With The Legal Alien – Monthly Musings from an Englishman in LA
By Darren Darnborough
I’m afraid that I may have to stop writing to you all soon – I am just far too busy being American.
I recently realised, with a hard and upsetting thud, that I am no longer new and exciting in the land of Los Angeles. I’ve now been here five months, and am sorry to say that I think I might have acclimatised. It came to me the other day whilst standing in Starbucks. I placed my order, paid the bill, received my order, and it was correct. Eh? I didn’t have to repeat myself. I looked at the name written on the cup. “Darren” it said. Not “Devon”. Not “Derek”.
I frantically looked around, and realised that the coffee shop was full of people, yet not one of them had asked “Oh my god, where are you from?” Not even a smidgen of “I love your accent….”
I ran to the restroom – arrgh! – toilet, and stared at myself in the mirror.
Yes, I was technically the same person, but my skin was sunkissed. I had more freckles. My hair was blonde. I was wearing sunglasses! Inside!
As I walked back out to the patio on Sunset Boulevard, yoga mat in one hand and Grande Skinny Soy Iced Chai Sugar-free Latte in the other, I came to terms with myself. I had become a Californian. There was no going back.
I say “warder” by default when I want a glass of the wet stuff. I take a pee in the restrooms. I go on hikes to keep fit. I complain about the smog. I complain about the rising price of gas, even though it’s a quarter of the price of England. Even the fact I call it gas in the first place! I know Governor Schwarzenegger jokes. I get annoyed if I go to parties and there isn’t a free bar. I get excited when I don’t see a celebrity. I drive to my neighbours house. I don’t always have the top down in my convertible. The other day, I was wearing a t-shirt under a shirt under a sweatshirt when it was 75 degrees!
When I go anywhere, I’ve stopped adopting the goggle-eyed stance of a tourist. I don’t say hello to everyone I pass. I do say “have a nice day” and mean it. I know what Lindsay Lohan’s really up to. My group of friends are all in the entertainment business. I think of the cost of things in dollars and don’t currency-convert in my head on every purchase. I tip well. I “pop” to Vegas (it’s a 5 hours drive!). I’m used to hanging out round someone’s pool. I keep telling my friends back home the endings of movies.
In one sense, it does feel nice to be settled, and to fit in. In another sense, I miss my newness. I feel like a small excitable puppy that suddenly got big. I actually caught myself telling people that I’d been here 3 weeks, well into my third month. It just sounds more interesting, and their response is far more appealing – everybody wants a piece of the new guy in town.
The final emancipation of my Englishness from this new American body came with a crunch at a mate’s birthday a few days ago. We decided to give him the bumps which, to the bar manager of this trendy but definitely not rowdy Hollywood bar, translated as a mass brawl; the result of which was us all getting kicked out. A few weeks back, I’d have been bothered, as this would scupper my plans of meeting everyone in the bar on my quest to meet everyone in Los Angeles. Not any more, which is a shame, as I believe I only had 274 left to meet.
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