Everyone Needs an Algonquin

I don’t pledge my allegiance to just anyone, you know. Ever since the debacle which found me serving as President of the Mile High Club for a few months in 1989, I have been determined to thoroughly investigate any organization before signing up. After living in Britain for a while, I was given the opportunity to become a citizen. Before I submitted my application, I knew I should do some research.

As a keen bibliophile, I am a firm supporter of public libraries, particularly my local branch as it still has one of those gorgeous old oak card catalogs. Of course, it’s completely useless as a tool for finding books, so patrons have to rely on the staff’s photographic memory of every single shelf in the building. On the first day of my research, I met the head librarian, a charming, bespectacled chap called Sherlock Winnifred. I explained that I was hoping to understand Britain–its history, government, customs and culture—and needed it all wrapped up within four days as I was dashing off that weekend to give a lecture on my series of novels set at a women’s college in Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey. Mr Winnifred led me to a darkened room, where I spent the rest of the afternoon, combing through dusty tomes.

Despite the fact that I hail from the US, a youngish country still holding onto its girly figure, history is extremely important to me. Though I had had some knowledge of British history, of course–I’m not an idiot and don’t like your implication that I am–I was amazed by the tales I found in those books.  That room literally stank of time immemorial. And while I do not support violence, I must commend the various kings and queens for practicing their violence with such gusto. You’ve got to have a reluctant admiration for a king who loved animals so much that he executed his own son for looking at a chicken in a dastardly manner (as King Dingelbert did). Now I’m as red-white-and-blue as the next person, but let’s face it, America’s got nothing on England when it comes to history.

I also was enthralled by the rich culture of which the books spoke. I pored through the pages of wonderful literature; photographs of art, statues and photographs; and biographies of musicians and dancers. I hate to confess this, but I was previously unaware that it was a Brit who first discovered that applying oil paint to canvas rather than directly into one’s eyes allows for a more enjoyable and less blindingly painful experience of art. How different the optometry world would have been without him!

Although I was impressed with the majority of what I had read, I was still hesitant; it had always been my policy to back a winning team. I enjoyed living in the UK, but should I hitch my wagon in such an intimate way to a country whose star, many argued, was on the wane?

The following day as I was leaving the building, Mr Winnifred stopped me to check on my progress. I lauded his text recommendations, but apparently his lifelong work in a silent library had heightened his sensitivity to apprehension in a woman’s voice. He generously invited me to join him for a cup of tea and offered to fill in any gaps in my education (this is not a euphemism). I never pass up a chance to get inside a man’s head (again, not a euphemism), so I agreed to accompany him to his flat for a cuppa, a biscuit and first-hand evidence (euphemism) at why I should become British.

Sherl’s home was a mix of met expectations and intriguing surprises. The walls were lined with shelves of books and newspapers, yet I noticed that there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the shelves–Shakespeare sat next to Foucault–and a few texts were displayed backwards or upside down. There was a piano squeezed into one room, though he claimed he did not play.  The bedroom ceiling was cracked and stained yet, I later found out, decorated with glow-in-the-dark star-shaped details. I was captivated by the man’s mystery.

The visit began with the librarian’s retelling of his own biography. As an experienced member of the literati, I couldn’t help being bored by his childhood stories (early death of mother, verbal abuse by father, bullying at school, blah blah blah), but things finally picked up when he began explaining how his Britishness influenced his life as a man. His understanding of his nation’s past inspired him to look toward its future–and the role he would play in it. Perhaps the tea (did I mention that he filled the pot with an equal measure of whiskey?) had loosened his inhibition, but he ended his tale with the proposal that Britain’s future was now playing a key role in his own life by being the sole reason that his and my paths had crossed.

Needless to say, this comment quickly led to the removal of our clothes and a stumbling to his private chamber (my desire to politely accept compliments is not unrelated to my desire to get laid). It was here, ultimately, that I solidified my decision. A country that could arouse such devotion to cause an intelligent man to call out “God Save the Queen” at climax, well, that was a country I wanted to be a part of.

The day I officially converted, Sherl was by my side. It was quite a moving experience with a brief talk on the historical importance of our county, a round of applause after the official welcome, and a beautiful rendition by a local school’s orchestra of the National Anthem (though I confess I sang the words to “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” in my head). My bookish companion then took me for a walk through a museum, a fish and chip dinner and a quick shag in the backroom of a working man’s club–the most British of British evenings out.

Sadly, my commitment to my new country ultimately surpassed my commitment to my new paramour (his habit of over-sugaring the tea quickly became intolerable). But I often look back fondly on that brief encounter which played such an important part of making me the woman I know I am–part American, part British and completely certain that the men who sit in silence all day are the noisiest in the sack.

Tags: Citizenship, England, Librarians Like It Loud, Loyalty, US/UK