That Girl from Derwent dwells on the value of religion this Christmas.
That Girl from Derwent has learned a few more things about prejudice since moving up North.
That Girl From Derwent reckons if you're going to be offensive, you should find a better reason.
That Girl from Derwent considers why it is that some words have wider implications than others.
You see, across the table from these happy, laughing people I sat conflicted with inner turmoil, as I wrestled with a seemingly impossible question...
...was it OK to cut my lettuce?
A simple enough question, no?
No. In France, the polite way to eat lettuce is to fold it around the fork and place it into one’s mouth rather than cutting it into an appropriate size, but as I gazed down at this particular green bad-boy I knew that that wasn’t an option. So, as I stared gloomily at my plate I was wrought with indecision – should I honour the etiquette and risk some serious tonsil exposure or, by being impolite, save my fellow diners what would have been an “interesting” display? The only other option I had was to leave it on my plate, but considering it was the only green thing on there after I had ordered ‘erm, un burger s'il vous plait?’ I thought it best to make an effort.
To me, this single lettuce leaf represented another case of the ‘English Awkwardness’.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been thwarted by my 'English Awkwardness'. It had first happened after arriving at my brother’s apartment, when I had been faced with the daunting task of meeting my brother’s flatmates. In England, there is no official way to greet people: sometimes it’s with a handshake, sometimes a kiss on the cheek, and back where I hail from simply a nod will suffice. So when my brother introduced his friends, my 'English Awkwardness' leapt out of my suitcase and the greeting that ensued can only be described as an one-armed-hug-handshake-kiss.
Nice.
Oh well, I thought, after my crimson blush had begun to fade, first impressions aren’t everything.
But later on in the week my 'English Awkwardness' struck again, this time as I attempted to explain to a taxi driver where I wanted to go. I got in confidently and recited in my best French accent the address of my brother’s apartment – only to be met with a blank stare.
‘English?’ was his question, a nod, a flush and a hasty apology for having learnt German at school instead of French, was my response. In the end I just wrote it down.
I tried desperately throughout the week to improve, to blend in, to keep my face a normal colour: but to little avail. What was this infliction? I was so keen to not stand out that I couldn’t relax and certainly couldn’t be myself. Instead I managed to embody all of the stereotypes associated with being English. And so, I found myself faced with a plate of indecision (and lettuce). But then then I realised something.
There was no way I was going to fit in by pretending to be someone I wasn’t. So I don’t speak French right now, so what? It doesn’t mean I’ll never learn, my hosts seemed to find my jumble of poorly pronounced words amusing anyway. So I occasionally fell over on the metro, well I wasn’t the only one, a meticulously dressed businessman had taken a pretty embarrassing tumble into the lap of an old woman as the train stopped at Concorde on the way to the restaurant. We all laughed – tourists and locals alike.
And so I don’t have the sophisticated air of the Parisians, oh well, I’ll just embrace my quirky English eccentricities and cut my lettuce.
Because sometimes – that’s OK.
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