LYNN WHITE

 

That Was Us

 

That was us

who wandered through Europe without maps or money,

or sense of direction.

Who got lost a lot,

but didn’t get raped or murdered.

So far as we can remember.

 

Who charmed hoteliers into letting us stay for free.

Who got up early (too cold to sleep),

and cleaned the kitchen and the floors of the hostel in Laumiere

for the first time in many years.

Then sat on the stairs and said ‘No Pasaran’ to everyone, until it had dried,

explaining carefully in languages we did not speak,

why this was necessary.

 

Who, with wide eyed innocence and impressively bad French

failed to understand the policemen’s demands,

‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’

Until our new friends with the nice smiles and no papers had disappeared.

‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’

Sod off!

 

That was us

who swam off the rocks, with a man we’d met in a cafe,

because he said we could.

And swam and swam until two policemen came,

(one very stern and one very twinkly),

and said we couldn’t.

Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on,

or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies,

or lie on the rocks until we were dry,

in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace.

This being the main street in Trieste.

 

Who lived in a house ‘typique du Turque’ with a water pump in the garden

and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’, which made us very ill indeed.

But the parties were good and the conversations interesting,

even though no one spoke English.

And we learned to speak some Albanian, which was always handy.

And we survived to sit thirstily by a hot, dusty roadside and fantasise

about the ice cold mountain water streaming through the streets of Pec,

and even about the water pump in the garden.

 

Who left Barcelona dressed in summer skirts and sandals

and arrived late by a dark roadside in snowy Andorra,

at a place full of ‘apres ski’ types with plummy voices and fat wallets,

inviting us into their warm hotel to buy us drinks and hot food,

to warm us up, they said.

No chance!

No class traitors, us! Not us,

Not us.

 

They’re not like us,

these two old women in the mirror

wearing our jeans and our smiles.

Not us,

they can’t be us.

Not us.

Not us.

 

Where Are They Now

 

In 1967 I hitch-hiked to Belgrade.

My friend and I would take an over-night train

to stay with our Albanian friends

in what is now Kosovo.

Until then we had some hours to kill.

 

The local cafe culture called

and we ate a modest meal,

two great slabs

of the ubiquitous cheese puff pastry

washed down with colas.

 

We went to the counter to pay

but the Server refused our money.

He pointed to a table where some guys

were enjoying a few beers.

They had already paid, he said.

 

We were mystified.

They had made no contact with us

and we tried to tell them we could not accept.

They explained that

they wished to thank us

for the help Britain had given in WW2.

 

Fast forward to 1999

when the right to self-determination was all the rage.

and NATO bombs were falling on Belgrade.

I thought about them a lot back then.

I think of them now

when territorial integrity is all the rage

and the right to self determination

a forgotten dream.

 

Yes, I think of them now

when the bombs

fall in Europe

once again.

 

But I still have my friend in Kosovo.

Sometimes we feel human,

sometimes not.

LYNN WHITE

 

LYNN WHITE lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award.