A Poet, A Boat, A Cup of Tea

We arrived in England in that dazed state in which one emerges from a trip across time zones: weary, disoriented, and vaguely surprised, as though we had tumbled out of a tunnel onto another planet. We were lucky of course to be greeted by people who matter to us, and after a leisurely lunch followed by an impromptu nap on the living room rug, we all went to visit George-the-Poet at his home, which happens to be a gaily painted boat he shares with his girlfriend and their  cat.

The boat, named Mr. Chimes, was moored at Abingdon Lock on the River Thames, and we walked across a field to get there, then past the lock-keeper's house and a colorful neighborhood of houseboats. Jill carried a gift of lemon cake, and the late afternoon sun was still bright, but a chill wind whipped our hair and made the treetops dance, and I wish I'd worn a sweater.

George greeted us cheerfully and showed us around the boat's cozy interior, which was like a long railroad car with everything you might need, including a kitchen shelf stocked with spices and staples such as thyme and Tick Tock tea, and there were special touches of decor -- handmade curtains, a lava lamp, a green ukulele on the wall. Remember the Boxcar Children who fixed up an abandoned boxcar in the forest and turned it into home? It had that sort of feeling, except it rocked.

George went outside and poured some fuel into the generator, then made us tea, apologizing for the scarcity of milk...That's about it, unless I milk a swan...and set out a group of chairs on the grass for us, and we sat there by the Thames eating lemon cake as the river sparkled by and the sun dipped lower in the sky and lit things in that golden way it does, and I know that isn't much of a story, but it all seemed pretty wonderful to me.

Meanwhile, in a strange cosmic twist of fate, there had been a volcanic eruption in Iceland again, timed perfectly with our arrival, and there is still speculation that ash might possibly cause some flight cancellations later in the week. Our flight to Berlin isn't until the week after that, so I'm pretty sure we'll be fine, but we couldn't help but think about how we were stranded last year for the same reason, and never made it to Berlin, and we had that weird Groundhog Day sensation, like maybe we had never left, or we were going to keep doing this until we got it right.

That was all on Sunday, I guess, and today was a blur. I'm still very tired, and the weather is cold, although Monte keeps checking weather reports and telling me it's exactly the same at home. We walked around Oxford, mostly, and I started to feel sort of cranky, and I happened upon a book in Blackwell's by William Morris about his travels in Iceland. I opened it at random and was struck by this quote: "If we travel to escape ourselves, we also find it difficult to leave ourselves behind."

I am definitely here.