The beginning: ENGLAND
In England, I spent most of the time at my brother’s home in Suffolk county, England. Glenn and his wife Anita have a thriving business (demolition) and live in a charming country house. Next door to them are my niece and her husband and their 2 children: Joshua and Conner. Part of Glenn’s property includes the workyard. Trucks, diggers, machines of all sorts are parked here and there, and there’s an old trailer which is the office where a couple of secretaries work. Niece Carol and sister—in-law Anita also spend a quantity of time there helping out with the business. I had a pleasant chat with Linda, who keeps the books, and Paula, a secretary. Linda had spent a year or so in West Virginia and told me several stories of her time there.
Some of the highlights of my first days with Glenn and Anita include seeing some of the charming (what other word can a Yank use to describe English villages?) villages and towns. Drives through the countryside, even under a gray sky, calms the nerves and is a treat for the eyes, particularly mine, so used to the browns and reds of Dubai’s deserts. On a Sunday, we went to a nearby town where there was a mock WWII hospital, a hanger, many jeeps, ambulances and Englishmen (and women) garbed in American World War II army attire. The event of the day was to be a flyover of a genuine B17, the kind dad flew in the war. After touring the mock hospital, I chatted with a pleasant young woman dressed up in a 1940’s uniform about the need for people to remember the war and how it so affected our countries. She reminded me a bit of the main actress from Pearl Harbor. Also a treat to see was the 1940’s dancing to jazz that some folks (considerably older than dancers would have been) did on base at the time. Finally, everyone made their way across a field to witness the grand approach of a genuine B17. There were a couple hundred people or more, I reckon. Glenn, Anita and I drove up to the field in their range rover. The day was cloudy but the sun did come out as if to greet the plane; the wind was strong and chilly. Soon, with people snapping pics and watching through binoculars, the B17 approached. IT made several passes, coming close as if to land but it didn’t.
One afternoon we traveled to the town of Holt, from which we took an old fashioned train (only five cars with the old-style cabins) across breathtakingly pretty countryside to the coast. The coastal town is where Glenn and Anita have their parked trailer, or in British English, a caravan. We checked it out to make sure it was okay because they hadn’t stayed in it for over a year. The view of the sea from the front window was grand; the trailer sits only a few feet from the edge of a 100-foot cliff. The sea, a muddy brown color, looked a bit rough. ON the way home, we stopped for fish and chips. There were other highlights: One evening Anita cooked up a wonderful roast with Yorkshire pudding, vegies and potatoes (mashed and roasted, naturally). Later in the evening brother Neal and his young wife Anna Marie came to visit, having driven from the coast where he works as a cinema manager. As usual, there were jokes and fun remembering past visits.
Glenn and I had some time during my visit to piece together some of the past—when dad had lived in WWII England and married Glenn’s mum. We figured out the time dad first flew into Rougham Air Base, played in a jazz band, met Meryl and a few years later, departed for the USA. The entire soap opera shall not be recounted here. J
May 18th
Anita drove me to Ely; saw exterior of cathedral, walked about, took the train to London’s King Cross station. Took tube to Swiss Cottage and found the hostel, Palmers Lodge, glorious old home, quite clean, and got assigned a 6-man room. I Went out to exlore the city while experiencing its jekyl and hyde weather: sunny, drizzly, and vice versa. I’d been to London many times before, but I still enjoyed the usual sights. I took a double decker bus from Swiss Cottage to Victoria station. The sun tried to peak out from all the clouds (white ones and dark ones vying for prominence) as the bus groaned through thick London traffic, but I didn’t mind, sitting in the front of the top level of the bus, nose close to the window. What a great way to see London!
The jekyl and hyde weather (sunny, rainy, sunny, cloudy, partly cloudy, drizzly, sunny) wasn’t too bad, actually, and I walked and walked. Made it to Parliament, where traffic was diverted due to an organized protest by hundreds of Tamils. They were quite unhappy with the Sri Lankan governmnet for killing of their people (of course they didn’t mention that they have been killing Sri Lankan citizens for decades); an army of cops watched everything, rather bored I imagine. Tourists snapped pics (I loved the one sign that begged Obama to send the navy to Sri Lanka). I soon moved on to…wherever. Just wandering.
In the evening I found myself in Leicester Square, near the theatre district. I noted a bunch of well-dressed folks standing outside a proper theatre over which the marquis announced LES MISERABLES. Knowing I didn’t possess millions of dollars, I journeyed on but strayed into a ticket shop where a young woman (Bulgarian or Romanian) and I chatted about showtimes for various shows. “Most of them start in 5 minutes. Maybe you can get a last minute ticket,” she said. I thought I’d give it a go, and returned to the theatre. Inside, I asked the agent about seats and prices. The cheapest ticket was about 40 pounds (around sixty bucks) and the only available seats were a mile back from the stage and close to the ceiling, it seemed. Out the door I went when a middle-aged man (with German accent) offered me a ticket for 55 pounds. I told him I had only 20 pounds and change. At first he said “no’ and I walked back in to see if the seat number on the ti cket he’d offered was a good seat. And it was. I went out, where the German again asked me, and I again said I had 24 pounds. He took it!
Inside, several of the ‘late’ folks and I waited until the first number was over and were then seated. Great luck was mine! I was in row 6 with a fantastic view of everything just feet away. I loved Les Miserables.
Back at the hostel later in the evening, after a McDonalds stop (other customers in this dodgy area of town included a young couple, the girl weeping, and a rough looking thug sipping coffee), I returned to the hostel. I went to my room and found someone sleeping in my bed (and it wasn’t goldilocks), I went back to the front desk, where the guy promptly assigned me another room. “It’s going to sound bad,” he said. “It’s a room for 18, but the good news is there’s only 4 in there.” It turned out to be a godsend. I had one part of this large room, a corner, all to myself. I took a bottom bunk (all the bunkbeds were curtained off for privacy) and enjoyed reading Cadfael by lamplight.
The next day was more walking. I walked past the Queen’s Palace, where tourists were assembling already to await the changing of the guards. Since I didn’t care to watch Americans and Japanese snap pics of guards, I wandered on to the National Gallery, happy to find “FREE DAY”. I wandered around the galleries observing the works of the masters; I’m quite keen on landsc apes of ages past. It’s amusing that when it comes to biblical depictions, the people of the an cient world (such as Old Testament Rebecca) are always garbed in 18th century clothing. There are always scenes of such folks assembling in forests, baby angels hovering nearby, some women topless, none of which was more than a wild imagination of some artist.
Afterwards, more wandering. Just before I had to be at the Victoria bus station for my bus down to Southampton, I stopped off at Eaton Square, where the exteriors for Upstairs Downstairs was filmed. IN actuality, the Bellamy family and their servants lived here.
The coach to Southampton was a good ride. I sat next to a retired British chap who was on the way home. “Is Southampton nice?” I asked. HE said, “No, not really.” But I was going to see Marcus, a friend from Dubai, not the city, so I didn’t mind.
When the bus pulled into Southampton, Marcus was there to fetch me and we drove a short distance to a Persian restaurant where we ate some Iranian food. Not what I’d enjoyed in Dubai for 11 years but not bad. Then he drove to his house and we spent a couple hours reliving the Dubai years, the drama group, our friends, teaching experiences, and so on.
Marcus had to teach the next day so I took a citybus to downtown Southampton. IT was a pretty plain looking town, nothing really interesting. A new mall but awfully dull compared to Dubai’s behemoth malls. England the the USA just can’t compare. Still, I enjoyed a cup of coffee and a good newspaper read. I caught up on the breaking English news about members of Parliament who have for years been charging the public for all manner of self indulgences, including home repair, travel, dental work, dry rot repair, etc. Rather like our sneaky Congressmembers, no doubt. After all that, feeling rather divorced from my laptop, I dropped in at the library and got on the free Internet. Got caught up with some work and email, then walked on to Marcus’ school.
Marcus took me to what is called the New Forest, named because it’s “only 1,000 years old”. The late afternoon was gorgeous (in England that means partly cloudy) and we drove through, as one would expect, forest. The land was beautiful though. Here and there were wild horses, colts, all of which apparently just wander the fields and forest. There was plenty of heather and goss (think of the moors of Scotland). I got all the required pics and we also visited a small memorial to the many Canadian soldiers of WWII that apparently served in this very area. Also in this very area, King William from about ten million years ago (ten centuries really) was shot with an arrow by some Lord or another. After all that heady history, we headed for a country pub where we indulged in food: fish and chips for me, of course. Back at the house later, more tea (I’ve drunk more tea in the last 10 days than the previous 2 years). God English tea is wonderful; the same tea (Tetley) in the USA cannot produce the same taste. Must be the water and milk.
In the morning I caught the coach (bus) back to Victoria and changed for Cambridge. Anita had said she’d pick me up there but I knew they’d be busy so thought to take the train all the way to Lakenheath (the closest village to their home). In Cambridge, after a long pleasant walk across the ‘green’ and through town to the station, the ticket agent informed me that there were no more trains that would stop in little Lakenheath that day. I asked him how close I could get. The kind and patient man pullled out an atlas, and in true British helpful fashion, started mentioning the possibilities. We decided upon Brandon, which was a plain village near my brother’s place and off I went. The train ride was about 20 minutes, and the entire way, a retired Englishwoman visiting from France (retired, right?) talked to me about how great their French village was. Nice lady, though.
I relaxed and stayed put at Glenn and Anita’s the next three days or so. Just little trips up to the village store and visits with family and catching up on schoolwork down in the office. On my last day, Neal and his daughter Haley came by and spent some hours visiting as Glenn grilled hamburgers, steak and bacon on the barbeque. At the end of the evening, it was time for me to pack up and leave for the coast (1.5 hours drive) where I would catch my ship to Holland. Glenn and Anita drove me, and we had a nice last visit. They saw me safely into the terminal and we said Good bye. I missed them as soon as I headed for the gate.
The ferry is huge, of course. IT’s an 8 hour crossing and this one was a night crossing. I boarded, wandered the corridors of deck 10 for several minutes finding my cabin. In a way, the whole sea voyage was exciting: 30 years before, I’d made this voyage for the first time. At that time, as a 21`-year-old backpacker, green from Nebraska, I’d been able to afford deck space (as did most, actually). I’d sat in a chair all night though wandering around the ship, exploring the restaurant area, going out on deck for some very fresh and cold air. On this trip, I’d splurged on a cabin. IT had bunkbeds (but I’d be alone), a bathroom including hot shower, table and soft chair. VERY nice, in my view. I threw the backpack on the bed and left to explore the ship. The Stena lines folks had obviously remodeled. Gone were most of the deck chairs (airline style, indoors), mostly replaced with an enlarged restaurant, a casino, duty free shop, cinema, and Internet area. Back then, I’d written in my paper diary.
It was midnight when we sailed, so I just retired to my cabin, had a shower, and went to sleep. I awoke early, went to the restaurant and ordered a bread roll and cup of tea (and shelled out five bucks!). Nice though, to sit by the window and watch the sea 10 decks down. The ship docked about 8am and after a short wait, my friend Saskia pulled up in her Honda Civic—with her nearly newborn baby in the backseat (in a baby seat, of course since they rather frown on babies lying about in Holland). I’d been friends with Saskia in Dubai, and met her husband Mark on one of their visits to Dubai.
I spent a couple days in The Hague, a nice town where several important international companies and European government entitites are located. The international court of justice is there, the place where that archfiend Slobadan Milosivich was on trial (and where he should have been shot). The man had the nerve to go and die of a heart attack before he could be executed. Anyway, Saskia’s little girls are 3 and 4 (I think) but cute as buttons and well behaved (except or the first night where they constantly ventured downstairs after bedtime) J
We caught up on the Dubai news, looked at pics, reminisced. In the afternoon, on a sunny and warm day, we (Saskia, myself, the baby and a frightfully energetic golden retriever) walked through an enchanting woodland filled with stunning rododendrums: gargantuan ‘bushes’ of them, all reds or purples or yellows. The scene was soooo Europe. After 20 minutes or so, we came upon the sea, rolling sand dunes, most of them covered with high grasses. Since the temperature had soared all the way up to about 68 degrees (warm for these winter-weary folks), several lay on deck chairs placed beside a café. We took seats and ordered some latte, the dog happily frisking about, chasing other dogs, barking at the wind, and generally having a good time. I felt happy to see the sea again (the channel crossing didn’t really count as ‘beach’), even though the brown color was so alien when compared to Dubai’s marine clean Persian Gulf. No one swam but a few walked along the beach, itself a darker shade than what I remembered in Dubai. But the latte was great, the view was great (except for the 60-year-old topless grandmother really soakingup the sun). Just beyond her in my view was a pile of dark rock jutting into the sea, seagulls swooping about. A much better treat for the eyes.
That night brought thunderstorms to the area. Lightning flashed, the wind blew, thunder blasted. Thank heavens for earplugs. The next morning brought gray skies and drizzle, but Saskia, baby and I drove into downtown The Hague. I saw their parliament, a grand old building, and then the delightful interior of an expansive coffee shop. GREAT latte. Who wants to wander around in the rain when latte awaits? After an hour, the rain let up a little and we explored a clothing shop on the pedestrian street. I was shocked by the prices. The same Boss shirt that I had purchased from Target for $55 was close to 200 Euros! At any rate, the rain returned so we just went back to the house. I got caught up with school work in their office and got a good night’s sleep. IN the morning, Saskia put me on a tram that took me to the train station.
ARRIVAL IN HANNOVER
I pulled into the hauptbahnhof in the late afternoon and after embarking, followed the crowd into the main trainstation. It’s interesting to compare Omaha’s train station, only a couple times the size of someone’s living room, with Hannover’s. This behemoth could swallow dozens and dozens of Omaha’s minischule station. And the place is alive with restaurants, shops, people bustling from one town to another. I had 2 pieces of luggage so I didn’t stray far from the front of the station, which begins a long pedestrian road lined with shops and department stores, banks and cafes. At the appointed time, I saw Hans on the lookout for me at the pre-arranged meeting point, and we had a joyful reunion, chatting on the train ride back to the flat. There, I had the same reunion with Doris, his wife. Both are wonderfully hospitable people who are interested in all things foreign. They’ve lived in Yemen and traveled the world. On this evening, we took a long walk through the evenin countryside to a restaurant sitting in the midst of a park. The interior was dimly lit, the tables all with candles; we took a place and for the next hour enjoyed German food and German beer—though mine was non-alcoholic. By the time we exited, the sun was close to vanishing and it looked like the clouds might spit a bit; nevertheless, being brave (and too cheap to get a taxi), we walked past fields and forests to return to the flat in fine form.
The next day, I woke up and took the U-bahn (tram until it goes underground) to the Hauptbahnhof. I walked to the old city, seeing the spires of the 13th century cathedral poking above more modern 5 and 6 story buildings. No highrises here, really. In the old town, I found the same café that I had gone to everyday for breakfast back in 2004. Well for several days at any rate. I was pleased to see the place was still there. Set on a narrow street opposite one of the ubiquitous charming old European buildings that dated back from long before my great grandfather’s birth, Café Conrad was still apparently quite gay at night—but in the daytime, a simple coffe house. A very tall and manly-appearing woman greeted me; I looked over the menu, which includes a decent variety of German breakfasts. No pancakes and waffles and eggs and similar American-style sweet breakfasts, but a hardy European fruhstuck. I ordered what I’d had before and was happy when it arrived: a basket of breads and rolls, butter, marmelade, cheeses, tomato, slices of fruit, a cooked egg, and a latte. I read the International Herald Tribune while eating and relaxing.
I took a stroll in the old familiar part of town, wandering down the pedestrian streets, and then jumping on a subway that took me a few stops to a place called Lister Meile. I think a few immigrants and perhaps those Germans on the lower end of the income spectrum lived here, though I have always found it charming. Nice architecture in regards to some of the side neighborhood apartment buildings, almost neo-classical . Shops lining the street contained simple shops and a live farmer’s market was in progress. My mission was to find a belt, so I entered the ever-dependable Woolworths. Years before, having flown from Dubai to Germany for 12 days, I’d forgotten an extra pair of pants—and Woolworths had saved the day then. It didn’t let me down this time either: I soon was the proud owner of a new black belt that cost me only about eight bucks.
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