Josh and no one else, if an English person gives you a rock at the sea you need to make a wish before throwing it as hard as possible into the water. Then, no matter how much they bug you, you can’t tell anyone what your wish was. So, I took the rock, made a wish (cause a little extra wishing couldn’t hurt, right?) and threw the rock as hard as I could… all of like, four feet, before it splashed into the sea. And I will not tell anyone what that wish was, even if the tradition is fake.
I’m not really an outdoorsy person, as I’ve said before, but I was having a good time. I had my camera, I was with friends, we were all hanging out… and then I nearly broke my camera. Or maybe I should correct myself- JACK nearly broke my camera, by pushing me into the rocks, where I heard the metallic ding of my camera hitting a polished stone. It was fine, but there would’ve been bloodshed if that camera was broken. Legit, this could only end in a murder trial. THAT’S how seriously I take my photos.
Getting cold, we made our way to the street, where, beachside, there was an aquarium. Since Jess works at the London version, she could get us all in for free. The aquarium had been in use since the 1800’s, and you could tell from the great hall. Although all the actual equipment was pretty much state of the art, the architecture was clearly Victorian, with painted fish carvings set into slender pillars holding up the ceiling to the massive hall, filled with all different sorts of fish. In the side of the room was an open pool filled with different rays and crabs, which I swear came closer if you talked to them. I think we sat and talked to rays for twenty minutes. If someone waved their hand over them, they would move up, exposing the faces on their undersides. Gracefully wafting through the water, the rays were the stars of that particular pool, and likely would’ve been, at least for us, for the entire aquarium trip until we saw the sharks and sea turtles.
We entered a massive stadium-type room with a large pool of water filled with the same black-tipped sharks I used to accidentally catch while fishing with my dad ten years ago. Underneath was a tunnel, where you could walk under the water and see the fish up close. Automatically the group deferred to Jess, who is passionate about sharks (and that might even be an understatement). I think it’s pretty awesome, cause I remember when I loved sharks as a kid, though never parlaying that into the actual activism and academic study that Jess supports. I just thought sharks were cool, envying the natural confidence the animals embody, their sleek fierceness mixed with a beautiful grace. I like predators, and as a supremely morbid human being, I found the Jersey Shore shark attacks of 1916 to be a fascinating topic, the most interesting thing to come out of Jersey since Snookie (I’m JOKING, The Situation is clearly more intriguing). I don’t have the patience nor the passion to actually go out and study sharks. Jess does, and will over the summer (still jealous). So naturally we all sat and asked her questions about the sharks circling above us (though not necessarily in a menacing way, we were like, twice their size). She explained how to tell the difference between boy and girl sharks, where we then spent at least fifteen minutes analyzing the gender of every shark that swam above our clear tunnel. The animals took on personalities, including one sea turtle that was clearly embarrassed when it tried to glide all smoothly by but ended up getting caught on a branch. Our excuse to get out of the cold ended up becoming unintentionally educational.
After leaving the aquarium, we threaded our way through narrow streets filled with multi-colored houses- Brighton is clearly the San Francisco of England, in more ways than one, what with the bustling gay community and seaside culture- until we found a decent pub. While there we stole a bunch of condiments, and then I got made fun of (again), only this time it was for taking pictures of the mint sauce- in little green ketchup packets- and some condiments with the Houses of Parliament on them.
Soon the day was at an end, though we decided we had one last stop to make- for fish and chips. England is well aware of its international stereotype for foodstuffs like tea and the combination of fish and chips, only of course chips actually being fries since our chips are called crisps here. The fact that I haven’t eaten fish and chips after months in England confuses pretty much everyone I know, except for my close friends and family. Cause while I’ll eat chips, I absolutely cannot eat fish. Never could. Those childhood trips to Sanibel are marred by the memories of every meal, when my dad and later with my stepmom, would force me to eat fish. I’d gag, and sometimes start to cry, when I’d be hungry after a day at the beach and the only thing on my plate would be grouper or snapper, which I had to finish, no excuses. Even in Wisconsin I wasn’t safe, since my dad and stepmom love fish and would still force me to eat it, until only within the last year or so when I was finally allowed to pass. Even at restaurants until I was 18, I wasn’t allowed to order for myself, often facing down a plate of the dreaded fish, trying to hold my breath and covertly pass it to my sister. I’m picky as it is, but nothing makes me actually feel sick to my stomach on the scale fish does, nor does anything bring such annoying memories.
When we did make it to a fish and chips shop, with adorable painted dancing fish on the walls, I had to wait outside. I had to stand a few feet away, making a point to inhale the salty sea air, as far from the disgusting fish as possible. Some people might laugh, but it’s only funny until I throw up on you. I’m serious. Just last week, someone (and by someone I mean Chris), thought it’d be funny to try and smuggle some dried fish into my bed. Luckily, the door was locked, otherwise someone else would be dead right now. And I’m not talking about me. I don’t do well with dead fish, especially when it’s meant for consumption. I prefer to think of it as a charming eccentricity, though I’m sure most people just think it’s weird.
After the fish and chips excursion, we finally made it back to the train station, ready to put an end to a long day of new experiences. Expecting a relaxing train ride filled with conversation amongst ourselves, it was surprising and more than a little scary when a man walked into the train car with his girlfriend, covered in blood. The entire front of his shirt was stained red, and he had cuts all over his face. His head was topped with a green Guinness hat, because, well, it was St. Patrick’s Day. Of course, the man chose a seat right next to us, even though the rest of the train car was empty (some people on it actually moved when he came on the train), and asked if we had a problem with him “lighting up a fag,” as fag means cigarette here.
“So mate,” started Chris, since god forbid we not antagonize the man who clearly is unbothered by stab wounds, “What happened?”
Clearly drunk, Stabby McStabberson (as we had dubbed him) began his tale. “Well, I was just sitting at the pub, ya know, havin’ a drink and mindin’ my own business, havin’ a good St. Paddy’s Day, when this man just comes up to me and stabs me! Well, I started fighting back, and you shoulda seen him, you think I look bad, you shoulda seen him. They just patched me up and sent me on my way.” Clearly, he wasn’t just minding his own business, but this wouldn’t exactly be a prudent thing to mention. Stabby finished his cigarette (a massive fine if he got caught) and promptly passed out, causing him to miss his stop and us to help his poor girlfriend help navigate their way home.
Coming back to London was a relief, because it was home. Nothing beats the place you call home, no matter how temporary that home may be. Sure, it’s not my familiar bed in Wisconsin, but that doesn’t mean it’s not comforting after a long day. Brighton made me miss the ocean and my past life, my childhood running along a beach I haven’t been to in years. A place located thousands of miles away conjured up memories I had tried to ignore for months, even years, and the sound of the waves hitting the shore was enough to shorten the distance, erase the time, and take me back. I’m living in London, having experiences I couldn’t have dreamed about even three months ago, when I nervously packed my bags and left New York, confiding in my friend how terrified I was to start over again, meeting new people while leaving the old friends behind. Yet I still find there’s no way to separate my past from my present, and how even things we think are so insignificant at the time can shape who we are forever. My Brighton Beach Memoirs wouldn’t have so much of Brighton itself, though that was a truly awesome, eclectic place with a spirit of its own, but rather the memories Brighton provokes in me.
“Guys,” I smiled, bouncing up and down in my seat, “Aren’t you excited? We’re on a TRAIN. To BRIGHTON. On a FIELD TRIP.” I kept fidgeting like a little kid at Disneyworld. “Come on, aren’t you at least a little happy?”
Jack sighed and buried his head in his hands. “Someone, please, calm Anne down before she wets herself.”
“It’s just Brighton,” said Josh, characteristically the Debbie Downer. “And stop taking pictures!”
Of course I had my camera out. I had just picked it up an hour before. It had been getting repaired ever since a tragic run-in with the hard floor of a pub. Unable to go more than a couple days without my beloved camera, I lied and told the people at the shop that I had a trans-Atlantic flight to make, shortening their normal repair time from 5-7 business days to 2. “Anne, I’m serious, I might just stab you in the eye if you take a picture of me putting on my make-up.” Ally waved the applicator around menacingly. I took one anyways. But hey, I was excited.
It all started the day before. My roommate Jess was pacing the room, deciding on an outfit and clearly angry at having class on an uncharacteristically sunny London day. “Ugh, I can’t believe I have stupid Latin when it’s summer.”
“Um,” I answered, looking up from my computer, “It’s March and windy. Not exactly summertime yet…”
“You don’t understand, Anne, you haven’t been in England long enough yet,” Jess replied, throwing her books in her bag, “Summer in England is whenever the sun shines!” Sadly, she looked out the window, clear cerulean expanding out into the distance. “It doesn’t happen enough for separate seasons.”
I shrugged. I’m more of an indoors person. I like museums. While I sometimes find myself worshiping the sun in an effort to bask in its heat, I don’t really mind if it’s cloudy. Jess, however, needs sunshine. “I know!” she said out of sudden epiphany, “Let’s go to Brighton tomorrow! It’s still supposed to be nice then, and we can go to the beach!” Jess then commenced to text everyone we knew with the random plan.
Which is how we found ourselves on a train from London Bridge heading south, to the Channel coast, and a little seaside place called Brighton. I was just happy to be with friends and to experience something different, a change of scene from our normal hang-outs, and what I kept calling a “cultural experience,” because I’m a massive nerd and the only American out of a group of eight university students. After getting up early to rescue my camera, I started snapping pictures immediately. This meant that we were only halfway through the hour long train ride and everyone was already sick of me.
The train reached the station while it was still early in the afternoon, and we immediately made our way to the ocean. The entire time I had Queen’s “Seaside Rendezvous” stuck in my head, with visions of a sandy umbrella-filled beach, bright blue water, and clear skies. After picking our way down the hill I soon saw this was not the case. There is a beach, per se, but instead of sand it is made up of rocks, similar to gravel, that were nearly impossible to walk in for any long amount of time. The water was a churning gray, with a sky to match, and instead of sun we got clouds and wind. Instead of Sanibel Island on the Gulf of Mexico, I got Milwaukee and Lake Michigan, at least coastwise. Clearly the town of Brighton itself had missed the memo, as it made up for its lack of familiar beach trappings in spirit. But more on that later.
“Guys, we need to get Brighton Rock!” exclaimed Jess, and Ally quickly agreed. Dumbly I thought, “Rock? But, they’re EVERYWHERE…” until we stumbled upon one of those old timey candy shops, run by a helpful little old lady filled with everything sugar imaginable. Rock, it turns out, is like a massive candy cane only minus the curvy part and in pretty much every flavor you can name. I got mint, which had a red outer shell and white inside, with the words “BRIGHTON ROCK” emblazoned even on the inside, reminding you what you’re eating with every bite.
The main attraction of Brighton, however, is the pier. Brighton Pier is like Chicago’s Navy Pier and San Francisco’s Pier 39 combined. It has a little amusement park, which was closed due to weather, and an arcade, surrounded by those little wooden things you stick your head in for a picture. Naturally, I made us stop at every single one of them.
Our destination was the noodles. I think the only reason a couple members of our group even went all the way to Brighton was on the promise of world-class noodles, made in a little stand on the pier, by a random guy. Everyone makes fun of me for eating Asian food, ok, specifically Oriental Star all the time, but I didn’t make everyone come out with me an hour away for a noodle stand. But, as much as I hate to admit it, the noodles were worth it, even though we were given covers for our food as seagulls have been known to swoop down and take the noodles right off your fork. Literally the only time we spent on this famous Brighton Pier was in pursuit of noodles. I never thought I’d write an entire paragraph on noodles, but there you go. They were probably 90% of the reason we went to Brighton in the first place.
Uncomfortably, we sat in the gravel, on the beach itself, watching the waves crash on the coast. Three additional members of our group, Alliey, Chris, and Lucinda, joined us from London, though sadly sans noodles. Our little tribe basked in the lack of sun, lying in the dearth of sand, and listened while the gray sea made the acquaintance of the rocky shore. It was wonderful, and I mean that completely without sarcasm. It was one of those simple moments you never pay attention to, and I couldn’t have been more content. Even when Jack hit a random person in the face with a rock, the rest of us at least were still able to enjoy the ocean atmosphere, with that calming influence water inevitably has on us. The sea stretched into oblivion, gray on the gray sky, seeming to form a monochromatic wall that while not altogether bright, still had a sort of quiet, unassuming beauty. I knew theoretically France was on the other side, and with it, Europe, but as far as I could tell, the ocean went on forever.
I’ve always been surrounded by random bodies of water. I grew up a short drive away from Lake Michigan, and lived for years as a child on an inland lake until my parents' divorce when I was 6. Since I was 15 I’ve lived on Pewaukee Lake, which, though of course pretty small, treats us with views of sailboat racing during the summer time and ice fishermen in the frozen winter. Ever since I was a toddler, I’ve made the trek, often several times a year, to a family-owned condo on Sanibel Island, off the Gulf coast of Florida. Some of my earliest memories involve scampering along the beach, looking for treasures washed up on shore, and sometimes finding them in the form of stingray eggs or live octopi stuck in massive shells. I grew up knowing more about the different species of Gulf of Mexico fish than all the animals in Wisconsin, as my dad took my siblings and I fishing since pretty much birth. One of my earliest memories is, as a six-year-old, “helping” my dad reel in a six-foot tarpon, after a day of deep-sea fishing. I didn’t understand the ecological dangers of fishing, or the environmental concerns. I just knew I was excited whenever we caught a massive cow ray or black-tipped shark, because I wanted to see it, to feel it, to be somehow close to something that I would never just see on my own. We would go out with the net, pulling to shore and subsequently freeing the hermit crabs, baby pufferfish, and minnows we’d find caught. Maybe it was animal cruelty, but as a kid, I loved it. I could identify the different species- ladyfish, grouper, red snapper, sheepshead- by sight, and got excited to walk on the beach and see an area cordoned off, with a sign labeling it as the nest of a loggerhead turtle. I haven’t gone to Sanibel since I turned 18, but that moment at Brighton Beach made me miss it more than any family vacation photos ever could.
All eight of us spent a good amount of time skipping stones, or at the very least attempting to, while I snapped away on my camera. Laughter was punctuated by the satisfying ker-plunk of rocks meeting the surface and the cries of seagulls overhead.
We were interrupted by a couple of kids our age, offering us free vitamin water if we posed for a picture with it, debating the pronunciation of the word “vitamin.” In America, it’s “vie-dah-min,” with a long i and the t pronounced like a d, but to the Brits, it’s “vih-tah-min,” which of course meant another all-the-English-kids-gang-up-on-Anne moment. If I hear one more “But we invented the language,” I might have a mini freakout.
Then Jack handed me a rock, as part of the “traditional English rock, um, tradition,” where, according to Jack and Josh and no one else, if an English person gives you a rock at the sea you need to make a wish before throwing it as hard as possible into the water. Then, no matter how much they bug you, you can’t tell anyone what your wish was. So, I took the rock, made a wish (cause a little extra wishing couldn’t hurt, right?) and threw the rock as hard as I could… all of like, four feet, before it splashed into the sea. And I will not tell anyone what that wish was, even if the tradition is fake.
I’m not really an outdoorsy person, as I’ve said before, but I was having a good time. I had my camera, I was with friends, we were all hanging out… and then I nearly broke my camera. Or maybe I should correct myself- JACK nearly broke my camera, by pushing me into the rocks, where I heard the metallic ding of my camera hitting a polished stone. It was fine, but there would’ve been bloodshed if that camera was broken. Legit, this could only end in a murder trial. THAT’S how seriously I take my photos.
Getting cold, we made our way to the street, where, beachside, there was an aquarium. Since Jess works at the London version, she could get us all in for free. The aquarium had been in use since the 1800’s, and you could tell from the great hall. Although all the actual equipment was pretty much state of the art, the architecture was clearly Victorian, with painted fish carvings set into slender pillars holding up the ceiling to the massive hall, filled with all different sorts of fish. In the side of the room was an open pool filled with different rays and crabs, which I swear came closer if you talked to them. I think we sat and talked to rays for twenty minutes. If someone waved their hand over them, they would move up, exposing the faces on their undersides. Gracefully wafting through the water, the rays were the stars of that particular pool, and likely would’ve been, at least for us, for the entire aquarium trip until we saw the sharks and sea turtles.
We entered a massive stadium-type room with a large pool of water filled with the same black-tipped sharks I used to accidentally catch while fishing with my dad ten years ago. Underneath was a tunnel, where you could walk under the water and see the fish up close. Automatically the group deferred to Jess, who is passionate about sharks (and that might even be an understatement). I think it’s pretty awesome, cause I remember when I loved sharks as a kid, though never parlaying that into the actual activism and academic study that Jess supports. I just thought sharks were cool, envying the natural confidence the animals embody, their sleek fierceness mixed with a beautiful grace. I like predators, and as a supremely morbid human being, I found the Jersey Shore shark attacks of 1916 to be a fascinating topic, the most interesting thing to come out of Jersey since Snookie (I’m JOKING, The Situation is clearly more intriguing). I don’t have the patience nor the passion to actually go out and study sharks. Jess does, and will over the summer (still jealous). So naturally we all sat and asked her questions about the sharks circling above us (though not necessarily in a menacing way, we were like, twice their size). She explained how to tell the difference between boy and girl sharks, where we then spent at least fifteen minutes analyzing the gender of every shark that swam above our clear tunnel. The animals took on personalities, including one sea turtle that was clearly embarrassed when it tried to glide all smoothly by but ended up getting caught on a branch. Our excuse to get out of the cold ended up becoming unintentionally educational.
After leaving the aquarium, we threaded our way through narrow streets filled with multi-colored houses- Brighton is clearly the San Francisco of England, in more ways than one, what with the bustling gay community and seaside culture- until we found a decent pub. While there we stole a bunch of condiments, and then I got made fun of (again), only this time it was for taking pictures of the mint sauce- in little green ketchup packets- and some condiments with the Houses of Parliament on them.
Soon the day was at an end, though we decided we had one last stop to make- for fish and chips. England is well aware of its international stereotype for foodstuffs like tea and the combination of fish and chips, only of course chips actually being fries since our chips are called crisps here. The fact that I haven’t eaten fish and chips after months in England confuses pretty much everyone I know, except for my close friends and family. Cause while I’ll eat chips, I absolutely cannot eat fish. Never could. Those childhood trips to Sanibel are marred by the memories of every meal, when my dad and later with my stepmom, would force me to eat fish. I’d gag, and sometimes start to cry, when I’d be hungry after a day at the beach and the only thing on my plate would be grouper or snapper, which I had to finish, no excuses. Even in Wisconsin I wasn’t safe, since my dad and stepmom love fish and would still force me to eat it, until only within the last year or so when I was finally allowed to pass. Even at restaurants until I was 18, I wasn’t allowed to order for myself, often facing down a plate of the dreaded fish, trying to hold my breath and covertly pass it to my sister. I’m picky as it is, but nothing makes me actually feel sick to my stomach on the scale fish does, nor does anything bring such annoying memories.
When we did make it to a fish and chips shop, with adorable painted dancing fish on the walls, I had to wait outside. I had to stand a few feet away, making a point to inhale the salty sea air, as far from the disgusting fish as possible. Some people might laugh, but it’s only funny until I throw up on you. I’m serious. Just last week, someone (and by someone I mean Chris), thought it’d be funny to try and smuggle some dried fish into my bed. Luckily, the door was locked, otherwise someone else would be dead right now. And I’m not talking about me. I don’t do well with dead fish, especially when it’s meant for consumption. I prefer to think of it as a charming eccentricity, though I’m sure most people just think it’s weird.
After the fish and chips excursion, we finally made it back to the train station, ready to put an end to a long day of new experiences. Expecting a relaxing train ride filled with conversation amongst ourselves, it was surprising and more than a little scary when a man walked into the train car with his girlfriend, covered in blood. The entire front of his shirt was stained red, and he had cuts all over his face. His head was topped with a green Guinness hat, because, well, it was St. Patrick’s Day. Of course, the man chose a seat right next to us, even though the rest of the train car was empty (some people on it actually moved when he came on the train), and asked if we had a problem with him “lighting up a fag,” as fag means cigarette here.
“So mate,” started Chris, since god forbid we not antagonize the man who clearly is unbothered by stab wounds, “What happened?”
Clearly drunk, Stabby McStabberson (as we had dubbed him) began his tale. “Well, I was just sitting at the pub, ya know, havin’ a drink and mindin’ my own business, havin’ a good St. Paddy’s Day, when this man just comes up to me and stabs me! Well, I started fighting back, and you shoulda seen him, you think I look bad, you shoulda seen him. They just patched me up and sent me on my way.” Clearly, he wasn’t just minding his own business, but this wouldn’t exactly be a prudent thing to mention. Stabby finished his cigarette (a massive fine if he got caught) and promptly passed out, causing him to miss his stop and us to help his poor girlfriend help navigate their way home.
Coming back to London was a relief, because it was home. Nothing beats the place you call home, no matter how temporary that home may be. Sure, it’s not my familiar bed in Wisconsin, but that doesn’t mean it’s not comforting after a long day. Brighton made me miss the ocean and my past life, my childhood running along a beach I haven’t been to in years. A place located thousands of miles away conjured up memories I had tried to ignore for months, even years, and the sound of the waves hitting the shore was enough to shorten the distance, erase the time, and take me back. I’m living in London, having experiences I couldn’t have dreamed about even three months ago, when I nervously packed my bags and left New York, confiding in my friend how terrified I was to start over again, meeting new people while leaving the old friends behind. Yet I still find there’s no way to separate my past from my present, and how even things we think are so insignificant at the time can shape who we are forever. My Brighton Beach Memoirs wouldn’t have so much of Brighton itself, though that was a truly awesome, eclectic place with a spirit of its own, but rather the memories Brighton provokes in me.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Mind the Gap
The London tube is much nicer than the New York subway. I know I’ve said that before, but it still holds up. Probably most helpful is the constant reminder to “mind the gap.” In the subway you’ll just hear, in a strong New York accent, “Watch your step,” if even that. “Mind the gap” just sounds better, and when paired with a generic English accent, it’s downright sophisticated. The reminder is completely necessary, however, because sometimes there’s legit a foot of space between the train and the platform. At first you’ll be standing on the edge of the train, ready to step forth into oblivion, until you remember that helpful prompt, look down, and realize just how far from the edge you really are.
That’s how London can be for me. Sometimes I forget I’m in England at all. We could be out in Shoreditch and my mind will somehow transplant me in the East Village, until I try to cross the street and remember the cars are coming from a different way. Or I’ll be sitting in my dorm, watching the clouds pass by from my window, lost in a book, and it won’t be until I hear some students pass my room speaking in English accents that I’ll realize I’m not in Wisconsin anymore. It can almost be like some bizarro world, where everything is so similar yet there’s still something fundamentally different that I just can’t place my finger on. We speak the same language, but with different accents and many different phrases. We watch a lot of the same shows and listen to a lot of the same music, until someone will make a reference to an English pop culture standard that everyone will understand but me, the American, who had never heard of it before. We eat the same food, in theory, though I’ll never understand this country’s obsession with Marmite and fish, and their insistence on adding ketchup to their different-tasting pizza. Books have different covers but the same insides, they begin numbering their floors at zero, making what’s technically the second floor labeled floor one, and even the toilets are different. It can get surreal, though I do want to clarify that I’m not saying one way is particularly better than the other.
One thing that’s struck me as surprising about England is how few people here ever admit to really loving their country. It’s not necessarily that English people hate England, rather that they’re just not nearly as vocal about their national pride and tend to be self-deprecating about this island nation as a whole. In America, you’re bashed over the head with patriotism from birth. The Fourth of July isn’t just a national holiday, it’s practically a holy day, where George Washington and the other Founding Fathers are deified to the extreme, messiahs to save us from tyranny and sin.
Probably an odd observation, but something I noticed none the less, is how few British flags there are hanging around. It’s not like I’m some weirdo who goes judging nationalism based on the number of patriotic symbols you can have hanging from your window, but I guess after living in America, where every other building has an American flag on display at least somewhere, and a lot of businesses do as well, I couldn’t help but see how few Union Jacks were flapping in the London wind. Hell, I’ve seen more houses back home with Wisconsin state flags than I have buildings here with the national standard. I’m not making any judgement, just stating something I’ve noticed.
“So,” one of my friends asked me, somewhat tentatively, as if afraid it may be a touchy-subject, “is it true that all Americans have to say some sort of pledge every morning before school?” After my affirmation, I was somewhat surprised at her reply of “Weiiirrrrdddd... just a little brainwashing, I guess.” I recited the whole thing, from memory, something I know I can do in my sleep if I wanted, after about 14 years of saying it every morning from preschool to high school graduation. Since I went to Catholic school all my life, I grew up starting the day with a prayer, facing the cross, then, depending on the layout of the classroom, shifting to face the flag, moving hands from folded across our midsections to letting the left arm drop and placing the right hand over the heart. Our pledge pose is almost more reverent than the one we use to speak to our Maker, with our hand placed directly over our lifelines rather than the lazy clasping of fingers we use for prayer. Through the pledge, from the words to the stance, we’re not just giving America our “allegiance,” however you interpret that to mean; we’re giving our hearts, minds, and very souls to the Union.
Maybe it is kind of weird, now that I think about it. I guess I just always assumed other countries had something similar, where schoolchildren were made to stand and pledge allegiance to the flag of wherever they were from as well. To be honest, I kind of like the pledge, besides the “under God” part, but that’s an entirely separate issue. Maybe it’s because I’m so used to it, I can’t imagine starting my morning classes as a kid any other way. Call it brainwashing, call it naivete, but I just don’t see what’s wrong with it.
English perceptions of America can be slightly terrifying. Someone once asked if it was true that most Americans were creationists. It was a relief to the kitchen table when I replied that not even a lot of Americans were, just a very vocal minority. Sarah Palin is probably the most famous American politician right now just barely after Barack Obama, and many people here take it for granted that if you disagree with one, you must automatically agree with the other. I’m not shy about my politics, and I’ll gladly tell anyone who I voted for- it’s never been a secret that I cast my ballot for McCain, and still consider him a great personal hero. I have, however, learned to be quieter about the “why” aspect of my politics, after an extremely difficult year. I’ve never felt the brunt of my peers’ anger more so than during and immediately after the election, so I’ll just say that while I self-identify as a Republican, I’m not going to explain my reasoning besides to say it’s personal and I’m not comfortable with the inevitable judgement. But I will make it clear- just because I don’t agree with Obama, does NOT mean I support Sarah Palin in any way, shape, or form, and I definitely do not aspire to be like her. Just, you know, clarifying. Cause that’s necessary.
Whenever new people ask me where I’m from, I respond with “the Midwest, but I go to uni in New York.” This ups my cool factor considerably, cause English people LOVE New York. Seriously. Forget LA, screw Miami, sorry Chicago, here it’s all about NYC. When I first met my English roommate Jess and answered the requisite “Where are you from?” question, she just laughed and said, “Everyone here wants to go so badly to New York but you actually leave THERE to come all the way HERE,” like I was sacrificing a suite at the Ritz for a closet at a Holiday Inn.
It’s not just the affinity for songs about New York, or movies placed there. Probably what I find the strangest is the massive proliferation of Yankee’s caps. They’re EVERYWHERE. When I first moved into the dorm, my program had given us money to spring for a cab, useful with all our baggage. My cab driver was a younger guy, pointing out any landmarks we passed- Abbey Road! And, um, the place where the tube got bombed. But hey, Abbey Road! When I mentioned I was in from New York, he got excited. “I love New York!” he exclaimed, “I’ve never been there, but look at my cap!” He gestured towards his hat, a black baseball cap with the familiar entwined Yankees logo. At first I thought it was a fluke, that I just happened to have a New York-phile cabbie. But nope, Yankees are HUGE here, without any of the interest in the actual sports involved. When I walked into tourist shop to pick up some postcards, I was surprised to find Yankees caps tucked in between Princess Diana shotglasses, Big Ben piggy banks, and Tube Map condoms. Why sell memorabilia from a completely different city in a completely different hemisphere in your tourist trap? The answer eludes me.
Coincidentally enough, I’m currently sitting in the dorm kitchen next to my friend, who, though having never been the NYC, is wearing a “Zoo York” shirt, with a Brooklyn Bridge design and the Yankee’s logo with the N switched out for a Z. Underneath that bridge is the word “Unbreakable,” which I guess it is, at least true in comparison to London Bridge’s penchant for falling down. Or, you know, at least according to the song.
There’s a book out here called “Brooklyn,” by Colm Toibin. I haven’t read it, and by the sounds of the description, I likely won’t. But the ads for it are everywhere in the Underground, massive posters that don’t have the Brooklyn Bridge on display, or maybe the Manhattan skyline as seen by Brooklyn. Nope, they just show the Empire State Building, up close and personal, as if to drive home the point that the book has something to do with New York City, no matter the borough.
What is it with New York here? If anything, it just makes me a bit nostalgic for Fordham, Lincoln Center, and Manhattan in general. I don’t easily get homesick. I never really have. But all this New York love does make me miss it, my favorite city, the place that’s kept me sane for the past few years. I’ve had a massive craving for the Flame, memories of Times Square, residual excitement for New York City nights, especially the rooftop parties with a view of the Empire State Building. I only know a handful of people here who’ve been to New York, though they all seem to love it. I genuinely want my friends to visit me, and even joke with my friend Jack, who loved New York on his visit a couple years ago, how we should get an apartment in a few years, no matter how much like the Odd Couple it would probably be like (I wouldn’t be the clean one, that’s for sure, I’m too cluttered).
It’s not just New York that’s entered the popular culture, America-wise. Just today, I’ve already heard the Beach Boys’ “Surfin’ USA” (for the umpteenth time in London) and Will Smith’s “Miami,” besides, of course, “Empire State of Mind” yet AGAIN.
Earlier we walked to Hampstead, a twee little village-y part of London right near where I live though much nicer. Hampstead itself epitomizes some of the American stereotypes of England- cozy little shops, traditional pubs with names like The Flask and The Holly Bush, cobblestone alleyways, and just general quaintness all around, as if it’s somewhat stuck in the 1950’s. Hampstead is about as traditionally English as London gets, though smack in the middle of it is a restaurant that bills itself as an “American Diner,” under the distinctly Hollywood name of Tinseltown. Inside are vinyl booths and photos of American celebrities, with glamorous award show shots of Tom Cruise, Paris Hilton, and Michael Douglas being just a few of the faces gracing the walls. The restaurant sells “American Classic Shakes” with both distinctly American brands for flavors (Oreo, Snickers) and very English brands that I had never heard of before coming here (Jaffa Cakes? Is that how you spell it?). The menu includes the “Empire State Burger,” because there’s clearly nothing more New York than the largest burger on the menu, and “Dinkytown Waffles,” so named after “a small Minneapolis town”- though never mind that Minneapolis is a city, not a state. Tinseltown itself was actually pretty awesome foodwise, with good quality, but that’s precisely why it’s nothing like my diners back home, the Flame in particular. The whole point of a diner is that the food isn’t always that great, the decor isn’t so contrived, but rather whatever the owners decided to throw together, and the clientele is mostly old people and cheap students rather than the British hipsters and oft-mentioned celebrities Tinseltown seems to attract. It’s apparently one of Russell Brand’s favorite restaurants, however, I’d be surprised if even the most D-List celebrity listed The Flame or something similar as theirs.
While sitting in an “authentic American diner,” I couldn’t help the compulsion to whip out my notebook and ask a few questions, cause I’m just THAT DEDICATED, dear reader, to this blog. “So,” I began, “What do you guys think of New York City?” It helped that Alicia Keys’ version of “Empire State of Mind” was playing over the loudspeaker (I’m really never going to escape that song, am I?) to get us all in the proper mood.
Chris, from Northern England and having never been to the city, answered as I scribbled furiously to keep up. “I just think it’s one of the most exciting places in the world, though I don’t like the over-21 rule.” Students here can’t imagine having to wait for a legal drink for at least another couple years, and the fact that even I, at 20, can’t order a glass of wine back home astounds them. “New York is a microcosm of the world, and I think people don’t necessarily think of it as a representation of America, but rather more of a world city.” This is true. Perhaps my closeness to NYC made it impossible for me to separate New York from my home country, but if New York’s not America, than what can it be? How can New York be any less American than, say, Milwaukee, or even frickin Delafield, Wisconsin, for that matter? Chris continued, though the discussion of New York City struck me as incongruous with his English accent. “New York’s the easiest place for English people to relate to.”
I wanted to ask more, but realized I was becoming some sort of weirdo journalist wannabe, taking notes on conversations I should just casually be having with friends. Plus, you know, the food came, and everyone got too busy stuffing their faces to talk much more about a city thousands of miles across the ocean that nearly none of them had visited. Why do English people relate to it so well? Why not LA, or Chicago, or Boston? LA’s interesting, though I can’t say I’m a fan. Chicago’s slightly more similar, weather-wise. Boston is the closest we have to matching London with sheer historical significance, even if it’s still a baby in terms of age. The rest of England isn’t, from what limited I’ve seen, much like London, just like the rest of America isn’t necessarily similar to New York.
In the few moments I took to ponder this, Chris shrugged in between sips of his “American” milkshake. “Plus, we all really like ‘Friends’ here, so that probably helps.” Great. An entire country loves New York, the city I’ve enjoyed from living there and experiencing its culture firsthand on and off for the last two and a half years, because of a fictional show featuring my nemesis Jennifer Aniston.
They began asking me the same question, but reversed- “How do Americans view London?” It was only fair, but I soon felt apprehensive. I could’ve gone into why I chose London- because I love British music and culture, because I’m an English major and this made the most sense, because it was the only city I could think of outside of America that could compare to New York, because I already spoke the language, and most of all, because I’m a bit of a freak and love history so much that I wanted to go to a place where I had grown up reading about their royal families and landmarks- for FUN. It’s sad when I start spouting off random factoids about Elizabeth I for example, or naming Henry VIII’s wives in order, or really a billion other sad history freakitude when I grew up not actually having to KNOW any of it. But my massive desire to be near the places my people of interest trod, no matter how odd, propelled me to London.
This isn’t really normal, though, and I got nervous answering the original question. I couldn’t really come up with an answer. I’m not really the best representative for America, but I end up being the token person my friends ask about my home country cause I’m often the only one in the room from there when the question comes up. It’s not that I mind- on the contrary, I love it, mainly cause I like to use it as an opportunity for me to learn about England, and there’s no better way than the osmosis of knowledge that takes place in conversation. I just think that my English friends are getting a pretty skewed, weirdo version of America through me. I’m not exactly what you’d call the typical American college student, if there is such a thing. I think anyone that owns more than 5 books on serial killers, made a Michael Jackson collage after he died, and has a massive yearning to visit all the important cemeteries in London is automatically out of the “normal” category no matter what happens.
Of course, it’s not all happiness and butterflies when it comes to English perceptions of America. Today alone I’ve heard at least three “Americans are stupid” jokes, but since they were from my friends I didn’t mind so much. What I DO mind is when adults make the same jokes, only worse, to a classroom half-filled with Americans. My Medieval Book professor, besides being a bit on the boring side and having a tendency to speak so slowly, there’s literally a pause... between... every... word, also has a bad habit of mocking the United States at literally every opportunity. Last class he spent an hour of the two hour period ragging on the US, when he full well knew quite a few of us were from there.
Sample quotes, which I have since I wrote them down directly as he said them, and just imagine there being a massive pause between each word as if they all carry some grand significance: “It may be possible that in America the students may not always pay attention, as I’m sure the possibility of getting shot with a concealed weapon makes concentration more difficult.” “America is a larger, and [sarcastically] more benign country than our own...” “In Medieval times the number one source for history was the Bible, as people then, just as people in the American South and their previous president’s administration do today, believed they were reading history as a story by God.” He does occasionally have a nice thing to say about our country here and there, like how he enjoys American students since we participate more (I’ve heard numerous professors say this) and actually lumps me in with the other English students since I don’t really talk that much and he assumes silence to be a British trait. Mostly, though, it’s all about how much America sucks and how terribly dangerous it all is.
I would never presume to say one country was better than the other, and I would definitely never, in a million years, go Brit-bashing. That’s stupid. When I first started hanging out with a lot of my English friends, a few were apprehensive about me and the other study abroad students. Apparently, there were a couple Americans here last semester (though thankfully gone now) that spent nearly every conversation telling the Britons that their country, culture, and heritage was terrible and all that mattered was America. Not only is this horribly offensive and patently untrue, it makes me wonder why they even bothered to study abroad in the first place, and what they could’ve possibly gotten out of it other than padding for their resumes. I’m here to experience English life, all of it, even parts that I might not necessarily like or agree with, and I definitely won’t pass judgement. I actually really like England, London especially, and can’t imagine how anyone can go on and on about how much they believe it sucks. Then they just hadn’t experienced enough of it. Oh, sure, I’ll complain about how it shuts down early here, but that’s because it prevents me from seeing MORE of London, not because I just feel like complaining. Why make fun of a city you voluntarily signed up for living in? Especially when that city actually is pretty cool, if you’re open-minded enough to give it a chance, like London is? I just don’t understand, and likely never will.
Every day here I find myself getting a little bit more used to my surroundings. For the first month or so, I’d inwardly geek out every time an English person spoke, reveling in the different accent. Now I don’t even notice. I find it perfectly natural for buses to have an upper deck, and always check to see which tube lines are closed for the weekend. There’s still a gap between America and England in my mind, and likely there always will be, but it’s steadily closing as the semester wears on. Hearing about events back home, sometimes I can’t help but wonder what’s more foreign now- the English events going on in my front yard or the American events far away, spanning an ocean and significant time difference. The distance between the train and platform may still be far, but sometimes you just have to leap across it, ready for whatever’s on the other side. Mind the gap.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Lost In Translation
Ok, I finally did it. I bit the bullet, brought myself to do something I should’ve done a long, long time ago.
I watched American Werewolf in London- the movie.
And dear god, is there a lot of naked.
I could see that this wasn’t the cinematic masterpiece I had been fooled into expecting. While it’s a classic (and I’m talking about the one from the 80’s, by the way, that I didn’t know was a remake), I can’t for the life of me figure out why. Ok, I like John Landis. I think he’s a good director. He did Animal House, and while that didn’t exactly seem to require much skill, it has still entered the annals of time as a comedic milestone. And of course, he did two videos with Michael Jackson, one being “Black or White,” with revolutionary face-morphing technology, and the other being “Thriller,” which is just revolutionary, period. By all accounts he seems like a decent guy, even funny.
But this was a terrible movie.
Within the first few minutes I can see why none of the actors ever really did anything else. They suck. I’ve seen better acting in local car commercials. While at first it seemed promising, with a wolf attack out of the gate, I was disappointed that the only character I even really liked died, and only appeared as a decomposing corpse. Then things start getting very, very naked. Like, legit, nudity galore. At least in the new Wolfman movie, Benicio Del Toro shifts with his clothes on (though, after recently seeing that, it’s not really the greatest movie in the world either). And Twilight’s gotta keep it PG-13, so Taylor Lautner’s not doffing it all (not that there wouldn’t be a demand, just saying). But, legit, you see the main character’s you-know-what about every ten minutes. It’s almost like John Landis just sort of gave up on looking for an actually good actor and just settled for someone who doesn’t mind baring it all. Not ok with it.
So while the movie has gone on to become a cult classic, that doesn’t necessarily mean it was good in the first place. I probably should have seen the film before naming my blog after it, but seriously, this is the best name I could think of. Therefore, I’m keeping the name, mostly because it’s embedded in the very URL, but also cause, well, it’s a cool name. Just, hopefully better than its namesake. With definitely less naked.
Anyways, a word about this blog. Because I’m just THAT dedicated, I carry a notebook around with me everywhere. It’s compact and silver, with the Jorvik Viking Center’s logo on it (the only good thing about the conference was the free notebook, sadly, as you can read about in my last post). Most of it is unintelligible, even to me, because my handwriting’s just that bad, but that’s fine cause it’s intended for my eyes only. I take notes on all sorts of things, from quotes some of my friends might say that I may think are really cool, documenting certain moments that I may want to remember, and, like a total 14 year old, possibly just venting.
Mostly, though, it’s for the blog. So, for your reading pleasure (all two of you who may be reading this right now), here’s another list of Things British People Say That Americans Don’t, collected from the past month or so of listening and note-taking.
Things I’ve Had To Learn To Say To Fit In Even Though I Sound Like A Pretentious Douchenozzle (And Some Might Be Repeats Cause I’m Too Lazy To Check)
- Lift- Elevator. No one says elevator. They’re all lifts. This is really the only instance the American word for an object sounds better than the British word. I find myself mentally saying it all the time, as in when I’m thinking “Oof, the room I have to get to is on the sixth floor? Screw that, I’m taking the lift.
- Cashpoint- I’m not really sure if this is just one word or two, but I’m condensing it here. In the US we call it an ATM, though in the Milwaukee area (and certain select other areas of the country) we call it a Tyme machine, mostly because A) it’s a cooler name, B) it stands for Take Your Money Everywhere, and C) that’s the original name, so suck it. But anyways, in London it’s cashpoint, and I’ve also gotten into the habit of saying that. Though if you go North, to York and beyond, they call an outdoors ATM a Hole in the Wall. Which led to much confusion on my York trip, since I generally think of a hole in the wall as something you’d want to avoid.
- xx- This isn’t really something you say out loud, but it’s definitely something you write. Pretty much every text/facebook message from an English person to their friends ends in xx, as in kisses, and sometimes you’ll get an o in there too. I think the only person back home I’ve ever received x’s and o’s from would be my mom, since it’s just not at all common in the US and generally regarded as cheesy. However, in the UK, it’s nearly mandatory to end messages in it, or otherwise you clearly hate that person. I’ve gotten text messages as mundane as “Anne, are you on your way back to unlock the door?” ending in “xx.” I’m trying to get into the habit, cause I think it’s kinda nice, but I feel like an idiot.
- Trousers- As I’ve said before in another blog post, trousers means pants because pants means underwear. And you really, really don’t want to get those confused. I have said “Argh, I’ve got a stain on my pants” and gotten at best an awkward silence and at worst straight-up guffawing accompanied by absolute disgust for a perceived overshare. However, I meant trousers, just to clear the air there.
- Uni- I don’t go to “college,” I go to “university,” and for short that means I’m a uni student. It’s so ubiquitous I’ve even used it to describe people back home, like saying that my sister’s in her first year of uni instead of that she’s a college freshman at Sarah Lawrence. I still feel like a douchebag for saying uni though.
- Quid- it means pounds, as in the currency. Something might be thirty quid. It’s like how we say fifty bucks (which I still say here by mistake) except a quid sounds like something you’d find in Harry Potter.
- Fiver, tenner, etc- A pound note denomination. We’ll just say a ten dollar bill, but here they say it’s a tenner. Though I have heard some Americans use it in relation to American currency, I haven’t nearly as much as I do here. It’s sort of a dumb thing to notice, but I tend to notice the weird stuff, so there you go.
- Film- this isn’t a new word to Americans. That would be stupid. But in England you don’t go to the theater to see a movie, you go to the cinema to see a film. I’ve always grown up thinking that only really classy, artistic movies could be considered films- like, Amelie is a film (one I still haven’t finished, cause I’m lame and don’t like subtitles). Britney Spears’ Crossroads, though I’m sure there are some people out there who would vouch for its excellence (and I’m equally sure those are people I don’t really want to hang out with), would never, ever be considered a film in the US. In England, however, it is, as is every movie ranging from Hot Rod to High School Musical. This is partially why English people sound so smart all the time.
- Slag- Skank, slut, whatever. We all have words for the same thing- a promiscuous woman. I prefer the old-fashioned “hussy” myself, but here the word of choice is slag. The entire word just sounds icky to me, which I guess is the point. It still sounds weird when my roommate asks if her outfit looks “too slaggy” since I still think a part of my brain just refuses to accept it as a real word. Oh, and the outfit in question wasn’t. For the really odd people who want to know.
- Half Nine- or half eight, half ten, whatever. Half nine is 9:30, in case for whatever reason you thought all the English were super mathletes who just randomly told time by dividing all number by two.
- Chicken Tikka Marsala- I have no idea if that’s spelled right. England LOVES Indian food. Even York was full of Indian restaurants. I had only had Indian food once before coming out here, and that was at a Desi Chai event and I was too freaked out to really eat much of it. Otherwise, the first proper time I had Indian food was when Kim and Mia visited and we ate it in Piccadilly Circus at about 1 AM. I’m now pretty much in love with chicken curry. Chicken Tikka Marsala actually isn’t technically Indian, but rather created by English people to seem Indian. Granted, most of the Chinese food in the US and other parts of the Western world is unknown in China, but this is sort of weird to me. McDonald’s in the UK sells chicken tikka and now they’re even marketing it to India of all places as an English-y dish. I haven’t had it yet, mainly cause I’m like the fussiest person ever (seriously, I don’t even like cheese, and that’s just one of many, many examples).
- Wee- as in, to urinate. I know, it’s a little lowbrow, even for this blog. But there’s just something about hearing someone in their twenties say they need to wee, a phrase my little half-siblings don’t even use and they’re toddlers.
- Shag- since we’re on the topic of lowbrow, anyone who’s seen Austin Powers knows what shag means. And yes, English people do actually use it in all seriousness.
- Queue- To stand in line, or the line itself. You’re not looking for the end of the line when you’re outside a club, you’re looking for the end of the queue.
- Lovely- No one in the US says lovely, unless you’re over the age of 80 and referring to flowery doilies or the outfits you knit for your cats. Here, it’s a common adjective, used to describe people mostly. It truly is a great word, and I think under-appreciated in America.
Ok, so those were things I have to say in England so people will understand me, but I still sound like a weirdo whenever I say them. Here’s another, similar list:
Things I Say As An Obnoxious American That My English Friends Can’t Say Without Sounding Like Douchebags (Or At The Very Least They Can’t Say Very Often)
- Douchebag- While calling someone a douche exists, sort of, it’s not nearly as common as it is in the US and definitely not all the different variations. Douchebag happens to be my favorite insult, but here they prefer worse words.
- Crapshoot- My roommate and I were out shopping for a coat the other day and she mentioned going to a charity shop to find one. “Well, it’d be cheap, but actually finding a good coat would be such a crapshoot” I replied. She had no idea what I was talking about. I even tried to explain- a crapshoot means it’s sort of a one in a million chance, a small possibility, but either way, I was reminded about how stupid the phrase sounds in the first place. I mean, crapshoot? Even if you assume it’s about shooting the fish, like I do, it still sounds odd, and shooting the other type of crap makes it downright disgusting.
- Legit- I actually never said legit until I moved out East, when Kim would say it all the time. I haven’t said the word legitimate since. Legit is such a versatile word, and has become my stand-in for “like,” sounding vaguely less Valley Girl. People here, on the other hand, make fun of me for saying it all the time, which is legit not cool.
- Soda- In England soda is literal, as in the soda water we have back home. If they want a coke, they say they’re getting a coke. If they want a diet coke, they say they’re getting a diet coke. I can’t help but say “Oh hey guys, I’m going to the store to get some soda,” and have everyone look at me funny. Everyone looks at me funny a lot, here, actually. Maybe I should take the hint.
- Flip Your Shit- Meaning, to Americans, to freak out, no one says that here. The first time I said it my friends were like, “Flip your what? And why?”
- Strike Out- Maybe because it’s a baseball reference. When I texted a friend of mine that I saw someone strike out at a party, I got a text asking for a translation. I had to explain that it meant that the person in question was rejected. Personally, I love that phrase.
Then there are other things that get lost in translation. I’m getting used to the accent, but sometimes it fails me, and I have to ask people to repeat things all the time. I’m sure it’s supremely annoying, hearing my uncouth “What?” after every other sentence, but I legitimately have trouble understanding sometimes. One example was the other night. A friend turned and asked me what sound like, “Do you have a palmenta at home?”
“Huh?” I replied, “What’s a palmenta?” assuming it’s one of those distinctly British things like Marmite or Eastenders.
“Palenta?”
“Huh? Like the food? Isn’t that a food?” My confusion was growing.
“No, a belenda.”
“Um...” I knew I was being annoying, and I could feel everyone’s frustration growing. I was tempted just to nod my head and pretend that I could understand, but unsure what I would be nodding to. “Brenda? I don’t know any Brendas...”
Finally, my friend just heaved a massive sigh. “Dear god, Anne, a blendah, you know, what you make smoothies with, that sounds like this-” She then accompanied a spinning hand motion with a whirring, growling sound.
“Ohhh, a BLENDER. No, I don’t have one of those.”
“Jesus, Anne.”
This literally happens to me EVERY SINGLE DAY. I would like to take the time to apologize to everyone who I make repeat things all the time, which would likely be every single English person I’ve ever spoken to. Sorry about that.
There are also differences in phrases. In the US, you see someone you know, you ask “Hey, what’s up?” Here, the equivalent is “You alright?” For the first few weeks, I literally thought everyone just assumed I was depressed and about to cry all the time, since the only time you ask someone if they’re alright in the US is if they look like they’ve witnessed the brutal murder of a kitten. I even asked people, “What? Do I not look like I’m alright?” only to have them speak slowly to me like I was an idiot that I looked fine. Of course, sometimes “You alright?” can really actually mean, “Are you OK? Since you look like you just saw The Notebook.” In turn, whenever I see someone I know, I say, “Hey, what’s up?” It wasn’t until yesterday when one of my friends confronted me about it that I realized I was doing the exact same thing to my English friends as they were doing to me- you only ask people “what’s up?” around here if they seem terribly sad. I never thought “What’s up?” could be taken for “Who died?” when asked in random conversation before.
While I’ve been learning the English lingo, I have something embarrassing to admit. Sometimes I can feel my voice overcompensate for the lack of Americanness around me, and sometimes I say regional American things I’ve never, ever said before in my life. Here are some examples:
- On line. Not in the internet sense, but as a replacement for “in line,” as in “are you on line for the bathroom?” This is a phrase only employed in New York City and the surrounding areas. Sure, at Fordham, I’d HEAR “on line” all the time, but even living there I never actually said it. Now, I’ve found myself actually saying it. Maybe it’s to make up for the queue confusion, but I honestly have no idea how a New York phrase I never actually said in New York has entered my vocabulary in London.
- Yo. I’ve never said yo. I never thought I would ever actually say yo. I’m not cool enough to say yo ironically, and I’m not cool enough to say yo unironically. I’m not cool enough to say yo period, and I always thought I knew this. However, it’s slipped into my speech here, likely in the absence of yo in England itself.
- Ya’ll. This is easily the worst and most embarrassing of every random phrase I’ve started saying. Ya’ll in and of itself isn’t embarrassing. In fact, said by the right people, it can be super endearing and adorable. However, I qualify in no way, shape, or form as the right kind of person to say ya’ll. I’m not Southern. I’ve never lived in the South. Besides going to Sanibel Island in Florida all my life, I’ve never really even been to the South, and Southwest Florida barely even counts as Southern, since it’s more like a warm enclave of the Midwest and East Coast, especially Sanibel/Captiva. I’ve never set foot in Texas, Georgia, Kentucky, or Mississippi. There is absolutely NO REASON ON EARTH for me to say ya’ll. So why do I say it? That’s the mystery. I’ve mostly caught myself, but for a couple brief weeks in February, ya’ll was my word of choice. Maybe I’m overcompensating. Maybe I’m just becoming an American stereotype, fulfilling what my English friends think an American should say and be. Either way, a Wisconsinite and New York transplant has absolutely no business whatsoever using phrases claimed by the South. It’s just... weird, and almost disrespectful to the people who really mean it.
That’s pretty much all I have for now. Language is fun for me, and the differences in dialect has always been one of my fave subjects, whether it’s between the East Coast and Midwest, New York and Wisconsin, or England and America. We all speak English, but it’s amazing how much we can’t always understand each other.
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