still got a lot of lines to sing

Another thing the English do better than Americans: stutter. There's a reason the stuttering Englishman (or Englishwoman) shows up so often in Hollywood film; it's terribly charming, especially given that from Americans it's so frustrating and sometimes donkey-like. I've also always been fond of the way England is shaped. Maps of England are my favorite maps.

I think that after a month of being here, I am finally ready to shake hands with England. It might seem odd that this would follow such a setback, but think of it like a fight outside a pub. England and I both said some nasty things to each other, some punches were thrown, and now we can go inside and have a drink and be the best of friends. Or at least best drinking buddies. Perhaps someday, England will feel the need to crash on my sofa.

"England," I will say at three in the morning, "you know I only hated you because we could so easily have been best mates and instead you chose to reject me in favor of that ridiculously ginger Ron Weasley fellow."

"Oh, Romie," England will say. "I was just taking the piss out of you as a bonding ritual. If only I'd known that your neurology makes it hard for you to recognize the non-verbal gestures that show the difference between teasing and mortal insult..."

It is hard for me to participate in the teasing that characterizes British culture; not only do I have trouble knowing when other people are serious, but I have trouble knowing how far I can tease back without hurting anyone. Mind blindness. I'm normally better at it - much better than most Aspies - but I spend most of my time here in sensory overload. (Note to self: Avoid Tokyo.)

I'm bewildered by Britain's unwritten rules of social behavior - I don't understand any of the linkages in what I gather is an extremely complex class system. Japan, I get - it's stratified, but I can look around a room and tell a lot from how people are dressed, or where they sit. There's no guide like that in England, no etiquette to give me clues. I suspect it's vitally important that I know things like how bankers from Bristol are usually treated by plumbers from Manchester, but I have no way to find out.

Together, the teasing and the bewilderment combine to put me in the awkward position of knowing that I'm constantly getting things wrong, and not being able to ask for help. Questions invite more bullying, and anyway, I couldn't tell you whether a given yes means yes or no. It's awful, and it's scary, and I never know when the rug's going to be pulled out from under my feet. I spend every day painfully aware of the wall between me and the rest of the world; in a sense, I never left the airport. This distance is only made worse by the famous English emotional reserve.

I've never had to be so aware of my disability (which I have never before had to call disability). I hate feeling so stupid all the time, so off balance, so unable to understand, or to make myself understood. It's made worse because I look like someone who could be English; have a last name that could be English; speak English as my native language (although with an American accent that's a thousand times more pronounced than it is when I'm in America). Even people who know full well that I'm from Texas slip up and forget that I'm not from these parts; when I don't know the things that are common sense to a Brit (but inscrutable to a foreigner), they look at me like I'm a talking monkey. Asperger's, my invisible friend, means I can't even tell if I'm being a boor at the time; I have no baseline to help me guess whether the misunderstanding is their fault or mine.

It is getting easier. I have a clear position on my team; I have my room to retreat to; as I grow more familiar with the streets around my flat and the school, there's less new visual stimulus to overload me. I'm slowly - very slowly - making a few friends. I have the sense I'm missing something essential, like I'm a hair's breadth away from understanding how things work here, but I can't close the final distance. I was looking forward to Ciro's perspective on the matter.

Anyway, if England's ready to bury the hatchet, I'm ready to throw in my lot and try again. Now that I've figured it out, I can roll with the teasing. But no more left hooks, please; all I've got are my eyes.

external world update (or: adversity's sweet milk)

Spent six hours today talking to Ciro. Not as good as having him here in person, but wonderful after weeks of not hearing his voice. I laughed more than I have in a while. Since the microphone on the computer in Boston is so soft, and the road noise by the window so loud, I rest my head on the computer to hear; it's not totally unlike pillow talk if you think of the laptop's wrist rest as a pillow.

I haven't really left my room today. I'm a little light headed from not eating, although I managed a bit of cheese and a cold boiled potato about the size of my fist. I'm tired; I'll sleep once I'm done writing.

It looks like I'll definitely stay at LFS (of which I am quite fond), and like we'll wait the six months for Ciro's Italian passport. No word yet whether he'll spend the six months in Dallas or in Boston; if Boston, I'll defer a term to spend the time in Boston. I'm fine with either eventuality, and can live with an even longer separation if necessary. As far as my preference, I am uncertain; either course has advantages. For him, the decision is more dire, the wait more unstable - a choice between two things he doesn't want. Better to have waited the six months here in London, on a tourist visa - legal, but seemingly impossible. (I suppose we could appeal, but am too tired to try.)

Even in the middle of all this, I am oddly happy. I got to talk to Ciro; he loves me. My mind is more at rest than it's been in ages. This will be a difficult night for him; last night he was too exhausted for the difficulty to hit. Yet my tired brain can't focus on his absence, or his awkward position; just my continuing admiration, my gratitude, my awe at the ways we are similar and the ways we are different - the similarities that line us up, and the way the differences interlock.