Lemonade Skies and Bluebell Woods 1
Chapter One — Sometimes What You Expect is Not What You Get.
On October 1st I celebrated a significant anniversary. Eighteen years ago I landed, too exhausted and ignorant to be sufficiently worried, on British soil. I carried my whole life in one large suitcase with odd and random things in it and one ordinary but bursting-at-the-seams backpack.
It was pretty early in the morning when I landed but everyone from all over the world already seemed to be lined up in this very large airplane hanger. They had us controlled in that funny cross-hatch, back and forth configuration that seems a feature of airports. But that soon morphed into rows aimed at one particular customs agent. I could see ahead around the shoulders of those in front of me that our agent was a rather obviously displeased one. He never once cracked a smile at anyone. This led to cognitive dissonance number one: the storied politeness of British people versus the reality of a really grumpy customs agent.
He groused constantly at the people who unluckily found themselves stood beside his raised booth. He looked down with stormy brow and berated them in what seemed like two or three different languages. I hadn’t detected English and the pit of my stomach got quivery.
My turn came. “What are you doing here?” he bent down and shouted at me.
I was so flummoxed I couldn’t reply at first but at least I recognized the language. My sleep deprived brain refused to come up with a suitable answer. “I was invited,” I whispered.
“Speak up! Speak up!” he shouted again.
I cleared my throat and weakly asked “Is there a chair?”
“No, no, no!” he wagged his head negatively. “You cannot sit here!”
I immediately believed he meant anywhere in Britain.
“Why have you come to Britain?!?” I think he thought I had trouble with my hearing.
“I’m here to work.” I managed a bit weakly. 14 hour flights take a lot out of one.
He fixed me with a throbbingly sceptical look under which I involuntarily cringed. A lot rode on whether or not he’d let me in. Crack! He stamped my passport heavily. He examined each paper, signed it and passed it back to me, never taking his eyes off me. I felt as if an eagle was about to deflesh me. Then he said “Welcome to Britain” while frowningly gesturing for the next examinee and I was out of there.
It was pretty straight forward through the next layer of customs. I had nothing to declare. I didn’t have £10,000 in my suitcase or backpack and I’d already eaten my apple in the previous airport. The uniformed people just ignored me as I walked through a long makeshift corridor into the arrivals terminal.
Once inside I was overwhelmed by the sounds and the sight of so many milling people. I’m from the Pacific Northwest originally. I don’t think I’d ever seen so many people at once except at a parade and generally there you’d find spaces between the marching bands.
This brought on cognitive dissonance number two. All those British TV shows taking place in sleepy little cobblestoned villages wasn’t representative of this Britain at all.
I looked around for a sign with my name on it. Then I looked some more. And then more. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t there.
Several years before this trip someone had stolen my car. They planned it because it was a station wagon and they needed to move. I know exactly who did it. When it disappeared I remember looking and looking and looking in the spot where it was always parked because I couldn’t believe that old thing was gone. Last laugh, I’d limped home with it. It’s water pump was non-functional. They had to abandon it a few streets away. Ha! That feeling then of ‘it will just appear if I look hard enough’ was the same sensation I was feeling now. Cognitive Dissonance number three.
I’d been promised that the people I was supposedly working for would collect me and deliver me to the bed and breakfast where I’d be staying. I really was actively recruited to work in the UK. My specialty was needed, I was told. We’ll take care of you, they said.
There was no one there for me.
So, here I was alone, far, far from home with not a clue what to do next.
What I did do next probably fulfilled the expectations (stereotype) that my British ‘hosts’ had of Americans. I got loud and insistent. I found a phone attached to a wall, called my agency and read them some pertinent, jet-lagged, sleep-deprived, emotionally charged riot acts. I was promised a pick up, I was promised a bed and breakfast, no I couldn’t make it to their office on my own. I didn’t even know where I was in relation to anything else. My internal map was ALL Terra Incognito. Yes, I’ll wait for the driver you will send for me — who arrived three hours later. What else was I going to do?
I barely acknowledged my lovely hostesses at the B & B who led me unprotesting to a red room with a lovely soft bed. I then proceeded to sleep for nearly 24 hours.