the english report

(:title the english report:) Jolly good evening.

One week has passed since I stepped foot in Cambridgeshire and left a trail of besmirched pronunciations behind me to mark my path, in case I need to find my way home. For instance, the shire in Cambridgeshire is not said like the Shire in Tolkein but rather it’s pronounced like the American “sure.” As in: Sure, I’m going to Cambridge, why do people keep asking? Speaking of the word “sure,” it’s not pronounced right either, they say “shore,” I guess to distinguish it from shire.

I know nothing of English society and nothing truly interesting has happened to me so far. So here is some of the requisite culture shock that has happened to me so far:

• The English always help.

I’m not kidding. I couldn’t carry my two gigantor bags anywhere on buses or down stairs without someone asking me would I like some help. Once this tiny little girl offered and I felt embarassed… but my bags were so heavy, so… I got some disapproving looks. Not just for the help, though. They disapproved of the amount of stuff I was bringing aboard the crowded venues of public transportation, but they were at least helpfully disapproving, as in, “You would improve both of our stations if you’d shed some of that rubbish.”

In fact, I’m not sure what they’re doing when they’re not always-helping. The handlebars on my used bike fell off the shaft after I got it, and the seat came a little loose too, all this in mid-pedal. When I pulled over to assess the damage, some useful types who were laying a gas pipe came over and screwed everything back on. They were real nice about it too. One of them was a Boy Scout troop leader.

To tell the truth, I have gotten on a lot better with the lower classes here than I have with those in my own strata.

• In lieu of “man,” say “mate.”

Speaking of local color, this bit is key if you want to make any friends. “Man” is boorish and American. Mate is English and the bee’s knees.

• Everybody in England is crazy tall.

No wonder they had an empire. It’s irritating for someone who has never been height-conscious to go from a solid medium to short. Now I am reminded of it daily because of the nuisance: I can’t sit in the second row because I can’t see the board.

Speaking of my classes, I am taking a six-hours-a-day required “pre-maths” course intended, I guess, to prepare for the post-math lying in wait this October. That’s right, math is plural here in England.

• Everything is expensive in England.

Just for fun, walk around a store sometime and imagine all the prices are double what they are. Of course, now imagine you’re from China or India and the prices are ten times worse. Imagine South Africa and they are twenty times worse. So no one around here will listen to me whine about the prices on account of it’s much worse for them. Therefore, I’m complaining to you: damn, it’s expensive. I bought a little US-UK adaptor for my plugs the other day, the kind that would cost a buck back home, for seven pounds!

• Don’t lean your bike on the windows.

Don’t lean it on the storefront either. Can’t you find the bike store? Despite it’s name, the bicycle store not where you purchase bikes, it’s where you store them, because everyone here has a bicycle — everyone — and if we all leaned our bikes on the windows, they’d break.

Pedaling your bicycle is definitely the chic way to get around town, and you can judge social status by the various decorations and accessories they support. I have a battery-powered back light on my bike because it came with it. Others have a front light, front basket, twin back-wheel baskets that cover the back wheel almost completely. I’ve seen even bookholders.

Weirdest of all, a lot of Britons wear *helmets*. Too weeeeird! I know!

Bicycle stores are conveniently located almost everywhere, as, again, everyone rides bikes. I like living in a bicycle-friendly city. Most of the roads have bike lanes and… speaking of roads, they do indeed drive on the left, and you do indeed ride into some tricky situations if you forget that. It is still unnatural trying to manage intersections. But usually I stay in the no-cars-allowed central marketplace in town, a moderately sized pedestrian square with several tributary streets matriculating into the Cabridge avenues, all of which have interesting little stores lining both sides. As in France, there’s no general store here, you have a butcher and baker, and I like that too.

• Everything is Royal This, and Royal That.

It’s almost like how we name everything Liberty This and United That, except ubiquitous Liberty and Unity where they don’t belong have Orwellian undertones, whereas it doesn’t matter if Royal loses meaning with overuse. Royal stuff pops up everywhere. I couldn’t go to a bar — excuse me — pub in King’s College last night due to the convening of the Royal Television Society. What they do, I don’t know. Sit around and discuss reruns, I guess. Sir Somebody was the guest of honor.

I can’t think of anything else. It’s lovely here, but I can’t write lovely right now. (I’ve been going to bed early and 11:30 is pretty late for me…) That’s for in a couple weeks. In the meantime, postcards are a-coming. As soon as they’re a-mailed.

Send love, “C.O. G---“ as Cambridge has taken to referring to me on my correspondence, which I also like