valeriesbookofme

  I arrived at Sheila’s house in Somerset after a tiring journey from London on Monday. After navigating my bags from my hotel in Craven Terrace down to Paddington Station—a 10 minute walk, thank goodness for rolling bags—I only had to wait a half hour before the train to Bristol. Paddington is much nicer than it used to be, when Sheila and I used to catch the train to visit her parents, who also lived in Somerset, in 1978-1980. It was very Victorian back then and they’ve kept the historical part of it—the soaring arches and large posters everywhere of what the station looked like in Victorian times—but also have added in all of the shops and cafes that the large train stations need nowadays. Paddington serves most of the southwest of England, Bristol down to Cornwall.  The other thing they have modernized are the restrooms (I can’t get used to saying “toilets”) and while I miss Paddington Cat and the nice ladies who worked in the facilities, I don’t miss having to pay to use them. Pad

  One of the reasons I came back to London after Ireland was to keep a date with my cousin Elizabeth: a Sunday morning walk in Richmond Park. When I moved to England in May of 1978, I rented a room in a house near Richmond Park. I'd heard of the room through a colleague at McGill University's Human Resources Department, where I was working as a Senior Clerk. Montreal had become a bit difficult for me to be in owing to a twice-broken heart and a feeling I wasn't going anywhere at McGill. It seemed like an omen, then, on the plane returning from South Africa in January of 1978--I keep promising to write about that--that I came across an article in a magazine about young Canadians living in London. I'd always loved the idea of being in London what with growing up on a diet of British movies and then all of the articles about Swinging London in the 1960s/early 1970s.  By the time I arrived at Mirabel Airport, I had the perfect antidote to my wounded pride over South Africa

This is going to be a very short (for me) post. Hah, how many times have I written that? It’s a Tuesday night, I’ve spent all day driving around Donegal, too much of that time on single lane roads. I honestly don’t know how I do it. It’s almost like someone takes over for me when I myself go catatonic with fear and before I know it, I’ve come out of that horrible road and am on to a more “normal” one. And the scenery in Donegal is breathtaking, even just glimpsing it now and then when I dare take my eyes off the road. Softly rolling hills, the Kerry green of fields lined with the darker green of hedges. Neat white cottages, sometimes stone. Sheep and cows. The sea in the distance. I was so thankful that the expensive Garmin that I rented from Avis (a story in itself, will be told sometime soon in another post) finally worked today. There is no way I could have navigated AND driven without the soothing British voice telling me calmly where and when to turn. It’s quite amazing for a Nort

  Helsinki went by so fast. Well, I guess for a lot of people, only spending two full days in a city IS fast. Especially when most of that time was spent sitting and talking.  I wouldn't have changed it for the world though--sitting and chatting with Vivienne rather than sightseeing. We connected in a very strong way. From the moment I walked down the hall at the Helsinki Airport and saw her sitting on her walker, waiting for me, even though it was after 11 pm. She smiled, we started to talk and it was like we had known each other all our lives.  I can't even remember specifically what we talked about. Traveling, for sure. Memories, absolutely, hers and mine. How things in our lives affected us, how they don't affect us anymore, how they do, where we want our lives to be. Although Vivienne is in her mid 80's she is so alive, so interested in things. She's an expert dressmaker, as you can see from her photo below--she made everything she is wearing, including the bro