Sometimes I think about how one of the highlights of my life was watching one of my friends try to squeeze on assless chaps over her jeans in a ramshackle vintage shop in Bath. It was one of those “you had to be there” moments. This place was truly a dump in the best way, with cobwebs stretched across every corner and a mountain of mothball scented hats piled above my head inside the front window. I cycled through a stack of hats until I found one that made me look somewhat reminiscent of Boy George (I had a pixie cut at the time and I admit it was a loose interpretation). I also heavily considered getting the word “cheers” tattooed on the outside of my arm so it could be visible every time I took a drink. I didn’t do it, but I still might.
Earlier the same day, or at least I think it was, I sipped proper English tea paired with tiny rectangular slivers of various sandwiches next to a mock painting of Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy in Pride & Prejudice. I’ve tried scouring the internet for the photo; I’m convinced it doesn’t really exist. The Jane Austen Centre probably had it custom made knowing how dedicated they are to all things related to the beloved author. It must be really strange for Colin Firth to be aware of the effect he has on women when they watch the lake scene (or just in general). Who doesn’t want to see a man emerging dripping wet from a lake in a translucent white Regency era style shirt? I definitely liked it more than a little bit. And also the one scene in What A Girl Wants when he puts on his old leather pants and dances in front of a floor length mirror wearing one hoop earring.
I’d wanted to go to England for years, so of course I jumped at the chance to study abroad there, if only for about 10 days total. By 2016, I had also developed a very healthy obsession with Jane Austen. My sad sap of a hopeless romantic self wanted my own Mr. Darcy to stride determinedly through a foggy field at some ungodly hour of the morning to profess his love for me against his family’s wishes, or with their blessing; I’d take either honestly. So, I took a class and learned a lot about Austen’s writing, and Thomas Hardy too. Not Tom Hardy the rugged, hunky actor, I’m talking about the Victorian period writer. My professor insisted it was cool to call her Robin if we wanted to, but even at 22 I considered it weird to call a mentor by their actual first name. I guess it’s part of my general social awkwardness. I wrote an entire research paper on how the function of marriage changed from the Regency to the Victorian period.
And if you didn’t already know this, apparently when Thomas Hardy’s body was being prepared for burial his cat ended up snacking on part of his heart. I’m not sure if the myth is entirely true, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope it was at least partially fact. His first wife also moved to live on the second level of his house when they separated so his mistress could live with him. This is the kind of knowledge I retained from college, not the proper grammar rules I still struggle to grasp at times or how to conjugate verbs in Spanish. I can tell you the names of the boys we met on a night out in Bath and the name of the beer they bought for us. We were probably just novelties, some American girls looking for fun, but we didn’t care because so what if we were? We danced drunkenly in the basement of a bar called The Nest until it was closing time. The Nest isn’t open anymore, and a part of me hurt when I found out about its closing, because I have memories there.
One day I plan to go back and visit the same haunts if they’re still around, yet a part of me wonders if it will be strange to see what has changed in how many ever years spanning the distance between my first trip and my next. Will I be able to browse the shelves of the quaint bookstore with the bathtub in the middle of a room filled with books? The Roman Bath will still be there, at least I can guarantee this much for sure. And the Sainsbury’s where I bought two packets of Bourbon Biscuits to bring home with me because it’s impossible to find them in Columbus. I can’t say the same for the shabby vintage shop with the clerk who looked to be a few moments away from an afternoon nap.
I felt infinitely cool on that trip. I could be anyone I wanted to be or I could be myself and somehow feel even more extraordinary only with the change in scenery. I was the girl who could sneak into a rooftop bar with an impeccable view of St. Paul’s Cathedral and drink expensive cocktails on a worn down bar couch. I was the girl who could feel like the main character of a movie running through the streets of Oxford embarrassingly late to a tour of the Bodleain Library, not once worrying about coming across like a stereotypical American tourist. Collecting rocks from the beach in Lyme even felt surreal, and they’re still hanging around somewhere in my apartment with all the other odds and ends.
The Rummy Writer 