I had thought that a week in Ipswich would make the hands on the clock move at a snails pace, but instead they tick consistantly and evenly winding down my my days here that seem to be going faster and faster and faster. Usually when Im in Europe, I try to visit my Great Aunt Rae who long ago became an ex-pat, married Uncle Ray and moved to Figi and Nigeria and a whole slew of places I cant remember at the moment.
Mostly my experiences with Aunt Rae have been at a distance, some witty e-mails here and there, some news on her novel about the tahitian women on Pitcairn Island.
Since arriving on Sunday, the time sometimes seems to drift by, slowly but pretty soon its the end of the day and Im wondering where the day went. You know. Spending time at Aunt Raes is like being zipped into an alternate universe where dusty books (literally though) with titles such as: The Dictionary of Phrase and Fable and What Eats Wasps and Ancient Art of Timbuctoo line the bookshelves, and where most people would strew magazines such as The Economist or People upon their coffee tables, you find things like a 195os copy of The Hertz Guide to the Canary Islands.
It amazes me that despite filling her days with taking the yorkshire Harry on walks in Christchurch Park and volunteering at the Sutton Hoo Society, this is a woman who has lived in no less than 6 countries, volunteered with the Red Cross in Japan during the Korean War, escaped the Iranian coup in the 197os and had married a French man she met in Morocco by the time she was my age.
Talking to her over evening tea, deep burried family secrets are revealed, and I suddenly find out that she had invited one of rays colleagues to his funeral- the guy who worked on the atomic bomb and sold the secrets to the Russians. Who knew? I find out my Grandmother didnt marry my Grandfather because she loved him. Again…
Tomorrow its off to Budapest and it seems like the more I move around, the less I have to say. I wonder why that is.
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