The Jerk

It turns out I'm a jerk. For some of you, this may not come as a total surprise, but this time I wasn't doing it on purpose.

I was talking to my adviser over tea, and he was asking how I was finding it having lived here now for almost two weeks. Truth is, I like it here. It's big enough that there are places to go, but not so big that I can't walk from one end to the next. This is, really, a perfect town for someone to move to as a new citizen. If I lived somewhere smaller, I might need a car to get to essential places (grocery stores, etc.), and if I lived somewhere much larger, I don't know that I could ever get comfortable.

London, for instance, is a huge city. The city is 659 square miles with seven and a half million citizens, an average of 12,000 people per square mile. That's more than three times the size of Chicago, and 500,000 or so short of New York City. Hell, there are seven million more people in London than all of Wyoming. The chance of getting lost in a strange and foreign place is far more likely in such a massive place. Here, as Will suggested, the worst I might run across are "boys drinking beer on benches."

Because I am American, and because there is a certain stigma about Americans, I have tried to be friendly to all of those I come across. I want my appearance, my mannerisms, so say Hey, we don't all want to bomb other countries. Look: I'm culturally aware and sensitive to the differences of others. I don't say you drive on the wrong side; I say the other side.

I was, I found, not very successful at getting people to notice how friendly I was. Take, for example, the man behind the counter at the closest fish and chips place at the top of the hill. The first time I walked in, I was not sure how things were supposed to work. There was a woman purchasing at the counter, so I figured I would wait until she was done, and address the woman at the register. I looked at the man behind the counter, smiled, and then took in the menu. For advertising itself as a fish and chips place, the menu was quite extensive, featuring a wide range of stuff rolls, sausages and my favorite new culinary item: meat pies. I was perusing the menu and the arranged food items when I heard someone talking. I looked up, and the man behind the counter had obviously said something but was not looking at me. There have been more than a few moments where I am not sure where noises come from, and again I found myself wondering, Did he say something to me? What was it that he said? Should I say bless you?

Trying not to appear rude, I said, "I'm sorry, what?" He looked right at me then with a cold stare as if I may have just slapped him. "Yes, please?" he said in terse clipped words.
"Oh, I can order?"
Nothing.
"Um...okay. Can I get the chicken, leek and bacon meat pie and chips."
He started packaging my order as if he had received his orders in a dream he just remembered, not as if I had just asked him for something. Without looking at me, he mumbled: "Salt and vinegar?"
I did not know, at the time, that was what he said. Just wanting to be done with this place, I said, "Yes. Please."
That was when I saw him dump a copious amount of vinegar and salt on my chips. Holy hell, man, I thought, I don't know that I actually like vinegar on my chips (here read: fries). But by that point, it was too late. I found later that I like it a lot. So much so that I ask for it regularly where ever I go.

This was an odd encounter to me, so I talked to Will about it, making light of how I thought the guy just hated me. This might be true, or, maybe more likely, I pissed him off by my very presence. See: I look people in the eye when I walk into a place so that these people know I am aware of their presence, and to acknowledge that we are sharing a space for a while. Nothing hostile, and often times I smile. Will tells me that I may have inadvertently started a pissing contest. It seems that eye contact here is a signal of hostility.

This explains why no one looks at me anywhere I go. When I sit alone in restaurants, in order to seem more friendly, I smile at the people that walk by my table. Maybe, even, people will ask me what I am reading, and I can make friends. Most people avoid looking at me, no matter how charmingly I try to smile. I figured I must be unapproachable (something I have heard said about me), and I figured I would have to make friends other ways.

On my walk home today, from Constitution Hill (which was marvelous), I noticed that people send out furtive eye contact, looking quickly at you, and then usually quickly back to the ground. This makes passing people in tight locations difficult because no one looks at the others. There is little unspoken communication between the passers-by.

This is going to take some getting used to. Evidently, the feeling about Americans is that they can be overly aggressive, and Will believes this is due to the eye contact. So, despite my best efforts to appear friendly and open, I have totally offended everyone around me. Great.