I moved to Europe twenty-five years ago to get away from California. And now I think almost constantly about moving back. Go figure.

This is not because I have ever stopped loving London, the first city in the world that made me feel at home. It’s more that I have lived here so long that I can now hate it with all the calm conviction of a native. When I “whinge” about the crowded streets, the corrupt middle-class professional culture, the smarmy government, or the bad sandwiches (yes, you can still find them), I like to think that I don’t quite sound like an Ugly American. I like to think that I sound like an Ugly Brit.

Not that this makes me very palatable to the English. But then, let’s face it—nobody’s very palatable to the English. Which is probably why I get along with them so well.

Unlike Californians, the English keep themselves to themselves, if you know what I mean. They don’t hastily tumble across whatever social or interpersonal boundaries stand in their way, flinging open doors and cupboards, sniffing behind curtains and settees. What’s more, they don’t smear you with their messy interiority, confessing their deepest dreams and aspirations at the drop of a hat. Like puppies (and I have to confess there’s a lot of this puppyishness in my nature as well), Californians are too confident in their enthusiasms. Then, when the world surprises them with something unpleasant, they don’t take time to understand it. They just bite.

In California, you can find yourself talking to people for hours about who they really are, and how they really feel, and how their sense of cosmic self-hood often conflicts too much with their spiritual values and so forth, but you never have any idea what they’re talking about. Once it gets out of the cage, this inner life of Westerners just multiplies exponentially, like that invading space creature in The Blob.