When I decided to spend a few months in New England, I wondered how different it would prove to be from living in Florida. Obviously, I was expecting the weather to be much more pleasant at this time of year. And so it has proved. Another big difference has been the food.
I haven’t watched much TV while I’ve been away, but I did catch a game on the opening weekend of the new English Premier League football season. One of the adverts caught my eye particularly.
I don’t know whether everybody else does this too, but I have developed several rules of thumb to be relied upon whenever I meet someone new. One of these is: “Never trust a person who can’t spell or pronounce their own name.”
It’s a well-known fact that everything in the US is bigger than the equivalent in the UK. Except for Dorset. And Manchester. And, curiously enough, eggs. American hens must be quite slim, lithe things that are out running at 4.30am in the morning, while their British cousins are still slobbing about in bed, because “extra large” hens’ eggs in the US would only qualify as “large” at best in the UK.
Some readers probably think that I have a tendency to exaggerate the language issues involved in communications I have with Americans. But any Brit living in the US will be able to provide a long list of such examples. So will Australians, for that matter.
After a wonderful couple of weeks in the middle of the Green Mountains of Vermont, Strudel and I have now decanted to Maine for the next two weeks. I have no idea where we’ll be going next. All the maps and signs are so confusing that it’s difficult to know which way to turn.
I’ve been musing with a few people about where Strudel and I should go next, after our time in Vermont runs out. Cathy was keen to make a case for New Jersey. But I think that state is a bit schizophrenic.
I have mentioned before that neither Strudel nor I are much into hiking. But we do venture on a reasonably brisk perambulation twice a day.
I have noted before that, these days, everything needs sponsorship. What I neglected to mention, however, is that everything needs a theme song too. Despite that omission, I have been ruminating on the matter for the past few days.
As Linda had told me it would, the drive up from St. Petersburg took around 24 hours in all. Most of the trip was actually quite pleasant. No doubt this was partly because I took her advice about the route. But I was also impressed by the road construction idiom that most of the highways had adopted.