England Redux

There must have been some kind of 9/11 effect since the last time I was in England. That was back in 2001, before the airplanes got hijacked and before the English acted like the most welcoming people on the face of the planet.

Anecdote from a few years ago:

I was in a bar with a singer/dancer girlfriend, who was performing in a show in High Wycombe. I was trying to get into the English mood by drinking dark beer and she was putting away the gin and tonics as she always did: with a laugh and a smile. Pretty soon our glasses were at rock bottom, so I wandered over to the bar to freshen them up. (As is the English custom, table service in a bar is no-go; you've got to walk up and order the drinks yourself).

On the way back from the bar, I noticed two older couples playing a game of Cribbage. Excellent. Here I was, first time in England, and I actually got to watch the very English game of Cribbage being played by a couple of genuine Brits.

The Cribbage board was different than the ones used in Canada or the States. There, they look like a race track. This one looked like a plain circle. So I watched for a few moments, then asked how the the scoring was done.

One of the Englishmen looked up and, upon hearing my accent, said, "Pretty tough for you to count, Yank." Just like that. One of the wives smiled, the other snickered, and the other man didn't say a word, just concentrated on his lousy hand of sixes and twos.

I said, "Excuse me?"

He replied, "I don't think you can count that high, Yank."

There was no banter here, no jest, no coy sense of humor. He meant what he was saying and he wanted me to know that he meant it.

I walked away from their table, choking back the urge to be an Ugly American and throw their Frisbee of a Cribbage board across the bar. I can be pretty aggressive and "American" when faced with a slight, but I was new to the country and besides, a man in his twenties has virtually no excuse when a cop asks him why he bounced a beer glass over an old man's head. So I did the manly thing and ran away to tell Sara that English people are big meanies to tourists.

I heard Sara's in a show in Portugal these days, but she should have quit singing and become a boxer. She turned in her seat and informed the Englishman that I was, in fact, a Canadian and not a "Yank."

The Englishman said, "Same thing," or "Close enough," or something like that, to which sweet Sara with the long legs and the polite English accent replied, "Then I guess that makes you a damned Scotsman."

I could have kissed her for that, and probably did, but the point is that strangers with American accents weren't greeted with a lot of respect before 9/11. Another time on that same trip I tried ordering a beer at the bar and the man behind the counter said, "We don't have any light beers." I hadn't ordered a light beer, didn't even want one, but he heard the accent and thought he would be funny. So I told him no, I'd like a Guinness, and he poured it with a shit eating grin on his face.

Fast forward five years. The polls say everyone here hates George W. The polls say that Afghanistan and Iraq are the blunders of a century and that Tony Blair should be tossed out on his ass. The newspapers and TV shows make fun of the President of the United States on an embarrassingly regular basis. And yet the people I meet treat me like gold, even before I get to tell them that I was born in Toronto.

Oh, don't get all misty eyed if you're reading this in Ohio. The English still say Americans are war mongering jerks, and they still say silly things like, "I could never live in America," as if they would know what living in America is like without having visited the place. But their treatment of people with American accents is vastly different than it was before. In fact, I feel more comfortable here than I have in any country on the planet since 9/11 went down.

To wit: the friend I'm visiting doesn't have a spare bedroom. I've been here 12 days, and I have only had to crash on his couch once. There are people lining up to spare you a couple of hots and a cot. They leave their keys in your hand and tell you to please lock up before taking off. They're going out of town? No problem. Lock the door, then drop the keys through the old fashioned mail slot. Glass half full? Not around here, where it's always half empty, so let me buy you another beer, buddy. Need a ride to the train station? I'm not heading that way, but Bob is, so don't sweat it.

In fact, they are so kind to you here that it is unnerving. The last time I was here, there was a definite tension in the air whenever I opened my mouth. I remember once that I complained about how expensive the bill was at a TGIFridays. I mean, two hundred dollars for a few burgers and beers and a bottle of wine? Get real. Then, I was directly accused of being a cheapskate. Now, everyone agrees with me that the prices are outrageous after taking dollar conversion into account.

Where did all the animosity go? Where are all the arrogant bozos? Not too far away: the occasional guy at the end of the bar who comments too loudly that I'm a 'colonial' is evidence that they're still around. But they've been pushed to a corner, or banished by their own kind in favor of happier talk around the pints of bitters and glasses of gin.

Why is that? I have my theories, but of course they would be denied in a heartbeat. My theories are thus:

The tube bombings really got to them here. They don't talk about it, never mention it over supper, but it is there if you ask about it. And they aren't happy.

Walk the streets and you will hear a myriad of accents from Eastern Europe and the Middle East, more so than ever. Ask an English person about this, and they will say that England is taking on more than it can handle. You would think they mean welfare stuff, or health care costs, and all the rest, but it is deeper than that. Without meaning to, they are talking about English culture, and whether or not it will survive the new era of terrorism, and borderless EU policies. They are upset at the cultural suicide that is taking place inside their own country.

A hundred years ago, they ruled the waves and the world. A hundred years later, they have taken the English flag out of prisons lest it insult a non-Christian inmate. The English flag is, of course, the cross of St. George, flown during the Crusades and a symbol of might and prosperity for centuries. Now they have talked themselves into believing that it is a symbol of shame. When you hide the state's symbol so that it does not insult people that have committed crimes against the state, what are you saying if not, "I surrender."

All of which leads back to me, the 'American' who has been met with nothing but generosity and goodwill. Even the bouncers at the nightclubs treat me with something bordering on respect, which as any nightclub fan will tell you is nothing short of astonishing.

It seems we may have had the capacity to dislike each other, we cousins of English ilk. But with more bombs going off, and more hardship ahead, perhaps we huddle a little closer to things that sound like us, things that we understand. Yes, they can make fun of the beer we North Americans drink, and sure they can bitch that we drive on the wrong side of the road. And yes, I can wonder for the hundredth time about the separate hot and cold taps in the bathroom which play hell for shaving, and of course I can gripe about the washing machines that take three hours to clean your clothes. But there is something that feels like home when you can meet people from across the ocean and know that deep in the bones there is some common feeling of belonging together.

Too much? Maybe. I can wax sentimental with the best of them when the mood strikes. And of course right now I have that fear of being called a bigot again, because the above paragraphs can be taken completely out of context: Sean likes white English speaking people. To which I can simply say, sure I do. I also like black French speaking people, and Hispanic Thai speaking people.

I like anybody that gives me a fair shake. But there is nothing wrong with feeling welcomed, and the welcoming feeling I have here is not so much that I am home, but that I am being greeted in a way that says, "Welcome back. Those petty arguments we had before don't mean a damn thing compared to what we're going through now. I still hate your beer. So have some of mine, won't you?"