Traveling

Sunday morning I walked downstairs to eat breakfast in the hotel reception area.  A couple of tables over one man was explaining to his companion how the French press their coffee was served in worked.  In England they call it a cafetiѐre.  I realized they were Americans, a fact that I should have realized sooner because when I'd walked in the room, one of them made eye contact and smiled at me, which my brain now registers as slightly unusual behavior.  The man then got up and asked for wheat bread while the man serving us clarified, "Brown?"   I smiled inwardly because all these differences were once unknown to me, too.  

I asked where they were from.  Texas.  We got to talking about who we were and what brought us to a hotel in Canterbury.  He told me about when he was in high school and a revival broke out in their small central Texas town, and they would meet in a different church each night.  They moved from the Baptist to the Methodist to the Lutherans.  Part of his story included skipping band practice because "it was August, and we had to get ready for football season."  He didn't have to explain that to me, though.  I know all about band camp.

I walked into Poundland to see what things I might buy for one pound that day.  The self-checkouts were in Elvis mode.  The King's voice sang out:  That's one for the money, two for the card." After I paid he said, "Thank you, a-thank you very much."  

I was standing outside our hotel waiting for K.J. to unlock the door as a couple walked by, and I couldn't help but think the tones of the woman talking to her husband sounded familiar.  She smiled as she passed me, and I almost let them walk by without speaking, but then I called out, "Where are you from?"  Florida.  She's a genealogist, a word I keep having trouble spelling, and she and her husband both have their roots in families in Kent.  She knows who her 10th great-grandfather is, and they're staying with some of her husband's 4th cousins.  She can trace her family's journey from England to Virginia.  They're black Americans, and I wonder what hard things were uncovered in this tracing of their family trees, but she doesn't mention any of that.  They're both so thrilled with finding their English roots.  She tells me to have a blessed day when we part ways.  

We've spent all afternoon and night in the car and arrive after 10 p.m. at our AirBNB.  Our hostess explains to me how everything works in German, and I nod along and say okay because I think I can understand about the sofa bed and the kitchen tap, but her final instructions in which I only understand the word auto are a complete mystery to me.  Hopefully we didn't need to know whatever she said too much.  

We try to unpack the essentials to get everyone to bed, and as I'm putting things in the fridge I look up and see a mouse scurry along the side of the wall behind a cabinet.  Of course I jump in the nearest kitchen chair.  (Why do we do this?  Is the mouse going to hurt me?)  This is not a happy beginning, and not for the first time on this trip do I think about leaving reviews on AirBNB and debate my desire to give constructive criticism with not wanting to cause people to lose business when otherwise the place is perfectly fine.

We're sitting at the table in the garden at the end of the following day eating pizza and enjoying the sunset.  The other half of our AirBNB host appears to greet us.  He's in his 70s and has a bright smile.  He asks how everything is, accepts a Sweet Chili potato chip.  He speaks a little English, identifies a flower K.J. photographed on his morning bike ride.  He ruffles James' hair as he says good night.  He's delighted that we're here, and we decide not to write anything about the mouse.