Convergent Journey

A cuppa tea and a camera

Posts tagged ‘Living abroad’

Mind the Language Gap, Part II

By on July 4, 2012

It made me so happy this morning when the maintenance guy stopped by my room. Not only because he replaced my rusty, zero-water-pressure showerhead with a sleek, modern, fully-functioning one (heaven!!) but also because when he inspected it, he proclaimed in a delightful cockney accent that my showerhead was “knackered.”

Never before has something as simple as a showerhead made me quite so happy.

Over the course of the nine months I’ve been blogging from London, I haven’t written much about language issues, since I haven’t had many. There aren’t too many ways you can go wrong speaking English in England. While I’m ‘chuffed’ that I haven’t committed any egregious faux pas, I sometimes wish there was more room for mistakes, for the purposes of this blog.

Still, there have been a few differences between American English and English English that I didn’t know about until I got here (including the fact that technically I should call it English English, instead of British English). Then, there were a few things that people have teased me about. And of course, that awkward time with the feminine products.

For the most part, I’ve adjusted; I subconsciously adopt a more British inflection when talking to British people. But I do it because of this strange phenomenon–if i ask a question the American way, for example–it’s as though people get thrown off trying to figure out what my accent is, so they don’t actually get the content of what I say. I invariably have to repeat myself, unless I just play into expectations and do things the British way. So I ask for the “bill” instead of the “check,” and I ask where the “toilet” is instead of the bathroom.

But queue? This word just won’t stick, integral as it is to the British way of life. I simply can’t remember to “queue up,” in words if not in actions. But the choice of vocabulary here is no biggie, so long as I respect the Brits’ love for queues by standing in line.

But more problematically:

I always forget trousers vs. pants. 

The latest in royal fashions. But say not that they are wearing white pants.

First, let me clarify that pants in English-English are underpants. Underwear, knickers, etc. What Americans think of as pants are called trousers here.

I learned this months ago, and have been reminded of it several times since. But in practice, I can’t remember this!! Seriously, it is a faux pas waiting to happen.

The other day, I had this conversation with another international student (S) and an English girl (C):

Me: But now that it’s summer white pants season…
C: Summer white pants?
Me: I left mine at home but normally I would wear them.
C: Really?
S: Yeah, they’re everywhere.
C: You mean people wear them outside?
S: Totally! Is that not a thing here?
C: No….
Me: But I just saw someone wearing them the other day.
C: Really??

Since this was all happening among friends, it was hilarious to see the shock on C’s face while she imagined people walking around in their underpants, you know, summer fashion and all. But one of these days I’m going to compliment some guy on his pants and–WHOOPS, that’s not what I meant!

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UK Border Control: Bests and Worsts, Mostly Worsts

By on May 11, 2012

Two stories about the UK border agency. First, the worst airport in London. Second, the immigration officer who not so subtly hinted I should leave the country.

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1. THE WORST AIRPORT IN LONDON

Especially with the Olympics coming up and tourists already swarming in London now that it’s spring, there’s been a lot of talk about how awful the delays are getting through immigration at Heathrow. Reacting to that, there are the “What delay?” articles. As well as that great tool of lazy reporting, crowdsourcing.

I’ve had two visitors come in through Heathrow in the past week, and both of them said they breezed right through. So maybe Heathrow’s not so bad after all. Flying into Gatwick has never caused any problems, and Luton is by far the easiest: quick, painless and a straight shot to the bus. (By the way, for service from Luton, I love easyBus. If you arrive earlier or later than expected, they’ll put you on the next bus free of charge.)

Without a doubt, the absolute worst immigration control is at Stansted Airport.  Given all the heat that Heathrow’s been getting, a few media outlets have been analyzing Stansted too. This from the BBC:

A spokesman for the airport, owned by BAA, said: “The majority of passengers arriving at Stansted pass through border controls quickly and securely. However, at peak times, and similar to many other UK airports, immigration queues can be unacceptably long.”

Ha! Well, truth be told, getting through the EU/UK citizens line seems easy enough. But there is no airport in London quite like Stansted for discrimination against non-EU/UK passport holders.

Even when there were only eight people in front of me with two desks open in the “All Passports” line, I waited for an hour. No exaggeration. The people in front of me were Turkish passport holders who seemed like a group of family and friends, and each person who went to the desk had to talk to the immigration officer, wait while the officer called for help or verification, then sit off to the side until they were summoned elsewhere. Each took about ten minutes, and the officers kept getting up to leave the desk in between! Drive. me. crazy.

The second time, there were about fifteen people in front of me, with only one desk open. A group of Chinese students who were travelling together ran into the same situation: Desk. Wait. Call up. Sit to the side. Get summoned. Officer leaves with them. Students here on visa have to match up their fingerprints, and the system wasn’t retrieving any of theirs.

Stansted Airport. Worst.
Photo source: The Telegraph

Problems: (1) Too few officers. (2) Broken systems. And (3) inefficient design. The wheelchair access lane should not go through the All Passports line. No discrimination here against handicapped access, but for efficiency’s sake, when there are eight desks open on the EU/UK passports side, it would make more sense for everyone involved to have the handicapped access line be serviced there instead. (Wanting to be careful about how I described this, I took particular note of whether the people being served through the handicapped access lane were EU/UK citizens or not. And indeed, all handicapped access passengers are served through the “All Passports” side, including EU/UK citizens.)

As the line behind me grew longer—up to thirty or more—and still ten more to go in front of me, I could hear people sigh audibly every time our lone immigration officer had another holdup, or another handicapped passenger took precedence. And the crazy thing is, just when you get excited that a second immigration officer has come down to open another desk, once that desk is open, the other officer leaves!

Enough griping. How about something to be thankful for?

Well, with an American passport, when I do finally make it to the immigration desk, I answer two questions, match my fingerprints, and I’m outta there in thirty seconds. God bless America!

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2. “PLEASE LEAVE NOW,” IN SO MANY WORDS

So much for the stereotype that Brits are polite.

Returning from Paris by Eurostar, I thought, on a 7.30am train there shouldn’t be bottlenecking at immigration (which you have to pass through as you leave Paris). But bottlenecking there was.

An American family—a girl studying abroad in London and her parents— was in front of me. The parents were flying out of Heathrow later that day, while the girl would stay on in London.

“When are you leaving the UK?” the officer asked.
“Today,” the parents replied.
“Where are your boarding passes?”
“We haven’t printed them out yet.”
“I need to see your boarding pass.”
“But we haven’t printed them—here, I have it on my phone.”
“No sir, we cannot accept electronic passes.”
“But our flight leaves today, we’re going to pick up the e-tickets—”
“I’m sorry, I need to see your boarding pass.”

The officer may as well have been a robot. How much more obvious could the circumstances be? After a few more minutes of fumbling, they, too, were summoned for further questioning. How long will you be in the UK? What time is your flight? And you, how long will you be studying in the UK? What are you studying? Where? 

When it was my turn, the immigration officer asked me:

“Where are you studying?”
“LSE.”
“Have you booked your flight back to the States?”

Excuse me? This was in early April, and my visa is valid through September. Time to pack those bags—apparently I’m not wanted here!

*Shakes fist*

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EPILOGUE

I did make it onto my train with barely three minutes to spare, and the family scrambled on only moments before the doors closed. I know this because they happened to be in the same train car as I was, and they talked loudly about what had happened for forty-five minutes. On a 7.30am train. What sympathy I had for them vanished after the first fifteen minutes. Not a single other person was talking; most were sleeping. Fulfilling the stereotype that Americans are loud.

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Childhood, European vs. American Style

By on April 11, 2012

NYC Chinatown. A hot summer day. He brazenly swigs the whole bottle.

I read an incredibly depressing article about parenting yesterday, called “The Non-Joie of Parenting.” Its bleak picture of American parenting almost made me want to stay in Europe to have kids. (Not that having kids is anywhere on the near horizon, mind you.)

The article is written from the perspective of a mother who raised her kids first in Paris, where she would sip Pouilly-Fumé and Stella Artois with other “half-watching parents” while her children played nearby. Then she moved to the U.S., where she became a full-time chaffeur for her kids’ activities.

Based on the models of American parenting in mainstream media these days, you’d think America was full of tiger mothers, seven-year-olds on forced diets and waiting lists just to get into pre-school. The modern archetype of motherhood is that of the Upper East Side, OCD, yoga-practicing, pearl-wearing, Laura Linney in The Nanny Diaries raising a spoiled monster-brat. The author of the NYT article supports that view, claiming her Parisian-bred “tidy, tantrum-free toddlers” were an amazement to American parents.

It certainly makes the European approach to parenting and parental involvement in education seem more attractive. In my education class this year, I’ve been learning about European countries’ approaches to education from early childhood to higher education, and many elements of the system here seem quite attractive. No system is perfect, of course, and it’s hard to generalize across the board. But there is far better provision of early childhood care, and in general there seems to be a more child-centered approach to learning. Importantly too, there isn’t that obsessive-compulsive mania that exists in the U.S. or South Korea, the two countries I’m most familiar with, around gaining entry to the higher echelons of education institutions.

But these are all extreme examples, swinging the pendulum from the bests and worsts of one country to the other, wishing for greener grass.

And that’s why this short film gives me so much hope. This, my friends, is what childhood should be like. Don’t ferry those kids off to math camp and soccer camp and band camp and everything else. Let their imaginations run free and see what happens!

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So… Are You Asian?

By on March 7, 2012

In the last post, I mentioned that British people seem uncomfortable talking about race and ethnicity. By contrast, the Asian, especially Chinese, students in my hall are always curious about my ethnicity and eager to find out. They inquire in roundabout ways, sometimes speaking to me in Chinese (assuming that I am too), or asking me where I’m from, no like, where I’m from-from. A roundabout question deserves a roundabout answer, so I give them the runaround even though I know what they’re really trying to ask. The incredulous gape when I say that I’m American—I probably shouldn’t enjoy it so much, but I have to admit it’s amusing.

Today’s encounter was surprisingly cute. I raced to catch the elevator (I still don’t say lift, though quite a few other British-isms have caught on by now) on the way down to dinner. An Asian girl who seemed shy and sweet held the door and smiled at me as I got on. On the way back up from dinner, the reverse happened—she raced to catch the elevator I was already on. She smiled at me again.

She asked, “So… are you Asian?”

“Yes,” I said with a laugh. “I’m Korean, but I’m from America.”

After all, kudos to her. The beat-around-the-bush approach bothers me, but she certainly got right to the point. It’s also about context; for example, if someone were to say that in a crowded bar, it would qualify as the worst pickup line ever.  But in her very mild-mannered way, it was actually an endearing conversational overture.

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