Robin's hood
ENGLAND | Chicagoan becomes an ex-pat and finds a new life in Nottingham -- and the chance to play in Sherwood Forest
NOTTINGHAM, England -- I've just finished hanging my wet laundry over a cold radiator, because come tea time the heat will switch on and pour up through the damp clothing. By night my washing will be dry.
This is life in England, especially during a wet East Midlands winter. So is cautiously wending my way through the rainy streets on my bike, desperately hoping for dry trousers -- or at least dry feet -- when I reach my destination.
(Stephanie Fosnight/For the Sun-Times)
I spent the last five years living quite happily in the Chicago area, but I was ready for another adventure. So last fall, I cashed in. I quit my job as a features writer for Pioneer Press newspapers. I sold my car. And when the girl moving into my Evanston apartment wanted to buy my bed, I sold that, too. I piled my remaining goods in a friend's basement and said my goodbyes. On Sept. 1, I boarded a plane to London and then took the train to Nottingham, where I'm now spending a year volunteering for a local church.
"Here I am, the American expat living the glamorous British life," I think, as the honking traffic forces me and my trusty, slightly rusty bicycle through another puddle. Rain pours in a steady stream off my helmet and down my back. If only my envious friends back home could see me now.
During my first weeks here, I was enchanted every time someone spoke, and, much to the amusement of my new friends, I'd make ecstatic comments like, "We're taking a break for tea and cake, just like in a Jane Austen novel!" and "Look at the pretty sheep!" I became a devotee of roast dinner, the sacred British tradition of Sunday afternoon roast meat, potatoes and parsnips served with Yorkshire pudding and steamed farm vegetables. I joined in the excitement last October when England faced South Africa in the Rugby World Cup, and I let out a sincere groan when they lost.
I am still reminded daily that I'm in a foreign country. The United States and England have some similarities, but a cultural gap as wide as the Atlantic stretches between us. Myriad language differences are just the tip of the iceberg. Take the issue of electric dryers, for instance. Most Americans consider them a necessity. Brits say they waste energy and, besides, they've been air drying laundry for generations, so why should they stop now?
Still, it didn't take me long to adjust to life abroad. All that was entrancing about England quickly became my new normal, and now I'm feeling at home enough to grouse about the lack of electric dryers and, of course, the rain.
Yet as I pass the ruins of the medieval Nottingham Castle, or an inn dating back to the Crusades, or even the pub where I passed an evening eating fish and chips and watching football with my new mates, my grumbling comes to a screeching halt.
"It's completely worth it," I think, as a raindrop slides down my nose. "After all, I'm in England!"
Life in the English village of Beeston, just outside bustling Nottingham, means putting out empty bottles for the milkman from the local dairy, dashing to the corner shop for a loaf of fresh bread each day, and being offered endless cups of tea by friends who call me "love," "duck" and "mate."
Life in England means a countryside of rolling green fields dotted with hedgerows, fluffy sheep and villages built around historic stone churches. Most of my savvy city pals, it seems, talk about growing up "back in the village," where neighbors gather at the local pub for a cheeky pint and cheery conversation. They tell of taking family walks down the lane searching for blackberries when Gran came to stay, and of being forced to watch the queen's speech on Christmas Day.
Not only am I in Great Britain, but I am in fabled Nottingham. As a small child, I devoted hours to playing Robin Hood and maid Marian with my cousin Ryan. Inspired by the Disney film, in which the swashbuckling pair are played by two winsome foxes, Ryan tucked a bathrobe belt into his waistband for a tail and I donned a pink gown. We raced from our basement, Sherwood Forest, to the upstairs closet/castle tower where Maid Marian would inevitably be held captive by the evil Sheriff Nottingham.
A reduced Sherwood Forest still exists outside Nottingham and shelters the Major Oak, the 800-year-old tree thought to mark Robin's headquarters. Visitors to Nottingham can can follow the Robin Hood trail by downloading an audio tour of historic sites around Nottinghamshire, starting with nottingham Castle. Although the original medieval structure was dismantled in the 1600s and later rebuilt into a 17th century ducal palace, the castle shell is still a striking monument rising above the town center on Castle Mount.
Parts of the original castle remain, most notably a 13th century guardhouse on a bridge that once spanned a moat. The moat is long gone, but pedestrians and tour buses wind their way up the Castle Mount via a circular path for an up-close look at caves carved into the hill's soft sandstone. Medieval Anglo-Saxons built tunnels into the rock and the Victorians created entire slum villages within the caves. Now visitors can tour the centuries-old cave system.
In the spirit of Robin Hood, I'm doing my best to help battle against the still pervasive enemy of local poverty. One evening I met up with a group to do the "soup run," one of the programs at the church where I volunteer. It seemed fitting that we gathered at the Robin Hood statue halfway up Castle Mount, packs of sandwiches and flasks of hot drinks at the ready, in preparation for handing out food to Nottingham's homeless population.
As we waited for the whole team to assemble, I dashed about visiting various statues and plaques set into the castle wall explaining the Robin Hood legend. Then I stood quiet under the night sky, leaning back and gazing at the brightly lit castle as the magic and history of the place soaked into me. My English friends laughed at the crazy American.
"I can't understand why you'd leave an exciting place like Chicago just to come to boring Nottingham," one said.
"Oh, but Nottingham is exciting," I told him. "Coming to England hasn't always been easy, but it's one of the best decisions I've ever made."
In fact, the prospect of leaving my American life behind for a year was very scary. I'd spent 18 months considering this move and I thought I was ready. But I remember one day last summer when I finally understood that I was about to give up all that was comfortable and familiar.
It was Aug. 30, and I was busy with errands. I stopped to watch the sun glitter off the Chicago River as the city that works clicked away.
"I love Chicago," I thought. "It's so nice to be taking in the sights instead of being at work."
Then it hit me - a sudden, heart-stopping realization. I had no work. I had no job. My colleagues had feted me well into the previous night. I knew, of course, that I was saying goodbye, but for some reason it hadn't sunk in until now.
"I'm free," I said aloud. "But, but . . . freedom is terrifying!"
Being a thoroughly modern 28-year-old girl, I called my mother.
"Mom," I sputtered. "What have I done? I quit my job. I sold my car, I'm moving across the world and I don't have any plan for the future after the next 12 months and it's totally freaking me out! What do I do now?"
My mother, listening back in my Arizona hometown, dished out her typical wisdom: "You just keep doing the next thing and then the next thing. In a little while it'll feel normal again."
She was absolutely right, of course. I crossed the ocean, began working as a freelance writer and settled into my new home in a 200-year-old cottage with a hospitable English family. I threw myself into my church tasks and the Nottingham community. I started taking day trips to the breathtaking Peak District in nearby Derbyshire and learned to play snooker, a variation of pool. I explored the city and rode my bike blissfully along the old canals in the colorful warmth of a lovely autumnal season.
Now it's winter and I'm getting used to the rain. My calendar is packed with parties, typically English events including a night out at the pantomime and shore excursions to Scotland, Ireland - even Norway.
I don't know where I'm going or what I'll do come August, when my year is up. But I do know I'll have plenty of options. For now, I just want to savor the wonderful feeling of being at home in a foreign land.