The Anglophile Read Online Free

I’m chatting with my Brit in the alternative one closer to the door.
    There are three hungry and cold customers still ahead of the Brit and me.
    I rub my cheeks to warm them up and ask, “Are you visiting America?”
    â€œI’m here from London for the week—work-related.”
    â€œThe receptionist in my hotel said she’s never seen the mercury drop so low in March. Even in a city used to wind, it’s caught everyone off guard.”
    â€œOh, I see. It is dreadful, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes,” I say. Silence. I think for a few long seconds: should I probe further? The always-cautious English make me wary of talking too much. Being a world-class chatterbox—my everyday manner—is something that fellow New Yorkers think nothing of. I’m a linguist who feels self-conscious in the face of a perfect little Brit accent. My profession helps keep my outer-borough nasal twang in check. But there are telltale words and phrases that sell me and every other striving native Noo Yawker right down the river: a dozen aiggs, dine-o-saw, a glass of waw-da and Harry Pott-a.
    These mile-a-minute thoughts are once again punctured by that highborn BBC voice: “I hate to break this news, but I do believe your lad is ditching you.” A few feet ahead, Gary is nodding earnestly and ordering for the blonde.
    â€œWho, Gary? He’s an old buddy. He’s definitely not my lad. ”
    â€œThen he won’t mind if I pay for your cocoa.” I studyhim for a moment. He’s got a good poker face but he’s flirting—his eyes are his tell.
    â€œNo, he wouldn’t,” I say coyly.
    â€œIt’s warm in here, just as you foretold.”
    â€œYes it is. Are you defrosted yet?”
    â€œAlmost, except for my eyeballs.”
    The word eyeballs is always funny and my laugh is appreciative.
    The Brit beams and says, “Where are you visiting from?”
    â€œNew York City.” Well, that’s what he asked. Why rush to tell the man matching my fetish to a T about my boyfriend back in Manhattan? I’m just flirting, too. “Gary and I have been great pals since college. One weekend he kidnapped me—well, he very convincingly convinced me to drive all the way from upstate New York to Indiana just to see a college basketball game. We bonded during the road trip.”
    â€œDid you go to Cornell then?”
    â€œNo, SUNY Binghamton. You’ve probably never heard of it,” I say, a bit deflated. Yeesh. Will my lowly state-school past thin this privileged man’s enthrallment?
    â€œYou’re right, but let me try another one. Was that basketball game at Notre Dame?” he asks with a small but just as wolfish smile. This chap is definitely interested.
    â€œYes, as a matter of fact. You played basketball in England?”
    â€œMe? Oh heavens no. I rowed.”
    â€œWhat British rower follows American basketball?”
    â€œThis one.”
    â€œName four players!”
    â€œNot the university ones, I’m afraid. But the NBA, sure, I could do it.”
    â€œGo ahead then.”
    â€œShaq, of course. Kobe Bryant, he’s a natural—shame about the legal problems. Jason Kidd, and Jefferson and Martin, they’re also Nets. There’s Reggie Miller in the Indiana Pacers, he’s brilliant, and there’s that forty-year-old bloke, Karl Malone—”
    â€œOkay!” I stop him with my upturned palm as I chuckle. “I believe you. That’s amazing. I can’t think of one athlete from your neck of the woods except—who’s that soccer guy, you know, Bend It Like Beckham— ”
    â€œBeckham,” he says with a wink.
    I’m officially in love.
    â€œWe had an uncle doing a stint in Boston who sent my brother and me an overseas subscription to Sports Illustrated. That got us hooked. I worshipped Wilt while Nigel was the Dr. J expert.”
    Nigel, I echo in my brain. I have never