I've had the extraordinary pleasure this past week of meeting Southerners who are just like Northerners; good people who speak their minds and and care little for what you do -- but are more impressed by personality than profligacy.
Where are these pseudo-Northerners? They are in the South of North America. Confused yet? That's New Orleans, Louisianna ... or NOLA for you afficionados of the acronym.
Now, historically, the folks 'down there' don't like the English much. A big argument that goes back three hundred years and comes from the city being built by French and Spanish settlers who were sold a property scam by an Irishman and were determined to keep this swampy bit of The Americas all to themselves. Fair enough. There's even a spot on the Mississippi called 'Turning Point' where the French Captain told the Captain of an English Vessel looking to drop anchor not to bother ... so the English turned away. I have several such turning points around Yorkshire but usually because I can't be bothered to keep searching for chocolate so not quite so politically significant! Anyway, fair enough and well-played. But they do like much that the English like -- including noise, revelry, alcohol and fried food ... the latter two are oft-ascribed to Northerners.
Similiarly, these NOLA-Northerners are used to their counterparts in the opposite part of the country taking pleasure in pinning labels on them of slow, dumb or poor on account of their accents. I have empathy with this. On countless occasions I have had people feel inspired to adopt a 'thick Northerner' accent when they learn where I live and to be surprised that I don't spend my days scrubbing front steps or the mucky faces of my progeny -- but infact am reasonably well-read, well-travelled and well-rounded. And no, that's not me circling back to the fastfood again.
I am always somewhat bemused by the way that people draw conclusions about you based on where you're from ... isn't where you're heading the more interesting part of the story? Furthermore, impersonating someone and expecting less of them based on their accent is surely a form of bullying and while not racism it is regional-ism. I get told I am 'chippy' about this ... but if you saw someone being picked on for the colour of their skin you'd step in; what about the colour of their communication?
I struggled this week with the pace of the chat ... I loved the drawl and respect of the 'yes ma'am' and learned a lot about just taking a little longer to show courtesy and not be so reactive. Partly the strong Louisianna sun, partly the desire to slow down and enjoy life a little more contributed to this. And it was all marinated in a lot of alcohol (with even a 'to-go' cup to ensure you didn't even have to walk between establishments without booze-in-hand). But as a charming Southern Belle explained to me at a chichi Charles Avenue lawn party, "these folks start off being all about what they do and are constantly on their smart phones in the middle of the Superbowl ... we just let them know that we don't care about all that stuff ... who dat?".
Which just serves to remind me how good it is to come home; to put feet on soil where you're known for you - not for what you do. And it doesn't matter what accent you hear 'Welcome Home' in ... just that you hear it.
Monday, 28 March 2011
Monday, 28 February 2011
Hair today -- gone tomorrow
Contrary to popular belief that we are uncouth, obese, benefit-dependent ladies -- procreating to literally 'bump' our way up the council house list (and unashamedly using several sires to do so), I want to make something very plain about being pretty.
Northern women are very glamorous.
And that's glamorous with a big-tousled capital G.
I have found my relocation from the 'moneybelt' SouthEast to be quite intimidating in this regard. Let me take you through a typical day in my seemingly unprepossessing coastal town which has far more in common with my-my mademoiselles than you might think ...
0845: The Schoolgate Senoras
All the latest fashions, full make-up before the caffiene has kicked-in.
A bounty of beauties.
1000: The Arrival of the Domestic Goddess
Here comes the housekeeper -- all 5ft 8 dynamism-in-a-d-cup! With stories of drama and dances in her wake she uses a body that Giselle would die-for to power around the house sorting out the family's detritus and various unrepeatable doggy disasters without a blink of a false-eyelashed eye. (Clearly 'Pam' deserves an extra-long paragraph here for commitment to the cause, because next to GrannyNanny she is the most important person in my life to keep onside as without her the entire setup would unravel.)
A cacophony of capability.
1400: The Car-Park Countess
Bump into pal while parking at the local garden centre, deluding myself that Hunters and no-mascarra is perfectly acceptable when collecting compost. No. Even regaling torrid tales of house-moving ... one of the most lamentable of life's occasions ... she is perfectly turned-out. Not a hair out of place, no sign of raised blood pressure from the situational stress is affecting her silky skin.
A pulchritudinous perfection.
1600: The Super Singer
Emailed by friend about organising a Spring Ball. I know that on the other end of the keypad-cyberspace-relationship there taps a perfectly manicured hand, owned by a charismatic, ever-calm Supermum who is artful dealing with any situation and always appropriately-accessorized to boot.
A diplomatic diva.
2000: The Literary Lovelies
Surrounded by women who are super-fit, funky and funny. And every single one of them has fantastic hair. Just not fair.
The heavenly hirsutes.
The link between them all -- it's the hair. No doubt about it. This truly is a county of crowning glory -- which makes my frizzle-drizzle apology of a mop seek out a decent hat. I noticed it quite early on. The women UpNorth have seriously smashing styles, fabulous follicles, and ne'er a bad hair day in sight. And they make no apologies for keeping up appearances. There are 13 hairdressers in just 4 streets in this town and during my (pathetic) annual trip to the salon I ask the owner how they have the time and the money to always be perfectly coiffured? The answer -- "women here would rather get up at 6am and go without food before they go without getting their hair done!".
I shuffle out, head held low in shame.
I read somewhere that hair is the only thing that you wear everyday so it be the item you spend the most on. Note to self: if I don't want to be hair-today, cast-out tomorrow then the just-dried, colour-gone, kooky look just won't cut it up here!
Northern women are very glamorous.
And that's glamorous with a big-tousled capital G.
I have found my relocation from the 'moneybelt' SouthEast to be quite intimidating in this regard. Let me take you through a typical day in my seemingly unprepossessing coastal town which has far more in common with my-my mademoiselles than you might think ...
0845: The Schoolgate Senoras
All the latest fashions, full make-up before the caffiene has kicked-in.
A bounty of beauties.
1000: The Arrival of the Domestic Goddess
Here comes the housekeeper -- all 5ft 8 dynamism-in-a-d-cup! With stories of drama and dances in her wake she uses a body that Giselle would die-for to power around the house sorting out the family's detritus and various unrepeatable doggy disasters without a blink of a false-eyelashed eye. (Clearly 'Pam' deserves an extra-long paragraph here for commitment to the cause, because next to GrannyNanny she is the most important person in my life to keep onside as without her the entire setup would unravel.)
A cacophony of capability.
1400: The Car-Park Countess
Bump into pal while parking at the local garden centre, deluding myself that Hunters and no-mascarra is perfectly acceptable when collecting compost. No. Even regaling torrid tales of house-moving ... one of the most lamentable of life's occasions ... she is perfectly turned-out. Not a hair out of place, no sign of raised blood pressure from the situational stress is affecting her silky skin.
A pulchritudinous perfection.
1600: The Super Singer
Emailed by friend about organising a Spring Ball. I know that on the other end of the keypad-cyberspace-relationship there taps a perfectly manicured hand, owned by a charismatic, ever-calm Supermum who is artful dealing with any situation and always appropriately-accessorized to boot.
A diplomatic diva.
2000: The Literary Lovelies
Surrounded by women who are super-fit, funky and funny. And every single one of them has fantastic hair. Just not fair.
The heavenly hirsutes.
The link between them all -- it's the hair. No doubt about it. This truly is a county of crowning glory -- which makes my frizzle-drizzle apology of a mop seek out a decent hat. I noticed it quite early on. The women UpNorth have seriously smashing styles, fabulous follicles, and ne'er a bad hair day in sight. And they make no apologies for keeping up appearances. There are 13 hairdressers in just 4 streets in this town and during my (pathetic) annual trip to the salon I ask the owner how they have the time and the money to always be perfectly coiffured? The answer -- "women here would rather get up at 6am and go without food before they go without getting their hair done!".
I shuffle out, head held low in shame.
I read somewhere that hair is the only thing that you wear everyday so it be the item you spend the most on. Note to self: if I don't want to be hair-today, cast-out tomorrow then the just-dried, colour-gone, kooky look just won't cut it up here!
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