Reflection: Summer Vacation
This essay begins at the St. Pancras Youth Hostel in London. It concludes—but does not end—as I sit at my work table in Stowe, Vermont listening to a gentle summer rain strike the roof, feel the cool breeze through the window, and contemplate the work I must do to complete my Fulbright Teachers for Global Classroom work and begin the 2019-20 school year.
A rainbow flag hangs from the balcony outside the television room where I try to work every morning. I quietly leave my small, cramped dorm room with its five other occupants, avoiding any rustling that might wake them, and retreat to this room where I write my blog.
Ah, the blog. Originally designed to capture my experiences as part of the Teachers for Global Classrooms and the Fulbright grant I received, it has morphed into a daily writing assignment about my travels. Today, I’ve decided to capture some thoughts about this day.
To conclude my work in India, I envisioned time in London as a week to explore the city where I’ve never been but always wanted to go, a time to spend with friends in the Midlands, a period of decompression before resuming my life back in the the States. When a friend suggested that I extend my trip to see more of this city, it took only minutes to change my reservation and plan another week in London. So much to see and do. So little time.
Truly, I got a lot a lot out of this experience, more than my aching feet would admit. I’ve walked as much as 11 miles in one day as I explored. I feel part of Great Britain, having seen its history revealed in the British Museum, the British Library (Shakespeare’s First Folio!), Saint Paul’s, Westminster Abbey (Poets’ Corner!), and hours spent on the Underground figuring out how to get around. A full day tour with a friend covered the typical tourist spots: Covent Garden, Leicester Square, Trafalgar Square, the Tate, an Indian restaurant on Brick Road, the monument to the Kindertransport children at Liverpool station. Solo travels to the Natural History Museum, the Imperial War Museum, and a bicycle tour of the city followed.
But this post applies to my personal growth. There is something to be said for a traveler alone in a new city. This experience has tested my limits, just as this entire trip has pushed me beyond my comfort zone. True, I have friends in the U.S. who connect with me via text and What’s App. I’m aware of the five-hour time difference and what they’re doing in their regular routine. They have offered support and encouragement after reading my posts.
Still, those people are far away when I get lost in Covent Garden, come up on the same bus stop twice, and travel down some skanky streets trying to follow directions on Google maps. I have trouble with cell service, except in the hostel. Yet, my cell service connection allows me to get around in a reasonable fashion. Only operator error is responsible for my getting lost.
I’ve changed my views about social media. Like so many others, I stroll with a cell phone in hand, talking to myself as I try to read directions. Almost everyone is doing the same. Saint Pancras station is the hub for both local and international travel: The Eurostar to France enters daily and trains leave for hundreds of cities around London. Patient travelers scan acres of train announcements to find the correct platform every day. The ubiquitous rolling suitcase follows almost everyone. Visitors from China predominate in the queues, with boys and girls pulling a child-size roller beside parents’ four-foot tall luggage. Everyone is on the move, most holding a cell phone with directions to their next stop. I’m just another member of this wandering tribe.
I love the Underground, although I am far from an expert. I can read the map on my phone and plot a route more or less successfully. I’ve had the experience of getting on a train moving in the wrong direction and getting off and retracing my steps. I’ve found favorite places in certain cars, tolerated walking over extended feet in the aisle, read the occasional newspaper, became amazed when I saw someone reading Nabokov. Commuters younger than I offer me their seats, which I politely decline. One young woman spilled her coffee as she made her offer, which embarrassed me greatly. “Get a coffee on me,” I said as I left the car, gently placing some pound coins on her cup. No kind act should go unrewarded.
This hostel is a crossroads of cultures. I hear German at breakfast, French throughout the day, quiet conversations in Chinese, and languages I infer as Slavic. “How old are you?” asked an Italian man living in my dorm room. Like many others, he and his partner arrived and disappeared from the hostel. I wonder how the guests look at me with my iPad and keyboard anchoring a corner table every day. Although I’ve conversed with other guests, I continue to be self-contained on this trip.
On a group bike tour yesterday, I had conversations with an Indian family from New Jersey, a couple from Australia, another couple from Ireland, and a woman from Ghent, Belgium who has visited London ten times. Our guide, a London resident with a sarcastic view of the city, politics, and the monarchy, played music as we toured the city. He asked historical questions—“Who was Jan Smuts?” referring to a statue in Parliament Square and seemed surprised when I answered Prime Minister of South Africa—and entertained us as we rode through the crowds.
People move with a purpose towards Saint Pancras/King’s Cross Stations throughout the day. There are trains to catch and appointments to keep. My schedule is primarily my own, unless I need to reach a place at a certain time, so I seldom share the commuters’ sense of urgency. Today, I have to catch the 0822 train to Bletchley, so there an imperative in my thinking even though it is not yet 0700. I opt to eat breakfast at the hostel, more for the tea and the calories than the nutrition. This is not a restaurant I would frequent or even consider in my regular life. Then, I find myself staring at the acres of announcements, trying to find the platform occupied by the 0822 train.
This entire trip has a been a series of compromises. I maintain my vegan/vegetarian standards but I’ve stopped asking what went into the meal. Last night at Ravi Shankar’s Indian restaurant, I told the waiter I wanted a vegan dinner and simply ate what he brought, along with a mug of mint tea (with mint leaves included to create a delightful taste). The dahl and chapati brought me back to those wonderful meals in Mahe and New Delhi, watching a cook prepare a meal in Birkaner, and helping Robert prepare dahl in Worcester.
Today, I examine these details of my experience with wonder and nostalgia. From my house in Vermont—wind chimes singing in the background, sun shining on acres of hemlock trees—London seems a universe away. New Delhi, Birkaner, Jaipur, and Mahe even further. Yet these memories feel as real as the life I am living today.
According to a Zen koan, a teacher heard two students arguing about the flapping of a flag.
“The wind moves it,” says one.
“No, the flag moves itself,” says the other.
“Neither the wind nor the flag moves,” says the teacher. “Your mind moves.”
My mind has moved over vast distances in the past five weeks. Travel has touched me, given me a gift of belonging and oneness with another world. I treasure these feelings. Because I became involved in a project, took some risks, and said yes to change, I now have the opportunity to make Indian food for myself, look forward to buying more spices, and read about international affairs with a new understanding.
My spirit now has the challenge of keeping up with those thoughtful changes as I resume my life of teaching. Right now, the future seems dim and without direction. My To Do lists seem unmanageable. Lesson plans a vast mountain to climb. So, I write, think, and wait to do the next right thing. The shifting center of my being has moved over the past six weeks and now I must catch up.
I am grateful for change at this point in my life. My experiences have altered me in subtle ways, bringing me into a new state of awareness for the world, its people, and myself. I have stretched the possible into the actual and now see myself differently: More aware, open to new possibilities, a child looking at the world with new eyes.