It’s official: London is starting to feel like home.
It could be because my life is more settled: my bags are wholly unpacked, my classes (and homework) have begun, and I can easily navigate the Tube and (!!!) direct other tourists in the right direction. But another reason I feel at home here, and I think one of the big reasons, is that I’ve acquired a nickname.
It’s not a completely original nickname; really, it began when my mom’s good friend Lynn recognized my mother’s facial features as not fat, but simply big. And she was spot on: my mom’s cheekbones are high, forehead not abnormally but proportionally wide, with full cheeks and deep dimples. I’ve inherited the same BigFace (minus the high cheekbones) and have embraced it. (My friends at home recognize my BigFace jokes—at least I hope—as sort of a point of pride. But I think my new friends here, when I joke about my BigFace, think that I’m being unconfident and continue to reassure that it’s “not really that big.” Note: It is that big, and I’ve come to actually love it.) Anyway, very late the other night, when I was hanging out with my hallmate Darren and his friend Gavin, I happened to affectionately refer to my BigFace. Gavin, a charming and completely un-PC Brit (Christina can attest to that), jumped on it. “BigFace? I think it rather looks like a moon! MoonFace!” And there it was.
I’ve always loved nicknames and found that if someone calls you a nickname, 99% of the time, they do it because they like you. With that very drunkenly-assigned moniker, my friendship with my British flatmates was made official.
The friendliness of the Brits doesn’t stop with drunken nicknaming. All big cities have some unfriendly residents, but as with New York (which I think gets a bad rap—I very rarely encountered unfriendly New Yorkers) Londoners are generally a helpful and friendly bunch. I was reminded of that today at Baker Street station: I was a few steps from an escalator when a pale bespectacled fellow stepped in front of me to get on, and his friend, a late twenty-something man in a turban, stepped to follow him. The turbaned guy looked back at me and apologized; I smiled and said it was fine.
London Twenty-Something: “Hi!”
Me: “uh…Hi!” (You can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you can’t really take the Midwest out of the girl…and so I smile rather widely.)
LTS: “You have a gap in your teeth!” (Turns to friend.) “She’s got a gap in her teeth!” He then grins and shows off the space between his own two front teeth. “It’s a blessing from God, I always say.” (Points upward.)
(LTS’s friend laughs and embarrassingly shushes him; I laugh and agree that yes, it’s lucky.)
LTS: “And you’re American, too!”
Me: “I certainly am, my friend.”
LTS: “Glorious. A beautiful American with a gap tooth.” (Reading this, it may sound creepy, but there were absolutely zero creeper vibes. He was just genuinely thrilled to be chatting.)
LTS: “What is your name?”
Me: “Kate. What is yours?”
LTS: “Dean.” (We reach end of escalator.) “It’s lovely to meet you, Kate. Please enjoy your stay in London. And keep smiling!
I did keep smiling, all the way to Lambeth North, because of that guy’s cheerfulness. I had great reason to smile, because before that encounter at the Tube stop, I’d had a pretty great day. Thursday mornings require an early start, because I have a 9 a.m. class in central London, and it’s a 30-minute Tube ride from home. But my class, Art and Society, is well worth it: it focuses on, well, art and its impact of London society. It’s fascinating because each week we go to a different place of art or architechture and discuss its cultural impact of London’s development. Today was our day to go to one of my favorite London icons: St. Paul’s Cathedral. Christina and I attended mass there when she visited, but we hadn’t been keen on paying the hefty entrance fee for access to the entire grounds. But today we got it, and 500+ steps later, Lisa and I were standing at the very top of the cathedral. As in, the golden cross on top was maybe 30 feet above our heads. The view of the city was astounding—not beautiful, exactly, because London on gray hazy days isn’t necessarily prett
y. But certainly it was awesome, in the original sense of the word. We stayed there, on top of the world, for at least a half hour, and the view and feeling that came with it could’ve made me stay months there. (It also didn’t hurt that a handsome, youngish British teacher was leading his class of 5-year-olds around the top… I loudly commented to Lisa: “That is mighty ballsy of this guy to take children up here. I respect that.” He laughed. At least being American provides a bit of an excuse for loudly proclaiming kinda-inappropriate things.)
After winter winds forced us back downstairs, I ran errands in the city (only looked at my map once!), then headed to the Imperial War Museum on Lambeth Road…it was really amazing, and I’m sure I’ll go back to spend more time there. London’s wealth of free museums is easily one of its greatest attributes, making it easy to enjoy parts of a museum for a couple hours and not feel guilty that you haven’t gotten your money’s worth. I headed from there to sangria with Lisa and Co. at a Cuban bar (it only went to further my obsession with Cuba…stupid outdated travel ban), then to a Thai restaurant, then to the Tube for the long-ish journey home. During that ride, I didn’t run into any friendly locals with a gap in their teeth, but the memory was enough to keep me showing mine all the way home.
It could be because my life is more settled: my bags are wholly unpacked, my classes (and homework) have begun, and I can easily navigate the Tube and (!!!) direct other tourists in the right direction. But another reason I feel at home here, and I think one of the big reasons, is that I’ve acquired a nickname.
It’s not a completely original nickname; really, it began when my mom’s good friend Lynn recognized my mother’s facial features as not fat, but simply big. And she was spot on: my mom’s cheekbones are high, forehead not abnormally but proportionally wide, with full cheeks and deep dimples. I’ve inherited the same BigFace (minus the high cheekbones) and have embraced it. (My friends at home recognize my BigFace jokes—at least I hope—as sort of a point of pride. But I think my new friends here, when I joke about my BigFace, think that I’m being unconfident and continue to reassure that it’s “not really that big.” Note: It is that big, and I’ve come to actually love it.) Anyway, very late the other night, when I was hanging out with my hallmate Darren and his friend Gavin, I happened to affectionately refer to my BigFace. Gavin, a charming and completely un-PC Brit (Christina can attest to that), jumped on it. “BigFace? I think it rather looks like a moon! MoonFace!” And there it was.
I’ve always loved nicknames and found that if someone calls you a nickname, 99% of the time, they do it because they like you. With that very drunkenly-assigned moniker, my friendship with my British flatmates was made official.
The friendliness of the Brits doesn’t stop with drunken nicknaming. All big cities have some unfriendly residents, but as with New York (which I think gets a bad rap—I very rarely encountered unfriendly New Yorkers) Londoners are generally a helpful and friendly bunch. I was reminded of that today at Baker Street station: I was a few steps from an escalator when a pale bespectacled fellow stepped in front of me to get on, and his friend, a late twenty-something man in a turban, stepped to follow him. The turbaned guy looked back at me and apologized; I smiled and said it was fine.
London Twenty-Something: “Hi!”
Me: “uh…Hi!” (You can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you can’t really take the Midwest out of the girl…and so I smile rather widely.)
LTS: “You have a gap in your teeth!” (Turns to friend.) “She’s got a gap in her teeth!” He then grins and shows off the space between his own two front teeth. “It’s a blessing from God, I always say.” (Points upward.)
(LTS’s friend laughs and embarrassingly shushes him; I laugh and agree that yes, it’s lucky.)
LTS: “And you’re American, too!”
Me: “I certainly am, my friend.”
LTS: “Glorious. A beautiful American with a gap tooth.” (Reading this, it may sound creepy, but there were absolutely zero creeper vibes. He was just genuinely thrilled to be chatting.)
LTS: “What is your name?”
Me: “Kate. What is yours?”
LTS: “Dean.” (We reach end of escalator.) “It’s lovely to meet you, Kate. Please enjoy your stay in London. And keep smiling!
I did keep smiling, all the way to Lambeth North, because of that guy’s cheerfulness. I had great reason to smile, because before that encounter at the Tube stop, I’d had a pretty great day. Thursday mornings require an early start, because I have a 9 a.m. class in central London, and it’s a 30-minute Tube ride from home. But my class, Art and Society, is well worth it: it focuses on, well, art and its impact of London society. It’s fascinating because each week we go to a different place of art or architechture and discuss its cultural impact of London’s development. Today was our day to go to one of my favorite London icons: St. Paul’s Cathedral. Christina and I attended mass there when she visited, but we hadn’t been keen on paying the hefty entrance fee for access to the entire grounds. But today we got it, and 500+ steps later, Lisa and I were standing at the very top of the cathedral. As in, the golden cross on top was maybe 30 feet above our heads. The view of the city was astounding—not beautiful, exactly, because London on gray hazy days isn’t necessarily prett
y. But certainly it was awesome, in the original sense of the word. We stayed there, on top of the world, for at least a half hour, and the view and feeling that came with it could’ve made me stay months there. (It also didn’t hurt that a handsome, youngish British teacher was leading his class of 5-year-olds around the top… I loudly commented to Lisa: “That is mighty ballsy of this guy to take children up here. I respect that.” He laughed. At least being American provides a bit of an excuse for loudly proclaiming kinda-inappropriate things.)After winter winds forced us back downstairs, I ran errands in the city (only looked at my map once!), then headed to the Imperial War Museum on Lambeth Road…it was really amazing, and I’m sure I’ll go back to spend more time there. London’s wealth of free museums is easily one of its greatest attributes, making it easy to enjoy parts of a museum for a couple hours and not feel guilty that you haven’t gotten your money’s worth. I headed from there to sangria with Lisa and Co. at a Cuban bar (it only went to further my obsession with Cuba…stupid outdated travel ban), then to a Thai restaurant, then to the Tube for the long-ish journey home. During that ride, I didn’t run into any friendly locals with a gap in their teeth, but the memory was enough to keep me showing mine all the way home.
"At least being American provides a bit of an excuse for loudly proclaiming kinda-inappropriate things."
ReplyDeleteOh Kate. I love you so much and I miss you more than words can say. I am glad you are loving London and it seems like it is loving you right back!! Can't wait to hear more of your adventures. We're holding it down back here at home. Miss you!
<3 RJ