Iceland

For Corin

Almost 20 years after I left England, I moved back.  I’d changed a lot, of course.  I’d left as an 18 year old in search of adventure, and returned as a single parent of three, approaching middle age (some might say, already well into middle age, but it didn’t feel that way to me).  

England had changed as well.  Having spent more than half my life outside the UK, it didn’t feel like ‘my’ country any more, even though it was. I was in the curious situation of being a foreigner in my own land.  There were a lot of things I didn’t know about, because they hadn’t existed in the 1970s, and there were a lot of things I didn’t know how to do in England, because I’d only ever done them in the USA.  Like renting an apartment.  Like buying a car, furniture, even food.  What an exciting new world was waiting to be discovered at Tesco!  Driving was difficult, but navigating the bus system was familiar; growing up, I'd been a frequent bus rider.   

bus stop at Church Road, Wheatley

One day I was on the bus to Oxford with my two year old and his buggy (that’s stroller for my American readers).  One of my neighbors had got on at the same stop, also with a two year old and a buggy.  The bus was almost full, but there were two free aisle seats opposite each other, where we gratefully sat down, holding our toddlers securely on our laps with one arm and the collapsed buggies in the other.  It was a hot summer day and there was no air conditioning on the bus.  There were a couple of small windows open, but they didn’t help much.  I smiled at my neighbor and she smiled back.  We didn’t know each other well; I’d only moved into the neighborhood a week or so previously, but now, on the crowded bus, in the uncomfortable heat, each with a small child and buggy in tow, we were instantly comrades. 

bus approaching Oxford from Wheatley

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.  ‘To the university’ I replied.  ‘How about you?’  ‘Iceland’, she said.  Iceland.  There was nothing in her face or tone of voice to suggest she wasn't serious.  ‘Iceland?’ I asked.  ‘Yep’, she confirmed.  I laughed.  It was pretty funny, after all, given the weather.  She stared at me.  ‘Why are you laughing?’ she asked.  ‘Oh, sorry’ I said, puzzled.  ‘I thought it was funny.’  ‘Why?’ she asked.   ‘Oh, sorry’, I said, ‘really, I thought you were joking and I thought it was funny.’  ‘But why did you think it was a joke?’ she asked again, looking as confused as I felt.  ‘Well ….’ I began, not sure how to explain. ‘I mean…… well, you don’t have a suitcase, for one thing.’  Now my neighbor and all the bus passengers within earshot were laughing.  Apparently the joke was on me, although I still had no idea what it was. 

At the next stop, a large, noisy group of children in school uniform got on and crowded into the aisle space between us, preventing further conversation.  A couple of stops later, my neighbor got off the bus.  Through the window, I watched her as she fastened her baby in the buggy, and then, as the bus drove away, I saw it.  A frozen food store.  Its name was Iceland. 

Note:  This week I'm co-facilitating a faculty development workshop at Valencia College called Perspectives: Cross-cultural awareness in the classroom.  While reviewing the workshop materials, and thinking about the assumption of shared knowledge, I was reminded of this story, set in 1997 on the 280 bus from Wheatley to Oxford.