Culture Gap

It was four years ago I was in a summer school program with the Moscow Art Theatre School in Cambridge, MA. During my six weeks there I met some of the most incredible people I’ve ever met in my life, including (but not limited to) a young man from England named Joel.

He was nineteen years old, and one of the most intelligent, culturally cognizant people I still have ever met. I only understand British culture from TV shows, movies, and the occasional author, which probably makes people cringe; as an American I certainly wouldn’t want to be judged solely by the standards of the more popular examples of American entertainment. I was continually impressed not only by the knowledge Joel had of American culture, but of those aspects of his own culture that American’s weren’t likely to understand. For example, when telling a story, he’d interrupt himself to explain a colloquialism he knew to mean something else (or nothing at all) on this side of the Atlantic. Considering how much younger he was than myself, I was constantly amazed at how few world wisdoms I had to teach him. He was, after all, more of a world traveler than I’d ever been, had done and seen things far beyond my own experiences.

It was mid-August, and our time with the Russians was nearly over. Lifelong friendships had been forged, experiences had, debaucheries exploited, and the biggest parties were yet to come. I had determined how much money I had left to spend, and further determined exactly how much of that money was for alcohol.

I never was much of a drinker, but it was long ago that I began to align my tastes and pick a few favorites. I tried beer and continued to hate it for many years; even now I consider it my cheap drink, a last option when I can’t afford what I want. Scotch was too rough, vodka was too oily, but good bourbon was like drinking liquid velvet. I’d settle on a favorite and stick with it until someone suggested something I had liked better. At this time my top pick was a Kentucky special called Knob Creek, still a top pick when I want to spend a little extra.

Joel and I were out on the lawn outside the dorm when Raph approached us. He was headed for a liquor store, and was taking requests. I asked for a bottle of Knob Creek, and noted the very odd expression that hit Joel’s face. I couldn’t tell what it was. The ensuing conversation was very short and took some reflection before I understood all the implications, but it clarified what I had seen on his face in that moment was a perfect shifting mixture of bemusement, confusion, and repulsion.
After a few moments he finally worked up to exactly what question he wanted to ask. “What did you ask for?” he inquired.

“Knob Creek,” I said proudly. “It’s a bourbon.” For once I felt like I had the upper hand on him, but there was still a severe discontent to his features.

“Is it . . . actually called that?”

“Well, yes,” I said, still not understanding why he looked so confused and uncomfortable.

He took a moment to consider a few things. I never knew exactly what was going through his mind, but finally he came to an inescapable conclusion. “It shouldn’t be,” he said with conviction.

I’ve since come to understand that “knob” is a common British slang for “penis”. I had actually known that at the time, but taken out of context it didn’t occur to me in that particular moment. It had most certainly occurred to Joel, however. I never have discovered exactly how vulgar that word is in England, but no matter how lightly your intended use of the term, nobody will ever, ever ask for a glass of Penis Creek.

But if you ever do, do me a personal favor and make sure you say “on the rocks.”