I'm starting this post from "the Coffee House" in Aberdeen, Scotland. I'm using my little blue notebook because boy is writing his family on my laptop. We have one of the best seats in the house -- cushions, great view, ample table space -- and have been enjoying the seat for probably three hours now.
One of the challenges Boy and Girl have encountered in this "traveling as a couple" business, is that not even a couple likes to be together 24/7. I don't like how committed Boy is to walking down narrow alleys that smell like garbage and urine, and he doesn't like how desperate I am to sit in parks that smell like duck poo. So we use our coffee shop time to get the hell away from each other. I order a coffee, do a bit of writing and send a few couchsurfing requests and Boy takes himself, his decrepit black journal, and his umbrella named Madeline for on an hour long walk. Then he returns and we switch places.
We've been at the cafe for three hours because both of us took our walks and then the foreboding clouds commenced belching rain. So now we're camping out. Buckling down. Doing our best to not interpret meaningful glances at our empty mugs as "you should buy something else if you're gonna stick around for three hours..."
There's a pianist to my left playing the theme song from "The Titanic" so beautifully. I feel nostalgic for my family's fireplace room and our little keyboard, where Jason would play this magical song and I'd wish I'd learned to play something other than the Fur Elise and Scarborough Fair.
Homesickness is really starting to settle in hard. Part of me assumed that traveling with Boy would just eliminate the whole homesickness aspect of traveling. I mean, I've got the best of both worlds, right? I have the road, adventure, newness, inspiration -- and I have my Boy. But so much of homesickness is attached to... routine. Routine and the comfort of knowing that you're in your own home. Your own space. Your own coffee pot with your own coffee that you can make whenever you fancy a cup of coffee.
We took the bus from Liverpool to York on Wednesday morning, still scratching our heads about our Polish host and her absentmindedness.We had a short layover in Leeds, where we left the bus station for a quick wander about, and found ourselves in some manner of Middle Eastern market where half the women had their heads covered.
Where am I? This feels like I've been transported back to one of Istanbul's neighborhood markets. But this isn't Beylikduzu. This is Leeds. In England.
We boarded the bus from Leeds to York. As we neared the city, Boy's face began to glow with an excitement that is usually reserved for cinnamon rolls with an exceptional amount of frosting and houses with a garish amount of Christmas lights.
This is the most fairy tale I've seen England...
As our host, a Yorkshire man named Jack, wouldn't be able to meet us until five or six, Boy and I shared a coffee at The Nook, then moseyed down to the river. We collapsed with our bags together for a few moments, then took our walks.
Then Boy followed the river into the city (and a supermarket. Where he bought a bottle of wine).
During Boy's walk, he discovered a patch of grass that was next to a church near one of York's pedestrian streets. So we shouldered our bags and heaved them back into town and away from the river.
This will be my life with this person. Always drawn towards crowds of people, cobbled streets and old churches. Whereas I could just sit by the river and watch the changing reflections in the water. I will appreciate such different parts of life because of him.
Jack texted, letting us know that he was back in town and would come meet us. And that we would recognize him because he looked like the sunburned homeless person.
"Great," we texted back. "We'll look like the homeless hippies."
We had absolutely no problem finding each other.
Jack led us back to his apartment (at a breakneck speed. People in English cities walk much more quickly than people in the Welsh countryside). At Jack's house was the essential furniture (as he was moving on Sunday) and a myriad of couchsurfers.
I like this guy.
Two other couchsurfing Americans from Washington and a couchsurfing German from Cologne. The German was vegan and traveled with her trusty chia seeds, but the rest of us enjoyed a fine carnivorous meal prepared by the Americans.
This is when couchsurfing gets really great. Sitting around a coffee table with five strangers -- strangers who already feel familiar because we've chosen to trust each other -- sharing stories and jokes and food.
Jack walked the Americans to the train station so that they could catch their train to Newcastle.
"I can never understand why people bother with Newcastle," Jack commented. "Why not just head straight to Edinburgh?"
We're going to Newcastle... wonder how bad it is? Gosh, I'm really not used to this at all. Traveling to places for the sole purpose of seeing pretty things. Purposefully picking the touristic destinations instead of places where I can learn something new. Like beekeeping or permaculture or how to take care of temperamental alpacas. It's hard to wrap my head around the fact that I'm a legitimate tourist this summer -- that I'm on holiday. Travel has never felt like holiday before. It's just felt like life.
Boy and I left Jack's around eight the next morning. We splurged on a gorgeous breakfast of eggs royale at a corner cafe and I felt deeply content to "be on vacation".
Then we wandered. I've discovered that Boy has a quite reliable sense of direction, so I'm usually in charge of getting us to a place for the first time (with google maps on my old iPhone) and then Boy takes it from there.
"How do you know where we are?" I ask, flabbergasted. Again and again and again. Because having an innate sense of direction is such a foreign concept to me.
"I have a sense of direction," Boy always replies. And then magically gets us to where we need to go, tolerating a good deal of harrumphing from me about how unfairly senses of direction get distributed.
The Shambles. This is the most adorable area of York, in my opinion. Houses are topsy-turvy, leaning this way and that as they like. In some of the upper stories, it seems quite feasible to reach across and and hand your neighbor a cup of tea. Which is a very English thing to do.
Constantine was proclaimed Roman Emperor in York. Which came as a surprise to both Boy and me, neither of us being up to par on our Roman history.
We glared at his statue for a bit, resenting him for ruining Christianity for everyone.
The Cathedral and Metropolitical Church of Saint Peter, also known as York Minster, is a grand affair. It's so grand that you have to pay to enter, which didn't suit either Boy or me or our budget, so we just took pictures from the outside.
You would be such a fine library. Or hospital. Or school. Or provide so many beds for homeless people.
I have a mostly "hate" relationship with fancy cathedrals and churches. A tiny bit of me is in awe of what people can create, but most of me is just annoyed that religious organizations choose to create luxurious buildings with the tithes they receive. Instead of, you know, helping people.
There was always someone playing music in this square. We lingered for quite a while.
A shop where you can drink beer, coffee and repair your bike.
View of York from the wall that surrounds the old town area.
Walking along the wall.
One of the many churches we visited had a knitted display of the Last Supper.
The Museum Gardens.
During one of our wanders, we popped into a wine tasting room so that Boy could expand his palate. He's become very dedicated to this palate expansion thing, and is always eager to step into a shop for a quick browse. If we can't afford tastes, he just gazes longingly at the bottles.
Our server approached and nearly sent us into a fit of laughter with his thick accent. Never before have I struggled so hard to not giggle at the way someone speaks, but his accent was so marvelous that I could hardly contain myself. 'Twas straight out of a movie. He could have played a character in Robin Hood.
"That's a jolly good pork pie, it is," he complimented us on our choice of food to accompany the wine flight. "Yes, jolly good."
Boy and I joined Jack and some friends for a pint on our last night in York. And we got to hear how proud York is of Sean Bean, and that the only reason everyone from "The North" in Game of Thrones speaks with a Yorkshire accent is because Sean Bean refused to give his up for the show.
We had an absolutely stellar time with Jack.
Couchsurfing experiences like those with Jack in York and Spela and Craig in Bristol are so encouraging. Just feel so energized now.
Jack and I chatted about workaway and wwoofing and where we might meet up next. Boy made all his typical horrible puns, and Jack threatened to throw him out. I watched and laughed and felt deeply satisfied that Boy's puns could annoy others just as much as they annoy me.
On the couchsurfing reference Jack left, he wrote that Boy has a great sense of humor and that I have all kinds of stories. Which made me wonder.
What did I have before I had stories? It wasn't so long ago I was the homeschooled girl who'd never been outside her homeschool bubble, let alone journeyed into the rest of the world. What did I have to share then? Was I even sharing? Or was I just absorbing?
I've often thought that I tell too many stories for my own good. As in, I spend far too much time talking and not enough time listening. Far too much time ruminating about things I've done and not enough time considering what I'm doing now.
Are my stories a good thing? And can I even have a conversation without telling a single story?
I don't know... I've built my identity around things I've done... as I'm sure most people have... but how much of the present am I not experiencing because I'm so busy telling stories about what I've been?
Aimee, you've always had stories. They just used to consist of how little you understood about the outside world (whether you intended them to show that or not). You've always led an unusual life, but now it's because you've seen much more of the world than most instead of much less. For what it's worth, I have always loved your stories.
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