Wednesday, 28 March 2012
Are you ready for this? Really? Honestly? Good, that's what I want to hear, because what you are about to read, well, what you are reading at this very moment, is the most spontaneous post that I have ever written: the airport post. That's right, dear readers, in only a few hours I will be shoved into a giant metal tube full of peanuts and launched at 500mph back to Britain, and the imminent nature of my departure has left several feelings swimming around my tummy.
Excitement is probably the most prominent, though. I mean for the past month, every time my eyes have flicked over to the top left corner of my wonderful iPod touch at the little 'aeroplane mode' icon, I cannot help myself from getting as excited as a little fat child plonked into a sweet shop, with a crisp £20 note grasped in his podgy hands. Is that shallow? Maybe. Childish? Almost definantly. But to be honest, I don't really care! I'm going to London! And do you know what the first thing that I am going to do once there, dear readers? I'm going to sit down, put the kettle on, and have a scone. Yum.
But as inviting as that image may be, i feel strangely attached to my new location, even though they don't have scones here. Shocking, I know. But the past eight months have been incredible. Absolutely brilliant. Who cares if I still look the wrong way when crossing the road, or that I look hopelessly touristy when I am lost! Well, I kind of do, to be honest, but that's not the point that I was getting at. The point I was going for was that it has really been one truly amazing experience.
What I would like to do now, or rather what I have begun doing, is to share with you some of the things that I've stumbled upon over these past few months. I apologise in advance that none of them actually involve me, well, to be honest I'd think you'll all be quite thankful, but for those of you who don't know me, I'm not really too fond of being in front of a camera. Instead, I prefer to take my own little pictures of things which interest me. So, with the help of my iPod's camera and a few little apps along the way, I have attached a few picturess which I'd thought you all would like. I know they're nothing special. I mean, we have flowers and cows in London too, but there is something comforting about seeing homely things away from home. Although, I think that we'd all agree that the smell of cow poo is universally displeasing.
Now, if my understanding of the native language is correct, I believe that that ding dong over the tanoy just announced the boarding of my flight. Before I do board though, I would like to apologise for my inevitable actions in advance. If any of you out there happen to be on a plane where some prat is bellowing 'Rule Britania' at the top of his voice, well, I think who we can all guess who that might be...
Prepare yourselves. I'm coming.
Excitement is probably the most prominent, though. I mean for the past month, every time my eyes have flicked over to the top left corner of my wonderful iPod touch at the little 'aeroplane mode' icon, I cannot help myself from getting as excited as a little fat child plonked into a sweet shop, with a crisp £20 note grasped in his podgy hands. Is that shallow? Maybe. Childish? Almost definantly. But to be honest, I don't really care! I'm going to London! And do you know what the first thing that I am going to do once there, dear readers? I'm going to sit down, put the kettle on, and have a scone. Yum.
But as inviting as that image may be, i feel strangely attached to my new location, even though they don't have scones here. Shocking, I know. But the past eight months have been incredible. Absolutely brilliant. Who cares if I still look the wrong way when crossing the road, or that I look hopelessly touristy when I am lost! Well, I kind of do, to be honest, but that's not the point that I was getting at. The point I was going for was that it has really been one truly amazing experience.
What I would like to do now, or rather what I have begun doing, is to share with you some of the things that I've stumbled upon over these past few months. I apologise in advance that none of them actually involve me, well, to be honest I'd think you'll all be quite thankful, but for those of you who don't know me, I'm not really too fond of being in front of a camera. Instead, I prefer to take my own little pictures of things which interest me. So, with the help of my iPod's camera and a few little apps along the way, I have attached a few picturess which I'd thought you all would like. I know they're nothing special. I mean, we have flowers and cows in London too, but there is something comforting about seeing homely things away from home. Although, I think that we'd all agree that the smell of cow poo is universally displeasing.
Now, if my understanding of the native language is correct, I believe that that ding dong over the tanoy just announced the boarding of my flight. Before I do board though, I would like to apologise for my inevitable actions in advance. If any of you out there happen to be on a plane where some prat is bellowing 'Rule Britania' at the top of his voice, well, I think who we can all guess who that might be...
Prepare yourselves. I'm coming.
Friday, 16 March 2012
All I have to say to that is that they'd better do, because in a week and a bit I will be returning to Britain! Hurrah! But don't get too excited just yet, dear readers. I'm only visiting for three weeks. It's not permanent. Sorry.
You would think I would feel bad for leading you along that emotional roller-coaster, but I don't. Well, maybe a bit. But the feeling of guilt is remarkably lessened, because I have been experiencing my own little roller-coaster for the last few days. My mind has been constantly flitting back and forth, through excitement to nervousness, from anticipation to not caring, but I think the safest thing to say is that I am looking forward to having a jolly good curry when I get back. Chicken Jalfrezi, if you wanted to know. And if you didn't, well, too bad.
To be honest though, I'm not quite sure how I should feel. Part of me expects to be greeted at Heathrow terminal 1 by the Queen herself. There she would be, standing on the red carpet amongst depressed, sleep deprived, caffeine powered taxi drivers, holding out a scone and a biscuit whilst the royal guard play fanfares on those funny little trumpets and a little bloke in coat-tails and a top hat bellows at the top of his voice, "Hear ye, hear ye! His lordship has returned!" Nothing too pretentious, you know. But somehow, I doubt that will happen. Doubt. Not rule out. I still hold that little bit of hope. Oh, and by the way, before any of you even think of making a joke or asking, no, that is not the norm for us. Sadly. I can't exactly imagine Her Majesty being employed by British Airways as a stewardess. I mean, she isn't anywhere near orange enough, and the crown would definately clash with the uniform. Seeing as that situation isn't too likely to arise, I can therefore expect to be greeted by my darling family with open arms. Ah, what a lovely image. It's not quite as lovely as the full brass band and Her Maj, but they'll have to do for now.
Having analysed my arrival plans, the issue of what I will do afterwards is still in question. Frustratingly, what a rather large part of me wants to do is to, well, be a tourist! The irony is outrageous! Having spent all this time blending in here, am I really going to go back home and act like a bloody tourist there?! Really?! Because I already know what the reaction will be, and I don't particularly want to have magnitudes of strangers tutting at me whilst I run around the streets draped in my giant union-jack and an 'I heart London' t-shirt. But sod it, maybe I should. You never get to visit any Touristy places in your own country. It's not really a rule, but it's just something that we don't often do. Every time the motion is brought up amongst friends or family, the conclusion we always reach will be something along the lines of, "Eh, forget it. It's just a big clock". And that's the truth. Why bother? But now, now it's different. Having been separated from Blighty for eight months, I feel like I can sort of justify my desires. Who cares if some snob tuts. Who cares if I get the odd look on the tube. I'm doing it.
So, if any if you will be in London over the next few weeks, just keep an eye out for a rather bubbly and happy looking bloke covered from head to toe in tourist merchandise, because it could very well be me. Actually, it probably won't be. I have far to much self respect for that. Instead, I will be calmly touring, dressed in sensible clothes, with a copy of The Times under my arm, and a look of social awkwardness whenever a stranger enters my life. That's the British way!
You would think I would feel bad for leading you along that emotional roller-coaster, but I don't. Well, maybe a bit. But the feeling of guilt is remarkably lessened, because I have been experiencing my own little roller-coaster for the last few days. My mind has been constantly flitting back and forth, through excitement to nervousness, from anticipation to not caring, but I think the safest thing to say is that I am looking forward to having a jolly good curry when I get back. Chicken Jalfrezi, if you wanted to know. And if you didn't, well, too bad.
To be honest though, I'm not quite sure how I should feel. Part of me expects to be greeted at Heathrow terminal 1 by the Queen herself. There she would be, standing on the red carpet amongst depressed, sleep deprived, caffeine powered taxi drivers, holding out a scone and a biscuit whilst the royal guard play fanfares on those funny little trumpets and a little bloke in coat-tails and a top hat bellows at the top of his voice, "Hear ye, hear ye! His lordship has returned!" Nothing too pretentious, you know. But somehow, I doubt that will happen. Doubt. Not rule out. I still hold that little bit of hope. Oh, and by the way, before any of you even think of making a joke or asking, no, that is not the norm for us. Sadly. I can't exactly imagine Her Majesty being employed by British Airways as a stewardess. I mean, she isn't anywhere near orange enough, and the crown would definately clash with the uniform. Seeing as that situation isn't too likely to arise, I can therefore expect to be greeted by my darling family with open arms. Ah, what a lovely image. It's not quite as lovely as the full brass band and Her Maj, but they'll have to do for now.
Having analysed my arrival plans, the issue of what I will do afterwards is still in question. Frustratingly, what a rather large part of me wants to do is to, well, be a tourist! The irony is outrageous! Having spent all this time blending in here, am I really going to go back home and act like a bloody tourist there?! Really?! Because I already know what the reaction will be, and I don't particularly want to have magnitudes of strangers tutting at me whilst I run around the streets draped in my giant union-jack and an 'I heart London' t-shirt. But sod it, maybe I should. You never get to visit any Touristy places in your own country. It's not really a rule, but it's just something that we don't often do. Every time the motion is brought up amongst friends or family, the conclusion we always reach will be something along the lines of, "Eh, forget it. It's just a big clock". And that's the truth. Why bother? But now, now it's different. Having been separated from Blighty for eight months, I feel like I can sort of justify my desires. Who cares if some snob tuts. Who cares if I get the odd look on the tube. I'm doing it.
So, if any if you will be in London over the next few weeks, just keep an eye out for a rather bubbly and happy looking bloke covered from head to toe in tourist merchandise, because it could very well be me. Actually, it probably won't be. I have far to much self respect for that. Instead, I will be calmly touring, dressed in sensible clothes, with a copy of The Times under my arm, and a look of social awkwardness whenever a stranger enters my life. That's the British way!
Friday, 24 February 2012
Stereotypes. That is the topic for today's post. But I'm sure you guessed that from the title, didn't you? If not, well, what can I say? Have you ever heard of Britain? Is my blog the basis of all your assumptions on our rather peculiar mannerisms and characteristics?
For the sake of the entire world and the future of mankind, I sincerely hope the latter is not true. Please do not take everything I say literally. I know this is a hard thing for you, because as I rediscovered only a few days ago, people will believe anything if it is said in a British accent. I mean, you believed that, didn't you? I would like to say that I am extremely responsible and do not abuse this new-found power of mine, but that would be a lie. I cannot help myself from time-to-time. Once in a while. Every other Wednesday. Ok, fine, that's a lie too. I do it all the time. But do not think of me as a deceitful person, dear reader, I mean, in the end I do correct them... occasionally. Actually, I still think that there might be somebody wandering around with the belief that at 11:00 every day in London, we all get up, face Westwards, put on the kettle, and begin to do a river dance whilst singing the national anthem. Whoops.
Before I begin to wallow in my grief and guilt (whilst secretly giggling), I will argue that there might be some truth in that. Well, not a lot really, but if we exclude the timings, the singing, and the river dancing - pretty much the entire content of the lie, we are left with one point. Tea. And we do like our tea. I'd like to imagine that at some stage in every Brit's life, that they and their family have sat back in front of the telly, each with a hot mug of PG Tips (with milk, obviously), and slowly vegetated in the silence. It's not a very exciting image, I must admit, but it's homely. Sorry to shatter your image of us formally sitting at a table, dressed in coat-tails, a top-hat, and a monocle, but it is important that you know the truth, because more often than not, we will either be in our pyjamas or tracksuits (that would be sweatpants for all you Americans out there).
Now, before you all rush off and get excited, there is a point that I must stress. We do not, I repeat (mainly for the benefit of any non-Brits reading), we do not have tea-time! There is no set time in our daily schedule when we will drop everything that we are doing, put on the kettle, and toast a couple of crumpets! I have no idea where this bizarre concept came from, and I have even less of an idea why it prompts people (generally of the prat-ish sort) to wander up to me and ask the following in a highly unconvincing British accent: "Is you have tea-time with the Queen? At the Bucklingham palace?" If you too have asked yourself the same question of us Britons, the answer is yes, yes we do. But not always at the palace. Sometimes we have it in our pyjamas in my living room at home. Tea-time. Honestly.
Seeing as none of you can hear me (unless, of course, you are extremely talented), I can only hope that you all imagined me along with millions of other Brits tutting in that past sentence. If not, I guess you have done so now. What an absurd idea tea-time is. Setting a time aside in the day to sit down, drink tea and consume vast amounts of biscuits, scones, crumpets, and other cake-like snacks, it sounds... well, bloody brilliant to be honest! Why aren't we doing more of this?! How did the world come up with this wonderful activity for us that we never took advantage of?! For a race which is supposedly meant to be (or a least sound) intelligent, I think we missed something there. How is it that America, stereotypically a silly nation, managed to think this up? Perhaps they aren't as stupid as they are made out to be. Although, they weren't exactly clever enough to adopt the practice themselves, so I guess our views don't need to be changed.
Hmm... After all this talk about tea, I quite fancy a cuppa now. And although it is 16:56 and nearly an hour past my supposed slot for tea, I think that is exactly what I'm going to have. I'm not sure the queen will be able to make it on such short notice though. Oh well, I guess I'll try tomorrow.
For the sake of the entire world and the future of mankind, I sincerely hope the latter is not true. Please do not take everything I say literally. I know this is a hard thing for you, because as I rediscovered only a few days ago, people will believe anything if it is said in a British accent. I mean, you believed that, didn't you? I would like to say that I am extremely responsible and do not abuse this new-found power of mine, but that would be a lie. I cannot help myself from time-to-time. Once in a while. Every other Wednesday. Ok, fine, that's a lie too. I do it all the time. But do not think of me as a deceitful person, dear reader, I mean, in the end I do correct them... occasionally. Actually, I still think that there might be somebody wandering around with the belief that at 11:00 every day in London, we all get up, face Westwards, put on the kettle, and begin to do a river dance whilst singing the national anthem. Whoops.
Before I begin to wallow in my grief and guilt (whilst secretly giggling), I will argue that there might be some truth in that. Well, not a lot really, but if we exclude the timings, the singing, and the river dancing - pretty much the entire content of the lie, we are left with one point. Tea. And we do like our tea. I'd like to imagine that at some stage in every Brit's life, that they and their family have sat back in front of the telly, each with a hot mug of PG Tips (with milk, obviously), and slowly vegetated in the silence. It's not a very exciting image, I must admit, but it's homely. Sorry to shatter your image of us formally sitting at a table, dressed in coat-tails, a top-hat, and a monocle, but it is important that you know the truth, because more often than not, we will either be in our pyjamas or tracksuits (that would be sweatpants for all you Americans out there).
Now, before you all rush off and get excited, there is a point that I must stress. We do not, I repeat (mainly for the benefit of any non-Brits reading), we do not have tea-time! There is no set time in our daily schedule when we will drop everything that we are doing, put on the kettle, and toast a couple of crumpets! I have no idea where this bizarre concept came from, and I have even less of an idea why it prompts people (generally of the prat-ish sort) to wander up to me and ask the following in a highly unconvincing British accent: "Is you have tea-time with the Queen? At the Bucklingham palace?" If you too have asked yourself the same question of us Britons, the answer is yes, yes we do. But not always at the palace. Sometimes we have it in our pyjamas in my living room at home. Tea-time. Honestly.
Seeing as none of you can hear me (unless, of course, you are extremely talented), I can only hope that you all imagined me along with millions of other Brits tutting in that past sentence. If not, I guess you have done so now. What an absurd idea tea-time is. Setting a time aside in the day to sit down, drink tea and consume vast amounts of biscuits, scones, crumpets, and other cake-like snacks, it sounds... well, bloody brilliant to be honest! Why aren't we doing more of this?! How did the world come up with this wonderful activity for us that we never took advantage of?! For a race which is supposedly meant to be (or a least sound) intelligent, I think we missed something there. How is it that America, stereotypically a silly nation, managed to think this up? Perhaps they aren't as stupid as they are made out to be. Although, they weren't exactly clever enough to adopt the practice themselves, so I guess our views don't need to be changed.
Hmm... After all this talk about tea, I quite fancy a cuppa now. And although it is 16:56 and nearly an hour past my supposed slot for tea, I think that is exactly what I'm going to have. I'm not sure the queen will be able to make it on such short notice though. Oh well, I guess I'll try tomorrow.
Sunday, 19 February 2012
I'm sure you will all know (or if your knowledge is lacking, will guess) that the biggest barrier that one would face living abroad would be the language. And you would be right. It's bloody impossible.
Six months, six whole months (well, almost) I have been here, and a full four years in school I spent learning, yet still, I am unable to speak the ruddy language. Well, that's not entirely true, I will confess. I can get by, but I doubt that incoherent sentences coupled with over-expressive hand gestures counts. But that is not the frustrating part. It is extremely annoying, I admit, but it is nothing compared to my next problem. I hope I am right in saying that I think the following is common amongst everybody with a foreign language, and if not, well, let's just say you are slightly odd and leave it at that. Here it comes then; the most irritating thing of all is that I can understand more than I can speak. There. I said it.
Even though a sizeable portion of my education was spent twiddling my thumbs and longingly staring out of the window at those playing football (that's soccer to all you Americans reading, NOT your silly excuse for a sport), I must have absorbed a certain, I'm not really sure what to call it other than a 'tolerance' or a 'familiarity' with the language. Although this is still better than nothing, the following scenario has now become a regular occurrence in my life. I'll be down the shops or merrily walking on the street, minding my own business, musing over the previous day and slowly dissecting its events to decipher some meaning (oh, you don't do this too? Awkward...), and a local will approach out of nowhere and ask me a question. Now, I often understand what they are asking of me, but due to my general incompetence at life, my usual response is to stand there blubbing, failing at producing any sort of recognisable sound. Instantly, I am then deemed worthless. A mere waste of space. And occasionally, I have even been mistaken for a severely mentally ill ape.
For those silently (or verbally - I have no way of knowing) judging me, have a bit of sense! Yes, somebody who knows nothing will have exactly the same reaction, but more often than not, they expect to be seen in that way! And if not, well, maybe they really are apes! But seriously, my frustration is getting to the point that I actually get angry at little kids in the street. There they are, happily running around and speaking the language fluently. The arrogant little so-and-sos. How dare they! I am a good amount older than them! I should be able to speak it too! All I want to do is to scream at them going, "How?! How do you do it little person?! Teach me your wise ways once you have finished skipping around the road with your equally talented friends!" I won't do it though, just in case you are worried. I am far too sensible and British for that. Plus, although I am slightly odd, I am not that kind of odd. My kind of odd is more like loving to be in the car when it rains or preferring to drink cold water out of a mug. I think I might have strayed from the point there. And used the word 'odd' far too many times. Right, now, back to reality.
Although I do try and speak as much of the language as I can, whenever the opportunity arises to speak English, I take it. Whether it's meeting new people or trying to arrange transport, I feel that with important issues such as these, using a foreign language will be more than less than unhelpful. But even then there is a little problem, and it was only over the past weekend that I fully noticed it, giving me the idea for today's post. American English is very different to British English. And by different, I mean it's wrong. So very wrong. All this 'jelly', 'jello', and 'sidewalk' business is quite silly. I mean, when I finally find someone who can speak English in a sea of people who don't, imagine my annoyance and disappointment when I find out that neither of us can understand each other. So if any of you out there are American, whilst I love you all deeply, please stop talking funny. Ta.
In my attempt to bring a small understanding to our different cultures, I did a little bit of research. Well, not exactly research. I spent a full 23 seconds on Google. But still, what I found will prove useful to you all. It is an American-British dictionary! Gone are the days when people will look confused and go, "Sorry, what?!" or, "Who says that?!" I like to think I do my little bit for society. For your upmost convenience, I have attached the link below. Use it wisely. But that is it from me for now. Terrah!
http://www.bg-map.com/us-uk.html
Six months, six whole months (well, almost) I have been here, and a full four years in school I spent learning, yet still, I am unable to speak the ruddy language. Well, that's not entirely true, I will confess. I can get by, but I doubt that incoherent sentences coupled with over-expressive hand gestures counts. But that is not the frustrating part. It is extremely annoying, I admit, but it is nothing compared to my next problem. I hope I am right in saying that I think the following is common amongst everybody with a foreign language, and if not, well, let's just say you are slightly odd and leave it at that. Here it comes then; the most irritating thing of all is that I can understand more than I can speak. There. I said it.
Even though a sizeable portion of my education was spent twiddling my thumbs and longingly staring out of the window at those playing football (that's soccer to all you Americans reading, NOT your silly excuse for a sport), I must have absorbed a certain, I'm not really sure what to call it other than a 'tolerance' or a 'familiarity' with the language. Although this is still better than nothing, the following scenario has now become a regular occurrence in my life. I'll be down the shops or merrily walking on the street, minding my own business, musing over the previous day and slowly dissecting its events to decipher some meaning (oh, you don't do this too? Awkward...), and a local will approach out of nowhere and ask me a question. Now, I often understand what they are asking of me, but due to my general incompetence at life, my usual response is to stand there blubbing, failing at producing any sort of recognisable sound. Instantly, I am then deemed worthless. A mere waste of space. And occasionally, I have even been mistaken for a severely mentally ill ape.
For those silently (or verbally - I have no way of knowing) judging me, have a bit of sense! Yes, somebody who knows nothing will have exactly the same reaction, but more often than not, they expect to be seen in that way! And if not, well, maybe they really are apes! But seriously, my frustration is getting to the point that I actually get angry at little kids in the street. There they are, happily running around and speaking the language fluently. The arrogant little so-and-sos. How dare they! I am a good amount older than them! I should be able to speak it too! All I want to do is to scream at them going, "How?! How do you do it little person?! Teach me your wise ways once you have finished skipping around the road with your equally talented friends!" I won't do it though, just in case you are worried. I am far too sensible and British for that. Plus, although I am slightly odd, I am not that kind of odd. My kind of odd is more like loving to be in the car when it rains or preferring to drink cold water out of a mug. I think I might have strayed from the point there. And used the word 'odd' far too many times. Right, now, back to reality.
Although I do try and speak as much of the language as I can, whenever the opportunity arises to speak English, I take it. Whether it's meeting new people or trying to arrange transport, I feel that with important issues such as these, using a foreign language will be more than less than unhelpful. But even then there is a little problem, and it was only over the past weekend that I fully noticed it, giving me the idea for today's post. American English is very different to British English. And by different, I mean it's wrong. So very wrong. All this 'jelly', 'jello', and 'sidewalk' business is quite silly. I mean, when I finally find someone who can speak English in a sea of people who don't, imagine my annoyance and disappointment when I find out that neither of us can understand each other. So if any of you out there are American, whilst I love you all deeply, please stop talking funny. Ta.
In my attempt to bring a small understanding to our different cultures, I did a little bit of research. Well, not exactly research. I spent a full 23 seconds on Google. But still, what I found will prove useful to you all. It is an American-British dictionary! Gone are the days when people will look confused and go, "Sorry, what?!" or, "Who says that?!" I like to think I do my little bit for society. For your upmost convenience, I have attached the link below. Use it wisely. But that is it from me for now. Terrah!
http://www.bg-map.com/us-uk.html
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
After almost half a year abroad, I think it is now safe for me to admit that some progress has been made towards my integration! I have discovered that where I am, there is absolutely no sense of embarrassment, politeness, or personal space. Actually, scratch that - it isn't progress at all. But it is an important realisation, since it was my awareness of this that made me realise just how British I am.
This shocking discovery was made around three days ago. There I was, talking to a group of friends on the pavement, when out of nowhere a bloke walked straight into my side. After recovering from the trauma of a stranger entering into my life (a major shock for any Brit), I felt my mouth begin to move, and I heard myself saying it. I tried to catch it on the way out, but I was too late. There, in my thick British accent, I turned round and said, "Sorry".
What?! Sorry?! Could I possibly have been any more British?! I might as well have been wearing coat tails, a top hat, and been draped in a Union Jack and said, "Oh sorry old chap, I seem to have been somewhat of an inconvenience by standing here. I should have known that you were planning to pass through the small area that I occupied. If you would allow me to extract myself from under your body, I will remove myself from your presence and allow you to continue with your life." It puzzles me how I am supposed to blend in when my subconsious is wired to produce such ridiculous reactions.
In hindsight, I suppose what I should have said would have been more along the lines of, "You moron! Do you not look where you are going?! How hard is it to tell if somebody is in front of you or not? Or maybe I have suddenly gained the power of invisibility! Is it time for me to start wearing my underwear over my clothes and prance round in tights until a film is made about me? No? Well, I suggest that next time you are walking around you spend less time checking out passers-by on the street and occasionally look in front of yourself!" Ok, fine. That might have been a bit harsh. After all, I don't want to integrate too much. But I think that we can agree that in this case, "Sorry" can be roughly translated as, "I am ever so sorry for your general lack of intelligence and for how you must have been dropped on your head as a baby".
As long as I continue to have these reactions, I think you'll agree that I face a mahoosive task to blend in. What's more is that these moments are not just limited to the word "sorry". An absurd amount of unnecessary politeness is engrained in almost every inch of my being. And it shows. Being alone and abroad, friends and family often invite me round for a meal, and that's lovely! You cannot beat the company or the cooking of a home environment! But inevitably, at some point throughout the meal, the test will come: seconds. This is not, as one might think, a test of my self control in an attempt to diet, oh no. It is a lot more complicated than that. Often, what I want to say is, "Why thank you, it's all delicious!", but before I have had time to assess the situation, the words, "No thank you" have already left my lips. Why am I saying that?! But more importantly, how on earth do I stop?! It's not as if I can turn round a few seconds later and go, "Erm... I might have lied before. I would actually love a little more of everything please!" Come to think of it, if I ever was to diet, this problem (especially considering my overactive appetite) could prove extremely useful.
Seeing as I have little desire to starve myself silly for no other purpose than to fit into a slightly smaller pair of jeans, this aspect to my character can quite frankly bugger off as far as I'm concerned. I'd much rather not have to apologise for other people's mistakes and be able to say what I want than be left with the constant frustration of rueing what my inner British self decides for me. Until then, I guess I will just have to keep calm, carry on, and not have seconds.
This shocking discovery was made around three days ago. There I was, talking to a group of friends on the pavement, when out of nowhere a bloke walked straight into my side. After recovering from the trauma of a stranger entering into my life (a major shock for any Brit), I felt my mouth begin to move, and I heard myself saying it. I tried to catch it on the way out, but I was too late. There, in my thick British accent, I turned round and said, "Sorry".
What?! Sorry?! Could I possibly have been any more British?! I might as well have been wearing coat tails, a top hat, and been draped in a Union Jack and said, "Oh sorry old chap, I seem to have been somewhat of an inconvenience by standing here. I should have known that you were planning to pass through the small area that I occupied. If you would allow me to extract myself from under your body, I will remove myself from your presence and allow you to continue with your life." It puzzles me how I am supposed to blend in when my subconsious is wired to produce such ridiculous reactions.
In hindsight, I suppose what I should have said would have been more along the lines of, "You moron! Do you not look where you are going?! How hard is it to tell if somebody is in front of you or not? Or maybe I have suddenly gained the power of invisibility! Is it time for me to start wearing my underwear over my clothes and prance round in tights until a film is made about me? No? Well, I suggest that next time you are walking around you spend less time checking out passers-by on the street and occasionally look in front of yourself!" Ok, fine. That might have been a bit harsh. After all, I don't want to integrate too much. But I think that we can agree that in this case, "Sorry" can be roughly translated as, "I am ever so sorry for your general lack of intelligence and for how you must have been dropped on your head as a baby".
As long as I continue to have these reactions, I think you'll agree that I face a mahoosive task to blend in. What's more is that these moments are not just limited to the word "sorry". An absurd amount of unnecessary politeness is engrained in almost every inch of my being. And it shows. Being alone and abroad, friends and family often invite me round for a meal, and that's lovely! You cannot beat the company or the cooking of a home environment! But inevitably, at some point throughout the meal, the test will come: seconds. This is not, as one might think, a test of my self control in an attempt to diet, oh no. It is a lot more complicated than that. Often, what I want to say is, "Why thank you, it's all delicious!", but before I have had time to assess the situation, the words, "No thank you" have already left my lips. Why am I saying that?! But more importantly, how on earth do I stop?! It's not as if I can turn round a few seconds later and go, "Erm... I might have lied before. I would actually love a little more of everything please!" Come to think of it, if I ever was to diet, this problem (especially considering my overactive appetite) could prove extremely useful.
Seeing as I have little desire to starve myself silly for no other purpose than to fit into a slightly smaller pair of jeans, this aspect to my character can quite frankly bugger off as far as I'm concerned. I'd much rather not have to apologise for other people's mistakes and be able to say what I want than be left with the constant frustration of rueing what my inner British self decides for me. Until then, I guess I will just have to keep calm, carry on, and not have seconds.
Friday, 13 January 2012
tour•ist (tourists)
A person who is visiting a place for pleasure and interest, especially when they are on holiday
Just in case you didn't know, that is the dictionary definition for, you've guessed it, a tourist. Although it seems silly to explain this, it is important that we know exactly what they are. For the past five months I have desperately struggled to disguise myself in an attempt to blend in with the locals, and on the whole, I think I have managed it. Well, on the surface, at least; I still stand in queues, carry English money, and get overly excited when I catch a glimpse of the sun.
It will take some time to iron out these deeply rooted British habits, but until then, I feel that I should pass on my wisdom and experience, for as we all know, it is the nightmare of every middle-class Englishman to be seen as a tourist. The conversation between a couple packing for holiday includes many uses of the following phrases: "No! You cannot be seen in that!", "I threw that out months ago... Where on earth did you find it?!"' and, "Remember the sun-cream... Yeah, factor 100...", in an attempt to prepare themselves for instant integration. As you might have guessed, these snide remarks are generally directed towards the man in the family or relationship. Belonging to the male species myself, I believe I speak for all men when I say that we find this thoroughly offensive, since if we even dreamed of saying such things to our partners (for all women reading, this is something we never, ever do), chaos, screaming, and general peril would quickly ensue. Anyway, before I am lured into ranting about double standards for the sexes, I believe it is time to introduce the subject of today's post: "The Guide to Tourist Spotting".
Preface: The species homotouristus has several varying breeds of character, often distinguished by the subject's age and company. Mannerisms between groups of single males, for example, are very different to those of a middle-aged couple. Within this guide I have neglected to define which feature belongs to which breed, but it should be fairly self explanatory.
Physical description:
The most common sighting of a homotouristus sees him wearing overly short shorts whatever the weather, shoes (generally sandals) accompanied by grey socks pulled as close as possible to the knee, a khaki or beige shirt decorated with a magnitude of sweat patches, and the essential bum-bag faithfully strapped at his waist. Their weapon of choice, a camera, hangs around their necks, ready to capture images to be stored on their computer's hard-drive, never to be seen again. Please note that several spotters have confirmed rare sightings of the common homotouristus with sunglasses lenses clipped on to their glasses. These tourists must be avoided at all costs unless you truly want to hear a lengthy, dreary speech about the quality of their flight and accommodation, the list of their allergies, and the names of all their plants that they left behind at home.
Biologically, they often boast pale, pasty skin, a squishy build, a receeding hairline, and depending on sun exposure, their coloration can vary from looking overly embarrassed to a sun-dried tomato.
Mannerisms:
Clutching their faithful maps in their pudgy hands, many wear a puzzled expression whilst wandering around towns and places of cultural interest, glancing between their maps and street-signs. However, when herds of 10 or more males gather, this generally timid species becomes extremely rowdy, disturbing everybody around them whilst they pursue their quest of finding a mate.
Aside from this difference, any interaction with the locals remains the same across all breeds. Many will attempt to speak the native language in their own accent, but their purposefully patronising tone inevitably gets them nowhere. Once this has failed, they will then resort to a series of over-expressive hand gestures followed by a period of tutting, muttering how the locals should learn to speak English.
Known locations:
Due to the varying characteristics of the homotouristus, there is no one place that can be attributed to them as a species. However, they can be found at places of cultural interest (monuments, museums, art galleries etc), land marks, or slowly frying themselves on the beach. As night begins to fall, however, hundreds flock to the watering hole (bars) to drink their fill, and can later be seen stumbling back to their hotels', cursing as they walk into lampposts and other objects in the street.
Aside from the above locations, it has often been reported of lone males standing outside shopping centres looking glum. Do not think, dear readers, that they are upset because they have forgotten to pick up some local currency. Instead, they are simply patiently waiting whilst their partners browse the retailers' outlets within.
Disclaimer: I, the writer of this post and of "The Guide to Tourist Spotting", take no responsibility to those offended by the above information. If you do happen to take offence, please feel free to keep your complaints and opinions to yourself.
And so that concludes my guide. Compiled purely from experience, stereotypes and a good dose of British sarcasm, feel free to use this information at any time. Be it for your own amusement whilst tourist spotting or to help you gain a fuller understanding of the group you are trying to disguise yourself from, I'll leave it up to you.
A person who is visiting a place for pleasure and interest, especially when they are on holiday
Just in case you didn't know, that is the dictionary definition for, you've guessed it, a tourist. Although it seems silly to explain this, it is important that we know exactly what they are. For the past five months I have desperately struggled to disguise myself in an attempt to blend in with the locals, and on the whole, I think I have managed it. Well, on the surface, at least; I still stand in queues, carry English money, and get overly excited when I catch a glimpse of the sun.
It will take some time to iron out these deeply rooted British habits, but until then, I feel that I should pass on my wisdom and experience, for as we all know, it is the nightmare of every middle-class Englishman to be seen as a tourist. The conversation between a couple packing for holiday includes many uses of the following phrases: "No! You cannot be seen in that!", "I threw that out months ago... Where on earth did you find it?!"' and, "Remember the sun-cream... Yeah, factor 100...", in an attempt to prepare themselves for instant integration. As you might have guessed, these snide remarks are generally directed towards the man in the family or relationship. Belonging to the male species myself, I believe I speak for all men when I say that we find this thoroughly offensive, since if we even dreamed of saying such things to our partners (for all women reading, this is something we never, ever do), chaos, screaming, and general peril would quickly ensue. Anyway, before I am lured into ranting about double standards for the sexes, I believe it is time to introduce the subject of today's post: "The Guide to Tourist Spotting".
Preface: The species homotouristus has several varying breeds of character, often distinguished by the subject's age and company. Mannerisms between groups of single males, for example, are very different to those of a middle-aged couple. Within this guide I have neglected to define which feature belongs to which breed, but it should be fairly self explanatory.
Physical description:
The most common sighting of a homotouristus sees him wearing overly short shorts whatever the weather, shoes (generally sandals) accompanied by grey socks pulled as close as possible to the knee, a khaki or beige shirt decorated with a magnitude of sweat patches, and the essential bum-bag faithfully strapped at his waist. Their weapon of choice, a camera, hangs around their necks, ready to capture images to be stored on their computer's hard-drive, never to be seen again. Please note that several spotters have confirmed rare sightings of the common homotouristus with sunglasses lenses clipped on to their glasses. These tourists must be avoided at all costs unless you truly want to hear a lengthy, dreary speech about the quality of their flight and accommodation, the list of their allergies, and the names of all their plants that they left behind at home.
Biologically, they often boast pale, pasty skin, a squishy build, a receeding hairline, and depending on sun exposure, their coloration can vary from looking overly embarrassed to a sun-dried tomato.
Mannerisms:
Clutching their faithful maps in their pudgy hands, many wear a puzzled expression whilst wandering around towns and places of cultural interest, glancing between their maps and street-signs. However, when herds of 10 or more males gather, this generally timid species becomes extremely rowdy, disturbing everybody around them whilst they pursue their quest of finding a mate.
Aside from this difference, any interaction with the locals remains the same across all breeds. Many will attempt to speak the native language in their own accent, but their purposefully patronising tone inevitably gets them nowhere. Once this has failed, they will then resort to a series of over-expressive hand gestures followed by a period of tutting, muttering how the locals should learn to speak English.
Known locations:
Due to the varying characteristics of the homotouristus, there is no one place that can be attributed to them as a species. However, they can be found at places of cultural interest (monuments, museums, art galleries etc), land marks, or slowly frying themselves on the beach. As night begins to fall, however, hundreds flock to the watering hole (bars) to drink their fill, and can later be seen stumbling back to their hotels', cursing as they walk into lampposts and other objects in the street.
Aside from the above locations, it has often been reported of lone males standing outside shopping centres looking glum. Do not think, dear readers, that they are upset because they have forgotten to pick up some local currency. Instead, they are simply patiently waiting whilst their partners browse the retailers' outlets within.
Disclaimer: I, the writer of this post and of "The Guide to Tourist Spotting", take no responsibility to those offended by the above information. If you do happen to take offence, please feel free to keep your complaints and opinions to yourself.
And so that concludes my guide. Compiled purely from experience, stereotypes and a good dose of British sarcasm, feel free to use this information at any time. Be it for your own amusement whilst tourist spotting or to help you gain a fuller understanding of the group you are trying to disguise yourself from, I'll leave it up to you.
Thursday, 12 January 2012
Going on holiday is very different to moving abroad. Obvious though it is, that's about the most profound summary of my situation that I can muster. Spectacularally moving, isn't it? It's just a shame that the actual action of making the transition between countries didn't go the same way. Due to my obsessive tendency to overpack and the length of time I would be spending abroad, after several attempts at repacking, I was still left with a gargantuous, bulging suitcase and a single thought: "Somehow, I don't think that will weigh 23kg..." Oh, how right I was. A few hours later I found myself dragging this mahoosive abomination of a suitcase round and round Heathrow airport looking for the right check-in desk, which as always, is situated as far away as possible from the entrance that you came in through.
Once I managed to stumble into the queue, after several minutes spent regaining my breath and nursing my exhausted arm, it was my turn. The moment of truth. Casually, I heaved my luggage onto the scales, using all my energy to prevent myself from vocalising my discomfort and to keep the nonchalant look on my face. 29kg. Not good. So, naturally, as any good Brit would do, I began to argue. Somehow, they couldn't understand my reasoning that people fatter than me would automatically be carrying more weight onto the plane and they are not forced to compensate this in any way. It's good to know that's how my brain responds under pressure. In the end, however, sanity kicked in and after explaining my situation, I was eventually allowed to check-in and progress towards security.
With hindsight, it seems certain that Britain had wanted me to give me a final taste of its rather frustrating and strange logic before I left. Flight protocols now demand us to package all of our liquids into clear, plastic zippy bags, just to make sure they are safe to be taken aboard. Fair enough, I guess. So I began the long and lengthy process of rummaging through my hand luggage, sealing my liquids in individual bags, and then replacing them. However, the poor numpty on the table opposite wasn't paying attention, and insisted that I repeat the proccess for his benefit. In order to avoid a confrontation with security, I reluctantly obliged, and successfully managed to contain my complaints. But really, both of us didn't really want to be there so what would have been the harm with letting me pass through and each one of us getting on with our lives?! That's the British mindset I guess. However, once I had finally finished redressing myself after an over-invasive security check, the final hurdle to leaving Britain was approaching: currency exchange.
I love having foreign money. Not only does it make me feel all windswept and interesting, but due to a wonderful thing called exchange rates, I instantly feel as if I have more. Sadly though, those doing the exchanging are aware of this and take advantage of our distracted state. Well, at least that's what it seems to me, since every time I exchange money, a portion of my finances magically disappears in the transaction. Offering us the opportunity to exchange one pound for a greater amount of a different currency, whilst we are marvelling at our 'intelligence' for the 'bargain' we have just made, I am sure that they must pocket a few quid. Now, I have been told that there are taxes or other such evil measures levied onto currency exchange, but it remains difficult to escape from the scenario that my over-active imagination has provided me with.
However, all that is now in the past. Being in my fifth month abroad, surely, one would think, that by now I should be adjusted to the new currency. Oh, how wrong one could be. Whenever I find myself with the need to pay for something, which happens quite regularly as you could imagine, I am still, after all this time, unable to deduce whether something is expensive or not. Standing at the front of the queue, struggling to cope with the simple mental arithmetic that I should have perfected in the early years of my childhood, it takes me a good few moments to work out the true value of my Diet Coke. Furthermore, the speed of this process is not helped in any way by the frustrated locals muttering, what I can only assume to be complaints, behind my back.
I have always said to myself that I will cease to be a tourist when I am able to speak the language and be comfortable with the currency. Seeing as I am still unable to understand the criticisms that my fellow queue-ees so eagerly offer, and that in my wallet, I am embarrassed to say, I still carry around a few pennies, I am pretty sure that this moment has not come. Judging by my progress, this milestone does not seem likely to reached for an awfully long time.
Once I managed to stumble into the queue, after several minutes spent regaining my breath and nursing my exhausted arm, it was my turn. The moment of truth. Casually, I heaved my luggage onto the scales, using all my energy to prevent myself from vocalising my discomfort and to keep the nonchalant look on my face. 29kg. Not good. So, naturally, as any good Brit would do, I began to argue. Somehow, they couldn't understand my reasoning that people fatter than me would automatically be carrying more weight onto the plane and they are not forced to compensate this in any way. It's good to know that's how my brain responds under pressure. In the end, however, sanity kicked in and after explaining my situation, I was eventually allowed to check-in and progress towards security.
With hindsight, it seems certain that Britain had wanted me to give me a final taste of its rather frustrating and strange logic before I left. Flight protocols now demand us to package all of our liquids into clear, plastic zippy bags, just to make sure they are safe to be taken aboard. Fair enough, I guess. So I began the long and lengthy process of rummaging through my hand luggage, sealing my liquids in individual bags, and then replacing them. However, the poor numpty on the table opposite wasn't paying attention, and insisted that I repeat the proccess for his benefit. In order to avoid a confrontation with security, I reluctantly obliged, and successfully managed to contain my complaints. But really, both of us didn't really want to be there so what would have been the harm with letting me pass through and each one of us getting on with our lives?! That's the British mindset I guess. However, once I had finally finished redressing myself after an over-invasive security check, the final hurdle to leaving Britain was approaching: currency exchange.
I love having foreign money. Not only does it make me feel all windswept and interesting, but due to a wonderful thing called exchange rates, I instantly feel as if I have more. Sadly though, those doing the exchanging are aware of this and take advantage of our distracted state. Well, at least that's what it seems to me, since every time I exchange money, a portion of my finances magically disappears in the transaction. Offering us the opportunity to exchange one pound for a greater amount of a different currency, whilst we are marvelling at our 'intelligence' for the 'bargain' we have just made, I am sure that they must pocket a few quid. Now, I have been told that there are taxes or other such evil measures levied onto currency exchange, but it remains difficult to escape from the scenario that my over-active imagination has provided me with.
However, all that is now in the past. Being in my fifth month abroad, surely, one would think, that by now I should be adjusted to the new currency. Oh, how wrong one could be. Whenever I find myself with the need to pay for something, which happens quite regularly as you could imagine, I am still, after all this time, unable to deduce whether something is expensive or not. Standing at the front of the queue, struggling to cope with the simple mental arithmetic that I should have perfected in the early years of my childhood, it takes me a good few moments to work out the true value of my Diet Coke. Furthermore, the speed of this process is not helped in any way by the frustrated locals muttering, what I can only assume to be complaints, behind my back.
I have always said to myself that I will cease to be a tourist when I am able to speak the language and be comfortable with the currency. Seeing as I am still unable to understand the criticisms that my fellow queue-ees so eagerly offer, and that in my wallet, I am embarrassed to say, I still carry around a few pennies, I am pretty sure that this moment has not come. Judging by my progress, this milestone does not seem likely to reached for an awfully long time.
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