Posts by Jonah

I think today is the Queen’s birthday, which would make it the 21. It’s probably the 21st anyway. This is a very bumpy train, which is surprising since the ground we’re traversing is very, very flat and inhabited by lambs and rapeseed flowers. I’m not supposed to be on this train, which is probably fitting. I got on the one to Hastings from Tonbridge instead of to Ashford, which would have been next. There didn’t appear to be anyone around to ask, so I just stepped on, half expecting to be thrown out on my ear when the loud speaker came on once we stared announcing our route and not including Ashford in the mix. So I read the obituaries of Linda McCartney in the Independent lying on the seat across from me and awaited the arrival of the conductor.

“Thank you,” he said several stops later, taking my ticket. He was about to punch a hole in it when he stopped and stared at it. “You’re on the wrong train. Don’t worry, I’ll get it sorted out. Stay here.” He returned a few minutes later telling me to accompany him to the brake room. I followed him through almost the whole train. He apologized for the long walk, but I thought it was great getting to pass from car to car, through the narrow doors and passages, getting to see what each car was like. He told me to take a seat near the back end of the train where I found an available copy of the Times. Then he gave me a slip of paper on which he had written, “21st APRIL 98/Conductor JOHN GRIFFIN/HASTINGS/This passenger got on the wrong train at Tonbridge/should have been Tonbridge/Ashford/Canterbury/please see that she is able to continue her journey on your train to Ashford.” I put it in my pocket, feeling like a naughty child sent home from school with a note pinned to my shirt, only mine didn’t say, “Joanna has problems healthily interacting with others,” but, “Stupid foreigner. Please lead by the hand.”

“This is in case I can’t talk to the conductor,” my saviour smiled benignly. As promised, he took me over to the other train, the one going to Ashford, and told me where to sit. When that train started off, I told the conductor I’d gotten on the wrong train while showing him a completely incorrect ticket. He smiled condescendingly and waved it away, saying he already knew.

I love being taken care of when I haven’t got a clue. In London, all I had to do was stare at an open map and someone would come up and ask where I was trying to go. It’s wonderful!

I’m pretty sure I’m on the correct train now, since this conductor nodded approvingly at my ticket. Sure enough, the loudspeaker announced we’re in Canterbury.
—
Well, that was fun. Canterbury is about as touristy as a center of Christian pilgrimage can be. I wonder if they charged Chaucer to enter the Cathedral where Becket’s head was cleaved. There’s a modern memorial on the spot now. THOMAS it say, in neo-Gothic lettering, below a jagged, iron, lightening bold of a cross pierced by two saw toothed swords. One of the three knights who patriotically hacked the archbishop to death broke his sword in the process. Thomas had tended to be hard headed.

Being inside the cathedral today after attending church in London on Sunday night, I was struck with how warped and ingrown and deformed religion can be. Relics of Kentish Kings revered in an abbey, pilgrims crossing miles to kneel at the shrine of a stubborn religious leader, gigantic stone structures you have to pay 3 pounds to enter… and another 2 pounds to take a tour. It all seems perverse.

Like the Punch show I watched on the street. I laughed and put a penny in the guy’s bag who was working the crowd. I’m not sure his “god bless you” was worth the cost.

I had time to quickly pay too much to see the abbey ruins nearby. Then I rushed through the French tourists on the pedestrian streets lined with trendy shops back to catch my train back. This time I asked if it were the right one.

Sitting in Ashford International Train Station (only because Eurostar goes here) now, waiting for my train. I know I’m at the correct platform because this International station has monitors. Evidently, I should be resting assured because my train is thus far on time. The problem is that I don’t know what time that is. There are others waiting as well, so at least I’m not alone. The problem is that there is no one official to ask, except for the cafe workers, and I don’t want to make them profess their ignorance, especially when I’m not purchasing anything.

Have I caught up then journaling? At this rate, I’m going to be out of paper in a couple of weeks. I’ll have to turn the book around backwards and write upside down. Then it will really be ambiguous as to which side is up.

Jan picked me up after my coach deposited me in Tunbridge Wells last night. Then she brought me home and cooked me some dinner, including a mountain of pasta (they pronounce the “a” short, as in “cat,” not like “father”), which I polished off while we watched the last half of a 4-dimensional sitcom. Time warped comedies–what will the Brits think up next.

This morning Chris called around for me, finding the best route to Canterbury. He then dropped me at the station and bought my ticket. “I know I don’t have to,” he said to my protestations.

My ticket was no help this time because even if the date were on there, I didn’t find it legible. I wasn’t even sure it was still Monday.

In the space of five minutes prior to boarding this bus (yes, I’m on another bus writing another entry) I happened to perform three good deeds–well, there actions upon others, hopefully to their advantage. First, I gave my taxi driver a 40p tip, which I suppose was nice of me because he smiled. I’ve been in a taxi cab maybe twice before in my life and didn’t do the paying either time. I hadn’t planned on taxiing, but there was only a quarter of an hour left before my bus left, and I didn’t think I could walk that far that quickly. So I searched the line of cars approaching me for a cab with an empty backseat, realizing as I did that this is the purpose of those signs that light up on top of cabs. Spotting one, I made eye contact with the driver while plunging my arm out. As if by some act of conjuring, the cab pulled over and stopped. I tentatively reached for the door, looking to the driver for affirmation, just to make sure he wasn’t simply stopping for traffic. He seemed to give the slightest nod. I stepped gingerly into the back seat and then I said, “Victoria Coach Station.: With a nod, he stuck his hand out the window, made a U-turn against lanes of full traffic, and spend off down the road. I had hailed my first cab!

After he dropped me off, and I had given him 3 pounds of the 2.60 pounds he charged me, I entered the now quite familiar Victoria Coach Station and made my way to collect my bag from left luggage. As I pressed myself into the continually moving human mass that inhabits those portions of the station not barricaded by seats, I saw a teenage kid walking toward me with his shirt tail visible through his open trousers zipper. As it happened, the two of us were tossed together rather closely as we passed, so I took the opportunity to whisper, “Fly’s open,” close to his ear. Then I kept walking, as I’m sure he did too, though I didn’t turn around to check. I felt bad ruining his apparent aplomb, as the blind seer (don’t you love that word combination?) probably did while confronting Oedipus. But the kid had a dove pinned on his jacket, so I figure I owed it to him as an older sister. If out of sadism for no other reason.

From there I collected my bag, then not finding Tunbridge Wells on the departure list monitors, I went over to the departure information desk. I’ve been to that desk three times now, and this was the first time it was to ask about my departure. Ahead of me was a man talking to the agent. As he turned to go, a wad of paper fell to the ground, including what appeared to be a 5 Franc note. I picked it up and grabbed the man’s arm, handing it to him when he turned around. He said something I didn’t understand, so I pointed to the ground. He nodded and took the papers.

I’m not sure the wad even belonged to him as there were several people standing at the desk. In that regard, I’m not sure if any of my actions can be classified as good deeds, since the boy surely didn’t want to hear what i had to say, even if he did understand it. I’m not even sure a fly is called a fly in England. And a tip is a tip, though I”m not sure how much one is supposed to tip a taxi driver. But I could have had a good lunch for 3 pounds, and instead I didn’t have anything, but this was because I was running late for my bus, having disembarked the double deckered tour bus early to duck into a store that sold bulletproof jackets and spy equipment.

I’d already spent 12 pounds on the bus tour. Yeah, what do I do to spend time before my coach leaves? I climb on a bus. I’m glad I did though. I didn’t even have time to go on one of the four lines. The yellow line was neat because I was the only one on it. A whole bus to myself! The guide (it was his first day on the yellow line) didn’t bother with the microphone and just sat and talked to me about the city as we rode around on top. That was fun. He’s paying for night classes at law school by being a tour guide. I wished I could have tipped him and all my other drivers and guides, but this “student” skips lunches to save pounds. Makes me want to be actually in the position of making money. Ah, well. There was the taxi driver at least.

In any case, I have seen London. And the more I see, the more I like it. ‘Course, I wouldn’t want to live there because with the kind of salary I’d make, I’d be living in some dirty hole in the worst part of town. Unless I cooked for Mary Alice. Hmmm…

She and James picked me up at the station yesterday. It took us half an hour to find each other. Unfortunately, I wasn’t by my gate exactly when she came by. I saw my first Cyber Cafe (it was even called that) at the station, though at 25p a minute, I wasn’t about to try it out. I also got a hold of Chris and found out about routes to Tunbridge Wells. I was just deciding not to stand in line to book a seat right then when James poked his head in the door. They took me back to their town house, which is just big enough for me to sleep on the fold out couch. We had some parsnip soup and sandwiches and then vegged and read the paper. I may have to start getting London papers from time to time when I get back, just to keep up on British fashion, humor, and wit.

I don’t always get British humour, whether because of idiom or just not being able to understand what a fast speaking person is saying. Sometimes I have to see a billboard 3 or 4 times before I finally get the joke, if at all. As one article in the Sunday paper said, here even McDonalds is forced to make ironic ads.

When I had exhausted every aspect of the Independent (“I got it because it wasn’t quite as bulky as the others,” confessed James), I opened the Wilsons’ beautiful stand up piano. It had that neato middle pedal that slides over and dampens all the strings. I activated it like Mullek showed me and started playing away. I practiced newer stuff, tried to recall old tunes, and experimented a lot, though it all sounded good, since the damper hid most mistakes. I don’t know how long I played, at least an hour, but I’d been playing in my mind, well, listening, for the past… day? It seemed longer. Then I stopped playing and got a glass of water. James, who had been sitting in the next room reading the paper, remarked he wished he had recorded some of it, “It’s so peaceful.” He plays by ear himself, so it it was special to hear him say that.

That evening we attended services at their church. St. Marks is a very free Anglican church that meets in a refurbished old church building. Behind the bass and saxophone players wearing jeans and the overhead showing Matt Redmon choruses were beautiful, old stained glass windows. There was a very unstructured (refreshingly) prayer time “led” by a chick with a nose ring, followed by sharing by whoever wanted to go up and speak for a few minutes. One of the many young professionals who made up the congregation (He’s a psychiatrist,) Mary Alice whispered to me) got up and told about weeding in his garden now that he’s living in a house–with three other roommates. He said as he was pulling weeds he though how much more rewarding it would be if he had something to work toward, flowers and beauty to look forward to instead of pointlessly ripping out what he didn’t want there. “Then God said to me, ‘I feel the same way.'” If we focus on Him and what He is achieving in our lives instead of dwelling on eradicated sin from our hearts, it will be so much easier to become who He is making us to be.

The sharing time was followed by a message by the vicar. The best thing about Anglican services is that the sermons are so short. It was an incredibly well thought out and put together sermon. Of course, I’m much more keen on quietly delivered, intellectual sermons than I am on hellfire and brimstone red-faced diatribes.

Afterward I looked over, and there was Sam! After coffee and chatting with some girl named Nic, Sam invited me to the pub with several others from church. Now that’s my kind of communion. I had a half pint of whatever that house served specially, sat next to the nose-fringed prayer leader and practiced being an extrovert. Okay, Okay… I was practicing being less introverted.

I had to check my couch ticket to make sure. Somewhere along the way I misplaced the 16th and ended up a day ahead of myself. I was a bad girl yesterday and watched TV instead of journaling, but BBC2 was having a special night dedicated to Spike Milligan. I kept wondering who this fellow was until I realized why the name was so familiar when they showed clips of him on the Goon Show. A couple of times I wanted to shout, “I’ve head that episode!” but I don’t think much of anyone else in the youth hostel lounge would have appreciated it. It was cool to see people like John Cleese and Michael Palin doing impersonations of “Eckles.”

I woke up yesterday hungry but determined jot pay the 2 pounds something for breakfast at the hostel. This was just as well since by the time I got down stairs they were cleaning up. This was in spike of every watch in my full room going off at some point, only to have its slumbering wearer hit the snooze button on it so its alarm could reawake me in ten minutes. Ah, the curse of being a light sleeper. Ah, the blessing of drifting right off again. Finally, my alarm went off within the pocket of my day pack, and by the time I got to it, the alarm ended. By then there was only one other occupant in the room anyway, still struggling with her own battles of consciousness at ten minute intervals.

Leaving my pack in the room, I started out on the twenty minute hike to the town centre, found the tourist information office, and inquired about a travel agent. The directions led me to the Saturday market. It was just like the flea market, with stands selling CD’s to used paperbacks to T-shirts to, just what I was looking for, fruit. I bought some bananas and oranges and a small baguette, congratulating myself on only spending 1.20 Pounds. Then I wandered around the mall next door, trying to find a travel agency and happily munching the loaf of bread. Eventually, I gave up and asked one of the Quakers vigiling for peace. He handed me a flyer explaining their silent vigil and pointed to an agency on the other side of the square. The people in that office told me to go to the agency around the corner, who told me to go downstairs, who told me to go to the bus station. Fortunately, Cambridge has YOU ARE HERE maps all over the place for disoriented tourists like me, so I didn’t have to rely on my typical tactic of setting off resolutely in what seems like a good direction ad walking until I realize it’s not. At last i got it all settled, arranging to spend the night with James and Mary Alice, discovering when Christ would be back, and booking a seat for London the next day. That taken care of, I headed back toward the Fitzwilliam Museum, purchasing a box of tea bags along the way. Funny how you can get 40 bags of the stuff for the price of a cup of it hot in some places.

The museum was magnificent, displaying a brunch of red and black Grecian urns, whole suits of armour, works of Old Masters, Titians, Rubens, and Rafaels. Tired, I found a bench in the small modern art gallery, staring at Dadaism and resting my feet. A woman entered with two young boys. “Wow!” exclaimed the younger, who couldn’t have been any older than 2 or 3. “What is that?” he inquired, approaching a stack of varying shapes of metal welded together. What is that? I echoed his question in my mind. I had no idea.

“It’s a sculpture,” the woman wisely replied.

Having exhausted the exhibits and my mind, I bought some post cards and stamps before the shop closed. Then I wandered about town a bit more, taking a photo in the rain to justify carrying my camera around with me. The market was shutting down, so I stopped at a grocer/newsagent and bought a p[otato. Then I ducked into another store that appeared to be closing and purchased a single packet of butter for 6p. I think the girl at the register was disgusted.

A Saturday evening, and I was back at the hostel by 6. Ah, well. I was hungry and tired. The potato was delicious after I stuck it into the microwave for 10 minutes and then stuck the butter inside. I drank a cup of water and then made myself a couple cups of tea. A guy from Australia tried to strike up conversation, but I’m afraid I wasn’t concentrating on tossing balls back. “Alabama? Isn’t that where Forrest Gump lives?” Good ol’ Winston Groom–he’s gone and put my state on the map of the world. Now instead of being known as a bunch of racists, we can be known for imbeciles. That and Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Paul came into the kitchen this morning as I was drinking my tea. I bade him a good rest of the journey before I left.

One month ago I arrived in this country. Today, I’m actually setting out to explore it on my own.

We’re pulling out of the bus station in Bristol. The driver just announced that we ought to fasten our seat belts, but I don’t see any. None of the other passengers seem worried. There aren’t very many on this bus, so I get two seats and a window to myself. The coach from Gillingham to Bristol was pretty full. I sat next to a little old man. I hope he didn’t mind.

I wonder if increased violence in today’s society will be linked to growth hormones in meat.

Anne Marie packed me a lunch, including a Granny Smith apple from France. It was small, not too tart. Before I left she begged me to eat. “I know you don’t like to spend money on food, but if you don’t, you’ll STARVE!” I gave her a look to which she replied, “I know, I know, I’m a parent. I can’t help it.”

Toilets are another thing this miser doesn’t like spending money for. I got off the bus in Bristol to find a line (queue) outside the restrooms while people paid 10p to go through a turnstyle. I decided to wait till I got on the bus, so I got in line at bay #1. There was nearly a half hour to kill before my next coach departed, so I sat on my pack and started eating my sandwich and drinking orange squash. I love that stuff. Taste like Tang.

Soon my coach arrived, the sign in the front window reading “CAMBRIDGE.” A few people got on, but then the driver stood idly by the door and no one else in the line moved. Eventually, another bus pulled up and everyone started toward it. I made my way through the mob and got on MY bus, happily not very full.

I’m sure we’ll pick up some more passengers along the way. After all, we’re driving from one side of England to the other. This bus stops in Oxford. I find that very amusing–I have to go through one university town to get to the other.

I suppose I should be panicking, uptight, or at least a little more concerned about where I’m going and what I”m doing next. But I’m unnervingly calm.

Maybe it’s because I did get to sue the bathroom (loo) once I got on board. It was stuff and smelly and smaller than a porta-john. But it was free. And I didn’t have to listen to easy listening version of the Beatles.
—
We’re in Oxford now. I was going to venture into the onboard lavatory once again (and this time flush, which I didn’t know how to before). But when the bus driver found out I was going to Cambridge, he told me to go get a cup of tea while he checked with another bus driver, who was leaving earlier and getting there sooner. I didn’t particularly need or want a cup of tea, even though the English seem to think I must, but I went anyway to see if I could find a restroom. I’d walked all the way through the tea shop when the bus driver came running after me, saying driver of the other bus was back from his break. “Com wif me, love. That’s right. You’ve got your pass, haven’t you, darling? Well, get your luggage, come on then; I’ve got your bag. Pull hard on the door. There you are…”

I collected my jacket and things from my seat while he got my bag from the luggage compartment underneath, and we went over to the next bus whose driver was collecting fares from students going home for the weekend. I dug into my jacket pocket and pulled out my coach trail pass marked with the number of days I’ve traveled and my seat booking ticket. “You don’t need that, love,” my driver gestured at the booking ticket, “Put that in your pocket.” I nodded by my hands were full. “Put that way, put that in your pocket,: he kept saying as I tried to rearranged my belongings so I’d have a hand free to obey him. He boarded the new bus behind me, still holding my bag. I don’t think anyone understood the conversation that followed between the two bus drivers, least of all me, as my pass was handed around among the three of us about five times. I think driver #1 was trying to explain that I’d already paid for my ticket while driver #2 was saying he needed something to vouch for my presence. “Nevermind,” driver one stormed off the bus.”

“Nevermind,” driver two gestured for me to find a seat on his bus. I figured I better go with the man who held my bag.

Sorry ’bout that,” he said, placing it back in the compartment below. “We’re the same company, you see? Now go get a cuppa tea. You can bring it back on the bus.”

Instead, I ducked into the next store and bought some stamps. Then I found the toilets, free this time. I guess they figure they won’t be getting much out of students. I guess they make up for it by using waxed paper for toilet rolls.

We’re heading ever east through fields of lams and brilliantly yellow rapeseed flowers. Down near Oxford there was a lot of flooding in the low lying areas, nothing serious, just rivers and creeks overflowing their banks.
—
“Shit, you would ask, and I don’t know! exclaimed the driver when we got to Cambridge, “That looks like a local, you could ask her…”

“Are you going to the youth hostel?” asked one of the two other guys on my bus. I think it’s the same one who turned around and looked at me when I was talking to myself sitting in the back practicing different British accents, ’cause I was bored. My new companion and I asked the driver of another bus that drove up and then walked to a stop around the corner and down the street.

“Uh, the last bus comes by here at… 6:45.” So we walked, asking directions from passers by. Well, Paul asked, and I followed him. He asked me the usual questions, where you from, how long you here. “I’m gonna guess you’re from the Northwest,” I said after listening to his accent. He is, California, north of San Francisco, where he says he’s pent all of his 24 years.

After walking the 20 minute trek to the train station,m I think we took a roundabout route, the YHA sign appeared. A chick with a silver stud in her chin signed us in. I purchased a guide to Youth Hostels in Europe as well as paying for my bed. I’m in a room with 7 other people, I think. I’m actually down in the lounge right now, listening to Drop Zone playing in the corner and looking up during my favorite parts. Paul is sitting in the next overstuffed chair writing post cards from what I can tell, since he keeps licking stamps. He’s been over here for two weeks now, starting in Ireland. “I’m trying to decide to go to Spain or France,” he said on our hike here.

“Spain is warmer.”

“I know! he laughed, “but everyone says I have to see France.”

“Eh, see it on the way.” I asked what I should see in Ireland. He gave me the names of a couple hostels on the Western coast.

I guess I’ll forego my favorite scene in Drop Zone and head for bed. I’m pretty bushed and I’ve got a big day of sight seeing tomorrow.

We’re still in Wales, but barely. The mountains have been replaced by much gentler hills, the grouse by green fields. There are still sheep grazing, but their pastures adjoin ones holding black and white cows. Perhaps, most taletelling, the rain has stopped and the sun even came out.

We’re on the M something, so the road is much straighter as well, which is why I can write. The only straight roads in England and Wales are either the M highways or the paths of ancient Roman roads. All the rest wind around like cattle paths. When the weather is overcast, I completely lose my sense of direction unless I pull out a map.

Another sign we’re still physically in Wales is the road signs printed in both English and Welsh. The language seems made up of L’s and Y’s and W’s, or pairs of those, and ending in “au.” Some of the people in the fish and chip shop where we ate last night were speaking this consonantal language. Francis flipped through the channels on Rebekah’s boombox this morning and found a station playing country music in Welsh. It’s a language older than the Roman roads built across this land built to subdue a country that would remain independent for centuries, even after the rest of England was unified under one ruler. Passing through its valleys surrounded by mountains of rock, one can see why this land was so hard to invade or why no one would want to invade it. It’s a stark land, beautiful but not much good for anything except raising sheep. And tourism.