Where do a fish and a bird get married? In Israel of course! Or at least that's a great place for a Texan and a Brit to wed. Both sets of parents flew in, but no siblings or extended family. I met his parents for the first time four days before the wedding. We had a nice meal, a chat, and all went well. Or so I thought until I sat giving the recap to a British girlfriend of mine.
"What did you eat?" She demanded, knowing full well what I ordered every time I visited this particular restaurant.
"The spaghetti." I said haughtily.
"You didn't?!?!?" She exclaimed.
"It's too late, we're getting married. If they don't like the fact that I eat spaghetti with only a fork they have to just lump it." I reasoned, hoping to convince myself as well. I knew perfectly well from the English girls at seminary that eating spaghetti involved the use of a spoon & a lot less slurping than I can manage, even when I am on my best, most polite behavior.
Of course my friend swooned like a proper English girl does, at least as far as reading Jane Austen has lead me to believe.
The wedding did go on, despite my slurping and my husband decided that the next best step was to unleash his loud, uncouth American bride on the community at home. So a mere three weeks after our wedding we were headed to Old Blighty. The local shul had hired him to lead the holiday davening and even marrying out of their culture wouldn't have gotten him out of it. I was duly introduced at shul so I could be inspected by all after services.
"HOW DO YOU LIKE ENGLAND?" A sweet, old-fashioned British gentlemen yelled slowly at me.
"It seems very nice." I lied. The weather had been dismal. "This is my first visit."
A look of shock crossed his face as he realized I could not only understand English, I spoke fairly fluently. He'd apparently made assumptions about what a Hispanic last named, Texan living in Israel could manage.
Of course it had helped that he'd spoken loudly and slowly. Often there was a five-ten second lag in the conversation as I processed, translated, then responded to something that was being said. In America I'm known for my quick responses. In England, for talking too quickly and thinking too slowly.
I was truly confused by the occasional word that I thought I knew until I learned it had a completely different meaning in England.
Chips are now fries. A vest is an undershirt and what I knew as a vest is a waistcoat.
"But if a jumper was a sweater, what is a jumper?" I asked puzzled.
For a man with a mother and a sister, I expected more than a blank look from the hubsters. I repeated my question to my mother-in-law and described the article I meant.
"You know, a sleeveless dress that is worn over a shirt" I explained hopefully. As a lover of words, having a hole in my vocabulary was disconcerting.
"Oh, you could call that a pinafore I suppose" was the best she could offer. Unfortunately they also call aprons pinafores or pinny's so it's not quite as satisfying as I'd hoped.
Later, as the birth of our first approached my in-laws offered to buy us a cot. As touched as I was by their generosity and gesture of love, I asked my husband if they wouldn't want to put that money towards a crib instead since a cot is used for such a short period of time; generally from birth to six months. He told me to bring it up next time I spoke with my MIL (never a good idea). One slightly strained, uncomfortable and confusing conversation later, I realized that in England a cot was a crib and a crib was a cot. I'm pretty sure that the Queen has it out for me!
I should have been given a full translating dictionary with my kesubah (religious marriage certificate).
(to be continued, without end it seems!)
Where do a fish and a bird get married? In Israel of course! Or at least that's a great place for a Texan and a Brit to wed. Both sets of parents flew in, but no siblings or extended family. I met his parents for the first time four days before the wedding. We had a nice meal, a chat, and all went well. Or so I thought until I sat giving the recap to a British girlfriend of mine.
"What did you eat?" She demanded, knowing full well what I ordered every time I visited this particular restaurant.
"The spaghetti." I said haughtily.
"You didn't?!?!?" She exclaimed.
"It's too late, we're getting married. If they don't like the fact that I eat spaghetti with only a fork they have to just lump it." I reasoned, hoping to convince myself as well. I knew perfectly well from the English girls at seminary that eating spaghetti involved the use of a spoon & a lot less slurping than I can manage, even when I am on my best, most polite behavior.
Of course my friend swooned like a proper English girl does, at least as far as reading Jane Austen has lead me to believe.
The wedding did go on, despite my slurping and my husband decided that the next best step was to unleash his loud, uncouth American bride on the community at home. So a mere three weeks after our wedding we were headed to Old Blighty. The local shul had hired him to lead the holiday davening and even marrying out of their culture wouldn't have gotten him out of it. I was duly introduced at shul so I could be inspected by all after services.
"HOW DO YOU LIKE ENGLAND?" A sweet, old-fashioned British gentlemen yelled slowly at me.
"It seems very nice." I lied. The weather had been dismal. "This is my first visit."
A look of shock crossed his face as he realized I could not only understand English, I spoke fairly fluently. He'd apparently made assumptions about what a Hispanic last named, Texan living in Israel could manage.
Of course it had helped that he'd spoken loudly and slowly. Often there was a five-ten second lag in the conversation as I processed, translated, then responded to something that was being said. In America I'm known for my quick responses. In England, for talking too quickly and thinking too slowly.
I was truly confused by the occasional word that I thought I knew until I learned it had a completely different meaning in England.
Chips are now fries. A vest is an undershirt and what I knew as a vest is a waistcoat.
"But if a jumper was a sweater, what is a jumper?" I asked puzzled.
For a man with a mother and a sister, I expected more than a blank look from the hubsters. I repeated my question to my mother-in-law and described the article I meant.
"You know, a sleeveless dress that is worn over a shirt" I explained hopefully. As a lover of words, having a hole in my vocabulary was disconcerting.
"Oh, you could call that a pinafore I suppose" was the best she could offer. Unfortunately they also call aprons pinafores or pinny's so it's not quite as satisfying as I'd hoped.
Later, as the birth of our first approached my in-laws offered to buy us a cot. As touched as I was by their generosity and gesture of love, I asked my husband if they wouldn't want to put that money towards a crib instead since a cot is used for such a short period of time; generally from birth to six months. He told me to bring it up next time I spoke with my MIL (never a good idea). One slightly strained, uncomfortable and confusing conversation later, I realized that in England a cot was a crib and a crib was a cot. I'm pretty sure that the Queen has it out for me!
I should have been given a full translating dictionary with my kesubah (religious marriage certificate).
(to be continued, without end it seems!)
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I could relate so much to this. I've written about this subject. My husband is white, grew up Orthodox in Los Angeles. I'm Hispanic, grew up Catholic in New York. Dating wasn't so complicated but marriage in the early years was because we realized that even though we were both speaking English, there was a lot we didn't understand based on class, cultural and race issues.
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