The English "Bye"

Back from NY where grandpa is thankfully doing better (thanks to so many of you for your lovely good wishes) and where I experienced reverse culture shock the first few days. ...Only to experience reverse-reverse culture shock back in London.

Amongst the first thing I (re)noticed, chatting with my friend Paul on the phone yesterday, was the peculiar use of the word "bye" by so many English people. It's not that they use the word incorrectly. It's that they somehow, no matter how husky the voice, now matter macho the persona, can only utter the word with their voices floating up about three octaves above their normal range. It's something I've never quite gotten over.

There is also usually a little bit of sing-songiness involved. It's not just "bye" (sung at a high-high-C note). It's "bye-eee." A two syllable word, with the second syllable sung one or two notes lower than the first.

For example, Paul ending the conversation on the phone yesterday where we made plans to meet for dinner:

"Okay (normal deep male voice), so I'll get on the road now and call you when I'm in the neighborhood. Talk to you soon. (Immediate switch to high, falsetto voice about three octaves higher.) Bye-eee!!" He then hangs up.

Or today on the bus, a girl ranting angrily to her friend on her mobile:

"Yeah, it's rubbish. (angry, forceful, deep tone, coming from the chest) Absolute fucking bullocks. They're imbeciles. ...Oh crap that's my stop, gotta go. (Immediate switch to falsetto sing-song, even though she's still mad as hell) Bye-eeeee!!"

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I suppose we all have our cultural blind spots-- words or phrases we somehow distort without really knowing we're doing it. In New York, I heard people over and over in coffee shops and lunch places saying to the service people, "Thank you *so* much!" Basically the service people were just doing their job, not going above and beyond. And it's not that the customers looked tremendously grateful either. A simple "thank you" would have done just fine.

But, someone, please explain-- what's the deal with the English singing their goodbyes in falsetto?

Backhanded Blessings

I was supposed to be in Lisbon this past weekend, a place I've wanted to see for a very long time. But instead, I hopped on a flight to NYC to be with my 97 year old grandfather in the hospital as he faces very serious illness.

And that's where I currently am, sitting across from him at his bedside in Mt Sinai hospital. He is laying asleep and completely sedated (and has been for days, in fact) hooked up to a respirator, and with various tubes coming out of his arms and nose and other places on his body. There is a curtain with hearts printed on it partitioning the room, and on the other side of it is an African American family huddled around their mother, who keeps making very uncomfortable muted squealing noises.

For those of you know my relationship with my grandpa, you will know that he is a pillar of inspiration to me: a man who has survived pogroms, the murder of his brother, immigration, an economic depression, lung cancer, the loss of his wife, and all of life’s inevitable ups and downs… not just with grace, but with humor and optimism and generosity and morality.

But grief, or the anticipation of grief, is a very strange thing. I sometimes think that when we lose someone, or a loved one is in mortal danger, our feelings are as much about the pain of our own loss as about the person we are worried about losing.

I was devastated that by the time I arrived at Mt Sinai, my grandfather had been put under and not conscious enough to know I was here. I desperately wanted to be able to tell him how much I love him—and have him be awake enough to process it. And so for the last few days I’ve felt super frustrated as I’ve sat at his bedside…watching him twitch every now again, watching the monitor of his heartbeats and blood pressure, but never being able to talk to him and send him love. Do I want this for my own sake or for his? Both?

And as I’ve spent the last few days feeling rather helpless and frustrated, I’ve passed time with my cousins and uncles and other family members who also flew here to be with my grandfather. There were fourteen of us, at various times in the day, popping in and out of the hospital bedside, huddling in the waiting room, taking turns going for meals.

I listened to my brother telling corny jokes I couldn’t stop laughing at, because for some reason (much to the chagrin of my sister-in-law, who tells me I’m encouraging him) I have a knee jerk reaction to him, and laugh hysterically at every silly joke he tells. It’s almost involuntary—years and years of conditioning (and dare I say, ever-growing affection).

I watched my parents extend their generosity, paying for hotel rooms and dinners for the whole party without batting an eye.

Last night at dinner, my cousin Jon grabbed the bill and refused to let anyone else pay, even though it was just four of us, all cousins, and we all were expecting to split the bill.

I’ve been sharing a hotel room with my cousin Sandy, who has been willing to listen to anything and everything I’ve wanted to talk about—and even put up with my own bizarre sense of humor and attempts to sabotage her sanity by singing cheesy songs from the 80s that she wouldn't be able to get out of her head all day...

The perverse psychology of grief means that the threat of losing something makes you acutely appreciate what you otherwise might take for granted. But I didn’t need my grandfather to be gravely ill to deeply appreciate who he is. I already did.

But being here these past few days has made me appreciate even more the blessing of what my grandfather has created and the legacy that will continue for years to come.

I have an amazing family. A truly generous, decent, lovely, humorous, unbelievably supportive family. Created by an amazing grandfather (and late grandmother). Whose example continues to pave the way for all of us.

Overheard on: the Picadilly Line Eastbound, 8pm

The Setting: Picadilly Line, Eastbound, 8pm Saturday- between Hammersmith and Green Park

The Characters:
Two Kiwi blokes wearing leis, with big cans of beer with umbrellas and plastic flowers on them. The train stops at Hammersmith, and three English kids get on, mid to late twenties, two girls and a boy. They're super hip, dressed to go out. The boy is also drinking a can of beer.

Sitting next to them on the same train carriage train are: an Eastern European girl wearing far too much make-up, but putting on more and more layers of it, a Chinese woman with two huge bags coming from Heathrow, looking like a jetlagged zombie, an African man in his twenties. None of them appear to pay any attention to the conversation.

The Scene:
One of the Kiwis, a redhead (clearly fairly drunk), calls over the English bloke.

Kiwi Guy 1 (shouting): Cheers, mate! (They clink beer cans.)

English Guy: Where you all from?

Kiwi Guy: We're Kiwis.

English Guy: Live here, or...?

Kiwi Guy: Well of course, we just came all the way here for the last ever drink on the District and Circle line! (He explains, but its mumbled that they was a huge party on the District Line but now they had to switch lines for a reason I didn't hear.)

English Guy: Cheers. Yeah, hell. Yeah. Yeah it should be a party!

Kiwi Guy: Where are you guys from?

English Guy: (Some of this is lost, and picked up at the end...) And she from university and the third one is from Brighton.

Kiwi Guy 2: (Signaling with his hand to the girl as if mimicking a gang symbol) Brigh...TOOONNN!!! Yeah!!

(Girl mimicks the gang signal back and laughs).

Girl: In the hooooouse! (Pause, giggling.) Alright, alright, I'll join you guys. Let me have a beer, alright?

(Guys all laugh and cheer loudly).

Kiwi bloke 2: Ch-ching!!! Cheers!!

Everyone: Cheers!!

Kiwi bloke 1: To the last drink we'll have on the Picadilly Line!

Everyone: Woo-hooo!! (Clinking beer cans.)

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Ed note:
See here for one article covering the party thrown by Londoners on Saturday night during the last few hours before drinking on the tube was made illegal.