OFF OFF AND AWAY

I am not what anyone would call a spontaneous individual. The pattern of my life for the most part has bordered on the somnolent. So it came as a shock to me-myself-and-I, as well as those who knew me back then, that I should leave behind a successful career in Library-Land to pursue a degree in interior design. I had all sorts of explanations and rationalizations, none of which amounted to much more than a cloud of obfuscation. In reality, I just needed to be somewhere else. I felt as if I had fallen into an alien life devoid of creative endeavors. I needed a change, and as my grandmother was wont to say, “You’ll never get any younger to try.” So when I came across a reference to a school for interior design in London, I applied and was accepted into a year-long program at the Inchbald School. It was a no-brainer. New and exciting experiences, travel, education, adventure, and artistic exploration … what was not to love. I could make it work!

Thank God I didn’t know any better or I never would have gone through with it. However, ignorance being bliss, I carried on as if I knew what I was doing. As it turned out the transition, once started, took on a life of its own, and there was never an opportunity to change my mind. Just as well. We slow-moving, deliberate turtle-types need to stick out our necks to get anywhere. So I resigned from my library position, said goodbye to my friends and colleagues, gave up my comfortable little apartment, and transferred my goods and chattels into my parents’ basement. There they sat, carefully stacked on a waterproof tarp, boxed and labeled, awaiting my return.

The Anxiety Express, carrying old fears and new worries, began to chuff its way through the familiar territory of my life on newly laid tracks. It really picked up a head of steam when I sold my car and transferred the funds to pay my tuition. No turning back now! Through the school, I made arrangements to rent a room in London for a year, made out a money order to pay my landlady, and contacted her with an estimated arrival date. I bought traveler’s checks, transferred my life savings to Barkley’s Bank in London, purchased a bus ticket to Kennedy Airport, and a one-way ticket to Heathrow Airport. And at last, with my bags packed, my passport updated, my teeth cleaned, my hair newly curled, and my pockets to let, I was good to go. Grasping the back rails of the caboose as it left the station, I took a deep breath waved good-bye to my old life, and careened into the future. What could possibly go wrong?

As fate would have it, nothing actually did go wrong. I made my flight, fidgeted twitched and dozed across the Atlantic, wended my way through immigration, and customs, collected my luggage and took a cab to Lexham Gardens, off the Cromwell Road in Kensington. There I was greeted by my landlady Liz. Liz Russell was a Margaret Thatcher doppelganger who was then serving as the Head Mistress Assistant Majority Whipper-upper for the Royal Borough of Kensington, Chelsea & All Points West … or something like that. She took pride in her political stature, and over the course of the next year, I learned more than anyone needs to know about conservative British politics at the local level. However, I had yet to learn all that, and upon arrival was pleased to find her pleasant and helpful. My little shoe-box of a room, while pedestrian in the extreme, was adequate to my needs. So I off-loaded my bags, got directions from Liz, and with a promise to be home for supper, set off to explore London.

In an age before cell phones and GPS, when one always carried an A-to-Z guidebook and telephone booths still stood on every street corner, when boxy black taxis and red double-decker busses ruled the streets, and the tube map was a universal icon, when you bought your train tickets at a grilled window with a metal cup to catch your change, and the train announcements were unintelligible, and you had to know where you were going to get there, when wine bars and pubs lived cheek by jowl, and Peter Jones had the best inexpensive lunches, when punks strolled the Kings Road with spiked multi-colored mohawks, and Laura Ashley dressed the well-to-do, I was there, in London, setting out on my great adventure. As I explored and found my way that day, I was gob-smacked to be a part of it all. This amazing city chock-a-block with history and classic architecture, home to Harrods, teashops, parks, and palaces, this was going to be my home.

On that first day of exploration into unknown territory, I managed not to be hit by traffic wheeling down the wrong side of the road, found the Gloucester Road station, purchased a monthly pass, took the Circle Line going in the right direction, managed to exit up the correct escalator without stopping to ask directions, and arrived outside Sloane Square Tube station. It was a grizzly sort of September day, and as I stood there, surveying the glorious vista of London, I felt alive with the opportunities in front of me and exhilarated by leaving life as I knew it behind. I was setting off on an amazing adventure. The Anxiety Express had left the station and I had arrived. My future was at hand.

However, apparently my past still clung to me, because as I stood gazing at the mad pandemonium of traffic and people before me, a pair of tourists stopped to ask me directions! Oh, wow! First time ever in Sloane Square, a million miles from Library-land, surrounded by thousands of Londoners, and I was their go-to option for information? I realize they most likely approached me because I was standing still, or perhaps they caught a glimpse of my A to Zed. Whatever. It is as if I had a sign on my back … I am a Librarian, just Ask Me. I know after all these years; people will always ask me for directions no matter where I am. But on that first day in London, I took it as a compliment, a recognition of my achievement. Yes, I might have been carrying some excess librarian baggage, but let’s face it, every little bit helps when navigating the future. I knew where I was, and where I was going.  And if I ran into trouble, it turns out I could always ask myself for directions.