After two weeks I have accepted most of London's idiosyncrasies. I was ready for my share of cultural adaptations, don't get me wrong, and have smoothly adjusted to most of them. But some of them annoy me each and every time.
First, in local supermarkets you have to bag your own groceries. I know what all of you non-Ukrops fanatics are thinking -- that doesn't sound so bad. But it's just not that simple. It's not easy to shove your bread on top of your laundry detergent while trying to hold your bag of assorted frozen goods without the bottle of wine that the cashier didn't think you looked old enough to buy falling out. All I'm saying is a little help would be nice.
Even odder, there is no sign telling you to bag your groceries, just a cashier giving you the "wow, you must be American because you're so dumb you don't know to bag your own groceries" look.
The "American look" brings me to my next beef with Britain. I must subconsciously be wearing patterns of red, white and blue because everyone knows before I open my mouth that I am apparently George Bush's best friend. I've begun polling people in pubs as to what about me sets off the signal. One man explained to my friends and I that it is because American girls always talk so loudly. Imagine my embarrassment when I was the only one who heard this explanation because my friends were drunkenly yelling over each other about how cool American girls were. One man told me it is because I had an air of Americanism. I asked what this meant. He said it was aggressive foreign policy and snobbery. Who knew that walking up to someone in a pub was considered aggressive foreign policy?
Another thing that really irks me are the streets. One street will randomly -- and I do mean randomly -- turn into another without so much as a curve. Imagine my frustration: Just last night, my friends and I were searching for a new Indian restaurant I had read about. Its address was on the same street as a pub we had visited. My new friends found me cool enough to name me "cruise director" in charge of planning our lives, so I confidently led my people to the street -- but did not find the restaurant.
I turned around sheepishly to sighs and angry faces and calmly told my friends I would call the restaurant and find out where it was. The man on the phone, who in my defense had a thick British and Indian accent, told me the restaurant was on "Charsheemllskdjf" street. It wasn't just him, either -- the connection was bad and I couldn't hear a thing. But I faked confidence and led my friends around the corner. The blustery London wind ripped through the thin jackets we brought thinking we knew exactly where we were going.
Ten more minutes of walking later, I stopped and called again. More angry looks and heavy sighing. The man explained that I should turn left and walk down the street. At this point my hungry and cold friends had lost all faith in me, and I was starting to feel like prey in front of a pride of lions. We walked to the end of the street, and damn it if the street we were on didn't connect but turn into "Charsheemllskdjf," or "Charlotte" Street.
Seriously! Seriously? I spent an hour feeling like crap about my directional orientation because the road just happens to change?
Maybe I'll get used to these things ... or maybe one day I'll grow homesick for American supermarkets where they bag your groceries for you, drink too much in a pub and get mauled because I thought it would be a good idea to stand on a table singing "Proud to be an American."
Bailey's column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at stephens@cavalierdaily.com.
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