El Camino a Chamartín

The first thing to say is that there is a lot of graffiti. Too much. Graffiti on almost everything - on the walls, of course, but just as much clinging to sidewalks and drainpipes, to postboxes and scaffolds, bus stops and train stations, mounds of the stuff in all their fluorescent colours and cartoon curves: less statement of youthful rage and disobedience and more akin to well-equipped toddlers with a penchant for radioactive yellows and block-capitalised swear words. It's not good graffiti, not artful or profound, it's just there, as permanent as the sun, stained on to brick and tarmac and concrete and then left to rust or fade or both, like the disaffected, disappointed, disenfranchised youths of Spain who left it there. Yes, this country has problems.

You see it in their eyes: tired, balding men who look down and speak quietly, their tone at once both dull and impersonal, putting the vice into service, or in the scalding retinas of languishing twentysomethings - no job, no home, no chance, but fire in their hearts and dreams in their heads as they beam back at the pale-faced Englishman in their midst. "London? Ah, London, si!” they exclaim. "I want to go to London."

Spain has fared badly in the opening salvos of the twenty-first century, its economy first slowing, then retracting and now sitting idle. In a world of near-constant commerce, a new age of instant access, instant communication, instant lives, Spain has toiled in its own heat and tradition - an afternoon siesta while others forge ahead. There are few jobs for its eager graduates, only travel plans, to France and Germany and England. Everyone here seems hot and bothered, rushed unexpectedly into action, from serving you in a restaurant to implementing austerity. The brave new European world, an order spawned from the final embers of borrowed excess, took this country by surprise. One day there were pensions and trust funds and comforting certainty in public-funded retirement, in the guarantee not just of a siesta in the afternoon but in the morning also, and then there was nothing, nothing but an alarm clock with the face of Angela Merkel and grave warnings - sinister almost, gleeful maybe - of bail-outs and rescue packages and "What have you been doing all this time?" and "What do you mean, you pay for your economy to function without anyone working when it gets hot in the afternoon?" and "How much did you borrow to keep this fiscal fiction alive?" and "Here, take some Euros, pay us back when you can, and do something about Santander while you're at it."

For years, Spain played football like it ran its internal affairs, tiki-taka extending from players to politicians: keep it between ourselves and we'll be fine, at least until a Teutonic boot lays down the new law with blistering effectiveness. Keep the ball between yourselves all you like, but that counter-attack is going to hurt. And you can tell they are reeling from this double onslaught, this end to the status quo, particularly for the men of Spain. It has made them churlish, boorish even, overcompensating for their dual loss of sporting honour and economic confidence with the animalistic ritual of the cornered, the endangered, the attacked: shouting too loud, laughing too hard, trying too much to appear nonchalant and uncaring, a primeval subterfuge engendered by fear and rendered hard and true with every curse and chant and spit and snigger and full-volumed smart-phone and lazy graffiti and continual, almost deliberate, ignorance of all the beauty that surrounds them - the beaches and bays, the dense forests and valleys, the cloud-cloaked hilltops and rocky gorges, the ancient palaces and churches and villas, whitestoned and dome-filled since time immemorial, burning and scalding and surviving under the harsh Mediterranean sun, all before them in a land they barely know, reflected in its rivers and lakes and seas, liquid rivers which see all and stare right back; reflections, then, that estos hombres would rather ignore than acknowledge. But the women - God, I love the women.

I love their hair, dark and mischievous. I love their voices, rapid and rapacious, as if their accent and the skill with which they roll their r's and bridge their consonants is as much a guide to just how wonderful they'd be in bed as it is to their ability to enunciate. I love their eyes, the depth to them, the sparkle in them, piercing and looking right at you, maybe even through you, wild and alert and seductive. I love their touch, generous and confident, full of possibility and intrigue and suggestion that the evening may just have taken a new and unexpected twist and it certainly won't end how it started and that's fine because now you're with Iria or Eva or Aranxa or Virginia and they're looking at you like no English girl could ever remotely get close to and they're promising you the moon and all the stars and dancing like that was why man made music: not for self-satisfaction or culture or progressive innovation, but for Spanish girls to make the world stop turning and for you to believe that you might just be someone different. This power is potent. It cannot be stopped.

I write all this on the slow train to the capital, staring out of a grubby, dirty window as Spain's forgotten countryside idles past. I see deserted towns and hamlets, baking hot fields unploughed and forlorn, guarded by single dwellings with cracked walls and peeling paint and rusting pick-up trucks, while beyond them the hillocks rise up with pines and birches, and streams - in need of rain - meander through from the distant peaks to the iron tracks of the line from Galicia to Castilla-Leon. Occasionally, electricity pylons will punctuate the horizon, even the odd wind turbine, while lush blue lakes and lagoons emerge from miles of forest and sit tranquil at the foot of the copses and mountains. Lone cars sidle down dusty single-track highways and the narrow platforms of small, isolated villages collect like the gravel on the banks beside the tracks: actual and tangible but irrelevant. Only at Quereño did I raise an eyebrow and a smile as two old nuns, wearing looks of concern just as specific as their habits, stepped carefully into the carriage, followed moments later by a young girl in a floral dress with sunglasses the size of frying-pans and bronzed bare flesh that said more about God than any catholic apparel. The majority of the passengers had been there from the start and would be in it for the long haul, the war of attrition between time taken and distance travelled. Vigo was long gone, its early morning turquoise giving way to hazy midday blue. The graffiti remained a constant. At one station it had found its way onto cart-tracks and carriage doors, the underside of the signal box, even the rails themselves. I don't know how or why anyone decided to spray there, but they did.

Opposite, from Vigo to Ponferrada, was a group of four. Three of them were men, with obligatory baseball caps tipped high to the ceiling, and shaved back-and-sides that allowed the longer tops to achieve a sense of graded contrast between central and peripheral follicular policy, as well as between specific epochs of male grooming. I wanted to tell them they had a phone call from 1998. It wanted its haircut back. I didn't, of course, because I was far more committed to the fourth member of the group, a beautiful brunette who seemed at once both ashamed of and delighted in her male conciliaries. I decided to call her Alba because I like that name and I first caught sight of her at dawn.

The four of them neatly encapsulated modern Spain, at once both beautiful and tantalising and equally lazy: in temperament and attitude as much as in actual ethic. The three male companions coughed and snorted and played their music and conspired and laughed and acted out their diffidence to the rest of the carriage while Alba slept or laughed along with them (maybe even precipitated their territory-marking masculinity), or else stared silently out of the window, looking but not necessarily seeing that she, unlike them, had options. She had them because I said so, because I wanted her to have them, because I saw for her a future far away from the tired, baking cobbles of her secluded home town, a future that did not include phlegm-strewing locals with nose rings and chains, but untold horizons, unburdened by time and circumstance, unblemished by experience, unseen and untouched and all for her beyond the millennial stone of Ponferrada.

I decided she could be an actress or a dancer, not simply because actresses and dancers seem to awake in me a very specific kind of longing and nostalgia, maybe even a longing for nostalgia, but because of the few brief moments of eye contact that we shared, when it felt like only an actor's words or a dancer's moves could lend substance to that serendipity, could transcend the time and space we shared inside a cramped and rocking train carriage and send all its power and glory out into a waiting world desperate for a story of passion and love, a story for the ages, a story they will tell one day on distant planets far from the soil of Eden. But no. The world knows enough of love and fate, it has its poetry already and, besides, girls like Alba are as the tide: everything will rise when it is in and all will be lowered when it is out. Still, she looked like she needed saving and while I have learnt to my cost that appearances are almost always deceiving (indeed, they are usually designed specifically for that purpose), there is nothing more attractive than a girl with ocean eyes going nowhere on a train and appealing to you, in a temporary ocular flicker at your one true weakness, to take her far away from here and start the world anew.

She left with the rest of her party, however, shuffling off to whatever future - if any - lay before them, while the journey settled back into its usual rhythms: sporadic wifi and the murmurs of hip-hop escaping from tin-pan headphones; wobbling passengers grabbing seat-backs and handles as they walk to and queue for the toilets; lone olive trees and iron-ore barns in yellowing fields of imperceptible crops; the yawns and digestive systems of bored and groggy commuters; a faint but constant hum of air-conditioned mechanics; my occasional startled reflection in the window during black stretches of tunnel. At Astorya, with the sun higher and the sky deeper and the weeds in the concrete heavier and drier, I saw a lone grasshopper struggle in the heat, gasping for water and shelter and finding neither. Lunch gave way to afternoon, the lay of the land flattened somewhat, the buildings more obviously southern and Moorish, the sunflowers taller and benefiting from a few hundred miles worth of extra planetary curvature, bending them closer to the star by which they are named, and even the trees began to change: no longer verdant and deciduous, instead sharper, harsher, preparing themselves almost for the desert beyond. There was desolation without and desolation within and great beauty in that desolation, the same desolation that will have transfixed and appalled weary farmers and conquistadors and pilgrims in centuries of old, cajoled into sunburnt appreciation of the sprawling arid land before them, staggered by its power and by its heat, by its inexorable southerly flow to golden sand and rip tides and a whole other continent.

We took on a larger group of new passengers at Leon at about three o'clock. It felt a staging post for the final long stretch to the centre and as we waited at the station - for once developed enough for elevators and shops and vending machines (all of them providing renewed opportunity for graffiti) - I looked out at the red bricks of the city and felt minuscule against the machinations of the world around me, cocooned as I was in a carriage on a train dawdling through the dry dust of southern Europe. I imagined, briefly but potently, that this was as my life had been intended: not the specific travels per se, but the whole tumultuous journey, the decisions and indecisions, the triumphs and regrets, the heartbeats and the heartaches - all of these had led me here, to a train station in Leon, and to whatever else lay down the tracks. In that instant I felt a flow of euphoria, of balance and comfort, and I allowed myself to smile in the rare satisfaction of it, for I have lost count of my dreams, lost count of my blessings, and here was a sound one, however short and haphazard. When we rolled past the abandoned football stadium and drew parallel with the autopista, I let the moment crystallise fully. I stared at beige stone and copper weeds forming in jagged concrete, but I thought of London and glass buildings and cuff-links and mobile boarding passes and cruising altitudes and reciting with confidence the purpose of my visit and broad American salutations and all the girls I have loved called Alba, all of the times my outstretched fingers have reached desperately out into the vast expanses just millimetres from theirs, straining muscles and ligaments and longitude and latitude and fact and fiction in search of a single mortal lock. I now realise that I am proud of that struggling, that in it is the fabric of life itself, part blunder, part bluster, and forever amending its logic and course and horizon. Yes, I needed that stop in Leon, needed that resolution, just as I needed the red rocks and yellowed wheat of its outskirts, the dust from which we all come and will all return, and the fields we may harvest in between, one for each of us to sow and for which we shall each be judged.

And now it is truly desert, bone dry and oppressed, little shelter as far as the eye can see, and still there is graffiti on the side blocks by the tracks outside Valladolid, for Spain is as much this certainty - the certainty of average graffiti - as it is the splendour of its art and culture, its cuisine and climate, its landscapes and cities. This is what it will be now, this constant flow of rocky desert followed by tired town until we reach our final stop, and as miles turn into provinces and the sun - the high, burning disc of fire in the sky - slowly begins its petulant descent into the late afternoon, I begin to imagine what it will be like when I arrive. There will be people, of course, and buildings, but both different to before. They will carry with them a sense of poise, of gravitas. There will be wealth, palm-lined avenues and perfect ground coffee sipped by businessmen and tourists in ancient squares that were once the homes of courtiers and generals, from which a whole empire was run, and because of which whole nations exist on the other side of the world.

When we arrive, the fiction of Spain will present itself to all who walk on her: not the fables of its history, its toreadors and flamenco dancers and cavaliering knights, but its modern pockets of affluence, its islands of galactico in a sea of stagnation. People will smile in expensive clothes. They will drive fast and bright cars. The water will be drinkable. They will pray in floodlit cathedrals to multicoloured cleats on manicured grass turf. They will trade and invest and work in the community of nations, a world apart from the toil of their own in the hot fields beyond the city. And soon there will be echoes, of memories and of dreaming, and they will play out under stars. So too will there be the white noise of information, of currency, of arrivals and departures, of footsteps and embraces, of shared glances and unshared stares, of community and commerce, of urgency and action, and I will slip myself into it, let it take me in and carry me off, a tide of humanity against which to rise and fall, to be known and unknown.

Yes, I can see it now, as we thrust forward and closer still. I will step off the carriage and on to the cool concrete of the platform. I will find another Alba. I will walk into Madrid.

In Defence Of Dimmer Switches

FADE IN…

There is, in screenwriting as in life, a discernible difference between ‘fading out’ and ‘dissolving to’.  It is an important distinction and one that I have recently grappled with.  The former lends itself to finality.  This scene, this episode, this film will end.  We ‘fade out’ because there is nothing left to say or think or witness.  We ‘fade out’ to black, to the end credits.  The latter evokes another moment – fleeting or perennial – that lies in wait beyond the frame.  Sometimes a writer may dissolve to an epilogue or a quote or an image, but what is crucial is that a very specific decision has been taken to end (as far as the word ‘end’ can be applied to a deliberate transition) with movement, with action.  It is a statement that stories continue and we take them with us into our ordinary lives.  Or, as they say in The History Boys: “It’s just one fucking thing after another.” 

I like the dissolve.  True, my last two screenplays have ended with a hard ‘snap to black’, but both have also included, via the movement of the camera in the first and specific dialogue in the second, allegorical dissolves.  In other words: I deliberately cut the action at the exact moment that the story throws out into the ether the suggestion that its characters and themes will continue to exist beyond the narrative device of the script.  And this is important.  Life, after all, is a series of instants – some frivolous, some significant – and we shift from one to the other.  While some writers prefer to frame their stories within the conventional confines of an exact start and a precise end, I like them to be continued…

The idea of dissolving was raised recently by a friend of mine.  We were discussing the difference between boys and girls, as twentysomething over-thinkers from North London will tend to do.  He coined a phrase that I had not heard before but now consider to be a perfect encapsulation of the fundamental distinction between the birds and the bees.  Women fade out.  Men dissolve to.  When you found your Zone 2 London flat (close to the Tube (probably the Jubilee Line)) you will have perused the catalogues of John Lewis and Next to find your fixtures and fittings and soft furnishings.  You will have discoursed on the merits and drawbacks of dimmer switches against conventional flip buttons.  Probably you will have ended up with faux chrome to go with the mock granite worktops and off-white walls and it is fair to say that you are unlikely to have considered the link between your lighting system and your love life.  Quite conceivably this will be because you are a normal, stable, fully-functioning member of the adult human race and unlikely to ponder with metaphysical whimsy why your choice of illuminative methodology speaks to your philosophy on matters of the heart.

I ponder.  This is what I do.  I think about what happens once the scene has finished.  I imagine characters and circumstances after the credits.  I conjure whole conversations and moments and subplots and locations and situations.  For want of a better phrase, I am a dimmer switch.  If my feelings change it is gradual. 

This is what will happen: the moment of realisation that this girl, this time, this situation is the one towards which all the previous heartbreaks, journeys, discoveries and awkward early mornings (unfamiliar apartments; damp on the ceiling; regret on the mind) have led towards will be met with a figurative, imaginary lighting and pyrotechnic display the likes of which Danny Boyle could only dream.  Act Two will add further sleights of hand.  Across the varilights and neon and yoyo gobos and follow-spots will be strobes and filters and kaleidoscopic carousels of alternating colour and design.  A vestibular assault.  There won’t be a dry ice in the house; except there willbecause dry ice will soon cloud the collage as we enter Act Three and slowly, incrementally, glacially turn everything down and switch everything off until only the haze of an exhausted smoke machine remains, drifting wispy grey cirrus onto an empty stage filled with neglected lenses and torn confetti.  Then, and only then, will the party be over.  I am a dimmer switch.  It is initially fun and eventually expensive.

My friend has a theory that, give or take exceptions that both he and I are yet to find, the majority of men are dimmers and the majority of women are switches.  The female version of the above story contains no sluggish realisation that it is no longer desirable to spend any time or money or emotion on this particular lighting display.  Down in the depths below the theatre, in a backstage backroom, a girl with eyes to kill and a smile to make men write folks songs holds her hand above a large red fuse, ready at any given moment to cut the chord.  No confused blend of colour.  No atonal anguish of refraction.  Leave the actors on the stage and the audience in their seats.  Cut the scene.  Snap to black.  Find the next production.

That sounds harsh and perhaps not particularly appropriate to your own personal experiences, be you male or female.  Sorry about that.  Being a human I will generalise for dramatic effect.  There does seem to be a trend however.  I also realise now that my references throughout this article to friends of mine make it seem that I am actually referring to myself and attempting to disguise it with a wretched subterfuge that any nascent psychoanalyst could decipher faster than you can utter the title to Bon Iver’s debut album.  For now, however, I shall put my faith in the shibboleth between writer and reader and assume you will take me at my word.  A friend of mine really did come up with the lighting analogy.  And another friend of mine is at the heart of my next story.

First of all, yes, to confirm your surprise thusfar: I do indeed have a minimum of two friends.  Secondly, I should like to point out in the interests of full disclosure that this next story has no ending, mainly because in a very literal sense it is happening right now to a person very dear to me.  He, like me (and my friend to whom the dimmer/switcher paradigm can be attributed), is an analytical sort:

She said this, but it might mean that. 

She didn’t mention that, so presumably she was really saying this. 

She said she would phone but used WhatsApp instead to say that she would phone later.

She didn’t phone. 

She said she doesn’t have a phone. 

She liked a picture of herself on Facebook with four of her seventy eight best friends (big smiles; nameless bar; espresso martinis; iPhones on table) so she must have noticed the unplugged acoustic version of Ryan Adams’ La Cienega Just Smiled that I obviously (but subtly (but obviously)) posted at the optimum time of day to attract her attention based on a quick algorhythmic study of the median time that she engages with the ‘newsfeed’ or ‘timeline’ or ‘morale-sapping sequence of demoralising posts by incontinently happy people that you do not even know anymore’, or whatever it is that Zuckerburg is now calling it.

She didn’t like the song.

She ‘read’ my message at 15:37 on Monday.

It’s now 12:45 on Thursday.

This is a story of boy meets girl, but you should know this up front: this is not plagiarised.  It is simply one of many examples of female stop and play in what is an otherwise perfect opportunity to segway back into the action via two twenty-first-century popular culture references in the space of two sentences.  My friend likes this girl.  I have not met her, but everything I know about her indicates that she is what we dimmers like to call a ‘game-changer’.  She is smart and funny and inquisitive; vulnerable only in an attractive sense; beautiful, kind, seductive.  They began their courtship in November.  It continued beyond Christmas and into the New Year.  There were late night chats and early morning texts; walks in the park and kisses in the street. 

Of course, I cannot tell whether, at some imperceptible point in the future, the fireworks display that every mutual touch and look and feel elicits in my friend’s whirring imagination will ultimately fade for him too, like a sparkler on a winter night, its glow inexorably tracing down from metal ion chlorate to dull, insensitive wire and embers and ash.  All I know is that my friend very much occupied a space in Act Two, with Act Three yet to be written, yet to even be conceived.  A happy place.  In the moment.  That was until last weekend when the red fuse box reared its ugly head and kicked and screamed the two of them into Act Three anyway.

A conversation took place between the boy and the girl and the outlook became cloudy.  Or, rather, she spoke and he didn’t and the outlook became cloudy.  This was a surprise and seemingly out of synch with the previous period of contentedness.  My friend was confused.  What had he done?  What hadn’t he done?  And, crucially, what could be done?  Drive on, through the soggy soil of England, and let the situation diffuse with time and chance?  Or turn around and head back into the city to bend the storyline to a happier conclusion?  Many would counsel restraint here.  Don’t be weird.  Don’t be a stalker.  Don’t come across too strong.  Give her space.  Give her room.  Give her time. 

Time?  What, the very thing we are each running out of?  Time: that we each lose our battle with.  For, as Shakespeare put it, “Time's the king of men; he's both their parent, and he is their grave, and gives them what he will, not what they crave.”  No surrender to serendipity.  No acceptance that the light switch is binary.  Do not allow the cold and callous snap to black but defend the dissolve: rage, if you will, against the dying of the light.  It may yet grow dark but “nothing will come of nothing.”  If a man continues his journey without finding the courage to say what he feels and why he feels it, if a man travels on with regret and remorse at not turning back and declaring his love, his hopes, his dreams, then what is the point of the voyage?  Why make it at all?  And if not now, when?

This has been an illusory piece.  Let me cut through the symbolism and make it clear that, in this particular story, the idea of the journey is both literal and metaphorical.  There is indeed a ‘journey’ that we each are on.  In relation to my friend, there was also an actual, tangible, physical decision to be made: whether to keep on driving away or turn around and travel to where the girl could be found and lend delicate voice to emotional thought.

Well, my friend turned back and I do not know what will happen next.  He spoke his truths and she uttered her silences and the pages remain blank, to be filled by the protagonists as their scenes play out.  She may yet flip the switch.  He may eventually dim the bulbs.  Yet in a cynical world there remains a place for bold romantic gestures; there is room still for the dimmers. 

We learn at the last that our lives are moments.  We transition between them; sometimes sightless, sometimes not, but always moving.  Not for me the cut.  Not for me the snap.  Not for me the switch.  Give me the dimmer, for the lights will go up and the lights will go down and the lights will go up again…

DISSOLVE TO…

The Morning After

"A mixed-race Sheffield native, a carrot-topped red head, and a Somali refugee walk into a bar.  And everyone buys them a drink."

In the cold light of a grey morning we stumbled, bleary eyed and subdued, from our houses and apartments towards buses and trains, sidewalks and traffic jams.  The metropolis, that great, sprawling, teeming mass of concrete, of Roman stone and Olympic glass, shuddered against the tide, against the swell of humanity, clogging and corroding its rivers and roads.  On this morning, on this day, it was London Bawling.

Over the course of the previous two weeks a new golden age had emerged.  It was not perfectly formed.  Like the city - no, the country - to which it became attached, this renewed sense of confidence and community, idealism and identity, was haphazard in nature: some wore it on their sleeves, others drew it stoically across the quiet part of their hearts.  

For the first time since the Second World War, those that affiliate themselves with the ethnic melting pot that is otherwise known across the globe as "Britain" were able to engage in a new sense of patriotism, of deference to a long and tumultuous past and belief - at last - in a better future.  But for all our recent displays of emotion and catharsis in front of a watching world, we are creatures of habit.  The fireworks will cease, the sun will go down, the train will be delayed.  It was ever thus.  

And yet... perhaps a new Britain has begun to emerge; not tangible enough to witness every day, not visceral or even particularly prosaic, but there: in a smile, an acknowledgment, a sense of belonging.  In the Olympic stadium, as one flame was extinguished, a new candle burned faster, higher and stronger.  Stoked in the embers of London 2012 and fed by common purpose, it is this country's torch of tomorrow, blazing a trail to the audacity of hope, to daring to dream.    

This is, for all its pyrotechnic confidence, a silent siren, a quiet question to each and every one of us: do you now, after what we have witnessed and what we have together produced, believe in the evidence of things unseen?  Do you, at the last, have faith in the substance of what is hoped for?  When once the answer was "no", Britons today can look up, if not at each other then at least with each other, and say "yes".  The stage was taken and these Kingdoms became United.  For the first time in the modern age, this country - this Britain - became Great.

On the Metropolitan line at Baker Street on the morning of Monday 13 August 2012 none of this was particularly evident.  Headphones were worn, papers were read, coughs were spluttered.  We looked down.  We waited patiently for trains.  We checked our emails.  The train was, as usual, standing room only. 

One of the last to find some space was an old lady. The lines on her face were drawn and heavy: they spoke of time and its passing.  I watched, hemmed in myself by sweaty hands clamouring for support as the doors swung shut on this carriage of colours and creeds, this small compartment of real London, and I saw in her a sense of wisdom.  She had lived the British story: the bombast and the bombs, the empire and the emptiness, the votes and the violence, the parties and the penalties.

She did not speak.  She did not need to.  She simply looked around, at once both bewildered and becalmed by the close proximity of her fellow travellers.  With a chiseled look of wary determination her piercing gaze rested upon a black man who must have been of a similar age to me.  He sat on the seat closest to this lady of London.  The sound of drum and bass forced itself out in tinny syncopation from his headphones.  The black man looked up and, for the briefest of moments, met the lady's gaze.

From different parts of the world and at different stages of life, entrenched in their capital and intrinsically bound together through providence on a Tube train, they found themselves within three feet of each other: British and Londoners both. 

After a pause, the black man stood up and, without a word, gestured first at the old lady and then to his now vacant seat.  She nodded - a gracious bow of gratitude - and took her rightful place.  The man repositioned himself and pulled his shoulders back, standing tall and proud against the huddled masses of the carriage.  He noticed me watching and - swiftly, almost wistfully - he smiled.  I smiled too.  So did the old lady.  And then we retreated, back into ourselves, back into our unspoken thoughts, our truths and our lies.  

When I looked up again it was later and the train was rattling through the ancient tunnels of London: an engineering project centuries old carrying modern men to their destination.  It was ever thus.  

And I smiled again.  This time for longer.  This time for real.  This time for better.  The man was moving to the swerve of the train and the beat of his music.  The old lady gently swayed in her seat and altered her glasses: to see more clearly the state of her nation. 

He wore a dark blue t-shirt.  She carried a black handbag. Both items would have been unexceptional but for one defining feature emblazoned on both: six letters that signify not just one but many generations inspired.  "Team GB."

Robert 'Sammy' Samuelson

13 August 2012

London, United Kingdom

Fayetteville, Arkansas: The Scientist

Life can be random, it can daze and confuse, amuse and astound; it can hit us when we are down and thrust our weary souls onwards and forwards to the stars themselves.  The visciditudes of our brief span, the exigencies of our existence, often emerge without focus, out of nowhere, unforeseen and unbeknownst in the most unknowing of situations.  We can plan for absolution, for certainty, and find our hopes and dreams in reality ride a wave of fortune, of serendipity struck upon a star.  Every so often we look up and we are reminded that, within and without of the chaos theory of our daily struggles, great beauty can emerge, surprising and special, temporary yet tantalising, an impermanent impression that destiny and fate are as relevant to each and every one of us as the gritty sureness of a mundane Monday morning.  In Fayetteville, Arkansas, such dreams, such visions, such providence does and will exist.  You can reach them with a glance, a smile and a “Hello, I was wondering if you could help?”…

Look at the stars; look how they shine for you

Coldplay might not be to your taste, their middle of the road, mid-tempo media may not delight and dazzle.  For Dean and I, their melodies and lyrics punctuated our time in the beautiful state of Arkansas, where Chris Martin’s motifs of light and shade, hopes and dreams, shining stars and new journeys, take on a broader, ethereal meaning. 

At the state line between Missouri and Arkansas, on a narrow, winding country road far from the maddening crowd of urban thoroughfares, in the space between day and night, we witnessed for the first time the transcendental tranquillity of the Natural State.  Gazing up to the heavens we saw the galaxy explode in to focus, a black sky interrupted by millions of stars, a solar system exposed by the clear Arkansas atmosphere: a sign, a harbinger of the purity to come.  These Yellow stars were shining for us, and they seemed to will us on, like airplanes in the night sky, like ten million fireflies, to write a brand new song for the people we would soon meet: in their place, yes, but never feeling lost.  It’s true: look how they shine for you.  Here, thousands of miles from home, was a message to replace fatigue with fascination: this is the right place; drive on.

Not shaken but Stirred

The gothic sublime of the night sky in all its glory affected Dean and I in different ways, in the former awaking his soul for the creation of another epic; for the latter forming an inner warmth, a contended glow that longed to be followed by restful sleep.  Yet a roadtrip, an adventure, is not for sleep and so we headed in to Fayetteville, Arkansas, having checked in to our Super 8 roadside motel.

Fayetteville is most famous for being the home to the University of Arkansas, the Razorbacks.  The town is a perfect encapsulation of American college cool, with its wide spaces, well maintained quads and pathways, lined with deciduous trees and backpacked students, shuffling and socialising from department buildings to libraries, dorm rooms to lectures, bookshops to bars.  Dean and I felt the supportive shroud of student security envelop us like an old friend, embracing its warmth and nostalgia: a welcome return to campus life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

It is hard not be taken by Fayetteville with its liberal charm and conservative traditions, its warm welcome and inspiring visual vistas.  This is a town proud of its heritage, its youth, its sports teams and its cultural nuances, embracing its sororities and geography, resting and nestling in the hills of north-west Arkansas, at the start of the Ozark range, cavorting, meandering and rolling in the deep South.

At the heart of the main university area, a brief walk from the enormous college football stadium and the rows of picture perfect sorority and fraternity houses, is Dickson Street, a straight strip of bars and restaurants that explodes in to vitality on a Saturday night.  Dean and I noticed this immediately, despite still being tired from our exertions in St. Louis, Missouri, one night previously.  Our cab driver, an ex-US marine who was less than complimentary about Europe after his stay at a base in Germany, at least redeemed himself by offering the first in a series of fortunate events that dramatically changed our perceptions of not only the town of Fayetteville, but of our entire American adventure.  While hardly ingratiating himself to two boys from Europe, he suggested we start our evening in a bar called Stir.  Dropping us off at the top of Dickson Street, we took to heart his advice on where to sample a Fayetteville night out and glossed over the rest of his ignorant indifference to our homeland.

Armed only with the knowledge and providence of the whims of a singular taxi driver, we wearily made our way in to Stir, oblivious to what would soon unfold.  Within moments of these English feet braving the slight gap in an American door, our Fayetteville guardian angel’s second act of serendipity played itself out, as the doorman at first barred and at the last agreed to our entrance in to the bar.  The original problem stemmed from our British identification documents and the doorman’s orders not to accept them.  Whether it was a word from a senior manager, or the logic of common sense momentarily hijacking the otherwise intransigent electrodes in his brain, the doorman stepped to one side and allowed us in to this din, this cauldron of college camaraderie.

Settling in to our seats at the bar (whiskey for me, gin and tonic for Dean) and enjoying the music video projections, we were content to adjust to the scene by taking it all in, by sipping our drinks and marinating in the vibes of the room.  Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, and then subsequently in to the peripheral vision of my own, two characters came in to view, engaged in conversation and heading for a space at the bar directly to my left.  Serendipitous moment number three was about to take place.

Roxi music

The effect was not immediate.  Dean and I continued to sit facing the bar, watching our mirror-reflected selves inversed in front of us, sipping our drinks and mentally preparing to break down the fourth wall of awkwardness.  On my left, two girls nestled at the bar, talking, joking, laughing, all the while pining forward to make eye contact with the bar staff.  Sometimes it is possible to grasp feeling and meaning without being able to specifically locate what it is about a person that imbues such surety, such a mortal lock of synchronised sentiment.  Whether a twist of fate or an illustration of initiative, it was not long before a conversation had been created.

Dean and I were both in agreement that the two girls to my left seemed like friendly people, amiable to a British question about what to do and where to go in Fayetteville.  Plucking up some courage to instigate interaction, I turned to the blonde-haired girl by my side and asked her if she attended the University of Arkansas and whether Dean and I were in the right place to sample the Fayetteville scene.  The girl, with her deep set eyes and quizzical smile, looked at us with initial bewilderment and subsequent interest: were they really English and why were they in the middle of Arkansas on a random Saturday night?

In that moment we witnessed the radiance of Roxi Hazelwood, at once both fascinated by her European interviewers and determined to help.  All through America Dean and I have noticed and relied on the kindness of strangers and here it existed in its most emblazoned and emboldened to form.  Over the next five hours and ensuing two days, Roxi introduced us to her friends, her home, her local hang-outs, her overriding philosophies of courtesy and kindness, fun and charm.

Next to Roxi was Courtnie, who took to these two Londoners with a little more suspicion, perhaps appropriately so given that Fayetteville, Arkansas, is not renowned for its British connections.  Courtnie, tall, beautiful, and with a perfectly pitched level of dry humour that would not be out of place in old London town, originally thought that Dean and I were Americans attempting to sound like Prince Harry.  Only a number of forms of ocular proof would convince Courtnie that we were bonafide British, including verification via Facebook, drivers’ licenses, Wikipedia articles and Twitter accounts. 

Courtnie’s suspicions were out of concern for her friend, Roxi, who had struck up conversation with both Dean and I.  Anxious to support and protect her friend, Courtnie’s questions and one-liners were entirely appropriate, frank and honest, arising as they did out of a sense of duty to a higher cause.  Roxi and Courtnie, it transpired, were Sorority Sisters and so had a responsibility, an obligation, to look after each other, a code entrusted and passed down from generation to generation, influencing and informing its members’ values of truth and respect, loyalty and kindness.  Courtnie’s misgivings and unease stemmed not out of malice to two boys from London but out of solidarity with her kin.

The question of sororities was raised earlier in our meeting, when I asked Roxi if she was a member of any.  She replied in the affirmative and I then prepared to guess which one.  Given that my experience with sororities is limited solely to Chi Omega, I naturally went with what I know and confidently suggested to Roxi that she was a member of this most respected of houses.  To mine and their astonishment I had guessed correctly first time.  In reality, however, Dean and I should have realised immediately that these girls would be Chi-Os.  After all, our collective experience taught us that Chi Omega sorority sisters are always the most interesting, polite and impressionable of any attached to the Greek student culture.  Roxi, and indeed everyone introduced to us as a result of that first connection in Stir, epitomised such values from the moment we first met to our ultimately difficult and long goodbye.

The girls, of course, were somewhat stunned that my first guess had accurately been Chi Omega but perhaps our familiarity with this most hospitable of sorority houses helped alleviate any lasting remnants of awkwardness as we prepared, at Roxi’s recommendation, to leave Stir with our new friends for our second bar of the evening, West End.

London in the West End

West End was a grittier venue than Stir and offered a more obvious and realistic portrayal of a Fayetteville Saturday night.  Students lined the bars and shuffleboards, the open spaces around the dancefloor and stage, piling in through the steamed door and around corners and corridors to the central aspect of the room, a squared off middle zone for talking and flirting, singing and dancing, all built around a raised performing area in the corner where an acoustic guitar, singer and percussionist provided an easy-listening beat to the cheerful sounds of this din of student living.

By now, Dean and I had garnered somewhat of a reputation with our North London accents and unusual dress sense in comparison to the ordinary look of a Deep South twentysomething.  Roxi and Courtnie, who by now was more disposed to her new British acquaintances, introduced us to a number of other friends in West End, and we happily chatted and whiled away a number of hours in the bar together. 

What was remarkable for Dean and I was that, perhaps for the first time in our travels across America, neither of us felt recourse to reach for a drink, to shield ourselves away from potential embarrassment by the secure envelopment of holding a glass in one hand.  So fascinated were we by our new hosts, so at home and at peace, that time became immaterial, alcohol impractical, thoughts of home impossible.  Such feelings of contentedness are rare and hard to replicate, arising as they do out of nothing, out of chance.  Or perhaps they do not; perhaps there is a pre-ordainment to such moments of magic.  Sometimes we settle for half, for the middle ground between faith and fact.  When it becomes too difficult to evaluate, when the battle between hope and practicality threatens to confuse and corrupt conjecture and confidence that we are each on the right path, it is perhaps best to remember the line from Forrest Gump: “I don’t know if we each have a destiny, or if we’re all just floating around accidental-like on a breeze, but I, I think maybe it is both.  Maybe both is happening at the same time.”

At this time we were introduced to another mutual friend of Roxi and Courtnie.  This girl, an inquisitive, intelligent and ingratiating future lawyer by the name of Lauren Summerhill helped contribute significantly to the vitality of our many conversations with the remarkable individuals from Fayetteville.  Lauren asked critical questions, looked at issues with a clever, diligent eye, demonstrating all of the inquisitorial skill that a lawyer needs, an attention to detail and articulation that leant an academic flavour to absorbing exchanges that ranged from legal study to the state of American politics.  For this writer, it was a pleasure to discuss these topics with such a knowledgeable and sharp soul.

As the bar closed for the night, none of us wanted to part.  There was a mutual keenness to cement these new, budding, embryonic friendships, now numbering six of us with the introduction of Caroline Lang, an eminently ranked member of the Chi-Omega sorority, who kindly drove this rather haphazardly formed but affectionately fastened gang to the colonnaded majesty of the Chi-O house itself. 

Waffling

The Chi-Omega sorority house stands in the middle of the main campus area of the University of Arkansas.  Best seen in the daylight, it nevertheless radiates an imposing majesty, with its columns and steps, its hedgerows and white painted shutters.  Inside, lounges and living rooms spill out in to extended corridors, each accompanied by plush rugs and couches, widescreen televisions and grand pianos, lit by looming lampshades and modern spots and home to a number of Sorority girls who share in everything from dorm-room to dogma to dinner. 

There is a popular misconception about the nature of a Sorority, one that I have explored in earlier blogs from Baton Rouge, but worth repeating, worth extending.  The Sorority system that many Europeans believe stands for frivolous procrastination and partying is a considerable misnomer.  These are centres of tradition, of altruistic ideals and ideas passed down across many generations, each instilled with basic human values of philanthropy, kindness and respect.  Sororities, particularly Chi Omega, demand the highest of standards in its members’ academia and social interactions.  Specific grades must be achieved, precise manners must be met.  The net result of these philosophies is not a pagan paradise of immorality, but a network, an ethos, a system of honour and community, of charity and affection.  If such values did not exist, Dean and I would never have enjoyed the company of the Arkansas Chi-O girls, would never have developed such strong bonds, and would never have been able to rely so happily on the kindness of strangers that became friends.  To those that question the Greek student system in America, I put it to each that they should better research the facts and not rely on the Hollywood bastardisation of Sorority Row.

In any event, Dean and I stepped in to the Chi Omega house for just a few minutes that Saturday night, albeit meeting and chatting with more of Roxi and her group’s social scene.  We posed for photos, lounged on the sofas, and then headed off in Roxi’s car with Courtnie and Lauren to grab some late night, early morning food.

The Waffle House stands just outside of the main University area in Fayetteville.  Open twenty-four hours a day, it serves a wide ranging clientele from residents and students to passers-through, from weary travellers looking for a coffee to student revellers in need of sustenance.  Roxi, Courtnie, Lauren, Dean and I arrived to line our stomachs after a long night and further cement a budding friendship in a diner that is symptomatic of, and epitomises, the best of America: a twenty-four hour café with an almost embarrassingly long menu and terrifyingly sized portions.  To the consternation of many, the employees of the Waffle House included, I ordered the harsh browns with ‘Bert’s chilli’.  This seemed to cause a mild panic and informed on me the idea that I was perhaps the first person to voluntarily decide to have chilli made by an individual named Bert in quite some time.  As it was, the chilli, much like the atmosphere more generally within the establishment, was lovely and we were each able to quench our appetites and find out more about each other at the same time.  Tired but happy, we were dropped off back at our Super 8 motel and, after an in no way ironic group hug in the car park, retired to bed, to sleep, perchance to dream.

Calling the Hogs

The following day was resplendent in stunning sunshine, with a deep blue sky filling the horizon and lifting our already considerably high spirits.  Aware that we were not meeting our new friends until later in the afternoon, Dean and I enjoyed taking in the views of Fayetteville in the daylight, and were able to grasp more clearly just how beautiful the state of Arkansas can be in good weather.  Subtle inclines and gentle drops in the road helped to bring new contours and colours in to view, with university buildings dotting the horizon, each symbolic of American university patronage: well funded, cleverly constructed, neatly designed, spaced out across a manicured campus with inspiring buildings in which to learn and study.

On the recommendation of Lauren via Roxi, we drove slightly out of town to try some regional soul food at Moma Dean’s.  This was apparently a Fayetteville institution and particularly pleasing for Dean given his identical name with the venue.  Moma Dean’s is the perfect encapsulation of good food off the beaten track, of taking somewhat of a risk based on the recommendation of a local and rolling with it to see what happens.  On first glance, this establishment looks unkempt and derelict, with dirty floors and misty windows cornering plastic chairs and stained cutlery.  These are but initial impressions.  Look again, deeper, and you find history here: the same family preparing the same food, itself inherently tied to the region, across generations, all with an amiable welcome to regulars and new guests alike.

After our meal, Dean and I started speaking with a waiter, Caesar, who then introduced us to Moma Dean herself.  The Moma, as she is known, was a wonderful character, full of questions and hearty laughing, youthful in her obvious experience, with the sort of sentiency that belies her local tethering.  These are eyes that have seen good times and bad amidst great change in America.  They signify a broader theme in American history; that communities can continue to enjoy their traditions, their nostalgia, but do so now in a parlance of plurality, with a surer understanding of the past and a better hope for the future.

Mama Dean was chatting with some of her guests when Dean and I approached with our camera.  Amused and intrigued by our accents, the other visitors were soon also engaged in conversation with us.  This led to a rousing rendition of ‘calling the Hogs’, a chant heard across the region and particularly at Arkansas football games as both a cry of support for the team and a deliberate and passionate acknowledgment of the region’s agricultural origins.  It was fascinating to hear the cadence and metre in the calling, to imagine for just a brief moment how it must sound when 90,000 Razorbacks fans each call the hogs in unison at a college sporting event.  Armed with the good food, the friendly conversation, and the power of the hog-calling Razorbacks chant, we drove happily to the main campus area in order to chat more with our new friends at the Chi-O house and take in a tour of the grounds. 

Take a shot like a Chi-O can

Dean and I fell in to an almost state of stasis-like serenity in the Chi Omega house.  We were made to feel so welcome, so at home, by our hosts, that it was impossible not to feel the warm glow of comfort and security that comes with the knowledge of friendship, companionship and mutual affection, even so far away from home.

Our return to the Chi-O house after visiting Mama Dean’s, then, felt like the obvious move, the natural direction to drive in after our late lunch.  We toured the floors and dorms, the lounges and kitchens, meeting other sorority girls, and posing for photos outside the beautiful main entrance to the house.  Roxi, Courtnie, Lauren and now Morgan, who had since joined our group, took Dean and I around some of the other areas of the University of Arkansas campus.  Particularly interesting was the fact that the institution engraves the names of its graduates in to the sidewalk, so that you are literally walking in the path, following in the footprints, of those who have gone before, those have who shown the dedication to graduate college and move on in the world: a permanent persuasion to current students to keep striving for the next step, the next goal; a particularly inspiring notion in a university.

Standing together.  Shaping tomorrow.

Dean and I had envisaged staying just the one night in Fayetteville.  However, as Sunday afternoon began to slip in to the developing chill of evening, we were still in the town, still learning more, still discovering.  Roxi, it transpired, had to attend a campaign meeting at a fraternity house called Lambda Chi.  Running for the position of Student Treasure on a ticket that included other likeminded individuals running for other positions on the ballot, Roxi needed to attend the meeting to discuss campaigning techniques and deal with other practical issues ahead of the main election process in a few weeks.  For many this would be a cue to leave, to interfere no further in the private matters of an individual and the democratic process of her academic institution.  Not so Dean and I.  This was roadtrip documentary gold.  It made perfect sense to accompany Roxi to the meeting, to take in what was to be discussed, to witness first hand the youthful strands of American democracy, to watch and learn from student politicians who one day may shape the destinies of states and nations.

For the amateur politico or West Wing aficionado, this was heaven.  We sat and listened as the Campaign Manager discussed next steps in the election process, what posters would look like, where candidates needed to be going on the campus, how social media and networking tools would be harnessed to raise awareness, what specific events were being created for the candidates so that they could meet with voters and get the message out.  This grass-roots, activist element of politics and democracy is both inspiring and crucial, engineering in its protagonists a fundamental sense of belonging to the larger American political process, a democratic movement, regardless of who you support, that takes ideas and policies, questions and answers, plans and strategies, in to people’s homes and schools, their bars and sidewalks.  The gap between the individual and their representative is reduced by the myriad of ways that candidates are expected to communicate with their electorate, to imprint their message, their dreams, their ideals on the body politics entrusting them with their own hopes for the future, their own demands for tomorrow. 

At once both inspiring and practical, it made perfect sense for Roxi to be involved.  Her immediately welcoming and engaged nature when meeting Dean and I for the first time, we hope, will mean that the wider University of Arkansas population are as equally taken with her as we were.  Much of politics is about first impressions, about instinct, about eye contact and trust.  These are but some of the many attributes of Roxi Hazelwood, and we look forward to hearing of her ensuing election win.  Standing together, shaping tomorrow, these inspiring students and the ticket they represented in that meeting inside Lambda Chi, will forever have contributed to a personally memorable moment in this American roadtrip.  Grassroots democracy is alive and well in the great state of Arkansas.

Pulling your puzzles apart

One might have considered this an appropriate point to bid these remarkable girls adieu, to retreat to our car to continue our road trip across the state line in to Oklahoma.  Yet a warm glow of contentedness is not to be ignored, rare as it is when thousands of miles away from home.  To feel so completely at ease, to be so fully and purely welcomed, to have the opportunity to sample and learn from the culture of others, helps transcend the truth of travelling; that across unfamiliar terrain in a different part of the world it is possible to connect, to entrench ties that bind, to broaden horizons with smiles and whispers, laughter and looks.

Inevitably, then, we returned to our safety net, the comfort blanket that was and is the Chi Omega house.  In the main living room we sat and talked for so long that it became clear that Dean and I would not be reaching Oklahoma City that night and, with specific dates set to see close friends in Louisiana, it became necessary to stay one more night in Fayetteville before driving to Shreveport the following day.  This was after another new acquaintance, Rose, had kindly told us much about Oklahoma City, even providing some tips from her English Dad who now resides in the city.  Although we would never make it this land of friendly cowboys and farmers, Rose’s generosity in even trying to establish some helpful facts for Dean and I will not be forgotten and we were happy Rose joined our group for the rest of the evening. 

Certain of our stay for one more night, we were able to relax in the lounge with our new friends for several hours.  During this time, Erin and Claire joined our party, probing and asking intelligent and intriguing questions, delving in to the cultural similarities and differences between two inextricably linked nations, bound by common principles and ideals, laced histories and sensitivities, religious and linguistic parallels forged across centuries of generations, from times of conflict to an era of allegiance.  Politicians, President, Prime Ministers and Monarchs call the British-American partnership the ‘special relationship’.  It exists, it thrives, in Fayetteville.

While much binds our two nations, certain facets remain in contrast, including our cuisine.  Dean, it transpired, had never sampled a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  This most pro-American of Englishman was obviously eager to put this smite on his atlanticist record to rest and hungrily tore in to what looked like an excellent example of this quintessentially American delicacy, prepared by Roxi and Erin and presented to Dean in the Chi-O lounge.  With the impatient eyes of a number of girls on him, plus a somewhat quizzical look from your humble author, Dean delved in to his sandwich, spilling some contents, but otherwise managing to maintain a degree of British decorum, poise and delicacy despite being stared down by his inquisitors.  It was, Dean said, a very tasty sandwich.

The surreal nature of this serenity continued unabashed when another Chi-O sister arrived with an accent straight out of Gone With the Wind.  Nicole, who had previously chatted with me on loudspeaker, arrived in the living room to proudly let the assembled masses know that her endorphins had been released, that she was full of energy, vim and vigour, that she had been perfecting a new ‘firehouse’ dance move, and that she was excited to hear some English accents.  Not half as bemused as we were by her accent, that is. 

This was the most Southern of Southern drawls I have ever come across, all elongated and rounded vowels, mixed with slight glottal stops and rising inflections, completed with wide eyes and a radiant smile.  There is a notion, perhaps stereotyped, perhaps unfairly prejudiced by Hollywood depictions of the ‘Old South’, of the Southern Belle of folklore, the lace hats and gloves, the curtsies, the deference to men, to society.  The modern South, as epitomised by its sororities, is contemporary, pluralist, progressive, while still retaining the Southern charm and hospitality, the grace and humility, the style and magic of its nineteenth and early twentieth century pomp.  Nicole, as with all of the girls we met, characterised such values and traits and helped Dean and I appreciate all the more the wonder of this region.

As the evening twilight merged from a grey dusk in to the depths of night itself, Dean and I found ourselves fielding further questions, meeting new friends, providing an impromptu piano and guitar version of The Scientist and making plans for the night ahead.  The song we performed became something of an anthem for Dean and I, its lyrics at once prosaic and personal, a perfect blend of the rare certainties in life, the ocular numbers and figures, and the subjective sentiments they often surround.  The Scientist longs for the start and so, in a way, did we: to begin again the adventure so we could relive rather than end it, to concentrate on hellos that meant the world rather than goodbyes that meant ‘see you soon’ but not knowing when.

Such disheartening motifs were soon addressed, however, by another roadtrip highlight for Dean and I, as we journeyed in the car with Roxi, Claire, Rose and Erin to the University of Arkansas basketball stadium to watch a flash mob training session take place.  The aim of the session was for volunteers to practice for an impromptu, but in reality planned and choreographed dance, which would take place within a time out during the Razorbacks’ weekend basketball fixture.  This was a sensory delight for Dean and I as we took our seats in the stunning auditorium.  Seating upwards to 20,000 people, it was frightening to think that this bowl of basketball is home to a college team.  In the UK we have no such college culture, no interest in university sports.  Our school, the University of Nottingham, did not contain a stadium of any kind.  The University of Arkansas enjoys use of fully functioning, world class facilities, complete with camera galleys, executive boxes, dressing rooms, gyms, physiotherapy centres and health spas, all across a number of sporting pursuits, from the 90,000 American football stadium, to the beautiful soccer field to the athletics arena. 

Such is the investment in American higher education.  Yes, it may rely on private donations, on state support, but the comparative prices for students to attend such colleges are not much more than what British students pay for our equivalents.  In the United States there is a clear culture of providing its youth with enough opportunity to grow and thrive, to offer and supply the right resources in the correct environment to learn and develop.  As a result, the students treat their facilities with respect, honouring their parents’, government’s and entrepreneurs’ own commitment to their education, their walk of life.

Enthused and inspired by what we had just seen, by the university’s commitment to its students and by the students reverence for the facilities and opportunities they have, we left the stadium with the flash mob, itself a perfect encapsulation of American positivity and enthusiasm, still rehearsing.  With the bright lights of the arena still dazzling, still igniting like stars in our eyes, we took in some food at Mexico Viejo and then rose ever higher, in both gleeful spirit and literal altitude, to take in the fullness, the wholeness of the city sprawl from Mount Sequoyah, just outside of town.

Bring me that horizon

Mount Sequoyahh rises in the hills that surround Fayetteville, and is arrived at by a steep drive up winding country roads, themselves lined with the colonnaded mansions of Southern folklore, with gabled vistas and long, snaking drive ways, covered and draped by Spanish moss and arching oaks, through thickets and copses, shrubbery and streams, and then up higher as the street widens and arches, carving a crevice out of the hillside and spinning to face the town from which it rises, springing forth like lunar tranquillity to a wider aspect, a broader focus: the city, the sprawl, the twinkling lights of the horizon, stretching away beyond in to the night, untethered and inexorable, correlated but never attached to the murky land of the republic.

This vista of Fayetteville was at once inspiring and astounding.  Not the largest of towns, it nevertheless took on new meaning, partly imbued by our happy state, our joyful singing of songs from Glee as we took on the inclines to reach the vantage point.  From up here, from this height and this sentiment, Fayetteville stretched wider than before, from downtown to its University campus, from its residential zone to its industrial exterior.  In the cold night sky, we saw taillights and headlights, flashing blues and dotted greens: forwards, progress, movement. 

Next to the vantage area is a large, illuminated crucifix, not of Cristo Redentor magnitude but bright, visible, deliberate and towering over the metropolis nevertheless, as if to remind the citizens below that, out of the pure facts of academic study, out of the cement of serious life, the gritty reality of the grey area between youth and adulthood, there is still room for faith – any faith – and dreams, uncaused causes and intangible tangibles.  This view, these people, that moment: beauty and wonderment, happiness and perspective, new horizons and old comforts, from atop of Mount Sequoyah to the hinterland beyond.

I’m going back to the start

They say that it is easier to leave than to be left behind.  Whether this is true or not depends on our point of view, on your relative position in the context of the departure: whether you are leaving or being left.  Regardless, Dean and I braved a snowy, grey morning with a gritty but necessary certainty: the road trip must continue, the show must go on.  We packed our bags and prepared to drive.

Our final stop was to pay a last farewell to our new friends as they ate brunch in the Chi-O house.  We were meant to merely step in briefly.  We stayed for three hours.  Three times Dean and I tried to leave, having enjoyed a quick meal of corn dogs, mozzarella and tomato crescents and fried green beans with Roxi, Caroline and Erin.  Alas, as we moved through the splendour of the house one final time, Dean and I found ourselves in further conversations, new introductions at what was meant to be our denouement.

This was the long goodbye, an aching and constantly revolving set of salutations and platitudes.  It was also a hello, as Dean and I happily conversed with the likes of Laura, Cory, Ronnie, Mindyrose and Ali.  As we finally prepared to leave, to exit centre stage and retire to the Chevrolet, a song rang out, a chorus of comfort and hope for a reunion, a return, a resolution.  The Chi Omega girls sang their anthem of affection, an aching and at the same time moving lyric of remembrance, of merging a past with a future, of moving forwards, yes, but also going back to the start.  The song ends with a beat, an impact, an almost spoken final stanza: “We’ll remember you.”

The truth is that Dean and I arrived in this town expecting a couple of days of student security but little else.  We left with new friends and new dreams, of a desire to reciprocate if any of them decide to visit London, with a new appreciation of how deep the universal values of hospitality, kindness and kinship can run, how they can bring even the most frivolous of vacations a new meaning, a higher focus.  Not goodbye, then, but see you soon.  Until we meet again.

A postscript

At the heart of the success of our stay in Fayetteville, Arkansas, was Roxi Hazelwood.  It was Roxi who first engaged with me in the bar on the Saturday night.  It was Roxi who took us on to the West End, introduced us to her friends, brought us in to her meetings, toured us through her campus, and let us in to her home.  In doing so, she also articulated a substance of herself, her own hopes and fears, dreams and aspirations, of trepidation of what might be ahead for a girl with many interests, many attributes, many visions.

Throughout our stay in Fayetteville, we played and heard The Scientist.  In leaving, it became clear what the song truly meant: its deliberate bridge between fact and fiction, science and faith.  Roxi, a biochemistry major, was our Scientist.  Her studies involve the pursuit of proof, of certainty, of ocularity.  Yet she stands at a precipice, interested in law, politics, language, travelling, at the cusp of graduation and yet still nestling within the refuge, the sanctuary of academic structure. 

The reality is that nobody can predict a future.  Certainly Dean and I could not have known what would await us in Fayetteville. 

In that daily struggle between what you know and what you think, between what you expect and what will ensue, it is sometimes appropriate, sometimes apposite, to let the music play out.  The point of The Scientist is that, within its lyrics of ‘numbers and figures’ are less concrete creeds, of puzzles, of progress.  Roxi, our scientist, our friend, changed both our roadtrip and our perspective of this great nation.  It was a shame for us to part but the beauty of this smaller, interconnected world that we live in, just as in the beauty of the song itself, is that, while it may not be easy, while it may not always work out, while variables still exist and time changes and affects each of us in different ways, there will always be chances, always new roads to travel, always ways to go back to the start in search of the answers.  In search of tomorrow.

~~~

‎"Happiness, AR"

The twinkling lights of a Saturday night,

Flicker past over the brow of a hill,

While diner signs and motel lines keep out a winter chill.

A force of weary travelling,

Of a need to stop and sleep,

Countered by the smile of another friend to keep.

This, my friends, is Arkansas,

Headlining at the top of the bill.

Who would have known that such seeds were sown,

In a town called Fayetteville?

Robert 'Sammy' Samuelson 

Fayetteville, Arkansas - 12 February 2012.