Britical

 

NYC

 

My favourite thing about arriving at London’s Gatwick Airport is not the sign at immigration that says "British & European Community" - but the other one placed slightly apart from it upon which is written, dismissively and rather damningly: "Rest of the World".

Among other entertaining implications, these signs make me think of the American custom of "dating", if, for the purposes of this discussion, we think of "Rest of the World" as the U.S.
N. B: Readers may want to reacquaint themselves with another rare entry from me re. this subject. Click here: http://britical.blogsome.com/2006/03/01/the-american-way-of-dating/     

This particular subject came up at a recent dinner party (which gathering comprised of me - plus, yes, the rest of the world). The American woman sitting next to me - let’s call her "Jane" - told me she is dating or not dating a European man. Jane explained that, unlike with an American male, she could not actually tell if their outings were dates …. or just friends hanging out. She claimed he was giving her mixed signals. As with Erwin Schrodinger’s ambiguous Cat, she could just open the damn box, collapse the probability wave and find out - but this is fraught with cultural pitfalls….

As I have remarked (above referenced entry), European, and certainly British dating, is less about the ritualistic 1950’s era as things are practiced here - but more about sex on the first night, meeting in groups, asking someone along at the last minute, calling when you want, and other outrages that would shock and appall most Americans who are not men. Especially in New York.

But back to Jane, who, having lived and worked for a while in London, said that with the exception of the Swedes and the Italians, she always found European men to be more reticent than Americans in these matters. She acknowledged that it was often even expected that she - perceived as a dynamic and assertive sort, but actually rather shy - would make the first move. She found all this a bit new and daunting, but back in her native New York, with all its complicated dating rules and regulations, the idea petrifies her. I asked her if the gentleman had recently moved to the U.S. If he had, I pointed out, likely there wouldn’t have been time for any brainwashing to take place. He had not. (Bummer.) So, in order for her to know what’s going on (or not going on), here is the real question:

Whose rules is he playing by? British & European Community? Or, The Rest of the World?

I dug into my soufflé (white chocolate, hard crust, perfect melty hot centre, and lots of cream). Then, being a wonderfully reflective type of person, I stopped listening to Jane and thought about the bonuses of this or that set of rules. For instance, you do generally know with an American if your drink invitation is indeed a date simply by the way the invitation is phrased. So if you’re not interested and want to avoid any awkwardness, you can use these same American rules to just say you’re washing you’re hair, or, if pushed, "…sort of seeing someone right now…" or whatever - et voila, you’re excused. Done. You will not, at the end of an unwitting "third date" evening, be suddenly ambushed by an embarassing and icky kiss. On the other hand, if you’re not utterly repulsed, American rules command you to wait, while British rules give you the leeway to be a bit more pro-active (which these days in the U.K. means launching yourself with your tongue out at a stranger after puking your 3am kebab into the gutter of the Tottenham Court Road after a long night of binge-drinking).

"So….? What should I do?" she piped up.

"H’mmm…." I said.

"Well, what would you do if you were me?" she pleaded, changing tack and clutching at straws.

"You mean been in a situation with a guy where I can’t figure out what his intentions are?" I asked.

"Yes! Exactly!! What do you do?" she said, pouncing on an answer that wasn’t there .

"Um….." I mumbled, fiddling with my spoon, "That’s a good question, isn’t it?"

After dinner, Jane and I exchanged cards and she promised to email me if and when she got the answer to her conundrum. Walking home, I wondered about my own ex-pat playbook. Do I appear crystal clear, or as inscrutable as the officers behind my favo(u)rite immigration sign? Indeed, whose rules do I play by?

 

Copyright Britical, 2008. All Rights Reserved.

 

….for one night at least. And maybe in some eyes this makes me a Republican forever.

 

Last evening, a mere twelve days after moving to the Upper East Side, I gave money to the McCain/Palin campaign. $15 to be exact. Yes sirree. That is, exactly $15 more than what I’ve coughed up for Obama and Biden. Coincidence? Who knows. And even worse, $15 was the fee to watch the final presidential debates at the The New York Young Republican Club with some down-home "beer & pizza". I imagine most of you are aghast; some of you over the beer, some over the other thing.

The night before, I had attended something altogether different - about 180 degrees so: the world premiere of Oliver Stone’s new movie, ‘W’, at the Ziegfield Theatre here in New York. Even bathed in the smugness that comes with the best seats in the house, there was for me, among the extended SNL skit of laughs, impersonations and fantastic acting, a feeling of dismal hopelessness. My motive in attending being mere entertainment, it was my own self-sabotaging "mission creep", if you will, and this well before the credits swept up the screen.

Via Stone, the sorry life of George W. Bush is tracked in a way that is cleverly sympathetic-yet-damning -  like remarking, "Bless!" at someone’s inappropriate behaviour or naff outfit. He is seen as a tragic figure - wounded and angry, like a dumb but dangerous zoo animal escaped from its cage. So you leave the theatre understanding, according to Stone, why Mr. Bush is the way he is - but, for me at least, unable to forgive the twisted piles of maimed, wounded, tortured and killed.

From here my +1 and I strolled over to the after-party at The Metropolitan Club. With its vast, gilded rooms stuffed with oysters, Democrats, champagne, and the requisite endless co-producers, I, along with everyone else by the looks of it, forgot all about the piles of maimed, wounded, tortured and killed and in short order felt quite a bit more jolly. Indeed, by the next night, as I have just admitted, I was back up here on the UES at The New York Young Republican Club. Had I misunderstood ‘W’, and, unwittingly mistaking its Freudian explanations for excuses?

Maybe it’s not not Oliver Stone who’s the culprit for my possible born-again-Republicanism. And to take a leaf from the Republican play book, who can I blame? Well, there are, come to think of it, my first twelve, self-pitying, lonely days here on the Upper East Side where the breathtakingly pissy, attitudinous ways of the natives seem to be the norm. But if you live in New York you know that already. Still, it’s quite soul-destroying to experience it every single day. Can I blame the relentlessly sullen young woman in the coffee shop who each morning returns a bright "Hi!" with folded arms and a blank stare? Or the super who shouted at me and then refused to deliver my mail unless I gave him $100? Or the armies of frozen-faced, older "mommies" in tracksuits barrelling along the sidewalks with IVF-induced triple-wide prams (strollers)? Their eyes are always furious, just visible behind the enormous sunglasses that make them look like angry, swarming insects. Perhaps we should blame their harassed husbands, those anxious fathers, you know the ones, spit-up staining their bespoke Thomas Mahon suits. They are doing their best, I can tell, to coo convincingly at the children they wish sometimes, and with shame, they’d never had with the woman they should never have married (especially since they never get any anymore).

 

That is to say, had I, by some airbourne, UES osmosis, absorbed all their misery, negativity and sheer meanness and thus become a Republican?

 

I think not. Because I am still able to look at them with some noble pity and ask: are you fucking kidding me? Because here we are, folks, not on tony Madison or Fifth, but stuck way over in the grey nowheresville of 86th and First. Maybe that’s their problem.

Nope, there was no one to blame but myself. As I stood in mute wonderment in Republican central, NYC, a nice townhouse on East 83rd Street, I didn’t even try to see over the well-groomed heads to the tiny TV screen at the end of the room. (I had already been given a few "looks" by several of the ladies as I tried to sidle gently by them in the crush.) I was more curious to see what everyone would look like: to watch the watchers of the debate.

So these are real Republicans, I thought. In the flesh! They didn’t have three heads and just looked pretty much like anyone else you’d meet (on the UES, mind you). But you know, goshdarnit (to coin a popular phrase), they sure as heck sounded different to most of the people I know. More angry, for one. As if the poor wretches described just above all got together in one room. Like a lynchmob. But without the pitchforks and torches, and wearing blazers. For at the end of every single answer from Mr. McCain they rose up together in a crescendo of such deafening screaming, braying, whooping, and shouting that I thought my ears would bleed. It was all a bit too close for me to the Yale frathouse scenes in ‘W’ the night before.

I wandered out into the lobby to get some McCain/Palin stickers (I like stickers). With any luck, they’ll be an amusing relic come November 5th. But fate had something else in store, for as I passed the staircase there came an alarming clattering noise. And out of the corner of my eye, I just had time to see a plucky young Republican female aiming herself right at me! She was falling down the steps with impressive haste, right on her ass, clearly on some sort of suicide mission, or G.O.P. jihad: bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-BUMP!!!!! She fell at my feet. ‘Though a messy, twin-setted heap, one keen little heel, had unfortunately found my toe. Mission Accomplished. I leant to help her up. After all, maybe it was an accident. "Are you OK?", I asked. (No wonder Democrats never win.) She immediately got herself to her feet, brushing my arm away. "Fine, fine…" she hissed in a stage whisper, but she didn’t look fine at all. I knew from the throbbing in my toe the impact with which she must have hit the marble. I went to say something else and she frowned: "Shhhh…" she said. Then turned, and walked briskly, if shakily, back into the other room, into the zoo.

Understandably, she had looked embarrassed; falling over, watching fat people slip on a banana skin, is a traditional sight gag for a reason. But if a kindly stranger quietly offers a tactful hand, then we are grateful for their efforts. Aren’t we? On the contrary, this woman had been annoyed with me, as if her fall was something to be ignored, covered up, not spoken of - or, if deliberate, a failure, since her target was now lacking only a toe. Her demeanour said: this did not happen and if you say anything I will deny it.

I thought about this painful incident as an interesting catch-all metaphor for the nice ladies and gentlemen of The New York Young Republican Club to ponder. (How delicious it would be had an askew up-do and a smashed pair of rimless glasses been involved.) But my curiosity was satiated. Time to leave. I had enough for my blog so had got what I came for. But as a result, perhaps I had also gotten what I was asking for. But it was worth it, I thought, and I chuckled to myself, I’m afraid, at the Republican lady’s spectacular pratfall as I limped out into the night and hailed a cab: downtown.
 
Copyright Britical, 2008. All Rights Reserved.