Home Really Is Where The Heart Is

2008-06-16T16:10:15+02:00

I think I was about eight years old when I first became aware that England existed, and that its inhabitants spoke with a glorious (to my tender American ears) accent.

It wasn't long after when I learned that England had a Queen, was home to the music I loved so well, featured the kind of history we only read about in storybooks at home.

My frank anglophile tendencies annoyed my parents in the extreme but it was always my dream to go there.

Fast forward a couple of decades and change. (Actually, a lifetime in terms of growth and development and circumstancial upheaval.)

The forces of the cosmos and the benevolance of the Universe came together and I found myself touching down on British soil in February, 2008 for the first time.

I cried.

But not nearly so hard as I did when I had to leave again ten days later.

Determined to put as much goodness in my life as possible, by dint of ferocious self denial, I managed to return in May for another blissful ten days.

And wept piteously when I had to leave. Again.

Now I am back in the States, but my heart remains in London and it the background noise in my head is the shrill hum of activity as I put vigorous cognitive effort towards figuring out how best to manage the next trip back before too much time elapses.

Home really is where the heart is.

At the flat, I feel so secure and blissed out and thoroughly peaceful and content.

Granted, that's where The Man is, so wherever he is is going to feel like home to me. But London? Amazing. The history, the architecture, the culture - all of it - blows me away.

I love it.

I so enjoy being surrounded by hordes of people, ALL OF WHOM have a British accent. To me, it is a beautiful auditory experience.

The Man has begun introducing me to his friends, whose company I have greatly enjoyed and now, even if only by association, I have friends there too.

I get a charge out of looking right before I cross the road, and I delight in hearing the faceless voice on the tube telling me "This is a Piccadilly Line Service. Mind the gap.".

It's been an effort to keep pronouncing words the way I was taught as a child, because I so much prefer the British pronunciation of tomato, glacier, and kebab. (However I have been cautioned to knock it off when I try saying it their way - tomah-toe, glassier, ke-bob - because, and I quote, it sounds unnatural according to The Man, and I sound like an idiot according to my brother.) But five minutes in the country and I start contracting the space between thank and you, and it sounds like than-kew and I smile inwardly, feeling more like I belong every moment.

Nobody else I know raves about the food in England, but I've never had a bad meal there. I've eaten Chinese, Indian, Italian, Turkish and traditional British fare in a proper English Pub. It's all been wonderful.

I'm a fan of the phone box, the paving stone, pear cider, and the extremely civilised public toilets (which funnily enough feel more private); they feature stalls with full length walls running all the way to the floor.

The supermarkets and pharmacies are playgrounds for me and I could wander their aisles for ages comparing products and prices and enjoying myself. Then again, that is true of most shopping venues.

Even the tacky souvenir vendors are a delight, and all the wares, however horrible they may seem to Britons, send me into a retail frenzy.

I like having pound notes and coins in my pocket and being able to sort it at a glance.

My heart squeezes more every day with the longing to be there again... I can't wait.

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Notes From The Anglo File

Home Really Is Where The Heart Is