Thirty years ago I found myself at Charles de Gaulle Airport en route to London from Montevideo, the first independent leg of my inaugural round-the-world tour. The plan had been to get to the coast and grab a ferry and train. With my Form Four French a distant memory, the idea of navigating the French public transport system was overwhelming, and so in panic I pulled out a credit card and boarded the next available flight to London.
Less than three years later, by then a well healed traveller, I returned. With an accumulation of ritish friends and England based Australians I got my bearings pretty quickly. Recovering from the hepatitis I’d contracted in Ecuador I decided on a temporary nannying job over the Christmas period as the best option and, arriving in Hampshire a week before Christmas, the youngest son, a 25 year old, collected me from the station. Hmmm, the young woman at the agency was clearly on a different page to me. It appeared that Mrs. Fane, the mother, had just been released from hospital post pneumonia and needed a helper and cook for the festive season. I soon discovered that was to be me. I wrapped presents (some later filling the generous stocking at my door on Christmas morning). I dressed the cooked ham, made moussaka, created an array of ice creams, organized or d’oeuvres for the cocktail party of 100 guests (including Prince Andrew and Fergie’s butler) and prepared food for the annual pheasant shoot in which the local villagers participated and were fed. The formal Christmas dinner and 2 weekends of house parties were a welcomed challenge, but I struggled with breakfasts — how to time the eggs with the bacon and the toast? After a week on a friend’s private Caribbean Island the eldest son had decided fresh orange juice was a must. The electronic juicer non functional — I proceeded to hide the 2 bags of fresh oranges, a successful ploy until the last weekend when at least the friendlier of the sons offered to hep with hand squeezing. As I was invited to sit with the family for all meals, and partake of the wines, Mrs. Fane had to on occasion prompt me to cease chatting and serve the next course. My hands were red raw but, ‘cooks’ being the new ‘finishing school’ for upper class girls, I had plenty of help in the kitchen as a myriad of guests hung out chatting or pitching in. By the end of the 2 weeks, as generous and welcoming as Mrs Fane was, I was pretty clear that being a servant was not my mission in life.
Carolyn, an Aussie Audiologist in Brighton was living with a few staff from Ovingdean Hall School for the Deaf. They needed a speechie! I sent off my application and to this day still believe desperation to appoint, along with my clinical ignorance, rendered me the least offensive option. A Natural Aural school, the general work of a speechie seemed the antithesis of Ovingdean’s philosophy. But eleven weeks holiday per year and a time in lieu system (I saw students after school) were massive bonuses. I spent every term and half term break away, typically exploring the mediterranean (I sooo needed sun) or other parts of the UK and Europe. I learnt a great deal at Ovingdean, being the speechie during its heyday of 170 students. But the highlight was the friendships developed. While there were a couple of Aussie friends around in Brighton or London, it was the Brits that became my social life and family. Indeed, when Sally, whom I barely knew, heard I needed a bed (I’d arrived back from three weeks in Italy homeless, not entirely sure what my plan was), she and Chris took me in. And that was not the only time. Sally can probably recall my return from six weeks in Guatemala and Belize, homeless again, with an infectious skin disease requiring 2 weeks off term. I lazed in their postage stamp sized garden enjoying an Indian summer and tried not to pass on my illness while she worked.
While mid term breaks were spent in the sun, weekends were spent visiting boyfriends, who never seemed to live nearby (perfect arrangement really) or Karen! I will never forget the day I met Karen — another homelessness story really. I was wandering the old town of Quito in Ecuador trying to find accommodation to no avail. Karen must have read my distress and approached, suggesting I try her hotel. For the next few months we wove in and out of each other’s travel stories, either catching up at our base in the old town, or meeting up in some part of the country (that took some planning all those years ago with no phones, internet or email — it required a leap of faith that each person would be there on the designated day and that the transport system would favour us). After years travelling and living abroad Karen headed home to Ramsgate around the time I landed in the UK. So once ensconced in Brighton, the train up to Victoria and down to Kent became a well worn route.
When twenty five years ago I departed for Zimbabwe, letters were the only realistic form of communication. I lived in Marondera with no TV for the first year, ZBC 1 and 2 the following years (um, that means there was probably about 3 hours of TV per week worth watching), virtually no social life mid week in Marondera, and all weekends spent in Harare or exploring the country. I had PLENTY of time to write to everyone. As for my friends, well they had a life. Some were getting married, having children, or merely caught up in the ever increasing pace of a western lifestyle. The letters I received in response were sparse to say the least. But I pushed on!
Four years later when I travelled six months from Zimbabwe to home, the UK was one of my designated stops. I recall Karen’s ‘Ab Fab’ birthday party, I met Sally and Chris’s 18 month old Emily, and have photos of the Mexican meal with Sally and Sue complete with hats and margaritas. I think I even popped out to Ovingdean to say hi, but any of you who’ve done that return visit to an old familiar workplace can attest to the fact — it is never the same, people are busy. If there’s been a signifiant gap since you were there you may even encounter that pause, where the person finds your face familiar but just can’t place you.
Within a few years of returning to Australia the internet and emails became mainstream. Ahh, how fantastic, instead of having to go and purchase an aerogram or airmail paper/envelope and stamps, I could shoot off regular news updates and hear from my overseas friends instantly. So easy. Well that was soon reduced to the group Christmas email, a depersonalised narrative of the year passed with a photo attached (I was young, no wrinkles yet). But life got in the way even more. Chatting with Linda the other day in St Albans, we talked about how long do you pursue the annual Christmas card and letter when years go by with no response? So some friends got lost on the way.
Ahh technology. While it now fills our day with irrelevances and distractions, causes boundless worries for young kids and youth, it’s a powerful tool for connection. It was through facebook that I found Karen, Sally and Marina again. And through their posts I saw the woman Karen had become, Sally and Chris’s growing family grow, saw Marina’s son as a teenager. While a few friends choose to stay ‘unsociable’ — avoiding facebook and whatsapp — they are at least active on email. And so with the help of technology I planned the UK stint of this round the world venture, catching up with a few Aussies who’d relocated to London and, more importantly, I was set to meet with British friends not seen for 20- 25 years.
On the 6th of December at 4.45 am my plane arrived at Heathrow and beyond all expectations I was through immigration and customs in half and hour! Hema, the hostess with the mostest, an Aussie speechie friend from community health days, had planned my breakfast, down to what milk I preferred, sent me the link to book into her pilates class for the next day, and arranged a minicab from the airport — my luggage way too much to navigate the tube. My first visits to the UK took me to friends in Islington and Warren Street, but since then it’d been Clapham. First was the British Consulate worker in Battersea Rise, the Miriam Margolyes large home in Clapham Common (Northside I think) where a friend house-sat for years. And this visit brought me to Clapham again, off King’s Avenue, where Hema now resides. With my macpac winter wardrobe I felt prepared for the cold. But my memories of winters passed had thawed. Had I completely forgotten how cold it could be? Was my 54 year old body less robust? Was this a particularly cold winter? A mild introduction, day time temperatures of 9 degrees and pale blue skies soon plunged to snow, ice and the necessity for a beanie — an item of clothing I have never owned, big sheepskin mittens, and a scarf. For the next 3 weeks I would don this less than attractive combination before leaving home, amazed at the acclimatised locals bare heads and gloveless hands. From the ice covered pond in Queens Park, to snow sprinkled stations in Kent, and icy footpaths in London, this had not been the winter of my two year stint 27 years earlier. I had never been a great fan of London. But on days when the weak sun made a low arc in the sky it was picture perfect. Kew gardens, Richmond park, Oxford street christmas lights, Clapham Common. While Buckingham Place, St James Park, Westminster in the grey held their own.
Heading out to Ramsgate entailed navigating the online National Rail app. The whole system is truly a network, a multitude of options and combinations. 27 years ago it seemed like I had to get to Victoria before heading out east, one way in, one way out. But this time I boarded an ‘overground’ train and changed a coupe of times on the Thames or Southeast services feeling the anxiety of a tourist, trying to work out if I was heading on the right direction, on the right line, at the right time. And the underground, for all its frequent wonder, continues to baffle my sense of direction. As a result I have no real sense of which suburbs lie where in London. I had an hour to kill when I arrived in Ramsgate so decided to walk to the shops — I needed gloves and hat. I found the town centre, the sea front and recalled the days I spent there before flying to Zimbabwe, purchasing the B 52s Cosmic Thing tape (Roam my travelling theme song) and REMs Automatic for the People which was played over and over in Marondera. Karen and Elliot collected me from Waitrose. Karen hadn’t change a bit. The next few days were as I knew they would be, endless easy chats about life, the universe and lovers, just like 25 years ago. Poor Elliot had to listen to our Ecuadorian tales, and travels near and far.
I had my first northern hemisphere taste of Christmas as we went to select the tree (my role was to ensure they didn’t purchase one taller than me) which we then decorated before a dinner with friends. Walking to Broadstairs in crisp winter sun the next day, a roast dinner and movies after dashing through the rain to the Turner Contemporary in Margate on the Sunday, a cozy comfortable weekend all round. I promised Karen it would not be 19 years before we met again (we calculated what our ages would be in 19 years, enough of an incentive to ensure we meet in the UK, Oz or half way well before then).
Brighton. Ah the following weekend, disembarking and walking the streets along the route to my old home on Albion Hill, finding Sally and Chris’s new home, Brighton warmed my heart. Brighton had been my twenties something home — a place of friends, frivolity and flirting. I spent every cent I earned on fun and travel. The night life 27 years ago was accessible. We walked everywhere. Only after a few too many ales did we ever bother to cab it home. Chris reminded me that it also didn’t rain that much in Brighton. (That doesn’t mean it wasn’t grey — I blame the sky for my then addiction to Neighbours and Home and Away — the only way I saw sun for months on end).
It is still a beautiful city. The partial skeleton of the west pier hovers in the shadows of the old Grand and Metropole hotels, in front of the new i360. The funfair at the main pier frames the view down to Hove. The Pavilion stands as a middle eastern anomaly at the Old Stein. The old lanes entice, in edgy contrast to their more classic compatriots closer to the sea. The south downs remain a forever green backdrop to the city, while the channel rolls onto the pebble (boulder) beach, stretching to reveal a horizon that London would never disclose. Yep, visiting Brighton reinforced my luke warm feelings for London.
Sally and Chris were the warm and welcoming friends of 25 years ago. Sal also arranged a dinner with Sue (one of the non fb users with whom communication had dwindled over the years) and morning coffee with Ann and Caroline. While we all grow (well hopefully we all learn at least a little along this journey of life) this trip has been a constant affirmation, reconnecting with people after an extended absence, to be reminded why I liked them in the first place. As teachers of the deaf or working with young people with challenging behaviour, we still had much in common from a work perspective. While that had been our initial link, their ongoing compassion, commitment and passion for work each conveyed reflected the core person that I connected with 27 years ago.
Getting to know Sally and Chris’s three daughters, ever so briefly, was a delight. In this trip I have ventured to share Gemma’s archetypes where relevant and have been surprised at how people have connected with the brilliant simplicity of this system. Karen took it to her team the day after my visit, Sarah wants to research it, Zenia laughed in her idiosyncratic way as she decided on who she was, Forgette connected it to a work related system, Hema was enticed by the ideas, Sally chatted about her daughters and their unique selves. And I reflect on each of my friends wondering which archetype best summed them up or listened as they explored this for themselves.
My Australian links in London lead me to meet Jen and AJ’s first born, Xander; took me to Shoreditch with Rose, the theatre to see Aladdin with Hema and dinner with Vishali. It also brought Linda and I together again after working in Zim — only a morning coffee in St Albans this visit (arriving at Christmas wasn’t ideal — a busy time for families), next time hopefully it will be a longer visit to meet her husband and children. And then there was the dinner and sleep over in Richmond. Laura had been a UN worker and friend for my last 18 months in Zim. Our only contact in the past 21 years has been our exchange of annual Christmas cards, hers almost illegible. Every year an offer that I visit was repeated. And finally I was able to accept. Meeting Mike again (I met him once at their engagement party in Harare I’m sure) and the kids, tall confident and chatty Georgia and younger more reserved Joel, chatting over a meal and wine, sleeping through an eventful night (a thief had stolen a Range Rover and with ice on the wind screen and roads, ploughed through a number of cars in the quiet street, writing offa few including Laura’s. The next day we walked from Richmond Park at her back gate, past the heritage listed Turner view, Mick Jagger’s house to Kew Gardens. After lunch at John Lewis in Oxford Street with her sister we parted ways. And again I was full of wonder at these soulful heart filled friends I have around the world.
I have avoided visiting the UK for these 21 years, stuck on the idea of crowds, density of population and poor weather. But I am certain to be there sooner than another 21 years for sure. Thank you all for the amazing warmth, generosity and love I felt spending time with each of you.
