In a week’s time, I officially Turn Thirty. I’m not looking forward to it. Especially since, I am told, it’s actually the law here that when you hit 30, you have to grow a goatee. Now I’ve been telling people that it aint gonna happen, I went through my ‘beards’ phase years ago, as all who rememeber me can attest. “Oh you say that now,” people tell me. Yes I do say it now, and I’ll be saying it next week too – the beards aint coming back! However, as if to prove the goatee-law, while watching the golf we noticed that Tiger Woods is now sporting a recently-hairy chin, and a quick google-search revealed that he turned thirty exactly a month ago. Insert golf-related joke here if you must, but it’s got me worried. Can you get fined if you don’t have one?

Of course, there are other phenomena related to turning thirty Stateside. For one thing, you no longer have to prove your age when buying beer. Oh yes, if you are under 30, you get carded – even though the legal drinking age is 21. It is pretty ridiculous to say the least, especially in the supermarket when you know the person selling it to you is at least eight years younger than you and has no idea there was more than one President George Bush. Maybe people grow goatees as a social sign to prove their thirtigenarian status. Thirtigenarian, that is surely not a word? Well, it is now. I’m Turning Thirty, I say so.

If ‘twenty’ rhymed with ‘plenty’, ‘thirty’ rhymes with ‘dirty’, which is not good. Well, it’s better than ‘warty’, which rhymes with ‘forty’ – no disrespect to fortigenarians, of course. Thirty also rhymes with ‘flirty’, which I certainly am not, and ‘shirty’, which I kind of am. But the worst part about Turning Thirty is, and I’m serious here, that it is the name of a truly awful book by Mike Gayle (the former agony-uncle turned agony-inducing-author). I’d prefer to say I turning thirty-one than be identified with that absolute bum-wipe of a novel. In a one-line book review I’d write: Don’t Ever Read This Dire Book, EVER. But that’s just the Thirty-year-old Grumpy Old Man coming out, and he’s always been there.

So what can I expect from my thirties? The plans are to start a family with my wife, to have a career with my MA, and maybe who knows even finally learn to drive… Other than that, who can tell? I don’t even know what to expect from my birthday itself – my wife has a surprise planned, which involves going somewhere the weekend before, and that’s all I know. I’m intrigued! I love surprises – unless the surprise involves me waking up next Tuesday and deciding, “hmm, i think I’ll only shave some of my face today…”

Last week, in the Post Office, I was mailing a job application when the lady behind the counter told me that I needed to pay 23 cents more for postage than I had thought. I only had enough money for the single stamp, so she told me I would not be able to mail my letter. Suddenly there appeared next to me a man with a handful of small coins, offering to pay for the rest of my postage. “Oh, er, thank you,” I mumbled apologetically. “No problem!” He beamed. “Someone else lent me some money today, so I’m repaying the favor! Have a nice day!” The cashier lady, not to be outdone for kindness, told me that she would even lick the stamp for me. Don’t push it, I thought to myself, but smiled, and went off and actually Had a Nice Day.

Despite all the vitriolic politics, despite the death sentences, despite the crazy right-wing media, you cannot deny that America is a friendly place. When someone says “Have a Nice Day” I think they really mean it. The first time I heard it over here, from an otherwise grumpy old lady in a Seven-Eleven, I thought they were having me on, just as if a Londoner would say “cheerio guv’nor, mind the apples and pears!” But I really don’t think so. I’m sure that the Post Office incident would not happen in London (well, it never happened to me in nearly thirty years, anyhow). People here are generally more openly friendly. I usually notice it in stores like Target, when middle aged women come up to me in the Monopoly section and offer advice on which board games are the best family fun. My mind is saying, Who Asked You? But I find myself actually being nice back. It’s unnerving. I’m from London! People don’t talk to each other there!

The big culture shock of niceness has been on the buses. On one of our first days here, we got onto a bus and the driver actually asked the passengers if the air-conditioning made them too cold, or did they need it turned up at all. I nearly fell off my seat, trying to imagine that happening on a draughty double-decker in London. Here in Davis, I didn’t have the correct change for the bus once, but rather than leave me by the side of the road, they let me on for free, with a smile and a Have a Nice Day to boot. And I have to admit, in the face of Bush’s march towards Unitarian Executive (aka, ‘dictatorship’) and the zealots marching in the streets to ban abortions (presumably so more poor children can grow up without prospects and be sent to die in financial wars), in the face of all this craziness, a friendly gesture really can make the Day a whole lot Nicer.