They are Americans, and they are twenty or thereabouts, and they have just landed in London to spend a year studying at the LSE. They have ventured from their dorm on Great Dover Street to the pub across the road to experience the wonder that is buying a beer without being asked for ID, and they are going through motions.
So, says the boy (big and blonde, was sporty in high school, pint of lager). Where are you from?
Well, says the girl (blonde and tall and slim, styled by J Crew, half pint of cider). I’m from Chicago. Near Chicago. A suburb.
Oh, says the boy. I’ve - I’ve flown through Chicago. You know, I had a connection there.
The girl does a sans-eye smile.
Uh huh, she says. So. What did you think of O’Hare?
It’s big, he says.
I could, I think, learn over, and tell them that I was just like them almost exactly seven years ago - when I landed in London, moved in to the same hideous dorm that they’re living in (I fled after four months), came to this pub (much less swish then) and had awkward chat with other awkward Americans who I then avoided (and vice versa) for the rest of the year. It will be all right, I could say. Look at me! I was in your shoes seven years ago and now I have actual friends in London and a mildly mid-Atlantic accent.
But I don’t. Because it won’t make it better.
