Entry #9: Reflections on this Quaint English Smalltown Life

I find it interesting that my first instinct in a new country is to flee the noise and the bustle to the sleepiness of small town life. I wouldn't call it regression, exactly; nevertheless, I spent sixteen years of my life living in a village the size of Sidmouth, and at least six of those counting down the years until I could escape to a bigger, more exhilarating venue. Yet, after five days in the crazy metropolis of London, I had my priorities sorted: I wanted to hike, I wanted to swim, wanted to purchase caffeinated drinks costing under two pounds and I wanted to work.

The expensive coffee is still an issue. They don't really do filtered coffee in Sidmouth.  I'm working on it. As for the rest, it's coming together quite nicely.

I got a second job at a small ice cream café (perfect place for a lactose-restricted girl!). I start later today. I'm not excessively worried about it, because operating a cash register and serving coffee/pastries is something I can do blindfolded.

The hotel job is something else altogether.

Whenever I apply for waitressing jobs--which has been often--I try to embellish my Tim Hortons experience to make it sound like I was almost kind of mostly being a waitress for the year I worked there. As it turns out, the very first time I actually get a waitressing job, it entails tasks that old Tims did not prepare me for in the least.

What do I know about serving three-course meals which mandate 7+ utensils per person? About wearing a white blouse (which I believe I'd never done until Wednesday evening past) and sweeping in and out of the sunset-laden dining room to the sound of Haydn's vivacious six-string sonatas? About overflowing stemmed-bowls of trifle and suet pudding? Well, I knew just about nothing, to be frank.

Truth? I'm really enjoying it. I like the hustle and bustle of restaurants, and I really like my colleagues. The other evening waitress is from Poland, and we both have noticeable foreign accents and expressions despite our best efforts. The night before last, when catching me in the act of doing a Bad Thing (I was carrying a full tray of wine glasses over a cutlery divider), she clutched at her heart, relieved me of the glasses, and scolded me: "Never do this nevermore." It may be strange, but different dialects are some of the things I enjoy the most about meeting people from everywhere. She's great.

My boss said I was starting off "exceptionally well," which is a relief considering how my last hotel job ended (but he doesn't know I was the one responsible for the sticky syrup spot on the dining room carpet last night. Oops).

Living here makes me feel like a character straight out of a Katherine Mansfield short story: very sure of her convictions and simultaneously a little foolish; clumsy and too talkative but overall acting only upon an overwhelming urge to be kind. Maybe it's the English air. I'm on-site for many of my favorite stories and novels, and I think that has an effect on how I act.

My impression of Devon is mixed: it is overwhelmingly Anglo-Saxon (a non-white person walking down the street will turn heads), a land of clotted cream and pretty seaside cottages, of extreme luxury and delusion. It's very easy to live in a town like Sidmouth and sink into the ground: ergo, forget  that poverty exists, that wars rage and global warming pervades, that children in the world walk barefooted on streets brimming with garbage. I think I can be happy here, for a time, but I could never stay.

Apologies for the digression. I'm really enjoying blogging and hope to hear more from my home folks. Let me know how you're doing! x