Our Dumb Blog

We had to leave the park before it closed at 8. Back in the car accompanied by drum and bass (Paul evidently composes), we returned to the house, number 135, not 175. James made me a sausage and cheese sandwich with brown sauce. I didn’t realize there was actually called such a thing. Then I went upstairs to watch Austin Powers on laser disc in Paul’s room with him and Al, while James gave Allison a bass lesson in the cellar (basement). It’s a tiny room centered around a small TV screen, surrounded by an incredible sound system. A sleeping pallet to sit on, curtains draped on the walls, and candles burning completed the atmosphere, which consisted mainly of the smoke from the cigarettes Paul and Alister were stripping and rerolling to smoke.

A man in underwear and socks just walked in and asked if I was okay. “I’ve been asleep for four hours,” he informed me, “Now I feel great, ready to get on with the day.” Hmmm… I guess that was Al, which means the other guy I was watching Austin Powers with was someone else, but I can’t remember his name. I don’t even know how many people live here. There’s James, of course, and Paul and Rob, who walks with crutches, and Melissa, the only female (officially). Then I think there’s John and Ed, since both have been in the kitchen acting as if it belonged to them. I don’t know if there are anymore. I sleep where I can. The first night I slept on the floor in James’ Room with Allison and her 4-year-old Jessica, who’s crazy about the Spice Girls, all except Scary Spice. Last night I was on Melissa’s “bed,” since she was spending the night elsewhere. Tonight? Who knows. Possibly the couch. I’m sitting on one of them now in an orange painted room with a radioactive blue that wants to be teal trim. On the wall are three Slam Gundog Diplomacy insignias, probably thanks to James, who until recently managed a surf shop. The air duct along the ceiling is painted red with large, black polka dots. The radiator has black Holstein splotches. The TV sits atop a psychedelically coloured box. And the rear speakers of the surround sound system are covered in zebra faux fur.

As are the drums down in the cellar/studio. There’s quite a collection of instruments down there, as there care evidently quite an assortment of instruments James can play. I’ve been told he’s an amazing bass player, though I’ve only heard him pick up a guitar. Then there’s the conga and bongo drums we took with us in the car to Coventry yesterday for him to play at the opening of a crisis pregnancy center. The praise band sounded really good. They sounded even better this morning at worship. 2 electric guitars, bass, drums, trombone, keyboard, 2 female vocalists, and conga drums, played by James, who led worship. The message was given by Richard, a guitar player, who gave a great talk on Psalms. I actually stayed awake, probably because I was scribbling on the bulletin.

From the boys club gym where the meeting was held, we crammed into Graham’s car and went to the University to get food. Then Graham, Melissa, James, Zoe, and I went to a pub or something where James had promised to hear a girl in multicolured pants (only they call them “trousers” here; “pants denote underwear) sing an play guitar. The others wanted to have a picnic, the day having turned out bright and beautiful, so in compromise we ate the ice cream out in the street and then went in to hear the chick try to be Tracy Chapman. I had a half pint of something, which I drunk much too rapidly, and read parts of the Sunday Independent. When we had been there long enough, the carful of us came back to the house and ate.

James is looking to buy a car, since he was to drive north tomorrow, so after lunch, we drove all over Leaminton Spa looking at cars.

The last two nights I’ve accompanied James to pubs, stuffed beyond capacity with young adults, smoking, drinking, and shouting over the noise. This seems to be every young person’s idea of a good time on weekends, though I’m not sure why.

Friday night Allison, James, and I met up with Melissa and Claudia downtown and spent the remaining time, before the big bouncer threw everyone out, drinking pints and dodging members of the crowd trying to reach the bar. A couple of forty-somethings struck up a conversation with me. One of them claimed to be a plumber for Wales. He introduced his mate as a gynecologist. “And a very good gynecologist he is.” I’m sure. They asked if I would sing the national anthem. I said I would if they could find a flag. The “gynecologist nodded and turned to the bartender asking for an American flag. Instead, he gave him an American beer. The bloke tried to pass the bottle of Budweiser off to any of us, finally turning it upside down in James’ pint glass.

Last night we went to the Sozzled Sausage. What a name. Everyone has assured me that it is a “a quite nice place” in the daytime, though yesterday evening it was so jam packed with people the bouncer wouldn’t let us in until five other people left. Then he made me take off my hat, which was unfortunate, seeing as my hair needed washing. Nevertheless, I talked to a fellow named Justin, who unhappily woks in Marks and Spenser and would rather research history and political science or become a music critic. Francis told me there’s a real apathy amongst the British. Everyone resigns themselves to their lot in life. There is no encouragement to succeed or do anything that would change the class structure.

When we were ejected from the Sausage, the others went to Mirage, “the place we’re not going. It’s so cheesy,” explained James as he led the way home. I guess it’s much like Legends, so I wasn’t heartbroken. I went to bed instead of staying up till 2 the night before watching The Fifth Element again. Funny, the phone card I bought in Gillingham is a special edition 5th Element publicity thing. It says Corbin Dallas Multipass on the back. Even though it’s time is used up, I still carry it around as sort of a talisman, the same as the Becks bottle cap in my jacket pocket and Dutch coin I found Friday.

Al just offered to make me a pickle and cheese sandwich.

Yesterday, after the pregnancy center opening, Allison fixed us beans on toast for lunch at her house. Then she drove us downtown in Coventry, where James showed me around the Cathedral. The gutted shell of the one bombed in WWII remains next to the modern structure connected to it. I wasn’t sure I would like the new building much, but as I read the simple passages on the walls, proclaiming words of forgiveness and love from the Scriptures, the existence of this edifice made more sense than all the Gothic architecture I had encountered thus far. This stark structure with stained glass windows that didn’t depict much of anything made more sense than flying buttresses and carved saints and tomb effigies in a stone cavern demanding piety. Here, in this simple walls and roof, the message of peace preached itself. I wasn’t even offended by the small stand set up to sell post cards and stuff. And we didn’t have to pay to get in.

Most of Coventry was bombed flat in the war, so the appearance of the buildings is mostly ’60’s, James asked me as we took the bus and then walked back home if I missed my home. I admitted that my first day in the Midlands I kept seeing people I thought I recognized. Leamington, as well as the surrounding areas, remind me of America. The streets are wider (and straighter), the buildings further apart, the fields larger and with fewer hedges. James says the pace of life is fast here than in the south, in Somerset, where he comes from. “I try to return to Somerset time on weekends,” he said, casually crossing the street without looking to see if anyone were coming. He reminds me of others, I realized the other night. Take Matt Humphrey and add Spirit Meller plus the ability to play drums.

Amongst school children, if one is “sent to Coventry” he is given the silent treatment. That hasn’t been true for me, however. I haven’t had time to write with all the people I’ve been around.

The bus rolled into Leamington Spa at about 5:30. That was too late for it to be open, but I walked about the town trying to find the National Express travel agency anyway after not getting an answer at Jame’s house. I did find a Dutch coin in the telephone change return, though. Sticking it in my pocket, I tried heading for the tourist information office, which I found to be closed because of the flooding damage. But just then a lady drove up and asked if I needed any help. She told me exactly where the agency was and pointed me toward Tachbrook Rd. I set off with my pack on my back, address in hand, looking for 175. A mile or more later, 175 appeared, a door next to a bookmaker office. That couldn’t be it. So I started walking back, looking for a public phone. I passed one, but there was someone in it. All the way back to the train station I went and called from there. This time someone answered, “James’ answering service…” I asked for him. “Yeah, hold on.”

“Hello, Joanne,” said James. I guess I’m the only American calling him. He said they were just on their way to a park and would come pick me up. A few minutes later, a car with 3 guys in it pulled up. “I’m James,” the bloke in the back seat stuck out his hand. I shook it and stuffed my sack in the back. Then we dashed off down the road, listening to drum and bass music. The car stopped several miles later, and we piled out at a beautiful park surrounding an abbey that had been turned into a hotel. The boys grabbed a soccer ball, football, and juggling clubs out of the back of the car and then passed the soccer ball back and forth to a playground, where James and Al tested the merits of the seesaw while Paul smoked a cigarette. They never grow up, do they?

Sitting in the bus, leaving Victoria Coach Station in London, hopefully for the last time. London, I bid you goodbye until July.

With close to three hours to kill, I pulled out my tube map of the city and looked to see what the closest touristy type attraction was nearby. That happened to be Buckingham Palace, so I headed off down the road, reaching the front gate at about noon. This was a stroke of luck (if I believed in it) because that is exactly when the changing of the guard takes place. The order and precision of the soldiers in bearskin hats inside the palace grounds contrasted with the disorderly shoving of the camera clasping mob of tourists on the other side of the fence.

When that was over, I walked all the way around the palace grounds, separated from the street by a high brick wall, topped with long spikes sticking out and a net of barbed wire. One of my bus tour guides said that these are a new addition to the wall. Evidently, some Austrian students needed a place to pitch their tent one night, so over the wall they went. They were discovered in the next morning asleep in the queen’s garden.

Having walked back to the bus station via the shops in Victoria (train) Station, I still had an hour and a half before departure. The other nearest attraction noted on the map was Harrods Department Store. Well, that’s one thing I hadn’t done, so I got out the detailed map of London book given to me by the Traylors and started wandering the streets of Westminster and Chelsea. I came upon the famous store from its rear and found a door. Plastered to the glass was a list of all the things you’re not allowed to bring into the building, including backpacks. I stepped inside anyway and approached the severe looking security guard standing at the entrance. I asked him where I could check my bag. He gave me some direction s I couldn’t follow past, “Turn right and walk up the road,” so I continued around the outside of the building until I got to an entrance complete with friendly looking doorman wearing a long, green, old looking coat and top hat. He told me exactly where to go, which required crossing the very busy street in front of Harrods and walking down the block a little to Harrods Luggage check room. By the time I got over there, it was time for me to head back to the station, so I didn’t’ bother. At least I have stepped inside the store, however.

My bus is currently caught in soon to be rush hour traffic out of London on the way to Leamington Spa. We’re running late, but that’s okay because James isn’t expected home till after 7 anyway. That’s when I’ve got to call him to see how to get to his house, where, hopefully, I can stay. He wasn’t in last night, so if that doesn’t work out, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Ha ha!

There’s a sticker on the window near the back of the bus where I’m sitting that says “EMERGENCY EXIT. BREAK GLASS WITH HAMMER.” In a little case next to the window is the hammer, itself encased in glass with a sign that directs, “IN EMERGENCY TO REMOVE HAMMER BREAK GLASS.” There’s unfortunately an unpleasant odor on this coach, and you can’t open any windows… without using a hammer. I think I’m suffering from nasal fatigue, so it’s not as noticeable now.

Chris dropped me off in Tunbridge Wells this morning. I found a travel agency and waited for them to open and tell me I had to walk to another agency to book my seat. These seat bookings that require National Express affiliated office visits will be the death of me. That or they’ll force me to plan ahead.

I got an orange, a banana, and some peanuts at a vegetable market this morning. Peanuts are good stuff. While I awaited my coach, I sat on my pack and wrote poetry. There was a book of The Nations’ Favourite Love Poems at Chris and Jan’s house. “Do you like poetry?” Jan asked, indicated the book. Among the Shakespearean sonnets, which I can’t seem to ever understand, were some wonderful John Donnes, several by Wendy Cope, who I’d never heard of before but like very much, and a brilliantly clover poem by W.H. Auden. I’m not in a position where I want to be enjoying lover poetry right now, but some of those caught me off guard. Kinda like beer.

Jan said she used to skip school and wander about by the Thames when she was a girl, “thinking deep thoughts and writing poetry, wondering if I should throw myself in.”

Chris was appalled. “You cut out of classes? But you were head girl!”

If I look up at my window on this train, I see white chalk cliffs. Well, now I’m in a tunnel. I spent about an hour in tunnels today beneath Dover castle, touring the Napoleonic caverns constructed for Britain’s 19th century defense and later used as headquarters for the Dunkirk evacuation operation and then housing army, navy, and RAF personnel for the rest of WWII. It was also home to an underground hospital, out of reach of the German guns that pounded the Dover coast from France. I got to see France today too from up atop an iron age mound on which a Roman lighthouse still stands next to a many times rebuilt church. The massive keep Henry II built is nearby. Funny how the lower you go the more modern things are. The deepest of the tunnels were constructed in the second World War.

I had to pay 5 pounds (student rate) to get in, but it was worth it. I easily spent almost the whole day there. It was a beautiful day too, sunny, warm, blue skies. Hell of a day to have worn my long johns. I put my sweater in my backpack along with the orange an banana I didn’t eat because I was more thirsty than hungry. Then I walked around with my jacket tied around my hips because it kept slipping down from my waist. Waterproof evidently means slippery.

I gave in and finally bought some shampoo at a drug store on my way back to the station as well as an orange Fanta. Hopefully, the top will fit back on properly and I can use it for a waterbottle. I didn’t buy any post cards because I took lots of pictures, as it was sunny, and I still haven’t written on the ones I got at Canterbury.

There’s an American family in the next set of seats. They are loud and obnoxious, and I despise them. Maybe it’s just that they’re Yankees and don’t know any better.

When I got back to the station, I noticed a gorgeous guy in an exquisite black suit. I stepped over to the side to walk around him as we passed, but he approached me. “Excuse me,” he said in a heavily accented voice. Of course, he couldn’t be English. The English are not a beautiful people. Don’t get me wrong. I love them, but they are too inbred to be beautiful anymore.

“Do you know where is the port?” he was asking me. “Can I walk there? How far away to the sheep?” He wanted to get to the ferry. Why does everyone ask me for directions? Maybe Francis is right and I don’t look like a tourist after all. I told the beautiful man I didn’t know but gave him the map the lady at the tourist information office had given me that morning. I’m sure I spoke way too fast for him to understand what I said. I should have dragged him back inside the station and asked one of the ticket agents. He walked slowly away holding my map as I passed into the station to ask about my own train.

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.
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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.