Incompetent Abroad: A Roundup of Cultural Clashes
All right, friends and foes in embryo, it’s time to bring you up to date on the events and encounters that don’t fit neatly into a straight chronological narrative. Here are some of them.
ATM Machines: Some time before my arrival on England’s shores, Queen Elizabeth II evidently issued a royal proclamation forbidding every merchant, innkeeper and street urchin from accepting my American Express card in exchange for goods and services. That being the shape of things, I had to pay cash—English cash—for every purchase. This required me to seek out and use furtive-looking ATM machines on those few occasions I could find them, usually in back alleys or pub toilets. I would put in my bank card, listen to the ominous chuckle emanating from within and watch as $174 was deducted from my anemic checking account for each 100 pounds disgorged. Given the chicanery implicit in all financial transactions these days, I expect to return home and see creditors in long black cars circling my block. Fortunately, I still have friends at the Second Harvest Food Bank.
English Breakfasts: At every residence my brothers and I occupied, save one, we were served what they called “a full English breakfast.” Here, “full” is the operative word. Besides the usual layout of fruit, yoghurt and cereals, our hosts cooked to specification eggs and meats in astounding quantities. I watched each morning as David and Roger plowed into sausages so large they could have been resuscitated. What the English cannot do—and I say this at the risk of permanent exile—is make potatoes edible, no matter what form they serve them in. I speak here not as a gourmet but as someone who routinely subsists on Ramen noodles. Day after day, I approached each new serving of “chips” (fries) with an open mind and a bottomless bottle of ketchup. Salt, barbecue sauce, mustard, marmalade—nothing improved the flavor. And we won’t even get into the texture, but the term “mealy” comes to mind. Could this curse be Ireland’s revenge?
The Joys of Hereford: With no particular attraction in mind, Roger arranged for us to spend two days in the beautiful village of Hereford. Erin, my oldest daughter, insisted I visit a cathedral some time during my stay in England, even though she knows I hold religion in even lower regard than I do sports. I’m glad I listened to her. Hereford Cathedral, although by no means the most majestic of its type, was still breathtaking. It was a vivid manifestation of earthbound humanity seeking to transcend its fleshly limitations through art—and almost succeeding. More moving still were the ruins of Grosmont Castle, an 11th-century structure located perhaps 10 miles from Hereford. It sits far out into the country at the edge of a tiny settlement of a few dozen families. Only parts of its once formidable walls remain, as well as a deep but waterless moat that completely encircles it. There was no attendant, and Roger and I were the only visitors for the half-hour or so we were there. Taken together, the cathedral and the castle make me proud of the species I lucked into. David, Roger and I also visited a Hereford laundromat (or “launderette,” as they call it). I felt less charitable toward my species when I had to pay four pounds to wash one load of clothes. If there’d only been water in the moat, we could have done them by hand.
Escape From the Pythonmobile: The Allies’ victory over Germany in World War II, the recent marriage of William and Kate, my rare decision to buy a round of drinks for the house have all been occasions of great communal rejoicing. But I swear to you, none of these events inspired the level of euphoria David, Roger and I felt when we dropped off our flesh-eating rental car at the Avis counter in Southampton. Free at last! Free at last! Thank Godamighty we were free at last. Each day for the past week, we had no choice but to surrender our battered bodies to its compacting embrace. David’s knees looked like he’d been at a prayer festival conducted on gravel. My joints creaked like ice floes breaking free whenever I entered and exited the beastly conveyance. The outline of the rear view mirror was embossed into Roger’s forehead. I don’t usually attribute animal qualities to inanimate objects, but this turkey was out to destroy us. We’d have kicked it into oblivion after surrendering the keys had it not been for the fact that our leg muscles were basically atrophied.
Our Dinner Companions: On Tuesday, May 10, we re-boarded the Queen Mary 2 for our week-long return to New York. I have noticed certain common traits among the people who’ve been assigned to dine with us each evening: They have far more money than they need; they are widely travelled; and they are uniformly cordial. Pleasant folks, in other words. It thus pains me to contemplate that when the Revolution comes, we will have to hunt them down like dogs. Just kidding! (Or am I?)