Day 101, 17 April: In Contemplation, In Transit

Norfolk Terrace, Norwich, UK, Day 101. In Contemplation, In Transit

The day is a list of transportation times:

Aerobus to Lisbon Airport, 9:00-9:20

EasyJet flight to London Luton Airport, 11:10-13:40

Green Line bus to London Victoria Coach Station, 15:40-17:15

National Express bus to Norwich Coach Station, 18:00-21:15

Local bus from Norwich City Centre to University of East Anglia, 21:20-21:45

The time in-between the movement of the wings and the wheels is what made the day not a waste. At Terminal 2, I hugged Vinnie good-bye as we parted ways for our own destinations, Madeira and London. I could not imagine spending another week away, but I wish him all the best.

      As I considered what I would do during my waiting period for and on the plane, I decided that I would read Stephen King’s novella ‘Apt Pupil’ until I finished. I figured it’d be a 40- to 100-page story. Getting through the disgusting subject matter of a boy corrupted by the stories of an ex-Nazi commander, I still really enjoyed the writing and kept going. 200 pages. By this time, I was halfway through the flight. Finally, the story ended at 247 pages and it felt like a conclusion, just as the middle really did feel like a middle as I read it (despite wishfully hoping it was over soon). This was the second story of King’s collection ‘Different Seasons’. Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption (the story’s actual title) is classified by King as 'Hope Springs Eternal' (Spring) and this one, Apt Pupil, was summer: Summer of Corruption. I guess the test of a good writer is the ability to enjoy reading the story even when you hate the character and the subject matter. Undoubtedly, Stephen King definitely has a gift for storytelling.

From the Victoria Coach bus toward Norwich 

       Afterwards, I transitioned into the middle of a book I hadn’t yet finished for class, Henry James’ The Portrait of a Lady. I suddenly imagined reading novels as eating out of bowls of soup: the spoons of old and modern novels differ extraordinarily. King’s novella had paragraphs short, with the occasional longer ones detailing a character’s reflections or background exposition. Small spoon, eating fast. James’ novel lifts these two-page long paragraphs at times, lifting a scene to detail so precise that the hue and location of the flower or the gentleman’s overcoat must be accounted for. Big spoon, eating slow. And that is why it takes me forever to read these novels for class.

      Boredom.

      My mind wanders after the third line. I read and read and by ten pages of struggling, I can get into a flow. Otherwise, minutes go by of irrelevant thoughts.

      This change in the novel form is the change of society: progression to a faster society—less exposition, more action. Less explanation, but more speech.

      I still get distracted. The guy taking the newspaper out of the rubbish bag on the airplane amuses me.  

Then the airplane begins shaking in its descent. I envision an invisible staircase in the sky, upon which an airplane must descend a certain number of feet in elevation in a routine amount of time. This flight’s footsteps land harshly on each step, but strangely the last step, the landing, is the smoothest.

Upon arrival, I told Stephen
how I went basically a month
without peanut butter. Without
another word, he tossed me the
last of his jar. I took my trusty
spoon and devoured it.
Every. last. drop.

      Then the loud speaker on the bus. It’s strange how those things raise the volume of one’s voice, but they sure don’t make it any clearer.

      Finally, I arrived in Norwich and I smiled while inhaling the fresh night air. I felt at home. This place has become so familiar, the people too. As I walked up to my block, I saw my flatmate Stephen and his friend James (from our neighbour flat), and Stephen pulled out the greatest line when he saw me with my bags, ‘You look ridiculous. Two of the biggest bags I’ve ever seen are attached to your back and front like a sandwich.’ Basically, that’s what he said. I laughed and made it back to my room.

      The smell downstairs unsettled me. Then I discovered that I had half my carpet scraped from my floor. Not the most welcomed of surprises, but it’s good to be back in Norwich, hanging out in the kitchen with Alvin, Charlie, Stephen, and Gemma. Night.
   (And so concludes the 25 days of traveling: London, Norwich, Paris, Amsterdam, Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples, Palermo, Madrid, and Lisbon. By countries: England, France, England, Netherlands, Italy, Sicily, Spain, and Portugal. I have seen but a glimpse of the world, but that glimpse was enough to know that the answer to the question ‘how does one live?’ is plural. Different cultures, different languages—languages from common roots, Portuguese being Spanish’s cousin with a lisp, Spanish being Italian’s cousin without the lilt (‘andiAmO’), French being the cousin with the silent consonant endings, and English being another cousin (with traits I’m too accustomed to perceive). Yet it is apparent that the world’s big cities are becoming more alike than they once were, the relics becoming the hallmarks of these places as the McDonald’s and the metros and cars being the mainstay of modern living.)

I can't say I remember taking this shot. It appears
to be the work of the orange-jumper-clad fellow
by the name of Stephen. Meanwhile, Alvin does not
look amused by this orange-jumper-clad fellow.