Results tagged “accents”

Northern soul

When I used to think about moving to England it was with the belief that upon arrival I was going to take up with a guy with long, delicate fingers who was a cross between Jarvis Cocker, Richard Ashcroft and Morrissey. We'd mainly sit around, partially disrobed, taking loads of drugs and wonder when his band was going to make it big. He'd breathily hiss pithy, observant statements about modern shopping centers and pensioners in my ear in an adorably sexy accent that made him seem smart and worldly. It goes without saying that he'd have an excellent vocabulary.

The majority of the men I've run across in England are one of a few types. There are the hooligans with giant, thick necks and shaved heads who have an affinity for darts and pinky rings, or the ones I more commonly come across--boarding school boys who are very sweet, studied Greek, and give the impression of custardy innocence. They make me feel like common people, if you will.

I've since found out that all of my English dream boyfriends were actually from Northern England. I am now considering the idea that I may have made a slight geographical mistake.

By Lina on July 16, 2009 8:08 PM

Stiff upper lips sink ships

I've been meaning to post about a headline I saw on one of the London papers the other day: 'Good manners sank Britons on the Titanic.' Infinitely irritating, right? Now, I'm not sure if I've mentioned it yet, but I'm starting to think that the English are mostly dicks. This is sort of embarrassing to admit, of course, because right now I'm in California and people keep asking me why I moved to London. It's started to become slightly shameful to keep giving answers like "well, when I was sixteen I had a major crush on Jarvis Cocker."

But since moving here, I've stopped noticing or liking the accents (except when they say literally, that's still hilarious) and tend to focus on the more irritating aspects of the culture. Case in point, the daily free papers that are strewn all over the train and the drivel found within.

Britons on the Titanic had less chance of surviving than their brasher American counterparts because of their good manners, according to research. While most of the British followed queuing etiquette, allowing women and children to get to the lifeboats first, American passengers pushed their way to the front. (Article, Article)

Luckily for the British, they've learned a thing or two since 1912. I've often found that a refreshing way to start the day is to be elbowed in the stomach by a banker in a bowler attempting to get a seat on the Tube. I try and pretend that this is indicative of a truly equal society--there's no evidence of the British "stiff upper lip" in play when they're pushing aside old ladies and pregnant girls in hopes of finding a place to sit. So go on, United Kingdom! You've nearly caught up with us--maybe the next time an ocean liner sinks you'll fare a little better.

By Lina on January 30, 2009 7:37 AM

Flatmates of apartments past

In the spirit of whinging, I've compiled a short history of some of my more memorable flatmates.

DJ Nizzy Nice: The time I moved in with an Indian man to prove that I wasn't a racist. Passive-aggressive notes ensued.

The punk drummer: I moved into this Williamsburg, Brooklyn with a man 15 years my senior. Joe was a drummer, but luckily didn't play at home. The kitchen was zebra striped, the living room was red with a giant chandelier draped in feather boas, and my room was purple. Luckily Joe and I got along very well, and he would regularly share tidbits of general knowledge. One fact that I've never forgotten is that brazil nuts are also known as "nigger toes."

My ex-boyfriend: While changing the sheets, once I found a stash of drugs under the mattress. Eviction (his) quickly ensued.

The French student: My first foray back into living with other people happened in Dublin last year. I lived with Bertie for a year. Bertie was miserable living in Ireland and stayed in his room 90% of the time. The other 10% of the time I berated him about never putting dishes away or cleaning the house. Bertie finally took up with another French student and had his girlfriend living in our house three or four nights a week and never introduced me to her. In retrospect, I feel sorry for Bertie. However, I also sort of feel like it's his own fault for not being very sound. He wasn't very fun.

Gooballs: Lived with me for a month while I packed for London. I was introduced to the fellow through a friend. The night that he moved in he told me, "I used to have a drug problem but I don't anymore, like. I learned that drugs are like people. If you don't respect them, they will fuck you over." Because he was from Cork, even semi-frightening statements such this still were amusing due to his outrageous accent. He broke a window and invited a lot of seedy characters over during his short tenure.

The Italians: My most recent flatmates. Sabrina and Lucio were "just friends." Within a week of me moving in, one of my friends asked me what was up with my flatmates. "What do you mean?" I asked innocently.

"Uh, they're obviously boning," she informed me.

As it turns out, this was true and they seemed to get off on the illicitness of the situation and used my presence as a prop for foreplay. When I would come home I would often find them on the loveseat (the only piece of furniture in the living room) making out. When I entered the room, they would try and pretend they hadn't been sucking face, and stare fixedly at the TV while Lucio adjusted his pants. I found this very uncomfortable-making.

Later, they evicted me for "cooking too much Asian food." The next day I told Sabrina that I thought her habit of falling asleep with her light on and bedroom door open in the hopes that Lucio would stumble in on his way to his room, was pathetic. I should note that said stumbling-in only occurred every few weeks, but Sabrina kept her vigil up on a nightly basis. Lucio later threatened to report this incident to the police as well as having me prosecuted for libel. I helpfully tried to explain that it wasn't libel since I had only said it. Now I suppose since I've written it on my blog it's actually libel. I'm sure this will please the Italians.

By Lina on December 30, 2008 2:50 AM

In regards to the American election

It's not often that I'm proud to be an American--in fact, I've spent the last while trying neutralize my accent and hide the fact altogether, but today I really am. The cover of the London Metro says in 2 inch high letters 'The Day America Became a Little Bit Cool Again.'

To be honest, although a staunch Democrat, I sometimes shake my head at the way the party operates. It's as if they have the overwhelming desire to fail. Snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory, if you will. Take this election--we were basically guaranteed a win. So what did the Democratic party do? Have our top contenders for the job be either a black man and a woman. It was if we were destined to fail. And yet, we didn't. I love that the race didn't become about race and I love that I come from a country that still seems to have some sort of social mobility. I love that we did the right thing this time.

By Lina on November 6, 2008 7:41 PM

Flathunting and xenophobia in London

I have a book signed by Martin Amis. As I was getting in line to have him sign it, I debated whether I had the courage to request that he sign it "Pussies are bullshit." As it turns out, I didn't, and it just says something like "To Lina Love, Martin." During his talk, though, he discussed what an incredibly racist society Great Britain is. This didn't make much of an impact on me because at the time I was living in California, the land of political correctness and avocados. But now, after flat hunting in London, I'm starting to see what he means.

First, I learned that in my flatshare queries, there were certain things I should leave out of my emails. Like the fact that I'm an American. Like my grossly semetic last name. These are things that my housemates don't need to know until after I move in. Once they cop on to my accent and maztoh balls, they're going to be in for a surprise.

I had a relocation company ostensibly helping me with my home search. They were very eager for me to live in either Clapham or Islington, but not the place that my I had my heart and wallet set on, the East End. They finally agreed to take me on a tour of different neighborhoods to help me better decide where I wanted to live. As part of the deal, I was given an unrepentant racist as a tour guide.

Immediately after we started off on our tour, Stephanie said, "So you've been living in Ireland...how did you find the Irish? Are they as bad as everyone says?"

I wasn't really listening, so just assumed she was asking what everyone always asks "Are the Irish as friendly as everyone says they are?"

I started my usual response, "Yeah, yeah, they're real friendly" and Stephanie interrupted me.

"They're sort like how you feel about Mexicans in the States, aren't they?"

I still couldn't fathom that this woman would be saying something so beyond acceptable to a complete stranger, and assumed she must mean that both the Irish and the Mexicans have had a positive effect on the nearby dominating super power.

But later, when she started complaining about the blacks, muslims and Jews, I started to realize that Martin Amis was right, pussies are bullshit.

I spent four hours with this woman, getting driven around London hearing about how to best avoid anyone with a skintone darker than myself, and how immigrants were ruining the country. Probably not the best person to be doing orientation tours for a relocation company, eh. She complained about how Labour had put housing projects in nice neighborhoods, forcing real English people to live side-by-side with animals. (Her words, not mine.) "You can get a good sense of a neighborhood by seeing who lives there," she said, driving me through Bethnal Green. "Look! Blacks!" she said, pointing.

My favorite bit, which I actually recorded with my new snazzy phone, was when she did an impersonation of someone who might shop at Banglatown (crazy accent and all!). I kindly suggested to her that perhaps if Englishwomen were doing their part to keep up the British birthrate, perhaps her country wouldn't have to rely so much on those dirty immigrants, like me.

She wailed, at one point, "Where have all the English people gone?" as we drove down the main thoroughfare of Whitechapel.

"There are loads of them in New York," I kindly suggested.

Later, when I had nearly reached the limit of what I could tolerate and Stephanie was complaining about how dirty Africans are, she admitted to me that her husband is a UK immigration judge. God help this country.

By Lina on October 26, 2008 11:15 AM

Lina: Pig in the City

My first day in London left me chastened. Despite all of the dire warnings from the Dublin taxi drivers, ("You'll not like it there, love, everyone always in a rush") I was certain that London would be no problem for me. I've lived in New York, after all. New York has twice the population density of London, so I was confident that I was twice as tough as I needed to be to live in the Big Smoke. I was surprised, then, when I found myself being the sort of person that would stand still in the middle of crowded pedestrian thoroughfares, looking up at gigantic buildings, mouth slightly open, until I've been run into and yelled at by loud, angry Britons.

I'm still confused as to which way to look when crossing streets, and the added traffic of a major metropolitan city has me completely befuddled. I'm not yet familiar with the coins yet, so rather than holding up lines of people, I've been paying only with bills. After two days, already, I have a huge pile of useless change. I went to the store today to buy sugar and stood at the counter for a few minutes, desperately trying to figure out which coins to hand the woman behind counter. I was embarrassed and sweating, and finally the woman took pity on me and grabbing my hand, took the appropriate change out of it, and handed me the remains. Awkwardly I thanked her, trying to neutralize my accent, and trotted out the door.

Then yesterday, I decided to explore the cities Korean restaurants. My first stop (Korean Kitchen. 32 Windmill Street, Picadilly Circus, London, W1D 7LR) served me a bowl of soup with a hair in it. I showed the waitress, and she sent it back. I waited 10 minutes for another soup, and when it arrived, it had a black hair delicately balanced on top of a piece of tofu. Interestingly, I was not offered a free meal or anyone's firstborn, but they did suggest I wait for a third bowl of hairy soup. I left, and made my way to Jin Korean Restaurant, 16 Bateman Street London W1D 3A. As I was eating my lunch, a cockroach crawled out from the in-table bbq equipment and pranced across the table. He finally crawled back in, and I attempted to ignore the situation until a pair of antennae poked out and waggled at me, as if laughing. I put an upside-down plate over the hole, and mentally teleported to my safe space.

Last night I went to visit some friends in Whitechapel, in London's East End. When I left, I didn't take directions, confident that with the help of my A-Z I'd make it to the tube station. "It's Ay to ZED not Ay to ZEE, Lina. Yank."

Of course my ingrained sense of direction--my father calls me a topographical cretin--got me completely lost and as I wandered the streets of Whitechapel at midnight, I grew increasingly more terrified.

Lina stream of conciousness: I'm going to get mugged. That will be so humiliating. Wait, I know this street name. This is exactly where the serial killer Jack the Ripper stalked his prey! I'm going to get murdered here. Hang on, Jack the Ripper only killed prostitutes. I'm not a prostitute. I'm going to be fine. Oh shit. Everyone here thinks all Americans are whores. I'm so dead. I'm so dead. I'm so dead. Oh wait, there's the tube station. Yeah, I'm street smart. Phew.

So my first 48 hours left me feeling less cosmopolitan than I had hoped.

But then this morning, after having a crumpet and a cup of tea (seriously), I hit the streets and found a Chinese market, a Japanese market and a Korean market all within 7 minutes of my flat and I perked up. Even the local Spar (it's like 7-11) carries strange Asian snacks. After stuffing myself with a half-dozen Korean delicacies, I sat back, content with my new geographic position. I know that going to a couple of Asian markets and eating a little banchan doesn't sound like a big deal, but to me, it is. I'm so delighted to be back in a big city and to have access to all of the funny little things that one can't find anywhere else.

By Lina on October 5, 2008 9:06 PM

Shylater, Dubs

I'm at the airport, 122 pounds of luggage safely checked, waiting to move to London. It's almost two years to the day that I first arrived in Dublin, and for all of the things that I've complained about, for all of the abuse that I've taken here for my exotic accent, I'm really going to miss this crazy old country, so.

By Lina on October 3, 2008 12:31 PM

My pals on accents and slang

Frances: you know, you type like an irishman now
Frances: i mean, when i imagine your voice, it sounds irish

...

"Wait til they get a load of you in London with that big American accent on top of all of that Irish slang." Andrew, paraphrased.

...

Me, trying to understand Londoners: "Will they know what I mean when I declare myself sound?"
Aoife: "Yes, but they don't say 'deadly' which is a bit shit."

By Lina on September 17, 2008 10:25 PM

On to India

One of my friends lived in India for six months. I thought about doing the same, but when I asked her if she thought I would like it, she burst into explosive laughter. Kerrie is a very sincere sort of girl, not the type to cruelly make fun or laugh at a person. "Why are you laughing?" I asked.

"It's just," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes, "I can't imagine a person who would hate India more than you."

I'm interested to see how this trip pans out because I've not been particularly looking forward to my trip to India. I'm glad to get it out of the way because I think to be the sort of asshole I want to be in life, I have to have a large stack of Lonely Planets casually piled somewhere highly visible and to be able to drop references to 'my time in India' in irksome Berkeley cocktail parties. This necessitates some time in India, and I've decided to start with a week-long business trip.

If I had to stereotype--and god knows I don't have to, I just love to--I sort of like Indian women. Although it drives me berserk, I like the way they stare at me--it's so bold. I don't like the way their husbands stare at me, though. Their husbands, in fact, disgust me. I hate everything about their look. Their beer guts (or are they dal guts?), their mustaches, their hair that is too long and parted so intensely that the back is always out of place in a way that brings out my maternal urge to fix it while at the same time making me hate them for not taking care of themselves, their sandals, their young wives. But most of all, it's the stare. The stare is at once lascivious and condescending and freaks me out most considerably. I sort of feel this way about all men between the ages of 40 to 60, but the thing about Indian men is that they act and appear to be between the ages of 40 to 60 from about the age of 9 until 90. I'm fine with the very old and the very young of India.

However, I've been told that things like the stare are just a cultural difference. Cultural differences are things one needs to accept. In the leadup to this trip, I've tried very hard to not focus on things, or stereotypes, if you will, that irritate me. I want to be the sort of person that could bring up the possibility of going to India for six months without having anyone laugh.

But then I attempted to get an Indian visa. This took a few weeks, two hundred and three euro and three trips to the Indian Embassy. The Indian Embassy in Dublin is much like the disused teacher's lounge of an Indian elementary school. There's mismatched furniture, piles of Indian picture books, pamphlets on Indian teas and bulletin boards with aged notices about things long past. The Indian Embassy in Dublin is mostly empty when I visit.

They have a filing system that is interesting--it doesn't involve computers as you might expect, but consists of giant manila envelopes at least three feet long, each with a year written on them, piled on top of a bookshelf. I don't really understand why it is is so difficult and expensive to get a visa for India.

Most countries I don't have to get a visa for, or can get one issued upon arrival. Most countries are grateful to have me come spend money on worthless knickknacks, overpriced drinks and on duty free goods. Some countries, such as Turkey, wish they didn't need my money, so they let me get a visa at the airport but make me pay for it as a small sort of fuck you on arrival. The visa stamp even has the price printed on it, an entrance fee into the country. But Turkey only charged me fifteen euro on my last two visits which is a far cry from the two hundred and three euro that India demanded of me. I wasn't even allowed to pay in any normal fashion but had to get a postal money order as if India were some decrepit eBay seller that was unable to accept credit cards or other standard forms of currency.

India, I think, should be grateful to have me. We have a lot in common, me and India. We were both colonized the the same dickheads, right? We both still struggle with trying to stop ourselves from loving those dickheads and realizing that it's not really possible. We both speak English with slightly ridiculous accents. We both constantly struggle with disaster. We both love fancy words. But India is not grateful to have me, and instead wants to test my dedication to setting foot on its soil. My friend Pam planned a trip to India not long ago and was refused at the airport because, not knowing, she hadn't gotten a visa in advance. She was clearly not dedicated enough.

The first time I went to the embassy they told me to come back in 10 days. In the meantime, I got a typhoid shot and a lecture on cultural sensitivity. Two weeks later, I went back. "Leave your passport," they told me, "and come back tomorrow." I do not want to leave my passport in a place that considers manila envelopes an adequate means of organization. As an expat, one learns to hold onto their passport rather tightly, as losing it means being stranded in a foreign country and a lot of unpleasantness at the American Embassy.

But what can you say in the Indian Embassy after all? "No, sorry, you've given the impression of a complete lack of competence and no I will not leave my passport here."? Of course not. I hand over my passport, stomach in knots and after a surprisingly restful night, return to the embassy the next day.

"Who?" Shuffling of paper but giving no appearance of finding any particularly relevant paper or related paper. "Come back tomorrow." I cannot, I declare, come back tomorrow. I have a cab waiting for me outside. I'm heading for Cork that evening, which is a foreign country by all accounts, and I didn't want to leave my passport into this documents graveyeard for a weekend. This is my third trip to the Indian Embassy. I was told yesterday that it would be ready today. The man behind the desk gives me a condescending look as if all of this was somehow my fault.

"By whom?" a woman next to the desk asks. I begin to describe the woman that I had spoken to the day before, and then notice the woman in question trying to hide behind a manila envelope.

"Her," I declare. The woman, who was next to the desk and who is now at the desk since the condescending man wandered off after realizing that my case was not important enough to deal with, shoots the woman behind the envelope a death stare, and tells me to sit down and wait. I do, mindful of the taxi driver waiting for me outside, which I now realize was a bad idea.

Finally, I am handed my passport which now has a sticker with my details hand written in it. This is what I paid two hundred and three euro and waited nearly three weeks for. This hand-written sticker is not a tracking mechanism for some sort of larger immigration policy as I would expect, but is really just a little bit of a "You think you're so superior? Pony up and hold your horses. We're in charge now."

By Lina on August 19, 2008 9:36 AM

Piles of magazines and surrogate grandmothers

Lollo is one of my grandmother's friends, I think. I'm not sure exactly what our relationship is to her. It's definitely not blood; her delicate frame makes me think of a baby bird that you might accidentally crush when you hold it in the palm of your hand, and lays waste to any possible confusion about her relationship to my sturdy, big-boned family. Nonetheless, she's been in my family since before I was born, and as a child was regularly given gifts that were either made by her, or intended to encourage some sort of artistic behavior on my part. She is in her nineties, originally from Austria and is a painter. She calls SUVs, HIVs.

Lollo has a sort of grandmotherly role in my life, whereas my actual grandmother takes more of an angry older sibling or frenemy-like position. Whenever I see Lollo she tells me how beautiful I am and compliments my intelligence, my ingenuity, my figure and anything else that might be in my general vicinity. My grandmother, on the other hand, tends to only mention these things in me when noting how deficient they are, or if I had been lucky enough to be gifted such a trait, in pointing out how I've royally screwed it up.

The last time I was in New York, my brother and grandmother and I took an hour-long cab ride to Lollo's assisted living facility. After 45 minutes, my grandmother insisted we leave. As we walked out my grandmother said acidicly, "Get enough compliments in there?" I'm not sure if this is a sign that she genuinely believes that compliments directed towards her grandchildren are an awful thing, or if some small part of her realizes that perhaps she should be the one that thinks my brother and I are amazing. What's particularly nice about Lollo loving me is that as a non-relative, she doesn't have to. As we were getting back into the cab to take us straight into rush hour Manhattan traffic, I realized that if my actual grandmother were just a friend of the family, I would never make this journey for her.

Wisdom is meant to be passed down from generation to generation, wizened old women telling the offspring of their offspring knowledge they have picked up along their journey, secrets they have learned to lead a better life. On our last visit, I was confessing how I used the New Yorker as a barometer of my worth--the more I had piled around the house unread, the more filled with self-loathing I become. I rarely have less than three waiting insistently at my kitchen table, and have, at times, it pains me to confess, gone up to as many as eleven. I half-heartedly try and blame this more on the international mail system that often brings two or three of the weekly issues on the same day than any shortcomings on my part. Lollo raised her non-existent eyebrows at me and said in a strong Austrian accent, "Something I have learned is that you don't have to read every article of every New Yorker. I used to try when I was young. There just isn't enough time."

By Lina on April 19, 2008 4:03 PM

Good Friday

Today is Good Friday. This is, I've learned, a big deal in Ireland. It's one of the only days of the year that one cannot buy alcohol, resulting in a dipsomaniacal Holy Thursday, the shelves of the off-licenses pillaged by Irishfolk hoarding as if they were about the face the Great Depression, terrified that they might have to face an evening dry. And today, the pubs are all shuttered, and as every other storefront is a pub, the face of Dublin has become joyless, somehow. Luckily, the one-day prohibition makes it a big day for house parties and illegal raves, so with a little work, one can still manage to keep reality at bay.

Yesterday, one of my co-workers asked me if Jews celebrate Easter. I looked at him skeptically. He couldn't be serious, but of course, he was. They don't actually have Jews in Ireland, I've realized.

"We don't. We sort of see it as the nullification of all of our hard work." Now it was his turn to look confused. "Well, we had just gone through the trouble of killing Jesus and all," I explained.

Most days now, I forget I'm in Ireland. I don't even hear the accent a lot of the time, which saddens me. Days like today, though, remind me of what a strange, religious country I've landed in. The other night one of my close friends admitted to me (after marinating herself in wine) that her parents had met under unusual circumstances; her father had been a priest and her mother, a nun. I suspect that even by Ireland standards, it's a noteworthy "how we met" tale, but I was flabbergasted. These are not the kind of stories I would hear in America.

By Lina on March 21, 2008 11:58 AM

A short break for positivity - I love Dublin

I think my SAD lamp must be working, because I just posted a very chipper entry on my friend Rene's site, ilovethisworld.com. I've realized that I tend to post all of my happy thoughts on that site (note that I post rarely) and my bitchy thoughts on shutitdown. So I've decided to plagiarize myself and post it here as well.

I love Dublin

I guess it's finally hit me, but I'm pretty sure I'm having a love affair with Dublin. I've been saying that I love Dublin for a long time. Every time I get in a cab, which is often (I'm still a lazy American, after all), the driver asks me where I'm from after hearing my accent, and then asks me what I think of Dublin. This is not the time you want to complain about how you have to go sit in the immigration office for 4 hours every six months or point out that in America you can call other mobile phones for free rather than paying 20 cents a minute to call someone a ~~mile~~ km away. So I always say "Other than the weather, I love it here!"

And now I'm not lying anymore--other than the weather, I love Dublin. I love the people here. They're hilarious without seeming snotty in that particularly British way. I love how nice everyone is, it constantly surprises me. I love the way people talk and their accents and the language they use. I love the buildings and the brightly painted doors and the way things here are so old and beautiful. I love the countryside; it looks like a poster of what Ireland is supposed to look like, except it's completely real. I love how everyone here has been forced to take Irish dance--Riverdance, to you and me--lessons. I love the knackers. I love the taxi drivers. I love that people from all of the world are moving here in droves because they love it too. I love my friends. I love the Asian grocery stores. I love the way people are so old-fashioned about really silly things and don't even realize it. I love the way boys drink tea. I love that I live in a cottage next to a canal with swans and ducks. I love the history. I love the perpetual feeling of oppression. I love the way all of the good stereotypes are true. I love the scene most of all--there's more going in the disco/italo/electro scene than in places like New York or San Francisco. I love going out here. Parties here aren't over by 3am, they last at least two days, minimum. I love the fun, there's loads of it.

By Lina on February 13, 2008 10:18 PM

American girls

On corpulence:

As I stepped onto the elevator the other day, I was pleased to see a grossly obese young woman already squeezed into the metal compartment. The girl couldn't have been more than 25, and was tucking her fleshy folds into her elastic-waisted jeans--this was, I had been told, a feature exclusive to Yanks, and I was quietly jubilant to see that the Irish, on their diets of potatoes and creamed everything, were finally catching up. I grinned openly as we rose from one floor to the next.

As we got to the sixth floor and the girl got off, she squealed to the woman next to her in a distinctive American patois, "Dude, did you see Project Runway last night? It was, like, awesome!" Sigh.

On accents:

In Dublin, one gets used to hearing all sorts of accents. The city feels truly international sometimes, sometimes more so than New York ever did. So many countries are basing their European operations in Dublin now, that there are people from all over Europe and beyond crawling the cobbled streets.

This, of course, means that there are a lot of funny accents around.

When I was a youth (but not young enough that writing this doesn't humiliate me), I asked my mother why everyone else in the world had accents but Americans didn't.

I had learned about the pilgrims, and was trying to understand why the Americans wouldn't have the same accent as the English. Clearly they did to begin with, but then, somehow, we managed to throw off any sort of defining accent and emerged like blank slates, unable to be tied to any geographic area by our well-modulated voices.

My mother looked at me and and in horrified disgust said "you moron." This was when I learned, however harshly, that Americans have accents too.

I was reminded of this lesson when I was on the patio of the local pub, enjoying the last dying rays of the Irish sunshine. One might say that a good craic was being had. I was surrounded by locals and few friends from Northern Ireland, who sound more Scottish than the average Irishman. We had been there for a length of time that is too embarrassing to admit here, when a girl from California sat down at our table.

Her voice was jarring. I'm not even going to pretend that her voice was expecially annoying or that she said anything particularly idiotic, but after not hearing an American accent for so long, I finally had a sense of what we sound like to others. The answer is, simply, fucking stupid.

By Lina on May 6, 2007 6:20 PM

Accented and resented

I've been accused of posting stereotypes here on shutitdown. I like to think I've posted truths. I'm working with people from 40 countries, and I've learned that although there are exceptions to all truths, stereotypes are often right on the mark. I recognize that stereotypes apply to me too--I'm a shitty driver because I'm a woman. My dad's a shitty driver too, but that's probably because he's a Jew.

I'm never sure what to post about anymore, which is why I've been reduced to wry observations about the Irish and other untermenschen. The only things that I can think to post about are my family, love life, work and minorities.

Since my family and at least three ex-boyfriends read this site, and since I'd get fired if I wrote about my job, I'm reduced to spouting bigotry and gibberish.

I'd like to post more about boys, but every time I start, the fear takes over. I've been traumatized by boys, and now at the age of 28, think I'm completely incapable of having a real relationship ever again.

The most annoying one ended with me saying "go fuck yourself" over the phone and never speaking to the fellow again. During our relationship, he had accused me of cheating on him with my brother and any other male I may have come into contact with. We broke up four times before it finally stuck. At one point I had decided that playing Snood for five hours a night was preferable to his company, which understandably enraged him. During one of our last calls, I broke up with him while playing Snood. "Are you playing that fucking game?" he screamed into the phone. "No," I lied, and unable to resist, shot another snood onto the screen. The click was audible, and the relationship was clearly doomed.

I heard from him 18 months later when he wrote to me to ask for the record player back that he had given to me. I looked it up on ebay and found that it was going for, on average, $7, and decided to move the email to my spam folder.

Before the Polack, I hadn't titled with anyone in a year and a half. The last one absolutely destroyed me--at one point he admitted that he thought it was a game to get me to fall in love with him. "That's just what you do, isn't it?" he asked, confused as to why I was upset when he broke up with me after realizing that his plan had been successful. He left me, sitting on my bed bewildered and in tears, hopped in a cab and flew across the country. He's probably reading this right now.

Since then, I've only gone out with younger men. This has been my way of combating serious relationships and coming into contact with taut skin. I have an unfortunate habit of getting into relationships with men who are clearly unqualified for the task. I really don't mean to, I'm just bored and an emotional black hole. I have intense friendships, an intense job and intense feelings about everything from snack cakes to synthetic fabrics. It stands to reason that my relationships would be the same, but it's exhausting. I just don't know how to avoid falling into relationships that I know won't work. I took my record-player-demanding boyfriend to meet my parents after just three weeks of dating. I just wasn't sure how I felt about him, so I thought that maybe they could provide some insight. My dad (rightly) pointed out that he was the first reasonable date I had brought home--he had a college degree (albeit in physical education) and a real job. He didn't have tattoos on his neck or a drug habit. My mother worried that he didn't have enough "edge" for me. As it turned out, he didn't have enough of anything for me, really, and I was what could only be described as a shitty girlfriend. I wouldn't be surprised if he were reading this right now.

It's funny, though, when I look back on these relationships. It seems that the more reasonable the candidate is, the more I hate them once it's over. Interestingly, the ones that I still like are the Americans, a small subset of my sweethearts. The only exes I've really managed to stay friends with are the one that married the stripper while we were dating and the one that managed to leave heroin under my mattress and in my shoes on a regular basis while he was hanging out in gay nightclubs. These are the ones I love, and the others I just resent. And the more I resent them, the more likely they are to be shutitdown readers. Funny like that.

By Lina on May 1, 2007 11:10 PM

On being an immigrant

After spending 4.5 hours at the immigration office yesterday, I guess I'm officially here. On one hand it feels like no big deal--I was in Dublin for nearly four months not too long ago. But on the other hand, it's terrifying. Sometimes while staring blankly at my screen I think "what the eff am I doing?" But then I remind myself that even if I have a miserable time, this is good for me--this is what I wanted.

Right now I'm on a plane headed to London, thus continuing my habit of only updating this site when I'm in transit. I resisted my urge to eat a full dinner at the airport, but it seems that I was the only one. Most of my fellow travelers were eating a full Irish breakfast--sausage, ham, eggs, fried mushrooms and tomatoes, beans, white pudding and of course, blood pudding. I always assumed that Irish people don't actually eat these heart attacks on plates, it must be a tourist thing. But no, they really do eat this stuff and drink Guinness constantly.

I like the way the Irish say my name. Every time someone with a strong accent says "Lina," I get a little thrill. When I was here before, I resisted picking up any of the Irish lingo. But already, after two weeks, I've found myself saying "fair play," which is one of their favorites. The Irish are concerned with fairness, it seems. "Fair play to you," is a way to show acceptance for someone's actions. Often people end their stories with "in fairness." "In fairness," they say, "he did give it his best."

"Your man" is another one that they use frequently. This is the Irish equivalent of "that dude." Say you see a guy walking by in leather chaps. The Irish would say something like, "your man over there is looking good today." The first time I heard a statement like this I squealed indignantly "he's not my man!" I got only bewildered looks.

They don't say thank you, it's "thanks a million," or even better, "thanks a mill." They don't cut out of a party early, they "leg it." One of my new friends is from Cork, and his accent is so unintelligible to me that my side of the conversation consists mainly of "excuse me" and "what?" His use of language, though, is thrilling. Even when I understand the words he is saying, I have no idea what they mean, or even if I do, the context is so strange that the original meaning has vanished. Langer, gaff, odd, locked and most often, fucked. For fook's sake.

By Lina on April 24, 2007 9:52 AM

Strangely happy

I'm happy in Dublin. It's weird.

In response to a complaint from a Dubliner that I only write about things that I am dissatisfied with, here's a list of things I like in Dublin:

The accents. So cute.

Hilarious, dry Irish boys who say to me, "It took me 6 hours at the pub with you, but I've finally realized that you are the most sarcastic person I've ever met in my life."

Hot foreign boys.

Riding bicycles with handsome Dutch boys with prominent cheekbones.

Cab drivers always talk to me, whether I want them to or not. Generally they are interesting or funny or both, and always ask me where I am from and tell me stories about that time they went to California.

That cab drivers here can afford to go to California.

Boys here dance!

I don't need a car. I walk.

The term "taking the piss."

Nightlife on weekdays.

Day trips all over Ireland.

Weekend trips all over Europe.

Food being described as "lovely, gorgeous, grand and brilliant." None of these words are ones I would think of to describe food. They've revolutionized language over here.

Speaking of language, the Irish vernacular includes many words and expressions that we phased out over a hundred years ago in America. When they have a buzz, they call it "merry." I love it.

The international feel--because of the low tax rates companies are basing their main operations in Dublin and bringing employees from all over Europe. Doing wonders for my project.

My job here is great.

People are funny, fun and like to socialize. Nuts.

There's history here. We don't have that in the States.

It's beautiful.

The streets where all the doors are painted primary colors.

In general, my peers are not obsessed with wearing clothes only because they are expensive. For once, I'm the most shallow one. I think this will be a good influence on me.

Today I found a store called "Asian Market." It has amazing products covering a range of cuisines: Japanese, Chinese, Thai, Indian. Most importantly though, Korean.

Chat log of the day:

Lina: I have kimchi now
Lina: I'm so fucking happy
Pamela: that's all you need
Pamela: and I do not need cigarettes or boyfriends
Pamela: I'm happy with my creativity
Lina: I do not need cigarettes or boyfriends
Lina: I'm happy with my kimchi

I think maybe I could stay here for a while.

By Lina on November 12, 2006 9:45 AM

On being a snob

The other night, I was at a pub with a gang of Irish folk. I like to think of the Irish as modern-day pirates. I'm terrible at doing impressions and accents, so whenever I try to tell my friends back home stories from my day, I end up talking like a pirate. "Another pot of grog," I say, "It's drivin' me nuts! Yarrrr!"

I was running out of material and began regaling my Irish pals with the abuse I've suffered already as an American in a foreign country. The accusatory talk of wars, the Arnold Schwarzenegger impressions I've had to endure, people calling me fat, it never ends here. I'm of the belief that as an American in Europe, I'm considered exotic. A hot-house flower in a cold (and drizzly) environment. The Irish, it seems, are not of the same opinion. This is likely due to the large amounts of 'Friends' that is broadcast here--it renders my accent less curious. I've begun threatening to bomb people that disagree or contradict me in any way, which usually brings a pleasant silence to the table. This allows me to continue my anecdotes without interruption. Midway through the evening, I entertained the Dublin posse with my story about getting called a snobby cunt by a man on the street the other day.

"I don't think the guy knew you were an American," my new Gaelic friend said. "At least, I don't think that's why he said that to you."

"He probably said it because you are, in fact, a snobby coont."

By Lina on October 22, 2006 4:47 PM

ex'patri'ation

n. (-t, -t)
1. One who has taken up residence in a foreign country.
2. One who has renounced one's native land.

So I've moved to Dublin. It's a very strange transition, which I expected, but in ways I didn't expect. It's not very foreign--it's only Ireland, after all. But because it's not so different, when there are things that deviate from the American style, it's a huge shock. This means that I ended up being shocked most of the day, because there are quite a few differences.

I'm completely incapable of crossing the street. I've come so close to getting hit by cars so many times in the last few days, that I stand on curbs quaking in terror. Part of the problem is that they drive like maniacs, but more importantly, I can't figure out which way to turn my head because of the opposite side of the street driving. I always look the wrong way, and have not yet been able to train myself to look the right way. So I've now implemented a policy of looking both ways, but somehow the time it takes me to do this means that by the time I actually cross, a car that I hadn't noticed is bearing down on me, and I scurry away, panic-striken. At some crosswalks, though, there are foot tall letters painted on the street that say "look left" and "look right," as if in concessions to the morons like myself.

People may have to rely on the pavement to tell them which way to look because Dublin is a town filled with foreigners. This is part of the reason that it's such an amiable city. I've never been to a place where people are so friendly--already I have Polish, Turkish, Ukrainian and Irish pals.

Today I want to an Argos store. It's amazing. When you walk in, there is nothing there. Two counters and a catalog. The catalog has 1,642 pages, and every possible item you could possibly want. Be it a light bulb or an ipod, a full-size sofa or a laundry hamper, Argos has it. You write down the catalog number on a slip of paper, and sight unseen, pay for it. Within 60 seconds, they call your number at the counter, give you your items, and you're done. If you want a plastic bag for your purchases, you have to pay an additional 15 cents.

Before Argos, though, I managed to get myself lost for two hours looking for a grocery store that's less than ten minutes away. This is the only way I ever get to know my way around--by getting hopelessly lost a fair number of times. So I just gave in to it, and wandered around my neighborhood and the surrounding areas, constantly giggling whenever I heard an Irish child speak. I find it hard to believe that their accents here are genuine, and not just part of some elaborate joke, or maybe a historical recreation like Williamsburg, Virginia. But no, they're not kidding, and every time a real Irish person speaks to me, I have no idea what they are saying. Much like my trip to Spain (where I spoke no Spanish at all), I've taken to remaining mute and doing a lot of nodding.

I've tried to learn how to drink beer, but it's really difficult. It's pretty disgusting, and I just can't bring myself to drink that much liquid at one time. However, the locals seem to like it. Quite a bit, in fact. On Friday I was in a chipper at 3 am, and realized as I watched Irishmen literally slide down walls, that the stereotypes may actually be true.

Because the food here has yet to impress, I made this soup today. It's yummy; you should try it.

By Lina on October 8, 2006 3:29 PM

A critical notice

I forgot to post this a while ago--it's my first real review!

From the American gal's fear of foreskin to the Swedish superiority complex and the Englishman's love affair with alcoholism, Lina explains why she's left every accented man in her past, leaving us to wonder why she's seeking even more of them. Did she actually gain anything from the relationships? We don't know, as she comes across as having a heavy case of Battered Woman Syndrome that leads her through one bad relationship to another. That's not the type of writing with an ultimate positive or enlightening message I like to see in my reading material.

By Lina on July 26, 2006 9:58 PM

How can you say I go about things the wrong way?

Sunday roast.

Things I learned (learnt) while in London:

People don't really hate Americans. They like to use our accents as a way to initiate conversation and then pick up on us.

It is acceptable to drink at nearly any time of the day or night, and nearly every social activity began and ended with either a drink or me falling on the floor.

When in large groups, Englishmen don't seem to mind be spoken to in gibberish in order to get them to say "wot?" again. Especially when the gibberish was sincere.

Older people in England have automatic frowny-face. When their faces are slack, which is most of the time, they are stuck in sad little comical moues.

In London, handsome men roam the streets like feral dogs. Feral dogs possibly waiting to be domesicated.

Even poor, ostensibly uneducated people, have better vocabularies than my friends who went to Harvard and Yale (and me).

It's freaking cold.

For all the talk I've heard about London being overrun with filth and immigrants, I was flabberghasted by how incredibly clean the city was. Have these people been to New York for fuck's sake? We keep our ankles warm in New York not by wearing stockings, but by letting the rats congregate outside our apartment doors in a giant furry miasma of warmth. And the immigrants? Do they mean the one person of color I saw this entire weekend? Granted, she did roll over my foot with her suitcase but I can't believe that's any reason to tighten the conrols on the EU. If on the off chance they mean the gorgeous Eastern European teenagers working in every bakery and coffee shop, I will personally sponsor a dozen of them to move to the United States. A little delicate bone structure could only do this country some good.

Okay so yeah it's expensive, but it's not as bad as every fat American asshole without a passport would have you believe.

Does this make me look English?

So as you might have guessed, I'm now giving some sort of consideration to moving to London. I haven't even arrived back statesides, and I'm already having complaints registered from all sides. "Why would you want to move?" they whinge, "Everyone there is so unhappy."

I know that this may come as a surprise to my more sporadic readers (i.e. my father), but I am probably one of the most functionally miserable, borderline suicides that manages to roll into a collared shirt and heels and out the door on a daily basis. I can't help but think to be in a place where I would be the "cheerful, bubbly" one couldn't be bad for my psyche. (Yes, these were terms that were used to describe me by a member of management in London.) How can you not love that?

By Lina on November 29, 2005 8:38 PM

1 2 Next >

Shutit

about me
stuff
archives

Links
the odd kitchen
ever undone
ilovethisworld
gritmedia
ytmnd