Made in the UK

The first time I caught her eye from across the room, like a cricket player missing the worlds’ easiest catch, I; in my infinite wisdom, decided to flip my phone in the air. The phone hit me, my face jiggled from the impact and the phone fell. My life flashed before my eyes for about 5 seconds (there’s only so many times one can replay nights at home with popcorn and a romcom). Her cold façade shattered to a small grin just as the phone connected with my groin. “I can save this” I thought, and then with the skill of a seasoned pro I cheekily smiled and shrugged slightly.

We spent our days walking down the old streets of Paris, past the monuments glittering slightly as the light bounced off their white speckled stones. Me, regularly breaking out into songs from Les Miserables, eliciting many emotions in passers by (which frankly is to be expected from such emotional songs so lovingly performed), her, taking me to quaint little coffee shops that seem to infest every street. These coffee shops were the Paris experience, and I loved it, until it came time to order. The waitress’s noticing my lack of French knowledge, would turn to my friend and jump into what seemed like a thoroughly good retelling of the definitive works of Shakespeare, now with added eye rolling. I didn't speak French. That annoyed them. Which annoyed me. For example, I was rushing to the ticket booth in a train station waiting for the segregated English booth to free up when the lady in the booth next door hailed me over with a friendly bonjour. I walked cautiously to the booth noting the ladies facial expressions, trying to predict her reaction. After saying my obligatory bonjour I was forced to revert to English, unfortunately, in the process butchering the name of the French town I was trying to get to. Ironically her sudden shout felt akin to the gust of wind that hits you as a train hurtles past. I looked up, noting the beautifully crafted designs on the ceiling. Perhaps she was from the town I butchered.

You see, my friend and I had many fundamental and cultural differences but isn’t that the point? I can play on cultural stereotypes all I want, discussing my experiences perpetuating them, but in the end isn’t that what makes traveling so fun? Experiencing new cultures, fitting their incongruities into your newly expanded worldview. Because despite these fundamental differences I would visit her anytime, and I bet I would fall in love with her culture and come back many times more.