I almost posted about this before now, but I wasn’t sure if the trend would continue so I waited. Today, the trend stampeded. It is this: every single last British person I have met so far and had any amount of small talk or longer conversation with has asked me almost immediately where in the U.S. I’m from. They always want to know and it’s usually the first or second question they ask.
The Curiosity of British People
Today I met four different people (a woman at the library, the clerk at the Blockbuster video store, the receptionist at the doctor’s office where we have to register, and the clerk at the post office), and each one of them asked it. “Which part of America are you from?”
This fascinates me for many reasons. One, I didn’t expect them to know so much about our different states and where they’re located geographically. Two, I didn’t expect them to care. Three, I kinda feel like an ass because I live here now and I still have no idea what most of the regions of the UK are called. It’s just rude of me and I’m working on it.
I always answer, “Texas. Dallas, Texas.” Because I like the James Bond feel of it. Nine times out of ten, this brings one response: “Oh my! Then you must be freezing here!” I don’t know why it surprises me so much that they all know how hot it is in Texas. Often, after discussing the relative merits of Texas weather and British weather (honestly, I prefer British), the convo turns to what I think of England and how I’m being treated here.
Warm Hospitality and Friendly Conversations
This is fascinating to me, too. They seem to sincerely want to know if Rupert and I have been treated with hospitality and good cheer, and I get the feeling that if I said we hadn’t been, they’d be right indignant indeed and would ask for names so they could go have a stern word with the naughty rude ones. But there’s no risk of that because I’m telling you in all truth, the people I’ve met have by and large been outstandingly polite and friendly.
Oh, and you know how hippies and the like get so upset about how we call ourselves “Americans” and refer to the U.S. as “America,” because AFTER ALL, HILLBILLY, Canada and Mexico could make the same claim and thus we are arrogant buttholes, right?
All I can say is that I haven’t once heard any Brit refer to the U.S. as anything but “America” and to me as “American.” The stuff in stores that’s supposed to be authentic U.S.-type stuff is labeled “American” even if it’s packaged in Sussex. There’s a TGIFriday’s here, and all over the windows outside are signs about “The Real American Restaurant!” On the BBC news and such, they refer to “American president Barack Obama” and “the American Congress.” And so on. Just a little FYI for you next time you hear that complaint.
Moments of Nostalgia and Missing Home
Aside from my salsa and creamer travails and the continued failure of BT to supply us with broadband (killkillkill), I truly can’t complain about this place. I do miss home, though. It’s weird how, even though I’d go months back home without seeing or talking to my family folk (most of whom only lived a short drive away) except through email, that now that I can’t see them, it’s painful. I miss them worse than I thought I would. And don’t EVEN GET ME STARTED on the dogs. Rupert has already figured out that it’s best just to never let us get on the subject because I always end up crumpled on the floor in tears.
I don’t know what it is about that, and frankly, my own behavior shocks me, but I lose my shit whenever I think about Sunny too much. There are no words in any human language, though, for the comfort I take in the fact that she and Margaret are with my parents. Even if I had found them another home that was provably the Very Best Home For Dogs in all of history, it wouldn’t be the same.
My mom and I email regularly, and she never fails to give me some little tidbit, about how Sunny grunts and lifts up a paw for Dad whenever he walks by her and says her name while she’s napping, or how the patio out back is the “Sunny Deck” because she lazes there while Maggie patrols the land, or how both dogs follow Dad all over the property and out to his workshop all day, and reading those notes is like getting hit in the head with a happy stick.
I realize that anyone who could have adopted them could do the same thing, but you know what? I’ve known Mom and Dad for almost 37 years now (yikes). There’s something to that, trust-wise. Oh, and in case you’re wondering: we have silhouette action going on. By which I mean Mom says Sunny’s figure is looking less like a baby elephant/walking sausage with a thyroid problem and more like a dog. My parents have a couple of acres and apparently Sunny has been exploring the space like she has a fever and the only cure is more cowbell. Dad even gets her to run, and he’s sent me videos of this, which I need to format and upload. Until then, it’s back to the archives - April ‘08, Sunny as Hillbilly Snaggle-Lip Jester.
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