I had just completed my trail of tears when a little one hung his window from the first floor of the Abbington Guest House run by a Ms. Spence. The spout, known as my forehead, was on rain and my clothes soaked. "What are you looking for?" hurled down the young lad. "The blanket infected with smallpox, please," I screamed in my mind but ended up muttering, "someone to check me in."
"Someone to Check me in."
"Have you checked 127?"
I felt like I was boarding at an old school European establishment. I rang the bell at 127 and no one answered. "I stand at the door and Knock...I Stand at the door," Kept running through my brain. "Yeah they'll be sorry they didn't let the both of us in," I threatened cognitively then returned to my previous resting spot.
"Any Luck?" Asked the mini-face on the first floor.
"No," I answered.
"Did you go through the glass doors and knock on the next door?"
What was this kid, a senate inquiry council? "Yes, I did!!"
In a window three houses down I saw the familiar face of a classmate and he asked, "What are you doing?" I wanted to tell him I was waiting for Godot but it seemed existentially superior in tone, and that is not how I roll. I wonder how I must have looked holding the metal handle that was once used to pull my suitcase. This piece had broken off oh...about a mile ago on the "smooth" streets of Northampton. My clothes were soaked in sweat from the self-assured short journey from the train station to the B & B that ended up being 2 and a half miles in total. I must have looked pathetic dragging one bag while pushing the other broken in front of me saying various words that my mother has told me I can no longer type on this blog.because on my mournful sojourn an elderly gentleman took my bag and told me I was "struggling" in a most euphemistic tone. Oh well I suppose we all need help from our friends be they close or a random old man in England. He started pushing my bag and then asking my inflammatory questions about US policy (You know the typical European-American conversation). Then he started walking me in a direction away from the way I intended to go. Silently I followed but anxiety filled my gut. Who was this elderly Pakistani holding my suitcase leading me to a strange place. I began to picture a canvas bag over my face and my feet in water while I was being connected to a battery. About five times I almost grabbed my bag and told him this was my cross to bear, and mine alone. I would have sold Bush out just so long as I could live. Then we stopped at a corner and he asked me if I knew the rest of the way. He must have felt my fear. I said yes and began to march forward. I almost felt like crawling into the nearby park and finding a nice patch of trees and preparing myself to die. But I didn't, I continued remembering the proud heritage my pioneer ancestors. Pioneer Children sang as they walked, and walked, and walked. Funny enough that song mentions nothing about heat rash on their ever-rubbing thighs. Abington street was about a 1/2 mile from the attempted terrorist incident.
My classmate let me in and I entered my shangra-la. The place is wonderful. When I saw my begrudged Teacher she sayed, "Oh I sent you an email telling you to take a taxi. I sent it this morning was that to late." I told her no but inside I wanted go all french revolution on her Marie Antionette comment.