Bridge Songs

by Jean Roberta



Here is my favourite poem about living in the moment, written in the dawn of a day just after the dawn of the nineteenth century:

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

By William Wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:/ Dull would he be of soul who could pass by/ A sight so touching in its majesty:/ This City now doth, like a garment, wear/ The beauty of the morning; silent, bare/ Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie/ Open unto the fields, and to the sky;/ All bright and glittering in the smokeless air./ Never did sun more beautifully steep/ In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;/ Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!/ The river glideth at his own sweet will:/ Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;/ And all that mighty heart is lying still!

According to the poet, he and his sister Dorothy were in a carriage, leaving London, which then had a population of approximately 200K, which is the current size of the town where I live on the Canadian prairie. Wordsworth took a kind of mental snapshot of what he saw, before the invention of the camera. “Majesty” is the word he chose to describe the sight of such a huge metropolis.

According to some critics, the “sleeping” city seems dead, but this interpretation seems to me to miss the point. “All that mighty heart” is about to kick into life when horse-drawn vehicles and pedestrians begin going about their business, and smoke pours into the sky. (None of it will come from locomotives, which are still in the drawing stage.) Maidservants will shout “Gardez l’eau!” before pouring the contents of chamber-pots out of windows. Passers-by will move out of the way and hope nothing splashes onto their hats. City life simply requires a certain tolerance.

Street vendors will begin crying their wares, and the resulting symphony of sound will include (according to another English poet of the time, William Blake) “the harlot’s cry from street to street.”

I’ve always wondered what that “cry” sounded like – “fresh cunt, tuppence for a taste, a shilling a feel?” A modern reader can only imagine.

In any case, no one is crying anything in the moment when Wordsworth is bidding farewell to London. The City seems to be holding its breath.

The fact that the view is described from a bridge is not a coincidence. While on a bridge, you are not on one side or the other – you are literally suspended over a body of water, and it’s like being suspended in time. It’s also not a coincidence that this poem is a sonnet, traditionally a serenade to a loved one. Instead of being addressed to a person, this sonnet is addressed to a city in a moment that will never be repeated.

Living for the moment is an essential element in the philosophy known as Romanticism, which Wordsworth adopted when it was new. Many years later, (1966, to be exact), the American troubadours Simon and Garfunkel honoured another city bridge and the spirit of the Now which was then associated with a generation of Romantics known as hippies.

You can hear and see this serenade to the 59th Street Bridge in New York City on youtube. Unfortunately, I couldn't upload the video here, so here is an image of the bridge itself, built in 1909 to connect Manhattan (an island) to the borough of Queens:

The 59th Street Bridge Song

By Simon and Garfunkel

Slow down, you move too fast.
You got to make the morning last.
Just kicking down the cobble stones.
Looking for fun and feelin' groovy.

Ba da, Ba da, Ba da, Ba da...Feelin' Groovy.

Hello lamp-post,
What cha knowin'?
I've come to watch your flowers growin'.
Ain't cha got no rhymes for me?
Doot-in' doo-doo,
Feelin' groovy.

I've got no deeds to do,
No promises to keep.
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep.
Let the morning time drop all its petals on me.
Life, I love you,
All is groovy.

If William and Dorothy Wordsworth had had access to a recording device, who knows what a sweet duet they might have passed down to us? But all artists record the flavour of their lives as best they can at the time.

And we’re free to relive those moments in our own time. That’s the magic of art.

The Inner Me Has a British Accent

A writer friend sent this picture to me recently. It's now my wallpaper on my computer. It keeps me calm to look at it. Sane, even. It might as well say, "Go to your happy place."

I have been to London three times: in 2003, 2006 and 2007 (for my 4oth birthday). I cannot believe it's been four years since I've been to my favorite city-- I cannot believe it will likely be at least another year before I find my way back there again.

I've already told you about my love affair with London-- and the possibility that I might get to live there for a couple of years. It's looking less likely as time goes by, but I still fantasize about it. (And there are many lovely men with accents in my fantasies...)

Whenever I'm feeling particularly overwhelmed (like now) or depressed (ditto) or stressed (uh huh...), I think about running away. Planning a trip-- even if it's months or a year in advance-- gives me something to look forward to when everything else seems bleak. Most often, the UK is my destination-- and London is my starting point. I've been on three trips to the UK, around 24 days total, and there is still so much I haven't seen-- and so many things I want to see again. And someday, when they're old enough, I look forward to introducing my little boys to the city I love most.

A west coast writer friend and I are talking about going to the UK next year and I am trying to find a way to make it happen. Scratch that-- I'm not trying to make it happen, I'm going to make it happen. (Look out, UK writer friends!) England and Scotland. City and sea. Writing and dreaming. And waiting...

England-- and London in particular-- feels a bit like home to me in a way I can't explain. I am a different person there-- more authentic, more alive, more me, in some way. When I'm feeling lost in my own life and don't recognize myself, thinking about going to England brings me back to center and reminds me who I am. The writer, the free spirit, the girl. Maybe that's why my imagination runs there even when I can't.

Me, enjoying the sunshine in Cambridge on my 4oth birthday. My 45th birthday is next spring. I hear London calling...

London Calling?

By Kristina Wright

The text message made my heart race. No, not in that way. In a different way-- a way that stirred the wanderlust in me.

"There is a two year tour to London that starts in February 2013..."

Oh!

The text was from my husband, a naval officer. The tour would have us packing up and moving to London for two years. The logistics are a bit mind boggling at the moment, but the opportunity to live in London for two years seems worth it. Almost?

I have have had a love affair with London since 2003, but I've been in love with England since I was a little girl. The monarchy, the pageantry, the history... England was where a woman could be a powerful leader-- and a princess in a castle. At least, that's the way my young imagination interpreted it.

I read about Henry VIII and his wives-- I memorized their names and their stories. I got up early to watch Princess Diana get married and I watched her funeral with tears in my eyes. I didn't get up early to watch Prince William's nuptials, but I recorded it. When I was a teenager, a British accent would make me swoon. Not much has changed.

I'm not good at running away-- not in any real sense. I may have fantasized about running away when I was a kid, but I never attempted it. The price to be paid when I was dragged home was simply not worth the risk. I dreamed of running away to Europe, to travel the world, to study abroad, to be a photo journalist... but as deep as the wanderlust runs, there is also a need for comfort and consistency and a sense of place and identity.

I married a Navy man and that fed some of my wanderlust-- though we've somehow managed to stay on the east coast for our entire 21 year marriage. I guess it's not really running away when you take your spouse with you-- or when your spouse's career is the reason.

Ironically enough, I hate moving and have never moved within the same state. But there is that part of me, the small part that exists on some alternate plain of reality, that has fantasized about skipping the off ramp to my house and driving on... to wherever. Stopping when the mood hits me, starting over, changing my name, living a completely different life. Much like the fantasy of running away from my dysfunctional childhood home, it's just a daydream and never something I'd actually do. It's not even something I really want to do-- but it does hold a certain appeal.

I don't suppose moving to England would qualify as running away, though in some ways it feels like that's exactly what I'd be doing. Yes, I'd have a husband and two toddlers in tow, but it would be a major (if temporary) life change. And that's what running away is about, right? Changing your life by changing your location. It not only appeals to my creative side, it appeals to the little girl in me who dreamed of living in a castle and calling the shots.

I don't know if we'll make the big move. The logistics make my head hurt: a house here to rent or sell, housing to find in London, determining what to do with all of our belongings and vehicles, finding foster homes for our pets (or managing the red tape that would allow us to at least bring the cats with us), moving with two young children who won't understand any of what's going on, having to work out the details on everything from bank accounts to medical care, not to mention finding reliable, trustworthy childcare so that I can continue to write and edit on the other side of the pond. And that's just the practical stuff. There's also leaving everything familiar and saying goodbye to friends. It's realizing there would be a period of adjustment and days of wishing for X, which can only be found in the U.S., or in Virginia, or in Chesapeake. Moments of loneliness, isolation, homesickness... and certainly moments of adventure, excitement and opportunity. There's so much to think about.

I'm not good at running away, obviously. I have friends who would make a move like this without a thought. But my wanderlust is tempered with that need for familiarity and now-- when I'm 8 months pregnant and in full on nesting mode-- is not the time for me to be considering moving to another country. I told my husband I couldn't make such a big decision while my hormones are bouncing all over the place and my maternal instinct is in overdrive. I told him we'd talk about it again in a couple of months-- and yet I find myself mentioning it at least a couple of times a week. It's a nice little daydream, especially when I'm hugely pregnant and miserably uncomfortable in this crazy summer heat.

Maybe running away in my mind is good enough. Maybe. But there was one very important question I had to ask before I'd even entertain the idea of moving to England. My husband's response has kept the possibility alive:

"There's a Starbucks nearby."

Old News: The Chance Not Taken

Fleet Street, London, England: one of the world’s great communication centres. Tall buildings bear the names of venerable newspapers.

It is 1974. The 1940s Retro Look is in. The maze of winding streets and the fast trains of the underground Tube are full of young women in ruby-red lipstick, heavy eyeliner, hats with demi-veils, padded shoulders, seamed stockings, platform shoes. The occasional brave young man in feminine drag can be seen in broad daylight. The rock-and-roll beat of Swinging London is giving way to disco and reggae. Every race, every language and every accent seems to be represented here.

A bewildered colonial, age 22, stands at several crossroads, wondering which way to go. She travels with a copy of London A-Z, but it doesn’t always provide enough direction in the moment. Above ground, she dodges an endless stream of small British cars that whizz around roundabouts like wind-up toys.

I’m here because I chose to accompany my professor dad (on a one-year sabbatical to study the British economy) my mom and two little sisters, though I could have survived at home in Canada on my own.

Canada hasn’t been our home forever. I grew up in the semi-desert of southern Idaho. We moved to the Canadian prairie in 1967, and there is the rub. We are all still American citizens.

No one in the family needs a job except me. My sisters are in public school (“public” in the American sense), and settling in reasonably well, as far as they’ve told me. Mom is a housewife, and she could do that job anywhere. Dad takes field trips. They live in a picturesque village in Surrey, where I visit them on weekends.

I thought of dabbling in university classes, but that wasn’t practical. The tuition would have been much higher than for a native, and to earn a degree, I would have to start at the beginning and soldier on for years. Nix that option.

I need a job. I’ve gone to two employment agencies, which have already sent me to various job interviews. Young women of my age seem to be in demand for display jobs of all sorts: as shop assistants, waitresses, secretary/receptionists, typists. Especially typists. I’ve taken some university classes in Canada, and I’ve done summer typing jobs. Now I seem to be type-cast.

I told one of the employment agencies about my special problem: non-Commonwealth citizenship. Anyone who hires me would have to navigate some red tape to do it. Or I would have to find a loophole for myself in a national system designed (like all others) to favour the home-grown.

The other employment agency doesn’t know I am legally still American. I was asked where I came from, and I said, “Canada.” That answer seemed satisfactory.

Going from one interview to another, I try to see myself through the eyes of prospective employers: young and trainable, short and slim, pink-skinned and brown-haired (not an “immigrant” in the racist sense), lacking in style (but after all, she’s from one of the Ends of the Earth), and the accent – good Lord! Eliza Doolittle of the North, with Canadian vowels. But given time, she could learn to Speak Properly and be promoted from the back office to the front desk.

I usually go to job interviews in my Metis Hat, as I think of it: a hand-sewn tan leather hat with a beaded band, made on a native reserve in northern Saskatchewan. If I'm an obvious colonial, I might as well adopt a visual signature.

The agency that doesn’t know about my citizenship has given me a lead on a writing job for the London Daily Telegraph. This sounds almost too exciting to be real, but a newspaper office is a practical place. Demonstrated skill in writing might substitute for credentials or experience in journalism. I know I can do this. The interviewer will want to know how I spell “centre” and “colour” and “civilised.” Hello! I’m a quick study and I attended secondary school in Canada.

The agency that knows about my citizenship problem has set me up with a charity organisation, the Cancer Research Campaign. They need something called an Area Clerk. It sounds less stressful than the newspaper job. It sounds boring.

I go to Fleet Street. I find the office of the Daily Telegraph, which looks intimidating. I don’t go in.

There is no good time in an interview to bring up a hiring problem which the interviewer was not told about before. What if I convince someone that I am a brilliant writer, with a nose for news, and then let them know that to hire me, they have to apply for government permission? Pissed-off Londoners are a scary lot. Someone might even tell me to go back to wherever I came from.

I go to the Cancer Research Campaign. A brisk woman interviewer is professionally charitable. She offers to take me on as a Clerk to be paid in luncheon vouchers and Tube fare until I am legally approved, then I am to be paid an extra two pounds per week to compensate for my indentured-servant phase. Luckily, I am already living with my new boyfriend, so I don’t need to pay rent.

I report back to both employment agencies that I have found a job. I never see the inside of the Daily Telegraph office.

For years afterward, I remember a newspaper comic strip of my youth, Brenda Starr: Girl Reporter, and substitute my own name (or pen name) for hers. Here is Jean Roberta, Foreign Correspondent for the London Daily Telegraph, reporting from Cairo, Jerusalem, Moscow, Paris, Washington DC. Or even from Ottawa, capital city of Canada, or the town in the wheat-growing region where she spent part of her youth. Between news articles, I might be assigned to write local-colour stories about dusty corners of the Empire on which Queen Victoria's sun never set.

By 2011, my accent would probably be acceptable by London standards, if not exactly suited for marrying into the Royal Family (never my ambition anyway). Would I have bullet-holes in my luggage? Would I have a repertoire of war stories? Would I be dead? Perhaps I've experienced all that in a parallel dimension.

Back to 1974: at the urging of my Nigerian boyfriend, I return to Canada with my family, and become a Canadian citizen. This change of status will make it easier for me to get typing jobs with various branches of the Canadian government. It will also make it easier to bring Boyfriend into Canada as my fiance. He expects to marry into luxury.

As they say, hindsight is perfect.

I could have stayed in London when my parents and sisters left Surrey. I was so useful to the Cancer Research Campaign that I probably could have stayed at my desk there as long as I could stand it. The retired military men who ran the place might even have helped me sort out my citizenship problem.

But that's not the choice I made. Now I don't remember where I left my Metis Hat. I wonder if London would recognise me without it. Or vice versa.


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