After hearing about it, reading about it, and watching it happen on the Hallmark Channel, it has happened to me – a neighbor came by to welcome us to the street with a platter filled with what she called a casserole.
It was fantastic. Not only was I blown away that she had taken the time to make this platter (the word “casserole” is misleading. To me, it conjures images of baked tuna covered in cheese. This was more an array of enchiladas); I was enchanted that she had walked across the street with her young son to deliver it in person.
The only interactions we had with our neighbors in London were as follows: a drunk 20-something Russian woman, screaming obscenities at her roommate, who had locked her out, asked if she could use our toilet; the self-appointed chairman of the residents’ committee informed us by letter that all washing machines needed to be replaced, because they were prone to catching on fire (a fact proven when one did catch fire, forcing an evacuation, and fire department visit. No one was injured); and the woman who lived in the flat next door for just a few months, but took pleasure in telling us what a terrible building it was when she moved out (she objected to the train station nearby. So it was a little loud, but hey, it’s London! You want serenity, move to the ‘burbs!).
So here we are, in the ‘burbs, without trains rumbling past, or the neon billboard across the street, or the double decker buses racing by. Every five minutes or so, a car will drive by. A dog walker will pass about once every 20 minutes. It’s calmer, but a lot less entertaining.
Reverse Culture Shock 
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