COLUMN: Stranger in a strange land

From Daniel Feinberg's, "The Fien Print: London Cast," Fall '98 From Daniel Feinberg's, "The Fien Print: London Cast," Fall '98Cultural Exchange Trivia Question: Q: How do you know that you are an American in the UK?From Daniel Feinberg's, "The Fien Print: London Cast," Fall '98Cultural Exchange Trivia Question: Q: How do you know that you are an American in the UK?A: If you laughed when BBC commentator Barry Norman compared Helen Hunt beating the four Brits for the Oscar to the Americans conquering the British in the Revolutionary War. From Daniel Feinberg's, "The Fien Print: London Cast," Fall '98Cultural Exchange Trivia Question: Q: How do you know that you are an American in the UK?A: If you laughed when BBC commentator Barry Norman compared Helen Hunt beating the four Brits for the Oscar to the Americans conquering the British in the Revolutionary War.Q:How do you know you're a Canadian?From Daniel Feinberg's, "The Fien Print: London Cast," Fall '98Cultural Exchange Trivia Question: Q: How do you know that you are an American in the UK?A: If you laughed when BBC commentator Barry Norman compared Helen Hunt beating the four Brits for the Oscar to the Americans conquering the British in the Revolutionary War.Q:How do you know you're a Canadian?A: When the only way you can deal with 11 Titanic Oscars is to keep repeating that Jim Cameron is also from the Land Where Ice Was Born. And it doesn't take much to set it off. Last week, all we had to do was try to go to a concert. We left in a group of six at 7:30. All Americans. The Brits don't have even an inkling of who the Squirrel Nut Zippers are and they could not be convinced to join from any dormitory hall. Anyway, we went down to Camden Town, got off the tube and started up a street, whereupon we began the silly American farce. We had no idea where we were going. At every turn we ran into a group of similarly dressed Americans with a similar objective. In a very folkloric sense, everybody had their own "friend of a friend" tale as to where the theatre was. Some of the groups gelled together in quiet desperation, while others floated off like renegade armies hoping for bragging rights, or at least to get to the venue ahead of the rest of us. Like snakes one day after St. Patrick's Day, our numbers grew and grew until there were nearly 100 of us speaking with differing accents, with the unifying trait that the accents were all American. Southerners. New England kids. All college students, generally similarly attired. All looking for the Cecil Sharp House, the concert's locale. Well, our problem may have been that we just weren't asking for the right place. Or at least not by the right name. When we finally arrived at our destination, we found ourselves at The English Folk Dance and Song Society building. It was hard to believe that a band that has sold over one million records in the States and produced MTV and radio staples was slated to play a gig at a building that looked mysteriously like a junior high school, with murals on the walls, class lists on bulletin boards and group pictures. But there we were. Memories of dances, with Aerosmith's "Angel" as a last song (dancing with Frances Ramberg?!), decked with streamers and a refreshment table flooded back. Yet this refreshment table sold beer and the beer cost a ton of money. For a minute, we were grown-ups again. But that feeling dissipated immediately as we walked into the concert hall itself. It may as well have been a gym, with high ceilings, wooden floors and a disco ball. There were benches on all sides, and the temptation to pull guys to one side and girls to the other (to sit until one side worked up the courage to propose a dance) became overwhelming. Strangely, nobody gave in. Two of the people I was with had logged a combined 13 concerts and they were eager to be in the front row for the show. So we sat on the edge of the risers in front of the makeshift stage, observing the huge speakers and wondering about their relevance in a hall which would only hold 400 people. At that moment, they were blaring '40s and '50s big band and swing music, and toward the back of the floor, obviously skilled professionals were dancing away, swinging like maniacs. The automatic response was to think back to Swingers, for these dancers were clearly "money." Thus successfully executed amazing twists and turns, with dancing shoes and short skirts twirling. Dipping. Jumping. Preening. But resignation replaced amazement as they walked around the hall handing out their cards for spectacularly expensive lessons. A good deal for them, no doubt. Finally, an announcer came out. With a ringing Irish accent, he welcomed us, making it clear that he was unused to so many Americans being in his building. And on they came... Sometimes, the actual concert fades away. The people you're with, the things that come before, the little missteps along the way, do far more to shape your memories. The band is often best served as a compliment to a great experience. An American experience? Yah. I didn't want to do it. But sometimes, these things just happen.