they are the lanterns

Yesterday I went to Leicester for a freelance job. And I decided that if this whole publishing/acadaemia/whatever thing doesn't work out, I'll become a train conductor.

St Pancras is as amazing as they say, distant cathedral ceiling, well-dressed women drinking champagne and speaking French, soothing digital displays instead of the old tat-tat-tat ticker boards. In my business attire I tried to adopt the air of someone catching a Eurostar to Paris, a quick but essential meeting, I'll be back tomorrow, it's just they require my expertise, my power.

Illusion fades as I ascend the escalator to the East Midlands area, where an anxious crowd has gathered as the trains to such exotic locations as Sheffield, Derby, and Nottingham move from 'delayed' to 'cancelled'. I read about John Cleese's divorce and the Myanmar junta in The Sun and, thirty minutes late, make it onto a crowded train.

Then it all works out.

My iPod plays all the right songs as the train barrels out of London, racing across great green swathes of countryside, past sheep and dappled grey ponies, through fields spread with yellow flowers. The train glides to a stop beside the ornate, country-cute carved trellises at Wellingborough, then resumes its northbound roll. Something about the speed, the view, the baby blue sky, the sight of a distant church spire piercing a low, lazy cloud, is so invigorating, so redeeming.

As an American it can be easy to write off Britain, to decide not to take it seriously. It's too small, too homogenous, too old-fashioned, the police don't even carry guns. But that's about as ethnocentric as eating McDonald's in China. England is Albion, ancient, crowded, a bit fraught, a bit worried, but always looking forward. Always looking up.

soundtrack: Antichrist Television Blues - Arcade Fire