Even though, like most of us, I speak the American version of English, I probably wouldn’t have much trouble communicating with the local folks were I ever to take a trip to Great Britain. Sure, they have lots of words over there that they spell differently (for instance, as a writer I would hope to never find out I had libelled the labour counsellor for his remarks while at the theatre), but I’d usually understand what we’re talking about.
Usually, but not always. That’s because some of the words the British use are absolutely foreign to us. So join us, won’t you, as my German friend Claus and I embark on a road trip to the walled city of York. What could possibly go wrong?
Right away we encountered a problem, which was finding our way out of York. Not knowing whether the wall had been built to keep invaders out or to keep lost tourists in, we finally became desperate enough to break the man code and ask for directions to the nearest gate.
“Gate?” said the lady selling flowers. “Oh no, I think you want to drive to a bar.”
“I’m pretty sure that’ll get me arrested. I’m already driving a saloon (sedan),” I said, trying to show off my limited knowledge of British words.
“The way you drive, I could use a cold one,” Claus chimed in.
“No, no, dear,” the lady said. “To us, a pub is your bar, our bar is your gate, and a gate is a street here in York.” As I thanked her, and floored our rented Merc (Mercedes) over a sleeping policeman (speed bump), I thought I heard her yelling something about driving on the wrong side or the road.
I didn’t have time to finish yelling, “Yeah, yeah, I know how to drive, lady,” before I swerved to avoid a young mother pushing a pram (stroller) in a zebra crossing (crosswalk). I managed to miss a pylon (utility pole) by driving over the kerb (curb) and onto the pavement (sidewalk), but bounced off the crash barrier (guardrail) and ended up running into a lorry (truck).
With one tyre (tire) flat, I pulled on to the verge (shoulder) by the car park (parking lot) just across the level crossing (railroad crossing), and got out to inspect the damage. It wasn’t good. There was quite a bit of damage to a wing (fender) and the bonnet (hood), and on my way back to get the jack out of the boot (trunk), I noticed that the silencer (muffler) had also fallen off.
“Well, at least we made it out of York,” I said as I looked back at the bar — or the gate, or whatever it was — while we waited for a bobby (policeman) and a low loader (tow truck) to arrive. In the meantime, I popped into a nearby chemist (pharmacy), where I purchased a bag of crisps (chips) and withdrew some money from a hole in the wall (ATM) to reimburse the young mum for pram repairs.
Fortunately I had purchased rental car insurance and our new estate car (station wagon) soon showed up. “Great,” I said, “now we can go see the rest of Europe.”
“No thanks, I’m good,” moaned Claus through his bandages. “I’m going to consult an agony aunt (advice columnist) about riding with you again. For now, I’ll take the train. Meet you in Deutschland (Germany).”
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