UK Omens and Specters 2001

 London, September 2001

I planned this trip without only a few reservations made along the way, taking the train through England and Scotland and then a ferry to Ireland. When I arrived at Gatwick airport, I looked at my guidebook and decided on a hotel in Bayswater because it was near beautiful Hyde Park. The Garden Court was on a block of identical buildings, each with a small white stoop in front. I was sure I’d seen that block in a movie. When I checked in, exhausted from my flight from Seattle and my commute on the Gatwick Express, the clerk told me they only had a small, single room available. I followed her up to–no kidding–the attic. It was straight out of A Little Princess, and it was perfect. 

Bloodletting

On my first night in London, I stepped into a small Soho jazz bar, chosen after I had studiously pored over the music listings in search of a good show. When I travel alone I look for live music–it gets me out to different neighborhoods and allows me to be comfortable as an introvert (loud music provides an excuse not to talk to people!). The band I was there to see, Gorodisch, sounded intriguing. I got a drink and watched the crowd gather in the small bar, noting another obvious tourist with a backpack clutching his Time Out magazine. I felt a sense of relief as the band mounted the stage and started to play.

Gorodisch’s music was slowly building, starting with lone strains of notes and reaching a busy, motion-filled rhythm. From my spot next to the stage, I could see the cellist getting lost in the fervor of the music, his bow moving faster and faster. It was still hot for September and the tiny club was packed. As the cellist began to perspire from his intense movement, I noticed that his sweat looked tinged with blood. I had heard of people suffering from hematidrosis, a stress-induced condition causing capillaries to rupture and mix blood with sweat.  But I had never seen it happen to anyone. In Catholic school we had all heard about Jesus sweating blood the night before his death. Maybe what I saw was a trick of the lighting or a white shirt that had gone through the laundry with a red sock. I couldn’t think of a way to bring it up when I bought my CD at the end of the night. I’ve always remembered it as an omen for what was about to happen next.

September 11

Maybe I should have known this trip would be cursed to begin with. I haven’t mentioned the theme of my trip to London. One of my favorite graphic novels at the time was Alan Moore’s From Hell. I had brought the single issue of Volume Two, where Dr. Gull takes Netley on a carriage ride to all of  Nicholas Hawksmoor’s churches, and I vowed to visit them all in person. The day after the jazz show, I woke up and took the metro to Liverpool Street Station so I could start my tour. Near the Spitalfields market entrance, I stopped at the Mr. Coffee sidewalk espresso stand. While I was waiting, another man ran up to the barista and started speaking excitedly in Spanish. I could understand their conversation, so I questioned the barista after his friend went on his way. “Did he say something about a plane hitting a building?” I asked. My barista nodded emphatically. “Yes, in New York! They think it’s terrorists!” I waved away his sense of alarm. “They think everything is terrorists,” I said, grimly shaking my head. He handed me my cappuccino and I turned down Brushfield Street, catching my first glimpse of Christ Church Spitalfields.

Wandering around the outside of the imposing structure of the church, it occurred to me it was like an animal so perfect in its design that evolution has left it untouched. Something ancient and rudimentary yet purposeful. In no way striving for the elegance or detail of a cathedral, it is alien in its austere lack of embellishments. It’s not concerned with decoration or pomp–it’s a singly focused tool that rises bleak and without concession to those who come to admire it. I finally gave in to my curiosity about the barista’s conversation and found a small internet cafe a few blocks away. As I opened the browser the news washed over me: the second plane, the first tower falling and then the second. There was another plane down at the Pentagon and one in the state where my parents lived, Pennsylvania. I frantically tried to reach my friends and family in the United States. The airports would be closed, so it was a good thing I wasn’t flying back for almost two weeks. I left the internet cafe after two long hours with thoughts of returning to my hotel in Bayswater. But as I rounded a corner on my way back to the station, I could see the news playing on a television inside the Red Lion pub. I sat down inside and ended up staying a few hours more, while the kindly patrons bought me pints when they heard my accent. I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.

I had planned to stay in London a few more days, and I stayed glued to the television screen in my tiny attic room at the Garden Court. The BBC was covering the terrifying assembly of the Patriot Act, and when I switched to Sky News, a poll of the audience had just been done. The question was something like “If the United States chooses to take military action, should the UK support them?” The yeas had it by an incredible percentage, in the high nineties. It was all moving too fast. I needed to get out or I would spend my whole vacation there in that room. I decided to go to Scotland.

I boarded the train at Euston Station with no hotel reservation or itinerary in mind. As I gazed out the window of the train, I started to feel engulfed by the oddly shaped, green hills rolling away from the tracks. The sky was a foreboding grey and the chill prompted an elderly lady to advise me to button up my cardigan. The strangest sight that I glimpsed from my seat was a huge, solitary boulder sitting alongside the railway. How odd that it seemed to have risen up out of nowhere. Then I noticed other large crags littering the valley, as if they had just tumbled from a giant lake. I was passing through the Lake District for the first time.

A Ghost in Glasgow

I arrived at the Glasgow train station with no plan for where to stay. Luckily, there was a tourism bureau in the station, so I went in and asked for advice. The woman behind the desk directed me to the Rennie Mackintosh, a historic hotel right next to the station. It was the home of Charles Rennie Mackintosh. A room was available and the price was very reasonable, so I went up to unpack my things. The room was on the third floor, and the window looked directly down onto the train station courtyard and platform. I wondered how loud it would be but didn’t worry. I love the sound of trains and the hustle and bustle of stations.

The room didn’t have a TV, for which I was grateful. It did have a tub with a handheld shower nozzle right in the middle of the room! I smirked but went about putting my makeup and hairbrush on the dressing table against the wall. Then I went to the shared half bathroom in the hallway to wash up before changing my clothes.

I walked around Glasgow for the next hour, wondering why the architecture looked strangely familiar. I finally realized it was because I grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where native Glaswegian Andrew Carnegie lived before moving to New York. His building designs echoed the granite surfaces I saw around me now. It was a comforting surprise.

I was getting hungry when I circled back to my hotel, so I looked for something nearby. The Counting House was bright and full of people. When my waiter came by, I told him I had arrived that day and that I just had to get out of London or I’d spend my whole vacation there. “So you’re just sitting down there in London, and you reckon you’ll come see what’s on in Glasgow for the weekend?” I nodded. “That’s brilliant!” he said, with a charming smile.

After dinner I looked through the live music listings and saw that a band called Radio Sweetheart was playing at a venue within walking distance. I’ve always loved Elvis Costello and figured that any band that had named themselves after one of his lyrics must be worthwhile. I walked through the busy streets to a bar and billiards club that was down a flight of stairs from the street. The atmosphere was relaxed and I got a pint before the music started. 

The band played alt country tunes and definitely earned their name with clever lyrics and swaying rhythms. During the break between sets, I talked to the lead singer and confirmed that we were both Elvis Costello fans. I told him I was enjoying the music. When he heard my accent, he had to ask. “Are you…American?!” he said, in slow realization. I nodded and he told me how he couldn’t believe what had happened in New York. He was very sweet and said that it must be very hard for me to be away from home. “Well, I couldn’t leave if I tried,” I said, shaking my head. The airports would be closed for another week.

When the band came back onstage, I learned that I wasn’t the only American in the audience. The lead singer made a surprise dedication to the other woman and me, saying that we were courageous to be so far from our loved ones. The audience clapped warmly and gave us cheers with their drinks. I really appreciated the sympathy and recognition that I felt in the room that night. I loved how welcoming and kind the people of Glasgow were turning out to be.

After the show I walked back in my room and collapsed boozily on the bed. I could hear people gathering on the platform below. It was the first time I’d heard men–”lads,” I guess–drunkenly singing whole songs together while they waited for the train. They were probably about football teams. I was enchanted by the joyful, rowdy noise they were making and as I drifted off to sleep, I imagined them strolling arm in arm.

A few hours later I rose groggily to consciousness in the dark. I had been sleeping on my stomach and I stayed face down because I had a very curious feeling: I could sense someone in the room. I couldn’t hear them, really. But it was like when I was little and I would walk around in the dark, sensing where things were because of the absence of sound coming through them. This presence was being transmitted to me in a similar sense, not through sound waves but similar currents that denoted physical space. It was a feminine presence, thin with black hair, very skittish or reluctant to make herself known, which is why I remained lying down without facing her. She was at the dressing table, looking through my makeup and jewelry. I got a glimmer of wistfulness or nostalgia, like she was remembering her own accessories. I didn’t want to confront her and I drifted back to sleep, maybe in some sort of pleasant sleep paralysis. In the morning I saw that my garnet ring was out of the box where I kept the rest of my jewelry. I wondered which one of us left it on the table.