Binary Oppositions

I'll admit it: I like to wash my hands. I find warm water is the best for this; warm enough to feel hygienic, but not so hot as to scald. Cold water just freezes my hands, and my knuckles ache when they get too cold. I also like to wash my dishes in similar circumstances. Although, I will admit that when I wash dishes, I tend to let the water get a little warmer. But, again, I tend not to let the water scald me, because really, who wants scalded hands in the name of clean dishes?

I don't feel these are strange things to want: warm water. The more I travel in Europe though, the more I find that I am given an option: hot water or cold water. Warm water is not available, unless one is willing to do some strange maneuvers.

The bathroom in Aberglasney is probably the worst. The two nozzles in the sink and on opposite sides. Within moments of turning on the hot water tap, it heats to a temperature that instantly burns my skin clean off the bone (which makes typing this blog difficult with my stubby, bony fingers). The cold water feels like it was drawn from a cooler in which the ice has partially frozen through a tube of liquid nitrogen. So to wash my hand I have to freeze them, then quickly splash the hot water on while my numb.

Shaving is a little more tricky. See, I was told that the best shave comes if you wash your face with warm water to loosen everything up, then rinse the razor in cold water. The rinse is fine; the cold water tap probably hones the blade even sharper when I rinse. To wash my face, though, I have to fill my hands with cold water and incrementally fill the pool with bursts of hot water until some sort of medium is reached. Then splash that on my face. It takes a certain feel, and a quick reaction, which is never something I thought would be necessary for as rudimentary a chore as washing one's face.

I have always been puzzled by the water taps, but recently, I have noticed that there are a lot of binary oppositions in my daily life. For instance, when I ordered something that comes with bread, the choice is between white or brown bread. Of course, this could be seen as the difference between white and wheat bread, but as a fan of Panera Bread (formerly St. Louis Bread Company), I like to think that I can ask for a cracked honey-wheat nine-grain roll and someone might produce that from the back.

The first time this happened was when I ordered what is known as the "full-English breakfast." Truthfully, I ordered this because I had heard so much about it, but really I am not much of a fan. The thing comes with baked beans. For breakfast. That's weird. When I ordered the breakfast, I thought I would be buried under a barage of questions, like when you order anything at Denny's: questions about eggs, the choice of meat options, jelly selections, choices between toast, bagels and English muffins, and so on. You almost need to fill out a psychological profile just to order some stuffed French toast. But here, the question is simple: white or brown toast. Initially, this sounded ridiculous: all toast is brown. Or blackened, if made wrong. But, after a moment - a short moment - I realized she was asking which bread I wanted toasted. I wasn't entirely sure what "brown bread" was, but I knew it couldn't be as processed as white bread (which I am more familiar with, and try to avoid if possible). It could have been a whole grain, a wheat bread (like honey wheat), a rye, or some sort of marbled bread. Not exactly sure what the bread turned out to be because it was buried under beans and a fried egg (which I am not a fan of, as I am not a fan of runny yokes).

The breakfast itself is a binary opposition, of sorts: either a full English breakfast, or no breakfast. Some places will serve a continental breakfast, which, if I had come from the continent it was named after, I would be ashamed. Continental breakfasts might be a croissant and coffee. Or just coffee, which is not breakfast, as much as it is a beverage. Go into any restaurant anywhere and order and English breakfast, and you will get the same thing: bacon (not what America considers bacon), sausage, beans, fried egg, toast, a grilled tomato and fried mushrooms. Things like black pudding, fried bread, oatcakes or either mashed or hashed potatoes are sometimes added. Generally, though, just the first list. Some smaller tea joints will serve quiche or some sort of pastry selection, but these are not usually reserved for breakfasts. If you see a sign that suggests breakfast is served, what they mean is the full English.

This is not the only meal that is preset and ubiquitous. On Sundays, people will often make a Sunday Roast. Some restaurants will serve this during the mid-day Sunday meal. Generally included in the Sunday Roast: a meat (often chicken, beef or lamb, but others have been used), roasted potatoes (in the meat dripping), roasted seasonal vegetables, and Yorkshire pudding (which, for my American friends, is not a pudding as Bill Cosby used to sponsor, but more of a fried bread). Walk into any restaurant, particularly hotel restaurants, and you can get a meal like the one described above with few subtle variations. There is a roast, and then the is the Sunday Roast.

The more time I spend here, the more I find these little binary options. Coming from America, I am used to choices - ranges of options that have sub-options and so on. I like not only having choices in what I have with my meals (eggs scrabbled, fried, over-easy, under-easy, etc.), but choices of meals. If I want breakfast, I should be able to choose between pancakes, crepes, French toast, cereal, bagel options, eggs (see above), bacon (thick cut, honey cured, crispy, etc.), sausage (links or patties; pork or turkey; apple or spicy), waffles (Belgian, whole wheat, etc.; with or without ice-cream) and so on. Maybe it's just the nature of Americans to want choices, but I don't feel I get to choose my meals here. Of course, I could always make my own multifaceted, complicated breakfasts, but I would rather pay someone else to. Because that, my readers, is the American way.