Culture Shock

Back in 1993, my wife Vannessa (known to me, but not to her, as the Amazon Queen), won a Green Card in the US Government Lottery. She quit her high-flying job as an investment banker in London and decided that we should move to Phoenix. I, her long-suffering husband of over 20 years, was brought along too, rather like excess baggage.

We had previously visited Phoenix in late November, when the temperatures hovered around a pleasant seventy-five degrees. Knowing little of Arizona’s scorching summers, we decided to migrate from England in July. Landing at Sky Harbor in the early evening, we soon realized that summer in England, when a really hot day could see the thermometer hitting the eighty degree mark, had not really prepared us for the heat.

I was wearing a 3-piece suit over a white shirt and tie, which was normal for me when traveling. This was not so much to advertise the fact that I was an English gentleman; it was more in the hope that I might get a free upgrade to Business Class. Despite my protests that I was a close friend of Prince Charles, my request for an upgrade was scornfully ignored. The result of this was that we were herded by the flight attendant into the back of the plane, in Steerage with the rest of the peasants and poor people.

The flight itself was normal, which is to say that the food was of a standard unequaled since the days of the Borgias. We also had the usual screaming baby being unsuccessfully restrained by its mother in the seat opposite. There was also the regular contingent of nuns on board, which led me to wonder if perhaps the Pope subsidizes his foreign trips by using the air miles gathered by the jet-setting sisters.

However, I digress. After we had retrieved our cases from the baggage claim area, we went to rent a car. Approaching the counter, I asked the salesperson for a 4-door model, preferably one made in America. He quoted me an excellent price for a two week rental, and I began to fill out the forms. Being a simple soul, I was unaware that the price quoted did not include state tax, county tax, collision damage waiver and a fee for use of the turn indicators. Wiping a tear from my eye, I listened to my credit card scream in agony as it was cruelly wiped through the machine. Eventually, I signed (in two places) and initialed (in three places) a form only slightly shorter than the Declaration of Independence. I was then handed a set of keys and informed where the car was to be found.

During the walk to the rental car parking area, I had the feeling that the long hike from baggage claim to the car was a subtle way of giving weary passengers some healthy exercise. We eventually arrived at the top level of the parking lot, and emerged into bright sunshine. The heat soon made me break into a sweat, (“But it’s a DRY heat!”) and I was glad I only had three suitcases to carry. On the other hand, the Amazon Queen merely smiled and looked cool and fresh as she shifted her tiny Gucci purse from one shoulder to another.

Finding the car, which to me, used to smaller European cars, seemed to be the size of the USS Nimitz, I opened the trunk and put the cases inside. I then moved to open the door. “Thanks,” the Amazon Queen said, “the driver sits on the other side.” I told her that I knew that and moved to the other side, opened the door and got inside. Closing the door, I had an idea of what hothouse orchids must feel, for the temperature inside must have been over 120°, and the sweat began to trickle down my back.

I inserted the ignition key and started the motor, which fired at once. Grabbing the steering wheel, I gave a loud scream as my hands suffered 3rd degree burns on the plastic. “Is it hot?” my wife inquired innocently. I suppressed the urge to tell her that no, I was merely embedding my hand prints in the plastic wheel as a permanent record of my visit to the United States. Luckily, I found the air conditioning and switched it to maximum, which soon filled the car with cold air.

We were by then both feeling hungry, so we decided to eat before heading for the hotel. After numerous wrong turnings and three circuits of Sky Harbor, we eventually spotted a restaurant and pulled into the parking lot. Going inside, we were greeted by a charming young lady who asked if we wanted a table. I started to reply that no, we’d prefer to have a meal, but was quickly silenced by a wifely elbow to the ribs. We were eventually shown to a table, and sat down to study the menu. This seemed to list a huge variety of breakfasts, despite the fact that it was well after 10 PM. Deciding on a light meal, we waited for a server to appear. At last, a young man turned up and proceeded to take our order.

We had both selected a meal of bacon and eggs, but were amazed at the interrogation we received from the server. It was like twenty questions: we were asked how we liked the eggs; did we want the bacon crispy or regular; were we having pancakes, biscuit or toast, and what would we like to drink. Having successfully passed the quiz test, we ordered tea. “Do you want iced tea?’ the server asked. “ICED?” I thundered. “Ice is what sank the Titanic!” I followed my tirade by ordering hot tea for two.

A few minutes later, the tea arrived. At least, two mugs eventually arrived, filled to the brim with lukewarm water. These had a tag hanging out, attached to a string, which, on closer inspection, turned out to be tea bags. I rolled my eyes at the Amazon Queen. We are both, being English, tea drinkers, and used to a brew that is strong enough in which to stand up a spoon. The drink we had been served was a transparent liquid, which was, after we persuaded the server to drop in another two tea bags each, reasonably refreshing.

As we ate the meal, we looked at each other, both wondering what our new life in Arizona would be like. The Amazon Queen was optimistic and looking forward to moving into a new home, having a new job, driving around in a pickup truck and learning how to chew tobacco. I was a little more subdued. Did they have real tea here? Will I have to start drinking coffee?