Story 1- Untitled
Walking
around the streets of Portsmouth NH, I find my eyes drawn to the familiarities:
the awnings of my favorite coffee shop pulled out to cover diners from the sun,
the bubbling and gurgling fountain splashing nearby children, the multi-colored
houses, apartments and stores, uneven roads and the towering church spire,
sticking up over the center of Portsmouth like a beacon stating, “here I am”! I glance too at the not so obvious landmarks
none but a resident would think to look for: the brick in the sidewalk stamped
with the image of a dragon, the one way roads and the quiet nooks and crannies
hidden in the bustling downtown. All of
this is home to me. From the windows
advertising sales of antiques and novelties to the iced chai tea sweating in
its plastic prison before me, I know it all like a favorite book or song;
backwards, forwards, upside down or right side up.
As
I take the first sip of my favorite drink from my favorite café (made
perfectly, by the way. The baristas know
me and my drink order) I contemplate leaving my home and placing myself
somewhere where I don’t know which restaurant has the best bread or which
stores offer student discounts. I
imagine losing luggage, over paying, getting lost and getting robbed. My stomach twinges a bit. Am I nervous?
Maybe a little, but despite all my worries the fluttering in the region
by my belly button is more the feeling I get when anticipating going on a
roller coaster or a first date- nervous, but excited at the future
possibilities.
When
the bus finally arrives in Cambridge after a whole day of exhaustive traveling,
this same sense of excitement and possibility overwhelms me until I am shaking
and frantically tapping my feet, trying to release some of the energy racing
through my core and out through my fingertips.
There is so much to see and explore, people to observe and bicycles to
avoid. I feast upon this visual banquet
with an insatiable appetite… until I have to get off the bus, that is. Feelings of doubt and uncertainty suddenly
flash through my mind. I don’t know
where I am, I don’t know where I am going, I don’t know how to hail a taxi and
I don’t know how much to tip. A slight awareness
of separation and confusion mingles with my elation. It is a small feeling, easy to brush away,
but it hovers around me like a fruit fly coveting an overripe banana, annoying
and pestering me. I suddenly realize
that, despite for some similarities, Cambridge is not Portsmouth and I can be
damn sure the baristas won’t know my coffee order here.
Coming
to Cambridge, England for six weeks was an adventure I had been anticipating
for approximately seven months, my worldly exploits could not start soon
enough! The newness and the unexplored
terrain of Cambridge thrilled me. My
excitement of being anonymous, of being able to be anyone in a different city,
in a different country, contrasted with my love of being known and cared
for. I came to Cambridge looking for something
untouched and unfamiliar but while I’ve been here I’ve been making it feel more
like the home I’m used to.
Sweat
moistens my hair line as I walk purposefully in the general direction of where
I think my destination lies. I walk
quickly even though I am in no particular hurry. The constant motion of the city infects me
and speeds my steps, lengthens my strides until I am just another person on the
street briskly moving from point A to point B.
I try to look like I know what I am doing but, to be quite honest, I
have no idea where I’m going, just a name and number on Google maps. I am mostly relying upon my good luck and
coffee senses to guide my way.
Since
arriving in Cambridge, I’ve been on the hunt for the perfect cup of joe. My initial shock of going in to a café and
not having a regular coffee order (a stressful situation for a girl who usually
doesn’t have to order) has transformed into a desire to find a replacement for
my spot back home. I am looking for that
place with the perfect view, the great atmosphere and, of course, my ideal
caffeine fix. A tall order but, as I
stroll along bustling streets and empty alleys, passing café upon café upon
café, I am filled with a sense of optimism that perhaps my next stop will yield
the expected results. The irony of my
venture is not lost on me of course. I
came across the ocean looking for something new and different yet, while living
in the very situation I so craved, I long to find a bit of Portsmouth in the
yellowy stone buildings and impressive gothic architecture of Cambridge.
Stopping
at a crosswalk I turn and look across the street to see my destination with a
large sign plastered across the door which says “closed for refurbishment until
7/28”. My shoulder sag, my eyebrows rise
and my forehead crinkles in a disappointed and slightly aggravated
expression. “This could have been the
one” I think as I dejectedly turn around and make my way back towards where I
can see the curly spire of King’s Chapel peeping out from behind malls, restaurants
and town houses.
I
can picture myself sitting in their window seats with a latte one day and a
coffee the next, working my way through their menu until I found my drink. This idealistic image of feeling local in a
city I have known for a mere week sustains me until I am in line at the nearby
Costa coffee. Not bad, I think,
surveying the layout with a critical eye.
Not what I’m looking for but not bad.
I hand the barista a chunk of change, grab my iced cinnamon latte and
head back out into the heat of the uncharacteristically warm British summer,
sipping my cool drink with disdain. I
shouldn’t judge it too harshly, it’s not my latte’s fault my quest is still
unfinished.
Although I still
enjoy finding new book shops, different restaurants and living in a city with
which, after a week, I am still mostly unaccustomed to, I will continue my
search for my favorite café. I will
plunder the cobblestoned streets of Cambridge until I find that one, shining,
spot that makes me go, “this is the one I’ve been looking for”. Despite wanting to feel the newness of living
in a different country, I have found that we make ourselves feel as at home as
possible. Whether it is having movie
nights with friends we just met or acquainting ourselves with the local staff,
a need to feel welcomed and comfortable in our surroundings is a major driving
force in what we do and where we go.
Home leaks out through the bricks and soaks into our very selves until
we follow the need for familiarity through unknown streets and over bridges,
searching for that feeling of belonging, or maybe just for a perfect cup of
coffee. Story 2: De-Railing Notions
It
smells like an Italian sub, feet and sweat.
Overall not one of the most pleasing smells one would want to encounter
on a late night train from London to Cambridge.
It is twelve o’ clock on a Saturday night and the train compartment is
packed: there are women in cowgirl costumes with bejeweled, pink, cowboy
hats. There is a young man wearing a
tiara, making people wonder if it is his Birthday or if he just lost a
bet. An old man is squashed up against
the door surrounded by scantily clad girls with flowers woven in and out of
their hair, he looks rather like a turtle with his wrinkly face and frown that
turns his whole mouth upside down. From
his nice suit to his raised shoulders, his whole demeanor seems to say, “I’m
too old for this”. There are old people,
young people, drunk people and sober people (although the ratio is
significantly in favor of the drunks), and then there’s us.
My
friends and I are squished and mixed somewhere in this jumble (I’m not really
sure where, I lost a lot of them on the platform). We have just boarded our last train of the
night on the last leg of our very long journey from Cardiff back to our adopted
home of Cambridge. We are tired, sweaty,
greasy, dirty, sore and grumpy. We just
want to sleep and relax, letting the constant movement of the train carry our wavering
thoughts into sleep and our bodies through English towns and cities. However, it is difficult to sleep when
champagne bottles are being popped right behind you and strange women are
asking you to help them take their shoes off.
So we sit and wait. We sit in
different parts of the train, arms crossed defiantly and sullen faces looking
out the window, trying not to make eye contact.
I
sit this way, slightly amused by the shenanigans occurring on the train and
admiring the Londoners ability to carry the party into the compartment. But mostly I am sitting and hoping I don’t
have to make pleasant conversation with anyone, I am in no mood to be charming.
So when the man across from me leans forward and asks me where I’m from, my
stomach drops a little bit in disappointment.
I am too polite to not respond, regardless of my mood so I answer him.
We’re from the States,
I say, speaking for myself and my friends.
What part?
I’m from New Hampshire.
He
gives me a blank stare as most people do when I tell them where I’m from.
It’s about an hour North of Boston,
I say with a questioning voice. Relief and
understanding cross the man’s face and the woman next to him, who I now realize
must be his wife, looks up from her cell phone.
Oh, we’ve been to Boston, yeah, we
like Boston, she says in her bubbly British lilt.
Yeah, Boston’s fun,
I say ambiguously.
Excellent seafood, the
man says, the oysters are fantastic!
I
hate oysters. I have never been able to
handle the texture as the slimy, raw shellfish slides down my throat. Eating oysters has always reminded me of
trying to swallow a mouthful of phlegm, it just gets stuck in your mouth and
you don’t know if you should eat it or spit it out. Despite my disgust with oysters, I smile and
nod to the couple, pleased that they like something about my homeland.
We
carry on this way for several minutes, exchanging stories and talking about
places we’ve been. They like Boston,
Florida, Las Vegas. I like the history
of Cambridge and the energy of London.
They assure me that London is boring and Vegas is better.
Vegas is where it’s at,
the man says. Looking at him, I’m not
surprised he thinks this. He’s wearing a
tight, white collared shirt with the top two buttons undone, showing off some
of his tanned chest. A gold wedding ring
is one of several adornments on his left hand.
All that is missing from his image, I think, is a heavy gold chain
draped over his shoulders and a slot machine flashing in front of him.
Every city in America has
everything you could ever want, the man
continues. I look up, surprised. I have never felt this way about my home
country. Sure, it has Starbucks and
Dunkin’ Donuts on every corner in every major city. Sure, in most places you can be at a super
grocery store in less than twenty minutes.
But why would you want that when the glittering lights of London, Paris
and Florence sparkle so tantalizingly in your imagination? Who would pick the commercialization of Vegas
compared to the green rolling hills of England, dotted here and there with the
occasional sheep, horse or cow? Why
America over all the other amazing places in the World?
The
tan man’s wife jumps in the conversation, her dyed blonde hair swaying with her
emphatic nods of agreement and her pink nails flashing before me as she speaks
with her hands.
God, yeah! England is at least five years behind America,
she says. I ask her what she means.
Well,
she continues, you can walk anywhere now
and grab a coffee. There’s a shop on
every corner. I nod in concurrence,
wondering where she’s going with this.
Well if you had come here, what,
maybe seven years ago?
She turns to her husband for reassurance that her numbers are
right. He twitches his head towards his
shoulder and she continues. If you had come to London seven years ago,
you wouldn’t have seen that. It’s only
been in the past five years that the coffee shops have popped up. Before that, you had to actually walk into a
restaurant and sit down if you wanted a cup of coffee.
I’m
incredulous. How can this be? In Cambridge alone you can walk down side
streets, main streets and alleyways and find a place to grab a tea or
coffee. I had assumed that coffee shops
were as ingrained in the culture as was driving on the left hand side of the
road; something that had always been there and always would be. I didn’t understand why this couple had such
a high regard for the country I had just left.
They think fondly of the glitz and glamour of Las Vegas and I marvel at
the old architecture, serene landscapes and the perpetual motion of cities like
London and Cambridge.
The
train rocks to a soft stop and the couple gets up to leave, the woman grabbing
her husband by the shirt sleeve and gently pulling him away. They wish us well and remind me, yet again,
to check out Vegas sometime. I wave them
away and chuckle to myself, thinking of their love for my country and
remembering my parting words with my Grandfather before I packed up and left
the U.S. for six weeks.
We
were standing on the beach and the American flag was hanging limply and
forlornly in the humid July heat. My
Grandfather sidled over to me and we looked up at the flag together, the sound
of the waves crashing along the shore in the background. He put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Just
don’t forget the flag”. I looked up at
the mop of heavy hanging fabric and thought of accents, tea and plane ride
adventures. I gazed at the swirling
ocean behind me and then glanced back up at the red, white and blue icon. “I don’t know Grampy,” I said, “I think I
might miss the beach more”.
No comments:
Post a Comment