45 years ago this coming fall, I flew to London to start my MMus at Royal Holloway College. I think I have spoken of my first sight of the college through the morning mist, and mentioned a few other first impressions. I arrived a good week or so before classes were to begin, and what has been with me these last few days are some of the other "firsts" of that stretch of time. When I realize that I didn't personally know one person, or one thing about how Britain really works, it is a marvel to me now (having become far more cautious with age) that I navigated it all so well. (I speak about several aspects of that fall in my September 3, 2015 blog, "Caving", around the 35th anniversary -- yikes!)
A few of those firsts -- taking a new friend up to Cambridge to hear the King's College choir sing choral evensong (which I had heard the very first time two years previously in my initial visit to the country). My first main meal at Holloway's dining hall, going through the "boog tube" (cafeteria line) for a heavy, meaty plateful and randomly choosing some new friends to sit with, several of whom I still stay in touch with. Walking to downtown Egham to open up an account at the local bank -- I cannot imagine now how I managed that, except that I must have carried over a bank check from my own institution. After doing that, I remember wandering down Egham high street, and stopping in a bakery to grab a sandwich, only to be stunned by their minuscule size. I had most recently been living in Alexandria, Virginia, and there was a local sandwich shop that I still remember...with enormous sandwiches on thick homemade bread. Egham's sandwich was on a small white bread roll called a "bap", split in two, spread with a little butter or oleo, with a small slice of cheddar cheese in the middle. I was much slimmer back then, but still, I realized my American appetite was in for some gastronomic challenges. Paying my bill to the college, my hand shaking so hard that I had to rip up the first check (cheque) and start all over again.
Standing outside the college chapel after morning services for almost a week, begging the choir director to allow me to audition. I eventually was accepted into the mixed men and women's choir; it turned out that there had been concerns about my American accent! Singing daily morning services, regular evensongs and services at cathedrals, would turn out to be the highlight of that year, and by extension, my life. Having new friends say they would "knock me up in the morning" (ie: knock on my door to make sure I was awake for breakfast!) Meeting the head of the music department, and the scholar who would be my tutor, as well as other music students. Going to the Englefield Green pub some evenings with new friends, feeling far more socially and academically confident than I ever have, before or since.
Why am I thinking about this now, at a moment of things going completely "pear-shaped"? I guess it is to remind myself of how well I navigated those first few days and weeks, despite not knowing a soul before my arrival. Sure, there had been written letters back and forth to the college, but I knew no one. Something tells me that before long, I may be in another situation where I'm a complete newcomer. A post-COVID part of me is far less confident, not up to any new task. Yet if I can remember that I have started completely afresh many, many times, most strikingly, 45 years ago, I hope I will have the courage to do it again.
