Saturday, May 03, 2003
AN ODE TO BRITAIN
It is May Bank Holiday weekend here in the the U.K. That means we have this coming Monday as a national holiday.
What a country!
It is now, I readily confess, my second home. American writer Bill Bryson, who now makes a fortune writing travel books, came into his own with a book called "Notes From A Small Island," which was -- you guessed it -- an ode to, as well as a mild criticism of, the British isles. All things considered, the British consider Bryson's wry views of Britain hilarious.
And they mostly are. But having read it, I found it oddly inconsistent. He could never quite seem to make up his mind, lurching back and forth between contradictory undertones: Bryson writes of Britain as a wonderful museum, a place that has history dripping all over everything, and the plumbing doesn't work properly; but it is also annoying to Bryson that Britain is a wonderful museum, a place that has history dripping all over everything, and -- dammit! -- the plumbing doesn't work properly!
But Britain is not a museum anymore, if it ever really was one, and the plumbing mostly DOES work.
Friends and family here don't get it when I have said that Britain on a Sunday reminds me of New York on a Sunday in the 1970s. Slowly, the stores here are opening increasingly longer, and soon it will be a normal day like any other. But it feels different here, still, somehow.
The weather is indeed mostly lousy and/or unpredictable. But I have never seen a prettier countryside anywhere than a British one on a sunny summer Sunday afternoon.
London is crowded and congested. The fabled London Underground is now showing its age. But there is no place like London. London in an evening is worth experiencing, just to experience. And the London Underground is much cleaner, safer and more user friendly than the New York subway.
From a small place we have on the south coast, a short walk round the corner can get you a gorgeous eyeful -- presuming it's not raining, of course! -- of the cliffs of the Isle of Wight, off in the distance. Thomas Jefferson first landed in Europe in 1784 at Cowes, on the Isle, before later crossing over to France. Jefferson had a great deal of dislike for the British government, and he did not enjoy his time here then, or later.
Today, there are Americans all over the place. They visit, mostly, and usually enjoy their time here. Oh, they behave like tourists. But so what? These days, most of us are tourists of one sort or another, in one place or another. And there are all those U.S. dead in U.S. military cemeteries doted around the country. They, unlike the tourists, are definitely here to stay.
We had a couple of deaths in the family recently. And my wife and I had chatted about -- morbidly, one might guess, as we are only in our late 30s, but these talks are necessary -- where we would be buried? Would I be buried here, someday? I don't know the answer. I suppose the answer is, honestly . . . maybe. I wish to be interred with her, wherever that will be.
We were thinking of buying a place in the West, or in upstate New York, and maybe finish life's ride in the U.S. Who knows what the future holds though? If that never happens, and we end up here forever, if I can't be buried in the U.S., I can think of no other place where I would rather rest forever than in Britain.
And that is really the ultimate tribute anyone can pay to anywhere, if you think about it.
¶ by Robert, 5/03/2003 04:22:00 PM
It is May Bank Holiday weekend here in the the U.K. That means we have this coming Monday as a national holiday.
What a country!
It is now, I readily confess, my second home. American writer Bill Bryson, who now makes a fortune writing travel books, came into his own with a book called "Notes From A Small Island," which was -- you guessed it -- an ode to, as well as a mild criticism of, the British isles. All things considered, the British consider Bryson's wry views of Britain hilarious.
And they mostly are. But having read it, I found it oddly inconsistent. He could never quite seem to make up his mind, lurching back and forth between contradictory undertones: Bryson writes of Britain as a wonderful museum, a place that has history dripping all over everything, and the plumbing doesn't work properly; but it is also annoying to Bryson that Britain is a wonderful museum, a place that has history dripping all over everything, and -- dammit! -- the plumbing doesn't work properly!
But Britain is not a museum anymore, if it ever really was one, and the plumbing mostly DOES work.
Friends and family here don't get it when I have said that Britain on a Sunday reminds me of New York on a Sunday in the 1970s. Slowly, the stores here are opening increasingly longer, and soon it will be a normal day like any other. But it feels different here, still, somehow.
The weather is indeed mostly lousy and/or unpredictable. But I have never seen a prettier countryside anywhere than a British one on a sunny summer Sunday afternoon.
London is crowded and congested. The fabled London Underground is now showing its age. But there is no place like London. London in an evening is worth experiencing, just to experience. And the London Underground is much cleaner, safer and more user friendly than the New York subway.
From a small place we have on the south coast, a short walk round the corner can get you a gorgeous eyeful -- presuming it's not raining, of course! -- of the cliffs of the Isle of Wight, off in the distance. Thomas Jefferson first landed in Europe in 1784 at Cowes, on the Isle, before later crossing over to France. Jefferson had a great deal of dislike for the British government, and he did not enjoy his time here then, or later.
Today, there are Americans all over the place. They visit, mostly, and usually enjoy their time here. Oh, they behave like tourists. But so what? These days, most of us are tourists of one sort or another, in one place or another. And there are all those U.S. dead in U.S. military cemeteries doted around the country. They, unlike the tourists, are definitely here to stay.
We had a couple of deaths in the family recently. And my wife and I had chatted about -- morbidly, one might guess, as we are only in our late 30s, but these talks are necessary -- where we would be buried? Would I be buried here, someday? I don't know the answer. I suppose the answer is, honestly . . . maybe. I wish to be interred with her, wherever that will be.
We were thinking of buying a place in the West, or in upstate New York, and maybe finish life's ride in the U.S. Who knows what the future holds though? If that never happens, and we end up here forever, if I can't be buried in the U.S., I can think of no other place where I would rather rest forever than in Britain.
And that is really the ultimate tribute anyone can pay to anywhere, if you think about it.
¶ by Robert, 5/03/2003 04:22:00 PM
