Back to England
As l get older l ponder the question: what is my purpose in life?
I’m not exactly sure what the answer is to that question. But I do believe as I continued to journey I got closer to understanding why I journey and that the purpose of my journey is to not only feed a craving to wander around the world and look behind corners and soak in the subtle quirks that makes us all different, but also to use the journeying process as a way to understand the life l have lived, the infamous question ‘who am I?’ and understand what my purpose is.
We arrived in London at the beginning of this section of our journey. When I arrive in England I always feel that I have come home, regardless of the fact that I have lived over half of my life in the United States. In the US the geography of the region I lived in is familiar, I know which road leads where. But in England familiarity is not knowledge-based, it is soul-based. I understand the craving for a cup of tea and the soothing feeling it gives. I know the fine subtleties of society. The telly in the evening, Sunday walks and the local pub, are but a few of the long list of familiarities. England is in my bones. British is what I am, although to Brits I sound American.
I had arranged to meet Peter in a week in Florence, where we will live for six months. I welcomed the opportunity to travel alone. I never feel lonely when I journey alone. The crowds in the streets of London, Paris, and Milan give me a feeling of belonging. A feeling of warmth. I welcome the opportunity to sit in a café and look at the anonymous faces walking by. To sit on trains and feel at home amongst strangers. I had planned to take a week via train to travel from London to Florence.
My journey began at King’s Cross Station, St Pancras, where I caught the 9:30 Eurostar to Paris. There are two pianos placed in the large train station hall. Anyone can sit at the piano and play. On a crisp morning at 8 am a young woman sat at a piano. Dressed in a thin coat with a plastic bag full of clothes on the floor. She was a skilled pianist and played with power, beauty and richness as the people queued for the train. I preferred this experience to the anxiety air travel creates for me. Train travel is not only a positive alternative to flying for me, but also a form of travel where I stay connected to my soul. I will explain – In a train, I experience moving through time and space. Unlike a plane, which shoots my body through time and space, and then I spend a week catching up with myself.
I then took a train from Paris to Geneva. I Paid the extra for 1st class train travel, over the age of 60, so it is not a massive difference. I was served a three-course lunch on a white tablecloth with white napkins. The windows were huge and clean, and I sat upstairs. For me, this is the meaning of the word journey as a verb and not a noun. To experience, instead of flying over, green rolling hills, stone villages and those wonderful cream-colored cows, that look so classy and well-groomed. There was only one mishap the annoying man in the seat in front of me kept pulling the blinds down. He pulled down, I pushed up. The push, pull fiasco continued several times until I decided to change seats.
I arrived in Geneva where I had planned to spend the afternoon and evening before catching a morning train to Milan. I stood outside the train station watching the dot on my map point in different directions. The map seemed more disorientated than me. I stopped a woman who was wearing a shirt with a large ‘i’ on it and the word information underneath.
“I’m looking for the Hotel Bristol?”
“I do not know that.” She replied.
“It’s at the lake. Which way is the lake?”
She waved her hands in several directions and then replied.
“I do not know.”
“But you’re the information person, surely you have to know where Lake Geneva is in the town of Geneva?”
“I do not know.” She repeated.
I walked on hoping my map had recovered and thinking to myself she really needed a different job.
