Culture Shock

I hate it. I’m in a country with no colour, and I cannot place myself. Dreary clouds draped over drab buildings that droop down to dull pavements. Everything blurs to grey. How am I supposed to find the sky, if it doesn’t have a sun in it? The air is wet, and thick; my bones like sponges squeezed in ice water. My shaking hands fumble for refuge in their pockets.

The locals rush through the monochrome scene, hunched in padded coats, eyes cast down and umbrellas at the ready. Jerky movements, they look like ghosts being fast forwarded through purgatory, seeking the warmth of the living. Fragments of conversation flutter past in familiar patterns, though meaning eludes me: “Nah, blud, we was proper tankin’ it”, and, “Fancy a cheeky one?”

I need help, so plunge straight in: “Excuse me, do you know…” – the maroon raincoat speeds past me with dead eyes. My second mark has pointy brown shoes and a nose to match, and I guess he must be a businessman. He sees my approach, and becomes suddenly absorbed with the obscene hunk of metal on his wrist.

Determined, I head him off and blurt out, “Excuse me, do you know where the Hobgoblin is?” He pauses mid-stride, and fixes me with a glare both hostile and perplexed. I’m pretty sure I know what I said, but he looks like I just asked if I could nibble his wife’s ears. Before I can work it out, he feints to the left, and disappears.

Everywhere looks the same, so any direction will do. Carefully looking left, I step straight in front of a speeding car. There is no horn to warn me, just the angry squeal of brakes. I leap back in time to avoid the middle finger thrust my way, but the accompanying stream of profanity hits me hard. I am shaken, and confused. I decide to give up on giving up smoking – I am on holiday, after all – and buy a packet of fags.

“That’s six-twenty mate”. The man behind the counter doesn’t so much as glance at me. I try to hide my astonishment: even for an opening price, that is ludicrously high. My light snort is one of perfectly weighted disdain. “Two quid,” I counter.

“You what? Six pounds, and twenty pence!” He’s definitely noticed me now. I play my disarming smile, and smoothly lie, “My friend, I have a wife and two children to support. I’ll give you three pounds fifty”.

“Eh?! It’s six-twenty or nuffin’ mate! Who the fuck d’ya fink y’are?”

Lighting my cigarette outside, I consider this. I must be British, because I eat fish and chips, think football is important, and have a healthy distrust of French farmers and German holiday-makers. Yet after two years living in Egypt, I’m suffering intense reverse culture shock. Smiling, I realise the solution: head to the pub, for pork scratchings and warm beer!

Note: This was written in October 2008, the first time I’d returned to London since moving to Egypt. I still find crossing the road in England harder than in Cairo. Sometimes rules just make things a whole lot more complicated.

The dreary London picture is from flickr Creative Commons, and was taken by damo1977

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