Jet Lag and Toasties

I remember being aquiver with excitement as my long-laid plans had come to fruition. I stepped onto my 8 hour flight from Dulles to Heathrow with a barely-contained fury of anticipation. What would life be like on the other side of the ocean? As a senior at UMBC, I had done all of my complicated work at home in Baltimore. All I had to do was pass 4 classes to get credit for what would be an experience of a life-time. I nestled into my window seat and awaited the following day when I would set foot on British soil.

The plane flew through the night to arrive early morning next day at Heathrow Airport and the din of humanity that accompanies it. Nervously I grab my luggage and hike to the bus terminal where I would continue on to Swansea, Wales. I wait in the frigid terminal for my bus to arrive, guarding my luggage like Custer's Last Stand against any would-be pilfering. In retrospect, the danger was certainly imagined, but it was a country-boy's first extra-national exodus by himself. Finally, my bus pulls in. I stroll triumphantly to the driver as he puts away other passengers' luggage, and I hand him my e-ticket as if to proclaim, "I'm here, and I'm American!" With a casual air, he asks me my destination, and just as casually, I kindly ask him to repeat himself with a mono-syllabic "what?" He asks again, and I gladly proclaim "WALES!" His look told me my answer was a little too obtuse. I clarified that I'm heading for Swansea. With a smile, he took my bags and stuffed them in storage, and I marched onto the bus.

Quite plainly, I had realized two very big shortcomings on my part. 1, apparently I don't understand English as well as I'd thought, and 2, I don't get public transportation. It was later I understood that there were in fact 5 stops in Wales, and my answer was a little too vague for the driver to place my luggage in the proper area. Ah the thrills of having your eyes opened!

A hop, skip, and 5 hour drive through the rain away, I arrive at my destination in Swansea. I breathe in the air; this was to be my home for 5 months. No family, no familiar faces. I lug my 85 pounds of luggage across the street where I'm presented with a choice: cab ride to my new digs, or food. Being a pragmatic sort, I get some food. I quickly glance over the goodies at the Tesco deli and select for myself a sandwich (or what I thought was one), some chips (which are called crisps), and a coke (can't screw that one up). When I approach the register, I'm greeted by a woman with the thickest Welsh accent. I'd never heard a Welsh accent before, and hers was a good one. If I had trouble with an Englishman, one can imagine the pain of understanding a Welshman. But my transaction is a simple one; what possible use is there for unpredicted conversation? I should hear numbers, and I should pay, but what I get instead takes me three tries to figure out. "Do you want it toasted?" Do I want what toasted, my sandwich? "It's a toastie, dear, you're meant to have em toasted." What in God's name is a toastie? It looks like a ham and cheese sandwich. I graciously decline. "You will toast it later then? It's not good unless it's toasted." After two more repetitions, I lie and say yes. The truth is I was just gonna eat the damn thing as soon as I got outside, and I did. What was all this about a toastie? And why can't I communicate with someone who's supposed to speak the same language? I understand people from California just fine, and that's the same distance away as Swansea.

Needless to say, I was quite satisfied with whatever food I could get, and I was damn tired from not sleeping the night before. I was out of my time zone, out of my country, out of my element. Time to go to my new home. I hail a cab.

A big friendly Welshman pulls up, and I hop in the back. "Hendro-fo-ellen Student Village" I say. "Hendra-voilan is it?" Apparently Welsh words don't sound how they look. "Uh, yes" and we're off. As he pulls into the student development, I get the warm feeling my journey is nearing a close. I'll be able to unpack, shower, and relax. My head hurts at this point, and I don't know how much "English" I'll be able to understand until I get some sleep. Just as the end is in sight, I have to pay the cab. I pull out my motley change of british coinage and fumble through 8 oddly shaped, strangely colored pieces of metal. I'm forced to read each one to figure out just how much it's worth. Nothing like taking 5 minutes to pay a cab to get rid of a headache.

I look back on that first day and laugh. I've come such a long way since then. I've since been able to understand English in many different accents, learn the ins and outs of public transportation, and am fully aware of how to eat a toastie. I now realize that Americans aren't that exotic, especially to Brits, and any expectation of recognition and wonder from the locals is foolish. Still, they are quite friendly when the mood strikes. I now consider the UK my second home, and I know I will return in far better shape than last time.