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.