Episode Three: Nottingham Robin Hood, Demonic Possession and English Ale We are on the train from London to Nottingham and the batteries in my Walkman have died. Chris is trying to write in his journal, but he is facing the back of the train and is informing me that he may be spewing Corn Flakes
Episode Three: Nottingham
Robin Hood, Demonic Possession and English Ale
We are on the train from London to Nottingham and the batteries in my Walkman have died. Chris is trying to write in his journal, but he is facing the back of the train and is informing me that he may be spewing Corn Flakes in about twenty-five minutes.
I am flirting with a three-year-old girl. Chris says that with her blond hair and ice-blue eyes she looks like a little elfin-child. She and I are making faces at each other and waving our hands in the air. I am going cross-eyed and she is dutifully imitating me. I can tell we are starting to annoy those around us. Chris says she is on her way to visit her nana and papa, though how he came across this information I do not know. She sticks her tongue out and I roll my eyes in response.
We arrive in Nottingham and wander through town toward Trent University. This is where my friend Nicole is attending for a semester. I met Nicole at the University of Arizona a couple of years earlier. We were friends for a while, lost touch, and then one day I started getting postcards from Europe. She had decided to take a semester overseas. She lives in a dormitory that is set aside for incoming freshmen and exchange students. Her floor has more nationalities represented than last years Olympics.
We will be staying in her friend Felicity’s room. Felicity is from Australia and is going to be out of town for a few weeks. She left us a note on the bed that says, “Have fun, enjoy the view, drink heaps and do not fart in the bed.”
I love the way Australians are straight to the point. I know I talk in my sleep, but I cannot truthfully say what other bodily functions I have control over, so I give Chris the bed and I take the floor.
After dumping our backpacks, we go to a pub with Nicole and a few of her friends. Gooseberry Pub is by far the most crowded place I have ever been to. It is wall to wall people, and as I force my body through them to gain the bar, I feel like a sperm, fighting with millions of other sperm, trying to reach the egg.
We eventually elbow our way to the counter and begin our quick journey into inebriation. I start with some Guinness, but am given shit about drinking an Irish beer while visiting England. I explain that I have no idea what any of the other stuff is and they take this as a sign to choose my drinks for me.
One of Nicole’s friends returns with a pint of some sort of black liquid that has the consistency of motor oil. It is called Black Arrow Cider and I am only able to drink a third of it before it starts to make me nauseous. It is not so much the taste that I find dissatisfying as it is the need to chew my way through the thickness of this stuff. We decide to go to a club and do some dancing, but I have not finished my beer yet. Finding myself the victim of peer pressure, with all eyes upon me, I do the only thing I could at this point. I chug the rest of this black sludge and head for the door.
I almost make it to the exit before the effects of the Guinness and the WD-40 hit me full force. Finding the doorway, I stumble ahead of the group and down a flight of stairs that have now become very difficult for me to navigate. There is nothing better than a lightweight American drinking European beer. Luckily it is cold outside and this brings about a bit of sobriety. We go to the dance club on campus called The Sub.
Normally I am not one to get on the dance floor without first being dragged and threatened, or at least beaten into submission, but with that pint of cider and the disco beat I am ready to shake my money-maker. We dance for at least three hours, and I cannot drink enough beer to keep me hydrated, much less drunk. Nicole has a few words with the DJ and then comes back with a smile on her face.
Over the loudspeaker we hear, “This next one goes out to Vince and Chris of
the U. S. of A.”
For the next ten minutes, we are bopping to the extra-long dance-mix of YMCA. Chris says that he will never have to dance again after gyrating to what he considers the most important of dance tunes: “Dancing Queen”, “YMCA” and “I Will Survive”. We leave the club a little after one in the morning and head back to the dorms. Our group is a strange mix of intoxication and exhaustion and I have a feeling I am going to happily snore extra loud tonight.
After a bit of a sleep in, we wander around Nottingham. It is a quaint town with its brick streets, little houses and spattering of pubs. We wander over to Nottingham Castle, the setting for the famed story of Robin Hood. The whole of one side is covered with vines and the gardens surrounding the castle are magnificent and reminiscent of a rain forest. There are two kids in the front lawn sword fighting with wooden sticks. They are loud and unruly, and are managing to shatter the sereneness of the moment, but then one of them slips and falls in the mud with a big splash. This makes me smile.
We go to see the Robin Hood statue. He is regally pulling back his bow, arrow at the ready. At one point Robin’s bronze bow and arrow were stolen by vandals and the new ones are made of steel. Fortunately, they look like they were made this way on purpose. We pose with the statue. Chris does a more natural pose with the statue gallantly poised behind him. I stand with the arrow pressing against my temple and a look of terror on my face. My attempts to have nice photographs for later knows no boundaries.
We stop by the market and pick up food for tomorrow’s picnic and today’s dinner. Back at the dorm we make a big bowl of spaghetti that half the floor samples. We have bought baguettes and I cannot stop myself from dipping them into the spaghetti sauce to see if it is done yet. By the time dinner is ready I have to force myself to eat another bite.
Later we tramp over to Trip to Jerusalem, which is believed to be the oldest pub in all of England. It is half built into a side of a hill and the whole interior looks like a cave. There is even a hole above the bar for the smoke to find its way out. The history is that this place was a stop off point for pilgrims back in the days when pilgrimages were the hip thing to do. Chris says it looks like it would be a good setting for a movie, all cramped, smoky and filled with good cheer.
We are drinking something called Kimberly Classic, which does not taste all bad and is slowly doing its job on my ability to enunciate. We then head over to a theatre called the Odeon, to see The Exorcist. This is first time Chris has seen it and he says it is quite disturbing. Of course, he goes on to explain, possession by Satan usually is. I wish this had been my first time on the big screen instead of on a rinky-dink video. I appease myself with an overabundance of Gummy Bears and an ice cream sandwich. Chris is forcing down Gummy Bears, licorice and some kind of weird ice-cream cone shaped like a chicken drumstick.
Leaving the theatre, we are more than spooked. We decide to take a short cut through campus to get back to the dorm, and to cut down on the off chance of a possible demonic possession. This short cut requires the crossing of a busy street near a blind bend in the road. This idea seems only slightly stupid as we run across the street between careening vehicles flying around the corner. Unknown to us, there is not only a cement divider in the middle of the road, but also a rod iron fence that comes as high as our waists.
Normally this would not be an obstacle, but it is dark, and running into it without knowing it is there, is not the most celebratory of occurrences. Luckily I am padded by the recent consumption of Gummy Bears and only suffer minor embarrassment. We scale the fence and make it across the other side of the road, only to find that a fog is starting to descend.
A fog is the last thing a people who have just watched demon possession should have to contend with. Luckily, our group has become loud and obnoxious and the only people wanting to kill us are the inhabitants of all the households within a quarter mile range.
As we get back to the dorm, Chris, Nicole, and a girl named Vicky decide we should discuss politics. It is an amusing conversation as Vicky talks about how much she likes Clinton from a European’s standpoint and Chris and Nicole vehemently disagree. Fulfilling my role as devil’s advocate, I can not help throwing in that at least he is not as bad as Reagan was.
This is the beginning of the fireworks as we discuss America, the world and all other matters pertaining to the issue of our political leaders. At one point I find myself making a point while talking with a thick English accent. Vicky and Nicole do not seem to notice, but I see Chris giving me a look that says, “what the hell are you doing?” I cannot explain this behavior and am wondering if this will someday get me beaten to a pulp in some middle-of-nowhere country pub. We finish arguing around two in the morning and head off to bed.
Lying on the floor, drifting off to sleep, I accidentally say to Chris, “You really do like Clinton, don’t you?”
This starts him up again and we are yelling and calling each other bad words until four in the morning.
Five hours later our host awakens us. We debate on whether or not to go to Sherwood Forest and see the famed tree where Robin Hood and his men of merriment spent a lot of their free time when they were not robbing, pillaging and procreating. Nicole says that there is a bike tour we can take that lets us ride through the forest to the tree. She adds that the tree itself is not that big of a deal and there is nothing else out there for miles.
“Plus,” she says, “The forest is not really a forest anymore, as it has
sort of shrunk a bit.”
We decide instead to go on a picnic, which is fine with me, as I have no desire to sit on a bike and peddle my way into a barren clump of trees whose only claim to fame is historical housing.
We walk through town and begin to notice that something is amiss. There is an eerie silence around us and there is not a person in sight. No stores are open. I begin to fear that perhaps there has been some sort of biological accident that has caused the town’s residence to flee in horror. We walk by a Burger King and its lights are off. In America, Burger King never shuts its doors. Now I am really frightened.
Nicole explains that these odd occurrences are due to what the Europeans refer to as “Sunday”. We laugh, but realize she is not kidding. I had heard about this back in America, things being closed on Sunday, but thought it was something that had slowly disappeared as Capitalism made its way into Europe back in the early 19th century. But here, things really are closed, shut, without a soul in sight. The odd thing is that there is not anyone that is opening their doors to take advantage of the fact that everyone else has closed theirs. Now THAT would be the true capitalistic way!
We see a pub full of patrons and find out that they are allowed to open for two hours during the day, to serve lunch, but not alcohol. Of course, if you can find a pub owner that would refuse you a pint to toast his health with, I will pull a rabbit out of my sleeve.
Luckily, the buses are running as we clamor aboard and head towards Wollaton Park. Toward the edge of town, out the bus window, I see a movie theatre and a Burger King that appear to be open. I ask Nicole about this and she sighs heavily. Apparently, not everyone can resist the tug of capitalism.
Wollaton Park is an early tower house that looks like a small castle. It sits high upon a hill that is surrounded by acres of green grass, forests and a couple of reed-lined ponds. Eight of us have gathered for this picnic and we are all equally struck with the beauty of the place. Cows and deer roam free in the fields and we try to get close enough to take a picture with them, while at the same time, avoiding a swift hoof kick to the head.
Chris is amazed at all the happy children and dogs roaming about. The dogs he especially finds amusing. He says that they actually seem genuinely happy to be bounding about in the grass fields. If I were a dog I would be chasing down a cow or one of the smaller deer, but bounding happily is also a good way to spend a day, or in their case, seven days.
It is too wet to sit on the grass so we picnic on a sidewalk. The five other people are friends of Nicole’s that we have spent the last few days with. We find ourselves laughing and leaning against one another as if we have been friends forever. It’s a strange feeling when you click with a group of people that you know have been by your side for who knows how many lives.
After digesting our food we play some sort of keep away game with a tennis ball, at which I am fairly decent minus my uncanny ability to always step in mud. Or at least I hope it’s mud.
Chris has been able to procure some nice looking grass stains on his pants, but it was for the team and that is all that counts. I tell him that it seems so weird that we barely met these people and I like them like my best friends. He agrees, and adds that we will probably never see them again. My team beats Chris’s six games to four. Afterwards we walk around the park, admiring the deer, as the day slowly becomes overcast.
This is to be our last day in Nottingham and the last day with our new friends. Sophie, the girl from France, says that she will be coming to America soon and perhaps she will run into me. I smile and decide not to tell her what a big place America is. Then again, this town of Nottingham has somehow brought this little group of people together. Maybe the world isn’t such a big place after all.
Next day, Chris and I are a bit sad as we board the train to Ossett.