I moved to New York last summer, another little warped fantasy of mine and one I insisted on doing alone. I figured that if Kevin McCallister could do it, so could I! I lasted six weeks. And boy did my naivety and stubbornness give me a gigantic kick in the crotch.
I arrived at my 'Manhattan' apartment to find it was smack bang in the middle of Harlem. Oh yes. Thank you ever so much Craigslist.com. I was positioned right between Central Park and the projects. Perfect. Carrie Bradshaw neighborhood this was not. Thankfully, the brownstones and quirky little boutiques were only a subway away.
Those six weeks were enough to learn the American way...Stroll gracefully past undesirables who scream at you in the street (do not under any circumstances make eye contact), don't converse with British humour (Ricky Gervais's performance at the Golden Globes had nothing on me) and always walk from the subway with your keys strapped firmly between your fingers. I was Freddy Krueger in shoe boots. The humidity had given me a frizzy and rather unkept look, something I grew to be thankful for when I realised I stood out like a giraffe at Seaworld. The wild hair teamed with my icy glare made me appear ever so slightly manic, strutting vigorously towards my apartment block. I gave passers-by a look that said 'Just try and take my bag, go on, I dare you."
As for the humour, I was disappointed to find our dry sarcastic tone didn't go down too well over the pond. It's not that the Americans are offended by it. They just don't get it. At all. After a week or so, I was grateful to meet up with a fellow Brit just to let it all out! This wasn't just any Brit however. This was an author I'd admired for years, kind enough to spare the time for a latte and a chat about the novel I was writing. And let me tell you, this made every encounter with the 'friendly' locals all worth it. Well, almost. 'Wussuuup shorty?' Bugger off.
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