The decision to move to SF (never Frisco or San Fran as I later learned) had midlife crisis written all over it. I was 39, just out of a toxic relationship, and the opportunity had come up to spend a year-long sojourn in the city after our West Coast editor resigned. As a tech journalist the chance to work in Silicon Valley was irresistible, and it looked like a year where I could learn a lot and have tons of fun before returning to a promotion in the UK.
It was a tumultuous first few months that saw the global economy seemingly melting down, Sarah Palin nominated as vice president - which I thought at the time was the most bonkers political appointment we'd ever seen - and venture capitalists erecting a mock tombstone on a boardroom table and ushering in startup CEOs and showing them what the future was. I also found out the job I had planned to return to no longer existed.
So I stayed, and have learned a lot, but one of the major curiosities has been quite how different the US is from the UK. Growing up I’d tended to assume that the US was like a brasher, younger brother to Britain; Rome to our Greece, late but vital in world wars, and a fellow member of the brotherhood of English-speaking peoples. But it is a very different land; better in some ways, worse in others - and more extreme in both.
When I first came over some of the most fun writing was the Friday Top 10 list. My colleague and I would sit in Morty’s sandwich bar over a pint and a small amount of bread surrounding a ridiculously large amount of meat and toppings arguing the question of the week and then we’d be up until late evening Friday finishing the edit. For the record, Cherry 2000 remains a lousy movie. We still argue over this.
So in that spirit here’s ten things I’ve learned over the years about life in the Land of the FreeTM. Some funny, some serious, but all based on experience. I’d originally intended to do the whole ten in one blog post but there’s too much to say. Once I hit 5,000 words I knew that’s too much to digest, so instead you’re getting one post at a time.
My problem with deadlines is well known - just look at the blog for goodness sake - but here’s the start of this and by my pretty floral bonnet I’ll post until the job is done, I hope you enjoy it.
10. Language
Two countries separated by a common language was how Winston Churchill, George Bernard Shaw, or possibly Oscar Wilde summed it up. No matter who said it, it’s very true.
The very first time I came to SF, back in 1994, I discovered this in a most embarrassing way. I was in a bar with my then ex-fiance and ran out of cigarettes. Assuming there would be a vending machine (note to younger readers - in days of yore you could buy cancer sticks from machines; Joni Mitchell even wrote a song about it) so went looking for one.
After coming up empty I asked the bartender where the “fag machine” was. The look of quizzical horror on his face brought home to me that fag, British slang for cigarette, had a rather different meaning over here. It also explained the odd looks I got when I announced I was popping out for a fag break.
There are, of course, common words you quickly realise make no sense to Americans. Asking where the loo is will usually cause bafflement. Asking someone where their flat, rather than condo or apartment, is gets similar blank stares. And don’t even get me started on aluminium…
But even after years over here it’s odd that some phrases I grew up with cause confusion or amusement to our American cousins. Swimming costume, for example, still causes giggles as it’s apparently nonsense. Bathing suit (which makes just as little sense as no-one slips on trousers and a jacket before a dip) is the correct term over here.
Rucksack is another. Most journalists carry one of these daily but it’s a backpack apparently. Sticking plaster is another; over here it’s known as a Band Aid, which is a brand if we’re being pedantic. Then again, for Brits of a certain age we Hoover rather than vacuum.
After a decade I’ve grown used to performing mental translation as a matter of course. My wife has even started picking up English phrases that she loves - “Bugger that for a game of soldiers,” is one of her favorites.
Local issues
In some ways being a Brit in the Bay Area is a mixed blessing. On the one hand it’s one of the few places in America where they are used to us. In many parts of America (looking at you New York, Utah and Palm Springs) a British accent is a passport to getting away with a lot of stuff. It’s just so quaint apparently, and has side benefits.
Having a British accent can open doors. I’ll admit to exploiting it somewhat for female attention over here for a number of years. It’s amazing how many cosmopolitan New Yorkers go weak at the knees for a post British accent - I considered writing Hugh Grant a thank you letter - and in much of the country it signifies someone cultured and intelligent.
Europeans must find this very odd. After all, back home we’re the fighty drunks or perfidious Albion. But surveys have shown that having a British accent in the US makes you more trustworthy and seemingly more intelligent - as shown by the shopping channels which are full of Brits hawking useless products with a cheeky grin and posh wordage.
The downside of this is when you’re asked “I love the accent, say something, say something!” It gets really tiresome after a while but in the Bay Area there are so many Brits the accent has a negligible effect. That’s very liberating in many ways.
But even in the Bay Area it works sometimes. When I went to get my driving licence renewed I made the mistake of putting the licence card itself in the renewal envelope and posting it. When I got back to the office my boss explained the mistake and I went back to try and rectify matters.
I’ll admit to shamelessly overdoing it. I explained to the post clerk that “I’d been a complete nincompoop,” and “buggered up completely.” He cheerfully found my envelope and, after checking my other ID, allowed me to remove the card. When I got back to the office they were amazed I got away with it.
Side benefits
It’s also something of an advantage in other ways. I do occasional TV slots over here and was ranting on air when the word wanker slipped out. I apologised afterwards but the host loved it. I explained it’s actually quite a rude word but was told “It sounds classy when you say it.”
One memorable episode of The Week in Tech, I tried to moderate the term dog’s bollocks (another phrase that causes amusement and confusion over here) by saying something was “the puppy’s package.” They liked that one so much they named the episode after it, even after I explained that it could be considered a bit rude.
The other big cultural difference here is in swearing, something my friends know I do too much. I found this out the hard way when I came over to work in out US office for a few weeks trying it out before making the decision to move out full time.
Our publication had a corner in shared office with another publisher and everything was open plan. Tom, the editor I was replacing, cheerfully greeted me on the first day by jokingly promising that he’d saved an uninterruptible power supply (UPS) group test for me. UPS’ are the worst possible things to review because they are single use items with very little to write about. I know, tech journalists can have a really geeky sense of humour.
Anyway, in the spirit of the joke I advised Tom to “go fuck yourself with a chainsaw,” which he took in good spirit and we got on with our day. But the rest of the office had clearly heard and did not approve. No-one said anything directly, although instant messenger windows started popping up on screens across the floorspace, and I found a copy of the employee guide book placed on my desk after lunch - my first experience of the peculiar passive aggression that's so common in the Bay Area.
People over here don’t swear as much, or as vehemently, and the words they use are very different. For example, simply using the word c**t (or dropping the c-bomb as it’s known) is absolutely verboten. This causes problems for Aussies and some Brits, for whom it can be an insult but also a term of affection or praise.
While I haven’t slipped into the kind of mid-Atlantic accent that bedevils Bill Bryson and Lloyd Grossman, certain Americanisms have started to take hold. When last back in Blighty I inadvertently used the word hella - Northern Californian for ‘Hell of a,” as in “that’s a hela nice mango kombucha smoothie,” - and got similar blank looks and occasional sniggering about how I was going local - which was a fair point in some regards.
1 comment:
"...nincompoop..."
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