I’m tired of people raising their eyebrows at me.

In a recent post on Belgian Waffle, Mme Jaywalker mentioned reading Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behaviour. In the first 30 pages, this book has explained the difficult, mumbling, awkward moments that I have suffered in a country full of English people. Basically, I'm doing everything wrong.

Now, most of what I have gathered will seem obvious to you. It seems like I used to know these things, too. (Maybe I am getting dumber.)

Discuss the weather.
Even with the changeable weather in NZ, talking about the weather has to be the most boring topic on earth. And I have this conversation every day, at length, whenever I see anyone:

Her: It’s really cold, isn’t it?

Me: Yes. But at least it’s calm.

Her: The southerly is supposed to pick up again tonight.

Me: Oh, not again?

I assumed you would only talk about the weather with someone you don’t know very well. So I was puzzled when friends that I have known for years were talking about the weather.

Well, it seems that this weather-talk is about MORE than the weather. This conversation is actually an ice-breaker, through layers and layers of English reserve.

(I know this doesn't seem that earth-shattering. But there is a lot of weather-talk. A lot.)

And I have been making embarrassing mistakes with this basic social greeting, as in this example:

Her: We haven’t seen the sun for ages, have we?

Me: You know, I like this weather. As long as it’s calm, it’s actually quite nice.

Her: (raised eyebrow)

Agree with people.
You see, it doesn’t matter what people say about the weather. I am supposed to agree with them. It's about agreeing. I can say that I like the rain (as a matter of eccentric personal preference), as long as I make it sound like I’m agreeing. So I should have said, "Yes, it's been a long time since it's been fine, hasn't it?" And then gone on with the rest of my thought.

Here’s another example of me inserting my foot in my mouth:

Her: It’s really raining, isn’t it?

Me: Yes, it’s pouring down.

Her: I can give you a ride home?

Me: No, that’s OK. I’m dressed for the weather. I don’t mind the rain. I used to live in Chicago (where it was really cold and miserable).

Her: (raised eyebrow)

Apparently, it’s gauche to say that I used to live someplace bigger and colder with more miserable weather. It’s perceived as an attempt at one-upmanship.

Private matters are private.
The last thing I've learned is even more cringe-worthy. It seems it’s also a bit coarse to tell everyone about my divorce and my personal business. Private matters are for close friends and family only. A stiff upper lip and reserve are what the culture calls for. It may be OK to mention these personal details in a blog column, but I should never talk about them in person.

Oh, dear. There are another 300 pages of this book. What other faux pas have I been making?

Notes from a country bumpkin.

Ever since I read this article, I have been thinking about how vulgar and country-bumpkinish Americans are. (This is obvious to everyone outside America.) Geoff Dyer, the author of the article, claims that nonetheless Americans have a certain charm. He admires how Americans aren’t afraid of being overheard. (This is just a polite way of saying Americans are too loud.) And how Americans are polite. We are overly polite, actually. So many pleases and thank-yous. (No, these good manners are not a sign of sophistication.)

After the naughts, I am still feeling fragile. I am not as ashamed of being an American as I used to be. But I’m not exactly proud. Americans are supposed to be proud. (Go USA!) And a real American would not want to live outside the U.S.

So, there is this inward shame and cringing that is probably common for expatriates. There is also something in me that can’t accept being vulgar and country-bumpkinish. Even if there is also something charming about me. (I am kind of charming. Modest and humble, too.)

For the last eight years, I have been juxtaposed with stoic, mumbling Poms (Kiwi for English people), who can’t quite conceal their loathing of vulgar American me. And I used to think the problem was me. I am too introverted. There is so much social awkwardness in my most mundane attempts at conversation. I used to be a waitress, so why can I not (at the very least) plod around bringing people cups of tea? And why can’t I have aristocratic manners like the Duchess? (I look like her, don’t you think? No? Adam doesn’t think so either.)

Source: Wikipedia

I have finally realized the problem isn't my personality. And it isn't my upbringing. My socially awkward encounters are because of the inferior stock of my ancestors. They were the underclass in Europe. They were probably serving maids and indentured servants. (OK, some were escaping famine, or wanted religious freedom.)

It’s not a surprise (or my fault) that Americans don’t have aristocratic manners. It's not in our blood. And yet. Maybe, just maybe, the problem is actually the Poms' class loathing.

“I could have told you that,” said Adam.

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Edited to add. Most of my friends in NZ are, uh, English (perhaps of a certain class). Look out for the next article in this series: New Zealand, the Great Egalitarian Society That Isn't Really.

This bohemian life

On a recent post at the excellent Irretrievably Broken (you should be reading this blog), there is a description of a “bohemian” childhood in Montana, where wood was used for fuel, and everything was hung outside to dry.

Wait one hot minute, I said to myself. That's our life. We use wood to heat our house. We hang our washing out on the line, to dry in the wind and sun.

We are bohemians!

Our house is shabby, but it is made of native timbers like rimu and maitai. And we live on a coastal plain surrounded by hills. There are daffodils, poppies, nasturtium, and geranium bushes in our garden. We have pohutukawa trees and flax bushes. We watch tuis swooping in the kowhai trees down the back. We pick apples from fruit trees, and make apple sauce or apple crumble. And we pick cape gooseberries and make our own jam. We bake our own bread.

Most people have large vegetable gardens. They might have a spa bath outside, maybe sheltered by rose bushes. And they probably have a studio in the shed out the back, where they paint, or practice piano. They might knit, or sew.

Sometimes we go fishing at the beach. Or we collect driftwood to make into furniture. We pick up shells to scatter on garden paths. Sometimes our neighbour’s chickens wander over to our garden. Someone might ride his horse up our street and back to the paddocks in the park. And our neighbours are interesting bohemian people—artists, musicians, writers, expatriates.

Walking home along the beach after dropping off Five at school.

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Edited to add: Sorry about the crap photo, but I was trying to capture the essence of the waves. I thought the waves looked like plumes. Or how plumes should look. (Instead of, you know, plumes of oil in a ecological disaster that just keeps getting worse.)