Where Are You From?
Recently, I took advantage of the strong Australian dollar (I’m sorry, it still feels weird saying that) and took an overdue trip to the United States with my girlfriend. We were going for a holiday, but primarily to see New York. New York, New York, the town so nice, they named it twice. In fact, I’m glad it wasn’t named this century, as otherwise there’s a chance I could’ve spent twenty-one hours sitting next to a retired seaman who looked like Gus Mercurio, flying to a place called York 2.0.
I think it’s the only city on the planet that has more Irish pubs per block than does Dublin. Albeit, Irish pubs that screen a lot of ice hockey; a sport not as popular in Ireland as curling or liver poisoning. I found it very exciting just physically being in New York. The skyscrapers are a constant reminder of the bustling, legendary metropolis you’re in, and, in case you forget for more than two seconds that you’re in the United States, there’s always an American flag there to remind you. And there’s another one. Ooh, there’s two. Next to the other two.
Part of the excitement and glamour of being there is the possibility of star spotting. We were embarrassingly giddy when we walked past a scene from Ugly Betty being filmed in our hotel foyer. OK, it’s no Manhattan or even a Mickey Blue Eyes, but it was something to be excited about. Kinda. Well, definitely in contrast with home. I’m positive no one is visiting Melbourne and finding their heart is skipping a beat from seeing Shane Bourne identify a ‘perp’ in Docklands. Sorry, I’m happy with my hometown, but I’ll take an America Ferrera spotting over a Nadine Garner one any day.
Of course, this experience paled in comparison with the ones we had on the west coast of America, the home of star-spotting. When we made a brief visit to Los Angeles, we took in the guilty-pleasure-like Tour of the Stars’ Homes. Which was all line-and-length, creepily touring the facades of Jennifer Lopez’s house ... then Al Pacino’s house... then Barbra Streisand’s house ... and then, for some curious reason, the tour operator stopped so we could take pictures of the house of ... Gavin McLeod. Yes, the captain of The Love Boat. It was sore-thumb territory. The rest of the bus looked bemused, having no idea who he was: I was the sole early-eighties aficionado. I said, ‘Um, hang on. Isn’t Gavin McLeod dead?’ The tour operator chirpily confirmed this. ‘So,’ I said, ‘we’re having a look at a house of a guy that no one knows ... and he doesn’t even live there anymore?’ The bus driver replied with ‘The next house is Harrison Ford’s,’ and swiftly moved on. Then, across the border in Vegas, we saw massive billboards advertising casinos featuring both Rita Rudner and The Amazing Johnathan. Yes, Vegas is where old Hey Hey favourites go to die.
When we were in New York, my girlfriend was very keen to find the cupcake store made famous in Sex and the City. Finally, we found it in Bleecker Street, and after she wolfed down her first two, I began to wonder if she’d actually ever seen an episode of the show and we’d simply been on a two-hour quest to find dessert. My suspicion was given further weight when we then began a journey to buy gelati from the ‘legendary’ ice creamery she swears she saw in a background shot in Short Circuit 2.
Another New York attraction I was keen to see was Woody Allen. It’s well known that he plays clarinet in a jazz band at a pub every Monday night, in one of the most famous movie star/band combinations of all time (just behind Keanu Reeves and Dogstar). Woody didn’t even go to the Oscars when he won for Annie Hall, in order to play jazz with his ensemble. I looked up the gig on the web, read the details, then decided not to go. The night that Woody Allen plays clarinet (which, let’s remember, is not where his talent primarily lies) entry costs US$110. This goes on every week. That’s when I realised why he doesn’t go to the Oscars. He is paid better to play clarinet. The sort of money to be made playing woodwind can adopt you a lot of wives.
Something I was personally looking out for was the clichéd ‘rude New Yorker’. But I was quite surprised by how polite the locals were. I was tensed, ready for blaring taxi horns, for being brushed into traffic by huge shoulder pads, or maybe garbage being thrown out of a twentieth-floor apartment onto me ... but no. It was just doors opened for me, ‘Excuse me’s and offers to give directions! Even the frenetic Times Square was a model of decorum. In fact, while getting my girlfriend to pose in front of some billboards there, she stepped backwards and trod on the ankle of an elderly woman, who then limped off, muttering to herself, ‘Typical New Yorker.’
The concept of tipping is still a little new for Australians. Of course, in New York, it’s almost compulsory. I find it weird that while Americans are known for their complete ignorance of world geography, their mathematical skills are watertight, due to their constant calculation of what fifteen percent of their cheque is.
I will miss my running joke about New York. Every night after walking the island and wearily looking to return to our digs, my girlfriend would say, ‘I can’t walk any further, keep an eye out for the nearest subway,’ to which, whenever I could see one, I would then point out the presence of the famous chain of sandwich shops! OK, maybe you had to be there ... but, then again, maybe you would’ve punched me, and not spoken to me for three blocks, too.
We saw some comedy shows while we were there, and one was a little shocking. Not in terms of language or subject matter, but more a reaction that it caused me to have. The MC started talking to the audience by making the usual requests for out-of-towners to let him know where they were from. And that’s when I heard it. Another Australian accent. Only, it was the first one I’d really listened to in the week that I’d been in New York. My ear had become attuned to the American accent, and the sound of a voice from back home instantly made me think, OH SHIT, IS THAT WHAT WE SOUND LIKE? The broadish Strine kinda sounded like Mick Dundee had got the missus out of the house to go see Louis C.K.
I’m certainly not ashamed of where I come from, yet now I was experiencing my first-ever case of cultural cringe. I thought, Have I sounded like that the whole time I’ve been here? I was so embarrassed that when the MC moved on to me next, and asked ‘Where are you from?’, I panicked. I don’t know why, but all of a sudden, there were words spilling out of my mouth. And they were ‘I’m from New Zealand.’ I got what I deserved. Some Flight of the Conchords jokes, and some sheep jokes. I was copping a bagging for things I wasn’t even guilty of, yet I still deserved it. I felt ashamed and this nagged at me for the rest of the show. The more I thought about it, the more patriotic I became, and the more embarrassed I was about my behaviour. I mean, I’d rather live in Australia than anywhere in the world. New York was fine, but I was there for a holiday. By then, I’d been there for two weeks, and I was ready to go home. I was missing my friends, my usual surroundings, the weather, our laid-back, casual way of life, the food: everything. I AM proud of being an Australian. But here I was, lying about my heritage to some hack MC who was still doing swine-flu jokes.
With this commentary clouding my mind, I stepped outside the comedy club, ran straight into an older lady and, as she stumbled away, I heard her say in an English accent, ‘Typical New Yorker.’
Karl Chandler is a Melbourne-based writer and comedian. Visit his website. Karl also co-runs ‘Comedy@Spleen’, 41 Bourke St, Melbourne, on Monday nights.
Back
