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2-21-2007 Jim Atwell I hope all our snow won't be gone by then. Michael's cross-country skis and boots are still stored in our garage. (They're easily distinguished from Anne's and mine; Michael's boots look only slightly shorter than his skis.) But even without snow, we'll have lots to show them and lots of places to take them. Of course they will want to visit our jointly owned property up the valley. At the time of purchase, Michael claimed that it was his first step towards reclaiming the Colonies for the Motherland. And I suspect he describes his American holdings, not in prosaic Fly Creek Valley, but in the charming Vale of Phleigh. I don't mean to suggest that Michael is pompous or dogmatic (though I do love it when an exasperated Barbara says, "Oh, Mike, do put a sock in it!") Rather, Michael, a very witty man, loves to project the distant, patronizing tone that he believes Americans expect of Brits. But in fact we all know that the cool, distant Englishman, though legendary, is really in part a caricature, as is the opposing image: the glad-handing, back-slapping American who forces familiarity on everyone he meets, even complete strangers. (The worst example of that, by the way, is the cynical telephone salesman who tries to disarm you by using your nickname. He mocks real friendship and, insultingly, presumes that you're sucker enough to fall for the ploy. My corrective: Tell him off, then cut him off.) Of course, most Americans aren't glad-handing back-slappers. But a caricature always has some basis in fact. And perhaps, anxious to prove our common touch, we do come down a bit heavy on folksy familiarity. There's also a basis in fact for the stereotype of British reserve. I find that, in general, Brits do hold themselves a bit distant until they know with whom they're dealing. When they accept you, however, they're as warm and welcoming as any people I've met. Michael Thrower himself is a great student of social interaction and loves to lecture me on how Brits and Yanks differ in it. He has me noticing, for instance, that Brits are careful to avoid eye contact with a passing stranger. That's out of respect, Michael says, for the stranger's right to privacy. I tell him you see the same thing in American city streets and subways, though we're just trying to avoid enraging some wacko and getting attacked. Not the same thing at all, says Michael dismissively, and tells me to watch closely when I amble through Chichester, the lovely old cathedral town where he and Barbara live. Sure enough, most people walking the busy streets studiously avoid eye contact. Indeed, they move along with a focused preoccupation, as if they were mentally rehearsing the items on their shopping lists or perhaps composing haikus in their heads. They don't look aloof, only very busy with their own thoughts. If you must interrupt one to ask directions, "I beg your pardon" seems quite apt. British strangers, continues Michael, with a firm tone only partly feigned, normally don't speak to one another without cause. The exception is on Boxing Day afternoon, when they're out walking off a heavy holiday meal (this after a still heavier one the day before, on Christmas.) Then, says Michael, it's not improper to say, "Good day" to passing strangers. It's fellow- feeling, you see, promoted by the holiday and perhaps by a shared sense of bloat from too much food. But I've spotted another exception to the aloofness rule - and, I might add, without my old friend's help. (You saw an example of it here last month when I described the odd old gent and dog met on our South Downs hike.) This exception permits English strangers to talk to one another, though only indirectly. It follows on Brits' lavish sentimentality about animals of all sorts. (An especially outraged Victorian once roared, "I'd kill any man I saw beating a fallen horse!") The exception works this way: If a stranger approaches with a dog on a leash, it's perfectly proper for a second Englishman to speak to him - but only through the dog. "Well, what a good little fellow you are," says the second man, smiling and crouching by the animal. "You and your master are enjoying a good, brisk walk, are you?" "Indeed we are," says the other man (looking affectionately at the dog - and speaking for him,) "though my poor master gets a bit winded on the steeper hills." "Well, you'll just help and pull him along, won't you?" says the second man, patting the dog's head. "There's a good dog." "Thank you sir, I'll do my best, I will," says the first man, or, I should say, the dog. "And a good day to you from both of us." "And the same to both of you, doggie." And then the strangers part, privacy still intact, without once having looked eye to eye. Now, how's that, Michael, for social interaction observed? You're deft, you British! But then, you've had lot more centuries to practice than we have. And in spring, friends, you may see me walking with a man about my age and height, also bearded and bifocaled, but better at baldness than I am. That will be Michael Thrower. Don't hesitate to look him in the eye and say, "Welcome!" He expects that of us. He'll be delighted. Read about Jim Atwell's book, "From Fly Creek - Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country" at JimAtwell. com. |
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