Pants

Never tell a Brit you like their pants.

And some of them wear really nice ones. Corduroy has come back in style. Autumn wardrobes have made their debuts in a tapestry of maroons, browns, and burnt oranges, even if it’s still too hot in the depths of the Underground to wear anything more than a strappy tank top. I’m trying to embrace the spirit of October by buying my coffee hot and wearing fashionable but impractical little scarves and thin jackets, both of which I shed the moment I step into a building, none of which have air conditioning. I’m fortunate to say this is the brunt of my culture shock. 

There are many seemingly insignificant differences between British culture and ours. The metric system. Driving on the wrong side of the road. The answer to “How are you doing?” which is always “Fine, thanks.” And, of course, pants. 

I sat across the tube from a young woman in a pair of wide-legged jeans embroidered with scraps of lace. I didn’t speak to her, but I turned to my cousin and said something along the lines of “I like her pants.” 

He laughed, but only later told me that he was glad I said that to him and not her. 

I asked why. 

“Well, if you tell someone you like their pants, they’ll think you can see their underwear.” 

Because, unbeknownst to me, pants are trousers, and underwear are pants. People get squeamish enough when you talk too much on the tube. Best not to bring up anyone’s undergarments. Better yet, I’ll refrain from complimenting outfits at all. As the days get colder, this will prove a daunting task. London knows how to dress for the winter months. 

A co-worker told me she liked my trousers, and I did not say anything about her pants. My flatmate asked if I ever planned on wearing a jumper. Not while I can still see the sun, I told her, though a few blocks into my walk I knew I’d made a mistake. 

Another rule of thumb: never order a bartender’s first old-fashioned.

In a quiet corner of Camden Town, I settled into a quintessential British pub, portraits of rock idols and poets adorning the walls. Friends and I had started a sometimes-weekly pub night dedicated to writing. The atmosphere was very Hunter S. Thompson, though the writing certainly wasn’t. Our Dead Journalists Society, as we called it, met often but wrote little, if ever. On the average night, my computer was no more than dead weight or a faint ache in my shoulder the next morning where my tote bag used to be. 

A light crowd for a Thursday evening, at least I thought so, but I didn’t complain as I made my way straight to the bar, which stuck to my forearms as I leaned across it to order. 

The bartender, a scrawny kid, though probably around my age, squinted at me, then asked me to repeat myself, which I obliged. My order felt more like a wince the second time, as if I had unknowingly complimented this man on his pants. But I’d seen old fashioneds on menus all over London, enough to assure myself that this wasn’t strictly an American cocktail. I began to doubt that once the bartender turned to a young woman, very Camden-esque with jet-black hair and silver piercings, and asked if she had ever heard of the drink. 

She gave a look, then said, “What goes in it?” 

They both stared, waiting to see how I’d reply. But you don’t rattle off the proportions of an old fashioned to two novice bartenders any more than you’d sit a toddler beneath the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with a couple of brushes and say, “Paint.” I settled on the house red. 

I retold the tale from the booth and was reassured that most bartenders would know what to do with that order. This reminded a friend of a strange encounter at a pub a few weeks back, and thus began our descent into conversation. We’d return next week—or maybe the week after—and do the same. 

Plenty of things are different, and not always in a bad way. Their book covers are nicer, enough so that I’ve acquired a third copy of “All the President’s Men.” Cafes don’t charge extra for oat milk. Theater tickets are half the price. No one wears athleisure to work. I’m trying my hardest to expose myself to these differences in culture before I “pants” myself in a public setting. 

Over the weeks, I’ve compiled a list:

• “Strictly Come Dancing” is “Dancing With the Stars.”

• The UK “Traitors” is a very big deal.

• Eat a sausage roll from Greggs. 

• Do not ask American residents if they are American. Even if true, they will be offended. 

• Do all Christmas sight-seeing in November. Avoid tourists.

It will only grow, I’m sure. But little by little, I’ll learn. 

One piece of advice that’s stuck with me: never keep dying flowers in a room. 

“It’s a bad sign,” my older flatmate told me. The younger said later that most things are a bad sign in her eyes, and advised that if I was ever asked whether I wanted a tarot reading, I should say no, lest I be warned about my grim future. 

But my flowers are looking weak. The tallest of the bunch had begun to wilt, shedding yellow petals like tears on my dresser. Best to see to that.