The Brit

Rye, NY
12:30 pm

I had a cozy, very long distance chat with my daughter on Sunday. I inquired as to whether she was following the Olympics'

"Yes, I watched the rowing."

The ROWING, thought I, ashamed to admit I didn't even realize it was an Olympic event.

"...and I'm dying to know who won the women's marathon." She was totally disinterested in swimming, Michael Phelps or gymnastics. My eldest daughter is truly a Brit. This isn't exactly a shock. I've seen it coming in bits and pieces since her move to London about 6 years ago. She actually follows soccer and carries a "mobile phone." During my first visit across the pond several years ago, she cautioned my against referring to my "cell phone" as it would out me as an American. I broke up laughing. Honey, I replied, as soon as I open my mouth everyone will know I'm an American. Besides, I thougtht, I have no desire to hide my origins.

There is no denying it. My daughter is a fully functioning ex-pat. Her life is now an ocean away. And I miss her deeply. She seems much farther away than when she lived in San Francisco, although the actual mileage is likely about the same. At least she hasn't adopted the accent--for the moment.