Unlikely Words

It’s not just that I’ve never left the country. That’s not even true; I’ve been to Canada. Being in England isn’t just being in a foreign country, although it is definitely that. I feel like there’s something special about the fact that this is my first trip out of North America. I am, for the first time, standing on a different continental plate; this trip is of tectonic significance to me.

It makes me think about how big this planet is, about how far and how fast we traveled, and with how little fuss. Watching the GPS display on the little screen at my seat, I had this image of our plane, suspended by the wind above the surface of the Earth, racing faster than the speed of the planet’s rotation to meet the sun, which was speeding around the other way.

(The little screen also drove home how far north England is. Our route basically followed the North American coast northeast, and then took a right at Greenland. This island is way up there, which is why the sun didn’t set until 9:30 today.)

But England is a different country. I’m sure I’ll have more to say about the experience of history here, of visiting the Old World from the New, but the first things I noticed were how similar-but-slightly-off everything is. I’ve often thought of Canada as being just like home, but rotated by about 5 degrees. England is the same, but make it 45. There are lots of little differences – of grammar, of culture, of accent – but what I started noticing first was that it was as if someone had set out to create a culture but turned the “whimsy” knob way up. (Example: I haven’t yet seen an exit sign. They all say instead: “Way Out.” But of course!)

I can now report, however, that the London Underground smells exactly like every other subway I’ve been on. The long ride from Hatten Court to Russell Square was hot and uncomfortable, but otherwise effortless. The suburban scenery that we passed was exactly what I expected: little row houses with cute little back gardens (with laundry! Hanging from lines!) and tiny cars parked out front.

Coincidentally, Gordon and Karen (at whose apartment we are staying) were also flying into London the same day from a week-long trip back home, and we actually arrived before them. We had very helpful walking directions, however, and found their place without difficulty. (I was very grateful for the “look left” and “look right” painted on every crosswalk, which may have saved us from being killed in traffic.) They live near Russell Square in a great little apartment (or should I say flat?) that’s welcoming and comfortable, but which makes me feel like I packed too big a suitcase.

We took a nap on their futon, and woke up when they arrived, looking insufferably well-rested and refreshed. They took us out for a picnic lunch in a private garden nearby, during which we feasted on surprisingly good pre-made sandwiches from the local Tesco’s. (Rachel and I shared the “Triple Chicken,” three half sandwiches in a cute little triangular box, with three different chicken salad variations. Yum!) After our picnic, we joined their friends Carl and Richard at an actual English pub (Carl: “Yeah, pretty much all English pubs are called ‘The Queen’s Head.’”) to watch the England-Ecuador World Cup match.

It may not be necessary to say this explicitly, as I am an American, but I know nothing and care nothing about soccer, or rather, football. But when in London… it would have been a cultural handicap not to have seen the game, so I went into it with an open mind. It turns out that, as with most sports, if you care who wins, the game is much more exciting. (Even I can find a baseball game boring if it’s between, say, the Royals and the Mariners.) Rachel drank her first beer ever while the other four explained the game to us and patiently answered our stupid questions.

I got pretty into it. I was proud of myself that a few times I was able to make the right noise (“Aw!” or “Nice!”) a split second before my tablemates. I learned enough to recognize that England made some amazing crosses (especially by Rooney) but just couldn’t capitalize on them. And I was pleased that the one player I’d heard of before scored the winning (and only) goal.

We left the exuberant pub and walked home to change for our evening activities, a night of improvisational comedy at the Comedy Store. Some of the Comedy Store players were known to us from the British version of “Whose Line is it Anyway?” and Rachel had seen the live show several times, so expectations were high. It was pretty funny. Josie Lawrence and Richard Vraunch cracked me up consistently, and the rest weren’t bad. The walk to and from Picadilly Circus was a great sight-seeing experience, although after getting 5 solid hours of sleep in the previous 36 hours, we were all too happy to collapse when we returned to Gordon and Karen’s, and planned a more restful next day: bus tour! Is there anything lamer or more touristy? How about lugging around two cameras? Aw, yeah.

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