American Cousin

Another life awaits across the pond.

Spanish proverb - "Spanish is for lovers, Italian for singers, French for diplomats, German for horses, English for geese."

Heathrow Airport
London, England

"Ready to go, Lizzy?"

"Yes, mum."

Her mother's worried eyes danced over her oldest daughter's round, oval face. They stood there, clasping hands, in one of the world's busiest airports.

They made an odd couple.

"So, this is your dream then," she said.

A small tear grew in her left eye. "Going off to study in America on scholarship," her mother said, looking away. "In New York City, of all places."

"I'll be studying international business," Elizabeth replied. "It's the way of the world now mum."

Then came the announcement.

"Boarding now for Flight 1776, London to New York City."

"How peculiar," her mum said, brushing away a runaway tear.

"Your father would not appreciate that bit of Yankee humor. The 'American Revolution', they call it there. Your father, mind you, always called it a 'rebellion'."

"I know mum."

Her mum's eyes were misting up.

"He was a bit of a history nut," she said.

Oh dear God mum, will you just let it be?

"Their Fourth of July, he always called it 'Happy Treason Day'. "Those upstart colonies, as he called them, "were just an ungrateful lot."

"Honestly dear, it's all rubbish now anyway. It happened so long ago," she said. "Still, that was your father," her voice slowly fading.

She drew Elizabeth in with both arms for one more kiss. One more final embrace.

Pulling away, she sensed something. Something was going on with her daughter. Something that only a mother could know.

"Have you been crying, dear? Oh, come now, off you go," she said, whispering into Elizabeth's left ear.

"Forget about him. He wasn't right for you anyway. You'll be back home before you know it."

Time to turn and walk away, Elizabeth told herself. Just turn and walk away.

Then, her cell went off. It was a text from him. I won't read it until after take-off, if I read it at all. Who did this bloody Brad Livingston that that he was anyway?

How dare he try to rule my life! As if my career, my future, was already decided by him!

"I forbid you from going to the states," he told Elizabeth, minutes earlier, before her mother arrived.

"If you get on that plane," he said, his words growing hotter with anger, "it's over."

"Forbid? Seriously? What century is this man living in? I'm 23. I'll decide my own future, with no help from you.

Easing into her window seat, her cell buzzed again. In a split-second, she deleted both of his texts.

This is my time. This is my life. He can get on with his. I'll get on with mine.

In the distance, Big Ben chimed in the new hour. She sat looking out on to the wing. Dusk was fast approaching, with darkness not far behind. Within hour, she'd be landing 'Across the Pond', in the Big Apple. On the other side of the Atlantic awaited Elizabeth's new world.

Now, what do I really know, she wondered, catching her own reflection in the passenger window, of this strange new world of America and Americans?

She'd had relatives in her family tree who'd rubbed shoulders with the 'doughboys', American foot soldiers of World War I. Fresh-faced, innocent young men landing there, to take up the fight.

Then came World War II.

"Those Yanks, they were a spirited bunch," her favorite uncle told her one late snowy night, over the Christmas holiday. She listened, with her dog "Chester" curled up, sleeping in her lap.

"I saw their fighter pilots in World War II, landing in an airfield, just down the road from here." "Those chaps were a different breed," he said, lighting his pipe.

She remembered the aroma that rose lazily out of it. She loved smelling the sweet fragrance of the tobacco. She could still see the lazy, hazy smoke, rising, curling up to the ceiling.

"I was just a boy myself then. Anyway, one day after landing, after piling out of their plane, one bloke knelt down. He began feeding cookies to these three mangy, hungry stray dogs that had wandered out on to the airfield."

He leaned forward in his chair, saying, "Now, mind you, he never knew that I was watching him," he said, settling back into his chair, "but I was."

"The Yanks, they stood by us, shoulder-to-shoulder, side-by-side. The other thing that I'll never forget about them was that they all talked funny."

They talked funny, Elizabeth wondered, what did that mean?

Anyway, this was just a war story from a past generation. She had to find out about the real America for herself.

Three days ago, killing time, Elizabeth made a discovery on an ancestry site. She had a female American cousin, three times removed. I wonder what she's like, she daydreamed, in her seat.

Minutes later, an un-shaven, middle-aged man, plopped himself down in the end row seat. Glancing over, he nodded politely, then opened up his laptop.

The middle seat between them remained open. Let it stay that way, Elizabeth prayed.

Moments later, there was the deafening, rumbling sound of the landing gear leaving the runway.

Looking out, she caught the glow of a spotlight, featuring her flag, the Union Jack, flapping in a stiff breeze. She was now officially leaving British soil. It would be a while before she'd see it again.

At take-off, her stomach felt like a Tsunami tidal wave was rolling through it.

Strolling down the aisle, a perky, peppy flight attendant, sensing her mood, gave her a confident smile. "It' will be all right love," she told her, leaning down. "We'll be landing in the states in no time. Enjoy your flight."

Elizabeth found comfort in her hearing her own crisp, British accent.

Airborne, keeping her seat belt fastened, she put in her earbuds. She turned down the volume, closing her dark green eyes. She brushed back her light brown, shoulder-length hair.

I should have had it cut before I left, she fussed, but it's too late for that now.

Concentrate now Elizabeth, concentrate. Remember, they speak a different kind of English over there. She bloody well knew one thing: she had to learn to understand this new, yet foreign, English language.

She clicked on her tape.

"Americans," began the narrator, in his deep, male British voice, "use the letter 'r' a bit differently.

"Where we say 'barba', for example, they will say 'barber'. Where we say 'corna', they pronounce it 'corner'.

Elizabeth tried it a couple of times,. It felt awkward already.

"The letter 'r' disappears in the middle of our words.

"They say 'garden', where we say 'gahden'. They ssay 'bark', while we say 'bahk'. They say 'card', while we say 'cahd'. They say 'dark', while we pronounce it 'dahk'."

She shook her head. I have a lot of work to do.

She took a break, removing her ear buds. Three rows up, sat a mother and daughter. They were speaking Spanish. One foreign language at a time, she thought.

Better get back after it.

"The American 't' is said sounding like the letter 'd'. Where we British say 'letter', they say 'ledder'."

What have I gotten myself into here?

"The letter 'a' you will find troublesome, cautioned the narrator. "Where we say 'chawnce', an American will say, 'chance'. Where you might say 'ahdvawnce', they will say 'advance'."

In speeding up the tape, Elizabeth learned that there were even more exceptions. How could there be such a difference in two cultures sharing the same language?

She turned it off.

Outside her window a quarter-moon emerged from the cloudy night.

"Coffee? A bit of tea?" asked the flight attendant, breezing by. They were not in mid-flight.

"No thank you," Elizabeth answered with a tight smile. The flight attendant, sensing her mood, placed a small packet of cookies n her tray, moving on.

An hour later, she heard, "This is your captain. We're beginning our descent into New York City. To your left, you will see Shea Stadium. For you baseball fans, that the New York Mets' home."

Lovely, thought Elizabeth, baseball? That's cricket to me.

"The 'New York Giants' stadium is to your right."

Football, she already knew, as they called it here, is called soccer back home. Come on Yanks, get with the program.

"Coming up now, just below us, you can see the start of the Fourth of July fireworks, lighting up the sky."

A single stream of red shot into the sky. A single burst of white came next, followed by puffs of blue smoke, lighting up the night.

"It's about time," said the man with the laptop. He began leaning over the empty middle seat for a better look.

"Quite," Elizabeth replied, in true English fashion.

His sudden action took her by surprise. Feeling very British, the word just came tumbling out.

"I'm from New Rochelle," he said, in his harsh, rasping, shrill New York voice.

"And you?"

"I'm from London," she replied, adding nothing else.

Sensing her nervousness, he returned to his seat, preparing for landing.

Looking out of her window, with the landing gear skipping, hopping, bouncing on to the runway, Elizabeth caught a peculiar sight.

With her plane landing, on a nearby runway, a flight to London was taking off.

A flight to London carrying, as one of its' passengers, Elizabeth's American cousin.

What a coincidence it would be, Elizabeth thought, watching it taking off, rising in the sky, if that same American girl, her relation, was on that plane?

And what a coincidence it would be, her American cousin thought, glancing over at Elizabeth's plane landing, if a British girl, her relation, was on that plane?

Unaware of one another, they watched the fireworks display lighting up the summer night's sky.

It was America's birthday.

And for today, for Elizabeth, and her American cousin, that was enough, for both of them.

THE END