The fact that I was most defiantly, certainly abroad and most defiantly, certainly in America finally hit home on Halloween. I say ‘hit home’ as a loose phrase, as I never think that there is much realisation at the time of being drunk, just the horrible day of grief the morning after. Dressed in a blonde wig, over-sized sunglasses and velvet leotard in the style of your favourite pop bitch and mine-Lady GaGa- I found myself surrounded by ten ‘cops’ who proceeded to try and arrest me after I innocently fell asleep on a bus. Now I know what your thinking-this would never happen in England. In England the inebriated individual has access to a range of public offences for which he or she will inevitably be let off with a ‘go home’, or the old-fashioned ‘warning’. I believe it was such a train of thought that ran through my head while my vodka lusted brain tried to make sense of the situation. I believe it was my English stubbornness that caused me to take some offence when I was asked to walk in a straight line. I’m certain it was my English sensibilities that allowed them to frisk me. I also like to think that it was my being English that caused me to tell the SCPD to go fuck themselves.
For some weeks now I have been fighting a private battle in which I try to get Americans to understand what a Mocha is. “M-OK-A” I persistently scream at the gawky coffee shop staff. “M-OAK-A?” they reply. The difference to the untrained ear is subtle, but it can be the deciding factor that determines whether you will receive the asked for coffee or a glass of water. What I am trying to make clear in this rather dull story of cross-cultural-coffee-confusion is that England and America are essentially the same, but with some glaringly obvious differences. Their penchant for Halloween, their insistence on spelling words differently and a lack of reasoning for calling a fringe ‘bangs’. While ‘culture shock’ is not a phrase you’d associate with America, this is certainly how I’d describe the state my parents were in when I met up with them a few weeks ago. Californian roads in an automatic had taken their toll, as had days of ordering chips and receiving crisps and dodging foodstuffs that didn’t contain trans fat (banned in the UK since ’07!). While we waited in line for a much-needed coffee a customer picking up on ‘the accent’ accosted Mum. “Are you English? I mean, my wife and I are practically anglophiles. We LOVE Prime Suspect”. His excitement waned as we all realised that this was another case of lost in translation. Mum had never heard of Prime Suspect.
While I have received alot of appreciation for my Saturday night escapades, what must be reiterated is that what appears to be a story of one small English girl ‘sticking it to the man’ is in fact just a drunken mishap that has led me to realise that yes, by all means, get drunk in America. But not before the eyes of their paranoid law enforcers.
