Two weeks ago, my parents came to town for a visit. They did great - sampled the Haggis, neeps and tatties; Dad (aka, Mr. Music) attempted the pipes (better leave it to the professionals, but nothing ventured, nothing gained); made new friends, and connected with old ones.
It was fun touring them around, playing tour guide. My newfound title challenged my knowledge about the city I’ve called home for 18 months. I think Dad was asking too difficult of questions, because my answers were too often “I don’t know”. Dad and I are quite different, so that gives me some comfort. Were he asking something about the culinary delights of the city, or where to buy good yarn – sorry – “wool”, I could have offered a plethora of information. Live pub music questions are not my forte, I’m afraid. That, and I don’t get out much, apparently.
It was entertaining to see someone else go through the motions of being the “new kid”, discovering new and different things about (this) culture. I found myself explaining currency, city lore, and acting as translator. It was during a cab ride with my parents that I became quite aware that I was the other “local” in the cab and was, in fact, “bilingual”. I noticed lengthy pauses in conversation after the cabby asked them questions.
“Yes, I keep telling them the weather is quite balmy this week”, I heard myself reply, after a pregnant pause. “Mom still insists on wearing four layers”, I revealed.
Nearly a week later, the tables were turned, and it was my turn to be in the dark, and laugh at myself. I was in London for a week, and two days into my stay here, I had decided that the English purposefully placed the thickest this-side-of-Cockney accented tour guides all over town. Anyone I spoke to for direction, or assistance I could barely understand. Where was a Scot when I needed one? Every so often, I’d realize a nearby conversation was quite discernable to me – wow, I was acclimating to a different dialect! Then I realized the speaker was Scottish. Alas.
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