Two days after I arrived in Cardiff, I stumbled blearily into the coffee shop next door to where I was staying, jetlagged, annoyed by several things wrong with my room, and wondering if this was an ominous sign of how the next month would go.
The barista at the counter was so sweet. I later learned her name was Maddie.
She glanced up at me. “Are you okay?” she asked.
For a split second, I floundered for a response. Did I look that bad that this stranger was worried about me? I stammered something about “Yeah, just jetlagged and tired.”
We ended up having a very nice conversation—all the usuals: Oh, where are you from? Why are you in Cardiff? Why are you studying Welsh?
She was apologetic about the Welsh bit. “I’m Welsh and I don’t speak the language. I guess we don’t have good schools here.”
The shame in her statement broke my heart. “That’s not your fault,” I told her. “Or the schools. The English have spent centuries trying to destroy the language and your culture.”
She brightened. “Oh I like that better.”
It was July 3rd. And it seemed like the most wholesome American thing I could do on the eve of July 4th, in a time where I don’t feel like America deserves a birthday party, was to foment rebellion in Wales against the English.
I ate porridge and, as I did, I tried to figure out why oatmeal tastes so much better when you call it porridge in any accent of the British Isles. And I had a Welsh cake. Picau ar y Maen.
After, I did some more shopping. And at every service counter, they asked the same question. “You ok?” “Are you okay then?” “Everything ok?”
And against the rising background of paranoia that somehow I must look completely deranged and unstable, it gradually sunk into my fatigued mind:
This is a GREETING.
Oh.
To my American ears, it has a slightly fretful tone, like each service worker really feels they have solid reasons to be a bit concerned about my health. And it has taken me three whole weeks to 1) resist the urge to say something like “Yeah, I’m fine. Why? Do I look unwell?” and 2) respond naturally with “I’m good, thanks! How are you doing?”
I was in Wales three years ago, and I truly do not remember this being the standard greeting from service workers. Maybe it was, and I just didn’t notice last time. Or maybe it’s a Cardiff thing. I’m heading soon to Aberystwyth, so I plan to undertake a full scientific study of this greeting phenomenon.
The phrase isn’t so different than our standard American greeting of “How are you?” We all know that, with very rare exceptions, nobody really wants to hear how you actually are doing. We expect to hear “I’m fine.” We expect it so strongly that we almost don’t hear it unless the answer deviates from the cultural script.
But “are you ok” is just enough different from my cultural script to throw me off. In America, we ask “are you ok” only when we think you might not be. It’s a way to check in, to open an opportunity for the other person to reassure us or to confirm our concerns.
I think it’s good to be booted out of our “scripts.” It makes us sit up and take notice of what’s around us instead of just drifting through the day on auto mode. “Are you ok” primes my brain, reminds me that no matter how many similarities, this is a different culture and I should be ready for and looking for other differences.
There’s a dragon logo on the trash bins here. Coolest trash bins ever.
People walk on the left side of the sidewalk or left side of the stairs at the train station.
The crosswalk signals and icons are slightly different than the ones at home.
You live in a street here. Not on.
When people are trying to set a date to meet up, they consult their diaries, not their schedule or calendar.
And noticing these little differences helps me not take the day for granted. I’m here. This is an experience I’ve wanted my whole life—to live for a time in a different country and experience daily life here. I want to notice. I want to appreciate. I want to remember as many details as I can.
So now, when I’m asked “Are you ok?” I say “Yeah, I’m doing great. How are you?” And I try to convey to them that I genuinely care. Because I do.
They tell me they’re doing well.
“I am really glad to hear that,” I say.
They look a little startled at this tiny flipping of their cultural script.
And then, they smile.