The dresscode

The distinction between an acceptable way to be dressed inside your own home, and an acceptable way to be dressed in public, seems to have all but disappeared here as far as I can see. I knew before moving that the US is generally a more casual society, but I have been surprised at just how little effort people are prepared to make.

A while ago I had to go out of the house at short notice. I had on an unfortunate pair of shorts, creased T shirt and worn-out beach sandals. I was unshowered, unshaved and, well, an altogether unappealing sight. I would normally not inflict myself on the world looking like this, but I had no choice, because my errand had to be done urgently.

However, a sudden turn of events led me to have to go straight to an evening at the cinema. I was appalled at how I looked, but if I went home to change we would miss the movie. So I walked in, keeping to the shadows, hiding behind pillars, until gradually it dawned on me - I looked just like everyone else there, buying their tickets and lining up to get their popcorn. Right down to the lack of a shave, I had unwittingly hit upon the Californian dress code for going out and about in the evening.

If I had been given some notice, I would have put on my jeans for an evening like this. These jeans have seen better days - the knees are so well-established that they seem to remain in a sitting position long after I have got up and started walking. But I would have been one of the smarter people at the cinema by some margin.

I am fully in support of feeling comfortable in public, but as I watch people go past me in a variety of tracksuit bottoms, old shorts and other garments recently picked up off a bedroom floor, I feel that this is one aspect of American life that I should resist adapting to.

A visit to the drive-thru

This morning, like many mornings, I stopped at my local Starbucks drive-thru before setting about the business of the day. Each time I do this, I feel like I fit in here a bit more. There is something uniquely American about this reluctance to move out of a sitting position.

There was a long line in front of me, everyone doggedly keeping to their morning ritual whether it added five or forty five minutes to their journeys. There were plenty of spaces in the parking lot and barely a customer inside, but anyone who parked and went in got a suspicious look from us drive-thru patrons.

Finally the car in front of me - an enormous monster-truckish vehicle - pulled up to the speaker phone to make his order. "Good morning, my name is Shannon, what can I get started for you today?" said the impossibly perky voice from the other end.

"Yeah, hi, can I get a grande extra hot double shot soya milk chai with whipped cream and vanilla, a blueberry muffin, butter croissant and ham and cheese panini just lightly toasted. Thaaanks."

"Certainly, sir", said Shannon without missing a beat, "and will that be all for you today?"

'Ye...ahhhh heck, it's Friday, throw a toasted bagel in there too would ya." And he edged forward.

My turn. "Good morning, my name is Shannon, what can I get started for you today?"

"Hello. A tall cappuccino and a bottle of water please."

'I'm sorry sir, was that a bowl of oatmeal and a hazelnut latte?", said with a note of panic. I took a deep breath, repeated my order several times, and gradually her ear adjusted to the odd accent.

I moved on. Miraculously the monster truck was already making off with its mountain of provisions. Windows slid open, I was given my order and relieved of a few dollars in a single movement, and off I went.

Unnecessary indulgence and procrastination, dressed up as a time-saving and efficient customer experience. See you on Monday, I thought to myself.

Public services

The third series of Downton Abbey recently came to an end here. It is just the sort of thing a displaced Englishman needs on a Sunday evening - a big country estate, a host of Maggie Smith one-liners and even, in this series, a cricket match. Excellent stuff - even if the life expectancy of the main characters hasn't seemed to improve in the post-war period.

The show was proudly brought to us by PBS, which is the one television network here funded by the public. It tries to compete with the likes of CNN and Fox, but is hopelessly under-resourced and, well, a bit rubbish. Its programming is punctuated not by commercial breaks, but with desperate pleas for donations. Its news output is amateurish, and its sets so dated and rickety that they must have been  contrived that way for viewers to feel guilty and more inclined to reach into their pockets.

The contrast with the BBC could not be greater. With its original, well-made programs and high quality global news coverage, the BBC manages to be both paid for and loved by the general public.

I observed a similar contrast watching the opening ceremony for London's Olympic Games. The commentators here in the US were utterly baffled by the celebration of the National Health Service. Like the BBC, the NHS has its detractors but there is a general consensus in the UK, across the political spectrum, that we have built something to be proud of. Healthcare in the US is almost exclusively the domain of the private sector, and any government intervention, as shown in recent years, can be undertaken only in the face of ferocious opposition.

There is such suspicion of government here that I cannot imagine any public service, whether TV, healthcare or anything else, stirring up feelings of pride in Americans. Setting aside the military, since defense is seen as a legitimate activity of the state, it appears that there really is only one thing the government will be congratulated for here: keeping its nose out from where it doesn't belong. 

The Accent

"Yew can aaassk me anythin' yew wahnt, sugar, long as you keep talkin' in that accen'" And with that, the lady at check-in in Atlanta airport burst into laughter, nudging her friend next to her. I had started a question with 'Can I just ask..." which is quite a normal English turn of phrase in my mind but, to her, it was all just unbearably "kerrr-yewt".

I get this sort of reaction alot. The English accent just seems to captivate Americans, seizing them with visions of the Royal family and James Bond, of stiff upper lips and plucky dignity. You are attributed with intelligence and sophistication, far beyond anything you might say to justify such an assessment. 

So not surprisingly I thought this was a pretty good deal for a while, and attempted to pitch my accent somewhere between Pierce Brosnan and Hugh Grant, complete with sheepish grin and affected reluctance to talk about my Britishness. Surely this would lead to great success, I thought to myself, amongst people so ready to believe in my good qualities.

However recently I have started to doubt the use of the Accent. To do business here, one needs to be taken seriously. And to be taken seriously, it doesn't help that prospective clients, on hearing me speak, are given to reminiscences on the London Olympics and congratulating me on Kate Middleton's pregnancy. 

They may like what they hear but, when it comes to the gritty decision about what will actually get a job done, the lofty qualities associated with the British don't seem to me to count in our favor. We are thought of, like a nice teapot perhaps, or even the Royal family itself, as something to admire and feel good about, but useful and effective only on the rarest of occasions.

For the first time, I am starting to think that Brits who succeed in this country do so in spite of, not because of, how they sound.