Beyond the Dune Sea

I got quite the surprise as I picked up the mail today at 10:45 at night. My mom does not share my insistence on timely mail pick up. I have been anticipating an order from Amazon, with the new Sigur Rós CD and some Miles Davis (Coincidentally, Sigur Rós is playing in Minneapolis on Sep. 25th. Anyone up?). Anyways, the package I got was not from Amazon. Rather, it was an envelope from 23 Haslemere Rd, Nottingham NG8 5GH.

I stared mystified in the moonlight at the brown envelope, stupified that such an object from my past would end up in my hands again. It was just so bizarre, to see the Royal Mail insignia and the little blue "Par Avion" stickers all over. It seemed almost otherworldly. In a way, it was wrong, a cruel joke to have this item land in my mailbox. Anyways, I fought the emotional conflict and came back inside. With great curiosity I opened the envelope up, only to find another envelope inside, addressed to me from my mom. Once again, it was so strange, to see my name listed at the address of 67 Homefield Rd. Inside the envelope was a ragged old Twins hat, worn by years of abuse, sweat, and dirt. The red "M" was faded more into a pastel. The post office mark from Apple Valley dated it as leaving on March 9th, 2007. There was a letter from my mom, saying that she hoped my hat got there quicker than my iPod. I can't for the life of me recollect anything about it. I had a Twins hat at the time, I didn't lose it until I left it on that bus in Avignon nearly a month later. I must have wanted it for baseball training or something.

I never thought I'd ever get another package from Nottingham, so I'm still kind of surprised. Honestly, it was sort of jolting, a tangible reminder of an experience that at times seems so intangible. Sure, I have thousands of photos to document that I indeed lived there, I have letters addressed to me, trinkets that I brought back. Every once in a while, there's even some contact with old friends. But the vast majority of what connects me to Nottingham is internal, in my heart and brain. A windstorm of visuals, fleeting images, reserves of feelings and emotions that break out every once in a while, but are mostly kept distant. Certainly from other people, but sometimes even from myself. In reality, only 8 other people in the whole world can truly relate, and even sometimes I wonder if that number is lower.

All I know is that opening that package suddenly put me walking, down Nuthall Road, possibly towards John and Margaret's or Thirsty Boozers. Maybe I was going to take a right and head down towards The Lion, watching out for the passing tram and questionable chavs drinking Stella and listening to their music phones. Waiting impatiently for the crosswalk to change, hearing that God-awful beeping noise, wondering why I never stopped in that cob shop. Probably wearing jeans, cross training shoes, a checked shirt and a blue waffle-knit pullover, perhaps a black messenger bag in tow. Surely there was a Twins or Nottingham Thieves hat perched lazily on my head. Polishing my nerdy-ass glasses in the end of my shirt as I walked. Walking, always walking everywhere. There was no alternative, unless I wanted to wait for the bus or ride an inadequate bike. I remember how I stopped on the rail bridge on Wilkinson Street; I used to enjoy seeing the sunset as I came home from a trip to the city centre. Brilliant reds and oranges fading into the distance, Hucknall lay somewhere out there. With an internal smile, I turned and walked up Shipstone St. to The Lion, hopefully to meet a few other members of my family, maybe say hi to David. Settle down at a worn table with a pint of real ale, trying to disregard the sonic abuse emanating from amateur night. An evening among friends.

Simple pleasures, like reminiscing about home.