I’ve been told before that people like to fly with me because I’m not intimidated by traveling. I’ve had my fair share: Long weekends in Europe, over night stays in India…
ON TANGENT: Yes, you read that correctly. I stayed in India overnight. Actually the plan was to spend three weeks there studying in about a dozen cities, but unfortunately I arrived in New Delhi the same day as the attacks on Mumbai, and due to the nature of the attacks, my group was quickly sent home. Though we were devastated to leave early, our short twenty hours there were far more educational than an entire term I spent prior learning about it. And we had plans to go to Mumbai literally days after our arrival, so our departure was for the best.
Because I grew up in Scarsdale, the gossip capital of the world, word got out about my trip to India, and the rumors were laughable. When someone approached me a week after I got home, asking how I could be mentally stable enough to be out shopping, because the trauma of “being held captive” in the basement of the Taj Hotel must have been “traumatizing”, I realized there might be some truth to this “Ignorant American” concept. Yeah, I’m going to go out on a limb here and agree that such an experience would be traumatizing, probably fatal, even. But I’m just speculating. Considering the distance between New Delhi to Mumbai is further than that of New York to Miami, it dawned on me that perhaps Americans were targeted in those attacks because outside the US, we don’t know or really give a shit. So if from my experience in India, this woman didn’t learn that she shouldn’t listen to outrageous hearsay when there is blatant evidence to the contrary, she definitely learned a little soemthing about geography.
OFF TANGENT: People think that my travel track record is what gives me confidence when I take a trip. The truth is that New York City has a way of thickening one’s skin. The unpredictability of New York has toughened me up, and consequently I’ve learned to strive through difficult situations. For this, I owe New York my firstborn.
People have said that if you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. And that was often the retort I whipped out when others questioned why I would even think of leaving the city. I knew that I would succeed in London, because time and time again I had succeeded in New York.
After spending a few weeks here in Europe, I can confidently say that the above statement is false. In fact I would say that if you can make it in New York, you should probably just stay there. Here is why:
New York is the city that never sleeps. And, we forget, is quite small. Thusly, New York is a town that is thoroughly convenient. I can order take out on a Sunday at midnight; I can get to Soho in twenty minutes, tops; Hell, I get cell service on the subway. New York operates like a machine, come rain, shine, snow and sleet.
Cities in Europe do not. More specifically, London does not. Your local pub closes at 11, the tube (which has no air conditioning) (you’re probably thinking why that matters over here but, trust me, it does) stops running at midnight, and the city is freaking huge! It takes me an hour just to get to the good bars on the other side of town! The transition, as you can see, has been challenging.
If we examine the issue more closely, the truth rears its ugly head and we just have to admit that (sigh) I’ve been spoiled. I’ve said it, I’m spoiled (happy, Mom?). I’m not used to having to plan how I am getting home, or limit my evening based on the parameters set by some higher authority. Most of all, I am used to things being available and immediate… And that is just not the case here.
But like all learning experiences, there is a lesson here. I’ve taken New York and all its amenities for granted and since coming to London, I’ve become more patient. I’ve even learned how to budget my time better, and I am proud to announce that my chronic tardiness of 10 minutes has shrunk to 5. New York has been the greatest tough-love teacher I’ve ever had, but London taught me lenience (and for that I owe London my second born).
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Hear No Evil, See No Evil
I don’t normally go to the see the orchestra, because that’s not my kind of music, but I rarely turn down invitations, even if the event is not my style. My friend Nick invited me to an Azerbaijani concert, a form of Russian music which I could only begin to describe as the fusion of Eastern and Western sounds fitting into one melody in two very distinct ways. I once heard that when listening, it’s best to close your eyes. So, in order to look like I knew what I was doing (which, obviously, I didn’t) I intended to close them… until I caught a brief glimpse of the visual harmony of the orchestra. The music I heard was exquisite, but the most enchanting part of the orchestra, for me, was the way they moved.
I resisted blinking. The way the violinists’ bodies heaved and collapsed in the wake of their music, pushed and commanded by the hand of the conductor like a Poseidon of song. Their bows, bowing and erecting at the flick of his wand, which floated danced poked prodded urging them, egging them on, like an ambitious didactic trying to prove a point. Maestro’s arms cradled the air when he chose to soften his symphony, as if to lay a sleeping child to rest. To me he seemed, fatherly, Godly even, in his ability to flex the chasm between his passion and his control. He reigned over the musicians, the instruments, over me. He hypnotized.
The quivering hand of the cellists did not produce a trembling note but rather a confident wave of vibrato, luring me deep inside its tragedy. Their heads bobbed in unison, and I sat enraptured wondering how they could simultaneously meditate to the sound they just birthed. I was affected, and you could see it on my skin.
I can’t say that I would have ever experienced that if I were in New York. New York has concerts such as the one above equally as often as London, but I don’t know if someone like me would even consider attending an orchestra back home. It's too... unusual. But I suppose that is the thing about being away from home: a routine is absent from your life for so long, you can’t even remember what it used to be.
It’s kinda nice.
I resisted blinking. The way the violinists’ bodies heaved and collapsed in the wake of their music, pushed and commanded by the hand of the conductor like a Poseidon of song. Their bows, bowing and erecting at the flick of his wand, which floated danced poked prodded urging them, egging them on, like an ambitious didactic trying to prove a point. Maestro’s arms cradled the air when he chose to soften his symphony, as if to lay a sleeping child to rest. To me he seemed, fatherly, Godly even, in his ability to flex the chasm between his passion and his control. He reigned over the musicians, the instruments, over me. He hypnotized.
The quivering hand of the cellists did not produce a trembling note but rather a confident wave of vibrato, luring me deep inside its tragedy. Their heads bobbed in unison, and I sat enraptured wondering how they could simultaneously meditate to the sound they just birthed. I was affected, and you could see it on my skin.
I can’t say that I would have ever experienced that if I were in New York. New York has concerts such as the one above equally as often as London, but I don’t know if someone like me would even consider attending an orchestra back home. It's too... unusual. But I suppose that is the thing about being away from home: a routine is absent from your life for so long, you can’t even remember what it used to be.
It’s kinda nice.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Homecoming
There’s safety and comfort in the idea that there are certain things in life that remain constant. Home, for instance. Regardless of how drastically our worlds alter or falter, we can depend on the consistency of Home to salvage the shreds of our lives. It’s therapeutic, like a masseuse for the soul. There’s a reason that, in times of chaos, we return to the place that molded our original routines. Going Home restores that sense of balance, and buoys the illusion that our lives aren’t nearly as fucked up as we thought they were, simply because constancy is so dependable.
I flew home to New York last week for a few days, and I’ve never been so happy. There are things about New York – Home – that are simply irreplaceable, and the mere notion of reuniting with the aggressive cabbies and the avenues flanked with skyscrapers had me feeling, in a word, found. Most of all, I was itching to see my friends and restart the relationships that were put on pause since I left for London.
From the beginning of my homecoming, however, it was made explicitly clear that despite that the physical Home – the one that is unique to each of us, that we have and know and love – remains stagnant, the rest of the world does not. Cultures evolve, scenarios change, and like the good products of our environments that we are, we also must adjust to fit into our surroundings. People move forward with their lives, and they relocate and get jobs and find somebody to love. And though I struggled in making the realization, I knew it was unrealistic to expect others to keep me as a top priority forever.
I anticipated that my trip home would be as if it were any other weekend I spent in New York before I came to London: mornings with Bloody Marys downtown and evenings at glamorous restaurants followed by Frat-type bars in Murray Hill, where we would laugh at the irony when we inevitably order martinis. But if I’ve learned anything that I should’ve learned from my last post, expectations are atom bombs of disappointment. And for my friends and me, this is a time in our lives where the only thing that is constant is the fact that nothing is constant. I came to New York and wanted everything to be exactly the same as before, but I lost sight of the fact that everything had changed. And though I am living abroad, by myself, being an adult, there were parts of me that were still fiercely clutching aspects of my life that existed only in my childhood, in college; in places where I was stagnant but never knew.
In that lies the appeal in going Home: because we’ve created worlds that are furiously spinning and we’ve forced our lives to organize inside the centrifuge; Home lies on the outskirts of that force and remains unaffected. But hard as it is to swallow, the Home we think of may only be a physical thing: it may only be the house you grew up in, the home cooked meals, your very own bed – because Home is a state of mind, and therefore, is relative. And I’ve come to find that Home is not where the heart is, but rather, where you make it. So, yes – Home is comforting. But I find more comfort in the fact that you can build Home around you... wherever you are.
So in the meantime, I’m homeless. And though that may sound discouraging, I’m still hopeful. Because all of this, physically and emotionally, is temporary. And, when I look around, I have to be grateful that presently my Home is a gorgeous flat on Kensington High Street, in one of the world’s most exciting cities, and not a sidewalk, even with the same address.
I flew home to New York last week for a few days, and I’ve never been so happy. There are things about New York – Home – that are simply irreplaceable, and the mere notion of reuniting with the aggressive cabbies and the avenues flanked with skyscrapers had me feeling, in a word, found. Most of all, I was itching to see my friends and restart the relationships that were put on pause since I left for London.
From the beginning of my homecoming, however, it was made explicitly clear that despite that the physical Home – the one that is unique to each of us, that we have and know and love – remains stagnant, the rest of the world does not. Cultures evolve, scenarios change, and like the good products of our environments that we are, we also must adjust to fit into our surroundings. People move forward with their lives, and they relocate and get jobs and find somebody to love. And though I struggled in making the realization, I knew it was unrealistic to expect others to keep me as a top priority forever.
I anticipated that my trip home would be as if it were any other weekend I spent in New York before I came to London: mornings with Bloody Marys downtown and evenings at glamorous restaurants followed by Frat-type bars in Murray Hill, where we would laugh at the irony when we inevitably order martinis. But if I’ve learned anything that I should’ve learned from my last post, expectations are atom bombs of disappointment. And for my friends and me, this is a time in our lives where the only thing that is constant is the fact that nothing is constant. I came to New York and wanted everything to be exactly the same as before, but I lost sight of the fact that everything had changed. And though I am living abroad, by myself, being an adult, there were parts of me that were still fiercely clutching aspects of my life that existed only in my childhood, in college; in places where I was stagnant but never knew.
In that lies the appeal in going Home: because we’ve created worlds that are furiously spinning and we’ve forced our lives to organize inside the centrifuge; Home lies on the outskirts of that force and remains unaffected. But hard as it is to swallow, the Home we think of may only be a physical thing: it may only be the house you grew up in, the home cooked meals, your very own bed – because Home is a state of mind, and therefore, is relative. And I’ve come to find that Home is not where the heart is, but rather, where you make it. So, yes – Home is comforting. But I find more comfort in the fact that you can build Home around you... wherever you are.
So in the meantime, I’m homeless. And though that may sound discouraging, I’m still hopeful. Because all of this, physically and emotionally, is temporary. And, when I look around, I have to be grateful that presently my Home is a gorgeous flat on Kensington High Street, in one of the world’s most exciting cities, and not a sidewalk, even with the same address.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Great Expectations
Perhaps the most alluring advantage of living in Europe is the ability and ease to travel. Going to and from Italy felt more like a daily commute than trip considering the travel time and pleasant lack of jet lag. Despite their proximity, the countries in Europe feel worlds apart based on the drastic contrasts in art, food, fashion, architecture, and sometimes climate. I didn't anticipate Florence to feel as different from London as it was, but when you think about it these two cities really don't have that much in common. Except that they're both fabulous.
Though it was nice to get out of London for a few days (sometimes you need a holiday away from your… well, I guess this little stint is a holiday), it feels really nice to be back – especially because now I’m feeling pretty refreshed, relaxed, and overall just happier.
I can understand how ridiculous that sounds. I’m living abroad, traveling at my leisure, with zero obligations to anyone but myself – tell me: how could I be happier? I know it doesn’t make sense. But sometime between my departure from and my arrival back to London, something clicked for me regarding my time here.
Removing yourself from a situation, or a location, can sometimes shed light in such a way that it elucidates a new perspective. And once I got back into my flat, it occurred to me that the whole time I’ve been here, I’ve been trying to create the London that I had imagined.
Allow me to paint you a picture: I imagined that in London I would spend my afternoons in cafes, drinking tea and eating scones, writing literature that would later be published and acclaimed and world renowned; I anticipated meeting Europeans at every corner, who would invite me to their homes where we would endlessly discuss books and art, allowing the wine to ignite and fuel tangent conversations. In London, I expected to find love – to find the kindest, most creative, intelligent and interesting man and who thought I was equally so, who saw all of my flaws and vices as the sheer fabric of perfection, who thinks my thoughts, where the negative space of his embrace called for my body, fitting too perfectly for there to be any doubt.
That was what I expected to find in London. I haven’t found it yet.
We are told to aim high. But I don’t think we realize that in building these high expectations, we are also erecting barriers and barricading portals to reality. Great expectations can be good, as long as they are grounded on a foundation of lucid thought. And that’s where I went wrong. I tried and tried to no avail turn the London of my reality into the London I dreamed of. And when despite my efforts, I was unable to make London what I wanted it to be, I was more disappointed and lonelier than before.
But what clicked for me upon my return from Italy was this simple idea that changed my entire attitude about London:
Stop trying to turn it into what you expected it to be.
At the moment, these dreams remain just that: dreams. They are things to aspire to and scenarios to fantasize about. But they all are attached to inklings of hope that perhaps one day, the picture of expectation I painted would be a mural of my reality.
Though it was nice to get out of London for a few days (sometimes you need a holiday away from your… well, I guess this little stint is a holiday), it feels really nice to be back – especially because now I’m feeling pretty refreshed, relaxed, and overall just happier.
I can understand how ridiculous that sounds. I’m living abroad, traveling at my leisure, with zero obligations to anyone but myself – tell me: how could I be happier? I know it doesn’t make sense. But sometime between my departure from and my arrival back to London, something clicked for me regarding my time here.
Removing yourself from a situation, or a location, can sometimes shed light in such a way that it elucidates a new perspective. And once I got back into my flat, it occurred to me that the whole time I’ve been here, I’ve been trying to create the London that I had imagined.
Allow me to paint you a picture: I imagined that in London I would spend my afternoons in cafes, drinking tea and eating scones, writing literature that would later be published and acclaimed and world renowned; I anticipated meeting Europeans at every corner, who would invite me to their homes where we would endlessly discuss books and art, allowing the wine to ignite and fuel tangent conversations. In London, I expected to find love – to find the kindest, most creative, intelligent and interesting man and who thought I was equally so, who saw all of my flaws and vices as the sheer fabric of perfection, who thinks my thoughts, where the negative space of his embrace called for my body, fitting too perfectly for there to be any doubt.
That was what I expected to find in London. I haven’t found it yet.
We are told to aim high. But I don’t think we realize that in building these high expectations, we are also erecting barriers and barricading portals to reality. Great expectations can be good, as long as they are grounded on a foundation of lucid thought. And that’s where I went wrong. I tried and tried to no avail turn the London of my reality into the London I dreamed of. And when despite my efforts, I was unable to make London what I wanted it to be, I was more disappointed and lonelier than before.
But what clicked for me upon my return from Italy was this simple idea that changed my entire attitude about London:
Stop trying to turn it into what you expected it to be.
At the moment, these dreams remain just that: dreams. They are things to aspire to and scenarios to fantasize about. But they all are attached to inklings of hope that perhaps one day, the picture of expectation I painted would be a mural of my reality.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Life in the Slow Lane
A major pet peeve of mine is a Slow Walker. Tied with the descending sensation of when your sock falls halfway down your foot, there is nothing more irksome than when another pedestrian becomes an obstruction in your path from point A to B. And sometimes, such an obstruction feels more like a barricade when, for example, a group of glacial-paced tourists occupy 90% of the sidewalk, leaving only a sliver of a lane for me and my oversized bag. Rude.
Some people have deemed this little habit of mine as impatience. But listen: my legs, though short, belong to a city walker, and have been conditioned over years of being late to move quickly. And sometimes that means, leaving Country Bumpkins in the dust. Sue me.
I've spent the past week in Italy, exploring the countryside and cobblestoned streets of Florence. Trust me, the Italians know how to do it: delicious wine that is cheaper than water, incredible food, breathtaking art... They've practically invented culture. Perhaps the only thing that they are not good at, is timing. Specifically, speed. People in Florence must not have any obligations. "Be right back"? Unlikely. Fast Food - were you trying to be ironic? If you're going to send a Florentine to run your errands for you, be sure to give him next week's grocery list, because that is probably when he will be back. You guessed it, Florentines are a New Yorker's sidewalk nightmare. While they would mosey along the narrow flanks of the street, I would closely tail them until there were an opportune moment to whiz passed, despite the risk of being hit by a vespa. I even found myself trying to telepathically move them aside, wringing my wrists in circles while I honed in behind them, willing them out of the way.
It wasn't until I had dinner with a family friend and proud ex-pat, Mary, who shared her knowledge of the Florentine lifestyle, that I realized the Italians' leisurely walking was indicative of how they like to live life. And I discovered that the aspects of their lifestyles that I considered an inconvenience was actually their way of maximizing their own happiness. It's clear in their pace and also, I found, in their restaurant operation: with food like the Italians, any Florentine restaurateur should be a millionaire. But instead, with only two seating times per evening and an environment that's rather unaccommodating to one's dietary limitations, they don't prioritize lucrative business. It's about doing their job, and going home to their families. And maybe that seems a little cut and dry, but I can't help but admire the integrity in that.
In New York, it's about time and money. In Italy, it's about life. Their priorities are different, and arguably, more appropriate. There may not be a perspective that is superior or correct, but looking through a different lens every once and a while sobers you up from the lifestyle you've grown accustomed to. So maybe I will try walking a little slower for a few days. Maybe I will see something new.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Fruit Salad
My new friend Elaine offered me an interesting explanation regarding the general differences between the British and American personas. “Peaches and coconuts,” she said very frankly. Um. Apples and oranges?
Her following description enlightened me. Upon meeting an American (ahem, New Yorker), she is like a peach: soft and fuzzy on the outside, and unfailingly sweet when you’re getting to know her. She is welcoming and kind, provided you’re not a weirdo, and is happy to keep your company for the afternoon. But despite her initial inviting demeanor, there is something about her that remains confidential and closed. You will eventually run into an impenetrable, hard center, and the friend you thought you had was really only basic conversation with an acquaintance.
Brits, comparatively, is our coconut. They are tough on the outside, seemingly impossible to crack. But once you make it through their exoskeleton, the nectar comes spilling out, and you realize that they could actually be quite sweet, and especially delicious in baked goods. But Elaine made the point very clear – you must be patient. Just as with a coconut you have to keep chiseling and chipping till you reach the center, it takes persistence to get through to the Brits. And if you get frustrated, then you’re the angry American (and now you’re really not going to make friends).
I found her theory as encouraging as I did disappointing. Ok, so I will stop bitching about not having made many friends after three short weeks. But was Elaine right about Americans? Is there a part inside of each New Yorker where the security is tighter than it is at Buckingham Palace? When I thought about it some more, it occurred to me that maybe it was true, and I began to wonder just how well I know the people I know. Some people I will almost come close to knowing inside and out, whereas some friends will forever remain a mystery, actively protecting themselves with a fence of barbed wire and caution tape. If this is the case, then there is really no point at all in being a peach, of having a juicy and pleasant outside. It’s deceiving.
I have to wonder why we work so hard to keep ourselves a secret, and from whom exactly we are keeping it. I can’t say whether we are more terrified by the idea of finding out who each of is or by the notion that others will judge us for it. But there is something that is preventing us from even trying. And maybe all we know of ourselves is what we can predict from the patterns of our habits.
And maybe Londoners, who will eventually allow their insides to pour out, are able to do this because they first attempt to approve of themselves before they seek the approval of others. And that’s why they are coconuts. Because they don’t give a shit about impressing other people and being perceived as sweet. They are more concerned with knowing themselves and the little universes in which they exist. And, when the timing is right, they will let someone else in, fully and truly, at the gatecrasher’s own risk.
I wish there were some hybrid fruit that combines both characteristics… some kind of peach/coconut (I can hear my friend Rachel saying, “poconut”) that is free of pits and hard shells. Just soft and good and delicious all around. Hell, a freaking strawberry. Whatever.
We’re all just fruit after all.
Her following description enlightened me. Upon meeting an American (ahem, New Yorker), she is like a peach: soft and fuzzy on the outside, and unfailingly sweet when you’re getting to know her. She is welcoming and kind, provided you’re not a weirdo, and is happy to keep your company for the afternoon. But despite her initial inviting demeanor, there is something about her that remains confidential and closed. You will eventually run into an impenetrable, hard center, and the friend you thought you had was really only basic conversation with an acquaintance.
Brits, comparatively, is our coconut. They are tough on the outside, seemingly impossible to crack. But once you make it through their exoskeleton, the nectar comes spilling out, and you realize that they could actually be quite sweet, and especially delicious in baked goods. But Elaine made the point very clear – you must be patient. Just as with a coconut you have to keep chiseling and chipping till you reach the center, it takes persistence to get through to the Brits. And if you get frustrated, then you’re the angry American (and now you’re really not going to make friends).
I found her theory as encouraging as I did disappointing. Ok, so I will stop bitching about not having made many friends after three short weeks. But was Elaine right about Americans? Is there a part inside of each New Yorker where the security is tighter than it is at Buckingham Palace? When I thought about it some more, it occurred to me that maybe it was true, and I began to wonder just how well I know the people I know. Some people I will almost come close to knowing inside and out, whereas some friends will forever remain a mystery, actively protecting themselves with a fence of barbed wire and caution tape. If this is the case, then there is really no point at all in being a peach, of having a juicy and pleasant outside. It’s deceiving.
I have to wonder why we work so hard to keep ourselves a secret, and from whom exactly we are keeping it. I can’t say whether we are more terrified by the idea of finding out who each of is or by the notion that others will judge us for it. But there is something that is preventing us from even trying. And maybe all we know of ourselves is what we can predict from the patterns of our habits.
And maybe Londoners, who will eventually allow their insides to pour out, are able to do this because they first attempt to approve of themselves before they seek the approval of others. And that’s why they are coconuts. Because they don’t give a shit about impressing other people and being perceived as sweet. They are more concerned with knowing themselves and the little universes in which they exist. And, when the timing is right, they will let someone else in, fully and truly, at the gatecrasher’s own risk.
I wish there were some hybrid fruit that combines both characteristics… some kind of peach/coconut (I can hear my friend Rachel saying, “poconut”) that is free of pits and hard shells. Just soft and good and delicious all around. Hell, a freaking strawberry. Whatever.
We’re all just fruit after all.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Pickled Politeness Part 2
In the last two weeks of living here, London has taught me that my definition of politeness was completely skewed. Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, I used the words “polite” and “friendly” interchangeably. But I’ve since discovered that the relationship between these two words is not synonymous, but rather symbiotic: an individual can be polite without being friendly, however, he cannot be friendly without being in some way polite. This distinction for me had been elucidated over and over again in the wake of my recent move.
For instance, I have seen time and time again a very gentlemanly Londoner offer his seat on the tube to an elderly person. And I’ve also noticed that at a cocktail party, a proper Londoner will never take the last hors d'oeuvre. Textbook politeness. On the other hand, I’ve found that it is rather difficult to strike up a conversation with a Londoner, even after he/she has been polite to the point of zealous.
Comparatively, “polished” may not be the adjective used when describing a New Yorker’s etiquette, but you could very easily find a new friend in a stranger after only a few minutes. Perhaps that’s why those New York Moments I was talking about don’t feel so difficult to come by. A New Yorker may not offer his subway seat to a senior citizen, but he will happily start a long-winded conversation with the old bird while he’s comfortably sitting down. And a New Yorker will probably take the last spring roll at the buffet, but he will ask the person behind him first if it’s cool.
As you can clearly see, “politeness” and “friendliness” are two very different concepts. New Yorkers may be lacking in the politeness department, but their friendliness compensates because it can pass for ignorant charm.
With Londoners, it’s not quite so simple. Their etiquette and manners are impeccable – every door is held and every accommodation is offered – but Londoners must have very few friends. A bold statement, yes. And, yes, I do think that I am obliged to say it.
Why?
Because I am bitter. Hmph.
That’s right. I have been in this country for 12 days and roughly 18 hours and I have yet to make a single friend. What gives?! I am personable, outgoing, generally unhateable (I’ve been told). And in my personal experience, I don’t have trouble meeting people. But somehow I’ve spent nearly two weeks practically by myself and I am simply not used to it. I am about a week away from creating an imaginary friend whom I intend on naming something very British. Like Nigel.
But then sometimes I stop and give myself some credit. I’ve only been here a matter of days, and meeting people in a brand new city isn’t easy. Think about it: when was the last time you’ve had to make friends out of complete strangers? Kindergarten, that’s when (or maybe college. Kids can be so cruel…)
I think this whole politeness bit is a big tease. Should I not assume that because you gave up your seat at the bar for me that we aren’t meant to segue into small talk? Perhaps when I have human contact with someone aside from the waiters and the sales associates (who are paid to be nice to me, if you need to be reminded) I will feel differently.
For instance, I have seen time and time again a very gentlemanly Londoner offer his seat on the tube to an elderly person. And I’ve also noticed that at a cocktail party, a proper Londoner will never take the last hors d'oeuvre. Textbook politeness. On the other hand, I’ve found that it is rather difficult to strike up a conversation with a Londoner, even after he/she has been polite to the point of zealous.
Comparatively, “polished” may not be the adjective used when describing a New Yorker’s etiquette, but you could very easily find a new friend in a stranger after only a few minutes. Perhaps that’s why those New York Moments I was talking about don’t feel so difficult to come by. A New Yorker may not offer his subway seat to a senior citizen, but he will happily start a long-winded conversation with the old bird while he’s comfortably sitting down. And a New Yorker will probably take the last spring roll at the buffet, but he will ask the person behind him first if it’s cool.
As you can clearly see, “politeness” and “friendliness” are two very different concepts. New Yorkers may be lacking in the politeness department, but their friendliness compensates because it can pass for ignorant charm.
With Londoners, it’s not quite so simple. Their etiquette and manners are impeccable – every door is held and every accommodation is offered – but Londoners must have very few friends. A bold statement, yes. And, yes, I do think that I am obliged to say it.
Why?
Because I am bitter. Hmph.
That’s right. I have been in this country for 12 days and roughly 18 hours and I have yet to make a single friend. What gives?! I am personable, outgoing, generally unhateable (I’ve been told). And in my personal experience, I don’t have trouble meeting people. But somehow I’ve spent nearly two weeks practically by myself and I am simply not used to it. I am about a week away from creating an imaginary friend whom I intend on naming something very British. Like Nigel.
But then sometimes I stop and give myself some credit. I’ve only been here a matter of days, and meeting people in a brand new city isn’t easy. Think about it: when was the last time you’ve had to make friends out of complete strangers? Kindergarten, that’s when (or maybe college. Kids can be so cruel…)
I think this whole politeness bit is a big tease. Should I not assume that because you gave up your seat at the bar for me that we aren’t meant to segue into small talk? Perhaps when I have human contact with someone aside from the waiters and the sales associates (who are paid to be nice to me, if you need to be reminded) I will feel differently.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Pickled Politeness
The British standard for politeness continues to fascinate me. They are world renown for their etiquette, famous for their manners, but I had no idea to what degree. I thought New Yorkers were courteous (I know some of you reading this find that shocking. Just because New Yorkers avoid eye contact and wear black all the time doesn’t make them mean. They’re quite gracious, if you ask nicely…), but the Brits invented courtesy, evidently.
One telling example occurred just the other morning while I was out to breakfast. Only a few tables away sat an older couple, well into their 70s, and their marriage not too much younger. Normally, in the states, a couple of this caliber would not be sharing a pleasant breakfast. In fact they probably wouldn’t be sharing anything more than the morning paper, much less a bed. But this British couple seemed exceedingly and perpetually happy. Which is why it was so disorienting to see them bicker! Right there, at the table! But the wake of this argument was perhaps the most disarming of all. In the aftermath of the squabble I witnessed, the couple's happiness was unfailingly resurrected by civility. The encounter went something like this:
"Phyllis, is thaat the laast slice of toast you’re eating?"
"Yes, Gerald. You mustn’t fuss – if you want some ‘ore will get a bit more."
"Wewl, you don’t really need it, do you now?"
"Don’t taulk to me like thaat Gerald!"
"Apologies, daahling. Would you like me to top off your tea?"
"Lovely. Thank you dear."
Just like that. Bloody brilliant. How come New Yorkers haven’t picked up on this? We still indulge ourselves in the back-biting dramatics of a strung out altercation. Partially, I would imagine, because it’s entertaining, but what a waste of energy! If we invested half of that energy into something productive, like, oh I don't know... personal finance, we wouldn't be in the throes a recession right now (you heard it - straight from the horse's mouth). Next time I slight someone passive-aggressively, I'm going to suggest we just have tea and drop it.
There was another encounter, however, that makes me wonder if the British are almost too polite, to their own detriment. You remember my friend, the electrician, who failed to show up to my flat at the scheduled time. Well I contacted him yesterday to confront him about exactly what happened…
"I’m terrifically sorry, Katie. I actually showed up a bit early but you weren’t there and I really had to get on my way to the hospital. I just got a call, you see, and it looks like my brother who has been quite ill is not going to make it through the night. Can I call you tomorrow to reschedule?"
Um… I’m an asshole. Naturally I profusely apologized and insisted he take his time. Who needs electricity anyway?
But what is he doing picking up the phone?! You’re brother is on his deathbed, Guy, this is no time to be doing business with some measly customer who wasn’t even at the house when you arrived. Do you see what I mean? In New York, that scenario would have played out differently - the electrician would never have answered... or if he did, I probably would have received an earful of four-letter words and would've been called all kinds of nouns... What a fascinating culture...
Hmm. I just had a thought. Maybe it is not that Brits are so polite to a fault… but maybe, their politeness may just be a highly evolved tact fermented over years and years to become a mechanism that makes the other party feel like an enormous jerk! How shrewd, Britain! Well played.
One telling example occurred just the other morning while I was out to breakfast. Only a few tables away sat an older couple, well into their 70s, and their marriage not too much younger. Normally, in the states, a couple of this caliber would not be sharing a pleasant breakfast. In fact they probably wouldn’t be sharing anything more than the morning paper, much less a bed. But this British couple seemed exceedingly and perpetually happy. Which is why it was so disorienting to see them bicker! Right there, at the table! But the wake of this argument was perhaps the most disarming of all. In the aftermath of the squabble I witnessed, the couple's happiness was unfailingly resurrected by civility. The encounter went something like this:
"Phyllis, is thaat the laast slice of toast you’re eating?"
"Yes, Gerald. You mustn’t fuss – if you want some ‘ore will get a bit more."
"Wewl, you don’t really need it, do you now?"
"Don’t taulk to me like thaat Gerald!"
"Apologies, daahling. Would you like me to top off your tea?"
"Lovely. Thank you dear."
Just like that. Bloody brilliant. How come New Yorkers haven’t picked up on this? We still indulge ourselves in the back-biting dramatics of a strung out altercation. Partially, I would imagine, because it’s entertaining, but what a waste of energy! If we invested half of that energy into something productive, like, oh I don't know... personal finance, we wouldn't be in the throes a recession right now (you heard it - straight from the horse's mouth). Next time I slight someone passive-aggressively, I'm going to suggest we just have tea and drop it.
There was another encounter, however, that makes me wonder if the British are almost too polite, to their own detriment. You remember my friend, the electrician, who failed to show up to my flat at the scheduled time. Well I contacted him yesterday to confront him about exactly what happened…
"I’m terrifically sorry, Katie. I actually showed up a bit early but you weren’t there and I really had to get on my way to the hospital. I just got a call, you see, and it looks like my brother who has been quite ill is not going to make it through the night. Can I call you tomorrow to reschedule?"
Um… I’m an asshole. Naturally I profusely apologized and insisted he take his time. Who needs electricity anyway?
But what is he doing picking up the phone?! You’re brother is on his deathbed, Guy, this is no time to be doing business with some measly customer who wasn’t even at the house when you arrived. Do you see what I mean? In New York, that scenario would have played out differently - the electrician would never have answered... or if he did, I probably would have received an earful of four-letter words and would've been called all kinds of nouns... What a fascinating culture...
Hmm. I just had a thought. Maybe it is not that Brits are so polite to a fault… but maybe, their politeness may just be a highly evolved tact fermented over years and years to become a mechanism that makes the other party feel like an enormous jerk! How shrewd, Britain! Well played.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
A Lesson Learned
So I suppose the inevitable finally occurred: I had my first meltdown. I guess it’s better that it happened now rather than let it loom in the imminent future, ready to strike at some unfortunate moment.
It dawned on me that at home everything that contributes to my daily routine and overall ability to function has been accounted for. And this was made explicitly clear when yesterday, everything I had to handle myself, felt like an impossible task. I couldn’t operate the 5-day internet pass I bought, the electrician never showed, and I blew out both of my $70 adapters. I was working hard to stay calm, but when I received a text from my mother reading “Today the world is yours”, I immediately interpreted her innocent comment as a mocking insult and lost control.
“Up yours” was the only response my fingers could text back to mother (which I quickly deleted, because even when one is out of reaching distance, you still don’t want to be on the receiving end of a bitch slap via text message which, due to the mode of communication, stings longer).
I started spewing complaints and churning out tears of self-pity, groping our conversation for some sympathy and hoping that my mother would teleport to my side with the electrician, an adapter and WiFi. Instead she bitch slapped me via text message anyway, and using every drop of her maternal wisdom said something quite profound: “Get a grip. This is real life.” Goddamnit! I hate it when she’s right.
I gave myself another 30 seconds to finish my tantrum, and bitterly considered my options – die whining and wireless-less, or go do something about it. Decisions, decisions.
I walked outside praying that I would also conveniently walk into a solution. I slowed down at the doorstep of the hotel I stayed in a few nights earlier, where the bellman asked how he could help me today. I don’t know how it happened, but my dilemma fell out of my mouth and upon the ears of this poor unsuspecting man. I was no longer a guest there, and I don’t think his paycheck covers listening to a spoiled New Yorker bellyache about a minor inconvenience. But he listened patiently, and asked me to wait. He returned with exactly what I was looking for: a three pronged UK adapter for a US visitor. Free of charge, he insisted. How remarkable! A complete stranger just stole something for me from his place of work; just committed a crime (sort of) on my behalf!
When I got back to my flat and plugged in the adapter, my relief seized me like a rescue worker, and I thanked the universe for creating the most magnificent bellman I have ever known.
I don’t know his name. And he may never know the degree to which he’s helped me. He may never know just how grateful I am for his kindness and he will never know that I am writing about him now. But he shifted something in my attitude. In giving me this adapter not only did he offer me reassurance, but he restored my faith in faith.
That taught me something really valuable. Treat people well; Be grateful. No matter where in the world you are, there are certain aspects of human interaction that transcends all boarders and language barriers. Foster something good in your personal space, and let people taste it. You’ll be rewarded in some way. If you build it, he/she/they/it/wine (perhaps) will come.
It dawned on me that at home everything that contributes to my daily routine and overall ability to function has been accounted for. And this was made explicitly clear when yesterday, everything I had to handle myself, felt like an impossible task. I couldn’t operate the 5-day internet pass I bought, the electrician never showed, and I blew out both of my $70 adapters. I was working hard to stay calm, but when I received a text from my mother reading “Today the world is yours”, I immediately interpreted her innocent comment as a mocking insult and lost control.
“Up yours” was the only response my fingers could text back to mother (which I quickly deleted, because even when one is out of reaching distance, you still don’t want to be on the receiving end of a bitch slap via text message which, due to the mode of communication, stings longer).
I started spewing complaints and churning out tears of self-pity, groping our conversation for some sympathy and hoping that my mother would teleport to my side with the electrician, an adapter and WiFi. Instead she bitch slapped me via text message anyway, and using every drop of her maternal wisdom said something quite profound: “Get a grip. This is real life.” Goddamnit! I hate it when she’s right.
I gave myself another 30 seconds to finish my tantrum, and bitterly considered my options – die whining and wireless-less, or go do something about it. Decisions, decisions.
I walked outside praying that I would also conveniently walk into a solution. I slowed down at the doorstep of the hotel I stayed in a few nights earlier, where the bellman asked how he could help me today. I don’t know how it happened, but my dilemma fell out of my mouth and upon the ears of this poor unsuspecting man. I was no longer a guest there, and I don’t think his paycheck covers listening to a spoiled New Yorker bellyache about a minor inconvenience. But he listened patiently, and asked me to wait. He returned with exactly what I was looking for: a three pronged UK adapter for a US visitor. Free of charge, he insisted. How remarkable! A complete stranger just stole something for me from his place of work; just committed a crime (sort of) on my behalf!
When I got back to my flat and plugged in the adapter, my relief seized me like a rescue worker, and I thanked the universe for creating the most magnificent bellman I have ever known.
I don’t know his name. And he may never know the degree to which he’s helped me. He may never know just how grateful I am for his kindness and he will never know that I am writing about him now. But he shifted something in my attitude. In giving me this adapter not only did he offer me reassurance, but he restored my faith in faith.
That taught me something really valuable. Treat people well; Be grateful. No matter where in the world you are, there are certain aspects of human interaction that transcends all boarders and language barriers. Foster something good in your personal space, and let people taste it. You’ll be rewarded in some way. If you build it, he/she/they/it/wine (perhaps) will come.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
The (Insert Location Here) Moment
The hardest part about leaving home is... well, leaving home. I am not going to lie -- I experienced some hesitation in the days leading up to my departure. I wasn't kicking and screaming, but I definitely wasn't all smiles. But there were definitely tears; enough to swell up my eyelids like a bad case of conjunctivitis. It did make for a good sleep though, a built in eye mask.
My reservations about leaving New York stemmed mostly from the fact that I will be bereft of a 'New York Moment' for upwards of six months. As definitions are fleeting, I couldn't possibly begin to describe what exactly a New York Moment is. In fact there is nothing definite about them at all. What I can tell you about them is that they most often appear in the midst of mutual cooperation between two New Yorkers, in the form of an ephemeral, yet seemingly destined, relationship of strangers who have never known each other before nor will ever encounter one another again. But the interaction, the scene, and the sentiment that was shared could never be lost.
Some such moments are exceedingly humbling, like when your manicurist (straight off the boat from Korea) has already finished the new Dan Brown book that you have just precociously tried to explain to her. Some are touching, such as when you see the angry chain smoker with furrowed brow bend down and offer a homeless man a cigarette. And some New York Moments will become fond memories of an instantaneous friend with whom you shared a cab downtown. Despite the scenario, it is a New York Moment that makes enduring the crowded streets and the endless traffic of the city worth it.
Every city must have its own brand of their "Moment." Since my arrival in London early Thursday morning, I've been wondering when I would encounter my first London Moment... but then I realized, that (1) it was probably too early in the curve for me and (2) I was probably looking in all the wrong places. Regardless of the parallels between London and New York, these are two different cities, from two different cultures. In fact, with my experience of New York Moments, I would have probably horribly offended some Londoner if I had made an attempt.
I think that I am so desperate for such a London Moment because it will officially mark my graduation from a tourist to a resident. In due time, I suppose...
My reservations about leaving New York stemmed mostly from the fact that I will be bereft of a 'New York Moment' for upwards of six months. As definitions are fleeting, I couldn't possibly begin to describe what exactly a New York Moment is. In fact there is nothing definite about them at all. What I can tell you about them is that they most often appear in the midst of mutual cooperation between two New Yorkers, in the form of an ephemeral, yet seemingly destined, relationship of strangers who have never known each other before nor will ever encounter one another again. But the interaction, the scene, and the sentiment that was shared could never be lost.
Some such moments are exceedingly humbling, like when your manicurist (straight off the boat from Korea) has already finished the new Dan Brown book that you have just precociously tried to explain to her. Some are touching, such as when you see the angry chain smoker with furrowed brow bend down and offer a homeless man a cigarette. And some New York Moments will become fond memories of an instantaneous friend with whom you shared a cab downtown. Despite the scenario, it is a New York Moment that makes enduring the crowded streets and the endless traffic of the city worth it.
Every city must have its own brand of their "Moment." Since my arrival in London early Thursday morning, I've been wondering when I would encounter my first London Moment... but then I realized, that (1) it was probably too early in the curve for me and (2) I was probably looking in all the wrong places. Regardless of the parallels between London and New York, these are two different cities, from two different cultures. In fact, with my experience of New York Moments, I would have probably horribly offended some Londoner if I had made an attempt.
I think that I am so desperate for such a London Moment because it will officially mark my graduation from a tourist to a resident. In due time, I suppose...
Monday, September 28, 2009
The Beginning
"The only way out is in."
-Junot Diaz, The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
I truly believe that this may be the only way to lead your life. Confront it. Perhaps the only way to expand ourselves is to look within ourselves.
Let's start at the beginning. I consider myself a bona fide New Yorker. Usually it is at this point where my friend Bari will interrupt to remind me that I grew up in Scarsdale and lived down the street from the Girl Scout House. Sigh. Technically, she is right. But like all good posers, I avoid this technicality with a battery of excuses I keep at my disposal: My father's side of the family lives in Manhattan; I've been going there every weekend since grade school; I've even been out to Randall's Island, and most real New Yorkers don't even go there.
Though I'm ashamed to admit, I have and do use these excuses when someone challenges my New York-iness, but mostly because I don't feel like explaining why I categorize myself as a city girl. I call myself a New Yorker because New York is the only place where I actually feel like myself. It's the only place that doesn't judge me for my inconsistent experimentation in a particular department of my life. New York won't call me out for being one day like everyone and the next like no one. It will condone me for following the trajectory that leads me to myself, even if that path is jagged and backward. I still have a lot to learn about life, but this city, along with its public transportation, has thus far been the vehicle. Until this point.
Last June I graduated college. And while most of my friends spent their Senior Spring hunting jobs, apartments, or LSAT tutors, I knew that hunting of any kind just wasn't for me. I considered starting a website and becoming an internet mogul, but then I remembered that I'm a computer-phobe. There seemed to be no other option than to travel. I've always loved Europe. I spent a summer in Barcelona and my semester abroad in Berlin... but where to go now? Thinking aloud about my indecision one day, a friend offered London.
Hey. Why not?
So here is the scenario: in a valiant (desperate?) attempt to sate lingering curiosity, I am moving to London to nourish my travel bug... the only kind of bug that is pleasant to catch. The plan is spend 6-9 months navigating Europe without any guidelines or routine. Just me, my intuition, and my Louboutins (and in this case I hope that my intuition will serve me best).
It's through this blog I plan to document my adventure, cataloging each event big or small, comparing my old world to my new world, and consequently, marking down the changes I will inevitably undergo.
Katie takes on London. Who knows if either will survive.
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