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.

In this situation, I ride this person's ass so hard they wonder why I didn't pull their hair (I must credit this phrase to shrewd and lewd bumper sticker that I saw every morning on my walk to class last year. It read, "if you're going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair". Many thanks to the Schenectdoid with a sense of humor). When I get close enough that I am actually clipping the backs of their shoes with every step, they move out of the way, generally looking alarmed and startled while I accelerate passed them in a huff.

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.

My city walking ways have served me quite well in London, as everyone here also races everywhere (the difference is that New Yorkers race because they are chronically tardy, where Londoners are so punctual that they put us to shame. And so to ensure their punctuality, Londoners race between appointments in order to arrive early). In other European cities, however, I have - most literally - ran into trouble with my speedwalking.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...