Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold,
But the ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm;
Besides I can tell where I am used well,
Such usage in Heaven will never do well.

My favorite pub in the world is the Wheatsheaf. It’s in a hamlet called Westwood near a village called Southfleet in Kent, England to be precise. It was built in 1414, probably hasn’t changed all that much and was the first in the county to ban smoking. In the winter, there is a fire and in the summer there is an excellent beer garden. They also serve real ale. It’s not fizzy, served at room temperature and a light variety thankfully does not exist. You hear the same conversations in there as in the pubs and bars in Cleveland Heights: people complaining about work, gossiping about the locals and men generally talking about things that happened to them while driving.

Cleveland Heights has been my home for the last eighteen months. Previously, I was living in Paris, before that in London. France and England respectively, not Texas and Canada. In Paris, I was working as an English teacher. Most of my students were professionals, learning English for professional reasons, many of whom were readying themselves for their first work-related meetings with Americans. So, naturally, a large part of the lessons consisted of cultural coaching which proved a lot of fun for an Englishman working with cosmopolitan French professionals. Among the many things to distinguish the French, for better or worse, is their willingness to share their opinions. And for the last few hundred years, they have been particularly opinionated about the USA. George W. Bush’s statement ‘the French don’t even have a word for “entrepreneur”’ certainly raised eyebrows. But I must say that in five years, I didn’t meet one person who didn’t enjoy working with their transatlantic cousins.