Hello Reader,
Got the January resolve-to-travel bug?
Guess what? I traveled to beautiful Britain. Nice countryside. I went specifically to the suburb of Woking, south of London, a leafy town of 60, 000 where there are some mansions owned by football players. I never entered them, of course, but I probably walked past their front gates.
If you go, you may get tourist brochures at the local museum-and-art attraction, the Lightbox. You can find plain walking maps at the library: Unfortunately, the sandpit where the first Martian cylinder landed is not shown, but an enthusiastic local showed me on my map where to walk, as we were conversing in the H.G. Wells-themed bar. Now, I’m not a “social beer-swilling with gusto person,” not a stout Falstaff, I’m more of a skinny quiet bookworm, but as a friendly traveler I would muster up enough to nerve to talk to strangers, and then we would all had a good time. And they even told me of a secret place to go in Central London! (I went)
Speaking of bars, the big thing I learned was that the only person wearing a cap was me: The old image of male Brits (like the cartoon character Andy Cap) wearing cloth tweed caps is from my dear parent’s lost era. And no head scarfs for the ladies. A local said they call me “smiley” not because I smile easily, although I do (my smile muscles are really broken in) but because I wore a My Neighbor Totoro baseball cap, complete with eyes, whiskers, and Totoro’s preposterous Cheshire smile.
Some folks travel in search of Charles Dickens. Me, I was romantically tracing the Martians of H.G. Wells.
Today I have two poems, presenting a romantic tourist view of what must be just ordinary everyday life to the locals.
Walking About
Everyone in Woking
tells me to go to the Lightbox.
Shaped like a box kite on end—
it holds delightful museum displays.
I missed the War of the Worlds exhibit by only one year.
On the ground floor
—near some educational toys for sale, including robots—
is a cartoon map of the town.
Press buttons to illuminate good environmental practices.
They glow on the map.
At the bottom is the train station.
At the top is the common
showing a long furrow
and a half buried Martian cylinder.
From the Lightbox you may stroll the towpath
along a leafy canal amidst birds and squirrels,
or cross under wide streets,
using a tunnel lined on both sides with murals
to remember the one-sided war with the Martians.
Downtown is nice art.
Another half buried cylinder
among triumphant walk-on pictures
of amoebas and bacteria and viruses;
the only things on our side during that terrible war.
A fighter jet on a high pedestal
noses around the corner
to confront a tall chromium Fighting Machine
striding into town from the common.
A scary trophy to show the children.
Mundanes In Town
I
A non-local tells me,
“I’m only here for the drinking.”
An employee tells me,
“I’m only here for the job.”
Everyone says to me,
“Why the heck are you here
in Woking?”
Maybe to see “the real England,”
yet here so plain and drab,
—of course not,
I’m here for the Martians!
II
Entering from a brick-faced alley
I ascend past computer shelves
up into the history store.
Here are magazines and games,
Romans and knights
but no sign of Martians,
of course not.
A block north I find the
H.G. Wells Convention Centre,
without fantastical wall paintings,
of course not.
Woking is for Mundanes.
III
A happy tourist,
I step off the sidewalk into the storefront room,
seeing moonfaced young males in bland shirts.
I won’t enter whistling songs of wine and women
as the lads are setting up their orc and dragon table-games.
People are soft. The walls are barren.
Taking gentle steps around the tables
I go over to the broad-chested responsible looking chap.
He answers by leading me to the doorway
and pointing up the street to the best tavern.
Those lads love a good fantasy,
but this is not the space and time
to talk of Martians,
of course not.
Sean Crawford
Calgary
January
2020
Footnote: I’m going back! I just bought a return ticket to Gatwick for the last half of February.
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