Happy August one and all!
Circumstances changed yet again last night. Hannah didn’t arrive back at the flat until 9:30pm because for some reason Jules had deemed it necessary to have four bartenders on duty, rather than the usual two or three. Still, she had some amusing stories to share. The ever-feisty Martha flat out refused to wear her hideous black dress, and as the evening progressed, the other girls followed suit, taking theirs off as well. Hannah said that the Hopkins had returned to town, and came into the pub completely tanked. Like fall-down drunk. And they had driven back from the racetracks in that condition! They could have easily killed someone, and for all we knew…they did. Anyway, I guess they had dinner in the restaurant.
A bit later on, Megan, Sean, Alice and her boyfriend Neil came in to The Manor to dine together after a daylong outing. At some point in the middle of their meal, Alice and Neil both came into the pub with exasperated looks on their faces. Apparently Sean and Megan had been having arguments the entire day, and they vented to the girls behind the bar — and any patrons who were listening — that they could not stand to be around those two for another second! Hannah also said that Thomas was being “really, really chummy” with Lucy in the pub, trying to offer her drinks and that sort of thing. He was being super-duper interested in how she was this evening, if she was feeling alright and so on and so forth. Both Lucy and Hannah were quite sure that he was hoping to get some information[1] on me. “Where’s Nora?” he asked in as casual and friendly a manner as he could muster. “We got her thank you note at the Vic. She’s gone, I guess.” Now at this point, Hannah had left the bar, and the following tid-bit is what we eventually heard from Lucy: So, dear, sweet Danny with the lovely bum had popped into the vicinity of the conversation between Thomas and Lucy. To be fair, I don’t think anyone thought to tell him that my being at Hannah’s flat was a secret, because in response to hearing Thomas’ question, he blurted out, “Oh, Nora’s at Hannah’s, I believe.” Lucy gave him a quick, scolding look that said, “Shut your trap, Danny!” and then calmly replied, “Uh, yeah. She was there this afternoon. But as far as I know she’s left town already.”
Alright then. That’s the recap of the events at the pub. And as previously reported, Hannah returned to her flat at 9:30pm. Later than anticipated, yes, but no matter. We waited for Bea[2] & Lucy to arrive and passed the time by enjoying sweet snacks and gabbing like teenagers. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It was a little past midnight, and we began to think Bea and Lucy weren’t going to show up after all. Drat! And to think that Hannah bought a bottle of rosé for the special occasion! Ah, but within ten minutes we heard their voices approaching outside. Hurray! And from 12:15am-3:15am we chatted, drank the delicious wine, and nibbled on sour sweets[3]. We dished, vented, and ranted about everything we had ever experienced with Thomas, Jules and Megan. The “terrible three,” we called them. It was amazing to realize that we were all going through so much of the same thing. But Hannah, Bea, and Lucy seemed to feel especially bad for me since I had been an invited guest. The Hopkins had hardly lived up to playing the proper role of Host – to me or to poor Michelle. It’s true, and somewhat sad to say, that I no longer cared about the fact that they had housed and fed me. None of that mattered when they didn’t care to treat me or anyone else with any respect. Or basic consideration of others. Then again, as I eventually learned, these were some crazy-ass folk. And there’s not much I could have done to change or prevent that.
Everyone seemed very itchy last night. Physically itchy, I mean. Heh, I think I must have brought over fleas from the Vic. We all got a spectacular laugh while Bea compulsively rubbed and itched her eyeballs. And oh dear, Lucy! She found great pleasure – and I do mean great pleasure – in itching the insides of her ears. The longer she did it, the more her face was squishing up in hysterical fashion. She looked absolutely giddy from whatever sensation she was experiencing. And she was making these funny squeaking noises to boot. While observing her, I suggested to the others that perhaps the human anatomists had made a great error, for Lucy seemed to be living proof that the G-Spot was actually in our ears! Everyone got a good laugh at that, as well.
We talked – well, some of us talked[4] – about the boys we’d slept with. These Norfolk girls… They start young. I was utterly shocked — and yes, more than a little jealous — that Bea had been with Sean’s brother Hugh. I mean, he is so devastatingly gorgeous. Even so, we all decided that a person’s hotness is directly proportional to his arrogance and vanity. Hugh was hot. And he knew it. This was quite true. And rather unfortunate, if you ask me. Young Megan has slept with many of the guys in town apparently, both before and during her relationship with Sean, according to the girls. This didn’t surprise me. But, I mean, my God, she’s only 17! What else… What else? Tom came downstairs on three or four different occasions. He insisted that he just couldn’t sleep, and that it wasn’t because of the racket we were making. I was mildly suspicious of his ever-good-natured manner, however. The girls and I had been cackling and whooping it up all night, after all. It was quite fun when Tom would rejoin us tho’. It gave us cause to delight in the opportunity to have a male perspective in our midst. And he was indeed a brave soul to do so.
Over the course of the evening, Lucy and Bea kept mumbling about how they really had to leave. You know, as in go home. But over and over again hilarity foiled their attempts to end things. We’d fall into raucous laughter over one scandalous topic or another. Lucy finally did leave around 3:15am. But Hannah and I convinced Bea to stay the night. By the time we all hit our pillows, the sun was starting to rise, and the birds had begun their morning song. It was only 4:15am!
Oops! Backing up for a moment… I have something to say with regards to Alice, as I received some interesting insight from the girls. Bea and Lucy spoke quite seriously about how hard it is – this situation they’re all in at The Manor and with the Hopkins. They really like Alice a lot. They agree she’s a very sweet person, and they all like working together. But Alice is not a good bar manager. I couldn’t have agreed more with these sentiments. And frankly, I would think her job is a nearly impossible one. What with Thomas and Jules looking over her shoulder constantly and often giving the Manor employees information that is contradictory to what Alice has told them… I mean, it’s a lose-lose situation for everyone all around, but probably, most especially, poor Alice. And when you consider her young age… My God! It’s so clear that she is not yet capable of standing up to her bosses when they are in the wrong. A good manager keeps employees working hard and in line, but they also defend them from abusive customers. And bosses. So, basically, poor Alice is nothing more than a “yes-man[5]”. She has the label of authority, but has no real authority whatsoever. And most unfortunately, her staff and her friends must deal with Alice’s ever-changing behavior and demeanor towards them. I certainly experienced this during my brief stay in this town. You were never quite sure if she was going to be the buddy or the bitch on any given day. It’s really – and I mean this – fascinating to think about. Having a perspective on Alice now, I feel really badly for her. She could be so good at what she does, being as smart as she is. She could lift herself up and get out of this place. If she wanted to.
Listen, it may be true that Thomas and Jules Hopkins know how to run businesses[6]. But in my humble opinion, they don’t appear to know anything about the business of running a pub-restaurant-hotel. When it comes to the Service and Hospitality Industry – as it’s known in the States – they display a certain ineptitude. I realize there are a lot of “crazies” in this sector of business. A lot of folks with big egos, personalities, eccentricities, and what-not[7]. But Thomas and Jules are so far from being practical, reasonable or rational in any way, shape or form that they just come off looking like idiots. Look, all I have to do is think back to the beginning of my journey. Back when Thomas, Jules and Kelly went to Italy for ten days. Those were probably the most peaceful days of the whole summer. For everyone here. Not just me. And please! What on earth could Jules have possibly been thinking when she made the poor girls put on those hideous outfits??
And so. Soon it was morning… Well, it was already morning when we went to sleep, but who’s counting? In spite of our limited rest, we were all “shiny, happy people” as we hustled to get me and my belongings out the door. Hannah, Bea and I got to the train station just in the knick of time. Hence, our goodbyes were hasty, but heartfelt. It wouldn’t really hit me until later in the day that my time in Fakenham had indeed come to an end. Once I arrived at Paddington Station in London, I sought out the Stationlink Bus that would take me into the vicinity of my hostel. To my delight, the lovely bus driver offered to drive me all the way to my hostel, thus saving me the £5-6 for a cab to finish the job. I presumed this act of generosity was motivated by the fact that when the time came to approach my stop, I was the only one left on the bus. Who would have thought I would be such a lucky girl? To be treated with such unexpected kindness? It kind of restored my faith in the world and the people inhabiting it.
But good Lord! Even with the bus dropping me “at” my destination, with my large and heavy luggage, it took quite a while to actually get to the front door of the hostel, which was nestled in the middle of London’s Holland Park. There were so many damn stairs at this place! Being that it was a park and all, I mistakenly thought that I’d have an easy stroll from the place where the bus dropped me off. You know. Like a dirt walking path, or at the very least an asphalt one. But, no. It was all stairs and cobblestones instead. On the bright side, it was gloriously peaceful out here. Just what I wanted for my last days in the UK. I also took notice of the beautiful trees and flowers. Ah, but I was frustrated and oh-so-tired after lugging all of my stuff up and down stairs! Mostly, I was sticky and hot. Selfishly, in the midst of my struggle, I lamented that the kindly bus driver didn’t go that extra mile, jump off his bus, and help carry my things[8]. That kind of bummed me out. Ah, well. Not in his job description, I suppose. And anyway, he had already gone well beyond the call of his duties. When I stopped feeling sorry for myself, I gratefully tipped my proverbial hat to him.
Finally, after settling into my little room, I splashed off[9] and went back out into the muggy London air. I called dear Michelle from a pay phone outside the hostel[10], ran to an atm to grab a little cash, and then, finally, made my way to Trafalgar Square to meet her. We roamed about for awhile, without any particular plan. We sat in the National Gallery. I suddenly couldn’t bear to move anymore. It was so hot. So humid. So muggy. I think I must’ve been suffering from heat exhaustion. I had had it with all of my rushing about. On top of it all, I was now famished, to boot. Running on empty. Michelle and I were having a ball catching up on everything that had transpired since we last saw one another. After dinner, we wandered over to Speaker’s Corner for a bit[11]. I was too knackered to get involved in these predominantly religious arguments. So, Michelle and I said our goodbyes. Promising to keep in touch.
Shortly after parting ways with Michelle, I had a near trauma on the tube. I quite innocently bought a one-way ticket, which I assumed[12] would get me back to Holland Park. It’s in London, right? But when I got off the tube at my stop, and inserted the ticket in the exit turnstile, it wouldn’t let me through! As it turned out, Holland Park was the first stop in Zone 2, and I had only paid enough for Zone 1. I swear, I had no idea about the zones! Or rather, if I’m being completely honest, it hadn’t occurred to me to check into the minutiae of how to ride the London Tubes. I just assumed it was like the NYC subway system — same price to go around Manhattan and the surrounding Burroughs[13]. The only time you pay any more is if you’re getting on a Metro-North train at Grand Central Station or the Long Island Railroad (LIRR) at Penn Station to go to points well beyond the city Burroughs. I think the trains that take people to some of the New Jersey cities just on the other side of the Hudson might be more than the regular subway fare. But not much more. And anyway, those Jersey trains are their own separate train system. And for God’s sake, the Staten Island Ferry is, like, only 25 cents each way!
In any case, I had made an innocent mistake here in the London Tube. And the transit authority people, officials, officers, cops, or whatever they were supposed to be called, wanted to punish me for it by making me pay £40!!! Which, by the way, I told them I didn’t have on me. Initially, I thought I was going to have to turn on the waterworks[14] and act my way out of this predicament. “I’m so sorry, sirs…I mean sir and ma’am! I’m from America, and I stupidly assumed the Tube was like my subway system back home, and I really had no idea, and I’m so very sorry, and can’t I just pay the difference for the actual tube ticket, rather than the fine you are proposing?” By the way… Did I mention I told the transit officers I didn’t have the funds available for the fine before I had actually checked my wallet? Well, lucky for me, it turned out that I really didn’t have that money. I had maybe about £5 in there. In change. And you know what? I started getting really pissed off that I was being made to feel like I’d committed an actual crime or something. I mean, slapping a fee like that on me?! It was an innocent mistake made by a young visitor to your country you fuck-tards! How about a wee little bit of leniency in this case, eh? Would it kill them to do so? Just let me pay what I owed, and let me be on my way! Or do I need to contact the American Embassy?
I began putting up a first class American fuss! Near tears, I yelled at this stupid female transit officer and her male supervisor. They said to leave my address, and they would look into resolving the matter. So – ha ha! – I wrote Megan’s name and my old address on Gayley Avenue in Westwood, Calilfornia! Ah, but then I thought better of using Megan’s name. What if they asked for my identification? So, rather glumly, I ripped off her name and wrote in mine. Then the transit officer asked for my London address. What the fuck?! “But why?” I asked. “I’m at the hostel for one bloody night before I go back to the States, why would you possibly want my London address?” And then more yelling between us. I was so pissed, so livid to have to be dealing with them. With this. It was such a ridiculous, stupid situation. I used the American Embassy threat for a second time. And I kept yelling, “What is it exactly that you want? This is preposterous!” Finally, I suppose I managed to outdo these two with the right dose of bitchiness, sarcasm and smarts because the supervisor threw up his hands, and let me go. Thank you! That was not how I wanted to be spending my last hours in London.
I was never so happy to climb the stairs to the world above. Ah, Holland Park! And rather than walking at my usual brisk pace, this time I decided to slow it down to an easy stroll. There was no place to rush to, after all. As the evening temperature cooled, there was a soft breeze that kicked in. And everything quieted. The recent encounter in the tube station slowly melted from my mind. I wasn’t ready to go inside yet, so I wandered down the lane from the hostel to grab a snack, and I ran into one of my French roommates. She seemed like a nice girl. She didn’t speak much English so our communication, while pleasant enough, was a little stilted. She did, however, manage to communicate to me the news that she would be waking up at 5:00am tomorrow morning in order to get to Gatwick Airport by 6:30am to meet a bunch of other French teens[15]. In other words, my beauty rest will have to wait.
And now… Hmm. I’ve been out here in the park since 9:00pm or so. I’m guessing it must be somewhere around 9:45 or 10pm now. I’ve been sitting here. Talking to my French roommate, writing, and listening to opera singers practice in the outdoor amphitheater! I’ve been told there’s a summer music program in the park. I imagine it must be very similar to NYC’s summertime arts festivals. Yes, when the weather is warm and lovely, it makes a lot of sense that parks around the world would present outdoor entertainment such as this[16]. Well, at least parks in those countries where artistic expression is actually permitted. Anyway…
Oh what a delight! I’ve been sitting perched on the low ledge that surrounds the edge of the pond, and have just looked up briefly from my writing to see a wee little frog about two feet away to the right of me! He is so cute! Oh, drat, he’s[17] hopping away now! Wait! He’s coming back! I hold still. Watching him. And he’s now directly under my stretched out legs. What a sweet little creature. Wow. This is kind of unusual, isn’t it? I mean, this frog is just sitting here under my legs, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. I guess he feels safe there, eh? Oh. He’s hopping away now. Goodbye little frog! You adorable little fella. Hmm, I wonder what the ancient meaning or symbolism is behind the frog? You know, like butterflies symbolize transformation, so frogs symbolize…? I’ll have to investigate this further.
I’m finding it very difficult to grasp that I have truly parted ways with the people and town of Fakenham. It all seemed to happen so quickly. And I mean… I’m not going back. This time it’s “Goodbye London, hello NYC!” I’m going home. It’s sorta mind-boggling to me that by tomorrow night I’ll be back in my city! In my apartment. In my bed. With my stuff. Ah, but now…
Now. I am still here. I’m sitting here. In a park. In London. It’s my last night in England. I spent the summer in a small town in East Anglia called Fakenham. And I worked in pub in a hotel called The Manor. I met a cast of characters who put a mirror up to my face. And reminded me that we’re not so different, after all. None of us is perfect. We are merely works-in-progress. We are all seekers, whether fully conscious of it or not. And I, for one, honestly have, like, no idea what’s in store for me next. I feel ready, though. I’m ready. Cuz… You know… Sometimes…
You have to go away to come home again.
[1] The 411, the dish, the scoop, and all that jazz.
[2] At some point that evening at the pub, Bea had changed her mind about her original plan to go with Alice to her party.
[3] We opened the two bags that were supposed to be part of a birthday present. Tee hee!
[4] As in, not I.
[5] Substitute “woman” in there, if you like.
[6] This is but one of the things they were always boasting about to me and to anyone who’d listen.
[7] Just turn on the telly to the Food Network or Travel Channel for starters.
[8] Have I mentioned that I now fully appreciate the crap Michelle had to deal with when neither Megan nor I were willing to help her get all of her things out of Brighton? Jeez. I was a real schmuck.
[9] French shower, anyone?
[10] Shush! Cheaper than my cell phone.
[11] There’s nothing like some healthy debate on a full stomach, eh?
[12] It always gets us in trouble, doesn’t it?
[13] Queens, Brooklyn, and the Bronx.
[14] Cry. For dramatic effect. Possibly to get out of something you don’t want to do and/or have done to you.
[15] Yuck! The time, not the teens.
[16] Music. Dance. Theatre. Magic. You name it.
[17] Question: Why is a frog always a he?
The Princess of Fakenham 