The Wesleyan Argus

The Wesleyan Argus
Features - March 4, 2008

Notes from abroad: A London diary

By Thomas Beckwith

Belgium is cold. This is the first thought that occurs to me after I cross the English Channel. Not that the wine and the beer and the chocolateтА"which I ate with two friends in quaint holes-in-the-wall that shame all the shops in EnglandтА"was the best I have ever had and the best I ever will have, perhaps, in all of my travels in Europe. Not that the cobblestone streets and gilded cathedrals of Brussels, its capital, are exactly the same as they were when Napoleon invaded. Not that three gypsies in threadbare scarves attacked my roommateтАЩs waffle. All I can think about as I stare at the white cliffs of Dover is this: that country is terribly cold. Even on the Channel, its winds come back to haunt me.

***

In the middle of a square in Brussels, the three of usтА"my roommate, my friend from Vanderbilt and IтА"bought waffles at a nearby stand. We took them across the square to a white plastic table and sat. A little girl approached us. She said something in FrenchтА"none of us speak FrenchтА"and opened a tawny hand. In the cup of her palm were a few bronze coins, all glinting. She pointed to our pockets and asked us again for money. We shook our heads. She implored us again; we resumed eating our waffles. A mother and a grandmother appeared from behind the girl, yelling. We picked up our plates and got up to leave. The eldest gypsy swatted my roommateтАЩs plate. A fork clattered. We turned from the table and ran, huddled around our waffles, out of the square and into the sunlit street.

***

Today in Shakespeare class we discussed Othello in groups. There were three girls in mineтА"two American, one BritishтА"and me. We tackled romantic ideals. In the middle of our discussion a lull came over the group, as the four of us searched together for a decent thing to say. The voices of other students seemed louder, harsher. The British girl noted aloud: тАЬThis is the first time IтАЩve been in a class where Americans outnumbered Brits.тАЭ
The three of us looked around sheepishly. тАЬSorry,тАЭ we said, and laughed.

***

My third day in London, I spent an hour or so walking around campus in a vain attempt to perfect my mental map. Near nightfallтА"indistinguishable, as fog was filling the streetsтА"I saw a man in a phonebooth, one foot on the pavement. He spotted me and called: тАЬMate, can you help me?тАЭ I wondered faintly if he was planning to mug me, rob me, pull me into the booth; no, no, too late, I was already walking over. тАЬMate, can you lend me a pound? Just one, IтАЩm out of minutes and need to call my girlfriend. One pound.тАЭ I opened my wallet, already fat with change, and fished from its darkness a thick, heavy coin. тАЬIs this it? IтАЩm new here.тАЭ He examined it as one might examine a pearl, then snatched it up and said: тАЬBrilliant, just brilliant! Thank you!тАЭ
In later weeks, I would err on the side of caution. That night, though, it was worth it to hear his phrase.

***

I could write that the weather here has been awful, unbearable, bone-chilling, but that would be a lie. Nothing is nicer than a cool, foggy day in London: the coastal wind lets down the battered flag, and every oncoming car emerges from miles of mist. A foreign vapor beads above my eyebrows; I lick with the tip of my tongue a water tinged with smog. No sun, no beach, no azure day, just a little dose of mystery courtesy of the sea. Gift of the Arctic, howling far above.

***

What once took daysтА"traveling from London to ParisтА"now takes a couple of hours. The Eurostar, a high-speed train system that monopolizes the route, passes through the Chunnel in under half an hour. Since the bilingual announcements no longer point out its entrance, the tunnel is easy to miss; a dark blur and a single bar of steel are all I can see as I speed under the ocean. I wonder what it felt like to cross two centuries earlier, when rickety ships were the only way across. In those days, an army on the move would head directly for BelgiumтА"whoever held Belgium, the wisdom went, тАЬheld a pistol to England.тАЭ And now, weary commuters make the journey weekly, with as little fanfare as commuters on Long Island.
Is travel slowly dying? Will it mean anything, in a hundred years, to fly across the world?

***

Here I am in London, a billowing black speck amongst eight million others, savoring the sights as I squint against the wind. If it changes me somehow, in some way I canтАЩt yet name, IтАЩll return to the States with a sense of our countryтАЩs ancestors. If not, I can already tell that IтАЩll be glad to have earned these stories.