Upon arrival at Heathrow, my girlfriend stood waiting for me. I’m struggling to suggest that the welcome felt warm, as it seemed more like a performance—one of those fake smiles that people put on just to get through an awkward situation. She smiled and we French-kissed, but somehow, it felt like the beginning of the end. Maybe it was just my perception, and we’ll never know her side of the story, but either way, her feelings didn’t seem genuine. On the other hand, I couldn’t complain because the feelings between us were mutual; I had a goal and a dream, and I wasn’t in love. She was the perfect excuse for me to leave Matzendorf. So, I didn’t have to fake it—I just let myself feel what I felt. I went to London to become a rock star, to get rich and famous, and not to worry about what a girl thought about me.
I recall pulling up her white t-shirt while standing in the elevator because she’d been complaining about tummy aches for the past two months, along with some period issues. There was even a possibility she might be pregnant. Her stomach seemed slightly larger, but it wasn’t because I’d “planted a seed” before she left—it was due to the change in her diet and the quality of the food she started eating, which we figured out later.
We took the Piccadilly Line from Heathrow, changed at Victoria for the District Line, and got off at Putney Bridge. It was a chilly, slightly rainy late morning on the 11th of November, 2000. She wanted to show me the River Thames and Putney High Street, for some bizarre reason. I wasn’t thrilled about this plan, as I had a heavy backpack, an acoustic guitar, and hand luggage. The nearest station to Nic’s house was East Putney, but we got off at Putney Bridge. I had to drag all my gear from there, in the rain, through Putney High Street, up Upper Richmond Road, and finally arrived at East Putney station. I asked her, “Why didn’t we just take the train to East Putney?” She replied, “I wanted to show you the area.”
Feeling uneasy, I put my backpack down on the pavement, leaned it against the wall beneath the bridge, and started thinking of a solution. I spotted a discarded trolley across the street, and an idea struck me. I threw my rucksack and backpack into it, handed her the guitar to carry, and pushed the whole lot toward Nic’s house on Haldon Road in Wandsworth.
Before we got to the house, we passed a small “Carphone Warehouse” on the corner of West Hill and Upper Richmond Road. She pointed it out. “Here, you can get a SIM card,” she said. I had been going on about it since we left the airport because I needed to connect my phone. Before I left Austria, I had contacted my provider, ONE, to send me the unlock code for the phone. They offered this to anyone with a pay-as-you-go deal, but it took ages to get the code, and I was cutting it close. However, when I walked into the “Carphone Warehouse,” I realized that the UK had a similar provider called One2One, which had the same logo. She hadn’t mentioned this to me, so I’d gone through the entire unlocking process for no reason. These small things start adding up in relationships, becoming bigger issues. She’d been in the country for two months and could’ve spent five minutes updating me on this. If she had, I wouldn’t have wasted time on the unnecessary unlocking saga.
We browsed the SIM deals, and the cheapest option was One2One, which saved me £15. The SIM card came with a £3 voucher, which deflated my remaining £205 to £185, and I’d only been in the country for two hours. I thought about how tough it was going to be with only £185 left, especially since a SIM card cost £15, and Nic wanted £400 a month for the room. Of course, I had my debit card with me, and I could’ve accessed money from my Austrian account, but I was determined not to use it unless there was an emergency. I was already thinking of ways to make money before we even got to Nic’s house.
After buying the SIM card, I put everything back into the trolley and pushed it in front of Nic’s place.
She had the key, and we entered the house, heading up to the room on the first floor next to the lounge. It was a strange experience because there was a large bone in the room, and I couldn’t tell if it was human or not. The house felt cold and lifeless. Nobody was home, so we entered the room and immediately started releasing some of the pressure I had built up. We hadn’t seen each other for two months, and we used to be very busy in my love nest back home in the basement.
Afterward, we dressed and walked back to East Putney underground station, then took the train into the city center. I can’t be sure, but I think we got off at Green Park and went straight to Buckingham Palace. Trying to recall it 22 years later, from the Wig Bay Caravan Park in Kirkcolm, Scotland, isn’t so straightforward. It’s also possible we got off at Embankment and checked out Big Ben first. Either way, I was amazed. I might sound arrogant, but I really felt like a rock star in that moment—there was this massive celebration going on in London, and I thought maybe it was for me. I half-expected people to stop me for autographs or interviews, like during Beatlemania. But of course, that didn’t happen. I later learned that November 11th is Armistice Day, the anniversary of the agreement that ended World War I, signed at 11 a.m. on November 11, 1918. This is a major day in the UK, so naturally, they weren’t celebrating my arrival. Instead, they were honoring the thousands of brave soldiers who sacrificed their lives during the war, a war that history confirms was sparked by Austria, which left a bitter taste in my mouth.
As I mentioned, it was a windy, drizzly day, so I remember not enjoying it too much. But of course, it was a stark contrast to what I’d known in my previous life. I saw people from ethnic backgrounds I’d never encountered before, heard languages I couldn’t understand, and my senses were overwhelmed by unfamiliar scents. On the way back, I told her I was hungry and needed to stop at a supermarket to get some food. She knew I was on a tight budget, so she led me to the most expensive supermarket on Putney High Street—Waitrose.
I’m leaning back in an armchair now, gazing out at Loch Ryan, and a shiver runs down my spine as I think back on it all. I can’t shake the feeling that she wanted me to fail, and fail big. Why would she take someone, whom she knew was struggling financially, into the most expensive supermarket in the area? There were plenty of cheaper options, like Tesco or Sainsbury’s, and several off-licenses that sold frozen burgers and pizzas for pennies back in 2000. Maybe she took the word “nourishment” too literally, but I didn’t know her to be that callous. I had no choice but to adapt to the situation. Still, even though I was unaware of Waitrose’s reputation in British society, I focused on the fact that there was always a way to make it work.
Now, I’ll digress for a moment, dear readers, and introduce you to a chess player before I continue with the Waitrose Odyssey.