Misty Water-Coloured Memories

Every year on my birthday, my paternal grandfather, a proper patriotic Brit, sent me a card containing some money, a short note, and a little drawing of a Scottie dog. In the 28 years of my life that he was alive (even though I was crap at correspondence and only saw him every few years), on April 29th, a card unfailingly showed up wherever I was bidding me well wishes from England. Nice, right?

Well, as it turns out, there was another slightly more unseemly motivation to the tradition. Invariably, the cards would also have a P.S. scrawled along the bottom. “Are you still Roman Catholic?” “Are you still an American?” “Are you still Irish?” he would write in that angular handwriting that everyone in Britain of a certain generation seems to have (seriously, take a look sometime…it’s eerie).

My grandfather was obviously hoping that somehow, at five, eight, thirteen years old, I’d spontaneously declared independence from my parents, changed religions and denounced my heritage, and was set to board the next flight to the Land of the Righteous, aka the United Kingdom, where I would claim my rightful position as a royal subject of The Queen.

He even tried different tactics over the years. Around the time he entered his 90s (maybe talking dogs come with the territory), the little Scottie dog began appearing with speech bubbles full of things like, “Be proud of your British heritage!” and “God save the queen!” Before long, I began to take issue with that dog, who, like my grandfather, seemed unwilling to accept that fact that for reasons largely beyond my control, I was not a Union-Jack-waving, Protestant-card-carrying member of the British regime, but rather was a Catholic half-Irish Australian with an American accent.

Sure, he only wanted what he felt was best for me. The irony of course is that when he finally got what he wanted, he was gone. If he’d known that just two years after his death, I’d be living in London, dating a guy who is about as British as they come, and for all intents and purposes, living as a Brit, he would have been absolutely thrilled.

So, this weekend, when I was hanging out with my uncle John and aunt Jo in their beachfront house in Gosport discussing times spent in London and how much Grandad would have loved to have seen me living there, I couldn’t help but find this to be a bit curious.

If I were a religious, or perhaps even superstitious person, I might have taken this as a sign. It truly was the most beautiful rainbow I’ve ever seen, and from the top floor of my aunt and uncle’s house, it seemed to be almost designed for us. In the absence of a talking Scottie ringing the doorbell and bidding me welcome to London, it would have been a pretty good way to send a big old “ello govnah” from heaven, dontcha think?

Anyway, potential miracles notwithstanding, it was a great weekend. I successfully navigated my ridiculous anxieties on Friday (thank you all for your well wishes…love reading your comments!), had a great dinner with friends Christy and Jason later that night, and then spent Saturday and Sunday in Gosport with Jo and John (pictured below).

They have built an eco-friendly self-sustaining home overlooking the Solent. They spend some of the year there, and the rest at their home in the Spanish countryside. (In fact, while we were there, they were packing up their battery-charged SUV to head down there.)

In order to get to their house, you have to go through Portsmouth Harbour, a nice town centered around the famous Spinnaker Tower.

I got back early enough on Sunday to go for my first real run around the city. I was a little bit scared of getting lost, but managed to find my way down Fleet Street, past St. Paul’s Cathedral, across Millennium Bridge and past the Tate Modern and back again. As far as runs go, it was a pretty amazing one.

This week I finally seem to have some time to relax, hang out, and explore the city my grandfather so wanted me to enjoy. Hope everyone else had good weekends. xoxo