Common Ground

In my day to day work I get to meet people from just about every nation on earth. 

That may seem hard to believe but it is true. 

The city in which I have made my home - Kingston upon Hull or just plain ‘ull , Yorkshire has always been a marshalling point for those travelling the globe.

In the far distant past its waterfront will have been passed by Roman supply vessels taking every manner of trading goods to the staging post at Brough for the overland journey to the military and administrative hub of Eboracum or modern day York. Later visitors were less interested in shopping than rape and pillage, for example the Vikings. 

As a natural and logical Gateway to Europe the Port of Hull thrived with both inward and outward flow of everything from Dutch tiles to bales of wool, timber to coal and then in the mid to late nineteenth century it hosted, albeit briefly making their way from from pier to railhead, some 2 million immigrants with their minds and aspirations set on the United States and Canada. Some, including ancestors of my wife originally from Sweden and Germany stayed and put down their roots. 

In the modern era the city has acted as a stop-over for those escaping conflict and persecution in the troubled areas of the globe and latterly providing a longer term home for the many migrant workers from Eastern Europe and beyond. 

There is also a sizeable contingent of students from China and African nations who quickly master the accent and eccentricities of the indigenous population. 

In all the city is and has always been a melting pot of different cultures. 

I feel privileged to be able to meet and briefly spend time with fellow citizens of the planet. 

Of course I have no grasp of the multitude of languages or customs of the majority of those whom I come across but there are always some common points of reference on which to attempt a conversation or at least have a sense of respect and understanding. 

On my part I have learned a few informative phrases in Polish and Russian. The most important and by far the most useful is the explanation to a complete stranger of why I am standing on their doorstep and requiring to have a walk around and inspection of the place in which they are living. “Dom Inspector” is how I pronounce it and to those of the Eastern European region it seems to be accepted as a proper job and a reason for my presence with clipboard, damp meter and laser measurer. 

It was in fact suggested as being appropriate wording by a startled resident of a rented house who happened to find me, keys in hand, in his lodging room. I have used it ever since although it could of course be a derogatory term with my misinterpretation of “Dom” actually being “Dumb”. 

I took the meaning in good faith. 

The city was the adopted home in the 1990’s for refugees from the war zones in the former Yugoslavia. The Kosovans and Bosnians, I am unsure of whether they were comrades or enemies, became well established although the locals were suspicious and wary of these strangers in their midst. For all of its Port and trading status there has in fact been fairly low levels of integration between resident and visiting populations and this has engendered somewhat irrational insecurity and a lot of myth and rumour on all sides. 

Having met many who have been forced to flee I can appreciate the family, friends, professions and livelihoods that they have had to leave behind. 

There are always some subjects on which to start up a dialogue with absolute strangers and the best, in my experience are sport and food. 

I have spent momentous and valuable times with Afghan and Iraqi asylum seekers chatting about my introduction to Sheep’s Head as a meal by a family friend from the Middle East. 

The occupants of a rented house, all Polish, seemed to enjoy my dramatic re-enactment of the heroics of their national team goalkeeper, Tomaszewksi against England in a World Cup Qualifier in the 1970’s. By the way, the game I think was drawn and England missed out on the summer tournament. 

An Iranian was totally amazed that I knew about a footballer from his home nation called Ali Parvin. That was down to my keeping of a scrapbook about the 1978 Argentina World Cup when just a teenager.

The Chinese students in a house close to the University were amused by my attempts to describe my short addiction to Chrysanthemum Tea which I had been introduced to by a Hong Kong student called Elvis whom I had shared lodgings with in my own academic years. 

This formula of finding a mutual interest has worked perfectly well for years. 

That was until just this week. 

I was working in the York area where very many houses are given over as shared student accommodation for what must be around 30,000 combined attendees at institutions in the city. 

The occupant of one such place was Italian and studying for a PhD in Economics. 

He seemed on first impression to meet what us English hold as a stereotype Italian in being well presented, nicely dressed and of impeccable command of our own language. 

The usual chit chat passed between us and then I had a notion to quiz him on my favourite sport, professional cycling, which amongst its top echelons there have always been superstars from Italy.

I decided to focus on one of its current top performers, Vincenzo Nibali, a particular favourite of mine for his clever and aggressive riding in the European Tours and one day Classics. My mention of this illustrious name drew a completely blank look. 

I persisted in case I had mis-pronounced the name but still the same vacant expression. 

He admitted then, rather sheepishly, that he did not follow cycling. 

I joked that of course he must like football, after all, the Italian league and National Teams had a fantastic record of victories in respective competitions and reputations to match. 

I reeled off a few names from my childhood football albums, Riva, Zoff, Rivera, Mazzola, Conti, Rossi, Maldini, Baggio, Materrazi and Del Piero coming to mind but again no response. 

Turns out he liked tennis. 

My faith in my fellow humans was shattered and I finished my work and left feeling a bit empty and dejected inside.