Hello yes I’d like to report an infraction of the ex-pat code.

Ok, thank you, yes. It was this evening, around 7pm, at the corner store a couple of blocks from my house? You know, the one run by the  brothers? The older one was was working tonight, he can provide a back-up account if you need one.

Anyway. I was picking up a couple of things — bottle of diet coke, some butter… not important. Though you should know that if you’re hankering after Dairy Milk Fruit & Nut, they have the big bars there. No idea why, no other British things, but those, for some reason? They have them! I know, right?!

Sorry yes. I called you, yes.
The report.

Oh yes it was extremely distressing. Apparently she was from … is this line secure?…ok.

…the Home Counties.

Yes no of course the fact she’s from the Home Counties isn’t problematic in itself. The problem is that I *know* that she is. No! She TOLD me!

Ok. I’m getting ahead of myself.

Here’s how it went down.

I was in the store, at the back of the store, by the fridges. I’d seen someone come in before me. Didn’t pay much mind, they were on their phone. But as I was finishing grabbing my stuff and heading up front, I heard her checking out and making small talk. I heard the flat vowels. A glottal stop. My ear pricked up.

Undeniably British.

I said nothing. As is the rule.

I watched her leave the counter and moved up to put my stuff on there. Noticed that she’d not left, but moved to the ATM machine by the door. I greeted (gret? grote.) the owner. “Hullo!”, I said, in a my more-British accent. “Howzitgoing?”.

I did As We Do. No more no less. I did what I am trained. I slightly increased my volume, and slightly played up my natural accent. So that, AS IS THE CODE OF THE SAN FRANCISCO EX PAT, she would recognise that she was in the presence of a fellow British person, silently. And she did. I saw from the corner of my eye, her posture change a little. She stiffened, her head turned slightly, mid cash-withdrawal.

“Ah, not bad. Could be worse. You?”

I made good smalltalk with the owner, using the great british shibboleth … “could be worse“.
She turned her shoulder this time. Looked more fully at me. I could see from the corner of my eye. I didn’t break.

“Bag? Nah, I’m good. I got my backpack.”

Even as I carried on with polite chit-chat, I knew I didn’t need to double-down on Britishisms. I’d totally nailed it with the could be worse. You know how you know. It’s the key. In this situation, it lets you establish who you are, and lets them know that you’ve recognised who they are, and that you want them to know that you know who they are and that you know they’ll know who you are, and does all this, WITHOUT EVER ACKNOWLEDGING THEM DIRECTLY EVER.

Yes thank you, I’ve studied hard.

 

Anyway. I paid up, and she finished at the ATM, and we ended up leaving at the same time.

That’s when it happened. We were walking in the same direction. She spoke immediately.

“You’re English, yeah?!” she said, in a pleasant, friendly, breezy way.

“Oh! Yes! You too? Huh I thought I might have heard a familiar accent but didn’t realise it was you” I replied, unconvincingly.

“Yes! I am! Where are you from?!” she enquired, both outrageously and illegally, and charming, earnest, and reasonably.

“London.” I said, trying not to freak out and scream about BUT DON’T YOU KNOW THE RULES! THE RUUUUUUUULES?! … “Well, I’ve lived all over, but London born and bred, Brighton last stop. What about you?”

“Large town in the Home Counties” she said, except she actually said the name of the large town in the Home Counties, but I’ve forgotten the name of it, because I had no idea where it was.

“I have no idea where that is!” I said. “Sorry, typical Inner-London kid, if it’s not a borough, I haven’t a clue where it might be.”

“Home Counties!” she said. “Somewhere in the Home Counties. No worries, I’d rather I didn’t know where it was either.” 

By the end of the short block we’d covered how long we’d been been here (7yrs (her) and 15, on and off (me)), visas, green cards, and, of course, the weather. Because we are, after all, British.

And then we parted ways, and said nothing more. She went up Page, I went up Buchanan, and that was that.

But… I just wanted to call it in.

Because she seemed very lovely, and I’m sure we’ll cross paths again. But before we do, and should one of the San Francisco Ex-Pat Enforcers catch up with her, I just thought maybe they should remind her of thing that we all, somehow, know and have weirdly, silently, stupidly agreed to all this time…

THE CODE

If you hear a British person, do not acknowledge them.
But by any means necessary, let them know that you’ve made them. Speak a little louder, enunciate a little clearer. If in a playground with your child, summon them in clipped tone. If you’re ordering at the bar, ask the barperson if they have any crisps. Or if you’re already eating crisps, say “MMM, SALT AND VINEGAR! BLIMEY, I SAY ETC! SHAME IT’S NOT CHEESE AND ONION THO, WHAT?”

If you fall into conversation with them, talk about literally anything BUT the fact that you are both British.
If you have been in conversation with them with over 20 minutes, you are permitted to ask the question “When did you move out here?“, and receive an answer. That will be the extent of the conversation about being British that you are allowed upon first meeting.

You will not mention being British directly for at least three more social encounters.
Because what are you, gauche or something?

… yes sorry I know you know what the code is. I was just saying that I know what the code is.

I mean… I don’t know WHY the code is, but I know what it is. But not why it exists. Ha haha.

Hahaha.

…Actually, since I have you on the line… if you wouldn’t mind… if it’s not an impolite question…

Why IS the code what it is? There is a reason, right?!

Right?

 

…Hullo?