Not so long ago, I’d have had to go to Harwich, take a wooden vessel – probably a small rocky caravel – to undertake the daring crossing of the Atlantic Ocean to eventually reach the New World.
Nowadays, I have to travel further away from Ipswich, all the way to London’s southern airport, Gatwick, to even consider reaching America. However, of course, we don’t travel in caravels anymore (not even the flying kind) to America. The captain won’t be Sir Walter either. In lieu of sails, ropes, and masts, I’ll be snuggled into a close-fit seat in one of many rows of a Boeing 767 – probably not the window seat – and the trip will last a mere eight hours or so. Rather than setting foot on the warm sand of the Carolinas Outer Banks, I will tread the possibly worn carpet of Atlanta’s hub airport, home to Delta Airlines who still love to fly (and it still shows). At least, I won’t be sea-sick.
It’s been a long seven years since I last strolled around American streets, nearly a decade since I deambulated in NYC’s downtown alight with the spirit of Christmas. I cannot begin to describe what it feels like to return to a land one has known well enough to call it home.
It will be the first time too since I’ve moved to England and as such going there will be a linguistic test. How much of the British language has rubbed off on me? Dare I walk on the pavement? Have my language inflections changed? Must I monitor my vocabulary closely for fear I slip a word a tad too Suffolk-like?
In due time, I will report on this whole new experience.