Because a portion of my creative being is a multimedia artist I am constantly collecting bits of paper, images, and other two-dimensional curios. These scraps float to the top of drawers and boxes, fall out of books and bags. Sometimes I’m completely surprised when a small piece of the past ends up right in front of me from miles away and decades ago.
I like it
I like the time warp and the memories that appear with each piece of paper. I like feeling the evolution and experience in my life. When I recall the time that a scrap of paper prompts, I like the way it comes up—like I’m watching someone else’s TV show.
The International Student House
Bits of white stationery-like paper came out of a box with sticky notes and other mini notebooks. Those white papers were from the International Student House in London England. I looked up the address to see if the ISH was still in the same place. Sure enough, it was. Cool.
I only stayed there once for three or four days on my first big trip with my first husband. We were young—he was 23, and I was 24. We were both students and broke so this made sense. It was the summer of 1993. Memories trickled in as I turned the papers over. Why I kept them all these years, who knows? I didn’t remember having them, but there they were whispering, “Hey, Angie, remember that trip? Remember that time?“
Memories
And with those forgotten papers, forgotten memories were remembered. I considered vague feelings and moments from those few days in London. Parts felt good and other parts felt shitty. I don’t have a lot of photos from that trip. It wasn’t the smartphone era—and it was 32 years ago.
In no particular order, things I remember
I had a migraine that slowed me right down on the first day. Checking into the place with its ‘youth hostel feel’ and seeing twin beds I felt my young love disappointment at the space that was going to be between us. Let’s call that foreshadowing. Sleeping because of jet lag and waking at 11:00 pm to start the day in the middle of the night. The streets were empty on a midweek night in June—just the clip-clap of our footfalls. We got lost—a lot. Once asking directions from a street cleaner. He was cockney and gave a lot of directions, none of which I understood. Truly, it’s like another language. Every night we stopped by a kebab stand to have a pita before returning to the twin beds. The sandwich maker reminded my husband of a good friend. I realized then that he was looking for his people in others. We went to a club to dance, the Hippodrome. It’s still there, but it’s a casino now. There were go-go dancers. I was deeply jealous because he was ogling the dancers around the poles. Another foreshadow? Maybe. My reaction was also a sad and obvious indication of how young and insecure I was.
The weirdest memory
Like someone else’s television show, I remembered walking back from the club to the ISH, arm in arm. There was another couple about 10 meters in front of us. No one slowed down or sped up. We walked along, together—sort of. They paused at a curb leading to an alley. They crossed. We paused— and then a man in his 30’s stumbled out of the darkness of the alley between us. He was wearing a tuxedo. His tie was crooked, his shirt untucked and bloody. “There’s muggers in that alley.” He stated. We stopped in shock and so did the other couple. Out of nowhere, a green Volkswagen beetle came squealing down the street, full of young people. They opened the door. No words were exchanged. He hopped in. Just as the car squealed to a stop it peeled away. We walked closer to the couple in front of us and they slowed down. Strength in numbers I guess. What that was about I’ll never have a clue but it was capital ‘W’ weird!
All of the above (except for the dude in the tux) were normal recollections of a couple on a trip. The experience was filled with places, sounds, smells, and light—sometimes bright and sometimes ambient. Each moment was sprinkled with an emotion, a dressing—something I’d put on top of it all—an enhancing flavour that I had forgotten about until I found these papers.
As always, thank you for reading Lovelies.
Angie Counios 
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