It was just a normal day at Pure Dark, on a quaint corner of Bleecker Street, in the classy part of the West Village. No celebrity shoppers on this particular day, just your average Japanese tourist and dolled up young mother with her baby carriage. Into the store burst 5 burly Scottish lads. How out of place they seemed, with their massive beer bellies, and their gruff Scot accents. They walked straight up to me and demanded, "ARE YE CEEEEEEEELIA?" I couldn't figure out if I was bemused or nervous. "......yes......." I replied. "WE'VE BEEN SENT HERE BY BROOOOOOOKE." Brook! A gorgeous Scottish lass I went to dance college with! Oh! "SHE SAID WE WERE TO COME AND FIND YEEEEEEE. SHE WORKS IN THE POOOOOOB" Oh my. The pooooooob. The pub! Ah, it became clear. Here in my gourmet chocolate shop, looking as if they had just landed from another planet, were 5 Scottish lads, who live in Perth, Scotland (one of them was even wearing a shirt that said PERTH). Every Sunday, they must go to the pub (as all men with massive beer bellies do) and my old friend Brooke serves them pints of lager and cider while they sit there and "get pissed," as the Brits say. Well, fancy that. Talk about worlds colliding.
I offered them some free chocolate. Most people are delighted when that happens. The lads just blinked. "NAH." They said. "Oh, okay. Well, can I get you some water?" I asked. "NAH." "Okay....would you like anything else?" "WHERE IS THE NEAREST PLACE TO GET A PINT???" one of them finally asked in exasperation. I howled with laughter. They looked absolutely desperate. I knew what they were looking for -- a good old English pub that served a nice cold pint of ale. I couldn't think of anything downscale enough for them in the West Village, so I pointed them towards a place called Fiddlesticks, in which they (if they even found it) would probably exclaim profanities at the price of the beer.
The lads had been in the shop for about 7 minutes. We even took a picture of all of us so that they could show Brooke when they got home. I still could not believe that they were in the shop. Looking at them standing there in all their loutish glory among the high-end shop branding made me beam. Before they left, I asked, "what ARE you doing in NYC???" In the States, there are certain Americans who have obviously never been outside of their own state, let alone the country. These lads looked as if they'd never even been to London, so WHAT were they doing here in the middle of Manhattan?? "THE FOOOOOOOOTBALLLL!!!" Oh my goodness, OF COURSE! The fooooooootball! They were in town supporting England in the World Cup. Pints and football -- what ELSE would a bunch of Scottish lads be in NYC for?
When the lads left, one of my colleagues said to me, "they were really scary and I couldn't understand a word they said." We laughed, and I pondered this. While she had looked at them in confusion, I had looked at them and felt like they had brought into the shop a little piece of home with them. They brought in a sensation that I was back in a culture that is familiar to me -- a culture where lads go to the pub to drink pints and watch football, families gather together every Sunday for a Sunday roast, newspapers have page 3 topless models, and every town in the country has a Marks and Spencer, a Nando's, a Primark, and a street called "High Street." I may have Yankee blood and a Yankee accent, but I have not felt more at "home" in NYC than when those lads walked in the door and brought a bit of Scotland with them.
The Yanks and the Brits may all speak the same language, but we are not the same by any means. I thought I was more of an American. But I still feel like a stranger in a foreign land. I still have never seen an episode of "Lost." I still need to look at an NYC subway map when I travel. I still don't quite know how the healthcare system works. I still drink tea instead of Starbucks. I think of Britain, and I can picture the glistening streets of Edinburgh. I can hear the "hardahardahardaharda" accents of the Belfast taxi drivers. I can remember Saturday morning TV with Cat, Ant, and Dec. I still want to say things like, "get your coat love, you've pulled," or "can I have a shandy, please?" or "fancy a cuppa?" I call soccer football and I find it totally bizarre that there are people are not aware that there is a difference between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. Well, I'll be damned...
I spent a decade in London rejecting the fact that I am British. How ironic then, that I feel more of a kinship with a bunch of Scottish lads than a bunch of Long-Islanders. I guess I am a Brit after all. I'll need to have a Guinness and black the next time I go out, to celebrate this self-discovery. But, wait, the Americans don't have blackcurrent cordial, do they? Do they even have cordial?? Eh, perhaps I'll have to stick to liquor on the rocks. When in Rome...
copyright (c) 2010-2011 Celia Mei Rubin
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