Let me warn you: this post is going to be a really long one. London means so many things to me that it's hard to sum up in a few lines.
I first arrived in London in the summer of 1998. I had been studying English for some years at High School, as well as at the local Official School of Languages and a language academy, and I thought it was time to experience the real thing. I made it through an agency that provided you rooms for rent and job offers in London in exchange for a fee. If you're new to the country, these companies are a good choice. Once you get to know how to get along on your own, you no longer need them.
They found me a room in an area called Shepherd's Bush, in the Borough of Hammersmith and Fulham. I liked the place; it was peaceful, full of small and interesting shops, with a public library close by, and not too far from the city centre. I was given a few addresses where I could apply for a job; after a couple of attempts, I got a job as a "commis waiter", which meant I was assistant to the waiter. I had come to London to put into practice my English speaking skills, and I needed to have a job, as I couldn't make my money last two months. I didn't consider myself a student anyway. The linguistic experience was just an excuse; I had flown to the UK looking for adventure in a foreign country, where I would have to fend for myself for the first time in my life. At twenty-four years old I was no longer a kid, but this was to be my first vital experience away from my parents' home.
So I started working at Sofra Restaurant, Mayfair branch. I knew London wasn't the best choice for someone trying to improve his language skills, but I would have never guessed to what extent this was true. There were no British people there!! The restaurant was Turkish, so of course the staff were mainly Turkish (most of them Kurdish), the manager was New Zealander, and the rest of us were a mixture of nationalities: Spanish, French, Italian, Algerian, Swedish, Egyptian, Filipino. But no one from the UK!
I came to use English quite often, but my speech didn't improve as much as I would have liked, as the people I spoke to were usually non-native. Soon I realized that you have to get out of your country to appreciate how well English language is taught. Back in Spain I had been top of the class; I thought that I mastered BBC English. But when I arrived in London, I found to my dismay that nobody spoke that language! For example, I had been taught to say "not at all" when someone said "thank you" to me. But the first time I used the expression, people found it really weird, and told me that I should say "you're welcome" instead. Oh. Then why on earth do they teach you that in Spain? We have a problem with English teaching in Spain: the required level is not especially high; with just a little effort they reward you with good grades, and you finish High School thinking that your language skills are marvellous (and they're not), when in countries like Sweden or Croatia their spoken English is close to perfection.
Work at the restaurant was OK. It was hard and stressful, but fun anyway. There were a few other Spaniards working with me, which meant that we didn't use English too often, but we had a great time. The restaurant was quite close to Buckingham Palace, so the customers we got were mainly tourists, who came from all over the world. Another good thing about the restaurant was the food: they specialized in Mediterranean cuisine (mostly Turkish and Greek) and it tasted good. My first wage at work was a ten-pound note, my part of the weekly tips. But for me it wasn't just a banknote, it was the first amount of money that I had earned in a foreign country, on my own, without any help from my family! I still keep that banknote, and I will treasure it forever...
There were a few things about life in Britain and London in particular that I found curious, some even shocking. The main thing was, of course, the weather. How can there possibly be a place where it's hot maybe for one week in a whole year? Everyday you had that persistent drizzle that is not intense enough to justify the use of an umbrella but makes you wet all the same. Londoners solve this problem by wearing some waterproof clothing and no umbrella. Sometimes I got the feeling that they didn't even notice it was raining! Also, it hardly ever rains properly there; I mean, there are very few storms, they have very few chances to say "it's raining cats and dogs!". The daylight hours were also a shock to me: the sun set very early, but then at maybe four in the morning it dawned! At six you had plenty of people on the streets, and at seven the sun was so high on the sky that it seemed midday. Just crazy!
Of course, you had the usual array of things the British do in a different way: driving on the left, pints instead of litres, pounds and ounces instead of grammes and kilos, miles instead of kilometres, pub closing time... but there were other things that were new to me: spirits served in exact quantities (in Spain they do it roughly), cemeteries meant for people to have a stroll, milk in plastic bottles in the supermarket's fridges, banana milkshakes instead of vanilla ones, a vast majority of cars with sunroofs (I guess that was due to the weather. If the sun gets out just occasionally, then you need to be able to enjoy the sunrays whenever that happens), traffic lights that change from yellow to red and then from red to yellow before passing on to green, and second-hand bookshops. I adored these establishments; as a book lover, Charing Cross Road was paradise to me: it was full of bookshops. The cheapest (and oldest) books were usually in the basement; I used to spend hour after hour happily immersed among heaps of old but interesting-looking books. And they were so cheap! Once I bought a book from about 1850 for 50p, and on another occasion I bought a six-tome collection from around 1790 for a fiver. Of course they weren't bestsellers, but in Spain any old book is going to be expensive just because of its age.
After just two months I returned to Spain, with my suitcase full of clothing, souvenirs, old books, interesting experiences and a strong determination to return there soon.
I'm in favour of all those laws that are meant to protect us, like the prohibition to drink and drive, the obligation to respect the speed limits or the need to have a current MOT certificate. They make sense: if you abide by these laws, you're safer and the people around you are safer too. But then there are other laws which I don't understand completely: you must have your seatbelt on, when driving a car, or your helmet, when driving a motorbike. Here, the only person in danger is the driver, so these measures address his or her own safety. But why does it have to be compulsory? I mean, if you want to drive around without wearing a seatbelt and don't mind to die if you have an accident, why shouldn't you? You're not very likely to kill anyone with your head when you're thrown up in the air anyway.
