"Oh wow, are you an American?"
I hear this question daily. Some people stare in amazement at the fact that I come from "America," a seemingly mythological place consisting of New York City, L.A., fast food, and feature films. Others apologize for my misfortune.
Before coming to London for the year on the Tufts-in-London program, I had no idea what it was like to be a foreigner. But when I walked out of Heathrow Airport in London, my suitcase and backpack in tow, the cold rain stinging my skin still warm from Boston sunshine, I realized that I was far from home, and far from Tufts.
Stepping into my new five-bedroom flat was disappointing to say the least. It is difficult enough to move into a new dorm room in the fall, but the empty flat, five stories up in a strange, foreign city, stood before me as a hopelessly uncomfortable place to live. I threw my bags down, sat on my bed, and frowned at the view of a skyscraper from my window. Nothing was familiar, but would be in time - I hoped. I was hungry, wet from rain (and yes, it does rain almost every day), and tired.
The process of adjustment began, slowly progressing over a matter of months. There were the initial grievances in the first few weeks that made me want to sit down in the street and cry out in defeat, as suited commuters and individuals exceeding all my prior notions of coolness trampled me.
Among other things, I had to achieve some sort of comfort level with my room, which posed a challenge. In England, there is no such thing as a comforter. Here they say "duvet" (pronounced doovey) to mean that lovely puffy article that makes sleeping so enjoyable. In my ignorance, I purchased a "duvet set," and received a small flat package. "Where is the comfort?" I thought. Of course, the set I bought merely contained the cover for the duvet, not the duvet itself.
In fact, I encountered much difficulty with language, mainly when discussing sex. To "get off" means to hook up, and to "snog" means to kiss. To "make out" is too ambiguous a term to use. "Pants" are underwear and "trousers" are pants, and my initial American understanding of these terms naturally caused much snickering by my British friends.
Using the restroom proved yet another challenge. I have created a simple way of tackling this issue, dividing it into steps:
1. Ask someone for the "toilets."
2. Find your way through a maze of doorways, halls, stairwells, and signs (using caution proportionate to number of pints consumed).
3. Avoid locking yourself inside.
4. Need I say it?
5. Flush. This is the most difficult step of them all. Some flushes are above on a chain, some below in the form of a foot pedal, others a seemingly normal flush until you realize that the tension is completely different, and that a special quick, fluid motion of the wrist is necessary to complete the task. Some even need to be pumped.
I was also met with a surprising amount of animosity towards my American-ness. Apparently, America is a baby at 225 years. Some English people feel America should be re-colonized, and the 2000 election strengthened this belief. I heard tirades about the superiority of Parliament and the farcical nature of American government. Outwardly, I defended my "home sweet home." I surprised myself by fiercely defending something in which I had never previously had faith. One night another Tufts student and I even walked home at 3 a.m. singing "God Bless America" in defiance of some drunken opinions from British persons.
Academically, the English program here is traditional and sometimes highly comedic. My seminar professor's British accent proved so indecipherable that when he began to lecture on Tennyson's "In Memoriam," I resolved to be "that weird American girl in the corner." I played with my hair, coughed, and sneezed, all in an attempt to avoid any request to contribute my clueless American voice to the discussion.
Over the course of the term - after a month-long bout with mono and numerous visits to the health center, witnessing the pitfalls of socialized medicine, and struggling with outlets and cars on the wrong side of the road - my frustrations eased, and I began to love London. I became part of a community of people, some Tufts students, many Brits, and international students as well. I managed to reconcile with periodic loneliness, join the dance society, and get a part-time job. My once empty flat now teems with activity and drum and bass music, and London is somehow becoming a new home, away from the shelter of familiarity, and an endless source of experience.
