DENMARK III – The Kid

Written October 21, 2015

My uncle’s best friend and his wife were English teachers. One day I tagged along to their house so my Uncle could talk shop with his buddy about a new computer he had purchased. I spent the day hanging with his wife and family. I played some board games with them, read some books with the kids, and then joined her and her youngest child while they ran errands. The other three children, my uncle, and her husband stayed back at the house.

We took a circuitous route on her errands, so that I might get a good look at the surrounding countryside. We wound around back roads, past farm after farm, climbing small hills to afford us sweeping views of the sparkling sea, stopping at the occasional Viking burial ground to poke around inside history. She spoke fluent English, of course, and it was great to have a little tour and friendly guide for the day.

Frederikshavn, April 1995.

As we were out and about we stopped at a farm so she might speak with a friend of hers. I was free to wander the area, and was introduced to the farmer’s young daughter who had studied English in school. But she was nervous to use her English on me. So we strolled together down the dirt driveway, around the barn to the corral where she showed me her horses or maybe cows. I don’t believe a word was ever uttered between us.

On the way back into town we stopped by the elementary school where my tour guide worked. There we were in a genuine Danish elementary school. I admit, aside from the modern-ish architecture, it didn’t look much different from an American elementary school. You know, except for the fact that I had no idea what was being said most of the time. But I got a peek into the teacher’s lounge before she took me into a classroom of what I think were five- or six-year-olds.

As it is in probably every schoolroom around the world, the children delighted in having a visitor – and a foreign one at that. All the kids knew about the United States, and asked me questions – in Danish and some basic English – about how old I was, where I lived and when they learned I was from California asked how many movie stars I knew. There was one kid who spoke English better than the rest of the kids. He asked me specific questions about American TV shows. He was a cute little thing! He took a liking to me, and spent the rest of my visit trying to impress me.

After the initial excitement, I sat quietly off to the side while the children continued their lessons. I don’t recall what was going on exactly, but the instructor would give orders and the children had to guess answers she pointed to on the board (or maybe they had to come up and point to the answer on the board). There was a lot of excitement as the kids got up and jumped around and tried to work out the problems. At one point it was my little friend’s turn but he answered his question wrong. Dejected, he returned to his desk, hit the surface with his hand and declared: “Aaaaw, fuck!”

I must say the sailor-mouth in me was keenly impressed. However, it is always a shock to hear a child swear, regardless the tongue in which they do it. I pretended I didn’t hear him, or otherwise failed to acknowledge his remark. I think he may have said it or another curse word one or two more times before his teacher, or perhaps my guide, asked him to stop.

Shortly thereafter we left the school and I waved goodbye to the children. As we exited the building my guide attempted some kind of apology or else explanation for the boy’s behavior but I waved it off, chalking it up to his trying to bedazzle me with his great command of the English language. But he succeeded, at least, in this: I will never forget him, my little Danish potty-mouth.

DENMARK II – The Family

Written October 21, 2015

The Danes know how to party.

I remember when my aunt and uncle got married: I was twelve or thirteen and they were still living nearby. My grandfather rented the community hall in his mobile home park and my aunt spent the week prior to their reception party planning and cooking up a storm. The days before we spent decorating the space and readying it for the celebration to come. My aunt and uncle had been married at the court house with a small entourage of witnesses that included myself, my parents and sister. Though the ceremony was formal and uninteresting, the gala my aunt had planned was going to prove wondrous. There were decorations of Danish flags and delicate hand-cut paper stencils hanging throughout the building. There were main dishes, appetizers and desserts providing a grand cross-section of Danish cuisine. There was wine and champagne. There were tables enough to seat 50 or 100. The people descended upon the space and devoured the food. We did singing and toasting and cake cutting and presents. Four or five hours passed. Guests began to leave, first in a trickle, but by mid-evening the place was practically deserted. My aunt was a little disappointed. In Denmark, she explained, a celebration such as this one would last for hours: far into — or even through — the night. Though any American gathering could indeed last into the wee hours, most of us politely excuse ourselves after a few hours’ time, especially if agéd or with young children. So it is no surprise my aunt felt a little cheated when her wedding bash that fizzled out after less than six hours.

My visit to Sæby happened to coincide with my aunt’s mother’s birthday. We meandered over to her home that afternoon along with my aunt’s sister and her two little daughters so that the women might ready the house for the party that evening. It was a similar sight to the wedding reception: mountains of food, stacks of alcoholic beverages, and when the guests began to arrive that cold April evening I could tell we were in for a long night.

Prior to the party, as my aunt and her kin were busy in the kitchen, I was outside with my uncle and my aunt’s nieces. They were I think seven and nine at the time. We were playing like children – all four of us! – jumping in and around a trench, running through the freshly plowed field, racing amongst the woodlots bordering the property. The girls bonded with me and despite the language barrier they stuck near me all night, exchanging simple words with me as we taught each other to say “elephant” or “boots” in each other’s language.

The night wore on. We ate. The food was amazing. My aunt’s father pulled out his treasure box of foreign coins he had collected throughout his lifetime of travels. I was impressed: I have a similar collection albeit much smaller. He dug through the box until he had extracted all his American money and I nodded, relishing in the chance to see familiar coinage after so much time dealing with pounds and kroner for so long. There was more food. Sitting around the table my uncle translated best he could: the conversation was what one would expect around a party table. Soon I excused myself to jump on the bed with the girls in an adjoining room. Skol after skol and the liquor began to disappear. I began to tire. I’m not sure when we left, but I’m sure it was “early” by Danish standards.

Food in Denmark is also much more lavish and plentiful then it is in America. Breakfast is a delightful smorgasbord of choice cheeses, chocolate wafers, crackers, fish, and spreads. I enjoyed these meals the most: sitting in their cramped dining room at a table by the window, the bright spring sunshine illuminating the table and its bounty.

Our picnic lunches were also lavish, thanks to my aunt. She would pack a standard type meal: snacks and sandwiches, fruit and drinks. Maybe sweets. I recall our journeys around Jutland, especially the picnic we had in Skagen while visiting the spit. The meats and cheeses and even the bread tasted different. The remloude spread was delicious and so much more exotic from the mayo/mustard my palate was accustomed to. As a gift for their hospitality, I lugged a six or twelve pack of glass bottled Dr. Pepper from Leeds. It was my uncle’s favorite beverage in the States, and at the time it was unavailable in Denmark. My treat to him were these precious bottles of carbonated syrup. We indulged in one or two of them on that picnic in Skagen.

My uncle, my aunt, her sister and nieces. Skagen, April 1995. (Note the Dr. Pepper on the cooler.)

We were joined on that trip by my aunt’s sister and her daughters. On that same day we visited the Skagen spit and the Den Tilsandede Kirke (a historical church that continually gets buried in sand drifts and is continually shoveled out), we drove farther inland to visit a travelling sand dune, the Råbjerg Mile, that continually moves northeasterly between Skagen and Skagerrak, often covering the few roadways that dare invade its territory. We walked out atop the dune to view the narrow peninsula around us. After that we drove west to the far coast and took a quick walk to the beach amid the howling and sand-filled wind.

Walking through the mists to the spit…the northern most tippy-tip of Denmark, as seen in the distance. Skagen, April 1995.

This old church survived centuries of burials and recoveries only to be called “the Minecraft building” by my gamer daughter.

Atop the huge sand dune. It was windy. And sandy.

It was maybe this day also or perhaps another that we went to visit Lindholm Høje, an ancient Viking burial grounds just outside of Aalborg. We toured the museum and the grounds where there were rock headstones, burial mounds, and evidence of longhouses and villages. The girls and I ran through the pathways, the woods and adored the sheep grazing the grassy hillsides.

Carefully preserved Viking history. It was eerie to be so close to such ancient remnants. I found it ironic to see the modern skyline of Aalborg in the distance.

In the car ride on the way back to Sæby, the girls and I sat in the backseat of the car playing our language game again. This time one of the girls had a pack of cards with her that had pictures of animal on it. We named off a few basic farm animals in our respective languages until we came to the pig. “Pig!” I said, and both girls squealed and turned red. My aunt and uncle exchanged a look in the front seat. I was confounded. The girls were now giggling and taking turns saying the word amid a fit of giggles and pointing to their crotches.

“Pik is slang for a man’s…” my aunt, or maybe my uncle, started to explain. I understood immediately. Who knew that learning the names of Danish farm animals could be so fun?

DENMARK I – The Journey

Written October 21, 2015

They say it’s about the journey, not the destination. This may be true, but traveling sucks. Be it on a cramped plane for eight hours as you soar over the Atlantic Ocean. Be it on a train that whisks you on a rhythmical pathway to and through inner and outer cities. Be it on a bus that drives overnight through five European countries. Be it in a car zipping along roadways battling motion sickness. Be it on a ferry or boat also battling motion sickness. Point being, I’m a terrible traveler despite my love of traveling, in most cases much prefer the destination to the getting-there part.

And so it was that I found myself on a bus, driving south through the cramped streets of London towards Dover and a ferry boat that would shuttle the vehicle across the English Channel to Calais so we may proceed onwards towards Denmark. A 22-hour bus ride in total. Through foreign countryside I had only dreamed about, or read about in history books. My final destination being Aalborg where I was to meet my aunt and uncle who were to host me in their home in Sæby. Daunting and long notwithstanding, I was excited, I was ready.

The dingy waiting room in the Victoria Coach Station was only about half full when I boarded the bus. I had a seat to myself to gaze out the window at south London whizzing by. Soon the buildings melted away and we were in the countryside, speeding along motorways until finally we crested a hill and made our way downwards to the docks and seaside ahead.

The driver expertly maneuvered the bus through the customs line and asked over the intercom if there were any Americans onboard. Feeling singled out I shakily raised my hand, the guilt of being the only passenger without a EU passport, thus necessitating my standing in line inside the building to be cleared for entry. As I exited the doorway another woman hastily shuffled down the aisle; she had dozed off and was just now awoken by her boyfriend. I felt better to have someone to go with me across the empty roadway to the looming building ahead; I have always had a fear of being left behind (having too many close calls in my life) and I had a somewhat irrational fear of being abandoned while at customs. After what seemed like an impossible amount of time in line, and an unnecessarily brutal and probing string of questioning about my intentions behind entering Europe, my passport was finally stamped and handed back to my eager hands. Apparently the other American woman was also being thoroughly interviewed because the bus driver was forced to wait an additional quarter hour for her return.

On our way again we drove the short distance to the ferry boat. Then a mass exodus as everyone got off the bus and headed for the passenger areas for the 90-minute crossing. I did the same, making my way upstairs where I wandered around, maybe getting refreshments, watching from the stern as the white cliffs of Dover receded into the horizon, watching from the bow for the first sight of France emerging from the mist.

The White Cliffs of Dover and Dover Castle (atop the hill). I’m on the ferry crossing the English Channel!

France! My only photo of the country I once loved so much. See it? See? That teeeeeeny dark strip on the left above the horizon? It’s France!

France! I had studied French in high school (j‘ai étudié le Français à l’école) and had once upon a time entertained an idea of studying abroad in this wondrous and historical land. But the language proved too difficult for me (c’est très difficile) and I abandoned studies in my fourth year, along with my dreams of living in Paris (adieu, Paris!). However, seeing the shores of the French seaside made me wish that dream all over again. I paid close attention as we boarded the bus and drove off the ferry boat and onto the autoroute. I read the highway signs and tried to remember my French geography (nord, sud, est, ouest). I gazed out across the landscape, committing every rolling hill and tree to memory. France!

We weren’t in France long. Before I knew it we had crossed into Belgium. It wasn’t France (though it looked the same) and I couldn’t understand the language on the street signs, but okay, Belgium! At one point we stopped at a rest stop and I managed to purchase a drink and a sandwich despite not having the right money for wherever we were at the time (probably still Belgium but maybe Netherlands, I had no idea at this point.) Back on the bus I read and finished two pulp novels as we sped along the highway.

It got dusky and soon I found myself dozing in my seat. Once night fell the driver pulled over on what seemed to be the side of the highway and ordered everyone off the bus. Confused I followed everyone as we exited and stood outside in the dark. The driver went back on the bus and closed the door. I heard him banging around inside and saw him and the auxiliary driver pushing and pulling at the seats. Soon enough he opened the doors and we all filed on again. The seats had been converted into bunk beds of sorts, laying down like a horizontal recliner, with a row atop and a row on the bottom. I grabbed a spot on the top, wadded up my flimsy pillow, covered myself with my trench coat and attempted to fall asleep.

I had fitful sleep and awful dreams. Each time the driver merged lanes I woke up. Every time the driver turned I would roll over and wake up. Every bump in the road hit my bones like rocks and I’d wake up. The sky lightened and around 5am we arrived in Hamburg where we changed busses. I was groggy and cold, sitting on a hard bench somewhere in Germany. I tried to look around but I knew nothing of this city or its landmarks, and nothing struck me as particularly impressive in the murky dawn.

Back on the bus we headed for Denmark. I was sleep deprived and surrounded by foreign-ness. The people around me – who when we first boarded in London were mostly English – were now mostly German and Danish and their dialogs sounded like gibberish. My money barely worked and I wasn’t even certain I was on the right coach. After stopping twice in Denmark, I got off the bus for a bathroom break in Aarhus. Worried I was lost and stranded I asked the driver as I got back on: “This is the bus to Aalborg, right?” He smiled, chuckled a bit and said “Ja.”

Within an hour we were at the bus station in Aalborg. The drivers opened the storage compartments and tossed all our belongings into a single mound in the parking lot before driving away. I didn’t want my stuff to be taken by anyone else in the frantic grabbing so I was hastily searching for my two or three bags when a woman literally yanked my backpack out of my hands and said in English: “I’ll take that, young lady.” I turned to her, horrorstruck, wondering who would dare to rob me so blatantly in the –

– it was my Aunt Karen, smiling as she slung my backpack over her shoulder and reached for my suitcase. I was so relieved to see a familiar face and to hear what I then realized was English!! I hugged her and my uncle and together we found the rest of my stuff and made our way to their car and then northward to their little cottage on the outskirts of Sæby.

My Danish adventure had begun.

My aunt and uncle’s cottage off Langtvedvej.

ENGLAND VI – The Crossing

Originally written September 27, 2015

One of my music classes required a very specific and very elusive book that I was required to purchase in order to pass the class. The university bookstore on campus was supposed to have a few copies for sale, but had run out. “No matter, luv,” said the kind sales clerk as she rung up my other purchases, “just pop ‘round to W.H. Smiths or Waterstones.” I returned to my flat to see if there was anyone able to come with me on a journey into the shopping district of downtown – farther than I’d ever been before by myself. Nobody was free, but someone was able to give me vague directions to the shops.

I will pause to remind everyone that this was 1995. This was before cell phones, GPS, internet/WiFi, etc. I came to the country armed only with a ratty paper map of England and a brochure of the London Underground – neither helped me much navigating the streets of Leeds. Why I never bought a Leeds street map was beyond me, but what it meant is that I relied on sight to get me from place to place: I never learned many place names! Usually it wasn’t an issue because I only stuck to routes I knew, and if I did travel outside my known universe, I was almost always accompanied by a flatmate or schoolmate who knew their way around and prevented us from getting lost.

And so I set out! The first part was simple – I walked the familiar mile to Morrison’s grocery store, kept heading south on Woodhouse Lane and eventually maneuvered my way to the beautiful W.H. Smith building. Inside was huge and extensive and I spent much time wandering and looking (unsuccessfully) for this rare book. Exiting the building I took a wrong turn at the end of the block and ended up in an unfamiliar part of town. No matter, I thought, I know which way is north and the uni is west and if I keep heading in this direction, I’ll be back in no time.

At first I was just fine. I recognized a shop and a pub that I had been inside with my flatmates and it gave me hope. Following a pedestrian subway they had showed me I emerged in yet another unfamiliar street, unsure exactly what directions to go. I detoured into a churchyard and out onto a dingy and dark alleyway. Making my best guesses at intersections, I just kept walking, assuming that eventually I’d find a landmark and head for home.

After awhile I was getting tired and a little worried. I still hadn’t found a landmark, and the last recognizable area was blocks behind me. I ducked into a convenience store and asked the shop owner for directions. He wouldn’t tell me but he would sell me a map! He wanted a ridiculous amount of money for it and I was short on cash after shelling out quite a wad for my schoolbooks earlier in the day. He didn’t have an ATM nor did he accept debit/credit card transactions.  Forget it, I decided, I can’t be far now.

The shadows got longer and it started getting cold. It was only mid-afternoon but it was also early February, so it got dark close to 4pm. I was getting more worried now, and despite my best efforts to retrace my steps I was still hopelessly lost. At this point I was afraid to ask for directions: it was getting dark and I was alone and female and clearly foreign. Somehow I felt safer if I just kept moving, as if walking with a sense of purpose would somehow give me protection. I was starting to get jumpy and paranoid: a man who followed me down a deserted street certainly was my own personal mugger-rapist and possible murderer until he ducked into a building and disappeared. I continued on past a dilapidated theatre, a dead-end street, and row after row of drab stone buildings.

Finally, I saw a recognizable landmark: in the far distance on the hill I saw a dark cluster of church steeples and behind them the Parkenson Tower on campus. I quickened pace. Soon I recognized the street I was on was one on the south end of campus. At last, I was heading in the right direction! Then disaster struck. I found myself dead-ended into a 6-lane highway: the Inner Ring Road, a.k.a. the A58(M). This ribbon of concrete and speeding vehicles was all that stood between me and home, between me and safety, between me and the familiar. In front of me, just on the other side of the highway, was a car park. Beyond that a road I knew would lead me up to campus where I could then weave my familiar routes home. I looked to my left: there appeared to be no nearby overpasses or pedestrian crossings. I looked to my right: there appeared to be no nearby overpasses or pedestrian crossings.

By now it was definitely dusky and I knew with the fading light I needed to do something and fast. I couldn’t go back through the labyrinth of the city whence I had just come in hopes of finding another familiar road. I had no cash for a cab and wasn’t about to go searching for an ATM…

…someone was coming…

…a man approached me from the shadows behind. Without so much as glancing my way he passed me, hopped over the concrete barrier between us and the Ring Road, scaled down a short embankment, and proceeded to cross the freeway, dodging cars like goddamn Frogger. In that moment, I knew what I had to do. I hopped the concrete barrier, scaled the embankment, took a deep breath, and went for it.

The first half was simple: there was a long break in the traffic and I made it to the concrete median without so much as a worry. But the traffic on the other side was worse and I and the strange man were marooned there, oddly together yet worlds apart, separated by mere meters, until a slight break opened and the stranger ran. There was a wall of cars behind the tiny window of opportunity, and despite the several seconds hesitation as I assessed my options, I ran across those three lanes of traffic faster than I had ever moved before or since. I almost didn’t make it: several cars honked as I scrambled up the opposite embankment to reach the car park.

The stranger took off in the opposite direction, but no matter, he was of no concern to me now. I crossed the car park and headed up a street towards the uni and was back at my flat less than 30mins later with my feet up and a hot cup of tea, regaling my flatmates my crazy and stupid adventure. They were appalled to realize where I had been wandering and how far it was from our flat. I was appalled to realize that I had been no more then two blocks away from several known streets the whole time I was lost.

Funny, though, I never did buy a city map.

The white Parkenson Tower and the two dark steeples that served as my beacon.

ENGLAND V – The Walk

Originally written September 17, 2015

My private oboe instructor lived in Headingly, about two miles from my flat. She only gave lessons in her private residence, and I was required to travel off-campus on a weekly basis to see her.

Since the bus schedule was too confusing, irregular, and slow, I figured I could just walk up to her home. It was late February, so I bundled up, grabbed my umbrella, put on my Doc Martins and started up the road. It was sleeting outside but I was snug and warm.

I have always loved walking through places. Hiking in the woods or mountains is especially fun, but even urban areas – especially foreign urban areas – afford such fun things to look at and ponder while trudging around. I mean, it’s all so similar, yet completely different. On my walk to Headingly and back I saw all manner of fun things.

I passed schools and sometimes saw children playing outside. I passed block after block of row houses. I passed a manor house walled in by grey stones and tall trees. I passed a Bass alehouse. I passed a dentist office tucked in a small complex set back from the road (it was always nice to respite here for a moment from the busy street). I passed a petrol station whose sign was the most foreign jumble of confusion I had seen yet: 1L = 50.9p. My mind was always alight imagining myself living in such places: wherever I’d visit I could feel and sense a place better on foot. Those walks up to my instructor’s house were so calming and peaceful for me. I spent most of my time either in lectures, rehearsals, or hanging out with my roommates. With few exceptions I was rarely alone. These walks were my only me time while living in Leeds.

But that first walk proved to test my endurance. It was windy and sleeting that day. I knew about sleet. I knew about wind. But I didn’t know about sleety wind (or windy sleet). I wasn’t two blocks up the road before I was freezing against the pounding gales, which had gotten into and under every protective layer I had on. Two blocks after that the road turned and angled northward, so the wind was now blasting me full in the face with its icy force. Within minutes my face and lips were chapped and numb. Standing on a street corner waiting to cross my umbrella popped inside-out. Now I was getting wet with heavy sleet. I popped it back into place. The light changed but halfway through the crosswalk it popped inside-out again. I gave up on the umbrella, putting it away and facing the rain unprotected. Each time I passed a bus stop I paused and looked for an approaching vehicle; to no avail (ironically, one passed me just as I was turning up my instructor’s street).

My instructor was aghast at my condition – I was wet from head to toe despite having bundled in boots, raincoat, gloves, hat, scarf, umbrella. She put on a “cuppa” for me and I warmed by her fire sipping the scalding tea for the first third of my lesson. We chatted about my journey and how silly it was for me to walk in such a storm.

Upon finishing the lesson, I walked up to the corner to catch a bus home.  With the night falling fast, there was no way I was going to walk back in this storm in the dark.  There was a grocery store on the corner near the bus stop and I popped in to pick up some things for dinner. I was riding the bus home, after all, so I didn’t stress about carrying my instrument bag and my grocery bags back to my flat. However, the bus was late and when it did arrive it was packed and I had to stand, nearly falling over with every stop, start, turn and bump, my hands too full to brace myself and so I would stumble into the people next to me.

The weather warmed. I never took the bus again.

St. George’s field on the Uni campus. This pic was taken in February 1995.

Same spot, three months later in May 1995. I loved watching this walkway transform through the seasons.

ENGLAND IV – The Friend

Originally written September 17, 2015

My flatmates were pretty cool, and accepted me almost without question into their clique. They delighted in having an American in their realm, and liked to parade me around their friends until the novelty wore off and I was just one of the gang. But being “one of the gang” was more important to me then being a mere token, and I made good friends with all my flatmates, keeping in touch with most of them for a few years after I went back to the States.

But one day in the middle of my sojourn I was bedazzled by the prospect of a new friend. She was one of the other oboe players, and I met her when she and another student were assigned to play a trio with me in an upcoming concert. After our first rehearsal she asked if I wanted to accompany her downtown so she might buy her flatmate a birthday present. Bored and interested in an adventure, I agreed, and followed her like a puppy dog the two miles into the city centre. Downtown, we sauntered in and around shops throughout the Corn Exchange when finally she settled upon a nice item.

Heading back home we realized we were hungry. My new mate suggested we have a picnic. How romantic, I thought! I haven’t been on a picnic since I was a child! We stopped in at the Morrison’s grocery store on the way home, and there we bought all manner of things I deemed necessary for a picnic: some kind of tube of processed meat, some kind of tube of processed cheese, some kind of tube of processed chocolate in a cute plastic ice cream cone shaped mold, some kind of cola, some kind of wine. Then we made the three-mile slog uptown to her flat in Headingly. We ended up lunching in a greenbelt surrounding Meanwood Beck, where we crossed a footbridge and found ourselves a shady spot overlooking the spring. There we ate and drank and were merry, until shadows began to fall and it was time to head home and present her flatmate with the gift and ready themselves for a night on the town. It wasn’t long before I was talked into tagging along with the birthday party, and soon found myself in a cab zipping towards a dim and mod place called Café Mex.

To say I was out of my element was an understatement, but I did my best to fit in and soak in the local scene. Nachos were ordered, and pitchers of margaritas, and I got drunker then I had ever been in my life. I witnessed many strange-to-me-then things, such as my oboe friend coming onto me, and two male (supposedly straight) housemates coming onto one another. And so it went until my oboe friend ditched me in favor of the young man whose face she had been stuck to for the past several hours. I was extremely lucky that my friend’s roommates were nice and more sober then she was; they offered to share a cab ride home which was fortunate because I didn’t know where I was in the city and probably would have found myself in trouble had I gone it alone.

The ride home with the flatmates was nice and they were such a friendly and relatively normal lot that I accepted an invitation to their house party the following weekend. I was to attend with my oboe friend, though in reality I was about finished with her and didn’t have the nerve the following weekend to attend without her. Still, it was a fun evening that ended well. We said goodbye as they dropped me at the hillside in front of my flat. I trudged up the knoll.

From the shadows I heard my name. I turned to see the blokes from the downstairs flat. They were eating a take-away pizza at a picnic table in the communal area behind our flat block. I went to sit with them and regale my crazy evening. When they were finished eating they dared one another to drop their trash – the pizza box – through the open slit of the window of a friend they knew, a poor red-headed kid that they loved to poke fun at. In a drunken moment of cruelty and desperation to belong and to be accepted, I grabbed the pizza box from the boys (who were still bickering about who would shove it through the window) and shoved the darn thing myself through the slit and listened to it bang on the floor inside. We all yelped, and hi-tailed it around the front of the building and inside to safety so as not to be caught.

I’m sure there was a lesson to be learned in all this, but I was too cool to hear it at the time.

A view of Leeds city centre where I endured many crazy adventures.

My two best mates in our flat. Some nights we went out. Some nights we stayed in. But we always, always had fun.

ENGLAND III – The Reckoning

Originally written September 25, 2015

The flat below ours housed a rag-tag collection of typical British university students: there was a long-haired, trenchcoat wearing pseudo-gothic type quick to get into political, religious, economical or societal discussions with anyone who would listen. There was the DJ with two turntables (and a microphone), Pink Floyd and Dali posters lining his walls who spoke of philosophy. There was the party guy, a Scottish fella with a thick accent who stumbled around bleary-eyed and seemed to live in the stairwell. And an unassuming blond, polite yet passionate, into the latest local punk bands who led us on adventures in his quest for great music.

My flatmates were friendly with this lot, and as a result the two groups often spent lots of time together. I recall jamming (on my English horn of all things!) with a few of the boys’ roommates and friends in their kitchen one evening, crazy free music that floated through our minds. Most nights one, two, or all of the boys would join one, two or all us girls at the nearby pubs. On more then one occasion we would venture into the nearby city centre for additional pub-crawls, concerts, street fairs or whatever else tempted us.

Of them all I was drawn most to the gothic-guy’s intellectual orations, and liked the ideas he spoke of, regardless whether I agreed with them or not. I enjoyed a good discussion and exchange of ideas. Once, he saw at my student ID number, made up of the first three letters of my major, a number, and my first, middle last name initials: MUS4LIM. “Look!” he said, peering at the packet of uni documents pinned to our kitchen corkboard. “Your student ID spells Muslim!!”

This was the same fellow that one evening put me on trial for all of America’s ills. I forget the details of that night, or how we got onto the topic, but I do remember him – normally so kind and smiling – leaning close into me, finger pointed at my nose, sneer on his lips: “It was your country that launched the genocide against the Native Americans, your country that nearly wiped them out with war and disease. How do you account for that, hmmm?”

I was 19. I had never been asked to defend the actions of the United States before. Especially the actions of something that happened a hundred years before my relatives even immigrated. But it struck a nerve: at the time I was suffering from White Guilt, hating everything our country did to the Native Americans, the blacks, the immigrants, the poor, the women, the oppressedminoritydejour. When I was directly asked to defend the US, I didn’t think of any of the usual retorts, no, I felt shame and hatred of Americans and all things American. I silently wondered if I could emigrate to Australia or Canada or somewhere. I wondered if I’d ever get the taint of USA out of my person.

It took years, and lots and lots and lots of study on British history to realize what a loaded and ridiculous question that was. How do you account for something your country does, currently or historically, with or without your consent? And Britain certainly is not above reproach when it comes to accountability. My point is it is hard to answer for one’s history, one’s country, one’s helplessness.

But there, at that time, on that night, in that university housing block, I was the Ugly American, single-handedly responsible for all the evils in the world.

Me in the kitchen of our flat feeling bummed about being personally responsible for all my country’s transgressions.

ENGLAND II – The Same

Originally written September 30, 2015

Essentially, Britain isn’t much different from the U.S.A. I had very little culture shock and though slight differences are apparent in language and slang, sharing a common tongue made things seem comfortable and familiar. But that doesn’t mean the U.K. is identical to the U.S., even on the most basic level.

To be sure, both the U.K. and the U.S. are first-world countries. They are both rich. They have working infrastructure. They have healthy populations, job growth, democracy. Their homes and businesses sport the same technological advances that I was familiar with. But things were just a little different.

I didn’t notice it at first because it was so slight. But spending five months amongst the Brits, and especially after having the privilege of living in my friends’ homes, I came to understand the subtleties. And it went beyond language or the fact their steering wheels (and cars for that matter) are on the opposite side from ours. It was how Mothering Sunday, equivalent to our Mother’s Day, fell on the fourth Sunday of Lent…or in other words, sometime in MARCH. (I had to think ahead and buy my mom a card early that year and hold onto it until May, when I sent it to the States with love.) It was how St. Patrick’s Day that year came with the national Comic Relief fund raiser called Red Nose Day. Comics gathered to host an hours-long marathon to raise money for charities, and the nation tuned in by wearing their themed red noses. That year was the heat-sensitive color-changing nose, from red to yellow. (I still have mine; my kids play with it from time to time but I recently rescued it from the mud outside and it now sits in my keepsake box.) It was Bank Holidays, which fell randomly every few Mondays or so. It was how all the students ditched classes when Sarah, Dutchess of York came to visit campus.

College life was the biggest difference. To explain: at the time, from 1993-1997, I attended a private university that kept me on a very rigorous schedule of 5+ courses per semester (that’s half a year; two semesters are in one school year). In addition I had weekly exams in each class, papers to write almost weekly, often busywork to complete, practicing and rehearsals (I was a musician and this took up the majority of my “free” time), concerts to attend or perform, and so much books. Reading reading reading. I love to read and learn, but often the reading got lost along the way as I was so busy cramming for exams and writing papers on scripted topics. I always felt rushed and hurried and pressured and basically a nervous wreck all the time.

In Britain, the University of Leeds was on a trimester system, of which I enrolled in Winter and Spring of the 1994-1995 school year. Being on a trimester system takes a lot of pressure off: the terms are shorter and there is less to learn and one can take their time in the learning. In Britain there weren’t daily or even weekly exams, usually only the final at the end of the year. They did, however, assign lots of reading to the students, and we were expected to spend a lot of our time studying and absorbing the concepts within the texts. Class time was spent discussing higher theories and ideas. I was totally lost the first few weeks of class and was certainly not accustomed to speaking my mind or having a debate — or even a dialogue — with students and the teacher during class. In the States, class comprised of sitting for an hour listening to lectures and taking notes. Fridays we’d be tested on what was spoken at us throughout the week. Talking amongst ourselves was reserved for our time and not class time, and let’s face it, what college student – especially an insanely busy one – is going to set aside time for a philosophical discussion? It’s hard enough to get everything done in a day as it is. Sure, in Britain we were expected to turn in short papers every fortnight or so, but it was only so the professors could judge how we were comprehending the material. It was about quality and not quantity. I hit a stride. THIS was the kind of academic system in which I could thrive.

My private music lessons also took on a different tone. (Disclaimer: I have no idea if what I’m about to describe is the personal style of this particular individual or if all/most instructors in England are this way.) In the States, my private lessons — since childhood, mind you, and spanning several different instructors — all took on the same format: student and teacher sitting side-by-side as teacher reads over student’s shoulder and critiques everything that is/isn’t done. My three main tutors, in junior high, high school and college, all did this. As did other tutors I would see at master classes and band camps, etc. In England it was eerily different. My instructor usually stared blankly out the window as I played, her back to me as though she was instead pondering when to prune her front hedges. Or so I thought glumly during our first session together. This lady is ignoring me! I thought after a long, cold and wet walk to reach her private residence. I was certainly off-put. I mean, how rude! But then I hit a wrong note which broke my concentration and as I recovered myself I missed a slur and trilled incorrectly. Over my playing I heard her shout “You missed that slur, start it on the A, and the trill starts above not below!” She had been listening, she just allowed me the personal space to find my zone and hit my groove. I got to a fun and flashy part of the music. “Don’t be so technical!” she shouted at me, “Let go and feel it!” Soon I was moving around and starting to emote through my music, a concept that I’d been told I needed to do but hadn’t figured out how. At that moment, in that room, it felt natural. Now I had the space, the room to move and explore my own musicality. I was a vessel for this music, it was speaking through me. I was free.

Family life seemed, again, similar yet different. This was Europe after all, and so everything had a slightly European feel. For example, to save space, some suburban households have their front-loader washer/dryer machine in their kitchen. It was 1995. I had never seen: a washing machine in the kitchen, or a washer/dryer combo machine, or a front-loader machine. So that was neat. Being part of tea time was essential, whether college kids in a dingy flat, or a wealthy family on land in the countryside, or a suburban family outside a large metropolitan city. Everyone had tea time. Every day. Usually each evening around 6pm, regardless. It was such a cozy and communal tradition. I really missed this ritual when I returned home again.

The rest of what I experienced was mostly the same as it was in the U.S., though seen through the British filter gave it a sort of different look. I took several trips with my girlfriends, sometimes with their families, to nearby or faraway cities/towns, through the countryside, to stately manors, to seaside towns. The families played games in the long car rides just like I did as a kid. They took us out to dinners at nice pubs or restaurants and bought us ice creams. As college kids we took ourselves to dingy public houses, ate too much take away (fast food) and bought each other pints. It was all so similar to my life back home.

And then the finite details: the architecture and age of the buildings (something strangely missing on the West Coast: visiting old East Coast American cities gets one closer to this antiquated feel but nothing quite prepares someone for comprehending millennial throwbacks, such as city centres, roman walls and gate roads), the street layouts (usually in circles or triangles or otherwise jumbled patchwork, again stemming from ancient roman road systems; American cities try to fit into a grid system wherever geographically possible), the fact that doorknobs were often in the center of a door (and not off to one side or the other like they are here), the light switches that were more of a push-switch than a flip-switch, how electrical sockets came with on/off switches, how every room came with a stand-up locking wardrobe (as most rooms don’t have closets), how all but the newest buildings have visible evidence of gas and electrical lines added to a structure built before such things existed. It was the trees: different species and sizes and shapes than what I was accustomed to. It was the birds in the park, unfamiliar to my North American eye. It was the funny things: what I knew to be the invasive species Scotch Broom in the Isles is called common broom, or simply, broom and sold in nurseries (it is illegal to sell it in certain states as it is a noxious weed). It was how avocados were imported from South Africa (I was from California where they were trucked in from nearby farms; in SoCal avocado trees were more common in backyards than apples.) It was how Cadbury Creme Eggs were available in stores year-round, and not just at Easter like they were in the States. These small differences, taken as a whole, paint a picture of life that is just a little bit familiar, and just a little bit foreign.

I encourage any college student to study abroad. It is the only time in your life when you have the time to spare, and can truly immerse yourself in another culture. Sure we can all take trips as adults, even lengthy ones, but to fully live in a different country, to make it ones own, and to understand that place on a fundamental level, that is what you miss when playing tourist.

And so, I look back at my time in England as one of the highlights of my life.

This abandoned warehouse in Peterborough looked like something out of a Dickens novel.

Matlock Bath

Earl’s Court, London

Providence Terrace, a beautiful housing community visible through the window of my ugly university student flat in Leeds.

ENGLAND I – The Traveler

Originally written September 25, 2015

I have always loved to travel. As a kid my parents took us to myriad places on family vacations: the Los Angeles vicinity to visit relatives, the Northern California redwoods and coastline, Ft. Bragg/Mendocino, the Oregon coast, Crater Lake, Mt. Lassen, Burney Falls, Mt. Shasta, Yosemite, Mono Lake, and probably a thousand other places I’ve failed to recall. This isn’t counting the local day-hikes or fishing trips or just daily outings we’d take on a regular basis. Point being, we had fun.

But my world wasn’t big enough for me and I wanted to explore urban centers around the globe: New York, Paris, London. As soon as I got to college I prepared for a sojourn abroad. I didn’t know a language well enough to go anywhere other than English-speaking places, but I had always wanted to see England. I was delighted to be accepted into the University of Leeds’ music program.

On February 8, 1995 I found myself boarding the plane in Sacramento that would take me first to a connecting flight in Minnesota, and then onwards to Gatwick International Airport. I didn’t sleep the weeks prior to the journey, I was too excited. I didn’t sleep on the airplane despite the duration and dozing passengers around me. I was exhausted when we touched down in the freezing pre-dawn morning in the United Kingdom. My whole life was packed into one large suitcase, a music bag for my instrument and a backpack holding school supplies and books. Navigating the airport was a challenge, but I was soon on the Underground speeding towards London where I was to locate the train station.

Upon exiting through the heavy glass doors I instinctively knew something was wrong. I musta read the map wrong, I thought, but I swear the sign said King’s Cross this way. I was in a small, dark and deserted alleyway. Behind me was a one-way escalator up out of the depths. There were no other passengers or people around for me to follow or ask directions, so I used instinct and chose at random a direction to walk. I was in luck. At the end of the block was a busy street and just visible in the distance past the intersection was King’s Cross Station. Inside, I managed to decipher the schedules, and even correctly choose an express train that would get me to Leeds earlier then the commuter train that stopped thrice as frequently. I was feeling good.

Except that the next train left in less than 10mins and I needed to lug my baggage across the station to platform eight. Except I needed to find platform eight. Except that King’s Cross is huge and confusing to a first-timer, and I knew I needed help if I was to get my train on time. I espied a porter and asked him for directions. “Right, luv,” he said, and the rest of what he said was a jumble of what I presume was pure Cockney. I don’t think I caught a single word of what he said, but he had gestured in a direction I followed. I was lost again within seconds of rounding the corner. I saw a screen saying I now had less than five minutes to board my train. I saw a different porter and luckily his accent wasn’t so thick and I was able to jump onto my train with seconds to spare. The train began moving almost before I had a chance to stow my luggage.

A few years later, upon reading a newly-published Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, I chuckled at his first train journey north on the Hogwort’s Express. Though my experience was far from magical, I still could relate to the difficulty in finding my platform at King’s Cross, having a semi-private open-ended table seat that I shared with a friendly twenty-something who promptly fell asleep, and of course the nice lady with the snack trolly who came round and asked us “luvvies” if we wanted something, handing me “one quid and four coppers” change for my “fiver”. I was as excited as the boy wizard was to be traveling by train, to my school, out on my own, and seeing England for the very first time. The parallels were somewhat uncanny, and I always felt a special kinship to Harry in that particular scene in that original novel.

At the Leeds station I treated myself to a cab ride (I was done with walking and lugging and getting lost). The Scottish cab driver presented me with yet another crazy accent to figure out as I gave him my destination and back story, since he figured out pretty much right away I was American. As he handed me change for my fare I saw he had given me a Scottish banknote instead of a British one. “Don’t worry,” he told me, “it’s legal, you can spend it down here all right.” This fact I verified with my flatmates later to be true but at the time I couldn’t help but wonder if he was pushing one over on me. Fatigue told me I didn’t care and that I’d only be out the £5 if indeed I was just handed bogus money.

My flat was one of a cluster of ugly tan stone buildings, each with several stories containing one or two flats per floor.

St. Mark’s Flat, F Block. Home sweet home.

I was on the fourth floor, with a great view of the Woodhouse Road neighborhood and the Meanwood Beck greenbelt and the spooky and decaying St. Marks Church and churchyard (which I hear has since been renovated and revitalized).

View from my bedroom window: St. Marks Church and churchyard in late February 1995.

The University of Leeds was fantastically large: I came from a small, private college of around 2500 students. This Uni at the time had close to 30,000. The campus was huge and sprawling, the buildings consisting of original and modern architecture, such as the brutalist-style Stoner building (and others), named for E.C. Stoner and which boasts the longest corridor in Europe at a fifth of a mile long. (I walked that hall, it’s indeed long and something reminiscent of airport terminals. Additionally, the building is interconnected to several other buildings so negotiating the area always caused me anxiety and later became the backdrop for several I’m lost nightmares.) Some of the buildings, however, were simply annexed from surrounding areas. The music department where I studied, for example, was almost entirely located along a row house, with administrative offices and classrooms and practice rooms all occupying their own house along the line. (I was happy to note the recent renovations to many buildings across campus, and the addition of a larger, localized music school next to the Clothworker’s Centenary Concert Hall.)

Clothworker’s Concert Hall in May 1995.

Row House Nos. 14 & 16 of the Music Department. Lecture rooms, administration and music library were located in the buildings shown here. Practice rooms and staff offices were in House Nos. 18 & 20 next door.

My flatmates were a wonderful crew of people that I came to regard as a second family. They immediately accepted me, helped me find my way around not only the campus but the city, and made me pretty much one of their gang. It helped my transition, my homesickness, and my general culture shock. Each mate was from a different part of the country so I imagined I had a fairly good cross-section of regional dialects/accents/cultures to compare. There was a gal from Chester, “Near Liverpool,” she said, sounding just like one of the Beatles as she drawled out her words. There was another gal from Matlock, an adorable town in the famed Peak District.

A streetview of Matlock with Riber Castle atop the hill in distance.

I was fortunate enough to visit her at her country home on acreage outside of town. She also took me to nearby Chesterfield and Chatsworth in this beautiful pocket of the country.

Chatsworth House and snowy grounds in late March 1995.

Ye Olde Crooked Spire of the Church of St. Mary in Chesterfield.

My best mate was from Peterborough, a stunning cathedral city in East Anglia. This mate was also generous with her invitations. She lived a short ways out of town in a suburb, and we often walked from her home into the shopping area near the cathedral or to visit museums.

St. Peter’s Cathedral in Peterborough.

One time her family included me on a day trip to one of the Queen’s homes in Sandringham and then to nearby Huntstanton beach.

The Wash in Hunstanton, early April 1995.

I was fortunate to have spent so much time with these two girls in their homes. I was able to see snippets of British family life and how different people lived. When one is a foreigner, even the most simple of mundane tasks is amazing to behold. Of all the things I did and saw in England, spending quality time with these two young women in their hometowns was among the most cherished things I did.

My bestie near the St. John the Baptist church in Stanground.

The Tooth

Originally written October 24, 2015

As far as the Tooth Fairy is concerned, our daughter let us off easy.

After losing her first tooth I excitedly told her to write a note and get an envelope so we might leave it in exchange for a prize. Her face fell.

“But I want to keep my tooth,” she said. “No problem,” I explained. “Just tell the Tooth Fairy you want to keep the tooth. I’m sure she’ll still leave you a prize and let you keep it.”

No deal. Anya, for some reason, didn’t feel it was necessary to leave the tooth under her pillow at all. I didn’t press the issue: I don’t want to force the kids to participate in anything they don’t want to. And so that night Anya placed her tooth in a special container where she would later collect up all her lost teeth. There was no note to the Tooth Fairy; there was no prize or money left in return.

Such a different experience than my first lost tooth.

I was ecstatic that I lost my tooth and was going to leave it for the Tooth Fairy. I wrote a note and anticipated the prize I’d get the next morning. And she didn’t disappoint: In place of my tooth I had a shiny new half-dollar. And what a cool trick, I thought. Place a tooth, get a prize.

That day I went in search of other teeth I could cash in for more half-dollars. I was digging in my sandbox when I found the white plastic tip of a caulking tube. It looked a bit like a cat’s tooth, but no matter, I could still try. That night I wrote the Tooth Fairy a note, placed it with the plastic tip under my pillow and anxiously awaited the dawn. Boy was I surprised and so disappointed when I found nothing under my pillow the next morning except the same two things I had left there the night before.

Slightly discouraged I decided the tooth fairy realized it wasn’t a real tooth, that it was just plastic garbage.  So I got out my prized shark-tooth that I had gotten in the gift shop of a museum once.  That night I placed the real tooth under my pillow.  The morning yielded me nothing still.

But I wouldn’t give up so easily. The next day I found the best tooth: a piece of white quartz in a tooth-shape. It was perfect, it really and truly looked like a human tooth, a lot, in fact, like the baby tooth I lost a few days prior that had started this whole misadventure in the first place. So I was even more disappointed the next morning when the Tooth Fairy still wouldn’t take the bait.

Around this time I expressed my disdain aloud to my mother. She laughed, and informed me: “Nice try, but I think the Tooth Fairy is too smart to fall for that trick.”

First lost tooth. December 2013.