My last post was quite a debacle. Never drink and type (though I am surprised at how coherent my writing can be whilst intoxicated…they don’t say ‘while’ here, sorry).
But that’s ok because now I’ve got you hooked and under the impression that this post will also be saturated with delightfully drunken behavior. Unfortunately, all I have to offer you is the English countryside this time ‘round. All I have is Worcester to be exact.
It’s not at all like London. Rather boring actually. There are some nice sights: a cathedral here, a famous playwright’s birthplace the next town over (yes, Shakespeare, very good). But you wouldn’t come to Worcester, Worcestershire to be entertained (or for the sauce, actually, as not very many people seem to mention it).
You could come here for the friendly pub or the neighborly feel. Perhaps you, too, would get to meet the mayor and hold a 500 year-old sword. You might even go bowling. But you still wouldn’t get to become slightly more British like I did.
London is not in England. You’d be lucky to even find a Brit on the sidewalk. The amazing thing about Worcester is, unlike anywhere else in Britain I’ve been, there are so many British people here. And as if seeing them wasn’t odd enough, getting to stay with a British family for a weekend is even more of a rarity. And I’ll have you know that I had so much fun here in this house, that I’d give up all the sights and the pubs and what-not just to spend more time with my host family.
It sounds silly. No one EVER goes on a home-stay and gets something culturally enlightening out of it. I suppose I’m part of an exception to that rule. From learning about the royal family and politics to accents and full English breakfasts, drawing comparisons to the U.S. and other countries…there wasn’t a subject we didn’t cover and not a thing I didn’t learn about what it means to be truly British. And there’s nothing quite like not getting it all from Wikipedia but from a true English couple, especially one that takes you in as one of their own children.
And then I hear them tell me, “You’re more than welcome back here anytime… after all, you’re family now.” Family? Like, your family? I mean, I don’t need another one of those but I guess that means I’m part of the club, yeah? All of a sudden there’s that jerk somewhere in your gut. No, this is not the nostalgia-post just yet. This jerk was the kind you’d get from pushing the pedal to the metal for the first time, or your first kiss, or the first time you rode your bike without your dad holding on to you, or taking down your first shot of shitty vodka. This was the kind of jerk you feel when you realize that whether you like it or not, you’re well on your way to being British by June.