I attempted to inquiry without success what was happening to an all-Hindi workforce. I got that a catered dinner event was to take place tonight. Anu returned home shortly after me, to be as surprised as I, but with the advantage of having her inquiry answered completely. She discovered that Puneet could not secure an adequate venue to host twenty-or-so VIPs to commemorate his new post to an international business organization.
With the strained events of the day I missed lunch, wishing I had said, “yes” to Busanti’s request to pack me a lunch. Anu brought some food home and asked Busanti to prepare a quick meal. Anu whipped up a salad of chopped fruit and vegetables with lime juice, salt and pepper dressing. It was delicious. With the dinning area prepared for tonight’s event we chose not to disrupt the stage and eat in my room. We had a lovely chat about achieving harmony in ones life and the importance of taking care of oneself. She even expressed her concern if I could handle the journey I’ve embarked on, because my emotions indicated to her a frailty and lack of strength to continue. I assured her that I would be fine and that I’m a veteran of transforming fear into personal strength and courage. She presented me with two small metal statues that represent the Ying and Ying, which she too was gifted when setting out to return to India. Just after Puneet opened the door to say that guests were arriving that were asking for Anu. I said I’d just stay in the room and complete my preparations to leave. He would hear it, “No, you will come out enjoy the festivities too. You too are our guest and I want you to join the dinner.” Puneet’s demeanor was invitingly forceful, which was difficult to refuse. To honor their mostly Indian guests I thought it wise to dress in traditional Indian clothes of the Punjab state.
On my first official day in India, after returning from Nepal, I met Raj, a wonderful English-speaking tuk-tuk driver who took me to the India Gate, said that if I wore the traditional clothing of India I stand to be cheated and over-charged must less than if I only wore Western clothes. Doing this would give off the impression that I was a veteran and that I knew the customs of being a foreigner who has been in the country for a while. After checking in with my intuition I agreed to let him take me to a place that pre-made these garments, which he said, “the sales of these go to help disabled people in Delhi.” Now my intuition was saying, “get those clothes on quickly, it’s getting kind of deep!”.
I changed into the Punjabi I bought in Delhi, and emerged from my room. I didn’t know that the house could hold as many people. There was a mixture of mostly Indian entrepreneurs and business owners, some who had employees in the Finland, which explains why the Finish Embassy Director was in attendance. Gus, who’s here with his wife, is a handsome cleaned shaven young man with a shaved head that stands 6 feet tall. This profile causes his fair skin to stand out even more than mine. He wore a blue and white pinstriped with a white collar and a red tie with a deep navy blue blazer, which are the lightest and most cheerful colors in the room. All the other men from this region are in black, grey or brown with either off white (maybe due to the elements in the water that turns whites gray), even the women are were dark color, yet the richness of the fabric gives them a subtle shimmer over the men. Gus has completed one and half years of his three-year-post here in India. I am still naïve with only nine days under my belt, which is hardly enough to make any truly logical assessments, which made listening to Guus’ impressions of India stimulating and educational, especially when it comes to business matters. It was especially fascinating to witness an Indian business-owner plead his case with Guus regarding issues of taxation and lines of credit for an Indian owned company operating in Finland. The man was deeply concerned and maybe even a little bit annoyed about the doors he’s unable to open if the ownership of his company should become more than forty percent Indian owned. Interesting, is that this man laughed and smiled all through his passionate plea. I believe this is what Devdutt Pattanaik is addressing in his attempts to improve East and West business relations. I see how this behavior can bring about the opposite results, as I thought to myself, “He can’t be truly upset about this because he continues to laugh and smile,” as though it’s not really a problem to be solved but a topic of conversation, like the weather.
I asked Guus if he was familiar with TED.com or if he saw the India Devdutt Pattanaik_ talk about the business styles of the East and West and what can be done to bring more synergy between the two. Another Indian man in listening distance chimed in, happy he and I--this creature of everything opposite, shared something in common. At least that’s what his deeply relieved demeanor said to me. He expressed how much he liked it the presentations he’d seen on the site. Guus, to my surprised had no knowledge of TED.com. I promised Guus I would send him the link at the same time we were interrupted by our host in attempts to be sure all the power players had at least an introduction to one another.
I mingled a little and the varied conversations I had told me that Raj was right. These people thought I had been here for a long time. One Indian woman asked if I lived permanently Chandigarh! Another couple expressed their pleasure that I was wearing the garment correctly as “So many Westerners, just put it on not understanding how it is worn correctly.” I have to admit I was proud.
I was very near my room when I ended my last conversation and thought it was time to excuse myself to continue my efforts to ready myself for two long train trips. It was about 11:30 pm when I finished packing and eradicating items into three compact piles that will be left in my Panchkula-homebase. It was midnight when I started to feel my body drop off to sleep even with the very loud voices of those who still lingered just outside the bedroom door.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Leaving Chandigarh 12/10/09 Part 1
Okay, today it’s time to cut the crap! I’ve been blogging as a tourist, safely protected by the walls of what many would consider to be palaces, and yes that includes the Star’s humble and spacious Bronx apartment. I know now that I’ve been on “holiday” so far. I’ll pick up my description of London and Ramsgate, England and all the sites and experiences of Nepal at some later point. No more of the easy life, even in Southeast Asia. I, like the Buddha, have come to see that my work and experience lay on the other side of the palace walls.
Just yesterday, about 9:30 am I was having another pleasant ride to the office with my most recent of gracious hosts when she said, as if discussing the weather, “We’ve guests coming to stay that we are obligated to host because of who they are to us.” I didn’t ask. I know that the room I have been staying in is the only spare quarters in the house. We were both sitting in the backseat and in many ways ignoring the driver as if the car was on autopilot. I’ve yet to get comfortable with what I will refer to as a ‘colonialist’ attitude—ensuring everyone stay neatly within their caste. I knew immediately that I was getting a very gracious heave-ho. I’ve overstayed my welcome, for this phase anyway. She continued, “We thought you would be here for only a couple of days and now that we have others…” I interrupted, “I completely understand and I can make arrangements to leave within the next few days.” She cautioned me, while her hands did the universal sign for slowdown, not to be too hasty. “Let’s wait until Puneet tells me when the guests are coming. We should know something later today.”
I guessed that I had at least a couple of days to arrange, what exactly? I felt my temperature rise and knew not to show the wide array of emotions that were trying to surface. The displays of emotions (fear, tears, or upset of any kind) are seen as a sign of weakness in both mind and character in this country. And they certainly have absolutely no place in business! I’m glad I wasn’t hoping to recruit Puneet and Anu as coaching clients because I’d sealed a certain “no deal” the moment I shed tears of missing my mother and sister at the dining table on my second evening here. What I’ve learned in nine short days, is that if I can’t suppress my ‘public display of emotions’ I just shake my head and say while smiling, “I have allergies,” or do the universal hand signal for “I’m congested”, which will quickly put those around at ease.
I Skyped with mom for about 30 minutes, the first seven minutes where taken up with my emotional display of a tremendous wave of homesickness, coupled with fear, uncertainty and those emotions still indescribable to even me. Mum was encouraging, compassionate and more accepting of who I am and what I feel now than I ever knew her to be. I see her journey paralleling mine. Our conversation turned comfortingly generic and then it was time for her to find out who was voted off of So You Think You Can Dance. I asked her to Skype me once more before going to bed, which she did. We signed off in the usual fashion, in which I wait for her to hang up first, so I can enjoy a site for these sore eyes. I watched her image fade to the gray vacant Skype screen and just then Anu came into my little office space she has been allowing me to occupy and said, “if you could leave tomorrow that would be good?”
“Shit,” I have to plan my next designation, reference it with hotels or ashrams and book train tickets. All that on top of the errands I intended to run which included, exchange “Beginners Hindi” to a book shop (too small to call ‘store’) that’s open at the oddest hours (12:00 to 14:30 and reopens again at 17:30 to 22:00 or 23:00—whichever the bookseller fancies) as well as make time to go to the shoe store to get the last American currency changed into rupees and finally locate a cable or chain for my luggage to be secured on the train. Yes, a Shoe Store, which the three “Singhs” (my Seik lunch companions at the Chandigarh Subway) turned me on to the day before. There I was at the high-gloss white counter in the midst of a currency exchange while the woman beside me was purchasing a very trendy Western pump. I wondered how they knew the shoe merchant was moonlighting as a money-changer. We went outside, faced the shoe store and while one Singh pointing at the large glass storefront said, “See there, that will tell you that you can change money here.” I questioned, “See what?” as I looked behind a tall stack cardboard boxes full of new merchandise that was blocking an 8x11 sheet of paper taped to the window advertising that they also serve as a local Western Union office. I surely hope they weren’t expecting too much business from a sign that is 1/100th of the glass window it’s taped. Nonetheless, Indians are very enterprising and always looking for more way to generate income.
“Okay Tracy, assess the situation.” I’ve been on sensory overload for the past few days in attempting to get a most coveted data card to bring Wireless Internet freedom to my life and being cared and cooked for their servant, Busanti, a woman that has treated me as though I was terminally disabled and she’s trying to make my last days of life as pleasant and effortless as possible. But, at 16:30 I had two train vouchers in my hand and knew that I would arrive in Varanasi 8:50 India Standard Time (IST) Friday morning. No hotel reservations, just a full-page list of the many ashrams that the Mobera Systems ‘tech guy” printed out for me. After that I have no idea what the future holds. I put my backpack on and set out to complete my errands. I exchanged the book, exchanged money and went to three places that sold luggage that had no cables or chains. Another book vendor next to the Samsonite store said, “Go to Sector 19 to the hardware store by the post office.
I went to the main roads to hire a touk-touk (a nickname for the motorized rickshaw), to take me to Sector 19 to buy the chain and then ‘home’ in Sector 6 of Panchkula. I bartered with the driver to pay him half of what he quoted for the journey. Most Indians believe that Americans, even over most Westerners, are all wealthy. From my limited perspective of India, the poorest of Americans in fact have so very much more than even the Indian working class.
We arrived Sector 19 in the dark. My touk touk driver pulled to the left side of the curved road and pointed across a busy street that I had to cross to get to the dusty and dirty hardware stalls, each specializing in only one category of tools or equipment relating to plumbing, lumber and metal, which sold chains. I stepped into the staring Indians, greeting them with a friendly “Namaste”, which most respond to very favorably. I mean really could you reject a person if as they approached you they powerfully declared that the ‘God in them recognizes the God in you’? My fair Western skin is known to stop traffic, which also stopped all employees and customers to stop what they were doing and observe me. The metal chain merchant understood what I was looking for and pulled a few feet of chain from a spool under the counter and handed it to me. I put a two or three foot length in my grasp and pulled. Unable to break it, I still didn’t trust it to secure my unattended luggage. I handed one end to the young man behind that counter, motioning for him to pull on it. An older man, I assumed was the owner or manager said, “Strong, this will not break” and nodded for the young man to pull. Just then the chain snapped as we both regained our balance and laughed. All the seven or so men, including nearby voyeurs, laughed out loud. It was a very unifying moment. The owner instructed the young man, in Hindi, to fetch another strength, he resurfaced from the dust and darkness dragging a length of chain that could safely anchor a lengthy sailboat. I laughed, thinking how desperately I’ve been working to lighten my luggage and he brings me my weight a single length of chain. I thank them all and choose the leave this task for when I arrive in Delhi.
I returned to the house on the very dark streets of Sector 6, Panchkula. I couldn’t get anyone to answer the bell from the front of the house so I walked around to the back of the house. As my eyes focused with a new light source I saw Busanti’s 10-year-old daughter, Sonali, running towards me. I’ve befriended this amazing child; to my hosts’ disappointment because our friendship stands to blur the very defined social lines between employer and employee. She swung her arms around my neck in full embrace. I lifted her up knowing what she didn’t--that this in many ways is farewell embrace, possibly for be a long while. I was taken back to find a large truck parked at the gate, a fire burning in an oil drum to warm the many men working. I came through the back gates to see men setting up catering tables covered in very white linen, sparkling wine glasses, white plates and silverware. For a moment I thought my hosts were throwing a party to celebrate my leaving, but in an instant reminded myself that, ‘It’s not always about me.”
Just yesterday, about 9:30 am I was having another pleasant ride to the office with my most recent of gracious hosts when she said, as if discussing the weather, “We’ve guests coming to stay that we are obligated to host because of who they are to us.” I didn’t ask. I know that the room I have been staying in is the only spare quarters in the house. We were both sitting in the backseat and in many ways ignoring the driver as if the car was on autopilot. I’ve yet to get comfortable with what I will refer to as a ‘colonialist’ attitude—ensuring everyone stay neatly within their caste. I knew immediately that I was getting a very gracious heave-ho. I’ve overstayed my welcome, for this phase anyway. She continued, “We thought you would be here for only a couple of days and now that we have others…” I interrupted, “I completely understand and I can make arrangements to leave within the next few days.” She cautioned me, while her hands did the universal sign for slowdown, not to be too hasty. “Let’s wait until Puneet tells me when the guests are coming. We should know something later today.”
I guessed that I had at least a couple of days to arrange, what exactly? I felt my temperature rise and knew not to show the wide array of emotions that were trying to surface. The displays of emotions (fear, tears, or upset of any kind) are seen as a sign of weakness in both mind and character in this country. And they certainly have absolutely no place in business! I’m glad I wasn’t hoping to recruit Puneet and Anu as coaching clients because I’d sealed a certain “no deal” the moment I shed tears of missing my mother and sister at the dining table on my second evening here. What I’ve learned in nine short days, is that if I can’t suppress my ‘public display of emotions’ I just shake my head and say while smiling, “I have allergies,” or do the universal hand signal for “I’m congested”, which will quickly put those around at ease.
I Skyped with mom for about 30 minutes, the first seven minutes where taken up with my emotional display of a tremendous wave of homesickness, coupled with fear, uncertainty and those emotions still indescribable to even me. Mum was encouraging, compassionate and more accepting of who I am and what I feel now than I ever knew her to be. I see her journey paralleling mine. Our conversation turned comfortingly generic and then it was time for her to find out who was voted off of So You Think You Can Dance. I asked her to Skype me once more before going to bed, which she did. We signed off in the usual fashion, in which I wait for her to hang up first, so I can enjoy a site for these sore eyes. I watched her image fade to the gray vacant Skype screen and just then Anu came into my little office space she has been allowing me to occupy and said, “if you could leave tomorrow that would be good?”
“Shit,” I have to plan my next designation, reference it with hotels or ashrams and book train tickets. All that on top of the errands I intended to run which included, exchange “Beginners Hindi” to a book shop (too small to call ‘store’) that’s open at the oddest hours (12:00 to 14:30 and reopens again at 17:30 to 22:00 or 23:00—whichever the bookseller fancies) as well as make time to go to the shoe store to get the last American currency changed into rupees and finally locate a cable or chain for my luggage to be secured on the train. Yes, a Shoe Store, which the three “Singhs” (my Seik lunch companions at the Chandigarh Subway) turned me on to the day before. There I was at the high-gloss white counter in the midst of a currency exchange while the woman beside me was purchasing a very trendy Western pump. I wondered how they knew the shoe merchant was moonlighting as a money-changer. We went outside, faced the shoe store and while one Singh pointing at the large glass storefront said, “See there, that will tell you that you can change money here.” I questioned, “See what?” as I looked behind a tall stack cardboard boxes full of new merchandise that was blocking an 8x11 sheet of paper taped to the window advertising that they also serve as a local Western Union office. I surely hope they weren’t expecting too much business from a sign that is 1/100th of the glass window it’s taped. Nonetheless, Indians are very enterprising and always looking for more way to generate income.
“Okay Tracy, assess the situation.” I’ve been on sensory overload for the past few days in attempting to get a most coveted data card to bring Wireless Internet freedom to my life and being cared and cooked for their servant, Busanti, a woman that has treated me as though I was terminally disabled and she’s trying to make my last days of life as pleasant and effortless as possible. But, at 16:30 I had two train vouchers in my hand and knew that I would arrive in Varanasi 8:50 India Standard Time (IST) Friday morning. No hotel reservations, just a full-page list of the many ashrams that the Mobera Systems ‘tech guy” printed out for me. After that I have no idea what the future holds. I put my backpack on and set out to complete my errands. I exchanged the book, exchanged money and went to three places that sold luggage that had no cables or chains. Another book vendor next to the Samsonite store said, “Go to Sector 19 to the hardware store by the post office.
I went to the main roads to hire a touk-touk (a nickname for the motorized rickshaw), to take me to Sector 19 to buy the chain and then ‘home’ in Sector 6 of Panchkula. I bartered with the driver to pay him half of what he quoted for the journey. Most Indians believe that Americans, even over most Westerners, are all wealthy. From my limited perspective of India, the poorest of Americans in fact have so very much more than even the Indian working class.
We arrived Sector 19 in the dark. My touk touk driver pulled to the left side of the curved road and pointed across a busy street that I had to cross to get to the dusty and dirty hardware stalls, each specializing in only one category of tools or equipment relating to plumbing, lumber and metal, which sold chains. I stepped into the staring Indians, greeting them with a friendly “Namaste”, which most respond to very favorably. I mean really could you reject a person if as they approached you they powerfully declared that the ‘God in them recognizes the God in you’? My fair Western skin is known to stop traffic, which also stopped all employees and customers to stop what they were doing and observe me. The metal chain merchant understood what I was looking for and pulled a few feet of chain from a spool under the counter and handed it to me. I put a two or three foot length in my grasp and pulled. Unable to break it, I still didn’t trust it to secure my unattended luggage. I handed one end to the young man behind that counter, motioning for him to pull on it. An older man, I assumed was the owner or manager said, “Strong, this will not break” and nodded for the young man to pull. Just then the chain snapped as we both regained our balance and laughed. All the seven or so men, including nearby voyeurs, laughed out loud. It was a very unifying moment. The owner instructed the young man, in Hindi, to fetch another strength, he resurfaced from the dust and darkness dragging a length of chain that could safely anchor a lengthy sailboat. I laughed, thinking how desperately I’ve been working to lighten my luggage and he brings me my weight a single length of chain. I thank them all and choose the leave this task for when I arrive in Delhi.
I returned to the house on the very dark streets of Sector 6, Panchkula. I couldn’t get anyone to answer the bell from the front of the house so I walked around to the back of the house. As my eyes focused with a new light source I saw Busanti’s 10-year-old daughter, Sonali, running towards me. I’ve befriended this amazing child; to my hosts’ disappointment because our friendship stands to blur the very defined social lines between employer and employee. She swung her arms around my neck in full embrace. I lifted her up knowing what she didn’t--that this in many ways is farewell embrace, possibly for be a long while. I was taken back to find a large truck parked at the gate, a fire burning in an oil drum to warm the many men working. I came through the back gates to see men setting up catering tables covered in very white linen, sparkling wine glasses, white plates and silverware. For a moment I thought my hosts were throwing a party to celebrate my leaving, but in an instant reminded myself that, ‘It’s not always about me.”
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Day 5: Road to India - London, UK -Part 4
The freestanding transit booth is nothing but concrete and glass on the outside, yet the activity is inside with the two men in obvious important conversation among the piles of reports and schedules piled four to five inches tall. I waited patiently at the round stainless steel opening to allow my inquiry to travel inside a work place that must have been occupied by the men’s grandfathers. After all, in this country the highly sought after security of a government job will usually be inherited to the next generation.
There was a break in their cockney (the accent of native Londoner) and one of the men swilled around in his chair to see only my head and shoulders standing at high window that made this 5’8” woman feel like a child asking for sweets (candy) from an adult. Before I could speak he said, “Jolly good hat. Were’da get ‘it?” “In California”, I replied. “Yeah, it doosn’t louk like anythin’ ya’d get ‘ere.” he said. He was flirting with me? “Sweet!” and not like in candy. I was relieved to know that my journey dedicated to knowing and trusting God hasn’t left me androgynous. This bloke (informal way of referring to a man in the UK) wasn’t bad looking either. I shook my head and got present to my inquiry, even though I wanted to linger to hear more British flattery. “I need to get the train, I mean the Tube, to Victoria Station to pick up a 170 bus to Battersea.” I said. My inquiries were typically comprehensive so that my guide understands exactly where I’m trying to reach. The usual results have been to actually arrive at the point of my destination and not somewhere in the vicinity. He pointed me down the stairs, which would put me right on the platform for a Circle or District line to Victoria Station.
I guided the wheels of my backpack down the stairs making a considerable thump on each of the concrete steps—celebrating that it has wheels and I don’t have to actually carry something designed to be on my back. I can’t remember who was it that told me about backpacks with wheels a month or two before me departure. Simply another angel sent to me to ease what would turn out to be an emotionally heavy journey.
I was now outside, liberated from all the tunnels. I was breathing the fresh clean air of England. I was jumping for joy inside, but maintaining my composure for the only two people waiting with me, who I assumed were Brits by their fair hair and skin. I went to look at the enlarged map of the London Underground to get a sense of where I was. All I could see was a beloved memory of the picture a stranger took of mum and I together in front of a map just like it in the Piccadilly station more than 15 years ago. My eyes started to sweat as I wished she were with me now when I sensed I was blocking someone from seeing the whole map. I took a deep sniff to compose myself, I turned and move aside while excusing myself to find I was addressing a handsome young man of what I believed to be of Indian descent. He wore a pleasant smile and as I passed by him to stand near the tracks I caught a whiff of his cologne and before I knew it I was complimenting him on it. His smile got wider as he thanked me for noticing.
The Circle line pulled into the station and I choose the third car from the front. The seats were situated opposite of the HEX. These were one long upholstered bench on each side facing each other with the occasional bright yellow pole conveniently place so the each rider could hold on if need be. I thought how nice it would be to have upholstered seats on public transportation in San Francisco and New York City, but the contrast displays the civility and charm of the English culture. The higher quality interiors of these trains supposes an expectation of parents to more closely monitor their children’s behavior and for people to be respectful of these public transportation vehicles in general.
I know something about expectation; in my experience it’s fulfilled long before hopes or wishful thinking. I’ve notice that people show up generous and kind because I expect them to and life itself concurs in all the way I believe it will.
The train had more windows than walls affording me a nice view of the sunrise. The car had a continuous stream of advertisements posted just below ceiling level, yet sitting down I had intentionally look up to read them. The car was empty when I boarded, then a lady embarked and went to the farthest seat in the car. I went straight for the abandoned newspaper and turned to find my handsome young friend hoping on just as the doors shut behind him. He came over to me and motioned for permission to sit near me. He said, “You’re so friendly. It’s just that so few people at as approachable as you and I like to meet new people. I have friends in so many parts of the world.” We talked about Los Angeles and how much he’d like to pursue an acting career and to live there. His name is Zack, but spells it “Zed-a-kay”. He’s in London for just a few days to participate in the graduation ceremony of York University. He was awarded his Law Degree a couple of years ago but didn’t ‘walk’ to make it official. He giggled and said, “My diploma folder was empty.”
I asked why he was out and about so early and he explained that he just saw a friend off at Heathrow and that he has another friend to see off in a few hours, who is as unfamiliar with public transportation in London as I am. He’ll be returning ‘home’ tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t have to many classmates left in London as they’ve all splintered off after completing school and wondered if he could help me get reacquainted with London. I jumped at the opportunity to have a new friend show me around an old city. Since he lived in Battersea long ago we agreed to meet on the Battersea Bridge. A bridge I had no knowledge of but I took his word for its existence and agreed with a seize-the-day-attitude to meet at noon. The five hours between would give us time to do what we needed. It was essential that I get settled in my temporary digs and take a speed nap. Zac also told me to get off the train before it reached Victoria Station, “because it will be crowed with commuters that I’d have to compete with on the bus.” I thought, ‘thank god I ran into Zac to help make my journey a bit easier.” I would soon learn that following Zac’s so-called ‘more convenient route’ would actually take me thirty or more minutes out of my way.
I left Zac on the train as I disembarked at Clapham North Station to catch the 345 to the Battersea. I pulled my backpack out of tube station into the dimly lit morning. The sun was waking up so slowly. My mind was also waking slowly. I now had to think about which bus was going in which direction because American cars are operated on the left side and we drive on the right side, but in England that’s all reversed. So if you what to go North in England you stand at the bus stop on the South side of the road. It took me a few minutes and I said to myself, “Bullocks” (which is like saying the F-word in the States. It simply means, the balls of a bull, but it’s been given a highest x-rating for profanity in the UK), “I’ll just ask for directions again.”
When my friends in the states meet my mom, they always comment how much they like to hear her talk. She’s been in the US for at least 40 years and I tend to forget that she’s still carries a British accent. But if these Brits would hear her they’d say she sounds just as much like a Yank as I do. I also forget that most Brits like my American accent as much as I like their English accent, therefore, seldom do they complain when I ask directions. There just happy to her me say just about anything.
I was directed to the right bus stop to get to Battersea, however my gracious guide must have been too compassionate to ask me which Battersea I wanted. I was about to find out that there was Battersea Park Road, Battersea Bridge Road, Battersea High Street and Battersea Church Road. Why didn’t I just follow my original instructions and take the 170 from Victoria? I guess I needed to make this journey even more interesting? I got off on the first stop that had ‘Battersea’ in the name while desperately wishing for a cell phone. There were very few people on the road and they were obviously rushing off to work. They had that “Don’t stop me” expression on their faces. So I didn’t dare. I pulled my luggage Osprey down the cobbled-stone Battersea Church Road, which I thought was hopeful because any road in England with “church” in the name was a sure to have a church on it somewhere. I was wishing my Osprey would take flight and locate St. Mary’s steeple and return to me like a homing-pigeon to show me the way, but instead the weight of it just helped the wheels to lodge into the spaces between the cobblestone. My biceps were getting a workout. After walking, what seemed like a mile for this weary traveler, and not spotting a church I turned around and walked back to the Bridge Road.
I turned the corner and saw the street a Newsagent; a shop where one could buy just about any newspaper or magazine printed in the free world. They also sell sweets, but I was in more need of sleep, than sweets. I tapped on the door realizing that they hadn’t quite opened yet. An averagely attractive 20-something girl of Indian decent, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail, opened the door. I asked for directions to St. Mary Church because Father Paul’s email response to Yvonne said, “Just ask anyone in Battersea where St. Mary’s is and they’ll know where to direct you.” Well I found the one person in Battersea that had no clue where the church was. I asked her if I could use their phone to call the church. With some hesitation she pulled her “mobile” out of a pocket as I extracted my printed-itinerary from a convenient exterior pocket of my travel purse. She dialed the number once and it didn’t go through and almost dismissed me after hitting the ‘end’ button on her phone. I asked her to please try again. She did and we got the double ring, a sign that that call was going through. She handed me the phone and I said, “Father Paul?” but it was still ringing, and then I heard a man’s voice say “ello”. The British tend to drop their H’s all together or at least make them so soft they become no existence. “Father Paul, it’s Tracy, I’m at….” I looked at the young lady to tell me, and she said the “Brigde Road.” I guessed that once in Battersea that one could drop the formal name of every street when referring to them. He said, “Simply go round the corner and walk south down the church road until you pass the church and Vicarage Crescent will be on your left.” I said okay, fearing that I had been on the right road already but didn’t go down far enough. I pulled the heavy, dead bird down the cobbled stones again but much farther than before. “Hallelujah” I can see the steeple of what I already know is a charming small church with creaking doors and worn wooden pews. I rounded the corner and passed St. Mary’s on my right and staying, as instructed, to the left side to find the Vicarage. I walked and walked some more, the sun was getting brighter and the temperature rises to make for a beautiful day for London Bridges.
I was getting a bit frustrated thirty minutes into my journey down the long winding road and decided to turn around and go back to the church to pray. I drug the wheels into the grassy courtyard and thought I was hearing the voice of God, saying “Tracy, I’m here.” I turned full-circle and saw a handsome English gent, early-forty’s with a premature receding hair-line, glasses, clean-shaven, wearing black trousers and shirt with a small bit of white on an all-black collar. Awe, my prayer was answered before my knees even reached the cold St. Mary’s grounds.
to be continued.....
Interesting tidbit: I'm listening to the soundtrack to Love Actually while writing this. Serendipitous, yes?
There was a break in their cockney (the accent of native Londoner) and one of the men swilled around in his chair to see only my head and shoulders standing at high window that made this 5’8” woman feel like a child asking for sweets (candy) from an adult. Before I could speak he said, “Jolly good hat. Were’da get ‘it?” “In California”, I replied. “Yeah, it doosn’t louk like anythin’ ya’d get ‘ere.” he said. He was flirting with me? “Sweet!” and not like in candy. I was relieved to know that my journey dedicated to knowing and trusting God hasn’t left me androgynous. This bloke (informal way of referring to a man in the UK) wasn’t bad looking either. I shook my head and got present to my inquiry, even though I wanted to linger to hear more British flattery. “I need to get the train, I mean the Tube, to Victoria Station to pick up a 170 bus to Battersea.” I said. My inquiries were typically comprehensive so that my guide understands exactly where I’m trying to reach. The usual results have been to actually arrive at the point of my destination and not somewhere in the vicinity. He pointed me down the stairs, which would put me right on the platform for a Circle or District line to Victoria Station.
I guided the wheels of my backpack down the stairs making a considerable thump on each of the concrete steps—celebrating that it has wheels and I don’t have to actually carry something designed to be on my back. I can’t remember who was it that told me about backpacks with wheels a month or two before me departure. Simply another angel sent to me to ease what would turn out to be an emotionally heavy journey.
I was now outside, liberated from all the tunnels. I was breathing the fresh clean air of England. I was jumping for joy inside, but maintaining my composure for the only two people waiting with me, who I assumed were Brits by their fair hair and skin. I went to look at the enlarged map of the London Underground to get a sense of where I was. All I could see was a beloved memory of the picture a stranger took of mum and I together in front of a map just like it in the Piccadilly station more than 15 years ago. My eyes started to sweat as I wished she were with me now when I sensed I was blocking someone from seeing the whole map. I took a deep sniff to compose myself, I turned and move aside while excusing myself to find I was addressing a handsome young man of what I believed to be of Indian descent. He wore a pleasant smile and as I passed by him to stand near the tracks I caught a whiff of his cologne and before I knew it I was complimenting him on it. His smile got wider as he thanked me for noticing.
The Circle line pulled into the station and I choose the third car from the front. The seats were situated opposite of the HEX. These were one long upholstered bench on each side facing each other with the occasional bright yellow pole conveniently place so the each rider could hold on if need be. I thought how nice it would be to have upholstered seats on public transportation in San Francisco and New York City, but the contrast displays the civility and charm of the English culture. The higher quality interiors of these trains supposes an expectation of parents to more closely monitor their children’s behavior and for people to be respectful of these public transportation vehicles in general.
I know something about expectation; in my experience it’s fulfilled long before hopes or wishful thinking. I’ve notice that people show up generous and kind because I expect them to and life itself concurs in all the way I believe it will.
The train had more windows than walls affording me a nice view of the sunrise. The car had a continuous stream of advertisements posted just below ceiling level, yet sitting down I had intentionally look up to read them. The car was empty when I boarded, then a lady embarked and went to the farthest seat in the car. I went straight for the abandoned newspaper and turned to find my handsome young friend hoping on just as the doors shut behind him. He came over to me and motioned for permission to sit near me. He said, “You’re so friendly. It’s just that so few people at as approachable as you and I like to meet new people. I have friends in so many parts of the world.” We talked about Los Angeles and how much he’d like to pursue an acting career and to live there. His name is Zack, but spells it “Zed-a-kay”. He’s in London for just a few days to participate in the graduation ceremony of York University. He was awarded his Law Degree a couple of years ago but didn’t ‘walk’ to make it official. He giggled and said, “My diploma folder was empty.”
I asked why he was out and about so early and he explained that he just saw a friend off at Heathrow and that he has another friend to see off in a few hours, who is as unfamiliar with public transportation in London as I am. He’ll be returning ‘home’ tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t have to many classmates left in London as they’ve all splintered off after completing school and wondered if he could help me get reacquainted with London. I jumped at the opportunity to have a new friend show me around an old city. Since he lived in Battersea long ago we agreed to meet on the Battersea Bridge. A bridge I had no knowledge of but I took his word for its existence and agreed with a seize-the-day-attitude to meet at noon. The five hours between would give us time to do what we needed. It was essential that I get settled in my temporary digs and take a speed nap. Zac also told me to get off the train before it reached Victoria Station, “because it will be crowed with commuters that I’d have to compete with on the bus.” I thought, ‘thank god I ran into Zac to help make my journey a bit easier.” I would soon learn that following Zac’s so-called ‘more convenient route’ would actually take me thirty or more minutes out of my way.
I left Zac on the train as I disembarked at Clapham North Station to catch the 345 to the Battersea. I pulled my backpack out of tube station into the dimly lit morning. The sun was waking up so slowly. My mind was also waking slowly. I now had to think about which bus was going in which direction because American cars are operated on the left side and we drive on the right side, but in England that’s all reversed. So if you what to go North in England you stand at the bus stop on the South side of the road. It took me a few minutes and I said to myself, “Bullocks” (which is like saying the F-word in the States. It simply means, the balls of a bull, but it’s been given a highest x-rating for profanity in the UK), “I’ll just ask for directions again.”
When my friends in the states meet my mom, they always comment how much they like to hear her talk. She’s been in the US for at least 40 years and I tend to forget that she’s still carries a British accent. But if these Brits would hear her they’d say she sounds just as much like a Yank as I do. I also forget that most Brits like my American accent as much as I like their English accent, therefore, seldom do they complain when I ask directions. There just happy to her me say just about anything.
I was directed to the right bus stop to get to Battersea, however my gracious guide must have been too compassionate to ask me which Battersea I wanted. I was about to find out that there was Battersea Park Road, Battersea Bridge Road, Battersea High Street and Battersea Church Road. Why didn’t I just follow my original instructions and take the 170 from Victoria? I guess I needed to make this journey even more interesting? I got off on the first stop that had ‘Battersea’ in the name while desperately wishing for a cell phone. There were very few people on the road and they were obviously rushing off to work. They had that “Don’t stop me” expression on their faces. So I didn’t dare. I pulled my luggage Osprey down the cobbled-stone Battersea Church Road, which I thought was hopeful because any road in England with “church” in the name was a sure to have a church on it somewhere. I was wishing my Osprey would take flight and locate St. Mary’s steeple and return to me like a homing-pigeon to show me the way, but instead the weight of it just helped the wheels to lodge into the spaces between the cobblestone. My biceps were getting a workout. After walking, what seemed like a mile for this weary traveler, and not spotting a church I turned around and walked back to the Bridge Road.
I turned the corner and saw the street a Newsagent; a shop where one could buy just about any newspaper or magazine printed in the free world. They also sell sweets, but I was in more need of sleep, than sweets. I tapped on the door realizing that they hadn’t quite opened yet. An averagely attractive 20-something girl of Indian decent, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail, opened the door. I asked for directions to St. Mary Church because Father Paul’s email response to Yvonne said, “Just ask anyone in Battersea where St. Mary’s is and they’ll know where to direct you.” Well I found the one person in Battersea that had no clue where the church was. I asked her if I could use their phone to call the church. With some hesitation she pulled her “mobile” out of a pocket as I extracted my printed-itinerary from a convenient exterior pocket of my travel purse. She dialed the number once and it didn’t go through and almost dismissed me after hitting the ‘end’ button on her phone. I asked her to please try again. She did and we got the double ring, a sign that that call was going through. She handed me the phone and I said, “Father Paul?” but it was still ringing, and then I heard a man’s voice say “ello”. The British tend to drop their H’s all together or at least make them so soft they become no existence. “Father Paul, it’s Tracy, I’m at….” I looked at the young lady to tell me, and she said the “Brigde Road.” I guessed that once in Battersea that one could drop the formal name of every street when referring to them. He said, “Simply go round the corner and walk south down the church road until you pass the church and Vicarage Crescent will be on your left.” I said okay, fearing that I had been on the right road already but didn’t go down far enough. I pulled the heavy, dead bird down the cobbled stones again but much farther than before. “Hallelujah” I can see the steeple of what I already know is a charming small church with creaking doors and worn wooden pews. I rounded the corner and passed St. Mary’s on my right and staying, as instructed, to the left side to find the Vicarage. I walked and walked some more, the sun was getting brighter and the temperature rises to make for a beautiful day for London Bridges.
I was getting a bit frustrated thirty minutes into my journey down the long winding road and decided to turn around and go back to the church to pray. I drug the wheels into the grassy courtyard and thought I was hearing the voice of God, saying “Tracy, I’m here.” I turned full-circle and saw a handsome English gent, early-forty’s with a premature receding hair-line, glasses, clean-shaven, wearing black trousers and shirt with a small bit of white on an all-black collar. Awe, my prayer was answered before my knees even reached the cold St. Mary’s grounds.
to be continued.....
Interesting tidbit: I'm listening to the soundtrack to Love Actually while writing this. Serendipitous, yes?
Monday, December 7, 2009
Day 5: Road to India - London, UK -Part 3
I needed to get to Victoria Station, the heart of London’s transportation system. Victoria supports England’s railroad system, the London Underground--referred to as the ‘Tube,’ a nickname it was given around the late 1800s due to its shape--and the coaches and buses servicing Greater London. I followed the signs for the Heathrow Express (HEX) that took me on a long walk through a series of well-lit clean white-tiled-walled tunnels with posters advertising a wide array of products I celebrate no longer needing, until I reached the HEX Ticket Agent. This agent replaced questions for a passionate desire to help me get to my destination. He even saved me some Pound Sterling (the official name for U.K. currency) by selling me a ‘Return’ (British term for Round Trip) for thirty-two pounds. Cool, or “brilliant” as the Brits say, I have my passage back to Heathrow when I leave for Southeast Asia.
I asked directions to the appropriate platform. On this journey I’m glad not to be a stereotypical male because I stop and ask directions a lot. I have learned that it’s better to stop three or even five people to ask or confirm directions than to carry my still-heavy worldly possessions a long way only to have to return. I have come to enjoy asking for help. It allows me to interact with the people that inhabit the part of the world I find myself in. Engaging them is to include them and to allow their journey and mine to become one, even if it’s for a brief moment in time.
“People enter our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime,” is a mantra I come to live by. The catch is for us is to be careful not to force a person to stay for a lifetime when they are only come for a season. When that’s a bit too philosophical for me I remember the chemical rush that our bodies get when we show kindness to each other. Serotonin; or happy-juice as I like to refer to it, is secreted from the hypothalamus when we help or when we witness someone being compassionate or kind to another. This happy juice also strengthens our immune system. This is evident in my health and energy level since I’ve been a journey-woman. It sure does help cure the jetlag. My sister would say, “it’s because of who you are, Tracy,” referring to my positive mental attitude that attracts like-minded and generous people who want to help me. I believe that’s partly the case, but I also believe that people are basically good and it’s natural for us to want to support our fellow human beings.
I reach the HEX about 06:00, which is waiting with doors open for its fortunate passengers. The HEX is a more dear (expensive) way to travel to and from Heathrow and those more knowledgeable and fungal passengers typically choose other modes, which do take longer. I realized this a bit late, but I’m happy to go this way because in a way my sister and my mother were my travel agents. While I was in New York City Yvonne goggled my London destination from their Beach House in Imperial Beach, California and looked at the necessary web pages together, but mom and Yvonne’s heads were clearer so I simply took notes and followed their instructions.
Mum and Yvonne had gone to the Beach House to spend precious time together after I left. I’m sure they needed some downtime considering how emotional it was for us to say ‘good-bye’. It’s always been a rare occasion to have Yvonne all to oneself. We have a small but large family, that for the most part is very close, something we all owe to Yvonne. She has a passionate desire to keep us all together and have us ‘get over’ our differences so we can get back to being together, especially to go on holiday together. That’s adventure nearly pales in comparison to the one I’m on.
There are fourteen of us to fit for the latest vacation tee shirt from one to seventy-three in age and from petite to triple X in size, that identifies us as the fun-loving-band-of-crazies that we truly are. We are a varied clan that can cut deep with disdain and yet will show up with titanium strength when we needed. I’ve been drawing from that strength for the last few days when the waves of culture shock swirled with the sands of loneliness find their way into the days and nights. (I’m in India as I write this.)
I stepped aboard the HEX, noticing I didn’t need to ‘mind the gap’ that is between most platforms and the trains in the UK. The stainless steel walls and doors are spotless and the seats are upholstered with deep-ocean blue high-quality fabric freckled with red flakes. They have high backs and might be too comfortable for the weary transcontinental travelers who need to disembark soon. But not me, I’m almost on the edge of my seat in anticipation of what I might see even though it’s still dark. There are several conspicuously placed LCD screens showing commercials to sell me more unnecessary products. The car was deserted with exception of me and a businessman in a wrinkled dark grey suit who sat across the isle one row back. I think we both wanted to enjoy some expanded personal space. I wondered if this was a maiden voyage across tracks that were laid a hundred years ago. I felt safe and still very energized. A state I tend to stay in until I reach my temporary resting place, at which time I sleep harder than Henry the Eighth after a huge meal, and yes, I probably do some real snoring.
I had to transfer to the Tube at Paddington Station which would take me to Victoria where I’ll needed to catch a 170 bus to Battersea, a suburb of London. The HEX train made another one of it’s stops and because I was still getting use to the accents of the ticket agents and announcers in the airport and train stations, I nearly missed my stop. I followed the exit signs to the London Underground, which is hard to miss once you’ve seen their logo. It’s a red donut with a horizontal cobalt blue stripe with UNDERGROUND written in white text over the circle. That striped changed from a teal the cobalt in 2007, but I’m not sure why. Yet, if you stand on any London street-corner and turn 360 degrees around and don’t see a sign to one of 270 tube stations then you just aren’t looking.
I pulled my luggage from the HEX train and this time I did ‘mind the gap’ heaving and swinging my luggage onto the platform. With a sigh of relief I paused and scan the area to get my bearings to see that I was in yet another maze of tunnels. I could hear Bob Parker saying, “Will it be tunnel number one, two or three?” Time to ask directions, again. The conductor pointed me down tunnel number two and at the end I came to a London Transport ticket stand with a lovely black woman behind the bullet proof Plexiglas. With no cue, due to the earliness of the hour, I stepped up to the window. I don’t know why, but I always feel the need to raise my voice so that the person behind that thick Plexiglas can hear me. Logic says they can hear a normal tone of voice but it plays a game with my left brain, which assumes that even my loud mouth can’t be heard through anything that thick. So I kind of yelled and either she heard me just fine or was just being polite to this Yank who has obviously traveled far. After all, I was in “the land of good manner.” Whichever she remained pleasant and sold me an Oyster Card, a hard plastic key card tucked inside a yellow and blue plastic holder supplied by Ikea, which is great product placement to something 3.4 million weekday riders carry in the pockets, purses or briefcases. The Oyster Card will allows passage on any one of the eleven lines and all Greater London buses. The pass was twenty-three pounds, which would be very heavy if I had to bring that many pounds of silver to buy it, but no fear since almost all currency is no longer backed by gold or silver. I’ve been using my debit card to purchase these tickets since I haven’t seen an ATM or “Cash Machines” yet.
I figured I’ll go to a Thomas Cook travel agency, which I hold a fond childhood memory of those rare occasions we’d return to England with my mum (Brit for Mom) to visit my grandparents. It’s interesting to observe the sentimental memories of long ago I have stored up and now find myself attempting to reconnect with them. Why am I inclined to go to a business with people behind the desks that have absolutely no connection to me other than the memory of following my mother into an all-red storefront with the white block THOMAS COOK lettering? Are other people as sentimental as I and choose a place to patronize based on a precious memory that lasted for a fraction of a moment? If they don’t, I might be the sappiest woman on the planet, but if they do then we are kindred spirits making our way through this beautiful life hoping from one sentimental cloud to another.
The nice lady directed me on to a station that had to be built around the time my grandfather was a boy. Actually the first section of the London Underground opened in 1863 and was the first system of its kind in the world and starting in 1890, England was the first to operate electric trains. Old maybe, but I loved it. I said, “Tracy, welcome to back to England!” It was cooler in England that NY, but I can’t say it was cold. As I was leaving the train I caught my reflection in the window to see that I was sporting a full-on Alfalfa so I put on my pink angora cap. I stepped to the ticket agent box to find out where I must go next. Again, if I got on the train going the wrong way it might be hours before I got the Battersea.
To be continued....
I asked directions to the appropriate platform. On this journey I’m glad not to be a stereotypical male because I stop and ask directions a lot. I have learned that it’s better to stop three or even five people to ask or confirm directions than to carry my still-heavy worldly possessions a long way only to have to return. I have come to enjoy asking for help. It allows me to interact with the people that inhabit the part of the world I find myself in. Engaging them is to include them and to allow their journey and mine to become one, even if it’s for a brief moment in time.
“People enter our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime,” is a mantra I come to live by. The catch is for us is to be careful not to force a person to stay for a lifetime when they are only come for a season. When that’s a bit too philosophical for me I remember the chemical rush that our bodies get when we show kindness to each other. Serotonin; or happy-juice as I like to refer to it, is secreted from the hypothalamus when we help or when we witness someone being compassionate or kind to another. This happy juice also strengthens our immune system. This is evident in my health and energy level since I’ve been a journey-woman. It sure does help cure the jetlag. My sister would say, “it’s because of who you are, Tracy,” referring to my positive mental attitude that attracts like-minded and generous people who want to help me. I believe that’s partly the case, but I also believe that people are basically good and it’s natural for us to want to support our fellow human beings.
I reach the HEX about 06:00, which is waiting with doors open for its fortunate passengers. The HEX is a more dear (expensive) way to travel to and from Heathrow and those more knowledgeable and fungal passengers typically choose other modes, which do take longer. I realized this a bit late, but I’m happy to go this way because in a way my sister and my mother were my travel agents. While I was in New York City Yvonne goggled my London destination from their Beach House in Imperial Beach, California and looked at the necessary web pages together, but mom and Yvonne’s heads were clearer so I simply took notes and followed their instructions.
Mum and Yvonne had gone to the Beach House to spend precious time together after I left. I’m sure they needed some downtime considering how emotional it was for us to say ‘good-bye’. It’s always been a rare occasion to have Yvonne all to oneself. We have a small but large family, that for the most part is very close, something we all owe to Yvonne. She has a passionate desire to keep us all together and have us ‘get over’ our differences so we can get back to being together, especially to go on holiday together. That’s adventure nearly pales in comparison to the one I’m on.
There are fourteen of us to fit for the latest vacation tee shirt from one to seventy-three in age and from petite to triple X in size, that identifies us as the fun-loving-band-of-crazies that we truly are. We are a varied clan that can cut deep with disdain and yet will show up with titanium strength when we needed. I’ve been drawing from that strength for the last few days when the waves of culture shock swirled with the sands of loneliness find their way into the days and nights. (I’m in India as I write this.)
I stepped aboard the HEX, noticing I didn’t need to ‘mind the gap’ that is between most platforms and the trains in the UK. The stainless steel walls and doors are spotless and the seats are upholstered with deep-ocean blue high-quality fabric freckled with red flakes. They have high backs and might be too comfortable for the weary transcontinental travelers who need to disembark soon. But not me, I’m almost on the edge of my seat in anticipation of what I might see even though it’s still dark. There are several conspicuously placed LCD screens showing commercials to sell me more unnecessary products. The car was deserted with exception of me and a businessman in a wrinkled dark grey suit who sat across the isle one row back. I think we both wanted to enjoy some expanded personal space. I wondered if this was a maiden voyage across tracks that were laid a hundred years ago. I felt safe and still very energized. A state I tend to stay in until I reach my temporary resting place, at which time I sleep harder than Henry the Eighth after a huge meal, and yes, I probably do some real snoring.
I had to transfer to the Tube at Paddington Station which would take me to Victoria where I’ll needed to catch a 170 bus to Battersea, a suburb of London. The HEX train made another one of it’s stops and because I was still getting use to the accents of the ticket agents and announcers in the airport and train stations, I nearly missed my stop. I followed the exit signs to the London Underground, which is hard to miss once you’ve seen their logo. It’s a red donut with a horizontal cobalt blue stripe with UNDERGROUND written in white text over the circle. That striped changed from a teal the cobalt in 2007, but I’m not sure why. Yet, if you stand on any London street-corner and turn 360 degrees around and don’t see a sign to one of 270 tube stations then you just aren’t looking.
I pulled my luggage from the HEX train and this time I did ‘mind the gap’ heaving and swinging my luggage onto the platform. With a sigh of relief I paused and scan the area to get my bearings to see that I was in yet another maze of tunnels. I could hear Bob Parker saying, “Will it be tunnel number one, two or three?” Time to ask directions, again. The conductor pointed me down tunnel number two and at the end I came to a London Transport ticket stand with a lovely black woman behind the bullet proof Plexiglas. With no cue, due to the earliness of the hour, I stepped up to the window. I don’t know why, but I always feel the need to raise my voice so that the person behind that thick Plexiglas can hear me. Logic says they can hear a normal tone of voice but it plays a game with my left brain, which assumes that even my loud mouth can’t be heard through anything that thick. So I kind of yelled and either she heard me just fine or was just being polite to this Yank who has obviously traveled far. After all, I was in “the land of good manner.” Whichever she remained pleasant and sold me an Oyster Card, a hard plastic key card tucked inside a yellow and blue plastic holder supplied by Ikea, which is great product placement to something 3.4 million weekday riders carry in the pockets, purses or briefcases. The Oyster Card will allows passage on any one of the eleven lines and all Greater London buses. The pass was twenty-three pounds, which would be very heavy if I had to bring that many pounds of silver to buy it, but no fear since almost all currency is no longer backed by gold or silver. I’ve been using my debit card to purchase these tickets since I haven’t seen an ATM or “Cash Machines” yet.
I figured I’ll go to a Thomas Cook travel agency, which I hold a fond childhood memory of those rare occasions we’d return to England with my mum (Brit for Mom) to visit my grandparents. It’s interesting to observe the sentimental memories of long ago I have stored up and now find myself attempting to reconnect with them. Why am I inclined to go to a business with people behind the desks that have absolutely no connection to me other than the memory of following my mother into an all-red storefront with the white block THOMAS COOK lettering? Are other people as sentimental as I and choose a place to patronize based on a precious memory that lasted for a fraction of a moment? If they don’t, I might be the sappiest woman on the planet, but if they do then we are kindred spirits making our way through this beautiful life hoping from one sentimental cloud to another.
The nice lady directed me on to a station that had to be built around the time my grandfather was a boy. Actually the first section of the London Underground opened in 1863 and was the first system of its kind in the world and starting in 1890, England was the first to operate electric trains. Old maybe, but I loved it. I said, “Tracy, welcome to back to England!” It was cooler in England that NY, but I can’t say it was cold. As I was leaving the train I caught my reflection in the window to see that I was sporting a full-on Alfalfa so I put on my pink angora cap. I stepped to the ticket agent box to find out where I must go next. Again, if I got on the train going the wrong way it might be hours before I got the Battersea.
To be continued....
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Day 5: Road to India, arriving UK - Part 2
November 17, 2009
My days are no longer marked by a beginnings or endings. I’m a time traveler now, jetting over time zones as my internal GPS downloads new geo-data. MY flight to London left LaGuardia at 2130 EST and landed Heathrow at 4:40 GMT, more than an hour early, leapfrogging me over five hours.
As the pilots began the descent the flight attendant passed out the customs forms. Groggy passengers dropped their tray tables, wiping sleep from their eyes to focus on the task at hand. Flight attendants serving coffee, tea and water, while another collects trash to ready the cabin for the next group of excited and exhausted passengers, if they’re anything like us.
I removed the hard copy of my itinerary from my travel purse, which I created just days before leaving. It’s pretty exciting to look at with its list of flight numbers, departure and arrival times, public transportation directions and as more addresses than I’ve had in the last 10 years. Yet the most usual is the address to my ‘home base’ in, which is a numbered sector within Panchkula, a subsidiary of the city state of Chandijarh (pronounced chan-di-gar).
The pilots set the transatlantic ship down easy and before I knew it I was stepping on to British soil. I began to feel a surge of energy as I stepped onto the concourse. I believe the chromosomes that held my British DNA were happy to breathe in the jolly ol’ air from an ancient land that I haven’t visited in over ten years.
I cued up (stood in line) for customs with Mooshi and her mother. The cue was very long and the non-British citizens were kept organized by the Disneyland-style-ropes. Mooshi and I continued our pop culture banter about our favorite TV shows. Her pre-med education doesn’t allow her to follow shows like Lost and Survivor, bit luckily she has a close friend that can find pretty much anything on the web. That’s when I learned about freetv.com and missedashow.net. I was so happy there was a way I could follow season six of So You Think You Can Dance and season one of Flashforward, a new program I discovered while surfing iTunes. Each episode is about $2.99 to download and since I’m being very frugal with my current funds, which are only meant to support me on this journey, I will refrain from incurring further download fees.
I handed Mooshi a small slip of paper with my name, URL to my Blog and my Skype name. I’m so grateful to Jim, a member of Riverside Community Center for Spiritual Living (RCCSL), who produced about a hundred of these little slips for the attendees of my farewell party. The rest I have been using to stay in touch with the amazing people I meet along my Road to India.
I was first to a customs counter and noticed Mooshi and her mother stepping to desks at opposite sides of me. I agent began to ask me a litany of questions, similar to those I answered to post my eHarmony profile. Is he hitting on me or does this country really need to know how I met (or in this case, not met yet), the people I’ll be staying with in London? “It’s a vicarage, not a terrorist cell, for All Saints’ sake!” I remember Pat Spencer, one of my mentors, working on her Ph.D. telling me that her dissertation was finished, not when she completed it, but when one of her advisors says, “Okay, you’re done.” Now, I know what she was referring to, because I had no idea how long the essay questions would last and if I was providing adequate answers. There I was in mid-answer to about the twentieth question and the agent’s stamped my passport and dismissed me.
I put my passport in my travel bag for safekeeping and turned around expecting to see Mooshi and her mother, but they vanished into one of the many corridors. Surely they had to make their way to the next gate for the continuation of their long journey to India for her sister’s wedding. I think she said they have four connections before reaching their home state in India, and I thought I had an intense itinerary. Their hectic journey is exactly what I believed I was avoiding by stopping in New York and London.
It’s obvious that I’m no longer in Kansas by the signage. “Water closet” is not where one fills an empty water bottle. That closest is more for making deposits than withdrawals. I followed the “Baggage Re-Claim” signs and when I reached the turn-style for my flight I saw only passengers with terribly wrinkled clothes impatiently peering down the beltway. As the silver slats expanded and retracted to make the continuous circle, I took the opportunity to chat up any human beings that are in earshot. After all there weren’t any trees around. Toria, my longtime friend and college roommate in San Francisco, would describe me as someone who, “Would talk to a tree, if it would only talk back.”
A lovely British couple who have been “on holiday” in Newport Beach, California, were my choice de jour. Americans go “on vacation” and the English go “on holiday”. I love the concept of taking a vacation from work and calling it a ‘holiday’. I wonder what they call an American legal holiday that gives us a single day off of work, a “vacation”?
The luggage eventually came and we said our farewells. I was off to follow to get a train to Victoria Station and they had a car service waiting for them. I silently hoped they would offer me a ride into London, yet had they; my first day in the U.K. might have been just okay.
My days are no longer marked by a beginnings or endings. I’m a time traveler now, jetting over time zones as my internal GPS downloads new geo-data. MY flight to London left LaGuardia at 2130 EST and landed Heathrow at 4:40 GMT, more than an hour early, leapfrogging me over five hours.
As the pilots began the descent the flight attendant passed out the customs forms. Groggy passengers dropped their tray tables, wiping sleep from their eyes to focus on the task at hand. Flight attendants serving coffee, tea and water, while another collects trash to ready the cabin for the next group of excited and exhausted passengers, if they’re anything like us.
I removed the hard copy of my itinerary from my travel purse, which I created just days before leaving. It’s pretty exciting to look at with its list of flight numbers, departure and arrival times, public transportation directions and as more addresses than I’ve had in the last 10 years. Yet the most usual is the address to my ‘home base’ in, which is a numbered sector within Panchkula, a subsidiary of the city state of Chandijarh (pronounced chan-di-gar).
The pilots set the transatlantic ship down easy and before I knew it I was stepping on to British soil. I began to feel a surge of energy as I stepped onto the concourse. I believe the chromosomes that held my British DNA were happy to breathe in the jolly ol’ air from an ancient land that I haven’t visited in over ten years.
I cued up (stood in line) for customs with Mooshi and her mother. The cue was very long and the non-British citizens were kept organized by the Disneyland-style-ropes. Mooshi and I continued our pop culture banter about our favorite TV shows. Her pre-med education doesn’t allow her to follow shows like Lost and Survivor, bit luckily she has a close friend that can find pretty much anything on the web. That’s when I learned about freetv.com and missedashow.net. I was so happy there was a way I could follow season six of So You Think You Can Dance and season one of Flashforward, a new program I discovered while surfing iTunes. Each episode is about $2.99 to download and since I’m being very frugal with my current funds, which are only meant to support me on this journey, I will refrain from incurring further download fees.
I handed Mooshi a small slip of paper with my name, URL to my Blog and my Skype name. I’m so grateful to Jim, a member of Riverside Community Center for Spiritual Living (RCCSL), who produced about a hundred of these little slips for the attendees of my farewell party. The rest I have been using to stay in touch with the amazing people I meet along my Road to India.
I was first to a customs counter and noticed Mooshi and her mother stepping to desks at opposite sides of me. I agent began to ask me a litany of questions, similar to those I answered to post my eHarmony profile. Is he hitting on me or does this country really need to know how I met (or in this case, not met yet), the people I’ll be staying with in London? “It’s a vicarage, not a terrorist cell, for All Saints’ sake!” I remember Pat Spencer, one of my mentors, working on her Ph.D. telling me that her dissertation was finished, not when she completed it, but when one of her advisors says, “Okay, you’re done.” Now, I know what she was referring to, because I had no idea how long the essay questions would last and if I was providing adequate answers. There I was in mid-answer to about the twentieth question and the agent’s stamped my passport and dismissed me.
I put my passport in my travel bag for safekeeping and turned around expecting to see Mooshi and her mother, but they vanished into one of the many corridors. Surely they had to make their way to the next gate for the continuation of their long journey to India for her sister’s wedding. I think she said they have four connections before reaching their home state in India, and I thought I had an intense itinerary. Their hectic journey is exactly what I believed I was avoiding by stopping in New York and London.
It’s obvious that I’m no longer in Kansas by the signage. “Water closet” is not where one fills an empty water bottle. That closest is more for making deposits than withdrawals. I followed the “Baggage Re-Claim” signs and when I reached the turn-style for my flight I saw only passengers with terribly wrinkled clothes impatiently peering down the beltway. As the silver slats expanded and retracted to make the continuous circle, I took the opportunity to chat up any human beings that are in earshot. After all there weren’t any trees around. Toria, my longtime friend and college roommate in San Francisco, would describe me as someone who, “Would talk to a tree, if it would only talk back.”
A lovely British couple who have been “on holiday” in Newport Beach, California, were my choice de jour. Americans go “on vacation” and the English go “on holiday”. I love the concept of taking a vacation from work and calling it a ‘holiday’. I wonder what they call an American legal holiday that gives us a single day off of work, a “vacation”?
The luggage eventually came and we said our farewells. I was off to follow to get a train to Victoria Station and they had a car service waiting for them. I silently hoped they would offer me a ride into London, yet had they; my first day in the U.K. might have been just okay.
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