My interest in Great Britain began at the age of thirteen, when I discovered the Rolling Stones. I would spend hours in my room listening to their music and staring at the cover of “High Tide and Green Grass”. There was something about that cover, whether it was the gray light of the English sky, the lads in their 60’s gear and overgrown mop tops or all of it put together, I’m not sure, I just know I wanted more. So it wasn’t the Beatles, as you might have predicted, but the Stones who served as the catalyst for my learning all things British. Soon I discovered British comedies and developed an appreciation for British humor, as well as an admiration for their use of language. Like me, the British found humor in the ironies of life. “They get it, they really get it”, I thought.
As a teen, I loved rainy days because it reminded me of what I imagined Britain to be like. I would sit in my window and pretend I was looking out over misty covered moors. I’m sure this sounds as if I must have been a fan of Jane Austen novels, as many Britophiles are, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. I was never a fan of fiction anyway and besides I was more interested in British popular culture than the iconic works of Britain’s literary past. The images in my mind came from photos in magazines and scenes from British films and television shows. Maybe this was all a form of escapism typical for most teenagers, I can‘t say for sure, but I do know that England was never very far from my mind and always found its way back to me.
And so it did again , in 1988, when as an Airman with the U.S. Air Force I was assigned to RAF Chicksands in Befordshire. Needless to say I was thrilled and full of anticipation, but those feelings were quickly replaced by homesickness and extreme culture shock on my very first night in England. I was no longer living in England in my head but experiencing it as it was, different from anywhere else I had ever been before. Call it naïveté’ or youth or a bit of both, but this wasn’t what I expected. As I stared out of my bedroom window into complete darkness -the blackest darkness I had ever seen - I felt like I was on another planet. There were no streetlights, unlike the suburbs of America and I could only find four television stations and even fewer stations on the radio. Was I dreaming? Did I fall asleep on the plane and wake up in the 1950’s? That night I cried myself to sleep. Welcome to Great Britain!
It took nearly six months for me to really start enjoying my life in Britain. This was my first experience living on my own and I was surrounded by complete strangers and in a different country no less. Of course the internet did not exist in those days, at least publicly, so my means of communicating with family back home was limited to phone calls and letters. The transition did get easier though once I met a Scottish man, whom I later married. With his help I made friends and learned to appreciate the uniqueness of British culture. I won’t lie to you, I was extremely homesick and missed the conveniences of American life, but again, I chalk this up to being so young and inexperienced. With the wisdom of years I can now look back on this time and realize how petty my complaints were. Now I could care less about finding fast food in the middle of the night or if the nearest shopping mall is an hour away. The difficult memories have been replaced by the good ones, which tends to happen as the years go by. What I did enjoy about Britain was the gorgeous scenery, the history, great telly, British humor, the sense of community that comes with nights in the pub (topped off with a kebab), good friends who believe “once a mate, always a mate”, and Indian food.
Now, twenty years on, my love of Britain has grown to an obsession, culminating in my blog, Smitten by Britain. This is my sounding board for all things British, where I talk about the books I read, the films I watch, and the telly I consume- all Britain all the time. I am a student of my passion and after years of driving my friends and family mad talking about it, I finally have an outlet to share what I’ve learned with others who love Britain the way I do. And while I’m no longer married to the Scotsman, we do have a wonderful son who is moving to Glasgow next year to live with his father. I’m excited for him and in a way, feel as if life has come full circle. How fitting that I, the consummate Britophile, should give birth to a Brit and soon become what I affectionately refer to as an MBE (Mother of a British Emigrant). Now, if I could only convince the Home Office that this accomplishment deserves favored immigration status.
As a teen, I loved rainy days because it reminded me of what I imagined Britain to be like. I would sit in my window and pretend I was looking out over misty covered moors. I’m sure this sounds as if I must have been a fan of Jane Austen novels, as many Britophiles are, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. I was never a fan of fiction anyway and besides I was more interested in British popular culture than the iconic works of Britain’s literary past. The images in my mind came from photos in magazines and scenes from British films and television shows. Maybe this was all a form of escapism typical for most teenagers, I can‘t say for sure, but I do know that England was never very far from my mind and always found its way back to me.
And so it did again , in 1988, when as an Airman with the U.S. Air Force I was assigned to RAF Chicksands in Befordshire. Needless to say I was thrilled and full of anticipation, but those feelings were quickly replaced by homesickness and extreme culture shock on my very first night in England. I was no longer living in England in my head but experiencing it as it was, different from anywhere else I had ever been before. Call it naïveté’ or youth or a bit of both, but this wasn’t what I expected. As I stared out of my bedroom window into complete darkness -the blackest darkness I had ever seen - I felt like I was on another planet. There were no streetlights, unlike the suburbs of America and I could only find four television stations and even fewer stations on the radio. Was I dreaming? Did I fall asleep on the plane and wake up in the 1950’s? That night I cried myself to sleep. Welcome to Great Britain!
It took nearly six months for me to really start enjoying my life in Britain. This was my first experience living on my own and I was surrounded by complete strangers and in a different country no less. Of course the internet did not exist in those days, at least publicly, so my means of communicating with family back home was limited to phone calls and letters. The transition did get easier though once I met a Scottish man, whom I later married. With his help I made friends and learned to appreciate the uniqueness of British culture. I won’t lie to you, I was extremely homesick and missed the conveniences of American life, but again, I chalk this up to being so young and inexperienced. With the wisdom of years I can now look back on this time and realize how petty my complaints were. Now I could care less about finding fast food in the middle of the night or if the nearest shopping mall is an hour away. The difficult memories have been replaced by the good ones, which tends to happen as the years go by. What I did enjoy about Britain was the gorgeous scenery, the history, great telly, British humor, the sense of community that comes with nights in the pub (topped off with a kebab), good friends who believe “once a mate, always a mate”, and Indian food.
Now, twenty years on, my love of Britain has grown to an obsession, culminating in my blog, Smitten by Britain. This is my sounding board for all things British, where I talk about the books I read, the films I watch, and the telly I consume- all Britain all the time. I am a student of my passion and after years of driving my friends and family mad talking about it, I finally have an outlet to share what I’ve learned with others who love Britain the way I do. And while I’m no longer married to the Scotsman, we do have a wonderful son who is moving to Glasgow next year to live with his father. I’m excited for him and in a way, feel as if life has come full circle. How fitting that I, the consummate Britophile, should give birth to a Brit and soon become what I affectionately refer to as an MBE (Mother of a British Emigrant). Now, if I could only convince the Home Office that this accomplishment deserves favored immigration status.
circa 1988
