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| Port
Jefferson |
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Last Sunday, I transformed from sweet American girl into an irate
New Yorker. Unfortunately, my boyfriend and tourists to Ilkley were
witnesses.
And to them, I am truly sorry.
The day started out badly. See, in New York I'm used to waking
up early, even on weekends. For work I wake up around 6 am, and
a weekend "lie-in" is waking up at 8 or 9. Unfortunately,
being in England has thrown my body clock for a complete loop, which
means that 8 am in New York is 1 pm in England.
Because my boyfriend could sleep until tomorrow if left to his
own devices, I decided I would set an alarm for Sunday so we could
have an early start. I did it quietly and secretly, because I knew
he'd murder me if he knew I had done it.
In the course of the nearly two years we've been together, this
has been one thing we can never agree on. He likes his 15+ hours
of sleep per weekend night, and I am quite the opposite. I feel
like I've wasted a day if I wake up past 10 am regardless of how
late I may have been partying the night before.
Knowing me and my tricks, he took my cell phone and put it on silent
while I was sleeping, and then turned the alarm off.
11:26. I finally awaken, look at the clock, and proceed to start
a fight with him.
He attempted to pacify me by asking what I wanted to do on a lovely,
sunny day. Those had been a rarity since I came to England, so I
naturally wanted to do something fun.
He said, "Well, what are you in the mood for?"
I said, "I don't know, maybe a cute little town or something?"
He said, "I know just the place."
Now, when I say "cute little town" the first that pops
up in my mind is my hometown, Port Jefferson, which is a seafaring
tourist trap on Long Island's North Shore. Sunday is a busy day
back home, people flock from many different places to have a walk
on the docks, a browse in the shops, or some old-fashioned ice cream
from the local parlour.
So, my boyfriend pulls the car into a space in Ilkley and I peer
out, disappointedly. "It looks as though a lot of things are
closed," I say, eyebrow raised.
"Mmm," he says, and then adds, "Well, do you want
to take the Scrabble board out?"
"Why?" I ask, dumbfounded.
"To play on the grass," he says, pointing to the swarm
of pale people lying on the stretch of grass.
"What about the town… is anything… open?"
"No Lauren, everything is shut. It's Sunday."
So naturally, because I was mad that I should known that would
be the case and invented some kind of fun Sunday activity for us,
I just became hot-headed. "We drove 20 miles for GRASS?!!"
I yelled. "THERE'S GRASS IN LEEDS!"
I then proceeded to rant, claiming that "In New York, this
would never happen!" and "What the h*ll do people do all
day here?"
"Well," he said calmly, "They go out for walks outside."
If I wasn't in such a bad mood I might have had a hearty laugh
at myself and the whole situation, but instead I continued to allow
the steam to spew forth from my ears which I believe is an appropriate
reaction for someone who has been forced to go without coffee and
cable television for a week.
We got back into the car and drove to Skipton. As soon as I had
spent my first pound and eaten an American meal, my human features
began to return and my boyfriend almost cried with relief that the
jalapenos had knocked the evil spirits out of his once bubbly and
cheerful girlfriend.
I can't help it. I'm from the land of 24 hour convenience. Living
in Manhattan has made me used to being able to satisfy my munchie
urges in the middle of the night, regardless of whether it's Sunday
or Christmas. So, the way of life in England takes a bit of getting
used to for someone like me. I laughed my head off the other day
when I saw a store advertised that it was "Open Late-Until
8 PM!" In New York, I get ticked off when places are closed
at 8, as would most people who aren't even home from work until
5 or 6.
The more I travel this great world, the more I realize just how
"New York" I am.
Lauren
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