Our cute little Brutus misses his mommy. Three days into his adoption and he's a bit tired of me. After I took this picture he threw up on the rug.Speaking of awesome things, let's talk about Brits. I trust English people. More than I trust Americans, if we’re talking percentages. Strap on a delightful Buckingham Palace lilt and I’ll give you my passport and a pint of blood.
Could it be the jolly Heathrow customs officers; the only evidence that good cheer exists behind that navy uniform in ANY COUNTRY ON THE PLANET? Is it the way that they use multi-syllabic words in their daily newspapers, while American rags are forced to cater to a 3rd-grade comprehension level for their constituents?
At any rate, I love the Brits. I just spent a week amongst them on a foreign island (neither theirs nor mine) and have concluded that when I grow old I want to be British. However, I don’t know if I’ll be granted admission into the cult of delightful older Brits, partly because of my superior dental history.
Our wedding night found us 7 Yankee friends playing Bingo and betting on 1980s horse races with a delightful collection of Brits in a Mallorcan pub, appropriately named “The Crown”. The fact that the sweet and slightly frog-like man (think Toad Hall) sitting next to me had brought his octogenarian parents to the bar for a drink and some light gambling astounded me. They smiled and diligently marked their bingo cards, even though Viktoria (though she is a newly-minted American citizen, she’s still our “in” with the KGB) won both the row and full house rounds. 70 Euros richer, she smiled when they remarked “you Yanks…always taking everything”. And said with such a smile that it is impossible to be offended; in fact, while on vacation I found myself apologizing on multiple occasions for my country of origin.
I am luckier than most to have been born a citizen of my blessed country; but the “American” traits that make me proud I’ve found in my travels to simply be “human” traits…and therefore I’m not so sure how much of it blooms from the soil of my United States. At the risk of sounding anti-American (which I assure you, I am not. I’m simply anti-idiot); I would like to figure out how to file the paperwork to become a Brit in demeanor and tolerance of smoky bars at the spry age of 80. Someone please email me the details.
Thanks.
PS: Who else lets their dog (Sammy's his name!) hang out in their pub? Not Americans. "Liability...Health Code..." they mutter.
Could it be the jolly Heathrow customs officers; the only evidence that good cheer exists behind that navy uniform in ANY COUNTRY ON THE PLANET? Is it the way that they use multi-syllabic words in their daily newspapers, while American rags are forced to cater to a 3rd-grade comprehension level for their constituents?
At any rate, I love the Brits. I just spent a week amongst them on a foreign island (neither theirs nor mine) and have concluded that when I grow old I want to be British. However, I don’t know if I’ll be granted admission into the cult of delightful older Brits, partly because of my superior dental history.
Our wedding night found us 7 Yankee friends playing Bingo and betting on 1980s horse races with a delightful collection of Brits in a Mallorcan pub, appropriately named “The Crown”. The fact that the sweet and slightly frog-like man (think Toad Hall) sitting next to me had brought his octogenarian parents to the bar for a drink and some light gambling astounded me. They smiled and diligently marked their bingo cards, even though Viktoria (though she is a newly-minted American citizen, she’s still our “in” with the KGB) won both the row and full house rounds. 70 Euros richer, she smiled when they remarked “you Yanks…always taking everything”. And said with such a smile that it is impossible to be offended; in fact, while on vacation I found myself apologizing on multiple occasions for my country of origin.
I am luckier than most to have been born a citizen of my blessed country; but the “American” traits that make me proud I’ve found in my travels to simply be “human” traits…and therefore I’m not so sure how much of it blooms from the soil of my United States. At the risk of sounding anti-American (which I assure you, I am not. I’m simply anti-idiot); I would like to figure out how to file the paperwork to become a Brit in demeanor and tolerance of smoky bars at the spry age of 80. Someone please email me the details.
Thanks.
PS: Who else lets their dog (Sammy's his name!) hang out in their pub? Not Americans. "Liability...Health Code..." they mutter.
1 comment:
Fantastic! My roomie is British and there's nothing better than listening to her rant - it's amusing and true on so many levels and yet, also eloquent.
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