I haven't really written in a while so I'll make an entry now. The problem wasn't not having things to write about, but rather having too many things. I haven't been able to organize my thoughts at all. It feels like there's a million marbles in my head all vying to go through one slot.
I try to write everyday. Writing is like a siphon for my mind. It helps me organize my thoughts and think on events, beliefs, theories, anything in a different way. Some people call it "looking from a different perspective," others call it a "sociological imagination." I don't care what it is. I do it for my own good.
Well, let's start with traveling. I'm craving a new environment. I need to go somewhere not familiar, some strange, foreign place where I can walk and know that I don't have any cares or worries here. I absolutely love meeting new people. If you talk to a person long enough, they will tell you their greatest memories or worst nightmares. Talking to Strangers will do that to a person.
I was on a train to Windsor sitting across from an elderly couple. For the first twenty minutes, we ignored each other, smiling friendly, laughing at something over heard since there was no point in denying that the comments were not heard. A friend sat next to me, chatting merrily. The gentleman was the first to initiate the conversation.
"May I ask what part of the States you ladies are from?"
He had a strong Irish brogue. If I didn't have a grandfather with a similar accent, I probably would not have understood him. My friend didn't until I answered.
"California. This is our first time overseas. England is beautiful."
"Oh dear! California!" the woman exclaimed. She had a rosy complexion and a twinkle in her eye. Her face showed her years of happiness. If and when I grow old, I want to look like my life was well spent and loved.
"We were in California years ago," she continued. "Robert, here, was in her Majesty's Royal Navy. The ship was getting supplies in San Diego. We stayed there for two weeks."
At the mention of San Diego, my friend and I went into all we knew of the place. Luckily she knew more than I did, however, when Emma said they went to Los Angeles, I cut in. Mind you, the Los Angeles she saw and the Los Angeles I know, are two different places.
Robert talked a little more but Emma gushed happily about their time. Robert had taken off his jacket and that's when I saw the Navy tattoos. His arm was covered in what people today would equate it to "Old School" Tats.
When I went to England, it had only rained two days out of eleven, in the Spring. The sun had shone clearly and the clouds weren't as thick as they usually were (we were told). It was bloody cold for a California girl like myself but the Brits were comfortable in shorts and t-shirts. I got laryngitis in the "good" weather.
The train ride ended too quickly for my taste. Emma and Robert were wonderful people. Robert offered his arm to Emma and they departed the train, down the road that led to Windsor Castle. My friend and I met up with our group after that. To give you a timeline, this all happened a week before Charles and Camilla's wedding. We saw people preparing for it as we walked around.