A Language Barrier?

Whenever I mentioned that I was moving to England, I got different reactions, but two of them seemed to occur every time:

“You’re moving there? Are you going to be like the Vicar of Dibley/Father Brown and be in embarrassing/crime solving situations?” OR

“You’re moving there? You know, they say things funny, like “lift” for “elevator” and the car trunk is a…”

The answer to the first is always the truth – as much as I find Dawn French’s show a good laugh, it touches on more universal realities that are experienced by women clergy around the world. (But I do secretly hope there’s a crime in my parish that needs my cunning insight and detective skills to crack.) The second is usually the truth too – a boot. They call it a boot, and yes, I’m aware that there are language differences.

However, simply knowing what words or phrases correspond is not enough to fully embrace the differences. I’m slow to adjust to the maths. Calculating pounds to dollars is getting to be less necessary, but I still can’t wrap my head around the idea that my phone says it’s 21 degrees so I can wear a T-shirt. And it doesn’t just apply to those things. I have also needed to adjust to the concept of time at a slower pace. For instance, I bought a refrigerator more than two weeks ago. It was scheduled to be delivered a week later, but when it didn’t show, I called. Once we tracked down someone in the delivery department I was told that the delivery volunteer had been sick so it would get to me in an additional week. Hope this isn’t too inconvenient.

To deal with this, I have developed a formula. Take whatever time I’m told, multiply by 3 to 5 and that’s the broad idea of when it will happen. Internet should be up and running in 48 hours? No, you’ll get a phone call withing 5 days to say the next part will be done within 3 more days…. which means I may have connection within another 5 days after that. “We’ll take care of that today” automatically means 5-7 business days. The construction on the house here was “nearly finished, just a couple of minor things to be done” has resulted in 3 weeks of hammering and sawing. And so it goes.

That wasn’t really what I wanted to talk about today. I was interested in sharing what insight I have had to the language difference, but really, I just want to talk about sports. Most people who move beyond the lift/elevator warning (do they picture me wandering around a building’s ground floor (or first floor) trying to get to the first floor (or second floor) for hours on end, because the sign in front of the metal doors says “LIFT”?) head toward sports. They call soccer “football” (only because it makes more sense. A game played with a ball and your feet is instead called an abbreviation for association football with a random “er” added? Oh, those crazy Brits!) But why did no one ever mention bowling?

Bowling, for the whole of the US, is an activity enjoyed, or at least played, by certain groups of people. It’s a safe place for a group of friends to just hang out, a church youth group’s yearly activity when the adults can think of nothing better, or even something to take the kids to do when the weather outside is frightful. It’s easy to tap in, and even the least skilled can still enjoy the games. Change your shoes, find a ball that’s not too heavy, and you’re in. Professional bowling tends to be seen on ESPN2 on Saturday afternoons as a filler sport. Here, however, I have discovered there is a difference. A pretty big one, as far as I’m concerned.

Directly across the street from me is a pretty, well manicured field. I’ve seen it from my first-floor window (remember, that’s upstairs.) Someone had mentioned it was the “bowling field,” though I didn’t ask what that meant. One day, a particularly beautiful sunny day, I saw my first sign of activity there. Four people were playing on the end of the field, looking very much like a game of croquet without mallets. They rolled two black balls each, bowling style, toward a red ball. I watched for a while and was quite proud that I could figure out this game. Felt very relaxed, slow paced, not even too much skill required. So, like the bowling I know, just outdoors.

Then 2 days ago, my confidence was shattered. I heard the noise, went upstairs to see what was happening, and saw absolute chaos. There were fourteen people on the field, six different coloured balls, and everyone was walking about as balls were rolling past. Suddenly it wasn’t a low concentration game but a beautifully constructed dance, with the occasional pause at one place when a ref stepped in to measure and call who was closest. It went on for hours. Somehow, someone knew who won because there were handshakes all around at the end. But my word, it was a game that pulled in the skill of golf as well! The green sent balls on curves that seemed magical.

Bowling can mean a tedious game of rolling a heavy ball straight down a wood floor into ten pins that are always in the same place. OR it could mean an intense strategic game played in pairs that must take a lifetime to master. One way or another, watching the activity on the bowling green is a great way to occupy my time. I really should enjoy it while I can. You never know when I’ll get the call that the local vicar is needed to solve the murder of the parish gossip, and I’ll have to get on the case!