In Alison Lurie’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, Foreign Affairs (1984), two English professors at Corinth University have research grants to travel to England. Fred, a handsome young man – so handsome that he can barely hold off the infatuated women students – has just broken up with his wife, Roo, and is mourning. On the other hand, Vinnie, his brilliant, plain, much older colleague, has friends in England and an active social  life. Though she does not particularly like Fred, she feels obligated to invite him to a cocktail party, where an English actress picks him up and sweeps him off in a whirlwind of parties. But Vinnie is the more interesting character of the two Americans, and her musings on “foreign sounds” will resonate with travelers.

But hearing in the full sense is blocked.  Intelligible foreign sounds are limited to the voices of waiters, shopkeepers, professional guides, and hotel clerks – plus snatches of dubiously ‘native music.’  Even in Britain, accent intonation and vocabulary are often unfamiliar; tourists do not recognize many of the noises they hear, and then speak mostly to functionaries.

Has anyone ever said this better than Alison Lurie? My conversations abroad tend to be with people in the hospitality industry, who come from countries all over the world. A maid and I had to do pantomime when I needed help unfolding the ironing board. Alas, she could not figure it out, either. We agreed, with much eye-rolling, that the ironing board was useless. “What crap!” I said cheerfully.

When I tired of “hospitality” English, I headed to Harrods or any shop at all. American English and English English are not that different, and it is comforting to hear it.

The biggest problem: you cannot get coffee. The coffeehouses try to sell you a ghastly espresso drink called an Americano. Under no circumstances should you drink it. Order a latte or cappuccino instead. Or tea. Or anything at all.

Avoid the Americano.