Girl Abroad

THE TIME DIFFERENCE IS STILL WINNING THE WAR WITH MY internal clock. Couple that with anxiousness about my first day at Pembridge, and I’m up and dressed before the rest of the house has even hit their snooze buttons. I take advantage of the head start to walk the neighborhood, just down the street and around the corner to a café where I grab a muffin and coffee. There, I realize I’m still a little iffy on the difference between pence and quid, though thankfully almost everywhere accepts mobile pay.

I take my breakfast to go. It’s a two-mile walk to campus in Paddington. There are ample Tube stations to make the trip, but I want to get a sense of the place. Get my bearings and whatnot. I join the pedestrian brigade traversing the tree-lined sidewalks past row houses and hotels, centuries-old apartments and modern glass office buildings. I shuffle along the north end of iron-fenced Kensington Gardens among tourists and joggers and moms with strollers.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

The skies are clear and the temperature mild when I reach campus. It isn’t the traditional self-contained compound of typical American colleges but rather a series of buildings tucked in among the urban environment, a hodgepodge of baroque architecture and shiny steel. Most of my classes take place in the newer Colburn College, which is home to general education requirement courses. My program-specific work, however, and my first class this morning are in the older Albert Hall, a French-inspired four-story building with ornate carvings over the heavy bronze-embellished doors. It’s breathtaking, really, ducking under the portico. Not the kind of thing we get much of in Nashville.

I’m early for my research and composition class. Basically, it’s an essential introduction to academic writing necessary for all history majors. I have to tamp down my eagerness as I stake out my spot at the end of the fourth row. Close enough to be engaged in discussion but not so close as to brand myself the try-hard on the first day. With the class filling up, eventually another girl scans the room, then makes eye contact with me as she tracks down the aisle.

“Mind if I sit?” she asks in a crisp British accent.

I tuck in my legs and scoot my bag out of her way. “Go for it.”

“Wasn’t sure I’d make it,” she says, dropping into a seat one over. “I wasn’t minding where I was walking, popped into a shop and looked around quite confused.”

I know the feeling. “I thought this building was a hotel at first.”

She introduces herself as Amelia, a recovering Russian lit major now transitioning to revolutionary France. She confesses that becoming obsessed with an Instagram photo of a dead author is no way to pick a major. I tell her I’m not sure it isn’t.

When class gets underway, our professor is a chic middle-aged woman in a scarf who looks like the type you might see at the ballet holding court in the lobby during intermission. Some retired prima ballerina who’s left kings and tycoons in her wake.

She explains the course will require us to propose a research topic and spend the better part of the semester preparing a paper on our subject. We have until the end of September to identify our topic and present a strategy. Simple enough, though the enormous breadth of possibilities has me somewhat paralyzed with indecision already.

“Have you been to the Talbot Library yet?” Amelia asks as the teaching assistant walks the aisle handing out the syllabus.

“No, not yet. I heard it’s extraordinary.”

The Talbot Library remains one of my primary motivations for attending Pembridge. Since I was little, I’ve adored libraries. My babysitters as a kid, who stayed with me when Dad was touring, would take me to reading camps and book fairs at the local public library. Later, I’d take sightseeing trips just for an especially unusual or historic one, begging my dad for detours on trips together to investigate another library I’d read about online. The one here at Pembridge, while architecturally and aesthetically typical of its era, is notable for its collections in art, history, and primary sources.

“There’s a nook on the third floor, near the entrance to the special collections wing. It gets great light,” Amelia tells me, and I make a mental note of it.

She and I exchange phone numbers at the end of class, after which I find a bench in the concrete courtyard to sit and call my dad. I know if he doesn’t get regular updates, there isn’t much that will stop him from getting on a plane and showing up at my front door.

“Hey, baby girl.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“How’s the first day going?”

“Good. I just sent you a picture of the building. It’s incredible up close. Built in 1854 and dedicated by Prince Albert.”

“I ever tell you about the time I played a gig at Royal Albert Hall? Our guys showed up to load in the same day another crew was loading out, so there’s a major traffic jam at the loading dock. I’m on the bus because we’ve got a short turnaround and need to get a sound check in before lunch, and I see our roadie Rusty outside looking like he’s about to kick the hell out of some driver.”

My life is measured not in years but in my father’s anecdotes. He’s got a story for every occasion. Once he gets going, there’s no interrupting the memory train.

“Anyway, I go inside to have a look around, and they’re telling me I can’t go to the stage because John Mayer’s out there. He’s got his guitar and he’s playing, getting some footage or something. But when Rusty gets up there to snatch the guitar out of Mayer’s hand and tell him to move along, turns out it isn’t him. Just some dude off the street with a thin, patchy beard who somehow snuck into the venue,” Dad finishes with a laugh.

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for John Mayer impersonators,” I reply as my phone beeps in my ear.

It’s a text from Lee. He’s on campus and wants to meet up for lunch by the flower box building. Then he drops me a pin to his location. I study the screen—he’s a couple blocks from me.

I hop off the bench and walk and talk until I find Lee looking dapper in another vest and bow tie ensemble, a brown leather messenger bag slung across his chest.

“You finding your way around okay?” Dad is asking in my ear.

“Yep,” I answer, then mouth to Lee it’s my dad on the line.

Lee grins and waves at the phone in greeting.

“Lee says hi, by the way. We’re grabbing a bite before my next class.”

“You two going to have any classes together?”

“Not likely. She’s in her last year and majoring in biochemistry.”

Lee brushes his hand over his head to mime sweeping his hair back. “I rock a savage lab coat.”

I shush him for fear my father will hear him. Rolling his eyes, Lee animates locking his lips shut.

“Gotta run, Dad. Give you a call tomorrow.”

“Be careful,” he tells me as a matter of ritual. “Love you, kid.”

Lee links his arm through mine and guides me to an Egyptian café a few doors down. The owners are a young married couple who greet him with waves from the kitchen behind the counter. The three of them converse in Arabic, and I catch the word American as Lee nods toward me. Before I can reach for a menu from the stack on the counter, Lee waves my hand away and orders for me.

“Trust me,” he says as we take a seat at a table outside. “You’ll like it.”

“I’ll try just about anything.” And I’m starving. A pastry and some coffee hardly seem sufficient to tide me over for the morning after that walk to campus.

The girl at the register comes out with two glasses of water and our utensils. She also puts down a plate of flatbread with various ramekins of dips.

“Are they friends of yours?” I ask once she’s gone.

“Friends of the family, from back in the old neighborhood. This place got me through my first year at uni,” Lee says. “They gave me a job washing dishes and bussing tables, then line cook. Hager would be in late most nights roasting lamb for the next day. I’d pop over after the library closed at night, and she’d meet me around back with a plate to take home. Took care of me, being my first time living away from home.”

“Your family’s Egyptian?”

“My mum. Dad’s from Manchester. Mum taught my sister and me to speak the language because she said she wanted us to feel connected to the culture. Really I think she didn’t want to feel alone. Dad never much wanted to try. Doesn’t have the patience.”

“Are you tight with your parents?”

“We’re a close family, yes. Our parents threatened to move to London when we applied to university, but we managed to talk them out of it by promising to come home on the weekends. Well, every other weekend maybe.” Lee pushes a green dip at me. It sort of resembles chimichurri in texture and appearance but tastes altogether different. “How about you? Both parents are American?”

“My dad was born in LA. My mom…” I pause, tearing off a piece of flatbread. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I know where my mom’s from.”

“You’re not close?” He clucks sympathetically.

“Something like that. The birthday cards she sends me never even have a return address. If they arrive at all. Which is usually a couple weeks late. At this point, I don’t remember her much.”

“What of your dad?”

“Yeah, he’s having a tough time letting go. He wasn’t much into the parenting thing at first—I sort of got dumped on him full-time when I was two. It took him a few years before he came around to the idea. Since then, it’s like he’s always trying to make up for it. I love him, but that’s a lot of pressure, you know?”

Lee nods. “I reckon.”

When our food arrives, I have trouble not gaping at everything. It seems a lot for lunch. One dish after another Tetrised onto the table.

“They always do this.” Lee sighs, shaking his head in amusement. “Hager’s way of saying I’m too skinny.”

I grin. “I’ve always wanted to order one of everything off a menu.”

As we start eating, I discover that Lee is a dictatorial lunch companion. He insists I try this thing first. Then that. Put this one with this other thing. Now try this sauce on this thing. I appreciate his coaching through the culinary adventure, but at a certain point, I feel like I’m in a time trial. Before long, I’m stuffed and groaning when he asks if I’m ready for dessert. I’m convinced Lee has an incinerator where his stomach should be.

“Sorry I missed you this morning,” he says as we’re finishing our meal. “I meant to ride in with you. Make sure you didn’t end up halfway to Leicester.”

“It’s all good. Gave me a chance to explore a little.”

“Getting on then?”

“So far. Class was good, and I think I made a friend. She didn’t get up and walk away when she heard my accent, so that’s something.”

“Well done.” The check comes, which Lee snatches before I can look at it. “This one’s on me, luv. Call it a welcome gift.”

“Oh, okay. Um…thank you.” I hate letting friends pay for things. It’s sort of a tic of mine, like when someone is embarrassed at receiving compliments. I don’t know how to accept it.

“Well, don’t strain yourself.” He laughs, noticing my discomfort. “You can take me somewhere expensive next time.” He signs the check with a flourish, then flashes me a wink. “And speaking of welcome. My friend’s band is playing in a pub tomorrow night. You’re coming.”

“They any good?”

I mean it as a joke, but Lee considers the question before offering a rueful shrug. “No, not really. But my sister will be there.” His expression lights up at that. “You two have to meet. I just know you’re going to love each other.”