The English Patient
Two weeks have passed already. Amazing.
Where has the time gone? Well, about a week or so went to England. Climbing on and off the Underground subway in London, minding the gap between the platform and the train while shuttling my way around the city, I congratulate myself early and often on being able to find my way rather easily through this expansive metropolis. Of course, the Underground, or "the tube" as they call it here is fairly simple to use, but I'm on my own in a strange city, and so getting from point A to point B without getting lost becomes major victory #1 for me.
And what is London like? It is an old, gray, classy city which reminds me a bit of New York, only cloaked in a thin veil of British regality that seems to tone the pace down just enough to make it manageable for someone like myself to divide and conquer its vastness within a few short days. The Underground makes it all possible, and I quickly figure out which stops to get off at to satisfy my various needs, led first and foremost by the free toilets at Marlyebone station. They are not really free--the turnstile's broken is all. But free toilets are nothing to sneeze at in Europe. Turns out you have to pay to pee all over the place here, and London is no exception, where usually 30-50 pence (50-75 cents or so) will give your bladder the relief it needs. And trust me, there were times I would have paid ten times that amount to be free of that "gotta go" feeling that can creep up mysteriously right in the middle of your eighth mile of touristic traipsing all over the concrete jungle.
In between toilet stops, I stumble upon many of the sights you would expect to see in London. Buckingham Palace? Check. London Bridge? Check. Big Ben? Yep, he's big. I am jetlagged during these first few days of exploration, but I don't care much. I am far too busy motoring around like a contestant on "The Amazing Race" to notice that I am not eating regularly, that I am way underdressed for the chilly, cloudy English weather, that I am not getting nearly enough rest, and that I seem to be running solely on adrenaline. It is a good long while before I begin to notice that I have no connection to my body at all--four days to be exact. Checking in with myself for the first time all trip, I am stunned by the condition I find myself in. I am sick. Coughing, sneezing, wheezing, fevery, chilly sick--the worst sick I have known in many years, actually. I fully uncover my weakened state while slumped in my seat, riding the bus out to the English countryside to see my friend Meghan (Ghan) from college, to stay with her and her family for a night away from the big city. By the time her husband Mike picks me up from the bus station, I am shaking like a leaf. It's cold, certainly much colder than I am used to in my warm, paradisiacal homeland of Honolulu, but this shaking isn't right. I'm not right. By the time I get to their home, a lovely cottage in the middle of English Nowhere, I can barely breathe or keep my eyes open. It's drizzling by now, a steady cold drip from above that seems to echo the one already happening in my head. Everything is muted, grey, chilled, my travel dreams seemingly being snuffed out one kleenex at a time.
In spite of this, I am very happy to see Ghan, and more than happy to meet her adorably entertaining, precocious children and to somehow converse in-depth with her intelligent, warm husband. After a spot of tea, we head off to a Diamond Jubilee gathering in her small village. Nothing like the huge celebrations along the River Thames that I had left behind in London, mind you, this was old England all the way. Like cardigan sweaters, heavy accents and lots of talk about the Queen and her 60 years on the throne. Through my fever-induced haze, I observe some things. Everyone is drinking--alot. They seem to love sausage, potatoes, and chocolate, the latter of which turns out to be the bulk of my dinner before I excuse myself early. After only thirty minutes or so, I am done. The two minute walk back to Ghan's house in a steady light rain feels like two hours, and more like a death march than a stroll home. Upon arrival I curl up on her couch immediately, bury myself under a couple of heavy blankets, and wonder with a seriousness: Did I come to England to die? I share this thought with Ghan and Mike a few hours later over a cup of delicious, velvety hot cocoa. They laugh. I don't. I mean it. But there is no denying I feel well tended to in this house. If I did come here to die, I decide that at least I will do it comfortably in this cozy little spot, and amongst friends no less. I could have been in a stark, loud, unfriendly hostel during my darkest hour. But I'm not. I am here, and this one simple fact makes me deliriously happy inside, even if I don't have quite the right energy to accurately display this emotional state outwardly.
I sip my hot cocoa, sensing the love and kindness in my cup. It feels like home. Halfway around the world, falling apart at the seams, the tender loving care I am receiving is reigniting my pilot light and reminding me that I am always home no matter where I go. I will be fine. Of course I will. I'm still coughing, still sniffing, but I start to think that maybe I didn't come to England to die after all.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Where has the time gone? Well, about a week or so went to England. Climbing on and off the Underground subway in London, minding the gap between the platform and the train while shuttling my way around the city, I congratulate myself early and often on being able to find my way rather easily through this expansive metropolis. Of course, the Underground, or "the tube" as they call it here is fairly simple to use, but I'm on my own in a strange city, and so getting from point A to point B without getting lost becomes major victory #1 for me.
And what is London like? It is an old, gray, classy city which reminds me a bit of New York, only cloaked in a thin veil of British regality that seems to tone the pace down just enough to make it manageable for someone like myself to divide and conquer its vastness within a few short days. The Underground makes it all possible, and I quickly figure out which stops to get off at to satisfy my various needs, led first and foremost by the free toilets at Marlyebone station. They are not really free--the turnstile's broken is all. But free toilets are nothing to sneeze at in Europe. Turns out you have to pay to pee all over the place here, and London is no exception, where usually 30-50 pence (50-75 cents or so) will give your bladder the relief it needs. And trust me, there were times I would have paid ten times that amount to be free of that "gotta go" feeling that can creep up mysteriously right in the middle of your eighth mile of touristic traipsing all over the concrete jungle.
In between toilet stops, I stumble upon many of the sights you would expect to see in London. Buckingham Palace? Check. London Bridge? Check. Big Ben? Yep, he's big. I am jetlagged during these first few days of exploration, but I don't care much. I am far too busy motoring around like a contestant on "The Amazing Race" to notice that I am not eating regularly, that I am way underdressed for the chilly, cloudy English weather, that I am not getting nearly enough rest, and that I seem to be running solely on adrenaline. It is a good long while before I begin to notice that I have no connection to my body at all--four days to be exact. Checking in with myself for the first time all trip, I am stunned by the condition I find myself in. I am sick. Coughing, sneezing, wheezing, fevery, chilly sick--the worst sick I have known in many years, actually. I fully uncover my weakened state while slumped in my seat, riding the bus out to the English countryside to see my friend Meghan (Ghan) from college, to stay with her and her family for a night away from the big city. By the time her husband Mike picks me up from the bus station, I am shaking like a leaf. It's cold, certainly much colder than I am used to in my warm, paradisiacal homeland of Honolulu, but this shaking isn't right. I'm not right. By the time I get to their home, a lovely cottage in the middle of English Nowhere, I can barely breathe or keep my eyes open. It's drizzling by now, a steady cold drip from above that seems to echo the one already happening in my head. Everything is muted, grey, chilled, my travel dreams seemingly being snuffed out one kleenex at a time.
In spite of this, I am very happy to see Ghan, and more than happy to meet her adorably entertaining, precocious children and to somehow converse in-depth with her intelligent, warm husband. After a spot of tea, we head off to a Diamond Jubilee gathering in her small village. Nothing like the huge celebrations along the River Thames that I had left behind in London, mind you, this was old England all the way. Like cardigan sweaters, heavy accents and lots of talk about the Queen and her 60 years on the throne. Through my fever-induced haze, I observe some things. Everyone is drinking--alot. They seem to love sausage, potatoes, and chocolate, the latter of which turns out to be the bulk of my dinner before I excuse myself early. After only thirty minutes or so, I am done. The two minute walk back to Ghan's house in a steady light rain feels like two hours, and more like a death march than a stroll home. Upon arrival I curl up on her couch immediately, bury myself under a couple of heavy blankets, and wonder with a seriousness: Did I come to England to die? I share this thought with Ghan and Mike a few hours later over a cup of delicious, velvety hot cocoa. They laugh. I don't. I mean it. But there is no denying I feel well tended to in this house. If I did come here to die, I decide that at least I will do it comfortably in this cozy little spot, and amongst friends no less. I could have been in a stark, loud, unfriendly hostel during my darkest hour. But I'm not. I am here, and this one simple fact makes me deliriously happy inside, even if I don't have quite the right energy to accurately display this emotional state outwardly.
I sip my hot cocoa, sensing the love and kindness in my cup. It feels like home. Halfway around the world, falling apart at the seams, the tender loving care I am receiving is reigniting my pilot light and reminding me that I am always home no matter where I go. I will be fine. Of course I will. I'm still coughing, still sniffing, but I start to think that maybe I didn't come to England to die after all.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
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