Calvin and I had just got off the ferry from Belgium and are heading for Lakenheath AB in England. We have just been dismissed after a little run in with the border agent and it is difficult trying to remember which side of the road to ride on. So far riding in England is just like the TV series “The Avengers” of the ‘60s. We were in the midst of the first oil embargo, gas is very scarce in Europe, those of us stationed in Germany are allotted gas stamps based on the type of vehicle we own, but civilians were pretty much out of luck, if they could not pay the price of gas, and it was expensive, you either sold your car or you just didn’t go for trips. The end result was that the streets were mostly deserted of traffic.
I just noticed my headlight was out, it had turned dark, and we don’t really know where we were. I just pulled over to the side of the road, on the left that is, and I was about to open the seat of Steven’s Kawasaki to see if the fuse blew.
“Is there something wrong?” Calvin asks me, “Why did you pull over?”
“My headlight is out,” I said, with a little irritation in my voice. I wasn’t mad at Calvin. I had noticed that I was getting a short temper. I had not been taking things in stride like I did when my ’57 Chevy used to give me problems back in Saratoga. I went to high school in Saratoga. California, not the Racetrack town on the east coast. My Saratoga was the home of Paul Masson, a little winery near San Jose.
As I opened the fuse holder I knew I was in for trouble. There was no place I could see where I could go in and buy a fuse. Not even a gas station.
I had been in London once back in 1969, I had just woken up after a grueling flight from Oakland, we had been up all night and coming through Heathrow was a lot like what we had just gone through getting off the ferry. Anyway, I had just woken up to find that Neil Armstrong had just landed on the moon. Now, I was standing on the side of the road and I didn’t see any of those little shops like I did in London, where you could go in and buy auto parts. All we had was a fish and chips takeout. And we were not hungry.
“What are you going to do?” Calvin looked worried. “Where are you going to get a fuse around here, and at this time of night?”
“I know.” I reassured him, “I’ll be right back.” As I entered the fish and chips.
The inside of the shop was quaint. There was nothing fancy about the little shop, in fact it was very plain. I had no idea how long this family who owned shop had been supplying fried fish and potatoes to the locals here, near the port that takes travelers to the mainland. Being on the main road was an advantage I guess, but there was no place to park. There were two benched tables in the shop, against the far wall, not much room for customers to go and eat out. I think most of the clientele were from foot traffic, you know, locals only. As I entered, a very young woman, almost a girl, probably the owner’s daughter, went in the back. I felt that they were protecting her from the stranger who just walked in by having her go behind the wall with the pass-through window for food
“Can I help you?” an older woman asked me, probably the mom, as I did a quick look around the shop, and as I closed the door behind me.
“I was wondering…my motorcycle just broke down…my headlight is out, do you have a little piece of aluminum foil I could use for my fuse?”
Astonishment appeared on the woman’s face. And the man’s face as well, as I looked from her to him and back to her again. I’ll save you the detailed conversation that ensued over the next 20 minutes. I have never had so much trouble trying to get myself understood. Looking back I think it was just culture and not language that was the barrier, we all spoke English, they spoke the Queen’s English, I spoke the American version.
I have been lost in foreign countries before. Everyone tries to help. The language barrier is not really a barrier, even if none of the words are the same between you and the natives. One thing I have noticed in my travels though, everyone is helpful. It seems that today your neighbors hate you. It seems that getting to work is harder and harder each day because everyone want to outdo you, almost on every level. But when you are a stranger in a different land people notice you and are kind to you. My wife Norma and I were stranded in Watts one Friday evening. we were out of gas and my battery of my truck was dead. But the people who lived there, one of the toughest neighborhoods in California, were not just kind, they wanted to help me in any way they could. And they did.
Both that family who ran that fish and chips and I got an education that night. I learned that the English call it tin foil. They learned that it really is aluminum. I learned that they say “al-U-mini-um,” They learned that you could wrap a fuse in it and get on you way in an emergency.
Even the young girl, the daughter, helped with the translation.
The man went upstairs to their kitchen to fetch the foil.
I went out to greet Calvin with my trophy, held out as a peace offering.
He got the idea when I got the Kawasaki running with its headlight again. I don’t think I shut up about my little adventure to the fish and chips store for quite a long time. I tried to tell him about the girl I met inside, but he just wanted to get going. I don’t blame him, he waited outside, watching the motorcycles for what seemed an eternity I am sure.
Again, we are back to our travels, the blown fuse is behind us now, in more ways than one.
Our next adventure would be to find the Air Base in Lakenheath.
You wouldn’t think the English could lose something that big.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment