This past week has seen a break in my adventures in and around Richland County, as I’ve been back home in England visiting the mother country.
Unlike my time here, which is largely spent in search of the new and untried, my visits home are more of a hurried greatest hits package, as I rush about in search of foods, people and places that I have known and enjoyed before.
Along the way there are little advantages to being back in my native land.
For instance, I can mumble and let my words run together and still be understood. In fact, it’s quite possible for me back home to complete entire transactions with strangers without a single recognizable word passing my lips, relying instead on vague grunts and surly nods of the head.
When I do feel the need to use actual speech, I pride myself on being fully bilingual in both British and American, switching back and forth as necessary, and it’s only rarely that I get caught.
On a previous visit I was momentarily unable to recall the British expression for ‘license plate’ (number plate) and foolishly went ahead and said license plate anyway. The hoots of derision were loud and immediate.
“Listen to him, listen to him! He said license plate!”
Being overseas also provides a refreshing break from the election coverage and a general lessening of the words ‘Trump’ and ‘Clinton.’ Yes, the U.S. election is covered over there too, but it seems very muted and far-away, almost like a dream (rather than a nightmare).
Of course, the people of Britain have their own messy politics to argue about, and during a visit with friends the debate got rather heated. After one particularly robust exchange, the family’s 8-year-old son leaned over to me to make an aside.
“‘The government are idiots, the government are idiots,’” he said to me in his best ‘grown-up’ voice. “That’s all they ever talk about round here. Why can’t they talk about Pokémon Go?”
At the center of my whistle-stop tour of old haunts was a trip with the family to Hastings, a fairly typical seaside English town on the coast of East Sussex. Yes, I had some fish ‘n’ chips, and yes, it rained – but only early on, just to make us feel lucky when the sun came out.
I also ate some cockles, a seafood delicacy that I’m particularly fond of. A cockle is a sort of little clam, and a glut of them come served in a tub and seasoned with vinegar and pepper.
As enjoyable as it was catching up with everyone, perhaps the most memorable encounter with my fellow countrymen came on the plane ride back to the U.S. It was entertainment of the highest order and is worth recounting in detail.
I was in a three-seat middle section at the rear of the plane with a young vacationing English couple who seemed happy with each other and life in general. Until the meal service, that is, when the chicken option ran out and all hell broke loose.
“Well, it’s not good enough, is it?” complained the woman, loudly. “It’s simply not good enough.”
“We still have the pasta, madam.”
“I don’t want the pasta. It’s just sauce in a box. With pasta in it. It’s disgusting.”
At first it was merely embarrassing. But once it became clear just what glorious heights of whining petulance and childishness the woman was prepared to soar to, the rest of us could sit back and enjoy the show.
“No, I don’t want your poxy potatoes,” she snapped, waving off the peace offering from her boyfriend of a tub of potato salad. “I’m proper livid, Tony. It’s just not fair. I’ve paid the same as everyone else, I should get the same choice as everyone else.”
“This is an aircraft, madam,” explained the attendant, “we sometimes run out of a particular option.”
“Just eat the pasta!” implored her boyfriend with mounting exasperation.
“No, I won’t touch it,” the woman insisted. “It’s ridiculous. I want to go home.”
More fun was to come when the airline crew tracked down an unwanted chicken entrée from first class. Suspiciously peeling off the foil cover, the woman once more pushed the tray away from her with disgust.
“No. Not having it. It’s different.”
“What!?” exclaimed the attendant, barely bothering to hide her burning contempt.
“It’s not mashed potato!” bawled the woman. “Everyone else got mashed potato with their chicken. This has got … stuff.”
“It’s pesto, madam. This is a premium entrée from first class.”
“Well, I don’t eat this stuff, whatever it is you call it.”
“Then eat around it,” hissed the attendant, and walked off.
There followed a few seconds of silence, then the woman threw her head back and burst into loud, sobbing tears, indulging herself further with occasional tormented moans. By this time I was in high spirits indeed, and I flagged down a passing crew member to bring me another mini-bottle of red wine to enjoy along with the performance.
I’d noticed that Tony – the boyfriend – had by this juncture acquired, by my reckoning, at least 11 mini-bottles of red wine, of which some had been drunk, some remained secreted about his person and only one knocked over and spilled. As he unscrewed another, he ignored his girlfriend’s continued wailing and engaged me in friendly conversation.
“So, where are you headed?” he asked, as he poured himself a glass.
I told him a little of my story, and Mansfield, and Ohio in general.
Tony nodded sagely and said, “Sounds good. But England -” he paused for effect – “England, is the bollocks,” employing a British colloquialism used to suggest that the matter referred to is to be held in the highest esteem.
I agreed that England was indeed the bollocks. There didn’t seem to be much else to say. The woman’s sobs were now quietly muffled, and order seemed to be, for the moment, restored.
“Well, anyway,” sighed Tony, putting on his headphones, “I’m going to watch the rest of the Jungle Book.”
