Society, Part II

In Sweden, we have a saying: "Mycket ska man höra innan öronen trillar av," which means "You'll hear a lot of things before your ears fall off." At the Cafe, I overhear conversations all the time.

The red-haired barista comes into the room, looking around. "Soy hot chocolate?"
A girl raises her hand. "Here."
He sets down the cup at her elbow. "It's quite runny."
"Well..." the girl pauses, reflects on the liquid state of all hot chocolate everywhere, "...of course it it."
The barista makes another attempt at explaining himself. "No, it's quite wet."
"Isn't it supposed to be?"
"What I mean is, it hasn't got much air in it."
I think this means something to baristas and other connoisseurs, but not to me and not to the girl who ordered soy hot chocolate. "Okay," she says, surprised by this unnecessary honesty. "Thank you."

A pair of filmmakers discuss their work in the corner, and Kate Tempest. A sausage dog sniffs carefully around the corners of the room, shy and polite. A student and his tutor, leafing through the notes of a dog-eared notebook. A man learning to speak Italian.

I meet a lot of people here at the cafe's big table, working to the melancholy strains of Jose Gonzalez. I sit at one end and a pair of well-heeled business men take their seat beside me; we cluster together conspiratorially to talk of "beneficial margins." I feel for a moment like their secretary.

"Can we sit here?" A New Zealand couple and their local guide are by my side.
"Oh, yes." I am hardly present, staring at the far wall deep in thought.
"You look very concentrated," says the man.
"Oh, yes, I'm trying to write a description for a character in my book."
He fixes me with a look. "Tall, elongated git."
I laugh. It reminds me of Red Dwarf. "I'll keep that in mind."
They ask me if I know any sights worth seeing. Not really. Don't know the area well enough. They drink their coffee at leisure before taking their leave.

"Can I sit here?"
I look up to a guy. He means the chair across from me.
"Yes."
He nods in thanks, then asks if I can watch his stuff while he fields a call. Of course I can. He leaves for a few minutes, then returns and almost has the time to relax before his phone rings again. He gestures apologetically. "Can you...?"
"Yeah. No problem."
He disappears around the corner and comes back in a while, finally settling himself in the chair. He notices my phone cover (it's Shakespeare) and because I can't help but gush about the Bard, I show him the picture in my locket (it's Shakespeare). He tells me he used to go to the Globe Theatre in London almost every weekend, and I am jealous. I tell him I've seen King Lear in Stratford-upon-Avon and how impressed I was with the staging, the costumes, the crumbling set. "It represents the decay of the kingdom," I tell him, and he nods again, philosophically. He doesn't complain when I fill him in on my love of the historical plays.

We talk about all sorts of things. He's from Cornwall. He ponders the role of social media in his career because he's a musician. Also apparently a youtuber by the name of Tom Law. I'd not heard of him until then, but that isn't surprising. I use youtube for kpop and kitty videos.

After an age of mutual distraction, neither of us have done any work. He has to run. We say goodbye, goodbye and good luck.

He's gone in a blink. The empty chair. Did I imagine it all?

Hot Springs

I visited the Roman baths here in Bath, built on the only hot springs in England. A shrine was first built here by the Celts to honour the goddess Sulis, a deity the Romans later identified as Minerva. The baths were thought to have curative properties and associated with royalty. I  was told not to touch the water, but hey--when in Bath, amiright?

Public baths have fallen away a bit in our busy Western culture. In Sweden I think people resist the idea merely for practical reasons--we wear a lot of layers. It takes some effort to peel off winter clothes. (I grossly misrepresent my people.) My hometown Umeå has in recent years been debating the location of a new bath house, and legislators finally agreed upon opening its doors in the middle of the city. I like. 

Autumn?

These pictures were taken weeks ago, when the air was warmer. I have had summer for nearly two years now. Two years spent in the hot air of Singapore, then I came home to an unusually warm summer in Sweden, with nothing but sun, sun, sun. Then I left Sweden for southern climes, and again, more summer. Bath wasn't close to surrendering to colder weather. Two months passed, still with mild, rainy days, and only now in November has Uncle Autumn come to visit in his red coat. He tipped his orange hat at me as I passed by, ever the gentleman. 

Bath

Dear Friends,

 I'm not sure if you know already, but I have moved to Bath, England. I am here to complete my Master's degree in Creative Writing, which entails writing 40,000 words on a novel and some other essays in between. Every Monday and Tuesday I take the bus to Corsham, a picturesque little town with tiny shops and cobblestone streets, and walk to Corsham Court, an old manor house still owned by the Methuen family. The house is exactly as you would expect: grand stairs and peacocks on the lawn and grim gargoyles that spy from the corners of the roof.  

All other days of the week I spend reading books for my context module and writing independently. On Fridays I meet with my friend Katie for tea and cake and writing. I came to this course with only an idea for a book, which at the moment involves a young man and monsters, and that is all I can say at the moment.

In pyjamas at my tiny desk, which I do not use enough.

Society, Part I

I am absolutely terrible at getting any work done at home. So I leave.

I stop at the Cafe, order a pot of tea and cake and sit down by the window. A little boy in wellies and a raincoat lingers on the other side of the glass, smiling at me. I wave.

The cafe is across from a sporting goods store, separated by The Corridor. An attendant comes out, followed by a customer, a middle-aged gentleman with thinning gray hair. The man is wearing new trainers and jogs up and down the length of the corridor to try them out. Now that's good service.

There is a guy sitting next to me reading Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. What a coincidence. I'm reading a book. Amitav Ghosh's The Hungry Tide.

I turn away to press a tissue to my nose, ladylike, and the guy sniffles and does the same. More coincidence. He orders a cup of coffee and a tart, slowly extracts his phone to take a picture. Adds a filter. Instagram. I think we're meant to be.

Some Italians arrive with their lilting accents, obvious regulars who order espresso.
The baristas, in the quiet hours, build a tower out of cardboard cups.
At one point in time, I glance up--through the window I see a beanie, a pair of skinny jeans, face obscured behind a camera. He's taken my picture. Pretty sure I'm famous now.

I read. Haruki Murakami guy next to me reads. He feels our connection.
He closes his book, love's blossom breaking in his heart.
He packs up, leaves.

Our bond was too deep for words. 

Bah, Humbugs

When I came home from Dorset, I found this on my desk, which was wonderful because I was completely knackered from my travails. Rachel had bought me a stash of British candies, following our conversation on humbugs and other delectables described in any of Enid Blyton's books. I still want to eat the pop biscuits from The Faraway Tree.

Dorset

Two weekends ago I took the train to Dorset, or "encountered the delights of the British railroad," as my housemate Rachel puts it. I was to stay the weekend at a lodge, a haven for fugitives such as myself. I was joined by others in my Master's degree and it was wonderful and terrible at the same time. It was exhausting. I am not nearly as social as I pretend to be. I don't think the others were either.

The bed-and-breakfast Sunnyside Farm, where some of the students stayed for the weekend.

The Dorset Wildlife Trust provided boots for anyone wishing to take a stroll through the untouched countryside. I borrowed a pair and went wading through the River Hook with a net and an innate sense of curiosity. 

The blackberries were in season. 

I took this out a car window on our way to the beach.  

On the last day of the writers' retreat, I stopped by Sunnyside Farm and had tea with Mandy, the owner and hostess. Her two dogs were about and with her permission, I took this picture of one of them in her living room.