Well, here it is too much more than a month later, returned from my long trip to London, Scotland and Paris. The other day someone asked me, "What was your favorite thing about the trip?" And, you know...I couldn't answer.
It's the same with this post. For weeks, though I felt I wanted to share it, ought to share it with you here, I haven't been able to get past the enormity of the journey to put it into words. It's not that the trip was disappointing, or boring, or troublesome. Far from it! It was wonderful...I use that word literally...the wondering each day and night as I wandered, the absorbing of everything the senses allowed and the mind captured.
I'd been to all those places before, so it wasn't as if everything was as if shiny-new in a foreigner's eyes. But this trip, from the beginning, had a peace about it, a coming-back relief, release, an unravelling of my knots and fissures, some more painful than others to undo, and yet... Throughout, I walked and walked and walked.
So how to begin relating it to you? What is your favorite? No? All right, then choose one of your favorites...it's impossible.
When I did the Journal Workshop all those years ago, one woman came to a session foaming in frustration...how could I ask her to write "Where I Come From"...too much, too complicated!
I remember my response now...just pick a moment, an image and write that. She did: a poem of sorts about leaving for school in the morning, undoing when she got to the corner the braids that her mother had tightened behind her, and letting her hair go free.
It occurs to me this very second, that hers is a good metaphor for my own moment away. There may not be braids to undo, but hair? Yes. Before I left, I had gone to the hairdresser and told her, This hair won't do. She agreed, and cut it within two inches of its roots. I loved it. It reminded me of that Twiggy cut I had gotten a few days before graduation and took it to Aspen with me that summer. Then, in Paris, wanting a trim, I'd had it shorn to barely one, strand by strand in the cutter's precise hands. So that might be the feeling my journal writer described...going free.
You've already read how I made my plans...a visit to my friends in London and Scotland, and a side trip to Uncle George's sister Ada attached, of course (Paris was always there, the ride on the Eurostar always an easy glide into it). It was only a few weeks before I left that I woke one morning thinking (demanding is more like it), I need to get out of town. Under that a desperation building inside me that maybe I recognized, maybe not, pushing me along. Things fell into place too quickly, too universe-designed.
It's easy to write, yes, I've been to London, Scotland and Paris...isn't that grand. But it's not the destinations, or at least the names of places that are difficult; it's the being there that befuddles. Visiting friends, making friends, infusing each piece of the kaleidoscopic journey with _______ what? Something I can't name, but could paint in colors if I sat down to it...a rush of brightness in dashes and blots, not superficial color but innate, like inks soaked into rag paper, thickening and illuminating a vision you watch grow into some sort of new understanding.
In London, then Scotland, Will and Dorothy brought something refreshing to every day...a bowl of welcome lentils after a long journey, splendid gardens and towns to explore, endless conversations about our history, their history, the history of towns and families (not to mention insights into the current, dreaded political scene). Will's apartment and Dorothy's cottage are homey, lovely, filled with family photos and curiosities, each in different ways. Will, ever the collector, has made his into a miniature John Soane; Dorothy in a tribute to art, family, carved and potted collections, each piece in a little corner where it lives best. Every day a new one to discover. And their back gardens! It's a sink-into-comfort visit with tours of places revisited and new on the side. And care...they are perfect hosts, warm, easy to be with, stand-in-the-rain-to-see-me-off-on-the-train hosts. Ah. There we are. Care. If this trip were a favorite dish, care would be the flavor that seeps up through its aroma and stays with you. (Do you see how it takes the senses to explain?)
To begin, Will meets me at Heathrow, hands me an Oyster card he keeps for guests, and we train back to Brockley for a rest and reorientation. Then he makes me lentils for supper...the perfect arrival dinner after a long night's flight over the Atlantic.
We walk through Hilly Fields to stretch our legs.
By bus, we go to Lewiston, a town over, to shop for sturdy shoes in the Clark's store...I buy a pair my sister calls "bowling shoes"...don't laugh! They carry me all over the UK and Scotland and Paris comfortably and neatly.
There is a long street market there, too, where Will can buy 4 avocados for 1￡ .
By train, then, to the Borough Market, between the Klink and the Bermondsly Road (I'm disappointed to find Bermondsly is no longer the famed furniture/antique/junk market), where we trudge up and down the tangled paths through the kiosks, gathering food for our Scotland trip and some spicey gifts to bring home.
Will has basil with giant leaves growing in his small but prolific garden, so I buy seeds for Bolloso Napoletano Basilico at the garden corner there to try to grow next spring, then raid the spice market to fill Joseph's gift.
At an antipasto shop, run by girls from Bari, we get some marinated artichokes, mushrooms (the best!) and some meats to take to Scotland. Cheeses from another favorite vendor. Our carry bags are full by the time we go on to wander, with a stop at the Anchor Pub for ale (W) and lemonade (me).
We continue our wanderings to find a decorative clothing museum (it's closing soon, so we decide we haven't enough time, though it looks wonderful) and across the street a glassblowing shop. Vivid colors in all shapes, clear and opaque, line the white shelves and tabletops. I sigh over a beautiful asymmetrical vase, then think of how long it might last in my boy-run house. More fancifully, there is a quill and inkwell I can't even imagine the making of.
Back at the closing Borough Market, with some complicated maneuvering, which requires help from one of the roving staff we manage to flag down, we make a reservation for Parella, a restaurant just outside its gates, and then wait a while while the restaurant opens.
We get a table with a friendly server, and order glasses of wine...after today, we seriously need those...and wait for our skillful Italian dishes: wild mushroom fettucine (it's wild-mushroom season here) and rocket and arugula salad...ah! salad!...in a light barely-there dressing for me and fettucine with wild boar sausage for Will, I think. The waiter has a soft Italian voice, so I strain to hear across the table in the crowded scene. But love the nickelplated shiny bar with its light-splitting glasses. The couple next to us, girlfriends, were in line with us when we finally got "permission" to make a reservation.
After dinner, we walk more...past the Globe Theatre, from which balcony hang not Juliet but some wealthier patrons sipping wine, from a new restaurant the theatre has added. It seems a long way from tomatoes and oranges flung onstage. Along the river, the lights across shine...St. Paul's the old man among the upstart high glassy towers of every geometric form. The lit boats, tourist and working, float by.
We are headed for the Tate Modern, where Will shares his pass for a members' night at the Cezanne exhibition. Beautiful, uncrowded, I see everything but spend a very long time figuring out two particular works, their color and lines, their relation to one another (did C. know?).
The next day, Will has a medical appointment across Hilly Fields, so in the foggy, rain-promised morning, I walk them, then sit down to sketch a little girl on a scooter...there are lots of kids on scooters, moreso than bikes but probably equally strollers. I'd planned to sketch the whole trip, but this was my only one...sketching, I guess, wasn't meant to be part of this journey.
With a cup of tea and a scone (I think...might have been a carrot muffin) from the coffee shop in the Fields, I watch Saturday families, pairs and singles stroll, bike and run free through the paths and playgrounds.
It begins to rain in earnest as Will returns, so we head back to his flat for lunch. When it clears, out we go again to spend the rest of the day wandering more fields and visiting a garden shop, though Will will not consider a drink or supper in this nearby enchanting pub beside an expansive, bright view of London town. Too expensive, he says. I sigh.
We find this pair of boots along the curb...is there a story there?
Alas, into some rain some rain must fall...at night, I receive an email from the water company at home that something may be leaking...water use is high. Here I am thousands of miles away. I can't find anyone home, by email or text, to check it out. Joseph is also away, in D.C. for the weekend. I notify the water company to explain that I am away...far away. I don't get an answer until the next day, but then two neighbors rush over and the man from OWASA arrives nearly the same time to shut it off, and two days later Joseph finds the problem and tries to fix it. The water stays off til I get home...a lesson I already knew but hadn't heeded. I breathe again, not thinking of the bill to be paid...or if I am thinking about it, I don't care.
The Sunday's drive up into Yorkshire on the way to Dunblane is pretty, sunny and full of fields, sheep, cows, small clusters of cottages, some on the road, some well away of it, charming, charming postcard scenes.
But where do we stop for lunch? At the American Diner...a glistening red and aluminum round-edged place with signs tauting motor oil and Elvis and a juke box...Will needs his American breakfast fix; I order eggs with beans, a bit more in keeping with the country, but not really.
At the Scottish border, there are flags flying over a bridge and a fellow waving...calling for Scottish independence. I can hardly blame them. Scotland is its own country, its own story, its own culture, its own fierce pride. I wish them well.
We watch the signs for gas (petrol) costs as we drive. Will's car is electric, so it doesn't take as much, but when we find a less alarming price, we pull into the station.
Dorothy is waiting at the house for us, her charming, comfortable, beautiful, interesting Dunblane cottage. We undo our Boroughs Market parcels and have a good dinner, talk awhile, then bed, I under the warm comforter (there's that word again). I sleep and sleep.
There. Have you had enough? This is only the first three or four days of my 22. Do you see what I mean about not being able to tell the real story of this trip? The above is what happened, yes, but not what it was.
I'll end for now, though I've written more. Scotland is next.
