---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Whatchamacallit Culture Shock
Whatchamacallit? No, seriously, Whatchamacallit. It’s the name of an American candy bar. The one that got me into trouble in about March 1993. Not my favourite—well it was when it first came out when I was about 8 or 9 but it wasn’t my favourite in 1993. Its attraction was that it was uniquely American (especially the name). You can get Snickers and Milky Way and Mars and all those sorts of things in the UK but no Whatchamacallits.
My UK work visa ran out and boyfriend and I decided we’d probably be together forever so we got engaged. Marriage would allow me to work again. Until the wedding I spent my time going to the Bethnal Green library and I went for a lot of walks. Even though I had already been living in London for two or three years there’s a lot to see in the East End.
On reflection I probably had too much time on my hands. I now know that culture shock happens to us all, at some point or another, and often in the most unexpected ways.
One day I was homesick. Deeply homesick. I was tired of all the grime, the rough tussle of bodies walking with and around me on the streets, the loud taxis grinding through junctions, and the weather. I missed the soft shoosh of wind in the pine trees from my Northern Minnesota home. I missed the effort of American shopkeepers to help complete strangers Have a Nice Day. I missed familiarity.
I went into a shop for a chocolate fix. All I could think of was Whatchamacallits. I knew they wouldn’t be there. I looked anyway. None. I looked for a suitable replacement. Nothing similar. Sad face. I suddenly felt oddly alone. Everything seemed familiar, and yet it wasn’t right. The language was the same, I knew the shops that lined this street, but the right things weren’t there. How could the absence of a chocolate bar spark that lonely, alien feeling?
I walked back across the park to my flat. Tears rolling down my cheeks in that overflowing way tears do sometimes. I knew I was filled to the brim with them and I knew no amount of psychology with myself was going to get rid of them. A hot shower and a fierce wailing cry was what I needed. Except, we didn’t have a shower, just a bath with a hose attachment. Damn British bathrooms and their lack of showers. More tears.
I reached the flat, climbed the four flights, unlocked my door and went inside, dropping my bags and heaving out of breath as usual from the stairs. I stood in the galley kitchen and stared out the windows across the park to the NatWest tower in the City. The tears started again and this time I opened the door to all my miseries and sobbed, great heaving sobs of loneliness and woe.
Stupid Whatchamacallits. When I went back to the States that summer for the wedding I didn’t buy any, not even to bring back to the UK for a homesickness fix. What disappointed me that day back in 1993 was not the lack of a Whatchamacallit, but the lack of opportunity to pick one up, mull it over and set it down again. I was tired, frustrated with constant stimuli of the newish place and I just needed the comfortable familiarity of the world I grew up in.
Now, twenty years after moving to the UK do I still have those moments? Less so. I crave things, but most of what I crave can be easily substituted or forgotten about. I’ve learned that there are fantastic things in the UK and there’s fantastic things in the States, and if every country had the same things there’d almost be no point in travelling.
And more importantly, because this is less about what I crave and more about how I cope with living in another country (and it always was about that even during the 1993 Whatchamacallit craving), I have learned that culture shock passes with time and you can make a home anywhere you decide to.
Whatchamacallit Culture Shock
Whatchamacallit? No, seriously, Whatchamacallit. It’s the name of an American candy bar. The one that got me into trouble in about March 1993. Not my favourite—well it was when it first came out when I was about 8 or 9 but it wasn’t my favourite in 1993. Its attraction was that it was uniquely American (especially the name). You can get Snickers and Milky Way and Mars and all those sorts of things in the UK but no Whatchamacallits.
My UK work visa ran out and boyfriend and I decided we’d probably be together forever so we got engaged. Marriage would allow me to work again. Until the wedding I spent my time going to the Bethnal Green library and I went for a lot of walks. Even though I had already been living in London for two or three years there’s a lot to see in the East End.
On reflection I probably had too much time on my hands. I now know that culture shock happens to us all, at some point or another, and often in the most unexpected ways.
One day I was homesick. Deeply homesick. I was tired of all the grime, the rough tussle of bodies walking with and around me on the streets, the loud taxis grinding through junctions, and the weather. I missed the soft shoosh of wind in the pine trees from my Northern Minnesota home. I missed the effort of American shopkeepers to help complete strangers Have a Nice Day. I missed familiarity.
I went into a shop for a chocolate fix. All I could think of was Whatchamacallits. I knew they wouldn’t be there. I looked anyway. None. I looked for a suitable replacement. Nothing similar. Sad face. I suddenly felt oddly alone. Everything seemed familiar, and yet it wasn’t right. The language was the same, I knew the shops that lined this street, but the right things weren’t there. How could the absence of a chocolate bar spark that lonely, alien feeling?
I walked back across the park to my flat. Tears rolling down my cheeks in that overflowing way tears do sometimes. I knew I was filled to the brim with them and I knew no amount of psychology with myself was going to get rid of them. A hot shower and a fierce wailing cry was what I needed. Except, we didn’t have a shower, just a bath with a hose attachment. Damn British bathrooms and their lack of showers. More tears.
I reached the flat, climbed the four flights, unlocked my door and went inside, dropping my bags and heaving out of breath as usual from the stairs. I stood in the galley kitchen and stared out the windows across the park to the NatWest tower in the City. The tears started again and this time I opened the door to all my miseries and sobbed, great heaving sobs of loneliness and woe.
Stupid Whatchamacallits. When I went back to the States that summer for the wedding I didn’t buy any, not even to bring back to the UK for a homesickness fix. What disappointed me that day back in 1993 was not the lack of a Whatchamacallit, but the lack of opportunity to pick one up, mull it over and set it down again. I was tired, frustrated with constant stimuli of the newish place and I just needed the comfortable familiarity of the world I grew up in.
Now, twenty years after moving to the UK do I still have those moments? Less so. I crave things, but most of what I crave can be easily substituted or forgotten about. I’ve learned that there are fantastic things in the UK and there’s fantastic things in the States, and if every country had the same things there’d almost be no point in travelling.
And more importantly, because this is less about what I crave and more about how I cope with living in another country (and it always was about that even during the 1993 Whatchamacallit craving), I have learned that culture shock passes with time and you can make a home anywhere you decide to.
