BY DAVID CAMPBELL

The quote has been attributed to any number of wits, but it rings true enough: “The English and Americans are one people separated by a common language.” I have found this to be the case on my travels throughout England, and I daresay I have the collection of puzzled looks and red-faced corrections to prove it.

Like most Americans, I arrived with a head full of words gleaned from British television and the Harry Potter films. I knew that a bobby was a policeman, the underground was a subway, a queue was a line, a flat was an apartment, football was not soccer, a jumper was a sweater, a tap was a faucet, a headmaster was a principal, and a torch was a flashlight.

I was rather pleased with myself, truth be told.

Then I landed at Heathrow and went to Car Hire. Did I want my luggage in the boot? The young man saw my confusion and explained, with the patience of a saint, that the boot was what we Yanks call the trunk, the bonnet was the hood, the windscreen was the windshield, the indicators were turn signals, and petrol was gasoline. He smiled when I climbed into the passenger side of the car, then sheepishly extracted myself, walked round, and took my rightful place behind the wheel on the right.

When I checked into my flat, the woman told me the car park was behind the building and the door opened to the lifts. I took the lift to my flat on the second floor and found myself on the third floor—for in England, the first floor is what Americans call the ground floor. This mathematical puzzle would confound me for the duration of my stay.

I have since compiled a glossary of comestibles: biscuits are cookies, chips are fries, crisps are chips, a toastie is a grilled cheese, babs are buns, sweets are candy, prawns are shrimp, bangers are sausage, gammon is ham, and a scone is—well, a biscuit, but not at all like our biscuits, which are something else entirely. You see the difficulty.

When we bought our cottage, the estate agent had me work with a barrister to handle the transaction. We engaged a surveyor to evaluate the property, then hired a joiner, a finisher, and required a binman to remove the rubbish from the garden, which he loaded into his lorry to take to the tip. Shortly after the renovation, I received my first council bill. During the work, I frequently visited the cashpoint to make purchases at the ironmonger and called at the chemist for plasters and paracetamol.

At a pub, I asked where the restroom was and was told the loo was down the hall. I was about to ask why I should see Lou when I realised she meant the toilet. I nodded as though I had known all along.

Some words I have figured out on my own: bloody hell, bellend, bollocks, cad, cock-up, git, knob, nutter, prat, and finally, tits-up. Context, as they say, is everything.

When a customer from England was working with one of our technicians, he told the lad he was going out to blow a fag. I patiently explained to the wide-eyed technician that a fag was English slang for a cigarette. The poor boy looked relieved and disappointed in equal measure.

I also discovered that one must be absolutely certain of a word’s meaning before speaking. Once I commented to a female friend that she had a very nice fanny pack—the bag strapped round her waist. Her face turned a bright crimson, and I saw the shock register. After a moment, she sighed and said, “Bloody American,” then came over and whispered into my ear what “fanny” means in England. Now I was the one whose face was red, as she told me it is called a bum bag. I am exceedingly glad I did not mention that I liked her pants. (Trousers. I mean trousers.)

Yes, we are a common people separated by a common language, but I would not have it any other way. It keeps things interesting, and it keeps me humble—which, for an American abroad, is no bad thing.

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David Campbell is an American who spends a lot of time in Littlehampton, West Sussex.