This past weekend I flew but two hours south to visit a friend in Madrid and was subsequently slapped in the face by culture shock. My shock was most likely heightened by the fact that I speak zero español, but I do believe I got a stronger whiff of Europe in this desert city.
Madrid does not care for breakfast, whereas it is my absolute favorite. Lunch is the king of all meals, followed by a siesta somewhere in the 2pm-4pm time slot. Dinner is consumed as late as 10pm, followed by a night out until either 1am or 6am, depending on if you’d prefer to catch the last metro, or the first, respectively. Fruit and veggies are not Madrid’s friends, so much so that vegetarians would be in danger of wasting away. They love carbs, meat, and cheese. And they may even like fried food more than Americans.
Simply, I was astounded. I felt myself readjusting my lifestyle for a mere weekend. Purchasing snacks from a grocer knowing I shouldn’t anticipate any fruit in my day. Trying my best to align my sleeping patterns with their dual sleep sessions.
I returned to London wondering what sort of culture shock Britain has handed me, and why it didn’t shake my core like Madrid did. I searched for a way that London had caused me to realign myself, readjust my habits, and came up empty. With a word as loaded as “shock” it shouldn’t take any sort of digging to uncover, but certainly my life and mindset have changed.
Perhaps if I hadn’t come from New York City, my impression would be different, but every day I find myself comparing this big island to that little island. I’ve decided in the end, that it’s the nuances that set this city apart. The home-town standards that don’t make it onto London’s grocery shelves; the tabloid’s subjects who appear mostly in football games rather than blockbuster movies; different manners of spelling certain words like offence, favourite, and globalise; the slightly altered menus that one expects to be identical throughout the world (see: Starbucks, McDonalds, Subway).
But rather than decide, almost disappointingly, that London has provided little culture shock, I’ve decided instead to revaluate what that can mean. To me, culture shock isn’t simply immersing in and adjusting to a different environment, it’s also reassessing and relearning the associations you make with a place. I can say without a doubt that moving to London changed my perception of the place, if only due to my intimate involvement.
I’ve learned of British pride and complexity; of Big Ben as a bell, and not a tower; of innumerable parks; of a comparably admirable eco consciousness; of the implications of driving (and walking!) on the left; of the lack of “Hollywood” and dominance of theater. I am learning to view London as a unique individual, and not New York’s older sibling—I want so badly to stop comparing the two.
When I first came to London, I missed New York, and when I went to Madrid, I missed London. It is certain to me that it takes leaving a place to be able to acknowledge the value you place on it. If you never leave, you’ll never miss it, and you’ll never realize why and what made you love it. I fully expect that once I’m back home in December, in spite of whatever “culture shock” I have or haven’t experienced, reverse culture shock will ensue.