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.
One of the many joys of traveling is, of course, the opportunity to sample new food. But sometimes what seems new turns out to be familiar, just masquerading under another name. And sometimes I expect to see something familiar, only to be utterly flummoxed by what looks up at me from my plate.
I have noted before that towns in America seem remarkably bashful about telling you that you have just entered them. Shazza has since pointed out that rivers don’t seem anything like so shy. As she says, there’s no missing the Big Pee Dee River and the Little Pee Dee River.
While I’m away, I’m not checking my emails as much as usual. Today, however, I noted a missive that must be exciting everyone back on campus. It announced, as though this were good news:
The part for the elevator came in today and Otis will be out to install.