Needs sauce’, I wish to myself. ‘Why do Plymothians think these are so marvellous?’ Sunning on a bench outside Oggy Oggy Armada Way, I mentally check this moment off my “do as the locals do” list. I was stuck between appointments in the city centre, having walked from my shared flat on Mutley. The first appointment was with Working Links, an indispensable program for a foreigner struggling to make ends meet in an economy whose currency nearly doubled that of my home. The second appointment I don’t recall but was likely with an organization that I wouldn’t have to book an appointment with back home: A mobile provider; a bank; a gadget shop. ‘Brits love appointments’, I lament. Lacking enough time to visit the only attraction I’d yet to scale (Smeaton’s Tower), I decide on another Plymothian delight: The pasty!
I chose Oggy Oggy because it was chock-full of pensioners and students. An outsider assumes this shows it’s decent (the elderly have years of pasty experience) and cheap. Also, I wanted to sit amongst the meandering shrubbery forming a backbone of Armada Plaza. It is one my favourite ways to watch Plymothians in their natural habitat.
From the moment I enter Oggy Oggy I feel the keen gaze of the employee, a lady with a few pasties under her belt (literally and figuratively). I stare below the glass-protected options. So many options…Casting a curious glance over my shoulder, I try to glimpse the innards of locals’ pasty choice. Shiny clinking forks block my view. Sit-in visitors ate their pasties with silverware next to side salads (miniscule piles of greenish things). Totally confused, I face the staff. She hadn’t moved.
“What do you recommend?” I query. Her reply: “Sit-in.”
I laugh. “No, what flavour?”
She sighs, a mixture of vexation and surprise. “Whatever you fancy!” Her implication: You must have a preferred type of pasty. Everyone’s eaten a pasty.
Anxious, I choose vegetarian because it seemed less overwhelming and possibly healthier. The lady unceremoniously pulls the pasty from the display, tucks it into a paper pocket, and hands it across the till with a Devonian grunt, “£2.20, love.” To my surprise, she cracks an amiable smile. “Where are you from?”
“The U.S.”
“I know THAT. But where?”
“Oh! Colorado.” Her grin extends. “Aahh, pretty place, that.”
Excited, I ask, “You’ve been?”
“No. I’ve seen pictures, like. WHY did you leave there for Plymouth?!” She is incredulous, as if referencing a toad-infested bog.
“For the pasties!” I offer a pasty salute upon exit.
Working my jaw through the glorified Hot Pocket, I notice a local friend strolling nearby. If I greeted her I was guaranteed a hug and chat about the weather. Instead, I savour the moment, musing on how concisely it represents life as an international citizen in Plymouth. Here is my biased rendition of life as a foreigner in Plymouth. I wonder if other foreigners feel the same?
From the moment I enter Oggy Oggy I feel the keen gaze of the employee, a lady with a few pasties under her belt (literally and figuratively). I stare below the glass-protected options. So many options…Casting a curious glance over my shoulder, I try to glimpse the innards of locals’ pasty choice. Shiny clinking forks block my view. Sit-in visitors ate their pasties with silverware next to side salads (miniscule piles of greenish things). Totally confused, I face the staff. She hadn’t moved.
“What do you recommend?” I query. Her reply: “Sit-in.”
I laugh. “No, what flavour?”
She sighs, a mixture of vexation and surprise. “Whatever you fancy!” Her implication: You must have a preferred type of pasty. Everyone’s eaten a pasty.
Anxious, I choose vegetarian because it seemed less overwhelming and possibly healthier. The lady unceremoniously pulls the pasty from the display, tucks it into a paper pocket, and hands it across the till with a Devonian grunt, “£2.20, love.” To my surprise, she cracks an amiable smile. “Where are you from?”
“The U.S.”
“I know THAT. But where?”
“Oh! Colorado.” Her grin extends. “Aahh, pretty place, that.”
Excited, I ask, “You’ve been?”
“No. I’ve seen pictures, like. WHY did you leave there for Plymouth?!” She is incredulous, as if referencing a toad-infested bog.
“For the pasties!” I offer a pasty salute upon exit.
Working my jaw through the glorified Hot Pocket, I notice a local friend strolling nearby. If I greeted her I was guaranteed a hug and chat about the weather. Instead, I savour the moment, musing on how concisely it represents life as an international citizen in Plymouth. Here is my biased rendition of life as a foreigner in Plymouth. I wonder if other foreigners feel the same?
Four things I don’t understand…
1.A) Why is one food eaten two ways? From cakes to pasties, sandwiches to chips, certain foods are eaten with the decorum of Queen Elizabeth and at other times from paper receptacles while walking in rain. In my country, we observe food absolutes. Why am I rude to eat a pasty with my fingers inside but insane to request a fork with my take-away? True, there’s a gourmet burger movement in the States, but you always eat a burger with your hands.
2.A) Why do you disdain Plymouth when you’ve lived here your entire life and would never leave? I’m allowed to say ONE negative thing about Plymouth before you get defensive. Why keep your pride secret?
3.A) How do you determine when I’m your friend? At first, you ignore me or treat me like a potential criminal. At some point, you accept me. I know this when you deliver a magical and humorous bit of local knowledge reserved for close friends. Thank you!
4.A) Can I call you “janner”? Should I? Janner literally means someone who lives within 7 miles of the sea. But, I thinks it’s sometimes a derogatory term? And, sometimes a point of pride? Is “janner” like the n-word in the USA: You can only say it if you’re one them?
1.A) Why is one food eaten two ways? From cakes to pasties, sandwiches to chips, certain foods are eaten with the decorum of Queen Elizabeth and at other times from paper receptacles while walking in rain. In my country, we observe food absolutes. Why am I rude to eat a pasty with my fingers inside but insane to request a fork with my take-away? True, there’s a gourmet burger movement in the States, but you always eat a burger with your hands.
2.A) Why do you disdain Plymouth when you’ve lived here your entire life and would never leave? I’m allowed to say ONE negative thing about Plymouth before you get defensive. Why keep your pride secret?
3.A) How do you determine when I’m your friend? At first, you ignore me or treat me like a potential criminal. At some point, you accept me. I know this when you deliver a magical and humorous bit of local knowledge reserved for close friends. Thank you!
4.A) Can I call you “janner”? Should I? Janner literally means someone who lives within 7 miles of the sea. But, I thinks it’s sometimes a derogatory term? And, sometimes a point of pride? Is “janner” like the n-word in the USA: You can only say it if you’re one them?
…And why I love them anyway
1.B) Your ability to see multiple uses for something exhibits a quintessentially British resourcefulness. You use gorgeous historic backdrops as scenes for modern festivals (The Hoe). Government buildings become galleries and restaurants (The Guildhall). Pubs are also community centers.
2.B) Yes, your initial negativity about Plymouth pains me (being told that I’m mad for relocating is disconcerting at best). But I see you picnic in the park, prune your petunias, and partake in parties. You show me how to love Plymouth the British way (quietly).
3.B) When I finally become your friend, I know you’re loyal. Plymothian “mates” go down with the ship (or pay for your taxi).
4.B) I adore the janner accent, especially when tinged with cider at a pub on the Barbican. Honestly, we don’t understand 75% of what you’re saying. But we love laughing with you!
So, Plymothians, on behalf of all immigrants, foreigners, longer-term visitors, and outsiders, allow me to say thank you for making Plymouth special. Thank you for being you, dichotomies and all. But tell us: Can we call you janner?
1.B) Your ability to see multiple uses for something exhibits a quintessentially British resourcefulness. You use gorgeous historic backdrops as scenes for modern festivals (The Hoe). Government buildings become galleries and restaurants (The Guildhall). Pubs are also community centers.
2.B) Yes, your initial negativity about Plymouth pains me (being told that I’m mad for relocating is disconcerting at best). But I see you picnic in the park, prune your petunias, and partake in parties. You show me how to love Plymouth the British way (quietly).
3.B) When I finally become your friend, I know you’re loyal. Plymothian “mates” go down with the ship (or pay for your taxi).
4.B) I adore the janner accent, especially when tinged with cider at a pub on the Barbican. Honestly, we don’t understand 75% of what you’re saying. But we love laughing with you!
So, Plymothians, on behalf of all immigrants, foreigners, longer-term visitors, and outsiders, allow me to say thank you for making Plymouth special. Thank you for being you, dichotomies and all. But tell us: Can we call you janner?
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