Being Foreign

I am a foreigner. I know this because of little things. After all, American culture was built on a British foundation, so some things would be the same.

Bacon and eggs, for instance. Except here you call it ‘bacon and egg’--a cooked breakfast. We had bacon, eggs, and toast for Sunday lunch with Andy’s parents while they visited. Some things are exactly the same. Except for the stewed tomatoes, of course.

But my heart stops every time the mailman stuffs a letter into the slot in the front door. It’s the clanking noise and the sensation that something is happening inside the house, when I know that I’m alone. Just like walking past the kitchen and hearing scurrying noises coming from behind the door. Something breaking the quiet. I can’t seem to get used to it.

I experience momentary incomprehensions now and then. Last night when I offered to make our guests some after-dinner tea or coffee and was asked if we had any Nescafé. I blinked and spoke slowly, confused by the request. ‘We have... coffee... I can make some if you like...’ I spoke haltingly like a foreigner unfamiliar with the language.

Hardly as many people here drink tea as you might imagine (as an American), and whoever isn’t drinking tea is having instant coffee. It strikes me as very bizarre. Bad tea surpasses instant coffee, in my opinion.

The coffee section of the aisle in the grocery store, next to the extensive tea selection, is made up almost entirely of different varieties of instant coffee. There might be one or two kinds of ground coffee beans.

Tesco’s entire selection of coffee:

On the other hand, the condiments, pickles, relishes and chutneys aisle is like a wonderland of treasures to be explored. I can only begin to imagine the uses for some of the amazing condiments I’ve seen on the shelves. The mushroom ketchup is intriguingly brown, liquid and clear like broth.

The mint sauce looks like ground up mint leaves in a jar, like pesto.

More on these mysterious condiments to come.

By my accent, clothes and manner I am irretrievably American. I haven’t felt that anyone’s really held that against me, yet. But I keep being reminded of it--little things that take me a minute to figure out, or words that are used in unfamiliar ways.

There’s pronunciation , of course. Beyond the obvious accent, I’ve realized Americans are incredibly careless with vowels. Andy laughs when I insist that the words ‘ferry’ and ‘fairy’ sound identical. Or that the words ‘fawn’ and ‘swan’ rhyme without any apparent discord. I can’t hear any difference. Or is it just me?