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nordleuchten · 3 years

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La Fayette and Emma Willard at the Opera

When Emma Willard was travelling Europe in 1830, she visited General La Fayette in Paris in late 1830. The two were close friends, had already met before and especially Willard had nothing but the purest admiration for La Fayette. In her book Journal and Letters from France and Great-Britain (1833) she re-printed several letters where she told her sister every last detail of her visit. Her letters are unusually engaging in my opinion, because they are so personal. Old letters and journals can sometimes feel very stiff, very old and completely removed from our modern reality – but hers is so lively, so ordinary that I could not help but relate to her during certain passages. Due to Willard’s hero-worship of La Fayette, I was afraid she would put him on a gigantic pedestal – but she paints a very humane picture of the ageing Marquis, one that is actually rather refreshing.

With all of that being said, here is a passage from Emma’s letter to her sister Almira Hart Lincoln Phelps from December 7, 1830:

I must now tell you, how it was that we spent the evening together. It was at the Opera Francais, usually called the Grand Opera. You will remember that he told me he had not been at a theatre since the revolution, and the first time he did go, he would go with me. One evening before had been appointed, and failed from the illness of one of the performers. It was the evening before last that we finally went [December 5]. I expected that the people would have cheered him as he entered. But he was in a citizen's dress, and went with a determination, as it appeared, not to be known.

The two boxes next, and each side the king's, were for the evening taken by the La Fayette family. There are places in each for six persons, two in front, and three deep. The General, Mrs. S-. of Baltimore, (a particular friend of Madame George La Fayette,) two of the General's grand-daughters, Col. C-, an officer of his household, and myself, filled the box to the left of the king's. Mrs. S— and myself were placed in the front seats, notwithstanding our entreaties that the General would take one of them; two of his grand–daughters had the two next, and the General was quite back where it was impossible for any one below to see him. The first piece was an opera, “Le Dieu et la Bayadère.” In this I saw the performance of M’lle Taglioni, the first dancer in the world. Much of this French opera dancing is what it should not be; but of Taglioni, though expected much, yet her performance perfectly astonished me; and I exclaimed in a pas seul, where she seemed divested of terrestrial gravity, and to fly, rather than dance, “this is the sublime of dancing!"

The scenery of the theatre — the splendor of the dresses and decorations — the crowds of actors, all capital in their parts — the perfection of instrumental music displayed by the grand orchestra, who were all so perfect in time, that it was as if one spirit played the numberless instruments — all this was admirable.

After we had been in the theatre about half an hour, an officer entered the box, bowed very low, and presented the General a paper, containing a few lines, written, as I observed, in an elegant hand. He looked rather grave, and perplexed for a moment as he read the paper; then said— “the king has sent for me to come to him. I must go, but I will return.” I begged him not to return on my account, if it would incommode him; but he said he could not consent to lose all the pleasure of the evening. Before he returned, the first piece was over; and those of the La Fayette family, in the other box, came in the interval, to greet us. Their countenances seemed a little shaded, and I though they were uneasy that he had insisted on sitting so far back. Mrs. S-. then took her place behind my chair, and all appeared determined that he should take the front seat, when he returned. Just as they had completed the arrangement, he came in, but he refused to go forward. Mrs. S-. now refused to take the seat, as did the other ladies also, who were in the box with us. Just then the sweet Mathilde La Fayette came from the other box to speak to her grand father. He told her to take the seat; and though she would not for the world have done an impolite thing by voluntarily taking the precedence of older ladies; yet she did not a moment dispute, what she saw was her grand-father's will.

Thus seated and arranged, we went through another dancing piece. It was the ballet pantomime of Manon Lescaut. The scenery and the dresses, represented the court of Louis XV. The stiff bows and curtsies,-- and hoops and trains, and elbow cuffs, -- the frizzed and powdered heads, and enormous head-dresses -- the silk velvet, gold-trimmed, long-skirted coats, and silver embroidered white satin vests,-- the little boys and girls dressed like their fathers and mothers, and curtsying and bowing as stiffly, -- the dancing of minuets -- slow, and graceful, and formal, --it was all pleasing: and the representation was historically true.

Gen. La Fayette was much amused. “Why,” said he, “this is exactly my time!” “Voila ce petit enfant!” exclaimed Mathilde, as a little boy, a sprig of nobility, in a long embroidered coat, and flapped vest, with his hair queued and powdered, appeared upon the stage. Said the General, “I was dressed just so, when I was of that age !” “Just so.”

That piece went off. But I observed that the eyes of the people, were ever and anon, turning towards our box; —and when at another interval, we rose from our seats, as every body did, suddenly there was a shout, “Vive La Fayette! Vive La Fayette!” It resounded again and again, and was echoed and re - echoed by the vaulted roof. In the enthusiasm of the moment, I exclaimed, “you are discovered - you must advance!” – and I handed him over the seats, unconscious at the moment that I was making myself a part of the spectacle. He advanced, bowed thrice, and again retreated — but the cries continued. Then the people called out “la Parisienne! la Parisienne!” You know it is the celebrated national song of the last revolution.

The curtain rose. Nourrit, an actor who, in the former piece had the principal male part, came forward. He was dressed as a Parisian gentleman. His figure was bold, and he bore in his hand an ample standard, which he elevated, waving the tri-colored flag. He had himself, been one of the heroes of the three days. He sung the song in its true spirit, amidst repeated applauses. When he came to the part where it speaks of La Fayette with his white hairs, the hero of both worlds, the air was rent with a sudden shout. I looked at him, and met his eye. There was precisely the same expression as I marked, when we sung to him in Troy; and again I shared the sublime emotions of his soul, and again they overpowered my own. My lips quivered, and irrepressible tears started to my eyes. When the song was over, the actor came and opened the door of the box, and in his enthusiasm embraced him. “You sung charmingly,” said La Fayette. “Ah General, you were here to hear me!” was the reply.

When we descended to leave the theatre, the thronging multitude reminded me of the time, when crowds for a similar purpose assembled in America. The grand opera house is an immense building. In the lower part is a large room, supported by enormous pillars, and used as a vestibule. To this room the crowd had, descended, and here they had arranged themselves on each side of a space, which they had left open for La Fayette, that they might see, and bless him as he passed. There was that in this silent testimonial of their affection, more touching, than the noisy acclaim of their shouts. There was something too, remarkable in the well defined line which bounded the way left open. A dense crowd beyond- not even an intruding foot, within the space, which gratitude and veneration had marked. I can scarcely describe my own feelings. I was with him, whom from my infancy I had venerated as the best of men; whom for a long period of my life I had never hoped even to see in this world. Now I read with him his noble history, in the melting eyes of his ardent nation. And I saw that he was regarded as he is, the father of France- aye, and of America too. America! my own loved land! It was for her sake I was thus honored, and it was for me to feel her share in the common emotion. My spirit seemed to dilate, and for a moment, self- personified as the genius of my country, I enjoyed to the full his triumph, who is at once her father, and her adopted son.

I do not know about you, but her descriptions have drawn me in, just if I had been there at the opera that day. The interactions of the family, the merry entertainment, La Fayette joking about his age and sharing childhood anecdotes, the want for historical accuracy being a think way back in 1830, the people singing their revolutionary song, the people lining up for La Fayette ...

A short clarification, the revolution mentioned in the text is not “the” French Revolution but “a” French Revolution – the July Revolution to be precise (also referred to as the French Revolution of 1830, the Second French Revolution, Trois Glorieuses or Three Glorious Days.) The Revolution saw the forced abdication of Charles X and the ascent of King Louis Philipe I. La Fayette played an important part during these events and many people of the time were of the opinion that King Louis Philipe more or less owned his crown to La Fayette. The revolution was also the reason why this visit with Emma Willard was the first visit to the opera this year for La Fayette. He thought people would think of him as vain were he to seek out a public place where the people would undoubtedly cheer for him (as they did).

#lafayette #la fayette #marquis de lafayette #general lafayette #historical lafayette #charles x #emma willard #1830 #1833 #france #french revolution #french history #american revolution #american history #three glorious days #trois glorieuses #louis philippe i

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hb-writes · 4 years

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True Stories

Written in response to Hauntober prompt #6: Fog

Summary: Little Lady Blinder universe. Clara and Finn chatting about ghost stories while taking a ride on Uncle Charlie’s narrowboat.

Characters Featured: Finn Shelby, Clara Shelby (Shelby!Sister), Charlie Strong

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Clara regretted it a bit, begging for her and Finn to be allowed to come along with Curly on the narrowboat instead of just taking the train to London.

The twins had spent much of their childhood playing on their uncle’s boats as they moored in the yard or moved about the city, but Clara had never ridden them beyond the city limits. She had never been subjected to the long stretches of deserted towpaths between towns or the low, suffocating tunnels, the dense fog that made her wonder how Curly could even steer the boat straight. And worst of all, she was cold, chilled right through her fingers and toes and spine, feeling more frozen than she remembered being in the entirety of her life.

But Clara would not tell anyone that, not even her dear twin, Finn, because he’d go spouting off about it the very moment they arrived to Ada’s, and then she’d go and tell Tommy, and then Clara would never hear the end of it.

Tommy already had quite enough things to tell the youngest Shelby ‘I told you so’ for, though he never did, not with those exact words. Tommy needed much less pizzazz than the phrase supplied to get his points across, and he preferred a raised eyebrow or a long stare or a smirk, maybe a single well-chosen word, his little sister’s name said in just the right tone.

So, Clara sat beside Finn, shivering as he smoked a cigarette, and she didn’t think once on the idea of uttering aloud a single grumble about the cold or the dampness or the fact that she’d decided she didn’t much like traveling the cut at night, not this time of year, at least. And further more, Clara decided on telling Tommy a grand story about their journey on the Grand Union, and in her telling, she’d claim being nothing but comfortable and content and express only the sentiment that she’d thoroughly enjoyed herself.

“Here,” Finn said as he offered his cigarette. “This’ll warm you up.”

Clara frowned and shook her head, her arms wrapped around her legs, her head resting against her knees. Even if the cigarette could give her any significant warmth, Clara wasn’t a smoker. She would rather have a cup of tea, or a sliver of whiskey, not that either would truly warm her. More than anything, she longed for a well-stoked fire and the pile of blankets back home on her bed.

Finn shrugged, pulling the cigarette back.

“Tom told you to wear more than that silly coat,” he said. “You’d say you’re freezing in the middle of July and you wear that thing this time of year?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, pulling the silly coat a bit tighter.

“Trying to be all posh down in London,” Finn continued. “Don’t know why, not as if Ada will let us get up to anything.”

Clara lifted her head, leaning back into the boxes behind them. “If you’re going to insist on being irritating, you can go and--” Clara started.

“Fuck! Did you see that?” Finn asked, knocking Clara’s shoulder as he nodded ahead.

“See what?” she asked, squinting as she searched the dark, hazy expanse in front of them. “How the hell can you see a bloody thing with all this fog?”

“There’s another tunnel up ahead,” Charlie interrupted, stepping up behind his niece and nephew, leaning on the box. “It’s a low one though, best to go on inside.”

“We’ll be alright, eh, Clara?” Finn asked, nudging his sister in the side. “The whole point of this trip was because she wanted to sleep out under the stars.”

Charlie glanced up, but there weren’t any stars to be seen through the fog. He shrugged, learning long ago that there was seldom a time it was worthwhile to go about arguing logic with the Shelby lot of bullheaded children.

“Suit yourselves,” Charlie offered as he headed to join Curly at the back of the boat, bringing the lantern with him as he left the kids in near darkness.

Clara shifted further down against the crate as the boat entered the cavernous mouth of the tunnel, the crumbling brick just visible through the fog. She’d never considered herself claustrophobic, but something about being so close to walls on three sides with water on the fourth, and with no end of the tunnel in sight, set her pulse a bit quicker. She shivered as the tunnel’s damp air chilled her further, the shaft seeming to narrow as the boat trudged along.

“What’d you see before?” she asked, turning to look at her brother.

Finn shrugged. “I don’t know. Thought I saw a light or something,” he said. “You know, they say over a hundred people died here in this tunnel.”

Clara watched Finn, his face little more than a dark silhouette though he was just beside her.

“You’re making that up,” she answered.

“I’m not. There was a tunnel collapse and a crash and who knows how many people have accidentally drowned in there.” Finn flicked his cigarette over the side of the boat and sat up straighter, shifting so his back faced the boat’s bow. He watched his sister as she remained propped up against the crate, her shivering arms crossed tight over her chest. “And then there’s the story about Sarah Kitchens...”

“Stop trying to scare me, Finn,” she answered. “It’s not gonna work.”

“I’m not trying to scare you. It’s a true story. Go ask Uncle Charlie if you don’t believe me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re too scared to walk the boat alone in the dark.”

“I am not. I’m just not going to make the trip because you’re being an idiot.”

“Well, I’m telling the story whether you wanna hear it or not, so if you’re too sca--”

“Yeah? You gonna tell it to yourself if I go in?” she asked, scoffing. “Just tell the fucking story, Finn.”

Finn cleared his throat. “Well, the way I heard it, Sarah Kitchens was the love of one of the rich lads in town, a real pretty girl, about seventeen or so, but she’d met a navvy who was here building the tunnel, this guy from a few towns down, and they fell in love,” he said, “And they’d come down here, Sarah and the navvy man, when the tunnel was deserted and they’d well, you kno--”

Clara cuffed Finn on the arm and he raised an arm to shield himself from another smack.

“What the hell?”

“Just get on with it,” she answered.

“Well, anyway, they’d come down here with their candles and all, to get some time alone, and one night the rich lad, he gathered his friends and followed her, cause she wasn’t seeming so interested anymore and well, they found her with the navvy, and him and the friends, they grabbed Sarah and they walled her up alive right then for cheating on him--”

“For cheating? You never said she was dating the rich lad,” Clara said.

“Yeah, but he liked her,” Finn answered.

“But she wasn’t cheating on him, then.”

Finn rolled his eyes. “Fine, he walled her up ‘cause he was crazy, then. Doesn’t much matter why he did it. Either way, she ended up stuck somewhere in these walls.” He nodded up towards the ceiling of the tunnel. “Some say there are nights, must be when she’s missing her navvy, and you can still see their candles, like she’s waiting for him… and there’s others say they’ve seen her blood on the walls, seeping right through the rock and--”

A stream of cool water flowed down from a crack in the brick above them.

Clara’s scream pierced the air, reverberating off the tunnel’s walls, overtaking the dull hum of the boat’s motor and the calm lapping of the water against the hull.

Finn's responding laugh echoed too, booming off the walls as he laid back holding his stomach.

“It’s not fucking funny,” Clara answered, flicking away the water that had landed on her neck and in her hair and shoving her heel into his leg.

“Yes, it fucking is,” Finn answered, grabbing her ankle. He lifted his free arm to block an assumed onslaught of smacks.

Instead, Clara jabbed him under the ribs.

Finn dropped her ankle and shifted away, both hands held up in defense. “Christ, don’t you start with that.”

“You were--” Clara started, her attention drawn to the flickering light at the far end of the tunnel. “What the fuck is that?”

“What the fuck is what?” Finn asked.

“The light!” Clara pointed to the source of the faint. Finn eyes followed.

“A fu... it’s a fucking candle,” Finn mumbled out, a pitiful wail escaping his lips as he abandoned his sister, nearly tripping over himself as he moved toward the back of the boat.

Clara was still giggling to herself in the darkness when Charlie came up to check on her, not getting a word out of his nephew as he sped by to get in the cabin.

“What are you kids playing at? Shrieking like banshees in a fucking tunnel?”

Clara snorted. “Finn just scared himself with a ghost story. Thought he saw the candles of Sarah Kitchens and the navvy up ahead,” she answered, nodding towards the tunnel’s far end, and the dim light shining through the blanket of fog.

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “You mean the boat coming the other way?”

“I know what it is,” Clara answered. “Finny didn’t though.”

“Well, I heard you screaming, too.”

“Got dripped on a bit,” she answered.

“An awful lot of noise for a few drops of water.” Charlie turned away from his niece for a moment, took note of their general whereabouts before meeting her eye again.

“The story’s true though,” Charlie said, the smirk on his face hidden as he lifted his lantern to reveal the reddish-brown blemish covering the tunnel wall.

It was nothing more than a conveniently positioned iron stain, a well-timed trick Charlie Strong had been employing to scare Shelby kids for over two decades now, but Clara didn’t know that as she too sought the shelter of the narrow boat’s cabin.

The twins didn’t come out again until they were nearly to London, when there were no more eerie tunnels in sight and the night’s fog was long past burned off by the morning sun.

-----

Read more Little Lady Blinder stories here.

#Hauntober #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #finn shelby #shelby!sister #clara shelby #little lady blinder #charlie strong

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joyfulsongbird · 4 years

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Forgetting

It’s a slow process, for awhile, Eurydice thinks everything’s going to be okay. not good, not great. but she thinks it’s going to be okay. she has the memory of Orpheus’ embrace, she has the memory of his kisses, his lips on hers, and that’s all she needs. to get through every day, she just needs the memory of her fingertips brushing along his jaw and that keeps her going from morning to night. she thought that she’d have that fuel forever, she thought that she’d never lose that part of her.

it takes years, it takes many, many years but there comes a day where she doesn’t know what she remembers anymore. she wakes up and there’s something missing, and she can’t place it. there’s a gap, but she thinks it must be a dream she had had that has slipped her memory. in a way, it was. maybe just one of those half lidded, awake but not dreams where she goes the whole day trying to remember what she dreamt.

and maybe, this had been slowly happening for months before, but she didn’t notice until the largest gap was lost. she lost the bridge between down and up, between here and there.

she lost him.

when the train pulls in, she smiles. she knows this, knows the smell of the train, and the sound of the whistle. she probably knows that best. dropping her tools, she starts her way to the train station. she won’t get in trouble for this, Hades always leaves the fields the meet his wife at the train station. many of the workers take a break, talk amongst themselves. years ago, this would never happen and then one day, it changed. like a flip of a switch, she could suddenly breath down below. the sky felt just a little bit more open and the fields felt less dense. they could actually speak and look. a beautiful day it was, when she began work on the wall but was told to start taking it down. now, the wall is almost all gone and sunlight lazily drifts in. but they are still not able to cross it. they can’t.

Eurydice stands off to the side, watching Lady Persephone kiss her husband and waiting for her turn to greet the goddess. and finally, finally, finally, the woman turns to her and opens her arms. Eurydice flies into them, the goddess is strong, lifting her slightly off the ground in the tightness of the hug.

“it’s so good to see you, hon!” she says, muffled into Eurydice’s shoulder.

“you too.” Eurydice replies, her arms still tight around her. when she pulls back, Persephone holds her at an arm's length, inspecting her thoroughly.

“you’ve lost weight, have you been eating enough?” Eurydice laughs and nods. “are you sure? I’ll make sure to talk to Hades about-”

“I’m fine!” Eurydice says, her laugh bubbling through into her words. “it’s so good to see you, these last six months have been so dark. darker than usual, with you gone.”

“well, I’m here to make things bright again.” she brushes a piece of hair behind Eurydice’s ear. “let’s get you a drink.”

they begin their descent down from the train station before Persephone stops in her tracks. “wait, before I forget...”

she searches in her bag for a minute or two before pulling out an envelope with clean cursive written on the front.

“what’s this?” Eurydice asks, carefully taking it from her.

Persephone smile flickers off her face for a brief moment, like the glitching of a television, so quick, there then gone. “it’s from Orpheus.”

Eurydice turns the letter over in her hands once, observing the pale yellow of the envelope. and without even looking up, without any sort of dramatics or even an inkling of tone, she says:

“who?”

Persephone is right in her face before Eurydice can even register what’s going, her face between Persephone’s two hands. “Eurydice, baby, what did you just say?”

“um,” she leans back, unsure of what to make of the goddess’ desperate features and clinging hands. “I just- I don’t- this letter-”

“is from Orpheus, your poet, your boy, your husband.”

“I’m sorry... husband?” Eurydice tries to backtrack when she sees the devastation ripple across Persephone’s face. “no, no, I really am sorry if I upset you, I’m sorry.”

“no, no, it’s okay.” Persephone pulls the younger girl close, placing a hand on the back of her head and holding it there so that she doesn’t see the few tears slipping down her face. “don’t apologize, dear, it’s not your fault... isn’t your fault.”

she wipes away the few tears after she pulls back, ignoring Eurydice’s prying eyes. “I’ll take this.” she takes the letter from her. “and I think I promised my favorite girl a drink, didn’t I?”

“Seph-”

“c’mon,” she prompts with a wobbly smile. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

***

Persephone’s upset, Eurydice isn’t sure about what, but she can tell when the older woman is mad or upset or at an emotional edge because she’s distracting herself with drink. Eurydice, slowly drawing herself away from the woman, has her curiosity growing slowly in her chest.

what was in that letter?

she has to know. it was just sitting in the back of her mind when they first got to the bar, but after the first drink, the buzz turned into a roar. she has to know. and Orpheus, who the hell is Orpheus? that buzz is there, behind the roar of want, the curiosity and the... familiarity but not. she can’t decide if it’s actually there or it’s just her mind tricking her into thinking there are memories there. and better yet, where did Persephone get the letter? from Up Top?

all Eurydice has ever known is Hadestown.

and when Persephone is growing lazier and lazier, more and more lethargic, she carefully pulls the letter from her straw bag and slips away to sit in the hallway outside the bathroom at the bar. she sits with her legs crossed, carefully tearing open the worn envelope and pulling the letter out from inside.

dearest Eurydice,

I write this letter same letter once a year, the tenth letter that I have written since I last saw you. Persephone says she can’t take anything up from Hadestown and I know that... I wish I could see your face. I would I could hold you and it’d make me feel like I wasn’t so alone. my love, I send this letter with the intent and the hope that it reaches you and brings you some semblance of happy. Seph says you’re doing well, but she lies, sometimes, for my own good. I write this letter not for me, but so that you know that there is someone out there who will wait and love you until the sun dies out. this is not a love letter, well, I suppose it is, but it isn’t meant to tell you what you are supposed to feel, I just want you to know that I love you and I’ll continue to love you forever. It’s the last day of spring, so I know my gift will probably be ruined by the time she makes it down there but I enclosed a present for you in the envelope, press it, keep it, as a reminder of me. Eurydice, I’ll see you again one day and on that happy day, I’ll be able to tell you all this in person.

your love,

Orpheus

Eurydice fumbles for the envelope just barely after she’d finished the letter, and read the last word. her vision is blurred by... tears. she’s crying. when was the last time she did that? according to this letter, ten years. ten damn years since she felt anything and this is finally what brings her back from the dead. she still can’t remember anything but she feels the absence now, something- someone- was there and now he isn’t.

and inside the envelope, wilted and crumbling, is one single carnation, faded from red to this grayish maroon color. but it’s there, it’s petals falling and chipping, it’s there. the red, the bleak, the cold. it’s all there, but there’s missing pieces in between each glimpse of a memory and she can’t. connect. them.

damn this place.

“Eurydice-” Persephone’s voice, filled to the brim with worry, comes round the corner. “oh, love.”

she looks up, with the cold tears staining her cheeks.

“I don’t remember- I don’t remember him, I can’t remember him.” she holds out the letter for her to read. “he calls me his love, I can’t- I loved him, I did, I can feel it. But I don’t remember what he looked like or how he looked at me or what his voice sounded like or what color his eyes were or-”

“hon, calm yourself.” she kneels down in front of Eurydice, cupping her wet cheeks with both of her hands. “just breath for me, okay? just breath.”

she can barely do that. she does, though, and the world still feels shifted and off. “Seph, what can I do? he’s just... gone. he’s already fading again, his words, they’re fading.”

“take it,” Persephone takes her hands and puts the letter into them. “read it, look at it, every day and hold onto that.”

she holds the withered carnation between her thumb and forefinger, and right in front of her eyes, it blooms again. a rebirth. Eurydice’s eyes widen as Persephone takes the flower, tucking it behind one of Eurydice’s ears. she wipes away the girl’s tears with her fingers, doing more harm than good, but in those same spots places two small kisses on her cheeks.

“try to remember how he made you feel,” she murmurs. “it’s down there, and once you find that, everything else will come. he’s waiting for you, and I’m going to come back next year with another letter, but until then, you read this one until you have it memorized. you never forget, okay?”

she takes a deep breath, holding it tight and squeezing her eyes closed. he’s fading, but this time she grasps tight to the small recollection she has of him.

“okay.”

“he’s waiting for you,” Persephone says. “just hold on until then.”

he’s fading, nearly gone, but wherever he goes, she’s going to follow.

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ohmygillygoshoppler · 6 years

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I decided to write a little bit about a place where Demons and Aliens live together, a country on a planet I just made of for my DS fanfiction, which you can read here, https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11219274/1/Let-s-Draw-a-Picture

I haven’t really written a whole lot about demons and such, but I’m trying! Tell me what you think, it helps to get feedback.

Featuring Duleb, my akuma monk, and her mentor’s son, Otehp.

Duleb strode down the street, little Otehp tied tight to her breast with a sling, quietly cooing to himself. The streets here in Hena weren't as densely populated by people as Duleb would have thought. Most people rode bicycles, took the trolley, or coach wherever they went, so the roads were nearly empty. There were a few people in finely pressed suits walking down the boulevard. It unnerved her how relaxed everyone seemed as she walked on past, some were even so bold as to address her with a, "Good morning," or, "How do you do?" Perhaps these people were just so used to demons walking through the streets, they thought nothing of her. Oh well. It was nice not to get dirty looks from everywhere for a change. People seemed kind of nice here; they even seemed to know that she had infantry with her, and left her be.

People were actually out in the streets playing music. Music! Of all things! Small groups of men and women playing their brasses and singing merrily. There were times when It seemed this place was absolutely perfect and happy for a change. It was weird. Like, it made Duleb's skin crawl at first, but she watched them; watched the people preform. Some of them were older folks, a few younger men and their backup girls, one Premodana, and a child star.

Boy howdy, was the street of Platform 66 quite a show. There was literally nothing like this place. Chaotic in it's rowdy nature, yet cheerful in it's overall demeanor. Demons gathered from places from time to time and start trouble, whereas trouble seekers were looking for people to deal with among the day to day people. There were people there. Normal folks, just looking to get by with what lives they were given; there were the people who have done dark things and have a dark purpose; the innocents who have yet to make sense of what's going on around them; and the crazy folks.

Duleb felt out of place in any sort of setting, but this place was some sort of trip all on its own. Demons openly mingled with people in the streets; goodness, people were even treating some of the lesser ones like they would a companion or animal. It was weird. She made a great deal not to openly ogle at things that fascinated her, lest she do something offensive or let alone inconspicuous. But it was just such a weird place! There was no other feeling she could possibly assign this. It was just...

Angels could have walked up and down the street, and everything would have been fine, it was that weird.

Duleb watched the skies above her. Shadow Casters flew in haphazard, zig-zag patterns up above, one nearly bumping into the wall of a tall apartment complex. She'd seen those types of demons slithering around all over the Black Stone, being their planet of origin. They were the demons that flew blind and used their tongues to decipher where they were and how to maneuver through their surroundings.* The sight of a smaller shadow caster perching in somebody's window was frightening at first, but Duleb watched as the window opened and an elderly woman dumped a huge bowl of scraps onto the balcony. Duleb realized what the shadow caster had come for.

That didn't lessen her worry for that poor old woman...

She kept an eye out for other demons; tieflings, hell hounds, shard bound, and legion soldiers alike. From what she was told, there were demons from all walks of life in this particular country. Succubi and Incubi were everywhere, a few sprites here and there, but absolutely no akumas. Duleb quietly thanked Laniekea that she looked like a demon, now, or she'd be even more out of place.

The akuma woman towered over everyone that walked past, even a few sprites had to look up at her to meet her eyes. She had no clue how far and how fast she would grow, but Duleb was now almost seven feet tall, and growing. It was a serious problem that occurred to people that came from off planet and lived in the Black Stone for too long; they simply grew too big for their own bodies. Usually, sprites and succubi's hearts would grow too large for their chests, but for an akuma, the first thing you outgrow is your skull. Duleb had come to terms with this already, but one day, her brain would literally be too big for her head.

Turns out a lot of things happen to die that way. Funny.

Duleb nodded to the sleepy old man at the stairs to Reeth's and bowed, Holding the sling close as she entered the tavern. This time of day, there were many patrons at the establishment, and the overall ambiance was far different than the quiet murmurs of the handful of people and the occasional clatter of the dishes. This time, it was loud, Ladies up front up on the milk carton stage were singing a song about hexing an old friend. The way their voices carried sounded like something out of a dream, and the other men playing their instruments along were just as captivating. It was even better than the stuff going on outside, Gods, it was a small orchestra!

Duleb shrunk against the far wall and watched in blatant astonishment. Otehp began to fuss at all the sudden noise, so she started stroking his head to calm him. Cattie had actual staff; waiters and waitresses rushing this way and that, multiple cooks in the back, a god damned band, and what appeared to be security. She even saw Cattie herself up at the bar taking orders, and watched her hand out food to people at other booths. She rushed in and out of the kitchen, from one table to the next. It was busy.

Cattie's voice rang out over the loud din of the crowd, calling Duleb's name. A hefty mug in one hand, she waved the akuma over to the bar. Obediently, she followed. The bar was crowded with men and women talking and eating their meals, but were squished aside when Cattie waved them all out of the way. Duleb took a seat and leaned close when Cattie next spoke.

"Hey, you speak with Zazu yet? Dante told me you was workin' yo butt off last night." The succubus stopped to pour a couple their coffee. " Well? You get the job?"

"I'm not convinced otherwise. I was just on my way up to see him and ask." Duleb replied dryly. She was never too loud. "I thought it'd be alright to take Otehp up there, and-"

Cattie's big bright green eyes widened, looking to the sling at Duleb's waist and about dropped the mug of coffee in her hand; her eyes went wide and she gasped loud enough for the patrons at the bar to shoot over some concerning glances. Duleb herself even shrank back a bit. The succubus peeked over the bartop and into Duleb's lap, to where she then stuck in a finger and pulled back the cloth. She gasped again and hollered gleefully, poking at the barmaid beside her.

"She came up here to see me, and she brought that baby!"

Before Duleb could protest that the baby wasn't hers, she was already swarmed by succubi and Incubi all over. Everyone and their mother wanted to get a tiny peek at the baby, so it seemed. It was especially strange, considering people in this town didn't seem to get to enjoy children much, not having them around as much, but that was weird, too. Succubi, Incubi, and various other races breed, but keeping their children was another problem in Hena lately. Demons liked Daccubi children. Like, a lot. Kids get taken in Hena, so people don't tend to see children outside much. There have been riots over it, and people have often accused demonic residents of child endangerment, leading to beatings in the streets, and there was even a Teifling that was tied up and left to wait for the train.*

Babies were different; nowadays, they were few and far between, what with women no longer wanting to bear children, only to have them potentially stolen. There was actual fear if you had a child, demons would stalk your pregnant mate, and steal away their child, or worse. Duleb hadn't seen any kids in her days either, save for Ophelia when she was young, and a supercluster of Manol's various colorful daughters.

Two women stood up at the stage, singing while Dante played. Both Succubi, one a pale cream in skin and hair color, the other a bright orange and brown with much larger and noticeable horns. Their voices harmonized in a strange and wonderful way; like the voices she heard singing on the radios on the walk over here. Drums played, flutes blasted from behind the ladies, and people were all over the tavern dancing and throwing each other around. It was a sight unlike anything Duleb had ever seen.

All the noise started making Otehp fussy. He didn't much like loud things, and this place was singing. Duleb had to remind herself not to stare so openly, but couldn't help but be dazzled. Men were literally swinging their partners round and around their bodies, kicking and flying and flipping themselves about.* It was insanity. it was hilarious! It looked like so much fun.

Otehp started putting up another fuss, crying louder than he had before. Duleb held the child up and cradled him, whispering softly as she learned Manol do earlier, and nearby patron quickly got curious. Younger ladies at the bar suddenly swarmed, all asking at once if there was something wrong with the baby, of if he was somehow hurt or upset. The band had even stopped their performance, singers abruptly silenced on the stage, staring at the freakishly tall lady the the bar.

Now that she thought more on it, it made her nervous; she covered up the blue youth again and stared at the table. Cattie started rushing and shooing people away as she next spoke, " Alright, now, Imma start setting people on fire, y'all don't back up."

Duleb never liked to be the center of attention, and this reaction from one baby starting to cry was a bit much. Duleb then reassured that he was alright, and the people at the bat and other booths that had wandered over returned to their seats, all with relieved smiles and mild chatter. The band and the ladies at the stage then agreed to play something softer, so not to cause another fuss for him. How sweet. She had no idea a baby would grant her so much attention! It made her wish she had left him with his father while she left for town, but then again, Cattie seemed happy to see him. People were actually quite concerned about him, and it was... nothing like she had ever experienced before. Cattie even wanted to hold him. Duleb said no, but after a few pleas and some free breakfast, the other gave in, handing over the sprite son.

The other barmaids took over Cattie's work so she could sit at the bar with the baby, smiling at him and talking to him in a high-pitched, squeaky little voice. "What a teeny little cutie! He looks nothin' like ya, hun."

A little shrug. "Shouldn't. He ain't mine."

Cattie's smile slowly flew from her face when Duleb said that, clutching the little bundle ever closer to her breast. "Honey, you didn't steal this baby, did you?"

"No, gods, no! I don't want him, he's too damn cute for me to take out into public, anyhow." She joked, stroking the boy's black hair back. "Naw, he's my mentor's son. Name's Otehp. I'm just keeping an watch on him today while his father goes and attends some business. It's only for a few days."

"Otehp, huh?" Cattie repeated the name over and over, trying to get Otehp to look at her. She made a few strange faces and kissed his noseless face. He was smiling. He hadn't laughed at anything yet, mostly just stared and cried. She told Cattie as much, and she just explained that Otehp was a looker. He watched what he could to learn. She even said as much as he would grow up quiet and closed off from most people. Seemed like she knew a thing or two about kids.

"Do you have any children?" Duleb asked as Cattie scooped up Otehp in one arm and poured more coffee in another man's mug.

"Honey, every barmaid on this floor is my kid. The cook is my kid." She pointed over to the young Incubus sitting at the piano, playing his heart away with the music of the band. "Danté is my kid. Everyone working this floor is related to me. I hired all my kids since nobody else would, and now we're all here."

The the laborer and the alien sat at the bar and talked a long while about what the plan was for her once she was registered, and the following was a bit of a small conversation discussing what sort of benifits Duleb could retrieve from gaining citizenship in this counrty of all places.

Apparently, the demons here that ran the real Hell-controlled aspect of this country were smarter than most other, and more collaborative. Hena had something Hell wanted so badly, that their denizens were willing to be diplomatic and, in some retrospect, Considerate about this running this part of the planet in particular. Nothing like Nergal. Thea lien wanted to do what she could to stay and make a life for herself, and the laborer wanted to help. Cattie offered Duleb many numbers and addresses to visit to get the documentation she needs to get going and get settled. Housing assistance, financial aid, medical care, and even some schooling venues.

"He an incubus?" Cattie asked as she poured herself a large mug of coffee, bringing it to her lips as she cradled him. "Sure looks like one."

"No, He's sprite. He's got some sort of Daccubi in his blood, on his father's side, at least." Duleb replied around a mouthful of food.

"Oh, most definitely. Look at those eyes. He's got the fiery eyes of Death, ya know that?" she cooed, kissing his little cheeks all over, drawing out his first little bout of laughter. Both men and women at the bar alike broke out into great grins when they hear a baby's laughter over the delightful performance and din of the tavern. Duleb was one among them. Something about babies laughter was funny. It was so cute! The cutest and sweetest thing Duleb had ever rang in her ears. An alien sound; foreign in almost every way. Like hearing some person speaking a language Duleb had never heard,

Cattie pulled back the cloth swaddling him, to get a better look at him, and nearly lost it when she notices the extra pair of arms on the infant. She giggled like a giddy little girl, claiming she'd never seen a sprite baby. She clearly knew that sprites attended her establishments, she'd served hundreds in her life as a tavern owner. The sight of a baby sprite must have thrown her off.

"Somehow, I forgot that Sprites started off as babies!" she had said through her giggles. Duleb found herself laughing when a few patrons at the booth behind Cattie peered over her shoulder to see the baby themselves; taking off their hats and such.

Gee, this was such a weird and nice place.

Duleb leaned over the bar as Cattie took her plate from her. "Hey, why's this place so crowded anyhow? Not that it isn't a great business day for you, i'm sure, but, well, how come?"

"Oh, it's Saturday, honey. It's a day of rest every week, nine days, where everyone at the factories and mines and alchemical facilities got a day off, all to themselves. People like tavern owners, doctors and other services weren't so much as granted the opportunity to take a break. However, they usually got their beaks while the people who crowded their dens were hard at work.

Duleb understood how hard it must be to be a doctor or, hell, even Cattie; having to work pretty much every single day without a single day to just do nothing.

Duleb discovered that being from off-planet meant she absolutely had to go and see the doctors, since there were strict rules about demons carrying otherworldly diseases, and those people must be vaccinated to prevent the outbreak of any Hellish sicknesses. Duleb understood that completely, and actually looked forward to it. Perhaps she could get Manol and Otehp in for a shot, too. She didn't want to get sick, who did? She was aware of the fact that demons carried diseases, yeah, but had no clue this place had hospitals and doctors advanced enough to have invented vaccines to combat those diseases.

Cattie then wandered off, passing Otehp back to his "mother" and resuming her work. For a while, Duleb sat with Otehp and listened to the people lay their songs, talk to some folks, have some breakfast, and just relaxed for a while.

Duleb watched as a young man with a peg-leg was dancing with an older sprite woman. They were having a difficult time, since the woman had so many arms, but the grinning lad in the blazer was determined to make it work. They were laughing. Duleb thought about how it must be, dancing with one leg to carry you. He must have slipped a lot.

She suddenly remembered what she came in here for. The akuma turned this way and that, scanning the area for Cattie or perhaps Danté. Whichever knew Damion. She had something she wanted to give to the man whose job she took. She expected the tavern owner herself would know, since she knew just about everybody who worked and visited Platform 66.

#darksiders #fanfic #demons #aliens #oc #ooc

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londonlanded · 6 years

Text

Week 58

And all of a sudden, I’ve got less than a week left. The goodbyes are hitting harder and more frequently, they’re going from being weekly to multiple times daily, as is the nature of parting.

Monday, started my morning off the way I have been all summer, with a cup of coffee and the St. James Church groundskeeper, Kostas, for company. He imparted a few extra doses of wisdom since he knew he’d only get 5 more chances to, and I really, really tried to enjoy the view.

Tuesday, a last meal at the restaurant Penny introduced me to, with the angel herself. Farmstand has sustained me this year nearly as much as the girl in my company, I’m going to try and not think about the months of rent I could have paid had I not been shown the beauty of their gluten free, 85% vegan, 100% feel-good menu.

More importantly though, it was my last moments with my stellar company. Penny and I have had such a funny saga of a friendship, it’s waxed and waned over the years but the takeaway of the whole thing is that she’s been a piece of home this year, both when I knew I needed it and when I didn’t. She’s the reason I’m here actually – I was visiting her in New York when I caught my early flight home and met Plane Lady who turned my world on its head. I proudly announced that to the rest of my guests at my goodbye fiasco last week, too, and realized only there that I was introducing the girl who’d made my whole life with the rest of them possible. At Leicester Square station, we said our goodbyes, but ours was one that weighed a bit less than some of the others I’ve had recently. Not for lack of love for the girl, quite the opposite, if anything. Probably because I see our home town in her eyes in the years to come, and I find it hard to doubt nearly twenty years of having her around. That’s right, first grade through 2018, I have bridges whose strength I’ve questioned on occasion, but the one between us isn’t one of them.

Wednesday, I popped out to attempt a trip to the bank (hot tip don’t go at lunch time you’ll never get seen since money moves quickly everywhere outside bank walls apparently), and on my way back to the office, swung into the Banksy exhibit that’s opened literally across the road from work. It’s a small exhibition, but a good one, and I actually think I preferred these pieces to those I’d seen in Amsterdam last time I saw his work. I know he’s anonymous, but I only say him since there are rumours he’s the lead singer of the band Massive Attack, which means he’s tentatively been identified though not to the point of being forced into admission, which is something I genuinely hope never happens. Some things are best left a mystery.

Wednesday night though, that’s when the day got good. I set off from work to meet a friends’ sister who’d just moved to London herself, and was struck with the hardcore Canadian accent I’d forgotten about. Fresh off the plane, Lindsay sounded just like home. While I spend a lot of time with Penny, she’s spent so much time in the states (read, the past 5 years), that her accent has softened on top of not being too strong to start with. I don’t really come across Canadians much in my little London life, so hearing this Oakville girl tell me about her last moments in Canada, punctuated by Tim Horton’s and a tattoo of mountains she keeps getting told look like a British Columbia skyline, really brought me home.

But that’s not the highlight, though the highlight was just as homey as Lindsay had made me feel. We met Anatholie and Jack, my replacement at the Worldwide Sales Office (who I recruited, thank you very much) and her boyfriend, at Covent Garden station before finding our way to the very same Canadian bar Penny and I had stumbled across the week before. The Maple Leaf sports bar is as tacky as you can imagine, and looks a lot like some of the less classy locations we’ve got at home. Still, we weren’t there for the sports, we were there so that Lindsay and I could show off one of our national treasures to my non-Canadian kids. I had decided to indoctrinate my foreign friends one last way, by convincing them of the infinite beauty of my nation using chips, gravy, and cheese curds, at one of the only poutine-selling outlets in the city.

Rosie, Sophia and Nicki were already waiting, and had decided on their food before we’d even stepped in the door. Before we even ordered, the first Canadian epiphany of the evening came to pass when Rosie realized that there’s more than one kind of hockey in the world, and that when a Canadian is talking about hockey, they’re probably not referring to the type that’s played on a field. I want you to imagine the look on someone’s face who has just realized that they’ve had a number of conversations with people that may or may not have been about the topic they thought they were discussing. Rosie’s born and raised London, and not the sporty type so I forgive her, but I definitely won’t forget the tears of laughter that sprung from her once she realized how ridiculous she sounded after having said the sentence, “oh my gosh, there’s hockey on ice!”

Anyway, back to the real purpose of the evening, Lindsay and I went for the weird, bastardized British version of the stuff (aka peas were served on top, no thank you), but we made sure the rest of our crew stuck with the classics. I went for a Bulwark cider, made from Nova Scotia apples that I haven’t had since Uni, and the rest of the table gave Sleeman a go. Two orders of the classic stuff, one of triple pork, and one with burnt ends (aka charred short rib ends), chicken wings and mac and cheese, we were one carb-and-oil-loaded table, but damn were we ever happy about it.

Verdict after first bites? Lindsay shouted, ‘yes, squeaky cheeeeeeeeese’ and I laughed in agreement, since, before that moment, I hadn’t realized that was the quality-control method that was required in order to determine cheese curd authenticity, but once she said it I realized she was bang on. Canadian verdict; cheese was on, fries were on, gravy was a bit on the sweet and British side but hey, no one really thinks about the gravy quality as much as they consider the rest of the equation, so I’ll forgive them. The rest of the kids were thrilled at their choices, and most importantly of all, our resident Belgian approved of both her pint and her plate. I’ll take the win, thank you.

Thursday, a day dense with exit interviews at work, where I was offered the chance to come back to the company by three different people. While I don’t know how likely it is that my career in hospitality extends beyond this week, it’s nice to know that my performance has earned me the chance to open the door again if I choose to. I popped out at lunch to say bye to Anette who’d come back to London briefly, and before the day ended, one of my colleagues dropped this on my desk and made my day a bit brighter than it had already gotten.

One of the directors had bought me a little goodbye gift since I’d gotten her a thank-you one, and on the envelope it came in, she’d written a little note to the person I’m hoping to be. Just FYI, in the show Suits, Jessica Pearson is the phenomenally dressed, confident, level, rockstar boss of Harvey Spector. Her badass character was part of my initial inspiration to pursue this little legal adventure I’ve decided to embark on. I’d be pretty satisfied if I wound up being half the lawyer she is in the show, I guess we’ll see. More importantly, and in the same subject line, I got my first list of readings on Thursday, too, all to be done in time for Monday. Looks like the fun has begun.

Thursday was also the day I’d dedicated to packing up everything I own, and stuffing my musty, London clothes into a suitcase in preparation for the purge I do once I get back home and have access to a washing machine that doesn’t imbue my entire closet with the smell of the building it’s standing in. Turns out I own just as little as I thought, and I might not even have needed Brooke’s help a few weeks ago when she brought a bag back for me.

Regardless, I filled the extra space with bonus stuff I wasn’t counting on getting to keep, and took the dozens of decorations down off my walls, realizing only after I’d done so that my room was brighter, and far less fun without them. I also realized that my room’s definitely better suited to a single bed, note to the future tenant if they feel like acting on that one (though the tenant happens to be a friend of mine, so I’m going to bet on them keeping it as they knew it). By 1:00AM, I was packed and spent, and was finally letting my weary head hit the pillow for the second last time.

Friday, my last day at work, another hefty round of goodbyes, this time with a slightly deeper dose of finality. I spent my last morning, for now, sitting in my favourite spot on the grounds of St. James Church Piccadilly, waved goodbye to Kostas the groundskeeper, got my final free coffees from my friends at Pret (two, plus lunch on the house, my budget is really going to miss those folks, almost as much as I will!). It was a beautiful morning to say goodbye to the place that has seen me through so much.

The office was quiet, the day passed more quickly than almost any other I’ve had, and with a quick phone call from the VP who was working from home but who ‘wanted to hear [my] voice one last time before I embark on my next journey,’ my career at the London Worldwide Sales Office came to a quiet close. Anatholie and I were the last two in the office, tying up some loose ends in her training and on a project we’d been tasked with, and with a final thank you, she left me in the place I’ve called mine for the past 6 months. Another desk cleared out, another page turned, I walked out into the light rain with a slightly heavy heart, but a much more satisfied soul.

By the time the light was fading, I walked into Paris’ flat for the last time, turns out last week wasn’t it after all. Some endings, well, aren’t. And thank god it wasn’t, because that room was filled with more love than I’ve ever seen it, comparable only perhaps to last Saturday’s crowd. Though the party was technically for Paris’ departure, there wasn’t a single person in that room that wasn’t losing me, too. I didn’t hit until just then, when the first few friends walked over to hand me tokens of their individual sadness, letters and pictures and small gifts to keep them in my mind long after they’ve left my day-to-day life. The sadness didn’t hit as hard as I thought it would, but the denial seemed to supersede any capacity of mine that existed for any outright demonstration of feeling.

It also seemed that was only true for me though, as the rest of the evening was peppered with more tears than I’ve ever had shed for me at any other time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much sadness, and known outright that I’m a big part of the cause, but known at the same time that it stems only from love. I’ve never had friends like this before, nothing to do with the lives I’ve built before this one, but it’s entirely to do with the nature of the environment I’ve found myself in. It’s non-academic, professional, and fundamentally built on people who have no one but the friends they make and the connections they foster.

We’re a bunch of kids, alone and building our lives in London. No one’s got their parents, no one has anywhere else to go, there’s nothing immediate beyond the people you surround yourself with. We found love in each other because we needed it to survive. And now, when we lose one of the pillars around which our safety net has been intricately woven, we notice. We don’t fall apart, we have many, many, strong and tall beams that hold the rest of it together, but we feel it. The world as we know it shudders and shakes and gives way to the new reality where there’s a piece of it that’s missing, and before the healing can begin, the acute feeling of loss is the only one anyone notices. And when you’re the beam that’s being freed from the tethers you chose to tie yourself down with, you’re left with a feeling of loss that, if you’re anything like me, your body will deny you until it’s ready to stop plowing blindly forward through life. If you’re anything like me, you look back only once you’re able to do so fondly, and without longing for what you’ve left behind.

I do not know when my new reality will set in, when I’ll finally register that I’ve lost this old one, but I know when I do, I’ll really fucking feel it. I am not looking forward to that moment, those moments, as they’ll fall together with increasing frequency if I know myself at all, until finally they, as a whole, become true. Don’t get me wrong, I am entirely the agent of this change, but that hasn’t remotely mitigated the consequences of electing to go through with it. At the end of the night, it was Paris, Veronique and I on his couch, talking about their plans and laughing at the uncertainty that plagued them. The fact that my next three years are relatively prescribed are the reason that I’ve got the most consistent and predictable future of anyone in attendance on Friday night; this is the hotel business, and part of the reason it’s not for me.

You need to move upward, and if not, you need to move on. I’m as keen as the next person to ascend in rank and responsibility, but my passion for hospitality isn’t quite as intense as my desire to face the inherent volatility of the industry. I’ll leave it to the professionals, one of whom I’m done pretending to be. That said, this industry has taught me more than any other I’ve worked in, and it’s done so without also bringing me the professional success that I’d initially associated with personal growth. This company, these people, this line of work has changed me in ways I never imagined were possible. There’s a time and a place for directed ambition, much like there’s one for fleshing out the corners of who you are. This year in London has been the latter.

Vero and I hugged tightly in the back of our Uber, she stepped into the flat I remember walking into for the very first time, knowing I was going to find a friend on the other side of her front door. I remember the day we met, too, I was sitting in the PBX office, bouncing childishly on the exercise ball I’d claimed as my seat for the day, and wondering who this immaculately-dressed intern was. One day of crossover, one day spent training her on what my job entailed before she moved onto another department to ensure she got full exposure of the hotel’s 5 departments and 40+ roles within them. We got on so well that we broke into peals of laughter enough times to earn a telling-off by one of the other agents on duty at the time. But by then, it was too late, we were already friends. There was no doubt or hesitation, only the immediate and mutual understanding that we had less that morning than we had when we left work that day.

Saturday morning was slower than I’d wanted, but the weight of my week was starting to set in, and so was the exhaustion associated with preparing for a new life while packing up an old one. Armed with printouts of my readings for Monday, and covered in the dust swept off the few things in my room that hadn’t been taken from their resting places already, I packed up the last of my things just as I heard the doorbell go. Giulia had turned up, a little later than her initial plan which was to show up at our send-off the night before, better late than never holds true, even for my Swiss German, clockwork girl.

She shone a little last-minute light on my life before Paris turned up and helped me carry the last of my donation items to the Oxfam box down the road. We had a little photoshoot on my street and G and her sister went off on their London adventure before Murat and Mandekh showed up to help me finish mine.

Murat and Paris took to trying to defy the laws of physics in the boot of Murat’s car, trying to fit my bodybag-esque duffel around my other bag, which was made a touch more challenging since I had to fit a hard-shell carry-on into a bag that looks like it should be soft. After a quick stop at Tesco for British nibbles for the people at home, we were on our way, and my little entourage disembarked with me at the Queen’s Terminal, and helped me heft everything I owned through check-in and bag drop.

And then, it was time to go. The tears I’d been doing a decent job at holding off found their way onto Paris’ shoulder, as his found their way onto mine. He told me he couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to be seeing me later, that this was really it, for now. I couldn’t feel it either, the finality of my turning around and walking away was too far from the realm of realistic for me to have imagined it before that moment, even at that moment. I don’t remember the last time I clung to someone, and I don’t remember the last time someone clung to me. I also don’t know that I’ve ever cried so much in public and simply not cared. One last time, I was experiencing the gift that only airports, train stations, and bus bays can afford. The beauty of transience is that it holds no expectation, we were as ourselves as we allowed ourselves to be. And that afternoon, we set our sadness free.

I had a thought while walking down the stairs to my gate that day, carrying my guitar and my backpack, trusting the staff that I’d handed my bags to that the rest of my material world would make it home, too. Well, I had many thoughts, but one of them stood out above all else. That my life will never again be the same, but that there is nothing more powerful than the moments you realize you’re never going to have again. I know I have a few more of those coming in my life, that every monumental change is accompanied by its own series of palpable shifts in the day-to-day. but I’m not sure that the rest of my shifts will be quite so acutely different as this one will be to the world I’ll be entering on Monday. I am trying to think of this transience as a gift, that the stark contrasts are there to show us how lucky we are to be human, and capable of such a diverse array of experience. The optimism will come, but for now, there’s a bit more denial than there is acceptance. But there is far more love than there is loss, and as it is, life not yet given me a greater gift than it did when I landed here. We cannot lose anything without having first gained, and the question now is not whether I did, but just how much.

I also learned a lot about goodbyes, and I think I managed to verbalize the single most important thing about them, or rather, the most important thing about the absence of them. Goodbye implies, at least for me, that there’s nothing more to say. I think the majority of the people in my world know that when it comes to the way I see them, that will never be the case.

And with that said, I think I’ll put this one to bed, but only until we all meet again. Here’s to all of our adventures between now and then, and it seems that, at least for me, the next one has already begun.

Thanks for giving me a reason to keep writing. It’s just my life, but I’ve always believed that it’s better shared.

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dnomadicarchitect · 6 years

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(Read the Previous Part of the Journey)

There were only 3 compartments headed by a diesel engine in the small train. The first & the last one was regular non-AC coaches and the middle one was air conditioned. When I entered my designated coach F1, there two more families already occupying the first few rows of the compartment. Though it can accommodate 18 persons there were only 8 including me.

The first family headed by a grey-haired gentleman had his wife and two children. The father, in his early forties, was busy adjusting the oversized items of luggage into the small cabinet made just beside the toilet of the coach. The two children of his family both boys under the teenage were playing on his mobile phone. Their mother, proud of her sons being thought in English medium schools back home, was trying to feed them banana and bread by repeatedly insisting in broken English. The sons, however, were not paying much interest to their mother’s request. I felt they are not really hungry and the mother also was not very keen in feeding them – she was getting the pleasure of letting the world know that her sons are into English medium schools – a precious achievement for most Bengali parents. The other family who had more aged parents and a young lady in her late teens were less noisy. The father was busy with the sports page of a Bengali newspaper and the daughter with the phone. The mother was trying to start a conversation with her counterpart. When I entered the coach almost all of them gave me a suspicious look. I felt the level of suspicion was higher among the second family because they had a grown-up daughter. The wife of Family No. 1 put the bread in the newspaper kept on the seat and adjusted her dupatta – which was already in perfect position. The father of the Family No 2, lowering her newspaper stared at me and asked me a single syllable question – ‘F1?’. As if, I have intentionally come to this coach following his daughter. I ignored his vibe and simply answered ‘Yes’ and went straight up to the last row and occupied a window seat. Though I had a seat no written on my ticket I decided not to follow that.

The journey started after a few minutes. It was extremely hot and there was too much of sun entering through the wide windows. The windows did not have any grills and the shutters were aluminium rolling shutter which always keeps half of the window closed. The slow speed of the train also did not bring much air into it. I was surprised to see the two young boys wearing heavy sweaters. They were complaining about that but their mother, over-concerned about the health of her brilliant English medium sons kept on saying – ‘No. it will be cool’. I could feel the pain of the young men. Soon, the competition of general knowledge started – first among the ladies and soon the men joined. One of them – I could not understand from the back who – had past experience of Darjeeling and he was extremely interested in delivering everything at once. The other family had been to Ooty in past and they were trying to compare each and everything with their experience from there. I thought it would be too much knowledge in too short a time but tried to enjoy it – it was going to be a long journey and a bit of entertainment was needed.

The last time I rode in the toy train – there were not much of display of the world heritage tag but this time I saw there are plenty of signages, display boards all around the platform and also in the route marking the glory of the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway. (Read the History of Darjeeling Himalayan Railway) The first part of the journey was through the busy roads of Siliguri. It was morning so the pressure of traffic on road was high. The little girls in their white school uniforms were waiting for the bus and when they saw the training passing they gladly waved at us. The markets in many places extended over the track of the railway line and the train had to make repeated stops to allow them to move aside. Suddenly there was a long stoppage in the middle of nowhere. The train kept on whistling but there was nothing in front. I saw a few vendors from the roadside shops were smiling seeing the front of the train. I extended my head out of the window a saw a giant bull slowly moving across the track.

Get this book to know the History of Darjeeling Tea

They train made two quick stops – at Siliguri Town and Siliguri Junction. Siliguri Junction was the original starting point of this train which got extended up to New Jalpaiguri in 1964. The 7.5 kilometres journey from NJP to Siliguri Jn took almost an hour and seemed that my co-passengers have lost all their energy by then. Making quite a long stoppage for almost half an hour the train started again – the view from the window changed drastically. The poorly planned buildings are now replaced with greens – Forests & Tea Gardens were seen from both sides. Once it crossed the Panchai River the green increased with a very few buildings. Though the Hill Cart road was there, it will actually be there for the entire journey, on one side of the road, the amount of honking of cars was much less now. Soon, there were tea gardens on both sides of the track. It looked beautiful as the small tea bushes covered the entire ground and long sal trees covered the horizon. These tea gardens, however, are not part of the actual lot producing authentic Darjeeling Tea – these are Dooars tea gardens. This started a new set of discussions inside the compartment. One of the gentlemen was quick to point to the authority and administration. One of the ladies made a short comparison of the fare they paid and what are the facilities they deserved. I took a sigh and concentrated on my book – Darjeeling – A History of the World’s Greatest Tea.

It took some time through the lovely forest on both sides before the actual ascend was felt. The Sukna Station (Elv – 533 ft) was the starting point from where the rail took a mountain route. The route after the Sukna Station is extremely panoramic with a dense forest on both sides of the track. The train slowly moved along the edge of the ridge making twists and turns. Between Sukna & Rongtong (Elv – 1404 ft) the rail rises for almost a thousand feet covering a distance of less than 8 kilometres. Rongtong is a small station in the middle of lower Himalayan forests. The journey between Rongtong & Chunabhatti is even more charming. The hills become even more beautiful and the ridge on the sides become more visible and attractive. From here the Sepoy Dhara Tea Garden can be clearly seen. On this route, Sepoy Dhara is the first of the tea gardens producing Darjeeling Tea and is part of the list that has right to use the G.I. (Geographic Indication) tag for Darjeeling Tea on their product. In a straight line distance, Rongtong & Chunabatti is less than a kilometre but on rail & road, they are separated by 8 kilometres journey and the first Zigzag crossing. There was a huge roar of dissatisfaction inside my compartment as people felt the train was moving backwards. The complaining gentleman, in fact, made an analysis and a conclusion on what problem has occurred with the locomotive. He, however, was silent after a few minutes.

Zigzag Crossing or simply Z-Crossing is an engineering marvel that has been used in this railway track. It was a big challenge in front of the engineers to negotiate the tough terrains of the mountains as there was not enough length to construct a smooth slope. They were able to find this solution where the railway line is laid in a zigzag form with each of the three arms making upward slope from the previous. The car – moving forward-backwards-forward rise to a formidable height despite covering much horizontal distance. The Darjeeling Himalayan Railway was the first mountain railway in India and it was constructed without using any heavy engineering – like tunnels or bridges. This forced the engineers to come up with innovative solutions to negotiate the terrain. Just like Z-Crossings, Loop is another excellent way they have used where the track makes a full circle and rising to an elevation.

Soon after the first Z-cross, the train entered the first loop just before reaching the Chunabhatti Station. This, however, was originally the third loop but the first two were removed over time.

From Chunabatti to Tindharia (Elv – 2822 ft), it was another six kilometres journey through the beautiful jungles. This small stretch has two Z-curves in a very short span and this makes the journey even more interesting. In almost an hours time, the train was in Tindharia. This was the first stretch of DHR to be completed in March 1880. Tindharia is also famous for the workshop of DHR which is located just before the main station. The train stopped for almost an hour for a lunch break for the passengers and the support staffs. I was surprised to see a gang of almost ten people travelled on the train who were there to deal with any emergency in the route. They said, the locomotives and the compartments are quite old and have a tendency to break down suddenly. That’s why a big crew is always travelling on the train. My co-passengers were elated to get a break for lunch and rushed to the tea shop in the platform where packed lunches are sold. I also decided to get one because the train was already behind schedule and there was no guarantee of its performance in higher terrains. The Mother of two was quick to start feeding her sons who were still wearing the heavy sweaters. This time I noticed even the mother has also put on a sweater herself. Though Tindharia is at a higher elevation, it was still very warm outside and inside. The silence that covered them for last few hours was gone and they again started chatting among themselves – again about their experience with foods served on their previous journies.

It was almost 1 o’clock when the train finally resumed its journey. The next destination was the Kurseong. Though Gayabari & Mahanadi are two small stations that come on the route the train did not stop in any as there were no passengers standing on the platforms. It was nearly three hours the train took to cover the twenty kilometres journey between Tindharia and Kurseong.

Kurseong is a beautiful city on the slopes of the Eastern Himalaya and is home to some of the best producers of Darjeeling Tea – Ambootia, Makaibari, Castleton are some of the most celebrated tea estates of the region. Joseph Dalton, an eminent British botanist, while travelling to these areas in April 1848 wrote about Kurseong;

“From Kurseong a very steep zigzag leads up the mountain, through a magnificent forest of chestnut, walnut, oaks and laurels. It is difficult to cncieve a grander mass of vegetation; – the straight shafts of the timber trees shooting aloft, some naked and clean, with grey, pale or brown bark; others literally clothed for yards with a continuos garment of epiphytes, one mass of blossoms, especially the white Orchids, which bloom in a profuse manner, whitenning their trunks like snow”

This was written when the settlement was hardly there. Darjeeling, the city, was less than a decade old and tea was only being planted experimentally at places. The scene even after 160 years has not changed much except for the fact that a lot of forests has been replaced with tea gardens. There has been a change is the vista & economy of Kurseong. Here again, little school children were seen returning to home. The tea plucker was also seen returning from their job – their big baskets hanging from the head could easily identify them.

The train needed some maintenance here. An entire crew were busy fitting some part under the AC Compartment. I got down from the coach to loosen the joints and could see both the gentlemen eagerly observing the activities down there. The smaller ones were also keen to get down but their mother would never allow to do them such a heroic. She repeatedly told them that the train might start any moment and that could cause a big accident to the budding jewels of their family. One of the gentlemen finally broke the silence and asked me –

‘You from Kolkata?’

‘Yes’ I replied

He smiled and said – ‘We are too’

‘Oh great’ I said.

I thought he felt that I am not really interested in making a friend of him but he still tried to continue the conversation.

‘Going to Darjeeling?’

Now that he knew I was from Kolkata he could have started speaking in Bengali but he was confident about his English Skills and kept on.

‘Yes. and You?’

‘We are also going to Darjeeling, We did not get a booking during the summer vacation of my son’s school. So, we decided to go now. I have come here before…’

He was about to pass on the experiences he has gathered in his previous encounters but to my rescue, the guard of our train blew the whistle. I was saved for the time. I smiled at him and quickly went inside our compartment. I heard a few whispers among them that passed the information that I was also from Kolkata. It was before the train reached Kurseong that the vision was covered with a thick cloud. The train was passing through that and I could also feel the moisture in my hand. This is one thing I love the most about Darjeeling in Monsoon. It is a lovely feeling to walk through the clouds. At times, it was impossible to see anything beyond a meter or so. The train kept on playing with the could and kept on moving along the curly hill tracks. The monsoon has brought a real freshness in the plants in the slopes and also brought life to the waterfalls. These are small springs that get hydrated only in this season but their dynamism brings a different kind of joy to the onlookers. I couldn’t count how many of these small waterfalls were there in our route. The journey between Kurseong and Ghum was almost 25 kilometres and covered an elevation of 2600 feet.

It was almost five when the train finally reached Ghum. In between two small stations – Tung and Sonada were passed but the train did not stop at any of those as there was nobody to board or alight. Ghum is Asia’s highest railway station built at a height of 7407 feet. The place was full of clouds through which the station building was hardly seen. On the first floor of Ghum Station is a beautiful railway museum dedicated to the DHR’s legacy and glory. I really felt these people should give a break for half n hour there so that the passengers may have a look at that but that was not the case. Within a minute the train started to complete the final stage of the journey. Darjeeling station (Elv – 6812 ft) is at a lower elevation than Ghum and the train descends slowly. Right outside the Ghum Station a giant monastery was seen which is famous as Ghum Monastery. after a few minutes, the most famous of the loops – Batasia Loop appeared. Batasia Loop has a war memorial dedicated to the Gorkha Soldiers – the high obelisk and the statue of the soldier looks fabulous in the misty environment.

The train finally reached its destination at around 6 o’clock in the evening – 3 hours behind its schedule and the tired souls slowly got out of the compartments. The families, while dealing with the heavy pieces of luggage, were cursing the railway authority for not running the train properly. They were in discussion among themselves to find a medium to take them to their hotels. I decided to walk up the hill – its a known route for me up the Laden La road and Gandhi Road to the Mall.

The weather was good- the cloud was gone. It was a lovely walk up the shopping streets – through most of the shops did not have any buyer because of the off-season and the shopkeepers were enjoying chatting among themselves – some of them holding a cup of tea. It did not take half an hour to reach the Chowrasta Mall and I decided to take a short break there. The life at Mall is always to charming – horses moving around, children playing with bubbles, a few kids practising their bike skills and some practising their dancing skills on the stages. It was world cup time and the top of the Mall was covered with flags of the participating nations. A giant screen towards the Observatory Hill showed the highlights of a previous match. I wish I could stay a little longer but I had to move on – it was getting late for me to check-in, get fresh and come out for dinner.

Darjeeling Diary – The Glorious Railway (Read the Previous Part of the Journey) There were only 3 compartments headed by a diesel engine in the small train.

#darjeeling #Darjeeling Diary #DHR #hill-stations #hills #India #Toy train #Travel

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georgeoliver · 7 years

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Reading & books in 2016

I read (at least) ten books in 2016. When I was younger I used to read all the time, but when the time came to make the step from children's and young adult books, to grown-up books, I seemed to tail off. Certainly when I was at university, reading the whole time for my degree, reading wasn't the most attractive way to spend my down time.

Since finishing university, I've drifted in and out of reading more or less – often it depends a lot on the book I'm reading at the time, and I often leave gaps between books – but last year, I set myself a target to read 10 books in 2016. (I say I read at least 10, because I only set the target midway through the year, so I couldn't remember exactly what I might have read.) I was inspired by Emmie (whose own magnificent blog is here) who read 40 books last year…

Anyway, these were the 10 books I read:

The Invincibles

This is a book I got because I'm a member of Arsenal football club (football neeerd). It's about the season when Arsenal (2003-2004) went unbeaten. Well written, but most appealing to Arsenal fans who want to lose themselves in the good old days…

Middlemarch

This should probably count as several books… I got this a couple of years back, had a go at it, gave up after the first volume (yes, that's right, it was originally published in volumes: 8 of them). On this second reading I was more determined though, and got all the way through eventually. I did enjoy it in the end, it's just quite dense, due to its treatment of several plot lines at once, and the slightly alien/more stilted 19th century English. I really appreciated the depth of it, and how it dealt with complicated themes like idealism, the role of women and of course, love and marriage. I'd recommend it, but don't expect Pride & Prejudice, it's a good deal less light-hearted than that. The Garths (such Hufflepuffs..) and the Farebrothers were my favourite characters.

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child

Perhaps not technically a book, as it's a script? Emmie and I bought it in Frankfurt, and read it together over the course of the holiday. I'm sure watching the play would be much more rewarding – the script is pretty bare bones, and low-quality fan fiction-esque.. Still, I do always enjoy more Harry Potter stuff. I am currently listening to the “Witch, Please” podcast, and feeling a strong urge to re-read all the books (like, actually physically read them, rather than just vaguely listen to Stephen Fry reading them).

The Poisonwood Bible

I really enjoyed this book, for a couple of reasons. One, because it gave me an interesting insight into Belgium (my current abode's) relationship with what is now DR Congo, and two, because to such a great degree it reminded me of living in Ghana. The book is centred on the wife and four daughters of a Baptist missionary sent to rural Congo at the end of the 1950s, and although I did not live in anywhere near the same conditions as described in the book, the sensations, and the uneasy relationship painted between African and white European culture was eerily familiar. It was really well written too, dealing with all these huge themes of colonialism, racism, Christianity & faith, through a simple and compelling personal story. It's one of my mum's favourite books too, if you needed further recommendation.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time

When I went home saw this on the shelf, I decided it was time to read it, having heard good things about it before. I knew the basic premise, but I had no idea where the book was going, and thought it told an interesting internal story, through a fairly simple external story (sort of like Inside Out). I remember reading it on the sleeper train back from Budapest, and I also remember quite how visceral some of the passages felt, as Christopher describes how and what he is feeling.

The Handmaid's Tale

This is a book I've seen for years sitting on my parents' bookshelf, and this is not what I was expecting. The cover images and the title had always led me to believe it was set in the past, one of those sort of historical novels that get churned out. So to be presented with a dystopian novel was a surprise, and I enjoyed it. “Mystery books”, where you have to work out what has happened in the past/the present situation, based on the limited information the narrator gives you do always feel a little exasperating to me. I just want to know the world we dealing with, or at least not have it hidden from me in such an obvious way, but it didn't bother me too much in this book.

Pride and Prejudice

Now, this one I read because Emmie's family was shocked I had never read it before (her grandfather reads it every year at Christmas), and I felt like I was failing as a British person. I found it very funny and clever at many points, particularly enjoying Mr. Bennet's detachment, (although Emmie made me accept that he wasn't actually a very good parent, he's still an entertaining character), Mr. Collins' complete over-the-topness and Lizzie being rude to Lady Catherine. I also enjoyed dick-ish Darcy at the start.

It struck me that A LOT of the book is to do with class, social climbing and pretension, and I felt as though – while that might explain part of the book's international popularity – this meant a lot of it might only be fully understandable to British readers, who are still submerged in a lot of the same social expectations on show in the book. Maybe I'm wrong though..

Rivers of London and Moon over Soho

I got the first three of this “Rivers of London” series for my birthday, and I admittedly picked the second one as my 10th book, because I knew it was easy to read, and I could meet my 10 book target in the last couple of weeks of the year.. Essentially it's a magical police series, although I do feel it's also targeted at people who really know and love London (which is not me). So I let a lot of that capital scenery-porn pass me by, and enjoy the magical world being built up. I always enjoy seeing how authors choose to set up their magical systems, and this one strikes me as more of a Pratchett-esque one, wherein magic has “real world” consequences – equal and opposite reactions – and so is presented in more of a science-y way. I always think of the Pratchett quote about your brain being pushed out your ears if you get magic wrong: in Rivers of London, even when you get it right, it destroys the technology in the vicinity..

Through the Narrow Gate

This is the only autobiographical novel on this list, again touching on religion as a major theme. It's about the author's experience being a Nun in the 1960s, just as Vatican II was taking place, and reforms are starting to trickle through. Most of it is a deeply personal account however, and as a Quaker I found it interesting to argue about the views she was being taught, and the absolute nature of the rules she had to follow. Some of it seemed downright inhumane, and there was this duality in these passages, as the author writing many years later clearly shared some of this disbelief, while she had to write herself as she was, largely accepting of the treatment she received. An intriguing book, if you want to know what the inner life of a nun is like.

So that was my 2016 in books! My target for 2017 is 12-15 books, and so far I have read less than one, that one being, The Uses and Abuses of History, which I think might be left over from one of my historiography courses at University. It's interesting, just dense, I'll get there eventually.

#books #reading #magic #pride & prejudice #middlemarch #Harry Potter #cursed child

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