London Diary 2

It’s poured rain for 3 days here in Boston and there isn’t a dry basement to be had in the whole city! So a good day to sit at the computer and write another entry of my London diary. I went for 9 days to promote the book and even though I’ve been to London dozens of times (I’m married to a Brit and went often to work there in my youth) it was a different experience being there on my own for the first time in 30 years. I just don’t travel much on my own any more. I certainly missed having Dear A by my side and especially having dinner and chatting in the evenings but traveling on my own forced me to be quiet! I noticed more.

I arrived in Paddington Station which I’d not seen since my youth when stations were still soot-covered, from the effects of coal, and trains were rickety with odd wooden compartments inside and prickly “velvet” covered cushioned benches. In those days you had to open the door of the train by lifting a metal latch and pushing. I was always afraid I was going to miss getting off by the time I’d gathered my luggage and struggled over the other folks in my compartment. Now the trains are modern and silent; they have electric doors.  The express from Heathrow took just 20 minutes.  When we arrived at Paddington, the Chinese man across from me said, “Are we here?”  I said, with the assurance of a seasoned visitor, “No, we’ve got another few stops.  We’re just at Earl’s Court.”  I couldn’t believe we’d arrived so soon but my new friend and I were soon alerted to the fact when the train emptied and a lone Brit told us, with raised eyebrows, that it was indeed Paddington.

The amazing arch of Paddington Station and the elegant period details really catapulted me back in time to when I’d first arrived in London, aged 18, with my friend, Fran, after we’d each worked in separate locales in Germany for a few months. Everything was black with soot then, still enchanting, but now it gleams.  Modern London, Hogwarts no more! I think travel, like memoir, gives us a chance to see from 2 perspectives—what’s there in front of our eyes now and what we remember from previous visits.

I was at The Travelodge for first 5 days. It’s the kind of place I would have stayed when I was young except back then I crashed on the floor of a friend of a friend of a friend. That’s how things used to be. We all said yes to an acquaintance traveler and made friends. On that first visit to London, I remember coming back to this flat one day and my friend, Fran, said she’d just met 2 young Indian men at a museum. They’d gotten talking with her and ended up inviting us to dinner at their room the next night. In those days there was a lot of prejudice against Indians in England.  The English weren’t yet used to immigrants and there was a lot of talk about how they were taking jobs, perhaps not in all quarters but in some. But Fran and I, being Canadians (naive and unworldly), still had a faint awareness of this which made us all the more eager to accept this kind invitation. The next night we got on a train and headed east, to the poorer end of London. We had no idea where we were going and it turned out that our journey took an hour and then we had a long walk to their flat. It took us a lot longer than expected and we were really worried that we were late. We wondered too as we walked along the barren streets of tiny grey houses whether we were in over our heads. Were these young men okay?  Would we be okay?  I hadn’t met them and had to trust Fran’s judgment. She allowed a flicker of concern but was fairly certain that they were fine, honest young men.  When we did finally arrived, our 2 hosts were thrilled and confessed they’d wondered whether we would come. Inside, on the floor of their near empty room was a bedspread and a whole array of amazing Indian food which they’d spent all day cooking in their little kitchenette. We sat on the floor on pillows and ate together.  They laughed when we found the food hot, and it was!  We’d never eaten anything like it. But we talked for hours about what it was like to be a visitor in a foreign place, an outsider. They confided their bewilderment and how they wondered how their lives would unfold. We listened and knew how lucky we were not to be facing the same challenges. Then, at the last minute, we all raced to the station together so Fran and I could catch the last train. It was a great night and we all corresponded for a while by letter. Perhaps they might remember that night too sometimes.  They were so generous.  I wonder how much of their budget they spent on that meal—a lot, I think.  I love how they believed we’d come and I love that we went, all of acting on faith in the goodness of the other.

That was then. Now England is as multi-cultural as we are here, if a little less accustomed to its new diversity.  But if it weren’t for Paddington, and the flood of memories it unleashed, I might not have thought again of that night long ago. Here’s to travel!