Where things make sense - confessions of an Anglophile

Already at the departure lounge at the airport, I could hear quite a bit of Swedish and Danish being spoken around me. I could at that point still tune it out, and in so doing ignore the fact that I was soon heading back to Sweden. Denial, however, could not board the plane with me and as I sat listening to the safety briefing in Swedish, and to various Swedish and Danish conversations around me, I was filled with a profound sadness. It was not without some effort that I managed to remind myself of the things which I valued in my Swedish home, and which I looked forward to returning to. For there are of course lots which I like about where I live and which I treasure. What saddened me was not where I was heading, rather what I was leaving behind. 

Looking back, it seems as though all which I love about England had been gathered and presented to me on a week long platter of experiences. I got to spend time with the people who populate so many of my memories of living in England. Almost exactly 15 years ago, just two months shy, I arrived in England for the first time. It was also the first time I was to be away from friends and family and all things familiar. I remember arriving in Heathrow, making my way to my connecting flight to Manchester, where upon arrival, I had to find my way to the train to Liverpool. The two young men I asked for directions ended up escorting me to the train. At Lime Street Station, someone from the University met me and put me in a taxi which took me to the halls of residence which was to be my home for the next two years. From arriving Manchester airport to arriving at the halls, there was what would have almost certainly been an inane looking grin plastered on my face. I was delighted.

Of course many a time during my stay in England did I feel depressed, lonely, homesick, stressed and what have you, and at times struggled with everything. But this is not what I remember. I remember the freedom I felt for the first time in my life. And I mean not the literal freedom of not being accountable to "an adult". Rather, the freedom to be myself. The freedom to explore the world and decide who I was, even. About half a year before I went, in a completely different context, I had said to someone that it is hard to know who you really are when there are people around you reminding you of who you are supposed to be. In a way, I felt that was what England was about for me. That for the first time in my life, I felt that I was free to explore who I was and who I wanted to be without the mould of expectation around me. The mould was still there, at least it reappeared in my mind at some point and was the source of a lot of internal turmoil when it reappeared, but that is a whole different story.

So it may have been that - the joy of discovering myself. Or perhaps it was indeed being free from parental supervision. It certainly has something to do with growing up on and holding dear such things as Enid Blyton and Paddington and Rupert, the Beano comics, as well as Jelly Tots and After Eights. Whatever the reason, I took to England like a duck to water. I felt at home. I felt like I had found a place where I belonged, or could belong.

Growing up, I had always felt different. Being of mixed heritage and with an unusual name, I had always felt like I stood out. I was never like any of the other kids in school, and kids being kids, often reminded me of it. It got better as I grew older of course, although people never stopped asking me "what I was". Not who, rather what. They were not interested in the person, rather the heritage, the racial background. And the universal formulation of that question which I was often assaulted with, was "What are you?" As though I could be mistaken for a key or a shoe or an incorporeal idea. As I grew older, my default answer was "a human being". When feeling particularly catty, I would add "can't you tell?" This question I got even from judges years later, when I appeared before them in court as a lawyer. Going back to the pre-England years though, while I became more comfortable about being different in apperance and name, I had also starting to feel different in other ways. It seemed like my friends did not really think like me. Or at least, not many of them spent the same amount of time thinking about the same things I did. It may have something to do with all the books I was always reading. Someone once said that "a reader lives a thousand lives before he dies". Well, then I had lived a thousand lives before I went to England, many of them in Toyland or St. Clare's or Mallory Towers, or as a Find-Outer with a dog... Now, what was my point? Do I have one? Oh yes, I felt different. I spent a lot of time quietly observing and absorbing, pondering and wondering, and much as I would like to pretend otherwise, judging and criticising. For every thought I expressed in the company of others, there were a dozen I held in for the simple reason that I did not think they would understand. Sometimes because people did not seem to have an opinion, or had a common opinion in the completely opposite direction!

That feeling went away in England. I still kept a lot of thoughts unexpressed, but less from a fear of not being understood and being thought of as weird, rather because there was no need. Or no time because everyone else was busy vying for the floor. Now, one could always argue that all that was just part of growing up. That everyone goes through that process of self-discovering and learning to feel comfortable about themselves. There is undoubtedly a lot of truth in that. Be that as it may, I was utterly depressed when I eventually left England and returned home. I visited a year later, and was again depressed to leave at the end of my three week holiday. I remember sitting on the staring at the open front door with tears running down my face, refusing to get up to go. I have since been back several times, with less dramatic departures.

The last time I was back before this trip was almost exactly four year ago. In those four years, I had lived in Germany, moved to Sweden, and been depressed about leaving Germany for Sweden. I have learnt German and Swedish and managed to make friends and establish a life in both countries. But going to England was like going home. Or home away from home. The friends I made there remain friends today. I know that I always have a place to go and that there are people who would always welcome me. That aside, even on my own wandering the streets and what not, talking to random people about the price of fish, or refraining to discuss it with others, I felt at home. But what is it about England, I really don't know. It's the people, the language, the wit and humour, the drinking cups of tea, the pub food, the random conversation with random people, the books... it's all of those things, but none of those things.

Just before this trip, I was speaking to a close friend and fellow anglophile about her recent return to England. She had used those words "things just made sense". During the trip, I was speaking to my sister, who is currently living in England, and she said the same thing. And I feel the same. I don't know how else to explain it. I feel comfortable. I know where I stood. I understand what was going on... most of the time. Some things remain truly incomprehensible. But generally, things just made sense. There is no other way to explain it. Now whether this is knowing the language or having previously lived in England, I don't know. I have to say the latter is unlikely, as I have since lived longer in both Germany and Sweden that I did in England. Although my time in England though shorter, it was at the time when I was younger and more impressionable. Whatever the reason, this just makes sense to me in England. I find it so much easier to communicate and connect with people. In a lot of ways, more so that at home. It took me a while after returning home from England to really feel at home again. Eventually I did feel at home at home, and very much so. I loved my life back home. But still...

Just to be clear though, I am not lauding England as Utopia. Far from it. I am not even saying that I will definitely be happy living in England, although I am sure I will be more at home there than many other countries. I was watching a video on TED Talks recently where Pico Iyer discussed the question of where home is. For many people, he says, it is no longer so clear cut as the place they were born or where they live. That's me. And if I were asked where my home is, I have no clue. But if the question 'where is your home?' is synonymous with 'where do you feel at home?' then England is certainly right up there as a contender.