Saturday, 13 February 2016

Saying Goodbye to Britain—Part I

We were due back in Britain for October 10th, our anniversary date. By that, I mean our wedding anniversary date; not our travel anniversary date. We had bought a flexible RTW pass, which is the way to go when you're traveling without a fixed itinerary. Though we had purchased our round-trip tickets from London to Bangkok (via Dubai) with six months between, we had planned to change the return flight for a longer stay. But, as you can gather from previous posts, due to a mixture of travel fatigue and dwindling funds, we stuck to the original date on our return flight.

 

Okay, so we didn't get our full year abroad. Boo hoo, right? Not at all, as there is only so much you can do while backpacking. There are only so many restaurants you can sit in, so many beers you can drink, so many beaches you can lay on, so many temples to explore. Perhaps it was because of our age—we felt we’d done it all and were feeling a bit jaded. In fact, that last push through Laos and Northern Thailand had been brutal for me. I was lusting for something different; a cultural experience from the opposite end of the spectrum. Because of this, Alaska was all that more appealing. I was itching to get on the road, driving across the open swath of country, heading into the great white north.

 

I had booked my ticket to America, from Manchester to Chicago, allowing a few extra days in Britain. This was brilliant, as Chris and I could take one last whirl around the UK together.

 

It's to be noted that Chris was going to be staying behind in the UK while I returned to the States. There was the little matter of obtaining a Green Card—a process not to be taken lightly. Chris had started the process before we left on our travels. Now he had lots of paperwork and a daunting interview ahead of him. My job was to set up a place in the States, to have a permanent address and adequate income to support him. This meant no dilly-dallying on my way to Alaska. I was focused in my goal to set up shop. After months of luxuriating in the sun, it felt good to have the drive to get things done.

 

Although we didn't know how long we'd be apart (the Green Card process can take a very long time), we were both confident in our roles. Chris would be staying with his sister in Manchester, thus saving money for America. He had an interview for an accounting position at the airport. I had my phone interview with Mountain Market as soon as I got back to the States. Alaska wasn't entirely set in stone; it depended on me getting a job. The more research I did on Haines, the more apprehensive I became. With a year-round population 2,500, this was by far the smallest community I’d ever lived in. And the isolation was a bit staggering. Though there was a road in and out of Haines, the nearest sizable community was Whitehorse in the Yukon, a four-and-a-half-hour drive away. There was also Juneau, the capital of Alaska, but that was either a plane or ferry ride away. In fact, Skagway (population 900) is Haines' closest neighbor, 20 miles away as the crow flies. But to reach it by road, you have to head north through the Yukon and British Columbia, about a six-hour drive. This was all fascinating stuff I was finding out. All this had me nervous, but at the same time I found it thrilling. Wasn't this what I wanted—something completely different from the north of England? Well if it was different I wanted, Haines was the place for me.

 

All this was on my mind as we took the long flight from Bangkok to London. Flying Emirates, the time literally flew by. We made a short stop in Dubai, but this time we didn't leave the airport. As we took off, circling over the city, we finally saw all the sites we had failed to see on the ground while we were slogging through the streets. We saw the Burj Khalifa (the world's tallest building), poking into the sky like a steel icicle; we also saw the Palm Islands, the man-made archipelagos shaped like palm fronds. I can honestly say that Dubai is more impressive from the air than it is from ground-level.

 

Landing in Britain was significant. It was like coming home. After living in the UK for three years, I’d become accustomed to life there. I thought in pounds instead of dollars; I weighed produce in grams instead of ounces; zucchini had become courgettes and jelly was something you put in a trifle instead of on a sandwich. It had taken a long time, but British life had started making sense to me. And now I was leaving. This last roadtrip around the UK really helped me to realize the love-hate relationship (but mostly love) I have with this country.

 

Anniversary in Hounslow

 

Chris and I had always gone big for our wedding anniversary: first anniversary: Paris, second anniversary: Wales, and—get ready for this—for our third anniversary: Hounslow. You might hear of Hounslow if you're flying in or out of Heathrow Airport, as you might pass through it in a taxi or by bus or train. But Hounslow isn't really a place where you stop. Though Chris and I have passed through this slice of Britain countless times before, this was the first time we had actually made it a destination.

A great number of Heathrow workers live in Hounslow. According to Wikipedia, over 50% of residents were born outside of the UK; walking around, it's easy to believe that. This was amusing to us, after traveling through Asia, to find Hounslow so densely packed with culture. We felt we were the only white people on the street, heaving our bags past Indian takeaways and shops.

Our hostel for the night was located on the second floor of a pub. We were back in British-style brick buildings with dark decors, with a long, narrow hallways and series of doors. I've never understood the door-thing in Britain. Why so many friggin doors? I noticed this on my first visit to the UK. Every hotel we stayed in had doors on top of doors. Was it a fire code thing, or do Brits just like the feeling of being closed in? I've never received satisfying answers to these questions.

We were weary after our long flight, touching down in Heathrow around 7pm. After hauling our bags through the streets of Hounslow, we weren't up for a lot of celebrating. The pub, though British in design (with the characteristic dark paneling, worn carpet, elaborate row of taps, as well as Boddington's beer coasters on the tables), had an unmistakable Sikh flavor. I suppose the Bhangra videos playing across a giant screen helped with that effect. We ordered kebabs with chips—food we had not found in Southeast Asia—and tucked in while watching Sikh versions of the Backstreet Boys moving en troupe across the screen. These videos held our rapt attention; the women were astoundingly beautiful while the guys in turbans and pajama pants showed off their MC Hammer moves. Chris and I agreed that, ironically, this was the most cultural experience we’d had in awhile.

I was back in Rum-and-Coke country. There's something about dreary, rainy weather and a dark pub interior which makes this cocktail such a delight. Before Chris and I clinked drinks in celebration of our anniversary, I swirled the ice around in my glass with a tiny straw. My consternation turned to ebullience as I realized the water was safe to drink. This was a huge revelation. No more worrying about getting sick. No more sizing up a meal, wondering what bugs might be lingering. No more worrying about the haunting effects of certain meals on long bus journeys. We’d stepped over a threshold of comfort and security. We were truly home. In Hounslow, yes, but home just the same.

Our beds for the night were adequate. Perhaps we could have gotten better accommodations for our anniversary, but London is the most expensive place on earth to spend a night. We had our own bunk bed in a room shared with others, but the beds were comfy and we were exhausted. There is something so good about British beds, with their fluffy white duvets and pillow-like mattresses. You just sink in and there's instant comfort. The cold, rainy weather is always ideal for sleeping, and you just slip into the soft folds and get whisked away to the land of slumber. Who cares if you're woken in the middle of night by drunk wankers? It's all so terribly British.

Road Trip

In our brief time together, Chris and I have explored a lot of Britain through road trips. As everything is so close and historically significant, there is a lot to see on this island without covering a lot of ground. For our last road trip, we decided to stick to the south, doing a loop through Hampshire, Dorset, Devon, Cornwall, and Wiltshire before catching a bus up to Manchester.

After hiring a car (hiring—even after all this time I'm slipping back into Brit-speak), we headed west into the countryside. It was good to have the hum of the road under us. It felt like freedom, to see what we wanted to see and to have control over the speed of our journey. There was also a sense of privacy that we hadn't had in our travels, singing along to the radio and loudly poking fun at one another. It was reminiscent of our very first road trip together through Britain. Incidentally, our first road trip had been similar to our goodbye trip, the sites being just slightly different (Stonehenge and Bath the first time around; The New Forest and Dorchester the second). But we were revisiting a few places too, namely Cornwall and Plymouth. The images of these places are seared into my brain where good memories lie. It was on the road where I had fallen deeply in love with Chris. Yes, I had been attracted to him before, maybe even more than attracted. But it was on that first British road trip where Chris had opened up and thoroughly charmed me with his wit and intelligence. Funnily enough, his grand epiphany happened on this first road trip as well, as he had touched my arm on the highway outside of Stonehenge while I slept. That was when he realized he really loved me (isn't that a lovely story?). That trip cemented in our minds that we were meant to be together. So revisiting this journey, or some aspects of this journey, was significant as well as bittersweet, for the Atlantic was going to be separating us once again.

On the first day of driving, we passed through the New Forest, a sparsely populated area in Hampshire. It's the only place in Britain I know that is covered in large swaths of forest. Most forestland had been transformed to moors through the ages as residents chopped down trees for firewood and construction. This seems to happen on islands more often than not. Anyway, there is something incredibly romantic about a British forest. You get the sense of Robin Hood and noble ladies on horseback. The trees seem to whisper secrets of the past. Yes, there is something particularly magical about the New Forest. The light is magical, as well as the wild ponies that freely roam through the forest. And there's a quiet feel to it all, away from the rest of southern England.

Chris and I had spent a few days exploring the New Forest villages a few years back, while visiting the Salisbury area. Okay, I'm getting giddy with history, remembering these places. Sometimes I really wonder why I left England for Alaska. Alaska has the beauty on a grand scale, but pockets of Britain are so utterly charming it makes you kind of delirious. Anyway, the villages of the New Forest—they are like places out of a storybook. Of course, the tourist industry capitalizes on that. For instance, the town of Burley is known for its witchcraft; shops and pubs are all witch-themed. This can be seen as cutesy, but it's also taken seriously, as many Brits have identified with the old pagan ways. Towns like Burley would probably not go over well in America, but they are well suited for rural England.

It was raining pretty hard so Chris and I didn't linger long in the New Forest. We did stop at Lyndhurst where we went for a walk to stretch our legs. We ended up at an old church where we happened across the grave of Alice Hargreaves, the real-life Alice from Lewis Carroll's novel. This is what I mean about Britain—you literally stumble upon history; it's simply everywhere. Shops and cafes in Lyndhurst are geared towards Alice in Wonderland, with names like "The Mad Hatter Tea Room." This may nauseate some, but after Southeast Asia, it seemed charming all over again, like seeing Britain through a fresh set of eyes. To get out of the rain, Chris and I popped into a cafe and ordered a pot of tea between us. To sit and sip tea and look out at the rain is an essential British moment. Tea and rain go together perfectly. I can't tell you how many times I've hurried through the rain, on my way home from work in Northern England, craving a nice cup of tea. I suppose I still do this to some extent, though the charm isn't quite the same in America.

Pulling out of the New Forest, heading towards Dorset, we stopped at a Tesco supermarket. Reintroduced to the abundance of the Western world, we were the proverbial kids in the candy store. Everything was recognizable to us! Things we had been craving on the road were now at our disposal. We loaded up on cheese and wine and continued to our hotel in Bournemouth where we dined in style on our soft fluffy bed while watching British TV. I ask you—does life get any better?

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