If You Close Your Eyes

Daily cups of hot English tea and numerous tweets to my friends in London didn’t add up to enough England for me. When I heard that The 1975, a Manchester band that I follow, were soon to embark on an American tour beginning in Tulsa, I bought tickets in hopes that I could spend an evening forgetting that I was back in the American Midwest.

And for a second, I did. As Matty Healy, the band’s lead singer, tossed about Britishisms in his beautiful, choppy accent, the sound felt warmly familiar to me. Then I startlingly remembered that I was in Tulsa, Oklahoma—that this concert was likely the closest I’d get to England for quite some time.

The 1975 perform at the Vanguard in Tulsa’s Brady District on June 4.

* * *

A common thread runs throughout my blog posts: dreaming. In my May 6 post, I write, “I experienced a lot of life this semester, though it felt entirely unreal. I’m kind of afraid that it will all feel a dream once I get back home.”

It does, mostly.

I spend most of my days either ignoring the fact that my exciting European excursion has ended (this pastime takes on various forms) or gorging myself on my English favorites—music, tea, pictures, and that. I’ve been back for a month now, but my mind tunes to two radio frequencies: my life in America and my life in London. Any word, image, or song that reminds me of England clicks my brain back to my memory-operated London radio station, and I fog over like a dreary day in London town. My imagination leaves my head and transmits itself back across the pond, having adventures all on its own, and leaving any conversation partners confused at the blank stare presently crossing my face.

If I close my eyes, sometimes I feel like nothing has changed at all. This, from the lyrics of Bastille’s hit “Pompeii” (listen here), which came on my Spotify radio often while I stayed in London and was very popular by the time I made it to Rome (“We hear it ALL THE TIME on the radio,” said my lovely hostess, Mariachiara). The words haunted me throughout my travels; the song’s about so much more, but it reminded me yet again that this experience, this whole semester, may feel like a fancy dream. I didn’t want it to.

But as my friend so recently reminded me, memories are real. I have them with me even though I’m gone, and I am a different person, even if you can’t see it. That said, I’m sorry for my blank looks and my inadequate responses to your well-meaning questions; I’m simply making sure the memories are real.

Return Ticket

I flew to London in January with a one-way ticket. It took me forever to actually purchase my return ticket. Mostly I just hadn’t decided yet when to go home, but I was also mesmerized by the dream. This semester scarcely resembles real life; it’s more a blur of surreal moments–like a bunch of balloons pulling me up to the sky, tethered to the ground only by the reality of my imminent return.

To ease my mind amidst one of my homesick freak-outs–frequent during the first month of my stay in London–my friend told me, “It’ll all be here when you come back.”

I guess I can’t argue with that. Not to say all will be the same, because of course things have changed while I’ve been away. Blessedly, my friends and family have stuck by my side this whole time–texts, Skype calls, and Facebook have been my lifeline–and I know those relationships are still there, still solid. Some are stronger. I’m not worried that I’ve lost the ones I love.

No, it’s me I’m concerned about. How do I make sense of this experience and fit it into the context of my daily reality at home?

I’ve smiled up at Big Ben countless times;

I’ve gritted my teeth against the winds atop the Cliffs of Moher;

I’ve sung ‘hallelujah’ in La Sagrada Família;

I’ve boated through the canals of Venice;

I’ve picked flowers outside the Colosseum;

I’ve sipped wine at the foot of the Eiffel Tower.

I’ve strolled along the same streets as Dickens, Shakespeare, Hemingway, Keats, and other literary greats. I’ve done so much that I dreamed of doing. I’m so satisfied with amazing experiences that I don’t even know what to do with myself. Let me amend that: I’m more than satisfied. I’m rich in memories.

When I tossed my coin into the Trevi Fountain, I wondered what I should wish for. “I’m in Rome,” I thought. “Life is beautiful. What could I possibly want?”

What I want is to take those balloons, those mountaintop experiences, back home with me, and I want to share them with everyone. I’ve been so blessed through this whole journey; I hope my stories, my pictures, and my love of so many cities in Europe can be tokens for you.

I can’t wait to see you, friends. I’ll be back soon, and I’ll have balloons to share.

A Dream Aloud

’Twas the week of unexpected delights. I don’t remember Monday—pretty sure I was ill. I also am pretty sure I didn’t sleep between Monday and today, but it’s no big deal.

Tuesday promised to be ordinary (if there is such a day in London), until my dear friend Nicole sent me a message. “Would you like to join me and witness the best moment of my life?” she inquired. She’s a true Doctor Who fan, and Matt Smith—the current and eleventh doctor on the show—was due at the Apple Store on Oxford Street just three hours later. I couldn’t very well turn down the invitation to the best moment of her life, and I do enjoy seeing celebrities in the flesh, so we headed to the great shopping district that is London’s Oxford Street. We arrived an hour prior to the interview time, so we didn’t have to stand too long and we were still within visibility of his awesomeness. We even got to meet Abby, a sweet high-school student who lives near Toronto (I wouldn’t have guessed that she’s from Canada, so I guess I can lighten up on all the Brits who ask me whether I’m American or Canadian). Anyway, I truly enjoyed a glimpse into Matt Smith’s personality. Maybe I’ll become a proper Who fan someday.

Matt Smith delighting his audience

Wednesday, I again had nothing planned. My friend Landon had just gotten back from Italy the day before and was eager to spend the remainder of his spring break doing anything fun in London. I consulted my list, and it advised me to go to the Camden Market, so we did. It’s a pretty cool shopping scene, and there’s a lot to choose from. At some point, though, our plans for the rest of the day morphed into trying to get tickets for Les Misérables (plus a bonus trip to Nando’s; always welcome), which we were surprisingly able to do. I am ever so glad we didn’t settle for the £10 standing tickets—instead we splurged for £35 tickets in the upper circle but without a restricted view. The production was infinitely worth the money. Every character performed superbly, the orchestra was flawless, and the set was excellent. Overall, that experience was one of the highlights of my semester.

Les Mis at the Queens Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue

Thursday was in a tough spot; how could it compare with Wednesday’s Les Mis? But I did find out that Camden offers tasty, cheap food even at night, and that free music nights at the Lock Tavern are less enjoyable when you have to wait an extra hour for the first band to start and then some obnoxious girls dance right in front of your face. Ah, well.

Friday delivered the joy of proper afternoon tea at Baker Street’s Canteen: sandwiches, scones, cakes, English breakfast tea, and sparkling white wine. Never say the English don’t know how to snack—or feast, rather.

Afternoon tea at the Canteen

Next, north to Hampstead, where poet John Keats lived and wrote. The village is a dream, a quaint escape just outside of bustling Central London. I had to resist the strong urge to photograph every house there. Keats lived in a simple, white house near Hampstead Heath. I located the pond nearest his house and reveled in the tranquility foreign to most London spots. I made friends with the birds and tried to channel the muse that inspired beautiful poems like “Ode to a Nightingale.”

Saturday begged some endurance, from the weather, mostly. But I made the pilgrimage to Canterbury and can now assert that I’ve visited the shrine of Saint Thomas Becket, which of course I only know about because of Chaucer. I went all the way to the southeastern coast, to Dover, which boasts the remarkable White Cliffs and a castle that was used for military defense.

The White Cliffs of Dover can be seen from across the channel in Calais, France on a clear day.

I didn’t really know it was coming, but what a great week. I’m thankful for friends here who made it great and for friends at home who care enough to read about it. In other news, I’ll be heading to Barcelona and Italy in less than two weeks for some much-needed vitamin D (last week was allegedly “Vitamin D Awareness Week” here, and a Putney tanning salon was offering six minutes of free tanning. What is this place?). Twelve days, actually. But who’s counting?

Holding on to Stars

No matter how many times I look at a starry night sky, it never looks ordinary. The practice never becomes mundane. Try as I might, I can’t produce a mental picture anything close to the magnificent picture of the stars dotting a black canvas; I have to keep looking up to take in the sight.

Living in London is, for me, the same way. I was lucky enough to spend this week with my brother, Josh, and his girlfriend, Grace. We saw London, we saw Oxford, and now they’re on their way to Istanbul for a day.

Their visit jolted me to the obvious realization which I have about 49 times a week: I’m in London right now. And this awareness invariably follows it: my time here is limited. I only have three weeks until I jet off to Barcelona, to various Italian cities, and eventually to Paris. My time in London will accumulate to about two and a half weeks throughout April and May.

That said, I have a list of my final London must-dos. Some are museums; some are houses and palaces; I’ve got parks and street markets and random tea shops on there. I plan to cross off quite a few this weekend, as the term is coming swiftly to a close.

But Josh and Grace reminded me that I can’t miss the big things. All those landmarks that I feel like I know so well by now—they’re just like the stars. Soon the sun will wipe them from my vision, and I’ll never be able to remember exactly how it feels to walk across Westminster Bridge and see the elaborate Big Ben while I shiver in the chill of the breeze off the Thames. I won’t be able to recollect precisely the rush I get as I stroll, coffee in hand, from Piccadilly Circus down Shaftesbury Avenue.

So, to the same end as my last post, I’m off to live my London life as well as I can, before the stars fade in the daylight.

View of the City of Westminster from the London Eye. I can’t let this view become ordinary.

In My Mind’s Eye

I remember sunbeams streaming through breaks in the clouds, cascading light over green pastures and rolling hills. I remember a hawk coasting over the Cliffs of Moher and out above the Atlantic. I remember rocky beaches, ancient castles on the river, ruins from the time of the Irish Potato Famine, and a crumbling monastery with a friendly resident horse.

I remember Dublin’s colorful night lights glittering on the River Liffey, beneath the white-lit Ha’penny Bridge. There were troubadours on street corners; there were singers in every pub in Temple Bar. People smiling, drinking, dancing.

What I fail to remember is someone stealing my phone from my bag, but that happened. My phone, which held the photos and videos of all of these moments—Ireland, from east to west.

Aside from the undeniable frustrations of not having my U.S. phone anymore, I’m mainly upset to lose those pictures. I will never not wish I could get those pictures back. But this loss has forced me to the painful realization that I may be living on the wrong side of the camera lens.

When I came to London, I determined to take too many pictures (by my count) so that I would end up having enough. My natural tendency is to take the minimal amount of photographs to avoid looking like a tourist, to avoid being obnoxious, etc. But I trashed (“binned,” per proper UK terminology) that way of thinking for my semester abroad, because I want to remember every second of my experiences.

But I’ve ended up thinking too much about later, about afterwards: which photos will I put on Facebook? What will I blog about? Should I make a note of the song being sung right now, as I’m taking this picture? (Guilty.) None of these things are bad, but I end up missing the moment whilst I attempt to capture it forever.

Of course I want pictures, and I will most certainly continue to take too many pictures everywhere I go. But I’ll also take time to be where I am, to be in the moment—to be on the right side of the lens. I’ll do it for Ireland.

This is one of Nicole’s pictures. Here we are, windblown and freezing atop the beautiful Cliffs of Moher on Ireland’s western coast!

Below is the first verse from “Caledonia,” a Celtic tune that we listened to as we drove through the Irish countryside. It’s how I feel about home, and it’s how I feel about Ireland, too:

I don’t know if you can see
The changes that have come over me
In these last few days I’ve been afraid
That I might drift away
I’ve been telling old stories, singing songs
That make me think about where I’ve come from
That’s the reason why I seem
So far away today

I can always go back to Ireland, because I can see it in my mind’s eye.

 

Muriel

I get lost quite often in London, which won’t come as a surprise to most of my readers. There are some occasions—my walk through Little Venice, for example—when my wanders prove quite rewarding. Other days, when I’m on a schedule and in danger of missing an event or meeting, I’m not so easily gratified by more time ambling about in the cold or by extra bus trips (neither is my Oyster card).

Today, I was determined to make it to Kingston University in time for a lunch hosted by Michael and Susan, two missionaries in the area. They do a lot of work with Kingston students, sometimes with Roehampton as well; anyway, this was my first trip down to Kingston and the first of their student church activities that I’ve been able to attend. I promised I would go because I was feeling guilty for skipping out last week, and I needed to touch base with Michael and Susan.

Naturally, I took the wrong bus, ended up in Tolworth (hardly worth the trip), and had to get a bus from there to Kingston. On the 418 to Kingston, though, I met Muriel: a woman, presumably in her seventies, who was much happier to be sitting on the bus than to be out in the cold. She actually engaged in conversation when I greeted her; she complimented my robin’s egg blue purse, and we joked about the mass of young boys and girls (on a field trip, apparently) who swarmed onto our double-decker bus at the next stop. Muriel was on her way to visit her 95-year-old mother, who lives in an elderly care home, and I was glad to hear that she was very much pleased with the care her mother receives there.

“Nothing’s too much trouble for them,” she told me twice. Often, Muriel brings a box of chocolates to the home and enjoys watching the staff members squabble over the morsels. It’s important to her that they bring laughter into the facility.

So badly, I wanted to offer to go with her to meet her mother and spend a little time with them. As I was still assessing the situation, trying to guess whether Muriel would be offended or delighted, we came upon the Kingston University bus stop. I found myself parting ways and getting off the bus.

Now I wish I did go with her. I had a great time at the lunch; I met a Hindu girl from California who was so happy to discuss her belief system with Susan and me, I saw an art exhibition that one of the Kingston students helped put together, and I enjoyed coffee with Susan and a few students. Ultimately, though, I went to the lunch because I allowed myself to be bound by obligation, and I think my time would’ve served a better purpose if I went with my instinct.

I’ll never see Muriel again, but I’ll pray blessings for her and her mother. If there’s one thing I want to change about myself while I’m on this journey, it’s my crippling sense of duty. I say “crippling” because sometimes—oftentimes—there are things more important than my showing up where I said I would, and a spontaneous wanderer may be more of a blessing than a dutiful attendant would be.

The London Life

I’m not quite sure what I was thinking, heading to Oxford Street on a sunny Saturday afternoon, but in London, the crowds are ever-present anyway. My friends and I—poor “uni” students that we are—were in one of the world’s most fabulous shopping districts for one reason: to hit up Primark, one of the cheapest clothing stores here. Naturally, everyone else in London was there, too. The queue for the fitting rooms was discouraging, and the employees were growing a bit frustrated (can you blame them? Half the customers in line don’t speak the same language). Finally, I had chosen my 8 allotted items to try on, and I stepped up to be admitted to a fitting room.

“Hi, how are you?” automatically left my mouth. I barely noticed when the young employee didn’t respond; she was pretty distracted and probably didn’t even hear me.

After a moment’s pause, she looked up at me, brushing the hair out of her tired eyes. “Sorry—no one ever asks me that.”

I don’t have any pictures of Oxford Street yet, but I love walking any London street – especially when the sun shines!

Culture shock in England comes in little moments like this. I assume I know enough about the culture, and then I realize over and over that things are different. I’m constantly reminded, for example, that though we all speak English, we speak two different languages.

I went into a McDonald’s after the Primark adventure and asked for a Coke. The cashier frowned at me. “A Coke…a soda. Do you guys have soda?” I begged. “Fountain drinks?” My mind refused to bring forth useful British terminology.

“No…” said the lady who obviously would rather get rid of the ignorant American than remind her that they say “fizzy drinks” and “Coca-Cola” around here. It is possible that she legitimately had no idea what I meant. Because, after all, I’m not in the American Midwest anymore.

Probably the most important thing I’m learning here is how finite, how small, my world has been until now. I’ve lived in the Midwest, the Bible Belt, all of my life. I’ve taken for granted that people know, or can safely assume, enough of my background to understand me at home. In London, people have no idea who I am. They can scarcely understand my name, for some reason. At first, I’m usually Kaylee; I was Kelly for a good portion of Friday night.

I live in a bubble at home, and now I see how safe it is. Context, after all, is everything, and no one in London truly understands mine. To most, I’m just a girl who abuses the proper English language—I’m a question mark to them. It’s liberating; it’s frightening; it’s fascinating.