I’ve lived in London for one week, and the only thing that can summarize my seven days is peanut butter.
I landed at 7 a.m. last Tuesday and almost immediately after arriving at my flat, I ventured out to get groceries. With Google Maps glued to my hand, I stumbled into a store about as expansive as a gas station, determined to find peanut butter.
I scanned the store three times without any luck. No jars of Jif, Skippy or Peter Pan decked the aisles, but I eventually noticed a generic brand and figured it would be just as good.
After returning to my flat, I opened the jar, took a spoonful of the spread and was almost instantly repulsed. All I know about that “peanut butter” was that it was not peanut butter. I scrunched my nose like a toddler and tried it one more time on some toast before stuffing it into my pantry.
Betrayed, I shot off a series of mystified messages to friends who had studied in London and, somehow, failed to mention that their time here was peanut-butter-less. I’ve since slightly recovered from this unfortunate discovery — time heals all wounds, or something — but London’s weird peanut butter has turned itself into a pretty accurate metaphor.
This city seems like America — visually, many parts are identical, and aurally, the language is of course the same — but so much of London is unrecognizable to me. If I were to pick London off a shelf, I might think it's a city I’ve been to before. After trying it, it's evident that I’m thousands of miles away from what I’m used to.
Some ingredients, though seemingly small, add up: What’s a till? (Cash register). What’s a quid? (Synonym for a pound). Why, when you order a lemonade, do they serve you a Sprite-like drink instead? (No idea). Why did I get a weird look when I told someone I liked their pants? (Pants are underwear, trousers are pants). It’s going to be in the 70s tomorrow! (Fahrenheit. Everyone thinks you mean Celsius, in which case the earth would explode).
It’s been a week of asking questions and sharing stories; every interaction with new friends from the Czech Republic, Germany, Italy and across the United Kingdom reveals how so much of our lives — from schooling to humor to culture — is fundamentally different, though we can speak a common language.
I have no idea where to look when I’m crossing the street in London. I will never own enough black articles of clothing to properly disguise myself as a local. I don’t know in what context to say “Cheeky!” or what it actually means. The peanut butter here is different.
