I learned all of this in another language and it does not carry over

I moved here three years ago for work. Everything I know about this I learned somewhere else, in another language, among people who did it differently, and I have discovered that none of it translates as neatly as my English does.

The words are the smallest part. I can say the words. What does not carry is the manner. At home the approach was direct and slightly formal and nobody thought it rude. Here the same message reads as presumptuous, and I have watched myself cause offence three times without understanding what I had done until somebody was kind enough to explain the fourth time.

Thirty five, north of the river, six years in this before I arrived and three fairly lonely ones since.

What I would like is a woman who is willing to say plainly when I have got the register wrong, rather than simply not replying. I can learn quickly from a correction and not at all from silence. Beyond that, I want the same thing I wanted at home: a long arrangement, standing rules, service that is practical rather than performed, and one evening a week that belongs to somebody else.

I do not want my accent to be the interesting thing about me. I do not want to explain my country's scene, which I left partly because it was small and everybody knew everybody. And I would rather not be asked how long I am staying, because the honest answer is that I live here now.