The Kindness of (Almost) Strangers

I don't often get homesick because, quite frankly, I'm not really sure where to call home. Technically, home at the moment is Charleston---which is where my apartment and my job and my boyfriend and, more importantly, my pink Kitchenaid mixer are---but my family lives 30,000 miles away in Singapore. Moreover, I spent my childhood all over the place---France, Holland, Hong Kong, Abu Dhabi, Connecticut----which sort of confuses the matter. When I do get homesick, though---and I've always thought that homesickness is the worst kind of nagging, gnawing, desperate pain, worse even than toothache---it's England that I'm most often homesick for.

I left my family, then living in Hong Kong, at the age of 11, to attend this place, where I remained for seven years, popping back to wherever my parents were living every Christmas, Easter, and for the long, glorious summer. For the most part, boarding school was like one big fantastic slumber party, though with a few classes in chemistry and Latin thrown in and more lacrosse and hymn-singing than I'd have liked. Then I spent another three years at University College London, which---random fact alert!---was also attended by Ghandi, all four members of Coldplay, and the woman who wrote Eats, Shoots, and Leaves. The funny thing is that I used to dread going back to England when I was at school and university, because it was synonymous with leaving my family and whatever home they'd made in whatever country they were living in. England always felt temporary, wrong. Now though, when I'm sad, I long for England in a way I never thought possible when I was there.

I miss my friends, obviously---a lot of them I haven't seen for a year, two years, three years.

(By the way, I'm fairly certain everyone in this picture is single. Also, three years older now. Can I start up any Internet romances for anyone? The boy in the middle with the black shirt and the glasses has a fabulous Irish accent, though I have dibs on him if Sean should ever, you know, die or anything.)

I also miss both of my grandmothers, who became stand-in parents while I was at boarding school, and whom I don't call nearly as often as I should. I miss the greenery of England, which is always a surprise when I go back, and the way you forget that there are cows and sheep just grazing in fields on the side of the motorway. I miss the comforting anonymity of London, the way no-one dares smile at you on the tube, and the brilliance of TV shows like Little Britain and The Office. I miss the constant drizzle, the British Library, certain professors I had at college whom I felt sure I was in love with because they gave lectures on Bob Dylan and knew all there was to know about On the Road. I miss pubs and pints and living in a flat by myself with a bathroom I painted the palest lilac and a kitchen that woudn't fit two people at the same time and didn't even have an oven. I miss the way I'd fall asleep to the sounds of traffic and people shouting on the street, and the way it felt like I'd discovered a secret when I forgot to close my curtains one night and woke up to the most brilliant orange and pink sunrise over the city. I miss the corner shop opposite my flat where I'd buy The Guardian every Saturday, the all-night parties that always featured boys with guitars, and the fact that I once craved an avocado at 5am, and walked all through Bloomsbury in the dark by myself, trying to find a place that might sell one. Even though it sounds odd, I miss that I never had any money, that I would have been aghast at splurging on organic produce or taking a cab, that I took a bizarre pride in budgeting, never buying magazines and shoes and skirts and pricey moisturizer like I do now.

What I miss most, though, when I'm homesick, is the food. Not Shepherd's Pie or fry-ups or Sunday roasts, which I can recreate pretty authentically if I need to, but the things I can't find in the States: candy, mostly, and chocolate. When I'm sad or depressed or just feeling generally sorry for myself, I regress to my 11-year-old self and buy crumpets and Marmite and terribly overpriced chocolate biscuits, which a few grocery stores in town do stock. But it's the sweets I really crave when I'm sad: the wine gums and the fruit pastilles and the eleven billion varieties of Cadburys. It's the stuff I used to buy at the corner shop opposite my flat in London; the stuff I can't find here when I really need it.

A few weeks ago, I happened to leave a comment on Mrs. Kennedy's blog; there was a picture that included some wine gums, and I think I said something along the lines of "god, I'd kill for some wine gums right now." The next thing I knew, there was an e-mail in my inbox from JenB---whose blog I keep up with, but whom I'd only ever "spoken" to by filling in my URL and my email address first---asking me to let her know my address so she could send me some wine gums. Two weeks later, the most glorious package in the world arrived from Canada.

It contained all manner of chocolately English goodies, like Flakes and Twirls and Curly Wurlies, as well as a few exciting Canadian things I'd never tried before. (These Coffee Crisps you all have up there? How do you all not weigh, like, four hundred pounds? Also, how do you manage to get ANY work done, when there are so many Kinder Egg Surprise toys to put together?) Most impressively, it contained ONE KILOGRAM OF WINE GUMS. Do you know how large one kilogram of wine gums is? It's, like, the size of a small baby. There was also a chocolate bar I'd never heard of called Mr. 2 Big. Here is a picture of Mr. 2 Big, because he really has to be seen to be believed. Mr. 2 Big, you should know, is appromixately the size of my cat.

This incredibly thoughtful, wonderful, kind package arrived the day after I had my horrible run-in with the gunslinging rednecks who crashed into the back of my Jeep. With Sean away in Tahoe, my neck killing me from the impact of the crash, and my car (and my nerves) damaged, I was feeling particularly fragile. When I picked up the package from the post office and opened it in the parking lot, I don't mind admitting, dear Internet, that I started crying. Especially when I saw this:

To be sent such an amazing present by someone whom I've never met, at a time when I was feeling so shitty about everything, made the universe seem to right itself again. Yes, it said, there are people who'll drive drunk into the back of your car at a stop light and then threaten and frighten and scare the bejesus out of you. But there are also people who, for no reason other than that they want to make a stranger happy, will fill a box with candy, face the horror that is the post office, and send a displaced English girl a little piece of home.

I am, of course, now going to send her The Best American Package In The World in return. But Canadians, I need your help. What do you like that you can't get there? Is there anything particularly American that you're unable to find? Bear in mind that I would rather not be seen buying cheese in a can if at all possible, and then please feel free to make your suggestions.

And if anyone else is feeling sad or homesick or just in need of a little cheering up, shoot me an email and let me know if there's anything I can send you. Sometimes just knowing someone's stood in line at the post office for you can make all the difference in the world.