The Memoirist
Recharging My Expatriate Battery in London
Finding inspiration in the city on the Thames
Sitting on the open deck of the ferry during the six-hour crossing from Holland to England, I mused excitedly about my forthcoming adventure in London. It was August 1983 and I had just left West Berlin where I had been living for the last two years. I felt burned out and needed a change of environment in order to freshen up my expatriate life. I had a few English friends in London whom I had met in Berlin, so I would not be alone.
I was quite sure that being in a country where my native tongue was spoken would stimulate me to write again and thus take up the expatriate writer persona that I had somehow dropped in Berlin.
I arrived at Paul’s flat in the Crouch End neighborhood just north of Finsbury Park. The architecture here was completely different from that in Berlin. There were rows and rows of attached two-story Victorian brick houses on treeless streets. No massive gray apartment buildings, no cobblestone streets. The air had a cool freshness even though it was only early August. I liked it.
After settling in, I thought I had better search for some type of work, for I had very little money with me and even without paying rent and relying on Paul’s generosity for most of my food, I still had some expenses — transportation, cigarettes, and some food. I thought I would try the restaurants and bars in the Covent Garden area since I expected there would be quite a few. Given the fact that I could not legally work in England, I was not having a lot of luck.
I was about to give up for the day, when I spotted a creperie restaurant located below street level at the edge of Covent Garden — in fact right across from the famous vegetable and flower market. I spoke with the manager who seemed Middle Eastern or perhaps from North Africa. He indicated they needed someone to work in the kitchen, and no work permit was required. However, he didn’t think it would be the right kind of work for me because it was a hard job. I assured him I would be able to do it. I would be paid in cash, 75 English pounds (about $110) for six days, full-time work. Not very much money, I thought, but I didn’t have a lot of options. I was to begin the next day.
Despite the nature of the job and the prospect of working in a confined, cave-like space, I was excited to start my daily life in London even though it was only going to be for six weeks, after which I would be enrolled in an intensive training course in Teaching English as a Foreign Language (T.E.F.L.). But at least for now the job would give me needed structure as I developed my London expatriate persona.
My job was mainly preparing salads for the lunch business, working in a very small kitchen area. I worked together with a man of about my age from Colombia who barely spoke English. He was amiable though and we managed to communicate with my very limited Spanish and hand gestures. In the afternoons, my two main tasks were peeling and cutting up an enormous amount of onions. Because of the fan that was always on in the kitchen, I would become so blinded by tears I could barely see the onions that I was cutting. The other task was cleaning and gutting chickens. As a vegetarian, it was for me a rather unpleasant task, but I did it. I figured it would give me something to write about.
On my day off, I explored different parts of London. My mind recorded many images of people and urban scenes I noticed as I walked the streets everyday. I often had that classic song, “The Streets of London” by Ralph McTell, playing in my head. I realized that I was a city person and thus thrived living in — not merely visiting — the historic English capital, the setting for an immense quantity of literary works through the ages. The sights, sounds, and atmosphere of London fired up my creative mind, flooding it with ideas for poems and later stories.
Sometimes after finishing work at 5 pm, I ventured across the river to visit friends who lived in a “squatted” flat in Rotherhithe, a run-down, semi-industrial area that tourists would not be likely to visit. I loved going there, experiencing “raw,” bleak London, away from the famous, vibrant spots. One of the residents in the flat was an artist and he painted my portrait on one of my visits. Seated next to the window for a few hours as he painted my likeness, I looked out at the forlorn landscape that stretched along the banks of the sluggishly moving river. I composed a poem in my head about the incongruent beauty of the gray-toned ugliness of the scene.
Riding the underground back to north London where I was residing, I was happy that I had come to London and actually felt “high” from how this chapter in my ongoing expatriate adventure was playing out.
I began the T.E.F.L. program in early October, and during that month, often in the late afternoons after the workshop sessions had ended, I walked into Green Park, just across from the institute. I observed the leaves on the magnificent trees that lined the paths gradually turning gold. While there was not the variety of color I had experienced in upstate New York, I paid attention to the subtly different shades of gold on different trees. The rich color seemed to fit old Europe. Although I had little opportunity to write during this month, I was developing ideas for stories I would later write.
Shortly after the course ended, on a cool, damp afternoon in early November, I rode the underground all the way to Earl’s Court, which was located in the western extremity of my weekly transportation two-zone pass. My friend Simon in Berlin had alerted me to a unique café there, the Troubadour. Its name was appropriate as the café had a decidedly medieval décor, with various unusual instruments hanging from the ceiling.
The dark wooden tables and chairs as well as dim lighting rendered the place, I thought, very atmospheric and conducive for writing. Happily, no music was played there. One heard only the muted sounds of conversation, and a number of people sat alone, reading or writing.
I began spending several hours there nearly every day. I turned from writing poems and began writing short stories. I had such a great urge to write that I looked forward to my daily excursions to the Troubadour. Fueled with coffee and cigarettes, and being free to devote as much time as I wished to writing, ideas flowed easily and I sometimes had difficulty to write down the sentences that were being generated in my mind.
I purchased a portable Smith Corona manual typewriter and in the evenings on a makeshift desk in the room in Paul’s flat where I was staying, I typed up the stories I had written earlier that day, only slightly editing them.
During my time in London I tapped into the forgotten or discarded motivation that set me on my expatriate journey more than two years before. For I had thirsted for adventure, new experiences, meeting people of different cultures. And I sought to develop friendships on foreign soil, knowing that they would be transient. London was my six-month-long stop at a refueling station.
As the cold, wet English winter began to set in, I began giving thought to where I should go when I left England. I did not feel that I wanted to return to Berlin just yet. I wished to try out my newly gained skills in T.E.F.L. in a foreign city that was interesting, atmospheric, and affordable. Paul suggested Barcelona. A Mediterranean city appealed to me as it would be a pleasant change from the damp cold English climate at this time of year.
At the end of December, I celebrated my 30th birthday with friends at a restaurant with live jazz in Soho. Looking back, it was one of the most enjoyable birthdays I remember having. For, I was at the peak of my expatriate life in Europe.
On a cold, damp evening in late January, I emerged from the Cafe Central on Cambridge Circus, where I had enjoyed what would be my last meal there. A generous plate of spaghetti with tomato sauce for 1 English pound. My departure from London was drawing near and I was in the process of saying goodbye to my favorite places.
I stood there and just took in the bustling scene of black taxi cabs driving around the circle. I glanced at the Palace Theatre and observed the neon lights that blazed out into the misty air. I looked down Charing Cross Road and thought of the book shops where I had spent so much time browsing. And beyond that Covent Garden. The smell of onions issued forth out of my inner treasury. A moving picture of sights and sounds from my six months in London played out in my mind, scene after scene unfolded in no logical sequence.
Joy tingled through me but edged with a few melancholy tears. I wanted to leave yet I also wanted to hold on to my time in London. I gave thanks to this amazing city for nourishing me when I needed it.
A few days later, I boarded a train at the London Waterloo station and began the 30-hour journey to Barcelona. Equipped with a mere 200 pounds ($300), I set out for my next adventure. I was ready for a change and was certain that the cosmopolitan Mediterranean city would offer much inspiration for writing meaningful stories. Having fully recharged my expatriate battery in London, I felt optimistic about entering a new decade in my life, continuing to reside in Europe.
