2008 Woodie Awards
Studying abroad in London: cricket, pounds...and the Red Sox?
John Plough
Issue date: 11/13/04 Section: Viewpoint
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Do you play cricket? I was certain this would be the question asked of me on the streets of London. After all, in America, I was constantly barraged by the phrase, Wow, you must play basketball. I thought it only logical that cricket be the substitute in this funny land of curry and repressed emotion.
It turns out that I don't look like a cricket player at all. And I have been asked if I play the sport - professionally or recreationally-exactly zero times. What a relief. The question at this point is what have people been asking me instead.
A slight disappointment is the fact that at no time has anyone inquired about the rumor that I am a somewhat famous Italian model on holiday in Britain. I might point out that it was me who started this rumor. It was a matter of a few deft keystrokes while attending an internet chat room in late August. But the fact remains that I am fooling no one over here in that regard.
I like to think that I can pass for a Belgian. I have loved waffles for as long as I can remember, and I have historically had a good relationship with chocolate. There is, however, a small problem of language here. No matter the region I pretend to be from, I speak Dutch, German, or French about as well as my pancreas produces insulin. So once again, no one has been fooled into thinking I'm from Belgium, or asking me as much.
How about a famous actor? From Scotland. Heck, I can pull off a Scottish accent. Surely I look artsy to the average Oliver or Benjamin walking the streets here. But do I even get a second glance? A double take that begs the question, Wait, are you. . . The answer is no, and the question goes unasked.
Do you have a fag, mate? This is the question I get. Do you have a fag? (Occasionally, the mate will be left off.) After saving up money all year, purchasing a voltage converter, and flying across the Atlantic Ocean, I'm still being propositioned for cigarettes. What is it about my appearance that universally cries out, I am carrying extra cigarettes! I don't even smoke. If anything, I would think that my demeanor and dress would suggest I am packing bakery products. But not once have I been asked, Hey man, can I bum some pie off you? The chances that I have either a doughnut or a cookie on me are generally about 50/50. And if it's after 10:00 p.m., that probability skyrockets to around 4/1. Nevertheless, it is excess nicotine that people are convinced I have in my pockets. And I continue to disappoint.
It turns out that I don't look like a cricket player at all. And I have been asked if I play the sport - professionally or recreationally-exactly zero times. What a relief. The question at this point is what have people been asking me instead.
A slight disappointment is the fact that at no time has anyone inquired about the rumor that I am a somewhat famous Italian model on holiday in Britain. I might point out that it was me who started this rumor. It was a matter of a few deft keystrokes while attending an internet chat room in late August. But the fact remains that I am fooling no one over here in that regard.
I like to think that I can pass for a Belgian. I have loved waffles for as long as I can remember, and I have historically had a good relationship with chocolate. There is, however, a small problem of language here. No matter the region I pretend to be from, I speak Dutch, German, or French about as well as my pancreas produces insulin. So once again, no one has been fooled into thinking I'm from Belgium, or asking me as much.
How about a famous actor? From Scotland. Heck, I can pull off a Scottish accent. Surely I look artsy to the average Oliver or Benjamin walking the streets here. But do I even get a second glance? A double take that begs the question, Wait, are you. . . The answer is no, and the question goes unasked.
Do you have a fag, mate? This is the question I get. Do you have a fag? (Occasionally, the mate will be left off.) After saving up money all year, purchasing a voltage converter, and flying across the Atlantic Ocean, I'm still being propositioned for cigarettes. What is it about my appearance that universally cries out, I am carrying extra cigarettes! I don't even smoke. If anything, I would think that my demeanor and dress would suggest I am packing bakery products. But not once have I been asked, Hey man, can I bum some pie off you? The chances that I have either a doughnut or a cookie on me are generally about 50/50. And if it's after 10:00 p.m., that probability skyrockets to around 4/1. Nevertheless, it is excess nicotine that people are convinced I have in my pockets. And I continue to disappoint.