You Can't Go Home Again - Part 1

In his posthumously published novel, Thomas Wolfe tells us "You can't go home again." Poppycock, if you ask me. All you need is the fare to get there and a phone call to let them know you're on your way and to can they make sure they have some beer in.


Of course, what he really meant was that once you've been away for any length of time, not only will you find the people you left behind have changed; you'll realize that so have you. The place itself will evolve physically too - perhaps not in a manner that's noticeable to those watching it happen, but anyone who hasn't visited for a while, will see a dramatic difference. Shops that will have changed hands, traffic flows that will have altered, buildings where there were none before, home will no longer be "home".

The first few times I returned to Britain after immigrating to the USA, it really was with a sense of "coming home". Back to the comfortable, the familiar, the known. Which was why it was something of a shock on my last trip, four years ago, to discover for the first time that the place felt...foreign. The driving on the wrong side of the road, the accents, the stuff in the shops, and the buildings, all looked strange. The money was unfamiliar, the telephone system was incomprehensible and as for the expressions the people used...they were just weird.

Interestingly, I didn't experience that emotion at all this time round, even though I was visiting places I haven't seen in some cases, for over a decade. I was on the other hand, struck by how much closer everything was. After fifteen years of the wide open spaces in the American west, and six living in the Rocky Mountains with my twenty-mile drive to the nearest supermarket, ten to the nearest pub, and five to the nearest takeaway food, I'd forgotten just how easy it is to walk to almost anywhere you want to go.


I'd set out for an explore, thinking it would take me the afternoon, and realize to my surprise that I was at my destination within a few minutes. One day I had to carry a heavy bag from the railway station to my friend Steve's house. It was a warm day and the bag seemed to weigh a ton, but I was still debating whether to go back and wait for the bus, when I realized I was 3/4 of the way there.

Every American journalist visiting Scotland for the British Open (they rarely report anything else that goes on there unless it involves football hooligans) reaches into his Bumper Book of Clichés and talks about the weather, the funny money, the ingredients of haggis and the tiny cars.


But the thing is; the cars are tiny! Much smaller than when I lived there. Gas prices that would make an American driver weep have encouraged the British to purchase smaller and smaller cars to the point where many of them now drive vehicles that would fit in the trunk of the average American behemoth. Within moments of leaving the airport we came upon a roundabout (traffic circle) and I had to try not to flinch as all these miniature cars came flying towards us from all angles. And the roads are narrow too. Far narrower than I'm used to.

One time my sister was driving me along a road that was about the same width as the one that takes me from the highway to my house. Mine has a 35 mph speed limit, which the polis enforce rigidly. I'm not sure how they ever manage to write anyone a ticket however, because most of the time, we all creep along at 20-25 mph behind some lamebrain who no doubt wonders why everyone else is in such a hurry. Except here was my sister hurtling along at 55-60 mph, while I tried not to scream in terror.


My parents live in a small town called Largs, on the west coast of Scotland, south of Glasgow. They didn't move there until after they'd kicked me out of the nest so in a sense, I wasn't really returning home at all. But my experience last time round not withstanding, it certainly felt like it. Even though I've only stayed in that house as a visitor, it has a very welcoming, homely feel to it. From the mince and tatties at tea time, to the endless cups of milky tea, to my Dad complaining about the money the local council was spending, and my Mum nagging me to take a nap even though I'd told her I would recover from my jet-lag much quicker if I just stayed awake until bed time (about a hundred times), now that was familiar.



Everyone had a good laugh at my hybrid Anglo-American accent (several good laughs, actually), and my tie-dyed shirt, and my lack of vacation time, and got a lot of mileage out of the slang I use ("goofing off" was a particular favorite) but you know what? I loved every minute of it. I miss my family, I miss my friends and I miss the social network they still have.

Yes, I love Colorado, and am perfectly happy with my decision to become a US Citizen a couple of years ago. But it's fairly clear that no matter how long I live here, visiting Britain will always mean going home.

So Thomas Wolfe? You don't know what you're talking about.