It’s Not MY Accent You’re Talking About
Sometime last week, I was speaking with some friends about my accent. Some folks say that I still have a heavy NY accent, that I talk like a “long guyland girl” while others insist I speak like a native Texan. The truth, I suspect, lies in between. Which leads me to blog about all that which is “in between.”
If I’m part Texan and part New Yorker, I would think that the world were full of big cities but wide open spaces. The New Yorker in me loves big pretzels, the smell of roasted chestnuts, a Mets home game, and Christmas in the city with all the lights. The Texan in me loves the underdeveloped prairie, mesquite trees, the bluebonnets in the spring, and really good tex-mex food. I suppose both halves like salsa and smooth jazz. Both sides of me love downtown lofts and upscale restaurants (although a snack at the park is just as fun.)
So all this talk of my past lead me to ask, “why did I come here?” I’ve a good friend (Steve, in case you were wondering) who came to Austin to get his degree. He wanted a masters degree or a PhD so that he could “go off” and teach for a living. I suppose, in hindsight, you could say that I’ve come here to photograph, although I did not know it at the time. I didn’t really come to Austin with a purpose. I just wanted to get out of the cold weather and I was up for a change. It’s the change of pace, the new scenery, the different surroundings that drove me to Austin (although, quite literally I flew with a one way ticket on a westbound plane.) I don’t miss New England, although I sometimes think about where I would go if I weren’t here. I do miss some of my friends, including some of my old X’s, which is really quite sad. I guess I’m a hopeless romantic at heart, even though I look cold and calculating on the outside. The facade does serve it’s purpose, I suppose.
Some suggest places like Tuscon or Santa Fe. “I could see you retiring in an adobe house,” says Steve, “somewhere near a riverbend. In a nice little brown adobe cottage filled with artwork and lace curtains.” Me? Lace curtains? Well, I suppose when I’m old and grey anything’s possible. But I definately don’t think of myself as a “lace curtains” kind of gal.
HE thinks I’ll move someplace exotic, like Madagascar, Morocco, or Florence. “I could see you in Marakesh,” HE says, “sipping a cup of tea in a cafe reading some bootleg copy of the ‘Post.” Yup. Now there’s a middle that’s more like me. But still, it makes me wonder. What in the hell kind of accent would I end up with if I moved to Marakesh?
Until next time, this is Carol, the Carol in “Carol’s Little World” signing off.