Ye Olde Country

Last night, I was laughing so hard in bed, I had to leap out of it and run downstairs where I let the tears and guffaws flow freely, without disturbing my partner, who, as I now realize too late, could probably snooze uninterrupted through a total bedroom remodel. I might just as well have snorted and heaved in the comfort of the bed. However, the culprit, an endearing and hilarious tome about life in Britain, "Notes From a Small Island" by Bill Bryson an American who lived there for 20 years, was down to its final few pages. I couldn't not finish it right then and there and I suspected, and I was right (that's nice for a change) that as much howling laughter as there was, it would likely be balanced by some sentimental weepy bits at the end and I wanted ample tissues and nose blowing room without having to explain myself. So downstairs I stayed, where the sofa doesn't get the same rapid fire hiccup motion going as when I laugh in bed. Nothing makes it worse than trying NOT to explode when the funny bone gets a good whack, so for the sake of maintaining the integrity of my spine and rib cage alignment, I felt justified in abandoning my partner for an hour at midnight.

After reading about Bryson's experiences and why he loves the Brits so, I began to realize why I've struggled so hard to enjoy living in other places. I've managed to adapt, yes, but have I really loved where I'm living? No, honestly not. What a relief to understand why, at long last. Having been an ex-pat for lo these past 43 years, I've often wondered why I felt bereft and forlorn and out of place. It's not just that there's really no place like home, no matter how dysfunctional it might have been (mine was about a 4 on the Richter scale with 8 being reserved for households like Frank McCourt's)there's no country quite like the British Isles and no people on earth to match the eccentric natives thereof. So it turns out I've simply been homesick all these years.

Alas, I no longer own a key that fits the lock of any dwelling place in the name of myself or family. On visits there of course I'd find friends and family who'd let me doss down for a few nights, but it's not the same. It hit me: there's no going back home, period. But since it's a nice place to visit, I hope to do so sooner than later. Meanwhile, I'll have to brush up on my Glaswegian, since Bryson's visit to a Glasgow pub, far and away the funniest episode in the whole book, reminded me how out of touch I've become, and how linguistically rich is my family's heritage. So I'm getting ready, I think, finally, to worship at some of the old ancestral shrines, unless they're in seedy pubs, which a few of them are. I've not been "home" since my parents died in recent years and I've been pouting in a most unbecoming way about being a homeless orphan, poor wee thing, which of course I am not really, except for brief moments on the therapist's couch. I'll be breaking in my renewed passport in Canada next week, but second stop has to be the Olde Country methinks.