Eiffel Tower

I find bumping into people from previous chapters in my life very uncomfortable. I probably should sit down with a psychiatrist one day to reveal the reason why. My first hurdle is the inability to recognize the person from the past. It is more difficult if they first appear in the earliest chapters. Nowadays, bumping into an old school friend presents the most challenging experience. I know in certain cultures and communities school reunions are something eagerly anticipated, poring over photos in old school yearbooks can cause some shocks and surprises, when confronted later with a completely different up-to-date version. It is a conundrum, comparing photos of youthful open smiling faces in the school yearbook to the current face now weathered with experience.

I met Otis while waiting in airport check-in line. He was ahead of me in the queue, but he kept turning around and peering at me, through very strong lenses of his glasses. Together with the thick black frames, he reminded me of the character Brains of the children’s sixties series named Thunderbirds. Later when I saw the series for the first time on a colour TV screen I realized the frames weren’t black at all, they were blue. Funnily the man in the check-in queue had the same enormous shaggy eyebrows as the villain in the same series named Hood. However, the man in front of me in the queue was dressed in an expensive looking suit, unlike the children’s series villain, who appeared in many exotic outfits, befitting a dastardly clever international man of mystery, and the nemesis of the heroes in the Thunderbirds series.

I digress. Suddenly the lookalike man of the Thunderbirds series came directly up to me and spoke.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” It was impossible to reply without another question lingering on my pondering mind.

“Are you the puppet figure the from Thunderbirds series?” I thought mischievously. It was a completely irrational thought and at the same time inappropriate, so common sense prevailed – I kept quiet. But later the irony of the situation revealed itself; Otis was from a chapter of my early childhood in the sixties, a school chum from the days of the kids TV series such as Thunderbirds and Stingray. Although, I’m not sure he would appreciate me thinking he now resembled a look-a-like puppet, the arch villain named Hood.

Nevertheless, my train of thought in answering his vague question should have been more thoroughly researched, as I tried to recall, searching through the many chapters of my life. Instead, I replied limply.

“No, not really.”

I have found in life trying to guess when confronted with these questions like, “Do you remember?” or “Do I know you?” can cause more confusion, and most times end with embarrassment, as I stumble under pressure in remembering my version of the truth. I decided with this unplanned inquiry it would be wise not to take ownership of the quest for recollection.

Then Otis helped to provide some context, a reference point to which chapter in my life when he said. “You look like a guy I went to school with.” And quickly followed with.

“What’s your name?” Otis said nonchalantly.

“Josh Whitehead.” I replied

“Nunsfold Secondary School?” Otis instantly responded

“Yes!” I replied with surprise and looked more intently into the lenses of Otis’s glasses. But I still couldn’t place or connect this puppet look-a-like Brains come Hood character with a teenager from my school days.

“You still don’t remember me! It’s Otis, Otis Winter.”

Even when he revealed his name the cobwebs of the past glued the pages of this chapter together, as I slowly started to search for a recollection, a face, a memory from those far away school days.

As a default, I again said with fake recognition. “Oh yes.” And then another default line to allow more time for searching the memory banks for clues. “It’s been a long time”

“I left in the third year, after that school trip we went on.” Otis continued.

More clues, the pages of my memory were gradually coming unstuck, third year, school trip, and just like a modern day google search engine I was internalizing, opening pages which had not been opened in many a year.

“My Dad was in the oil business, and we moved to Kuwait, do you remember?”

“I think so.” I said unconvincingly, trying to gain more time, as well as reassure Otis of his rightful place in my personal history.

Disappointingly, I discovered in my old age, those cobwebs which have fixed the pages together in the memory banks, without the equivalent of the power of modern-day cloud computing, have limited my stand-alone brain box capabilities. Meaning the brain box needs help. The old apparatus only prioritizes recent memories. It struggles without triggers; different versions of the truth, or the event; to make any sense of a distant memory. For example, I have a younger brother, and he remembers an event in our childhood memories in a completely different context. It’s his memory or version of the event, his truth, but it can be a trigger to unlock my own memories, my truth. I must admit that in my youth, I would argue against those versions of truth, stubbornly only accepting my own.

So, bumping into Otis that day, I realized it was a gift. I thought to myself, he could trigger some of those long-forgotten memories. Fortunately, in these latter years I have been blessed in my life with a new pair of ears. Those ears tend to listen without interrupting. Someone said that it takes around two years to learn how to talk, and the next fifty years how to unlearn. Regrettably, with me, it has taken longer to unlearn talking and then listen more.

“Let’s grab a coffee, my flight’s delayed anyways.” Otis offered.

It was time to reminisce.

“Do you know that was the first time I had been outside the borders of the UK, that school trip to Spain?” I started the conversation, I couldn’t help myself, it was important memory in my personal history.

“We always travelled. My dad was in the early days of the Middle East oil production, in the fifties and sixties. He and my mother were both half German you know. You remember, in those days the anti-German sentiment was still pronounced. I was so ashamed to tell anybody at school about my parents. I never invited anybody back home. That’s why I didn’t have many friends from school; we moved around a lot. I was at Nunsfold for three years, for the longest time at one school in my childhood.” Otis paused.

“That’s why the school trip to Spain was so unique and special for me. I had all my school chums around me for a few days, but out of school, on holiday together. Life for a few days was so different.”

“My brother and sister were my growing up pals. We were very close, closer because of the continuous upheaval of moving, and our German ancestry.”

I nodded. I understood, but I again interrupted Otis, as I had to ask this burning question.

“Do you know the most vivid memory of that trip for me?” I asked.

“Eiffel Tower!” I answered the question myself.

“I’ve been to Paris a hundred times since, but that first time, I always remember walking around the Eiffel Tower.” I wasn’t bragging, it was true.

“It was the first time I had been on boat.” Otis countered.

“We always travelled by air to the Middle East; it would take far too long to sail.” He continued.

“I remember the return ferry sailing was quite rough, and most of us were seasick. Remember the pills they gave us, it made it worse!”

“But we never climbed up the Eiffel Tower, remember, we didn’t have time. Paris was a transit stop, between two trains. One from Calais into Paris and Gare du Nord, and then a quick look around the Eiffel Tower, a coach stop; take a few pictures, and then off to catch the train to Perpignan from Gare du Sud.”

“If you blinked you would miss it, some of the kids slept on the coach. They couldn’t be bothered to see the Eiffel Tower up close.”

“I had one of those Kodak Instamatic cameras, pre digital. I couldn’t wait to use it. I finished the reel in Paris. It was meant to last the whole trip.”

Otis continued, his memories were flooding back.

“I never got bored on the overnight train journey, but who would get bored when you had all your mates around you on an adventure. The next morning, I did start to feel jaded with the lack of sleep, my batteries needed recharging, almost on empty.” Otis chuckled to himself.

“I remember the morning; the sun rise as the train headed south towards the border with Spain. It seemed to me the train journey would go on forever; I was eager to get out and explore.”

“Do you remember, when we did finally arrive in Perpignan, we had to change trains and go through the border checks. Then change trains onto to a Spanish train bound for Barcelona. The countryside changed quickly, Spain didn’t feel the same as France, and the sights out of the train window changed to a more impoverished environment.”

“My Mum and Dad took us to Germany often, so there were similarities between West German and French towns and countryside, but Spain looked poor. It smelt different.”

I smiled; Otis was certainly triggering my memories of that first journey outside my land of birth. I silently agreed with Otis; the sights, sounds and smells were different. It did feel alien. It wasn’t the first time I had been on a trip away from home. That occurred a few years earlier on a scout’s trip to New Forest, England. It never stopped raining. The nearby small quiet streams flooded, and the campsite started to float. It was the first time I had been separated from my family; I was depressed and became homesick. On the subsequent school trip to Costa Bravo, I didn’t feel homesick at all. Strange considering, I was the first out of my immediate family to have the opportunity to travel beyond its borders. The only exception was my mother’s parents who had travelled abroad, and never stopped talking about Norway, with its huge fjords. It was their memories, and their descriptions that had inspired in me an adventurous spirit thirsty for experiences outside the shores of the UK.

“What was your most prevailing memory of the trip?” I asked Otis.

“When we bought those bottles of Cava, and got lightheaded, I’m not sure this is the right term for a bunch of 14-year-olds, getting drunk, and listening to The Who recordings of My Generation, and Substitute. This is where my memories get faded. Mixed up. Maybe, we got drunk and sang the songs out loud all together. Everybody knew the words. I remember we were amazed we could buy the cheap bottles of Cava from the shop in the first place; teenagers would never be allowed to do that in England. Alcohol could only be purchased in pubs and off licenses, in those days, part of the pub.” Otis was in full flow now.

“So, when we realized any shop or tabac in Tosa del Mar would sell wine and was only interested in the right amount in pesetas and didn’t give a toss what was the age of the purchaser. It was normal to see toddlers in the shop buying bottles of wine for their parents. Drinking alcohol was another first for most of us, and some overindulged more than others. The teachers were shocked at the sudden and mysterious character changes of the students, and when they did realize the reason, we were banned from going out without an escort.”

Otis kept chuckling to himself, as he relived his memories.

“Remember, with all the extra scrutiny from the teachers, we still sneaked out, bought some bottles, and hide on the beach watching the sun disappear. My band of brothers, singing English pop songs, maybe it was a precursor, to what was to later become the future invasion of the bucket and spade brigade to the Costa Brava.”

Otis fell silent, he was now wallowing in his memories.

“My outlasting memory, was the Eiffel Tower gift I brought back for my Mum.” I confessed.

“What?” Otis was jerked out of his reminiscing, into the present conversation.

I continued.

“I remember, a lot of us kids bought those gifts; small glass bottles shaped like the Eiffel Tower, and supposedly it contained French perfume, more likely it contained a cheap eau de cologne.”

“My Mum treasured that bottle like no other. She placed it on a stand-alone chest of drawers in her bedroom, on top of a croqueted mat, with the Eiffel Tower glass bottle being placed in the centre. I don’t think she ever opened it. The Eiffel Tower glass bottle was symbolic to my Mum. It represented her outer ego dreams, the wish to be an explorer of worlds, bequeathing that hidden desire to her eldest son.”

“She never expected too much of me, but deep down she expected more. She didn’t confess this until later, after my childhood, when I had long ago flown the nest.”

“Little did she know that first overseas trip to Spain would be the catalyst to the start of never-ending desire for travel and exploration of many worlds within worlds.”