arthur road

Tracy called it 'our perfect little neighborhooh,' and I agree with her.

Several things make it perfect: Cafe du Parc, George and his bottle shop, the family run co-op grocery store, the tube stop just 100 metres from our front door, and the park.



It's also clean, safe, and friendly. I'll miss all of these things. It holds happy memories. As our first abode together, it will be associated with the discovery of a young relationship. We brought Tim home to it, and five months of his 'firsts' are connected to it.

I've loved living here. It's the first time I've lived in a real city, one of the major players of the world as far as cities go. I can be on Oxford Street from my home in the same time that it takes you to get to your local mall. I have yet to meet someone who hasn't heard of London. Yet, I live in a real neighborhood.

I will miss this place, but I'm not sad about leaving. We're headed out on another adventure then to the US, which I get to experience through Paul's eyes. My life with Paul is proving to be just what I expected, full of rich memories of past experiences, contentment with our present life, and excitement about the next journey.

pubs, pubs, pubs

the alexandra

The English pub is a unique experience; its closest match the Irish pub. A good English pub is old, at least older than the European discovery of the New World. It is dark: dark wood paneling, low lighting, muted colors, leaded windows that don't let in much light. It smells of beer immediately upon walking in but isn't unpleasant. The carpet is a multicolored horror that works somehow. There's a dog behind the bar or asleep under a table somewhere. It has something that is used by the locals. For example, the pub next to our campsite in Surrey had reading glasses on string hanging from a nail on the wall, three pairs. A checkers board is a favorite. You are not served at the table but must go to the bar to get drinks and even food - remember your table number. I read in a great book called Watching the English that this encourages socializing among a people who not long ago required formal introductions before being able strike up a casual conversation. The English probably won't like this next one, but I feel that a proper English pub must have at least one Eastern European on staff. This is because almost all of the pubs I've visited in my two years here (and that's a lot of pubs) have had Eastern Europeans serving. Personally, I think the best English pubs don't have TV; however, that's highly debatable, and I agree that the best place to watch a sporting event is a pub. A proper English pub is also within walking distance of wherever you are staying. If you have one near home, it is your local. Our local, The Woodman, doesn't meet all of the criteria, but it's a good place to watch Rugby and enjoy a pint.



the woodman

The Hand and Racquet is special to me because I first went there on 7 July 2005, the day the tube was bombed, with Paul and three other friends. By 19:00, the place was packed with people who seemed to be saying, "You can't scare us. We refuse to hide in our homes, quivering in fear."



Paul and I went to the Fox and Grapes the first time that I visited him in London from Bulgaria. We'd had a picnic in Wimbledon Common and stopped in for a pint on the way home.


the fox and grapes

The Crooked Billet is also close to the Common. We took Tim there with Mark and Gabe when Tim was only nine days old. It's the most family friendly of all the pubs we frequent. There are always a few dogs to pet as well.



the crooked billet

The Hand in Hand is next door to the Crooked Billet and we only went in for the first time this week. It's a charming place with low ceilings and a beer garden out front. By the way, Young's is a brewery.


the hand in hand

What I'll miss the most about the English pub is being able to walk in have a pint or two and walk out, never having to think about a designated driver.

flowers

I will miss the flowers of England, a place where roses grow like weeds.

This is a path in Wimbledon Park. Tim and I went running this morning. He's asleep in the photo but he stayed awake for most of it. When I ran down this path, I could smell the roses, even though I was breathing through my mouth.


This is a home in our neighbhorhood. I tried to grow roses in Arkansas and had some success, but it was hard work. As far as I can tell, roses grow here without any help at all. They are used as hedges and as decorations between lanes in traffic islands.

It's not just the roses that I'll miss. It's the lush greenness of the place. Colorado is beautiful, but it isn't lush.

This is a rhododendron in the neighborhood. It's about six feet tall.

Gardens in England are interesting things. They have a kind of organized wildness about them. Plants often grow on top of or through one another, but the result is pleasing. There are manicured and well trimmed gardens here, as there are everywhere. However, I think of these as the compulsory gardens of government: ordered and counted. Every country has these. The front gardens of the homes surrounding our flat are of the other variety. I've tried taking photos, but my eye can't capture the essence of wilderness, so you'll have to use your imagination. I'm not going to try to recreate an English garden at home. It just wouldn't work. So I have to say good-bye to these. I will miss them.

I've come to realize that even though I am leaving England and its flowers, Paul has made my whole life a place where roses grow like weeds.

the english countryside

Paul and I went camping Friday night in the English countryside, which is something that I will miss, especially Surrey: the rolling hills, the hedgerows, the narrow roads canopied with thick trees, the vibrant green, the wildflowers, the villages, the hamlets, the local pubs, and on and on only thirty minutes from our flat. We went camping for just one night as a test run for our summer trip, to make sure we had all that we needed.


The pub where we paid for the campsite and where the loo and shower are located.


The front beer garden. The beer was extra cold, and we cooked our own food so it was tasty.

Camping in Europe is very civilized with beer gardens and restaurants on the grounds. In England, a pub is usually within walking distance. Ours was across the road, and we enjoyed a couple of pints and conversation with the locals after setting up camp and cooking dinner. Car camping can be quite luxurious with a table, chairs and real cutlery and plates. We only had to add minor things to our list. We are officially ready to go. Roll on 28 June.


Craftsmanship of a bygone era.

In that way that thoughts roll around together and on top of each other, mixing and separating to create new thoughts and bring to mind other thoughts making us contemplative, the words ‘English countryside’ causes me to do a system check to see that I am appreciating the world around me properly. On one of our trips home from Paris on the Eurostar, I listened in on the conversation of two American women. One was travelling with her two children. Their accents caught my attention, recognizing ex-patriots and feeling a connection albeit superficial. I quickly tired of the conversation, the mother of the two children was yammering on about work and family, raining complaints upon complaints on the head of her companion who had the weary look not of a traveller returning home but of someone hearing what they’ve been told too many times and responding automatically with ‘yes, you mentioned that before’ and ‘so you’ve said’ whenever there was a dramatic pause. Nothing unusual in all of that. We all need to vent. What stuck with me, however, was that every twenty minutes or so, the mother would take a break from her tirade and tell her children to look out the window at the English countryside. ‘Look out the window. That’s the English countryside that we came to see. Isn’t it pretty?’ Her kids would glance up from their Gameboys and towards the window but they didn’t have to look for long because she’d be back to her complaints and ignoring both the kids and the English countryside before their heads were fully lifted.


This is not really mist but rather the dew beginning to evaporate as the sun rises and warms the air in the field behind our campsite.


I thought at the time and still think that she was guilty of what we are all at times guilty of: knowing what we should be doing but not doing it. It seems a greater travesty to me to know we should smell the roses and even encourage others to do so while not doing it ourselves then to not know at all that there are roses to smell. So this weekend, I enjoyed the English countryside. We put the tent up in the shade of large oak, so we had to wait for the sun to climb high enough to dry the dew off of it before packing up. We went for a walk that a local man at the pub recommended then we sat on our camp chairs and listened to the birds and watched the sun slowly light up the meadow, mind you Tim had us up before 06:00. A pheasant walked through the campsite.



This cedar tree is hollow in the middle and full of bugs, I'm sure, which is why I didn't get inside as Paul suggested. There isn't any way to figure scale in the shot, but the tree as big around as a round table for 8 people.


Being home with Tim is a big job. I’ll never say that I don’t work anymore. However, my job now allows for a lot more time to do what I know I should be doing instead of saying I should be doing it. We take a walk to the park almost every day. We study patterns in the quilts our friends have made. We marvel at the taste of a banana. I believe ours will be a summer full of this kind of ‘living deliberately.’