Things They Get Wrong

There is, for some godforsaken reason, a heatwave here. I am in the Fens, which is basically swampland- which is maybe why my partner took a shine to the place: he grew up in Chicago, built on a big swamp (the name "Chicago" is a derivative of the Native American phrase "Chika Chika boom boom", loosely translated to "location location location".) It was hot there, because it's the Midwest; but we Americans insist on settling places that should never be settled. We, as a nation, have the perverse compulsion to develop skyscrapers on extremely windy waterfront property and plop sushi restaurants in deserts. So we suffer the consequences of our decisions, like sweating out months of temperatures so high that the Europeans must translate the temperatures into Celcius just for their own peace of mind.

"I hear in Dallas they get to 50 in the summers, for days on end" they say.

When we moved here I was looking forward to being able to talk about the USA as one speaks of a forty-year-long fever. I'd get to describe the psychadelic dreams I'd had, like the Division of Motor Vehicles and beer that tastes like piss, and then I'd get to shudder and smile because I was free of it now that I'm here, in the glorious UK, where they are unapologetic about thier desire to keep certain people in fabulous jewelry their entire lives in exchange for said people's privacy, and  where the summer temperatures never reach over 75 Fahrenheit. And if they do it's for a day, and the populace wanders around looking at the blue patches up in the air where the clouds have pulled away from the sun as if startled, and they take off their wool shepherd's caps or floor-length aprons to wipe the imperceptible damp from their brows and reminisce about the last time it reached 75, which was invariably during the Second World War. It's stayed warm, though, and I think we'll have to live with that: seems the earth is getting hotter over here, too.

It's not bad, I hear it gets to 50 C in Dallas, so I won't complain about anything other than the bugs. They are all over the house, because the British don't believe in screens. I'm not positive, but I think they don't believe in screens the way I don't believe in Santa. And the house isn't situated in any body's Wood (quick tip: the don't snicker after you say "Wood." It's like they don't know what it means.) There is no thick canopy to protect us from the normally reluctant sun, so it gets warm in the house, which means we are forced to open the  unprotected windows, and within ten minutes the cat and dog are staring at different points in the air just above their heads with great, intent expressions. In the case of the cat the expression says "IwillkillyouIwillkillyouIwillkillyou you insignificant weirdly-legged speck that dares fly in the the no-fly zone above my fiefdom," and in the case of the dog it's "bug! bug! bug!...bug! bug!...uh...bug!" Both pounce; both succeed every third try; both attempt to eat it. There are forty day flies per pet per cubic foot per hour, though, and while it's entertaining to watch them hurtle themselves and discuss the different jump-and-claw-owner's-leg techniques they employ, it ends up being too many bugs and we wake up with their carcasses floating peacefully in all but one of the coffee cups. It gives you the heebie-jeebies.

I've taken to walking to our local village because I like walking and there's a footpath behind some fields that goes right there; I already had a slouchy wide-brimmed straw hat, so I figured why fight it. It's beautiful. Then I get to the village and go to the library or supermarket and cannot find any water fountains. Not even the gym we just joined- called a Leisure Centre here, because why be coy: no one's going to exercise- has any of the obnoxiously frequent water fountains that are all over the YMCA I patronized. The only one I could find was tucked into the locker room's corner, and looked just like a WWII-era sink because it clearly is one. There's a sign that says "public water" just underneath it, located at the very convenient five-inches-above-the-floor level; to get water you have to leeeaaan over and twist another knob and stick your face about six inches into its' well. Eventually water comes out, resenting you for not heating it up and putting tea in it. I'm American, dammit, and I refuse to carry a water bottle! It's slightly annoying, so I wont' do it!

The worst thing is that when you go into a pub and sit down at a table, you have to approach the bar itself to get a beer. Sure, it's tepid beer, kept that way because it's not the frothy urine produced in mind-boggling quantities in America, keeping our keggers affordable . And sure, there's about 5oo beers here that are on tap at every pub and tavern and convenience store, and even the crap beers are still the kind you'd read favorably about in Beer Moustache magazine.  You have to pick your ass up and move it to the bar so that you can purchase your drinks and then go sit back down. At my very first pub I politely asked for a beer from the waitress who came over and asked if she could get anything else from us besides our order; she was young and stood blinking at me for a moment before she said "sure, I'll bring that out." My husband told me that it's just not done. No exceptions, even though every one's thighs are sheathed in a light sweat at all times and we are all leaving damp patches on the bar stools (no, not that kind of damp patch! That is also just not done. I dearly hope.)

It's gotten to the point where I'm almost not enchanted with this country. Stupid heatwave.

The First of Many Trains Back from London

Our first trip to London was a winner. The sky was mostly clear, so it was sunny and hot, if you're a Brit. If you're a Chicagoan it was a bit warm (I'm already preparing the speeches I'll lay on friendly Briton's heads when they innocently engage in conversation with me about the horrid weather. Ahem: "Yeah, it's cold, I know- but I'm from Chicago and every year we have a number of days when the temperature drops, ok? Except in Chicago it drops 40 degrees in twelve hours, whereas you guys get a 40 degree difference over the course of a year, so...this isn't cold." ...I can't wait to make this speech and watch their faces when I'm done, grimacing with the effor of not pointing out that they use Celsius over here.)

 

So. London. The British Museum is so interesting and full of extremely accessible collections that you don't feel like running to the gift shop immediately upon entering the place. Walking- lots of it, sore-leg-making length walks, which I love and my daughter doesn't (yet.) I even had dinner with an old friend, and met my friend's boyfriend (Scottish) and his friend (English. ) I felt like a world traveler- a baby world traveler, but it's progress;  by the end of the summer I intend to be smoking French cigarettes in a t-shirt signed by a Tokyo street artist while waiting in line for the doors to open on day one of Saudi Arabia's LGBT Film Festival. But in the meantime,  there's the train back from London.

 

We got on and faked casually looking for good seats together, an attitude the other day trippers carried with them like reading material.  We sat. It was a slow ride,  but fortunately there was a small group of drunk people right behind us. This being Britain,  the seats were so clean I couldn't work up a good fume. The drunk people talked to everyone, and everyone handled it with calm indulgence, including the equally drunk Italians. There was a minimal amount of gesturing from them; still, neither group wished to give  up on their new drunk friends. This made for a hilarious exchange that went just like this:

English 1:"Ah you need Hamford? Is Hamford-Sawtry this line cuz if not me mates here-"

English 2: "This isn't the Hambourg line! They need lots of tunnel!"

Italian 1: "Your cities have a sign, which is everywhere. I think that England has too many. Friends?"

 

English 1: "What they say is that you're fat, but you're not fat-"

 

English 2: "Not them, the country! Italy is fat right at the top because of bad carbs!"

 

Italian 2: "I do not see planes here. What is this about planes? Shyness makes me mad."

 

English 1: "We're gonna sing. You sing. I heard you, your voice-"

 

English 2:"They weren't being shy, that was maps! I hope they had tunnel maps!"

 

English 1: "Yeah yeah, right, but singing will get them there."

 

Italian 1:"I understand singing. We aren't shy but I don't sing on planes."

 

English 1: "No, this is a train and everybody sings all the time-"

 

English 1: "What a waste! They can't be in two places, and you're makin 'em warble!"

 

Italian 2: "Warble is English for shy. I told you, we don't think shy things are good things."

 

English 2: "Fat cities, too! But you guys are all ok- just: tunnel tunnel tunnel!"

 

I'm confident that my translation is true to the core meaning of the drunk people's conversation, in that it had no core meaning anywhere, unless you count the segment about singing. The singing bit is true. It's a universal fact that if you're on a late train home from a major metropolis, either you will be drunk or the people behind or in front of you will be drunk- and you should remember to bring lozenges, because you will end up in a sing-along. Ours was prototypical: the intoxicated behind us sang loudly and cheerfully, and a few others joined in (maybe they knew what was playing next and were warming up.) Then the loudest behind us (English 1) found a song and shouted loud enough to be heard by the people from another train car who were getting off:

 

"Everybody has to sing to this one!!"

 

It was Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. Everyone smiled at the same time, and everyone became an honorary drunk.

 

"I SEE A LITTLE SILHOUETT-A OF A MAN SCARA MOOSH SCARA MOOSH WILL YOU DO THE FANDANGO!"

 

All the passengers had the same expression between lyrics- there was a great deal of concentrating on what was  sung next, because we all used to sing it in the shower/dorm room/other train when we were in college/high school/prison/indentured servitude as an intern.

 

"MAMA MIA MAMA MIA MAMA MIA LET ME GO BEELZEBUB HAS A DEVIL FOR A SIDECAR ME, WITH ME SAYS MEEEEE!!!!"

 

There is an instant right after that line is sung where there's nothing: a breath I believe it's called in music-learnin', and during the breath everyone looked at each other with a dare in their eyes. Then: guitar. Massive, colossal, fantastic guitar, and as one we passengers picked either head-banging or fist-pumping and did the solo proud. We were in full synchronization in that moment. It was a beautiful moment. I'm sure it was even more beautiful for the drunk people, because you've never heard so much hollering and laughing- it was as if everyone there had won the lottery at the same time.

 

I'm excited about the next trip to London and back. I hope to be a drunk person.  I have the song Come On Eileen all cued up and ready to go.