England? Yes, England, you tart! Cup o’ tea, top o’ the mornin, Mary fucking Poppins England! So … in two days, off I went, acting as a liaison at a meeting I wasn’t quite prepared for. In comparison to Tarom, which I sampled a year ago, United Airlines actually offered dedicated television screens with seven channels of programming and recently released movies. The seats comfortably hugged my fat ass as I flipped through Gladwell’s Blink, which, pardon for this interruption, is a book that aims to keep clear of the self-help section but aimlessly can’t avoid it. Hours later, feeling the rapid increase of my drool’s weight, I woke up to a soft landing, gently congratulated by the captain - “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Heathrow, London. It is 7am. The current temperature is three degrees celsius with clear skies.”Right, so, I run off the plane itching to be ripped off. Here’s the currency exchange booth, greeting me literally across the exit gate … bam … 2 American bucks for a British pound! Fully aware that I am about to overpay 11 cents on a dollar, I cheerfully join the queue behind a clueless old lady; I smile at the teller, he grins back. Lovely, I’m set, off to terminal 1 (for my connection flight) then! While transported by a very long escalator, I can’t help but think that Heathrow is perhaps the ugliest airport I’ve ever seen. Perhaps this shoddy state has been especially reserved for national flights, still I couldn’t shake off my disappointment with peeling ceilings and revolting colors of the surrounding walls. Smoker that I am, my first order of business was to purchase a 2 pound cup of Costa’s mocha and find a suitable place to light up. I was directed to a smoking area, where I found a set of thoroughly depressed and constantly coughing old men. After my cigarette, I calmed down a bit and finally began to pay closer attention to … England.
My first and most prevailing impression was that the English do indeed love their newspapers. Overwhelming majority of the people I saw at Gate 5 had their noses deeply buried in The Standard or The Sunday Times. And so there I sat thinking that my fascination with this country’s culture is not completely unfounded, thinking that the stereotypes I am familiar with are actually not stereotypes at all. It has always been my dream to visit and see first-hand what I adored for so many years.
I suppose, my fantasies about Britain have first appeared when I was 10. I remember hungrily swallowing Arthurian legends as I laid on a mattress in a remote Moldavian village. Sun peering through the vines onto pages that brought me most romantic notions of chivalry. When I studied roman and medieval history in high school, again, I became so drawn to England during the pre-Roman conquest and English history up and through the nineteenth century. To me, this was the longest lasting empire, with a mature and surpassing character, with ever-lasting traditions and most intriguing tales of the royal dynasty. I was enthralled with England through my college years when I had the opportunity to study it in more sensible terms. I was required to read tons of Shelley, Wordsworth, Yeates, Byron, Dickens, Wolf, Joyce, etc, etc. My history and theology classes pumped plenty of medieval religious writings into my head: The Church of England and the inherent reasons for the schism. On the side, I often got a laugh from Chesterfield letters to his son. All these efforts even further embellished my childhood fantasies. The dreams of England, here I am, to see the fantasy unveiled before my very eyes.
“Shite weather we’ve got” some old fart muttered, trying to make conversation I suppose. This was my first encounter with English preoccupation with weather. An hour later, as I occupied my seat on a connection flight to New Castle, I witnessed a much more savvy 15 minute dissection of oncoming snow-storms that were about to descend onto Durham. Folks were getting “texted” (english colloquial for text message) with most updated live information from their friends and relatives on location, then they would plunge into discussions on how sad it is to come back to dull North Eastern weather from the islands. Overly cheerful and sickeningly polite flight attendants would partake in the chit-chat involving otherwise quiet passengers in this spectacle. Our lively group landed in New Castle an hour later. Since the weather radically worsened, the captain went through two unsuccessful approaches, calming the passengers after each failure. The flight concluded with traditional British humor - “Ladies and gentlemen, whoever is at the front of the plane, you’ve arrived to New Castle five minutes early, for everyone else, you’re here on time”.
This was my first trip to Western Europe and taking two additional trains seemed overwhelming. To my surprise, the rail system is quite simple. It took forty minutes (with a transfer) to get to Durham. Upon arrival, I realized that my trip took 14 hours and I suddenly felt fatigue.
Contrary to all signs that referred to Durham as “Durham City”, Durham isn’t a city at all. It is a small town with 30 thousand citizens and 50 thousand students. The town’s taxi system consists of about 10 people who privately operate their vehicles. While waiting for a cab at the rail station, several girls ahead of me in line, screamed “Here is Elaine’s taxi”. Unbeknownst to me, “Elaine’s Taxi” was not a company but mere woman named Elaine driving her Peugeot. It took another 20 minutes for me to secure a taxi and off I went to The Three Tuns Hotel located in the city center.
