The first few days of my English life - Chilham, the Southeastern Railway incident, and hot dogs in Ashford

My plane from Boston arrived safely at Heathrow Airport without any dramatic incident. Steve and I learned that Uber had been a constant presence at the airport. We hired one to take us to our final destination, the Airbnb in the small town of Chilham. It took about 1.5 hours. As soon as we left London, we began to see tall hedgerows on both sides of the motorway. Behind the rows, vast green pastures spread as far as the eye could see. We saw a sign for Hever Castle, but of course, we would see many more castles in the future. We saw brick-layered country houses everywhere. Certain things are very British and aesthetically harmonious to the surroundings. I felt the same way when I saw Pueblo architecture in New Mexico. The original adobe dwellings in the state were made of reddish mud to keep excess heat from entering, and they blended beautifully within the desert and canyon scenery.  Traditional building styles often make sense geographically, environmentally and historically. For this reason, one cannot tire of them too quickly. 

Typical English manor in Kent

The driver was a Romanian immigrant with a cheery disposition. He made us feel at home and made us feel welcome. He asked how we came to the country, informed us about driving in the UK, and shared his life experiences in England with us. He was very open about his life, telling us how he had broken up with his son’s mother and was struggling with raising his son, sharing the duty with his former partner. His welcoming attitude completely put us at ease. (We discovered soon that the reputation of the Britons for being aloof and inhospitable was bogus. We soon met many more helpful and kind people within just a few days!)

When we arrived at the area, finding the right place proved to be a struggle.  For many country houses, they don’t use street numbers. They gave their properties adorable names, such as “The Willow,” “Downsview,” or “Walkers’ Rest.” Perhaps it is a practice unique to the countryside? I found it very charming. The driver stayed around and left only after ensuring we were taken care of. 

The Airbnb we rented is in the country. The view overlooking the owner’s sheep corals and horse stable was tranquil, almost embodying the Jane Austen world, except that the street on the north side of the property is the main road between Canterbury and Ashford. All day long, cars whiz by. It’s not bothersome at night, but I have learned that a large part of England has a strong car culture. If you want to get anywhere fast, you must have a car. 

A bit of patience is a prerequisite to enjoying the train ride. 

We had a relatively restful sleep on the night of our arrival, so we decided to visit the nearby city of Ashford by train the next day. After a short 8-minute walk to the nearby station of Chilham, Ashford was just two stops away. 

Chilham Station. The high-speed trains won’t stop here.

I made a crude sketch of the Southeastern train. 

I liked that the interior of the train was immaculate. No odours or screechy noises were coming from the inside, unlike the Bay Area BART trains. 

The seats were spotless. 

We were supposed to arrive there within ten minutes. Yep, that was the plan. I learned that the train lines are well-connected (Southeastern Railway in the Kent region), but it takes three times longer than driving a car. And there are often disruptions. Here is what we have experienced—the next stop after Chilham is Wye. Shortly after Steve and I boarded, the train came to a gradual stop before the next station. The conductor came to us and apologised for the “harsh” stop. He also informed us that a tree had fallen on the track and they were in the process of removing it. The conductor was apologetic and friendly. We kept hearing the communication between him and the other managing crew through the intercom. After half an hour, the train still wouldn’t start, even after the tree was removed. We waited and waited—nearly an hour. The conductor eventually explained that the fallen tree had somehow damaged the electrical system of the rails. To be safe, all the passengers needed to be transported onto another train. 

The crew assisted the last passenger crossing a small walkway.

It was quite a spectacle, watching the crew match the two trains’ doors, open them, and put a small bridge (like the one which many ferries use to bridge the small gap between the ship and the central gangway), and off we went! Within five minutes, the Operation Rescue was complete! 

It was enjoyable for us since we had no urgent errands or workplace to attend to. For some of the passengers, it must have been quite upsetting. But no one outwardly complained or showed any sign of frustration. It reminded me of the Japanese, who needed to commute on crowded trains every day. “Happy Days,” they might say, as a Brit would?

Ashford - just another city to complain about? 

Ashford Designer Outlet

After we got to Ashford, we went straight to their famous designer outlet. Now, having come from the U.S., there was nothing unique about the place. There were clothing shops and cosmetic shops, too familiar to me by name: Kate Spade, North Face, Levi's, Skechers, and the like. American oldies from the ’50s and ’60s flowed through the speakers. The food stands sold hot dogs and Krispy Kreme doughnuts. 

Since we couldn’t find anything uniquely British, and we were hungry, we ordered a couple of hot dogs. The girl who handed Steve the food must have heard his American accent. 

The girl: “So, where are you from?”

Steve: “I’m from San Francisco, California.” 

The girl: “Oh yeah? Are you visiting here?”

Steve: “No, I moved here permanently.”

The girl: “What on earth did you do that for?”

Interesting. The hot dog girl must have thought we were out of our minds, leaving the gorgeous Bay Area, filled with sunshine, excitement, and wild nature. But this is how the media sells images and dreams that are not necessarily the whole picture of the scene. To her, America, especially the San Francisco Bay Area, must represent something exciting, ethereal, out-of-this-world, and much more extraordinary than the mundane life she had been forced to live in the town called Ashford, or wherever she was originally from. 

I’m just imagining without irony. I don’t know what the girl at the hot dog stand thought, honestly. This conversation might be just a typical way of greeting a newcomer, just to put him at ease. I do admit that I have some biases toward the United Kingdom. Some of them were merely the images I had built up in my head over the years by watching Sense and Sensibility, Downton Abbey, and The Crown, and bits of Monty Python to add some bitterness to the sweet concoction of pleasant images. The cultural nuances I understand reached me only after they had been carefully filtered and curated (yes, even by Monty Python). 

If the only purpose of cultural filtration is to encourage us to buy certain products, this designer outlet embodies that perfectly. I should say, most of the people who were strolling with a broad smile on their face, kids screeching with joy, riding a carousel while parents pick up a few things at the stores—a perfumed candle from Yankee Candle for mom, a nice hoodie for dad from Tommy Hilfiger. Americans will go to London and buy Burberry coats, Vivian Westwood shoes and Harry Potter figurines—same thing. 

What is so different between the girl at the hot dog stand, thinking that we must be crazy, leaving the incredible country like America, and us, considering that some people are crazy for wanting to live in the United States? 

The challenge of avoiding the “stuck” ness of the first impression

The whole idea of judging someone based on their brief comment or emotional outburst doesn’t sit well with me, as I may soon start doing the same in this new country, despite my desire to be fair. I would like to enjoy emotional sensations every time I see, hear, or taste something new. However, I want to practice not to believe in the first wave of my emotional response: they are often inaccurate, impulsive, and a non-final impression of any phenomenon.   

Don’t judge before biting into it - especially the sausage rolls.

In summary, I am not saying that I will only focus on the positive. I am not a Pollyanna. I won’t be able to, even if I try. But before I decide whether I turn my dough into a biscuit or a scone, I shouldn’t call it a sausage roll. I shouldn’t also assume it will taste horrible before I finish baking it, should I? One more thing about England: contrary to what many people in the U.S. warned me, everything I've tasted (including the hot dog) so far was terrific! 

Locally harvested strawberries and steak pie. Both of them tasted like heaven!