jynnorah During the early part of the 20th century wealthy American parents often sent their post adolescent children abroad to Europe. Most often the objective was to fortify a character weakness or instill in the subject superior taste, and class that apparently only the old world could inspire; a sort of ‘finishing school’ for the well heeled. In spite of the fact that I have neither wealthy parent nor character flaw I have set out to experience Europe as it is today. Would I find a culture of charm and gentility, just oozing old world class unparalleled on our barbaric continent? Or would common stereotypes and generalizations prove accurate? Are all Frenchmen really named Perrier? Do the Germans really wear leder hosen? And more importantly do all the English really have bad teeth? The stakes were high. I enrolled at Nottingham University last September as an exchange student to pursue these pressing questions. The search for answers led me to over 5 countries (6 actually) in good conditions and bad, and while I mostly ended up studying indigenous food and beverage to the detriment of my original mission, I managed to come up with several unsupportable, sweeping, stereotypical generalizations of my own (mostly for country’s who’s soil I had trod for but a weekend). This blog will consist of a collection of stories, observations and sometimes ungraceful culture transitions (like speaking Italian, in a nervous moment, to a Starbucks employee…in England). The reader must be warned, however, that as of two weeks ago I moved from England to Germany to live with my pregnant sister, her husband, and my two nephews. Consequently tales of debauchery and bohemia my in fact be mixed with reports on a small child who urinates on himself for attention or an account of a harrowing trip to the grocery store to obtain cilantro before it closes (at noon, mind you, the grocery store closes at noon). If this is disheartening to some don’t fear, I manage to consume the occasional after hours martini and am bound to mis-negotiate the stairs to my attic chamber at some point sooner rather than later.

My cross continental journey begins in England, Nottingham England in fact (yes Robbinhood, although the residents don’t like to talk about it). It seems fitting that a return to the old world would start at the origin of the new world. In retrospect it seems incredible that England could ever have ‘owned’ so much of the world, it’s really such a harmless looking, little country. I mean, today, the cops don’t even carry guns! England today seems a bit like your grandmother at your birthday party, harmless, but a bit ill at ease with you and your loud friends. You might feel the same way if your colonies had rejected you and you were too polite to tell them how you felt about it.
England is a country of tradition, agonizing, uncomfortable, unconscious tradition.  I am convinced that the Queen herself has to sanction operations as trivial as auto registration renewals. There is no other explanation for the maddening pace of even the smallest administrative tasks. It is no wonder to me now why the British have their own word for waiting lines. Queuing is something of a national pastime in England. I’m pretty certain that rather than working people up (like in America perhaps) waiting in a queue actually has a calming effect on the citizens of the jolly old island. Many actually show a preference for standing in a queue over other possible activities. During the two week long process of registering for my classes at the University (yes it took two weeks) I found that, more often than not, students waiting in a line didn’t even now what it was they were waiting in line for! They quite literally were in the queue because everyone else was.
It is my theory that perhaps a sense of wellbeing is felt because the status quo of tedious inefficiency, ineffectiveness and bad organization have been maintained. After all fully relying on a competitive merit system might produce in the lower social classes uncomfortably positive feelings towards achievement, and maybe even ambition, and that just might cause awkwardness all around. The English don’t like awkwardness.
Naturally I am being a little harsh here, but when you have bad food, bad coffee (Starbucks even sucks in England, somehow), and James Blunt you seriously need to work a little harder to make a good impression. Fortunately for everyone a British accent still has a charmingly soothing effect on the consciousness that undoubtedly has averted tragedy on more than one occasion. Everyone also tends to be drunk a lot, which I’m sure belongs in the pro category somehow. Old world gentility at it’s best to be sure.
Oh and yes, all the English really do have bad teeth.