An English Girl’s Guide to New York
Mia Juusola ’28
Visual by Josie Garkisch
'Sorry, I'm so sorry!' 'If you wouldn't mind?' 'I don't want to be an inconvenience!'
I was born into a cacophony of people apologising for their own existence; no request in England goes without a thousand self-deprecating remarks. Now, I know we don't always have the best reputation (I’ve met English men). But overall, ignoring the up-its-own-ass blight some call London, we are a species so polite it borders on annoying. That’s not to say we’re always nice – we have perfected the art of passive aggression – but our generally ‘kind’ disposition is just one of the many things that makes England the place that it is.
I have heard on numerous occasions that we have no culture, and although those claims are warranted (we tend to steal things more often than we invent them), over the centuries we have developed some behaviours that are indisputably English. So a few weeks ago, when I moved to the U.S. for college, culture shock hit me like a double-decker bus.
To save any unaware English girl from confusion, I have compiled a list of must-know tips before stepping foot in one of the most famous places in the world: New York City.
Mean is the new nice
'Thank you so much!' I said to the woman handing me my sandwich across the counter. I was in a cafe in the city, about to eat lunch. The sun was shining outside - my first time seeing sunlight in eighteen years. I prepared for one of the usual responses: 'No worries, have a nice day!' or the classic, 'You're welcome!' Instead, the woman locked eyes with me. 'Just thanks,' she drawled, correcting my overzealous display of gratitude.
I took my sandwich. I have since dropped the 'so much' typically attached to my thank yous. This is the first of many changes I've had to undergo in my New Yorker transformation, a transformation I fear may leave me unrecognisable to my family upon my return home at Christmas.
At least the sandwich was good, and by good, I mean bland enough for my English tastebuds.
They don't know you're joking
Now, I'm the sort of person that loves to tell jokes. Not to brag, but I've had many people tell me I'm the funniest person they know. They weren't joking – I think? So when I first arrived in the US, I was well equipped with an arsenal of sarcastic comments. No one thought to tell me that I would be dealing with an entirely different audience, one just as unpredictable as English football fans.
Take, for example, a week or so ago, when I was feeling like my most extroverted self and holding court with a group of Americans. I told a joke, and they all burst out laughing. Cheeks flushed with pride, I waited for the next window to make them laugh. When it arrived, I struck, attacking with another sardonic remark. Crickets. Nothing. A brief moment of silence to mourn my desperate attempt at humour, and then the conversation moved on. What had I done wrong?
It hit me much later: they didn't know I was even trying to make a joke! Surely, I would have received at least a pity laugh if they had. I was too used to English deadpan humour, to jokes made in a tone akin to that of a drilling manual. American humour is overstated. It's loud and obvious, and it should be accompanied by a laugh track. In short, it's everything English humour isn't.
I have learnt to add more life into my voice, lest everyone think I'm dead inside.
You must flirt with death to live
Before coming here, I really thought I had gotten the hang of crossing the street. Look right, look left, look right again – my parents practically drilled it into me. I mean, I have been crossing roads for eighteen years (perhaps I’m just a really fast learner?). Roads, yes, but New York roads? No, definitely not. Never again, if I can help it.
I've only been in the city three times so far, but I have witnessed more near-death experiences than in the rest of my life combined. New Yorkers seemed to be convinced of their own invincibility. They walk out onto the street as if God himself will pause the clocks for them.
Each time, I am left dumbfounded. I thought Americans hated j-walking – a word we don't even have an equivalent for in the UK. I thought I knew what I was doing! Who would have guessed I'd be so woefully incompetent at the adolescent art of crossing roads?
My New Yorker friend told me that if a pedestrian gets hit, even if the light is red for them, they have the right to sue the driver who hit them. Maybe the people of New York are just trying to get a pretty penny. That's something I'll never know, and, if I'm being frank, something I have no real desire to uncover.
Look at a price and imagine it doubled
In England, tipping does not exist as a concept of more than a few pounds left on the table, and even those few pounds are only given in extreme circumstances – for instance, if you're in a very fancy restaurant or your waiter was abnormally kind. It's an entirely different story in America.
After my plane landed in this country, I got a taxi to transport my entire life (me and my two suitcases) to college. After watching the taxi's price rise in nail-biting anticipation, I finally got to my destination, only for something unprecedented to pop up on the screen before me. Tip options. The lowest of which was a staggering 20%. I blinked. Surely my eyesight hadn't deteriorated in the twenty minutes I'd sat there? The image remained the same. I said goodbye to financial security in that fateful moment. I haven't seen it since.
In New York, there is no freshman fifteen
I come from the second greenest city in Europe. I have been walking all my life, a mile to and from school since I was four years old, come rain or shine (though the rain was more likely). I knew the stereotypes about New York, that it tricks you into walking until your legs give out, but I didn't believe a word. I spent my summer backpacking around Europe. I walked thirteen miles a day for a month! New York had nothing on me!
How very wrong I was.
It all started off so simple. My first city visit, a short day trip with time allotted for lots of coffee shop breaks. Seven hours later, my legs were on autopilot, powering me through the city with the intensity of an enraged soccer mom but with no game to get to.
On the train back to campus, my friends and I were so exhausted that all ten of us somehow managed to miss the announcement of our stop. Now, Tuckahoe might be a lovely place, but it is certainly not where I wanted to end up after the most exhausting Sunday of my life.
An hour later, legs aching, whole body shaking, I crawled into the holy space of my standard-issue twin bed and comatosed for the next few hours. Best decision of my life.
My final words of warning!
Overall, New York City is an intense place. It's expensive and loud and chaotic. Not to say England isn't all of those things too, but I like to think we're more discreet about it. There's a lyric from a song by Baz Lerhmann that says 'live in New York city once, but leave before it makes you hard.' I don't think I have ever understood a quote so well in my life.
So to any English girl eyeing up the Big Apple, be warned: it will crush your quaint English girl charm and send you into the downward spiral of 'frazzled English woman autumn.’ But hopefully, with these tips in your arsenal, you might just make it out in one piece. In truth, it will be a meaner, significantly poorer piece, but you’ll get to say you live in New York City.
Is there really anything cooler than that?