Month: February 2006

Week Twenty-Two: I Dunno, I Didn’t Go Into Burger King

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“You know the funny thing about America? It’s the little differences. I mean, they got the same shit over there as we got here, but there it’s a little different. Example – they got a chocolate bar called ‘Milky Way’, but it’s actually a Mars Bar. Almost no difference at all. Nothing like an actual Milky Way. And they have Snickers of course, but they have a variety of Snickers called ‘Marathon’. No lie! They probably don’t know that we used to call it that, once upon a time.”

When I was a young kid at Goldbeaters school, we had two Americans in our class, Bill and Sarah. We could not believe their outlandish stories about the products Stateside, particularly the breakfast cereals. Apparently, everything was different. Sure, they had Kelloggs and other recognisable brands, but completely different varieties. Now I am here, I understand some of the excitement. It takes time to get used to things in foreign grocery stores, and I still haven’t mastered the cereal aisle. I have learnt, though, that Frosted Flakes are the same as our Frosties, but that’s obvious.

However, some products baffle me. Ok, they don’t have Pepsi Max out here (sadly), but they do have Vanilla and Black Cherry Diet Coca-Cola. Is it necessary to have all those ingredients? at leats they don’t have cinnamon flavour Coke – yet. Cinnamon is, I think, the national flavour. You get Cinnamon Tic-Tacs and Cinnamon chewing-gum, fair enough, but also Cinnamon toothpaste, and Cinnamon mouthwash. Hmm. It doesn’t stop at cinnamon. You can even get Orange flavour toothpaste, and Vanilla, too – perhaps Crest are secretly developing a Black Cherry Diet Toothpaste?

Even away from the grocery store, things that are the same are still different. At the bookstore, I found that Corelli (he of the Mandolin) is not a Captain here. The popular board game Cluedo is known simply as ‘Clue’ here (or, the way I play it, ‘Cluedon’t’), and in California, 50 degrees Fahrenheit is considered ‘cold’. What’s more, in the US, Craig Ferguson is considered to be an actual celebrity. Oh my god, it’s a completely different world.

Week Twenty-One: And Yes, This is My Singing Voice

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Now that I have begun to interact with the American public, I have realised that my British accent carries a lot of weight. I have had so many people saying to me recently: “you have a lovely accent,” usually followed by wistful memories of the day they spent in London, lunching with the Queen or whatever. Nevertheless, it is true that people do respect it here, even if they really shouldn’t. A woman at the train station told me that British people are more intelligent than Americans, simply because their accent makes them sound more intelligent, which is utterly ridiculous. She obviously hasn’t spent much time in the pubs of Burnt Oak (though she kinda smellt as though she had).

And that’s the thing – I actually put on a different accent when I speak to people here. I don’t necessarily mean to, but I’ve trained myself over the years to drop the glottal Cockney accent as much as possible when speaking to foreigners, as I know how hard it is for them to understand. Yet perhaps I have gone too far. I catch myself sometimes, prattling on like some period drama English fop, far more Hugh Grant than Grant Mitchell, and cannot believe what I’m hearing. However, there are times when I cannot believe what they are hearing.

Such as on Saturday, when a lady in the bookstore asked if I was from Britain, and I said I was. She said, “I thought so; I have a good friend from Scotland, and he sounds just like you.” You what?? How?!? “Don’t get me wrong,” I said to her, “I love the Scottish accent, in fact I wish I had one (I love it), but I do not sound anything like a Scot. Yer ‘avin’ a larf, inch-ya” I added, to prove my point. It didn’t prove my point, it only confused the poor woman. But surely we Brits do not sound all the same to Americans?

I admit I have abused my new-found British accent to make myself sound more authoritative and knowledgable, knowing that really it’s just all bullshit. I have yet to be cast in a Disney film as the Villain, a role which only ever goes to the classic British thesps, but I’m not really trying. The day will come when I tire of being told my accent is lovely, at which point I will either revert to my factory settings, complete with Watling Park style expletives, or I will tell them that I had a stroke. I remember a story a couple of years back that there were people in the US who, having suffered quite bad strokes, suddenly found they had British accents. That’ll give them something to talk about.

Week Twenty: Forgive me, I have Zinned

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The level of alcohol consumption chez scully rocketed over the past two weeks, when I received an unexpected house-guest/Best Man from London, and also unexpectedly turned thirty years old. Californian beers are pretty special, and one of my favourites is the Davis local brew, Sudwerk Märzen. Underneath the sink many empty bottles attest to our late-night hanging-out, which resulted in watching lots of films such as Rocky III or Revenge of the Sith and subsequently getting online, BUI (Blogging Under the Influence). Bacchus strikes again, or was it BA Baracas?

Last Friday, though, we took a far more civilized approach to the Bacchinalean tradition. My wife, my friend, my mother-in-law and myself deove up into the wine country of Sonoma County, in glorious sunshine through one of the most beautiful regions of America. A far cry from the flatlands of Yolo County, we were transported into an echo of Tuscany – but with SUVs instead of mopeds. I had been wine-tasting before, but I am hardly a connoisseur, and like most others who take the day-trip to the vines, I left telling myself that I would make an effort to develop my pallatte. But first I need to learn how to spell it.

We first visited Hop Kiln, a great little winery situated in an old converted hops barn. Having previously told me he didn’t like white wine, and loved a nice meaty red, R was so impressed he bought a bottle of the 2005 Thousand Flowers, a white blend that was, I think, pretty fruity (though my vinocabulary is limited to ‘it was nice’ and ‘mmm, fruity’). Hop Kiln, as do many wineries, also sold a range of seriously delicious flavoured mustards, such as Zinfandel and Garlic, or Tropical Mango. More wine-buying and tasting followed at the Mazzoco, Dry Creek and Quivira wineries, and though I took notes on each wine I sampled, I admit I was really just copying what I overheard. Was the Quivira 2002 Zin really ‘chocolatey’? I haven’t the foggiest idea.

Following a brief visit to the spectacularly Italianate Ferrari-Carrano winery, we ambled down to Healdsburg, and dined at the Bear Republic brewpub. Ah, much more common ground: micro-brewed local beers, cold and fresh, and even ‘mmm fruity’. I tried a 2006 Hefe Weizen, good nose, light on the tongue, great with chicken, while R tried the Racer 5, which I think he quite liked. He didn’t spit any out, at any rate. Oh yes, though in the vinyards we may be lost for original thoughts, but in some fields we are true connoisseurs.

Week Nineteen: The Clock Strikes Thirty

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Two cakes, several beers, a few glasses of wine, a couple of margaritas, a lot of food & chocolate and some fantastic company. So I have celebrated my thirtieth, and I do not have a goatee. I haven’t had time to write a proper entry, so I will cobble one together, just a quick post, and see where it goes! On Saturday my wife drove me to San Francisco as a surprise, and there we went to a swanky restaurant in Ghirardelli Square where I was surprised to meet a group of friends, including one of my best friends from London (you know who you are dude), out here on a surprise visit, organised in secret by my amazing wife – to say the least, it was a brilliant evening (and I did something I’ve never done before – eat shark. It was niiiice), and we spent the weekend in San Francisco, which was unusually sunny and warm. It’s such a great city, with such character. So was the weekend; though I think I have it all sussed out, I still totally love nice surprises.

My actual birthday was today, the 7th, and my wife, my friend and I went to Chevy’s, a cool Tex-Mex restaurant where we had Margaritas and Enchilladas. It’s such a fun restaurant, we love it! The thing about Chevy’s though is that on your birthday, the waiting staff come out and sing a fast ‘Happy Happy Birthday’ song to you, clapping their hands quickly, putting a straw sombrero on your head and giving you a free ice cream. I was, I think, the fourth birthday boy/girl in there, and there were others after me. It wasn’t even that busy! I wonder if people lie about it actually being their birthday just to get the hat and the moment of special attention? I don’t know, but those waiters probably get sick of birthdays after a while.

But I don’t! I love a birthday. I met my wife at my birthday party four years ago, in Aix. I always tried to get me mates together in Camden every February to celebrate the extra candle. And though I get embarassed & a little nervous when I’m centre of attention, when I’m the Birthday Boy, I do appreciate everything everyone’s done for me, especially this year (if y’all are reading, you know who y’are, many many big big thanks!). Miss me family in London; though I have new family here, it’s hard being so far away. But enough of the personal stuff.

Anyway it’s late, I’m tired, I’ve lost the ability to write, and I’m thirty and feeling it. All I can say now is that even if it is all downhill from here (as another friend in London keeps saying to me, despite being just a month younger and vastly balder – you know who y’are), it’s all part of the mystery of science. And so the blog turns back to poor politics, bad art and a lot of complaining. But right now, I am pretty flippin’ happy.