Grey's Journal:
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On Thursday, I made the foolish mistake of going out in the cold and the fog to a far away pub. I had been mildly sick all week, but now my illness used the opportunity to step up its assault. I awoke the next morning, stood up to get dressed, and immediately fell back into bed. I wasn't going anywhere. Instead of my usual day of wandering about London, I was going to have a day inside with a sore throat and a stuffy head. At least I had the internet to entertain me. Or so I thought. Alas, when I opened my iBook I discovered that the connection in my dorm was down -- as it would remain for exactly the duration of my illness. So, I spent the next several days listening to my collection of audiobooks, playing video games, playing chess and amassing a small mountain of tissues in the garbage can by my side. Of this construction I was oddly proud. While I missed visiting my usual spots, I was glad enough to stay inside where it was warm. The papers the previous week had big headlines announcing that snow was predicted for the weekend. It really made me smile to live in a place where the possible arrival of snow was page-one material. It snowed about a month ago -- a centimeter at most -- and I went outside to see London for the first time highlighted with white. It was amazing. Not the snow, but London's reaction. The whole city had shut down. The underground was hours behind, the rail lines were closed, buses where unreliable, and school children ran through the streets, delighted to have the day off. All for the saddest centimeter of snow I had ever seen. It was like the city had never dealt with snow before, as though this was a once-in-a-lifetime event. I thought London would be wise to hire a couple of guys from upstate New York or Canada. They, with their annual experience with major snowstorms, could have knocked the city into shape in no time. They'd drive big snow clearing machines and salt the ground all the while telling stories that started with ``You Limeys think this is snow? This is nothing. Once, back in the winter of '94...'' But of course, everything is relative. I remember once on a trip to Alaska talking to a tour guide and idly making the comment that the kids in Alaska must get a lot of snow days. ``No,'' she responded slowly. ``We don't have snow days up here.'' I was shocked. The tour guide explained to me that there hadn't been a blizzard in her lifetime the Alaskans couldn't handle. Snow would no more stop them than fog would a Londoner. What the Alaskans did have were cold days. If the temperature dropped below some inconceivable number (to me), like minus 50, then the children didn't have to go to school -- as frostbite would kill them before they even made it halfway there. That happened quite a lot apparently. So, while snow was predicted for this weekend for London, I didn't expect it to come. It was cold outside but the skies were, by London standards, clear. Though I was warm and reasonably entertained inside, there is a quote by Guy Almes that summed up how I felt: There are three kinds of death in this world. There's heart death, there's brain death, and there's being off the network. After three days, the lack of internet connection drove me outside. I simply had to plug into the network no matter how sick I was and how much I wanted to stay inside. Also, I had eaten through the last of my food that day and I needed something for dinner. I went out into the cold and traveled to the local internet cafe to check in on my virtual haunts and read my email (4 legitimate, 33 spam). On my way back to my apartment from the internet cafe, a blizzard rolled in. One moment it was a crisp, clear night and the next it was difficult to see through the blinding white. I had never seen snow come in this quickly before. It was as if someone opened a huge bag of styrofoam peanuts over the city. In at most a minute, everything was white frosted. The snowflakes were perfect -- an Edward Scissorhands snow. It was so sudden, and so beautiful that I stood on the street corner looking up into the city lights and smiling. I wasn't the only one. Everyone out on the street stopped what they were doing to marvel. I even noticed that one of the groups of perpetually-hooded teenagers, who usually spend all their time looking tough and giving off the impression they'd murder you for your shoes, where momentarily disarmed by the snow. They too looked up and allowed smiles to spread across their faces. I was covered in snow and wave a dizziness reminded me I probably shouldn't linger in the cold longer than necessary, so I stepped inside a nearby KFC to grab dinner. The snow, being perfect, melted off immediately. A few moments later, a young man stepped in from the outdoors as absurdly covered in snow as I had been moments before. I smiled. I think he mistook my smile for surprise as he explained in an English accent, ``It started snowing all of a sudden out there.'' He was, like everyone else, surprised but very happy about it. While I waited for my order we chatted pleasantly about how neither of us had ever seen snow come in like that and how unusually pretty it was. When I got my food, I turned to him and did something I swore I'd never do. I decided a long time ago I didn't want to consciously use British words. I know that if I stay in London for many years, the words I use will probably change. I've already noticed that `a bit' has replaced `a little' when I talk. But that was natural. I didn't do it on purpose. Intentionally altering my vocabulary would make me feel like a British poser. I did make one exception to this. Zornitsa decided for me one day that I would no longer use the phrase `What's up?' To her, it seemed an Americanism devoid of the friendship and warmth she deserved to be greeted with. As a result, I had to purge myself of it. When I make the mistake of greeting her with those two words as she enters my room, she narrows her eyes at me, frowns, and makes a dissatisfied noise. I'm learning very quickly not to speak those words. I want to, as far as possible, keep the words I grew up with. Sneakers not trainers. TV not Telly. Chicks not birds. Thanks to the massive amount of popular culture America exports, I can stick with my native words. Europeans know what I'm saying because they have heard the words I use and the way I speak thousands of times already from American movies and television. There is, however, one British word that causes me problems. `Cheers', as used by the British, has absolutely no American equivalent. It's used in particular with people you don't know. It's an I'm-just-recognizing-you-exist word. `Cheers' is what a store clerk says when you collect your purchase. `Cheers' is what someone says to you in a movie theater when you stand up to let them in the aisle. It's a versatile and useful word, and the lack of an American equivalent places me in an awkward situation when someone says `cheers' to me. I can either say something that doesn't fit the situation (usually `thanks' or `welcome') or say nothing at all. Since I had been chatting with the Englishman in KFC, I wanted to acknowledge him, but the closest American equivalent, `See you later', wasn't appropriate because I almost certainly never would. I'll blame it on my mental weakness from my illness, but I made a conscious, decision to defect from my natural vocabulary. ``Cheers.'' I said. And, to my annoyance, as though he was doing it intentionally because he heard my internal monologue on not wanting to say `cheers' he replied: ``See you later.'' |
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Copyright © 2004 Wellington Grey  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License. |
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