After tearful goodbyes with my English heartthrob, Sherine, I was back in Tel Aviv to continue this madcap dash across the continent that Johnny Surf, my traveling companion, and I were on. Next stop; Cairo. In those days, despite the proximity of Israel to Egypt, the political animosity made it easier to come into Egypt from somewhere else. We had just flown from Athens for our week in Israel and now we were retracing our steps to Athens for a plane trip to Cairo. I discovered, to my horror, that when the over zealous security agent at the Eilat airport had taken my camera apart he had removed the battery as well as exposed the film and any pictures that I had taken of my Sweet Baboo were lost.
I was still aching with the sweet sorrow of interrupted romance as we flew to Cairo and John had his own thoughts of the woman he had flown back to Tel Aviv to spend the evening with. We checked into the Windsor Hotel in downtown Cairo. The Windsor hotel was built in 1893 by the British colonialist regime that occupied Egypt back then. It was also used as the officer's billeting quarters and officer's club during World War I. The scenes in Lawrence of Arabia that involve the British army were shot at the Windsor; a fact I did not know until I saw the movie some years after I had come back from this trip and I recognized the hotel from our stay.
The Windsor Hotel in downtown Cairo
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We repaired to our guide books and started planning for our week in Egypt. First on the list, of course, was a camel ride and visit to the great pyramids. There was a little tourist trap near there that sold anything the Egyptian tourist trade could imagine that visitors might possibly want to buy. They may have even had pyramid snow globes for sale... Since I wasn't keen on stocking up on knick-knacks, I passed on the kitsch until I came to a smiling lady with artsy postcards decorated with hieroglyphics in shimmering silver and gold. After Europe, the Muslim culture of Egypt was so different. In the southern European countries we had visited so far, there were young lovers wherever we went. The first thing I noticed in Egypt was there were no men interacting with women. You'd could tell a married couple out in public because the man walked ahead and the woman followed several steps behind. Men were holding hands, women were holding hands but that familiarity did not extend across the bounds of gender. It also quickly became clear that there was no set price for any commodity, product or service.
Even if you were standing in line to buy a bottle of water, that same bottle was priced quite differently for the local person in front of you. When asked why, the astonished water merchant would respond, "Because, my friend, you are a wealthy tourist from Europe or America, and you can afford more!" Indeed, we came to find out that the hapless western tourist had a name, Khoaga. Technically the term refers to any foreigner but like so often happens, the meaning had devolved into "white tourist with too much money". As we travelled around we found that if a child was younger than five he would say "Hi!" to us. Any older and they would just stick out their hand and say, "Baksheesh!"
The smiling lady with the beautiful postcards didn't seem so mercenary and I sidled over to her part of the counter. "Hello, my young friend. Perhaps I can interest you in a beautiful postcard. I can write any message you like on it in hieroglyphics. I have many lovely sayings for lovers if there is someone special you want to treat. I immediately thought of Sherine. My plan was to bombard her with postcards from everywhere I visited until I was back in her arms in Jolly Olde England. I bought the nice lady's pitch, even though we know the hieroglyphic-like symbols on the card probably said "Property of Tutenkhamun" or some such. That afternoon I dug out my little traveling address book penned some heart-achy drivel on the back and sent it winging off to "Fritton" where ever that was. Thank God I had her address and phone number so I could find her when I finally made it that far.
This is not a story about what I saw, smelled, heard, rode, ate or drank in Egypt or in any of the other countries I visited; perhaps some other time. This is about my search to consummate and continue this nascent love affair that had begun on the shores of the Red Sea. Sometime after sending my hieroglyphic love postcard to Sherine, I realized, with a sickening thud of my heart, that I had lost my address book. It would be almost two months until I was planning on being in the U.K., and now I had lost every reference to her except her name and the general area of England that she lived in. When she no longer received romantic feedback from me, I might as well have been kidnapped by slave traders. I figured in those two months time, as I travelled around, I would meet English tourists and one of them was bound to know where this Fritton was. Everywhere I went from Prague to Amsterdam; from the Romantiche Strasse to Mont St. Michel, etc. whenever I heard an English accent I would drop whatever I was doing and ask the poor, put-upon tourist if they had ever heard of a little village called Fritton somewhere in a place called East Anglia.
The lovely Mt. St-Michel where I spent a night.
Each time, I would ask an English person about Fritton, without fail, I would be met with the shake of a head and a "No, chap. Awfully sorry. Never heard of this Fritton". Often, if I had the time and my audience seemed sympathetic, (always women) I would tell them of the unrequited love I held for my English lass, Sherine, and how I was searching in vain for her, having lost her address and phone number. "Oh, you poor dear! How romantic! I hope you find her. I couldn't bear to think you might not find her. Good luck! Nigel and I will be pulling for you!" As the weeks passed and I wandered from city to city; country to country; it was the same story. I would dutifully follow my Rick Steeve's "Through the Back Door" travel itinerary while searching vainly for someone, anyone, who had heard of this "Brigadoon" of a village that didn't seem to exist.
By the time I finally made it to Holland, I had only a few days left on the continent before I'd be taking the ferry across the English channel to Harwich on the southeast coast. I still had no clue where this 'frickin' Fritton was and I was getting desperate. I was in my little hotel in the town of Haarlem, just north of Amsterdam having a pilsener and with a "jenever" chaser (Dutch gin--very tasty). I was pouring out "my story" for the umpteenth time; this time to the very sympathetic clerk/bar keep. The place was pretty quiet so she had time to chat. She had an idea, "So, you say she lives in East Anglia and she's a nurse. Chances are she works in a hospital in that area. I know one of the international operators. Let me put a call into her and see if she can ring up the East Anglia hospitals and find a Sherine Robinson. The nurses can put the word out to Sherine, if they know her, that her American boyfriend is on his way. If there's time, she can call here and you guys can arrange your rendezvous then."
I thought that was the first hopeful thing I had heard in two months and I thanked my new friend profusely. By the next morning there was no word and it was time for me train down to the coastal berg of Hook von Holland for the overnight ferry to Harwich. I called my barkeep friend right before I disembarked to see if there was any word before I started my final search in England. Before the time ran out on our call she was able to convey to me that her operator friend had been able to contact several hospitals in the area and the search was on to alert Sherine that I was on my way to try and find her. The time ran out on the phone call; the line went dead and that was that. With an agonizing groan I shouldered my pack and shuffled disconsolately onto the ferry.
The next morning, I got off the ferry and went straight to the "Brit-Rail" office for one more desperate try to find my long lost "Sweet Baboo". By this time I had purchased the largest Michelen map they made of England, and I had been spending a lot of my down time vainly pouring over it, looking for a little dot on the map with the word "Fritton" under it. No luck. As I approached the rail clerk I told my tale of woe, once again. "Hi, I'm sure you can't help me since none of your countrymen have been able to. I'm looking to get to a little village in East Anglia called Fritton. I don't suppose by any wild chance you could find out if there is such a place and how I can get there, or did this gal just sell me a bill of goods to get me off her trail? I'm beginning to wonder".
Nigel looked up from his computer with a cheery smile (I call all unidentified Englishmen "Nigel"...) and barked out at me, "Know right where it is mate. Grew up around those parts me-self! The train doesn't go right to Fritton but I can get you about two miles away. Think you can hitch or hoof it from there?" "Yes! Yes!", I cried, "I would crawl on my hands and knees if you could get me two miles from Fritton." My God! After all this time, the one man who knows that Fritton is not a mythical place is the Brit-Rail agent. I wanted to reach through the bars of his cage and kiss his ruddy English cheeks. So Nigel started punching on his reservation keyboard in earnest. "Now you've got to go from Harwich to Ipswich. Then you take the train from Ipswich to Braintree. You cross under the tracks and take the train from Braintree to Norwich. Now eight stops before you get to Norwich, there is a stop near a cow pasture and dairy farm that's about two miles from Fritton. Tell the conductor your story and I'm sure he'll let you off there. It's not one of their usual stops but if I know my mates in the Brit-Rail business, they'll accommodate you, Yank! Good luck! You'll have to hurry. Get the local lads to help you with the connections; some of them are going to be tight."
And so I set off on this madcap dash to find Sherine. The various train trips were indeed problematical and without the help of several kindly local riders I'm sure I would have been hopelessly lost. As it were, I felt like some Charlie Chaplin character, running here and there across the tracks to catch the right train. Eventually, I find myself on the train to Norwich. I approached the conductor and told him my "oft told tale" of seeking my English lass. I pleaded to him, "The Brit-Rail agent said the closest this train can get me to Fritton is this stop here, in this cow pasture. I know you don't normally stop there on Thursday, but I wondered if it would be possible to accommodate me on my journey. It would mean a lot and I, uh, I could pay you a little something to make it worth your while, if, uh, that would help?" The conductor smiled at me and said, "Don't you worry, mate, we here at British Rail aim to please our customers. No gratuity is necessary. Your tale of unrequited romance is quite good enough for me!" And with that he pulled the brake chord and the train slowly came to a stop next to a little landing in the middle of a cow pasture. "Good luck, laddie! I hope you find your lassie" and with that the train pulled out and left me standing on the landing looking over a lovely field of cows and cow paddies. There was no one around except for me and the bovines. What to do now? I still didn't have an address or a phone number and I didn't even know what direction to go.
The only other sign of civilization was the proverbial red phone booth the English are so well known for. With my rucksack on my back, I stood in front of the phone booth contemplating my next move. Who would I call. The friendly barkeep back in Haarlem who had tried to help me find Sherine? How could she help me now. As I looked around, I saw a funny looking little vehicle approaching me. A man got out and walked up to me, "Well, lad, you certainly look like your lost. How did you come to be standing here in front of this phone booth here in the dairy pasture?" He seemed a friendly sort, the type who had recently been helping along with my romantic adventure. "Yes, I guess I'm kind of lost. I'm trying desperately to get to the little village of Fritton. The rail agent said that this was the closest he could get me but now I don't know how to proceed from here." With a friendly chuckle he replied, "Don't worry, mate. As soon as I make my milk and cream deliveries, I'll come back and collect you. I'm headed that way myself. It's just up the road over there about two miles from here."
I was in no position to question the logic of milk and cream deliveries to dairy farmers so I said. "I thank you, sir. That's very kind of you. I'll be sitting here awaiting your return." In about half an hour he was back in his little electric lorry, the local dairy truck. I hopped in back with all the crates of empty milk bottles and off we went. Off we, very slowly, went. This lorry, as the English call trucks, wasn't much more than an electric golf cart with a small covered truck back-end. Its little electric motor couldn't go much more than twenty miles an hour. We came to an overpass that we had to ascend and I felt like getting out and pushing to help this wheezing little cart up and over the hump to help us get to the promised land of Fritton, where I could finally make a last ditch effort to locate my sweet Baboo...
Eventually after what seemed like an agonizing half hour, we finally came to a small crossroads. There were a few houses scattered about and a small pub called the Black Swan. "Well, mate, this is it; Fritton. The only public house is this here pub, so you might as well go in there and see if they know where your lass is. Good luck!" And with that my latest benefactor went puttering on his way leaving me in front of the Black Swan, local village pub. I went in, tossed my rucksack to the floor and took up a seat at the bar. There were several locals in attendance and, as one, they all turned to look at me. One of them addressed me, "You're not from around here are you mate?" I replied, "No. I'm an American who's been traveling around. I'm from California near San Francisco and I am looking for a woman I met some months ago on holiday in Israel. I lost her address and phone number and now all I have is her name, Sherine Robinson and the fact that she lives here in Fritton at the house of a doctor. She's a nurse. I guess she works in one of the hospitals in the area. She has curly reddish-brown hair and blue eyes. That's all I have to go on." The local lads muttered amongst themselves for a moment. Then their "spokesman" replied, "Sorry mate. Doesn't ring a bell."
About this time a young woman came out from the back kitchen area. She had overheard our conversation and she said, "Wasn't there a bunch of nurses in here the other night drinking shandies? Seems to me I heard the name Sherine. You say she lives with a doc? There's a young lass living up the way at Dr. Costley's place. You know, the gynecologist." The spokesman put down his beer and with a sly smile he turned to me and said, "Isn't that the doc what can rearrange your furniture from the mail slot?" And with that the local publicans had a jolly laugh. This fellow, seeing my frustration, offered to take me up to Dr. Costley's house which was just up the way. Soon I found myself standing across the road from a house. I crossed the road and walked up to the front door. It was locked and there was a metal screened outer gate locked in front of it. There was also what appeared to be a bullet hole in the window of the door; not an auspicious sign. Next to the house there was a little parking area and there was a car parked there. It was a car owned by someone of modest means who was an equestrian judging by the velvet covered helmet sitting in the back. I walked up to the backyard fence and peered over. On the far side of the yard there was a little cottage. Sherine had told me that she lived in a cottage behind a doctor's house. Hmm. Sherine rode horses and said she lived in a cottage behind a main house. The only problem was that this place was under reconstruction. There were building materials stacked in front of it and it was obviously empty.
Well, I had made it this far and this was my best chance to try to find Sherine. The front door definitely did not look like the entry of choice so I opened the back gate and let myself into the yard. There was a glassed in porch and a door that was open. In the next moment a huge black and white English sheep dog came bounding out and ran towards me. I prepared to be attacked but luckily for me he was a friendly fellow. He stood up on his hind paws and put his fore-paws on my chest and proceeded to lick me. The next thing I knew my Sherine, the goddess of my feverish dreams for the last two, torturous months, came running out toward me. "Michael! Oh my God, you actually made it! I can't believe you're here!" The dog bounded away with a whoof and Sherine, my long lost sweet Baboo, launched herself into my arms and started to kiss me feverishly. "Does this mean we're going to make love?" I could her feel her heart beating rapidly against my chest as she smiled and looked up at me. "Oh yes, Sherine, we'll be making love. Lots and lots of love".
My lovely English lass, Sherine
With that, right there on the chaise lounge in the back yard, we proceeded to consummate our desire which had been smoldering for two torturously long months. Nigel, the shaggy sheep dog barked and looked on with obvious approval.
It turns out that Sherine knew I was trying to make my way toward her. The international operator had, indeed, succeeded in getting through to the East Anglia nursing community and the word was quickly spread to Sherine; your American boyfriend is coming for you. She hadn't heard from me since that postcard in Egypt and for all she knew I was on Safari in Africa. I explained how I lost her contact information somewhere after Cairo. I briefly filled her in on my two months of travels that had led to the ferry ride to Harwich and the mad dash via British Rail that had brought me to her door step.
I asked her about the cottage and she admitted that she had fabricated just a little when we were getting to know each other in Eilat. "I'm supposed to be living in the cottage by now but Bill is kind of dragging his feet about finishing it. The truth is, I have a bedroom in the house, upstairs. It's right across the hall from his and I'm afraid he rather likes the arrangement. He still has hopes of something sparking between us, despite my repeated protestations. Oh, and one other thing. I have a little girl, Georgie. I share custody with the father. We divorced soon after the baby was born.
As I digested this new information. Sherine took me into the house and she fixed us drinks. As we sat with our Martini-Rossi vermouths on the rocks and caught up, I heard the back door open. An older gentleman, slight of stature, with silver grey hair came in and Sherine introduced me. "Bill? I want you to meet my friend from America. This is Mike Stevens the chap I've been telling you about. The one I had dinner with that night in Eilat. Remember? You were so cross with me because I came in so late that night? Well after two months of traveling all over the continent, he has finally reached England. He has gone through hell to find me and I would like it very much if we could accommodate him for a few days. What do you say?"
Bill looked at the two of us and could tell that Sherine was deadly serious about us being together. Being of good English stock, he knew when he had been bested by another man and he reluctantly acquiesced. I was to sleep on the fold-out couch in the living room. Sherine and I had two glorious days together alone in the house. She had a few days before she had to go back to work and take care of the baby. After Bill left for his medical practice in the morning, I would bound up the stairs and launch myself into Sherine's warm bed and her open arms. We spent most of those precious few days lying in bed making love, engaging in pillow talk, then a cup of tea followed by a short nap, collapsed in each other's arms. Then the cycle would repeat itself until we were too hungry and exhausted to continue. There is nothing as satisfying as a cool drink of sweet water when you've been crawling in the desert.
In my travels on the continent, I had occasion to spend a night or two with a willing companion, but this was the woman I desired, my sweet Baboo was that cool, sweet drink of water. We decided to put me up in a little Bed and Breakfast in the little burg of Lowestoft near Great Yarmouth on the English channel. It was only a couple of miles from Fritton and there, we could be alone together without the good doctor's presence. During the few days that I was there, I wandered around taking in the sights of Lowestoft and Great Yarmouth and the surrounding countryside that was known as "The Broads". In the evening, after work, Sherine would come to me at my Bed and Breakfast. I would sneak her up the back stairs to my room and we'd have a picnic of "take-away" as the English call take-out food. After several hours of passionate embrace, I would sneak her back out. Sherine had her maternal responsibilities coming up and it would be hard to accommodate me, little Georgie and her job as well.
Here's an aerial view of the kitschy little town of Great Yarmouth. I say 'kitschy' because of its extensive use of faux piratical themes in all its decor; tourist restaurants, amusement park rides, etc. Like Brighton, its more famous neighbor to the west, Great Yarmouth is a seaside resort town on the eastern coast of the English channel. It caters mainly to working class English families who can't afford to go abroad when on holiday. Notice the oil derricks in the background.
The plan was this; Sherine had her nursing job and her child to take care of for the next ten days or so, then she would have my last weekend free. My flight from Heathrow back to San Francisco was on May 19th. I said my temporary goodbyes to Sherine, thanked the good doctor for his forbearance and hospitality and headed on my way. While Sherine was discharging her obligations, for the next ten days I was free to tour the U.K. I "did" London and Bath and the Cotswalds. I took the ferry to Dublin and saw a bit of Ireland. Then I came back and took a train north to see a bit of Scotland. From the bar of the little hotel I was staying in in Edinburgh, I called Sherine on the phone. "It's Thursday night. Tomorrow I'm taking the train back to Lowestoft to see you for my last weekend before my flight home. Are you free for the weekend?" Yes, Sherine was free and she had thoughtfully made arrangements for us to spend our last, precious, weekend together at a lovely romantic little get-away in the town of Norwich.
The lovely English garden of our 'Honeymoon Hotel' in Norwich
I trained back down south, met Sherine and we drove to our final weekend redezvous together. When the desk clerk heard our story, she promptly gave us the bridal suite. The rest of that weekend was spent like a honeymoon. Besides the obvious activities I do remember getting out of bed for several meals. We took a walk around the lovely English gardens that surrounded the hotel. They had a squash court and Sherine treated me to a game of squash. She beat me handily, twenty-one to nil. With a mischievous smile she said, "I'm so glad your athletic!" Well, I was no squash player, and I knew that Sherine had been a top athlete in her school days, so I took her gentle ribbing in stride.
My lovely lass, Sherine, regally ensconced in our honeymoon suite
All too soon our time together had come to an end. Sadly we said goodbye to our honeymoon hotel and Sherine drove us back to Lowestoft where she deposited me at the train station for my last trip on this three month adventure that had started back in mid February, 1993; the train ride to Heathrow airport and my flight back home. As we embraced for this last time, I told her that I loved her and wanted to see her again somehow, sometime. She replied that she loved me too and we made plans for her to come visit me in mid-August when she had some "holiday" time coming. Till then, it would be several months of the sweet sorrow of long distance love. With one last, long kiss goodbye, I boarded the train and headed to the airport.
There, at the departure gate, I finally saw my long lost traveling companion again. Johnny Surf and I had parted company, after a heated argument in the bar of Hotel Windsor in Cairo. He went to Turkey, I went to the Greek Isles. From then on we traveled separately. As we settled ourselves in our seats for the long flight home, he turned to me and said, "Well, my friend; what have you been up to for the last couple of months?" "Johnny Surf; it's good to see you again!", I replied, "Let's grab a bottle of "Champers" and drink to our trip. We've got a long flight ahead of us and I'll tell you all about it."
I wish you all health, but more than wealth, I wish you love, Mickey da Mayor of Happy Acres
Happy Acres, as well as Daisyland look really good and they have a functional interface that brings quick access to all the features. One might argue that Happy Acres has a better interface because it doesn’t bug you to invite people to the game like Daisyland does,Happy Acres
ReplyDeleteinstead it focuses on bringing a more welcoming interface where you can explore the farm without restrictions.