Studying abroad has helped me to see past London’s tacky tourist scene to real-world England (except this “real world” doesn’t feature catty co-eds sexing it up).
My conclusion? I must be in the wrong place.
Somewhere between O’Hare and Heathrow, my plane detoured through the Bermuda Triangle, leaving me to traverse The Twilight Zone. Of course, I’m being silly . I think.
I have been in London for more than three weeks now, and the confusing charms of the local culture are already commonplace. What I mean is that being in London doesn’t feel exotic or “European” in the ways I had expected it would. Come to think of it, I don’t feel very exotic or European myself.
For some reason, I thought my life in London would be one lived alongside the jet-setting cultural elite of the Old World. I assumed my activities would include praying at Westminster Abbey, synchronizing my watch with Big Ben, smearing myself with body paint for a football match and slurping down English tea with Queen Liz.
In the real world, landmark London hot spots and cultural clich?s don’t figure in to my day-to-day life. It’s like the St. Louis Arch-I know it’s there, but I don’t always notice it as I scurry to complete my very important errands. (Hey, Facebook comments don’t write themselves).
My actual adventures are oh-so-European. When I’ve got a craving for some late-night sustenance, I slip out of my flat and head to the nearest hub of restaurants and pubs. There are a handful of eateries, but I’d have to sell a bodily organ or two to afford their prices for several months. As my eyes search the sea of neon lights, they settle hungrily on familiar sights: a set of Golden Arches, Subway, Burger King and KFC. Bingo.
I hate to admit it, but I frequent these diners of iniquity. Yes, it makes me feel like an addled American, rejecting a unique environment in favor of good old-fashioned American trans fats, but I can’t help it; this stuff is fast, familiar and cheap.
The way I see it, though, choosing my friend Big Mac over Big Ben doesn’t make me an empty-headed dolt. Real-world London isn’t special because of a giant clock or police officers who wear fuzzy hats.
It’s the Londoners themselves who make living here unique. Sure, Starbucks is on every corner, but the people and their perspectives on life and love veer in directions different from mine. What has been surprising is that people are different without being the Cockney caricatures we see in the media. They are nothing like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins; I have yet to hear anyone say “Cheerio, Gov’nah.”
And after two weeks of working alongside my British brethren, I have learned that there is one activity that the English regard as a national pastime: drinking. Seriously. Imbibing is an art form here.
Sometimes I feel guilty while regaling my friends across the pond with stories of heading to the pubs every night, but I don’t think the natives see it that way. Their nightly pints in the pub are akin to our espressos in Central Perk. Drinking alcohol isn’t about getting drunk here; it is a bonding experience. That might sound bizarre to you. At first it was foreign to me, too.
The differences I expected are minute, while real-world cultural cornerstones I didn’t anticipate have arisen. There was no way to prepare for life abroad, but as I live the life of a real Londoner, I am beginning to feel at home. I haven’t walked London Bridge or visited Parliament, but I get on the subway (or the tube, as it’s known here), crack wise with my bosses and toss back a pint with the best of them.
