I tend to forget. A lot
of things, if I’m being honest, but I'm referring to something specific here. I’m
pretty sure there’s a post somewhere about how much I love Britain and why.
*searches* Yep, it exits, but only as a draft. I’m just going to merge it with this post.
Fernweh (n.): German; Crave
for travel; “farsickness”; being homesick for a place you've never been
Sehnsucht (n.): German;
“The inconsolable longing in the human heart for we know not what”; a
yearning for a far, familiar, non-earthly land one can identify as one’s home
(Link--in case you want to see the rest of these beautiful words, and I suggest you
do, because suddenly you find there are actual words for what you are feeling.)
I'm not British. Or
American. Or European. I’m not even white. Or black. I’m Indian. And
I love everything British. My father calls it “the British hangover”, from when
the British ruled India. My mother’s side of the family jokes that when the
British left in 1947, they forgot a key patriot: me. (Though that doesn't make
sense because my parents weren't even born then, let alone me. But whatevs.)
If I remember
correctly, my love for all things British began, as I suppose all interests of
an adolescent girl do, with a man. Orlando Bloom a.k.a. Legolas from The Lord
of the Rings (and now, The Hobbit). My first celebrity crush. Also the first
time I ever felt that strongly about someone of the opposite sex. I blatantly
ignored the fact that the man was eighteen years older than me. He was
captivating, he was beautiful, he was British.
At the time, I was
interested in anything British, only because it made me feel, in some way that
I can’t possibly fathom, closer to him. Today I no longer go crazy over Mr.
Bloom the way I used to, but British culture still has a strong hold over me.
What started off as a silly hobby has now become something I admire, cherish,
and long to be a part of. I don’t know what it is about Britain that has this
magical hold over me, but it’s never wavered, not until recently.
When I moved to New
York, Britain sort of moved to the back-burner. It was my first time away from
home, from my family, in a new country, and all the way on the other side of
the world. I was like a sponge, absorbing EVERYTHING. I loved it. To the point
where I decided that maybe New York was my place now. Because I had people here
now. I had my step-siblings, whom I loved incessantly, I had a few close
friends, who were almost like family, and I fitted into the system fairly
easily. There was reason for me to stay. And yet, Britain was always pulling
me.
Every few months or so,
something reminds me of how much I love that place, and I’m overcome with fernweh and sehnsucht and spend some time reading/watching something inherently
British to reaffirm my forgotten love.
It is that time again.
Of all the things to remind of my love, this time, it is *cringes in embarrassment*
Tessa Dare. For those of you who don’t know, she is the author of a bunch of
romance novels that my friend got me hooked on. They’re basically erotica, just
with more plot and character development. To be fair, some of them are actually
pretty good. (For example, one of them had this absolutely brilliant line: “I am a single woman in possession of a good
fortune. Why should I be in want of a husband?”)
Anyway, all these
novels are loosely based in Regency England, one of my most favourite time
periods ever. So I’m reading about
all these lords and ladies getting it on in various locations in England, and
combined with my Pinterest being flooded with pictures of rural Britain, it is
a sure step to my remembering. And oh, how it hurts.
I don’t know what I’m
doing with my life. I haven’t a clue. But I know this much: I will go across
the pond. I have to. I can’t stay away forever. Every cell in my being is
begging to go there and who am I to deny my poor body that? I don’t know how
long it will take, but one day I am going to walk every path that Shakespeare
and Wordsworth and Keats and Austen and Hardy and the Brontës and Tolkien and
Lewis and all of them walked.
Who knows, I may even
meet Orlando Bloom. (Or Tom Hiddleston. He’d be more than willing to accompany
me down all those paths. Life would be unimaginably blissful.)
(Note--The title of this post is from a poem, which you may read here)
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