The English use language differently than we do. Other than “Please mind your heads”, which was my favorite, one sign that brought a smile was “Humps for the next 420 yards.” Humps are what we in America call speed bumps. At each train station you are reminded to “Mind the gap” between the train and the platform. The station announcer also uses the word “Alight” a good deal, as in “When you alight on the platform, please walk to the right to Platform B.”
Geoff and Susan Kittredge, and their two sons, have made our visit a delight. They have directed our steps into the city, they have provided wise counsel about places to visit, they have taken us into their home as if we were long-lost relatives. Many thanks to them for their hospitality and largesse.
Pubs still serve as gathering places for young and old in England. The drinking age is sixteen, as long as an adult buys the beverage for the sixteen year old. On a typical night when we’ve been out and about—I’m now in Haworth, home of the Brontes, of which more later—people stand both inside and outside of their favorite pubs, drinking tall glasses of beer. The outside crew are generally the smokers and their friends.
On the main thoroughfares of London, streets like Regent and the Strand are filled with people from a hundred other countries. Slow down and listen, and within a block you are likely to hear five or six different languages being spoken.
The appliances here are just slightly different, slightly off, than those used in America. Many people use electric kettles, which heat water in less than thirty seconds. The switches on the walls work differently than most of those used in America. In both houses in which we’ve resided so far, the WIFI reception has brought problems, yet it was reliable and remarkably fast on the train and here in the Old White Lion, where I am staying the night.
Sometimes, too, language gets in the way. In one pub, John Peery asked for a coaster, and the waitress behind the bar had no idea what he was talking about. (I think this miscommunication was more her background, as the Irish lad the previous night knew exactly what John intended).
Each day brings a plethora of moments in which I can make a fool of myself. Example: in Stratford-upon-Avon, I entered a Morrisons, which is equivalent to our large grocery stores, and bought a few items. On leaving, I pushed straight ahead through a doorway. An alarm went off, and as I emerged onto the sidewalk, an employee came chasing after me and informed me I had just gone through a fire door and that I needed to come back inside the building and depart by the proper door. I followed her directions, but wondered why I needed to go back inside. Today, just a couple of hours ago, I was waiting to cross the street here in Haworth (pronounced by the locals as “Ha-worth”) when a brick-faced gentleman honked his horn at me and called, “You’re slowing down the traffic. They think you want to cross the street.” I did want to cross the street, but at that point I stepped away from the curb and feigned an interest in a local school until the traffic died.
As for traffic, on one of his visits to the United States before he became prime minister, Winston Churchill stepped off the curb in New York City, was promptly struck by a driver, and was hospitalized for a brief time. Being English, he had looked the wrong way for traffic. I can well understand how he felt, as several times I have almost wandered into traffic myself. Now I cross the streets like a fighter pilot, head yanking in both directions and doubtless being regarded as one more silly American tourist.
Here is my friend John Peery’s List of Alterations for a Better Britain (I have washed up the language for my more delicate reader).
1. If you’re going to have red telephone booths everywhere, which no one uses anymore, then make them workable. I’m tired of having the machine eat my coins with no service.
2. The bicycle riders here are crazy. They don’t obey the traffic laws and drive like maniacs. (After wandering aloud to our hostess Susan about how many bicycle riders were hit everyday, she told me that just the week before a female cyclist had slammed into her car while illegally passing her. The cyclist was unhurt and was eager to get on the way because she had broken the law).
3. Where are the trash receptacles? Even in the home where we stayed last night not a single trash bin could be found, even in the kitchen.
4. Does anyone here understand the bus system?
5. I would like a tuck-in service. The tucker would be a female in her late forties, race-horse ankles, high tight calves, and black stiletto heels. Brunettes preferred. Dye jobs okay.
6. Everyone talks too fast here.
7. I’d like a smile occasionally walking the streets. Or at least someone catching my eye.
8. What the hell is a Vauxhall? It’s a car, but who makes it?
9. Why don’t the pubs have coasters?
Ah, John. If only you were Rex Britanniae. Perhaps then we’d all be singing “Rule Britannica” again.
Or perhaps not.
Geoff and Susan Kittredge, and their two sons, have made our visit a delight. They have directed our steps into the city, they have provided wise counsel about places to visit, they have taken us into their home as if we were long-lost relatives. Many thanks to them for their hospitality and largesse.
Pubs still serve as gathering places for young and old in England. The drinking age is sixteen, as long as an adult buys the beverage for the sixteen year old. On a typical night when we’ve been out and about—I’m now in Haworth, home of the Brontes, of which more later—people stand both inside and outside of their favorite pubs, drinking tall glasses of beer. The outside crew are generally the smokers and their friends.
On the main thoroughfares of London, streets like Regent and the Strand are filled with people from a hundred other countries. Slow down and listen, and within a block you are likely to hear five or six different languages being spoken.
The appliances here are just slightly different, slightly off, than those used in America. Many people use electric kettles, which heat water in less than thirty seconds. The switches on the walls work differently than most of those used in America. In both houses in which we’ve resided so far, the WIFI reception has brought problems, yet it was reliable and remarkably fast on the train and here in the Old White Lion, where I am staying the night.
Sometimes, too, language gets in the way. In one pub, John Peery asked for a coaster, and the waitress behind the bar had no idea what he was talking about. (I think this miscommunication was more her background, as the Irish lad the previous night knew exactly what John intended).
Each day brings a plethora of moments in which I can make a fool of myself. Example: in Stratford-upon-Avon, I entered a Morrisons, which is equivalent to our large grocery stores, and bought a few items. On leaving, I pushed straight ahead through a doorway. An alarm went off, and as I emerged onto the sidewalk, an employee came chasing after me and informed me I had just gone through a fire door and that I needed to come back inside the building and depart by the proper door. I followed her directions, but wondered why I needed to go back inside. Today, just a couple of hours ago, I was waiting to cross the street here in Haworth (pronounced by the locals as “Ha-worth”) when a brick-faced gentleman honked his horn at me and called, “You’re slowing down the traffic. They think you want to cross the street.” I did want to cross the street, but at that point I stepped away from the curb and feigned an interest in a local school until the traffic died.
As for traffic, on one of his visits to the United States before he became prime minister, Winston Churchill stepped off the curb in New York City, was promptly struck by a driver, and was hospitalized for a brief time. Being English, he had looked the wrong way for traffic. I can well understand how he felt, as several times I have almost wandered into traffic myself. Now I cross the streets like a fighter pilot, head yanking in both directions and doubtless being regarded as one more silly American tourist.
Here is my friend John Peery’s List of Alterations for a Better Britain (I have washed up the language for my more delicate reader).
1. If you’re going to have red telephone booths everywhere, which no one uses anymore, then make them workable. I’m tired of having the machine eat my coins with no service.
2. The bicycle riders here are crazy. They don’t obey the traffic laws and drive like maniacs. (After wandering aloud to our hostess Susan about how many bicycle riders were hit everyday, she told me that just the week before a female cyclist had slammed into her car while illegally passing her. The cyclist was unhurt and was eager to get on the way because she had broken the law).
3. Where are the trash receptacles? Even in the home where we stayed last night not a single trash bin could be found, even in the kitchen.
4. Does anyone here understand the bus system?
5. I would like a tuck-in service. The tucker would be a female in her late forties, race-horse ankles, high tight calves, and black stiletto heels. Brunettes preferred. Dye jobs okay.
6. Everyone talks too fast here.
7. I’d like a smile occasionally walking the streets. Or at least someone catching my eye.
8. What the hell is a Vauxhall? It’s a car, but who makes it?
9. Why don’t the pubs have coasters?
Ah, John. If only you were Rex Britanniae. Perhaps then we’d all be singing “Rule Britannica” again.
Or perhaps not.