My grandfather
met me at St. Pancras—my first time seeing him since my visit, last
spring break. But then, I had flown in from D.C. and Papie (grandfather in
French) had met me at Paddington station.
His eyes seemed
to squint slightly, as if to make sure the blur in the distance was really me.
I’m sure I looked ridiculous as I rushed towards him, shooting my arm up into
the air, waving enthusiastically to signal that yes, it indeed was. I hadn’t
seen my grandfather in over a year—I really could care less as to what others
were thinking.
The stubble of
the shadow of his beard grazed my face as I leaned in for the French bise
(Americans greet with hugs, the French [and my mother’s side of the family]
greet with a kiss on either cheek). After four months abroad in Europe, it’s a
good feeling to take a trip purely to visit family. It’s the stronger reminder
that Europe holds so much more than just where I chose to study abroad.
____________________
The best way to
catch up, really, after a year away.
____________________
It’s interesting
returning to London after four months abroad; I know the city fairly well,
given of last spring's visit, yet, this time, I bring the perspective of having
lived in Europe during my past semester.
London lacks
Paris's cafe culture; the parks aren’t groomed to perfection. The people look
somewhat frumpy, and at least a quarter of the population wears sneakers. No
one stares, because here, it’s not a fashion faux pas. It’s a natural sense of
beauty—sort of one attained without too much effort, so unlike the careful
attention to detail that makes Paris, so Paris.
I’d forgotten the
ease of getting around in English. Of listening to the news without too much of
focus; Of not having rehearse what I wanted say when in line to return my
purchases at Primark. And of the little effort it takes to read text on
advertisements and bulletins around the city.
It’s amazing how much
we’re surrounded by language-- and of how easy it is to overlook it when the language
is that of your native tongue.
______________
I met my second
cousin Kate, Friday afternoon.
Although re-met
would be more exact, given I've been told I've met her when I was a child.
She took me for
tea at the Camden Town Costa Coffee; Camden Town is a rougher looking area,
slightly dingy, largely hipster and known for its [if you catch it in the right
light] picturesque canal. I had left, last time, telling myself it would be the
last time I’d pay the area visit.
It was wonderful
meeting my cousin—a woman in her early 30s, recently married and a
founder of a London- based, PR company. We chatted for an hour,
swapping stories of our lives and sharing stories of the family.
She told me of her grandmother-— my one great- grandmother still alive. My father has always had a close bond with my great- grandmother, visiting her each time he returns to London. And so I thought it would be special to meet her. But the visit hadn’t worked out my last trip to London, nor did it happen this time around. Kate left me with beautiful stories of the woman—her warmth and love for all. Of her vibrant sense of independence and her fascinating streak of energy and personality.
I didn’t grow up
surrounded by extended family. Sure, my grandparents visited three times year
and I’d see my other set of great- grandparents once a year. But we never
switched homes for shabbat meals, never had family near us to join for
celebrations. And so with each trip to London, I piece a part of the lives my
parents left behind. Of the history of my heritage, the stories of my family—-it's
a part of my background, a part of me that I've missed by growing up away from
England. It's something I've always been aware of yet never sure what to make
of, given for me, I've never known anything different.
I returned home,
that evening, for shabbos dinner with my grandparents and aunt and uncle-- a
norm for them but an evening quite special, for me. There's always that small
tinge of sadness for what I could have had, had I grown up in London. Still, I’m
lucky to experience it now, 20 years later.
Papie laying the shabbos table-- they've owned this home since they got married, only renting it out once, during their 7 year stay in Paris. |
______________
I tagged along
with my grandmother for Saturday morning, Shabbat services. A fifteen-minute
walk from my grandparents’ home, it’s the same shul my grandmother went to as a
child, that my mother grew up in and that both my grandparents and my parents
got married at.
I’ve spent my
life jumping between places. From our move from Europe to the states,
California to Florida, around Florida, D.C. and now this temporary stint in
Paris-- I’ve moved schools, moved lives, made new friends, lost others. In many
ways, it's left me flexible in adapting to a new environment. But in doing so,
it leaves me without too much of a connection to one particular place.
But this shul—this
is a shul my family, three generations back, has a connection to. My
grandfather sits in the same seat that my great- grandfather used to sit in.
And my grandmother can point out where her mother used to sit, three rows
behind in the shul's upstairs women's section.
Far from the home
I grew up in the states, lies a place rich with a part of my family history. I
find it remarkable and unlike anything I've ever grown up around.
__________________
I loved evenings
with my grandparents. Papie recounted stories of his backpacking adventure
through Italy—hitchhiking his way through the country, sleeping in a stranger’s
car for a night given he couldn’t afford to pay for a hotel. He talked of his
solo travels, of his love for the experience yet of the loneliness he felt, spending extended periods alone.
We'd work our way
upstairs after dinner, the three of us preparing to settle in for the night. It
was these moments that I most loved. I’d sit on the staircase, my grandmother
seated on the chair behind me, the two of us running through my pictures to
choose ones to send to my mother. Other evenings, I'd walk into my
grandparents' room, enjoying the company as we did our own thing. And the time
my grandmother went through her makeup drawer, dishing out eyeliner and mascara
she no longer wanted. Of me trying it on, commenting on how well the makeup
worked. Of my grandmother agreeing—and then deciding perhaps she should have it
back.
I slept in my
uncle’s old room, nestled in a new sleeping bag my grandparents had bought
especially for my visit. For comfort, the sleeping bag was set on top of an
older sleeping bag—-one for a small child and the same on I used, at age nine,
when we had come to London for our Green Cards. I had slept in the same room,
but at the time it had seemed so much larger. Things have a way of looking
different as you grow up.
Hanging out with Mamie in my mother's old room. |
__________________
The country was
in midst of celebration for the Queen’s Jubilee, during my weekend visit. The event was one was of burgeoning national pride—highlighted
by the two, British flags bearing the Queen’s face, posted on the front window of my grandparents' home.
My grandparents
love the royal family, my grandmother raving over the 60 years of the Queen’s
loyalty and service for the country. A living proof of the country's extensive history, the Queen guides prime
ministers with her wealth of experience, warming the heart of the country
through that smile of hers that, my grandmother likes to say, has never
faltered over the 60 years of her reign.
I don’t really
understand why people want their tax dollars going towards a "royal"
family, when the rest of the country is suffering from an economic crisis and
job shortage. But that’s just my opinion.
I went to Tower
Bridge to take part in Sunday's river procession. I couldn’t see anything given
I was so far away from the water, but the large screens broadcasted the boats
making their way along the Thames, ending just under the bridge that I, and the
hundreds of others, were standing on. I left drenched, as the rain poured down
just after the Queen passed under Tower Bridge.
__________________
It had been a
good visit, however fast it all went by. It never fails to leave me reflecting
over what life could have been had we not moved from London. It’s strange
having a connection to London, when in so many ways, I feel more American than
anything else.
The passports
that’s granted me passageway for my travels reads British, and the background
and home environment I grew up around is also British. But my pride in my
country is pride more for America, than for England. I shared the excitement
for the Jubilee as an observer, not as someone who grew up with admiration for
the royal figure that symbolizes my country, my heritage, my people.
I left London not
any more clear of my connection to my birthplace. It’s home away from home
because my family lives there. But the city itself… that I haven’t yet built the
relationship with. There's no stamp on my passport and I didn't come away with a new pair of Primark traveling blue
shoes, because they were out of them in my size.
And so I left my grandparents,
early Monday morning. Our goodbyes were rushed given I didn’t want to miss the
bus. But it’s better that way as I’m not good at goodbyes, especially the drawn
out ones to people I don’t want to leave.
The view outside
blurred as the bus picked up speed, leaving my grandparents and the city behind
as we made our way to the airport. I’d be in the Holy Land by the evening:
Home, in Israel.
(Trip to Israel: to be continued...)
1 Response to Home away from home: London, Part 1
London is famous for its art, architecture, food and fashion, some of which it does better than anywhere else in the world.
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