Simple Tricks and Nonsense

As far back as I can remember, I've always had a soft spot for Great Britain. I don't know why, but it probably originated, at least in part, with the re-runs of The Benny Hill Show and Good Neighbors (a.k.a. The Good Life) that I watched with my parents as a young boy. I loved the way the actors in those shows spoke, and the way everything looked familiar enough to be recognizable but subtly different enough to seem exotic. My love for this place I'd never seen with my own eyes deepened as I grew older and discovered the joys of well-known British exports like Monty Python, Douglas Adams, Charles Dickens, The Moody Blues, and Led Zeppelin. There was something about dry English wit that resonated with me, something about descriptions of damp, green places that appealed to me in my desert home. I don't generally believe in ancestral memories or reincarnation, but in the case of the British Isles, there was something going on there, some ineffable sense of connection.

That connection was confirmed and reinforced thirteen long years ago, when I became a student at the International Summer School at Cambridge. (That sounds more impressive than it really was; I was only there for a month, and I audited my classes and spent most of my time sight-seeing.) England was unfamiliar and strange in many ways -- I'm not above admitting that I experienced a certain amount of culture shock -- but in a lot of ways, it felt like I'd come home. That may have been in part because I was a young man on my first big adventure away from home. Everything was new and shiny and exciting. In addition, my homelife had been extremely difficult in the months leading up to my trip, and being away from it was a huge relief. And it helped immensely that I made good friends while I was there, one of whom I've managed to keep and who occasionally shows up right here on this blog. Aside from all those reasons, however, I just plain liked the place.

During my month-long stay in Cambridge, I made three day-trips into London. I found it a beautiful, friendly city, in spite of its size and bustle, and looking at the BBC map of where the blasts occured dumps ice-water into my veins, because I know those places. I've ridden on the Picadilly line and on one of those iconic double-decker buses. I've stood on the platform at King's Cross station, laughing with my friends. (I recall one particular incident involving my buddy Robert, a liquified candy bar, and a set of closing train doors.) Because I have personal experience with these places, the news strikes close to home for me, just like it did when I watched the horrible video from New York and thought back to the afternoon I stood atop the World Trade Center and revelled at the wind in my face. Those bombs may as well have gone off here in Salt Lake, as far as I'm concerned.

I've grown tougher since 9/11, more accepting of the idea that the world has gone mad and there's not much I personally can do about it. That doesn't mean, however, that I don't care about new terrorist strikes or that I feel nothing at the sight of that peeled-open red bus. I feel deep sorrow and anger today, as well as compassion for the people of Britain. If anyone from that wonderful country is reading this, you have my condolences, my support, and my hope that those responsible are brought to justice quickly.