Crossing the Pond...30 Years Ago

How can it possibly have been 30 years since my feet landed on British soil? I don't remember all of the details, but I do remember the giddiness that filled me, from planning the trip to touching down at Heathrow to experiencing a country I'd dreamed about all my life.

Fortunately, I kept a journal of my trip. Unfortunately, it was more of a "we went here, we went there, we were constantly amazed by..." kind of travelogue. It should have been a rich, clear picture of what it was like to walk and breathe among the spirit of kings and queens and commoners who lived over thousands of years. The thrill of Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, standing there with my lame little camera, trying to take pictures and realizing the futility of the attempt. Everything was so BIG, my photos from the trip are a disappointment.

If I were going there today, I imagine I would try to capture the small things, more of the details. I would have taken a shot of the cabby who took us to the airport, the one with the Cockney accent. He might as well have been speaking Swahili, it was that hard for us to understand each other. I might have taken a photo of the gentleman in the pizza place who was sitting strumming a guitar and singing, "I Can't Help Falling in Love with You" while my traveling companion was in the ladies' room. Or snapped the escalator at the tube station that seemed to reach to Mars. All of these images, alas, are only in my head.

What is it about my fascination with the British Isles? My ancestors were largely from Germany, but I've never had a desire to travel there. So I'm not sure. Perhaps it's having spent time in England in several previous lives, as one psychic told me. Maybe it's simply because America is such a young country. Our history only goes back a few hundred years, instead of a few thousand years. We don't have a Hadrian's Wall or a Canterbury Cathedral, where visits by centuries of pilgrims have worn down the stone stairs. And where Thomas Becket was martyred. There is no American counterpart to Dover castle, up on a hill, ready to defend the country against foreign invasion.

Looking back 30 years with a (maybe) more mature perspective, I think about my 24-year-old self. I was such a youngster, really, with my whole life ahead of me. I hadn't traveled much at all up to that point, so everything was truly an adventure. I can't imagine today just picking up and plopping down the money to fly across the ocean to make a dream happen. I admire that about my young self. What I lacked in maturity, I made up for in chutzpah.

At the end of my trip journal, I expressed a wish to return to the country of my dreams. In 30 years, I've pined, but never taken the plunge. I have a husband, a kid, a demanding job, financial obligations -- ties that didn't hold me back on my first trip.

Maybe someday I will go back. And experience the country I still love with deeper appreciation.

In the meantime, I'll have to rely on my memories, some less-than-fabulous photos, and the imprint the place left on my heart.