Talking to strangers

The UK is a small place.

Having seen the vast distances in the US, where the distance from horizon to horizon is the distance from my home to my Brother's, I realise how small.

I don't see my brother much because of the distance.

Well, the distance and because we've drifted apart. I think the continental drift started the night my Father died. I went to pick him up to go to the hospital, and he offered his hand in a handshake. I ignored it and hugged him, but could feel drift begin even then, inexorable but definite.

So given the lack of size, it amazes me sometimes the huge differences even a few miles can make in regional personality and behaviour.

A few months ago, I went on my annual road trip with my daughters. Each year, we pack a bag, and set off, following our noses (a not difficult task in my case), stopping for the night in hotels wherever we may be, letting them enjoy the thrill of the things I take for granted in my life - room service, free sewing kits and shower gel, notepads and branded pencils. I remember their excitement the first time I confirmed they could keep them, along with the credit-card sized keys.

Now, experienced travellers that they are, they take them for granted.

Innocence lost.

We ended up in Blackpool. It's sort of like Las Vegas, but without the class.

Or entertainment

Or anything else particularly.

But that's where we ended up. Why were we up there? Because my youngest, bless her, when asked where she wanted to go, replied:

"Can we go anywhere?"

"Anywhere within reason, yes."

"Cool. Can we go to Manchester?"

"Manchester? Why on earth do you want to go there????"

Turned out a friend had been to the shopping centre there and told her it was "amazing"

It's not. It's a mall. But that's where we ended up and so from there to Blackpool seemed like a good idea.

What has this to do with anything? Well, not a lot, but I have found that in a blog, it's hard to keep to the point. So forgive me.

Anyway, both the girls were stunned by the different accents, the slower pace and different nature of the people they met up there. Particularly, how chatty and friendly everyone was.

They were also amazed by how their Dad was so chatty too, talking to complete strangers, immersing himself in conversations with complete strangers.

And that's my point. In the US, you get regional differences, noticeable changes in accent from State to State, region to region, with personalities seemingly growing out of the earth. I've been to New England and met people who wouldn't p*ss on you if you were on fire, and I've chatted to a Navajo indian at the side of a desert road as if he was an old friend and found that he had visited Great Yarmouth.

But that's another story.

But in England, less than 50 miles can mean a different attitude, accent and view on life.

So here I sit in Belfast, in a lonely hotel room, wondering whether to order room service or go to the pub (can't afford the hotel restaurant), and looking back on a day of chatting to the lovely Irish people I've met. This place is my secret - nobody else from work comes here, because they all think it's a war zone.

Why do they think that?

I couldn't POSSIBLY say, unless somebody, somebody who wants to keep the secret to himself, somebody devious has told them that.

People here are nice. They chat, they laugh, they smile. How they had so much trouble for so long I don't understand. How can you get on so well with a stranger, yet hate your next door neighbour enough to kill him?

I like talking to strangers. They are interesting, you can't guess what they are going to say. Sometimes you can't UNDERSTAND what they say, but that's ok too.

Best of all, they haven't heard my jokes.

And some of them are nice enough to laugh, which makes them friends.

Odd that, isn't it?