The Urge for Going
There’s a part of me that I thought had shriveled and gone. The part that longed to go to new places. The part that loved the journey as much as the destination. The part that wanted to explore and eat and jump on streetcars and bathe in different sun and different water. I had the urge for going as Joni puts it. Amsterdam, Rome, Paris, Sydney, Tokyo - I couldn’t get enough. Then it went away and I craved sameness and stability. I was tired of the upheaval, of packing up and making new friends. I decided to bloom where I was planted. About a month before the stay-at-home order, the urge for going came back. Maybe it was that the kid was getting older and starting to get her own travel bug. She wanted to see the Parthenon and Mount Olympus and the Labyrinth of the Minotaur and eat olives and stuffed vine leaves at a beachside restaurant.
And now I’m not sure when we’ll next get to take a trip to the mountains let alone a trip to Greece. The boats are all at harbour, the planes are grounded, trains are running on a reduced schedule. We’re not going anywhere. I read this recently and it has stayed with me through all the noise. This idea of revisiting our travels in our minds, like a wonderful, deeply realistic film. We can experience all the sensations again, except this time without our big, lumbering, annoying bodies bothered by a child complaining her feet hurt, or a sudden rainstorm, or getting on the wrong tube. We just relive the parts that are most vivid and beautiful to us.
When I decided to write about this I thought, where shall I go first? My first time in downtown Sydney walking down Macquarie Street seeing Circular Quay and the Opera House rise up to meet us? Christmas in Sapporo? For a country that doesn’t celebrate Christmas, Japan does it so well The twinkling lights, the perfect snow, the luxurious shop windows, the Father Christmas on a cross.
But I’m drawn to something so much more mundane. I suppose it shouldn’t be a big surprise as I miss my family so deeply but the film I want to put on starts on a June afternoon in a field in the Oxfordshire countryside. A village festival, amateur bands on a stage, lying on a blanket with kids playing close by. If I’m completely honest I admit that it’s not quite the perfect English summer day that I want it to be. It’s not quite warm enough, as it often isn’t there. But this is my movie and I’ll make the edits I want. The sun is shining and the odd little puffy cloud blows across the sky. There are various tents behind us with different attractions and I can’t decide which to go to first. There’s one that sells sweets that the kid and her cousin come back from with pockets bulging. Sherbet spaceships and lemon bonbons and jelly babies and lollipops. I’m trying to choose between the beer and crisps tent or the tea and cake tent. Not surprisingly, the cake wins.
For a pound I can get a flowery mug of good strong tea and a bit of cake. The tea comes from a big silver urn, dark brown with a splash of milk. The ladies behind the table don’t ask if I want milk, they just slosh it in. I recognise the mugs. I think my grandmother had the same ones. Creamy white with pink and brown flowers. Not fancy. Thick and sturdy and six for a fiver from Asda circa 1989.
Slices of cake are laid out on metal trays next to the tea urn. Each one perfectly English and I want all of them stacked high on a plate. But I need to leave room for that packet of salt and vinegar. There’s a light fruitcake, an almond cherry slice, a jam and cream sponge. A queue is starting to form behind me by the time I finally choose the fruitcake and head back to the blanket. The tea is perfectly hot, the cake full of sweet currants and sharp orange peel. The sun is on my back and my hand is in the soft grass. Steam rises in gentle whorls from the mug.
That’s it, right there. That’s my trip. For a few minutes, I’m free of self-isolation and sameness and worry. I’m in a field, on a lovely summer day, finishing my last sip of the perfect cup of tea, hearing someone ask if I fancy a pint.
