Lost In Translation: Brits come to Victoria's Secret, employees can't speak the language

On several occasions while working the concierge desk at Victoria's Secret, I talked with or helped customers who were visiting New York from my favorite island (sorry, Manhattan, you must always be the second favorite), the greatest of greats, Britain.

The first time this happened, I was excitedly yammering away to this middle-aged couple who I swiftly realized were those people and probably would be wiping their hands down with anti-bacterial santizer after they left the store because they'd been touching the same things as the common folk. I asked them where abouts they were from in London, and the woman dismissed me immediately. "Ah, the central bit." She spat out, almost waving her hand a little bit like, you wouldn't know. Why are you asking you worthless little American girl?

So of course, a glutton for punishment, I said, "Well, actually, I lived there for quite a while. Just moved here recently." She softened just the tiniest bit. "Oh? Where did you live?" No sooner had I said something about Kingsbury than she cut me off, spitting out with disgust, "Oh, well that's not London!" That's when I turned back to the kiosk where we were sitting and said, "Okay, so what else can we help you with here?" It should also be noted that these two people's accents were so thick and ridiculous as to make them sound like cartoon characters. The husband had called their daughter to clarify what it was she wanted them to buy her, and said something like this: "Clarrrrrissa, it's your Daddyyy. We're just CAWWWLING to ..." You fill in the rest.

After that I shied away from getting into too much conversation with Brits, save for the one time I met a huge group of women all on holiday together from Ed's hometown, Southend-on-Sea. (You might remember my account of visiting there as blogged here last May.) They were all gathering right next to the concierge desk, resting and waiting on the last members of their group to finish shopping, and I just couldn't help myself. So I asked where they were from. When they said Essex, I knew I didn't have anything to worry about. In fact, these people told me they were from London before they admitted they were actually from Essex. Thank god that snobby couple wasn't around to spit on all of us at the same time.

We had a lovely chat, and when one of the girls came to ring up her purchases at the concierge desk, one of the other associates rang her up as I stood by, still chatting. She was looking for a pair of underwear to match something -- a bra or a camisole, I can't recall -- that she already had. This is the exchange that took place between the woman and my co-worker.

British customer: There were matching pants for this too, I think. Do you know?
Concierge associate: Ah, I think there were matching panties. They're just this way, in lounge.

Really? Pants? Panties? There aren't any connective synapses firing on that one? Since synapses fire so infrequently around that place, I shouldn't be surprised. Good thing she didn't say knickers, we'd have been there all day.


cheers,
e. cawein