Golly, gosh and crikey! Is Jane Messina starting to turn into one of us?

There I was, nine months since my last return to the US, boarding a United Airlines flight to D.C. for a meeting. A few weeks before, I was so overcome by the excitement of seeing old friends who would be driving up to see me that I never stopped to think the unthinkable — that the U.S. might feel, well, weird to me now.

I was already uncomfortable when I heard more American accents at my gate than English ones, forgetting that a United flight would have primarily American passengers.

Why did this make me so uncomfortable? I really can’t explain it, other than the possibility that I’ve grown used to being a minority these days, usually finding “being American” is a special thing I’ve got in common with somebody (or a reason to be embarrassed by somebody), rather than the norm.

Suddenly these people were just one big group of strangers.

After take-off was the announcement that “beer and wine are NOT complimentary on this flight”. I was immediately irked, reminded of the utter tight-fistedness of the majority of US flight carriers who manage to get every single penny out of our pockets just so we don’t have to experience several hours of insufferable discomfort.

Even though I didn’t want a glass of wine, I felt I deserved it — this was the second most British thought I’d ever had up to that point.

But when a flight attendant had the gall to call me “sweetie” when she handed me my lukewarm tin of “barbecue chicken”, I thought, “sweetie? She doesn’t even know me!”.

This is the most British thought I have ever had, and I was taken aback by it.

Finally my flight ended and I was picked up by my badly-missed friends. But I realized (I can spell it with a ‘z’ beacuse I am in the States at this point in my story) by the end of the short trip to our hotel (which included a pass through a drive-through Starbucks where I was asked every earthly question before receiving unsweetened iced tea) that I was doing something that would irritate me immensely were the tables turned.

I was pointing out every little inane thing I noticed that was different in comparison to the way things work in the UK, most of which were so commonly understood that anyone who’s ever seen a British movie would have been bored.

They soon punished me by dressing me in a denim jacket with the painted letters ‘USA’ for our night out.

Still, I can’t help but feel a slight identity crisis upon my return. I’m reminded on a daily basis how not-British I am — but am I starting to grow a stranger to my own customs as well?

The occasional week-long trip back to the US won’t reverse the trend, and I assume I’ll grow more and more accustomed to the UK way of life. So what can I cling to?

Well luckily, no matter where I am, I can count on a few things: my education, my family and friends, and this damn loud voice of mine.