Culture

ABSOLUTE BEGINNER: THE ADVENTURES OF A MIDDLE-AGED UK NEWBIE

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Epilogue: The Citizen
Part 2: How British Am I?

[Blogger’s Note: I was born and raised in the United States, moved to Canada for love in my early 40s and then relocated again, well into my 50s, to the southern coast of England with my British-born spouse. This has been a series about my sometimes amusing and frequently embarrassing exploits as an expat.]

How British am I? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself now that I’ve reached the end of this blog series on life in the UK from a newcomer’s perspective. After residing in beautiful, occasionally baffling Britain for eight years, I’m clearly no longer a newbie, but every day and in countless different ways I’m reminded of how much more there is to learn about my adopted home. So I’m not quite sure how far along I am on the path to reaching peak Britishness. Getting my citizenship in the summer of 2023 certainly helped, but I worry that obstacles like my flat American accent and near total ignorance of the Two Ronnies’ comedic oeuvre keep holding me back. 

Which leaves me in a kind of national identity limbo because my connection to my birthplace grows weaker the longer I’m away. This really hit home during a return trip to the States for Thanksgiving last autumn.  [Blogger’s Note Deux: I know, I know, I really should be more timely with these posts. I mean, I published part one of this epilogue nearly a year ago! What can I say? The muse, she is fleeting. Plus, it’s been a bumpy 2024 so far.] After a five year absence, due to the pandemic and the travel hassles it left in its wake, I felt strangely out of place in the US, or at least in the sprawling swath of suburban Georgia where I spent the holiday with family. Everyone I spoke to sounded odd, that is to say, just like me. Not one person trilled “lovely-jubbly” or “toodle pip” in a charmingly sing-song lilt like they do in my little village beside the English Channel. And everything was miles apart. I shelled out $30 for a cab ride from the Atlanta airport to the “convenient” Airport Radisson, where I stayed the first night after my plane got in late. Walking to any destination was out of the question, and even when I accompanied family members in the car to their nearest shopping centre, the drive seemed to take forever. And once we got there, I was reminded of how absurdly huge American parking lots are. In fact, the only substantial walking I did during the entire trip was from far-flung parking spaces to the doors of whatever big box store we were visiting. (I think I see the Target entrance somewhere in the distance…) I’ve become so accustomed to the compactness of our English environs, where we can stroll to dozens of shops and restaurants in less than 10 minutes, that the vast distances between places and the excessive expanse of commercial spaces in the States kind of shocked me.

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ABSOLUTE BEGINNER: THE ADVENTURES OF A MIDDLE-AGED UK NEWBIE

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Epilogue: The Citizen
(Part 1)

[Blogger’s note: I was born and raised in the United States, moved to Canada for love in my early 40s, then relocated again, well into my 50s, to the southern coast of England with my British-born spouse. This has been a series about my sometimes amusing and frequently embarrassing exploits as an expat.]

Well, folks, the deed is done.  The ink has dried, the champagne cheap prosecco has been quaffed, and the plus-size person who prefers the pronouns she/her has sung. After diligently chronicling my life as a UK newcomer in this blog series, which has been enjoyed by literally tens of readers over the past six years, I’m pleased – no, chuffed  – to declare that I am finally a British citizen! Who’s a legit Brit? This guy. [Blogger aims both thumbs at his chest and smirks smugly.]

I received my first British passport this summer, having applied for it only a few weeks prior, a surprisingly speedy turnaround given the snail-like pace of the rest of the immigration process.  (And perhaps even more astonishing, the photo ain’t half bad either.)  It’s the happiest of endings to this chapter of my UK adventure and a fitting finale for the “Absolute Beginner” series. While I’m not a master of all things Blighty quite yet, I feel like the passport is my diploma from newbie school. Time to explore more advanced topics – I’m considering an in-depth analysis of the game of cricket, for one. Granted, I’ve only been to a single match and I didn’t really know what was going on, so maybe “in-depth” is a stretch. But I enjoyed it and the players looked super cute in their cricket whites, so how about a shallow analysis of the sport’s dishiest batsmen? Anyway, to close out this series, I’m taking a look back at the observations about British culture that I’ve made along the way. Some of my views on the topics I’ve covered have evolved significantly, others not so much. For instance, I still have absolutely no desire to try Marmite.

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Ready Study Go: Brushing Up on All Things British (and Welsh and Scottish and Northern Irish) for the Life in the UK Test

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[Blogger’s note: I’m an American expat twice removed, having relocated to Canada early in the new century and then to the southern coast of England in 2016. This post details an important event in my immigration journey that had me stressing over an exam grade for the first time since my student days decades ago. ]

You know the classic anxiety dream where you’re at school and the teacher announces a pop quiz for which you are totally unprepared? Also, for some reason, you’re wearing nothing but tighty-whities? I felt a similarly palpable panic while wide awake and en route to take the Life in the UK Test, a requirement for immigrants like myself who seek permanent residency in Britain. Mercifully for the townsfolk I passed on the walk to the test centre, I was fully clothed. And sufficiently informed, or at least in theory: I had read and re-read the three-volume study guide published on behalf of the Home Office, the governmental department that rules on visa applications. I had also taken more than 40 practice tests, both in the guide and online, and passed them all – out of 24 questions, you’re allowed six incorrect answers and I had not missed more than four.  And I’d been through a comparable process in Canada when I applied for citizenship there. Yet I couldn’t shake the unnerving sense that I was going to blow it. Long-suppressed memories of my scholastic shortcomings in adolescence resurfaced on cue to fuel this fear – the C- on that baffling algebra exam, the D for that botched frog dissection in biology, the essay that was returned so full of red marks it looked like a crime scene. Let’s just say I was never the teacher’s pet.  

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This Must Be the Place: Putting Down Roots – Finally – As a First-Time UK Home Owner

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[Blogger’s note: I’m an American expat living in Portsmouth, England, with my British-born spouse. We moved to the UK together a few years ago and lodged in rental accommodations for a time, but eventually the property bug bit us and we purchased a flat of our own – a first for this fifty-something vagabond. Here you can read about the lows, the highs, and the near-constant DIY that have followed. Check back soon for the next installment in the series!]

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Chapter One: The Welcome Rat

Plump and bewhiskered, with a greasy brown coat and a long naked tail straight out of children’s nightmares, the uninvited guest seemed to take no notice of the two hulking humans peering at it disgustedly from above. It didn’t squeak, didn’t scamper away, didn’t try to gnaw at the nearest ankle. It just wobbled woozily in place, its eyes squeezed shut, its demeanor listless. I’m no expert on rodent behaviour – everything I know about rats I learned from the movie Ben — but something about this one seemed off. Was it sick? Had it lapped up a spilled pint in one of Portsmouth’s panoply of pubs and was now pissed out of its tiny mind? Or had it merely paused for a moment of quiet respite away from the, um, rat race? I got my grim answer when my partner pointed out the poison traps nestled in nooks around the courtyard where we stood, at the entrance to the flat that just minutes before had become ours. (We have since learned that such traps are common around these parts.) Poor little guy, I thought. Then a second later I thought, I am not picking that thing up if it expires right here.

My new life as a home owner was off to a bumpy start. Continue reading →

Absolute Beginner: The Adventures of a Middle-Aged U.K. Newbie

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[Blogger’s note: I was born and raised in America, moved to Canada for love in the early 2000s, and recently relocated again, in my 50s, with my British-born spouse to the southern coast of his homeland. This is an occasional series about learning new tricks in Merry Old England.]

Dinner, Supper or Tea: What Say Ye? Hashing Out the Terms for British Daily Meals

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My spouse and I are about to celebrate the third anniversary of our move to the UK, and every once in a while, when I’m feeling cocky, I’ll think I’m ready to graduate from an entry-level understanding of British life to at least an intermediate status. Then, inevitably, I’ll be confronted with a humbling reminder that I still have lorry-loads to learn.

Take the confounding conundrum of what to call daily meals in Britain. Stateside, the terms are easily digestible. Virtually everyone in North America calls the first meal of the day “breakfast” and the midday meal “lunch.” For the evening’s repast, the folksy “supper” lingers in certain areas – I can recall my dear old southern grandmother beckoning us kids to the supper table – but “dinner” dominates in our pop culture-steeped minds and hearts. After work, we may fill our bellies with a Swanson’s TV Dinner or a KFC Dinner Box or, in Canada, a Kraft Dinner. (Mac ‘n’ cheese to the rest of us.) A few years back, US advertisers force-fed us the slogan “Beef. It’s What’s for Dinner,” much to the horror of vegetarians and contraction-phobes across the country. If we invite that special someone over for dinner and a movie, perhaps we’ll watch the classic Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner or the somewhat less lauded Dinner for Schmucks. And if we find ourselves lucky, in love or otherwise, we might exclaim, “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” Though we shouldn’t get too attached to that catchphrase du jour as it’s sure to join “Whassup!” and “Gag me with a spoon” on the fad compost heap any day now. Continue reading →

Absolute Beginner: The Adventures of a Middle-Aged U.K. Newbie

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[Blogger’s note: I was born and raised in America, moved to Canada for love in the early 2000s, and recently relocated again, in my 50s, with my British-born spouse to the southern coast of his homeland. This is an occasional series about learning new tricks in Merry Old England.]

Keep the Change – No, You Keep the Change! The Tricky Business of Tipping in the U.K.

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Illustration by Jeff Cohen

The spouse and I ventured to Winchester one Sunday this spring to see a favourite singer-songwriter perform at a rustic pub near the town’s train station. While waiting for the show to begin, I sauntered up to the bar and ordered a lager, forking over a fiver to the sullen barman behind the taps. He slid the pint towards me and deposited the change, a 50-pence piece, into my outstretched palm. “Mind if I leave this with you?” I asked, hand still thrust toward him. He peered at me with a marked expression of distaste, as if I’d replaced the shiny coin in my grasp with an eviscerated dung beetle, or a ball of freshly foraged belly button lint, or a teeny-tiny MAGA hat. “I’d… rather you not,” he huffed, and folded his arms tightly across his chest as if to further protect himself from our toxic transaction. “Well, okay then,” I muttered, sheepishly pocketing the pence. I slunk away feeling like I’d committed some grievous faux pas akin to clipping my toenails during a church sermon, or publicly declaring that I actually enjoyed the Game of Thrones finale. Continue reading →