A Canterbury Tale

By Camden Baxter

My approach to leisure differs sharply from the way I treat work and school, intentionally so. I have always wondered aloud that, without a departure from the strict regimen of type-A workaholism that otherwise defines my days, is ‘time off’ really time off? My answer is an unequivocal no, motivating a set of vacation policies that are highly incongruous with the way that I spend my life outside of leisure. To start, I champion spontaneity. Plans are at most a rough outline, leaving ample space for the improvisation and freewheeling exploration that create vibrant memories of new, exciting, and unexpected experiences. Moreover, I adopt a “figure it out” mentality. Did something go wrong? I’ll figure it out. Do I have any idea what I’m doing today? I’ll figure it out. There is plenty of worry in life – no need to spend precious days off agonizing over the trivial stuff. Finally, I adopt a strict ‘yes-first’ approach. If something is worth considering doing, it is probably worth saying yes to (with the obvious exceptions of dangerous, illegal, or otherwise uncouth propositions).

The trip I took to Canterbury ended up as the product and practice of all three. The setting of Chaucer’s famed novel is a lovely little seaside town to the southeast of London. Its central district is ringed by ancient walls originally constructed by the Romans, their imposing figures crowned with parapets at mostly regular intervals. While their appearance might suggest a lack of modern precision in construction, they are among the most impressive (and ancient) structures I have yet laid eyes upon. The narrow streets wind capriciously through tightlypacked shops and restaurants, unlike any American town I have encountered. Just a handful of miles (sorry, kilometers) from the Channel, the cold breeze is tinged with the unmistakable scent of the sea and filled with the cries of gulls circling above. Not that I knew any of this on Monday morning, though.

You see, I hadn’t actually planned this trip, nor had I anticipated it happening – I had no idea how I was going to spend my afternoon, and I was okay with that. It meant that when Kat walked up to Solomon and I and pitched it, I was free to shrug my shoulders and say “why not?”. Within minutes, I had purchased a train ticket and embarked through central London to King’s Cross St. Pancras to the national rail station.

The train ride wasn’t all fun and games, though –we ended up in the latter half of the twelve segment train, which we were told was going to split in two. Only the first half would go on to Canterbury. Simple enough. On the PA system, a male voice calmly explained that, at the next stop, those needing to go to Canterbury would have four minutes to disembark and make their way to the front part of the train. When the train stops, we do as we’re told – we step off and begin walking forward. Thirty seconds later, though the doors closed and the high-speed train darted off into the horizon, quickly disappearing from view. We were dumbfounded – it took a solid fifteen seconds of stunned silence, punctuated by more than a few “what the hell’s,” before the reality set in. We were stranded in the middle of what was, as far as we were concerned, nowhere, with the next train on our line more than an hour out.

But I wasn’t distraught, by any means – in fact, after a quick survey of the Uber app put the price to complete the trip via car at a mere sixty-two pounds, the “figure it out” part of my traveler’s brain got to turning. For twenty-five bucks a person, we could get where we needed to – with the added experience of having a captiveaudience Briton to hang out with for a half-hour. This would be fun!

The Uber arrived, and after chiding us for getting waiting at the wrong spot (apparently that train station has a very particular location for ride-share pickups and drop-offs), our conversation with Josue fell into a rhythm. A Brazilian man, he had lived in the United States for a decade before losing the visa lottery and having to emigrate. Not wanting to go back home, he chose England, where his skills in the trades were better-remunerated. We spoke at length on his peripatetic life – he described and compared his experience in all three countries. While he has forever missed Brazil’s natural beauty and the other things that make it home, he reflected glowingly on his time in the States – a tinge of wistfulness crept into his memories of the economic opportunity, in particular. Yet the visa situation got complicated in the fallout from 9/11, and his stay was not extended. In the back of the Uber, as the conversation continued, I couldn’t believe our luck – it may had cost us twenty-five quid, but we got to enjoy a lovely afternoon drive through the verdant South England countryside and a cross-section of the travels that have defined a fascinating life. My freewheeling approach to travel seemed, at least for the time-being, vindicated.

Upon arrival to Canterbury, however, I again had to confront the fact that I had agreed to travel to a city I knew quite literally thing about, on a whim. Kat had an appointment at the Cathedral’s reading room, which meant that, after the three of us sank a quick pint at a Shakespearethemed pub, Solomon and I were on our own. We’d figure it out, I thought. After all, was this not what I wanted from my trip?

We wandered through the maze-like corridors of the central district, popping in and out of shops without purpose. I did buy a pair of slacks, a slinky gray chino that has already seen much use, but that was about it. Eventually, we decided that we would make an attempt to get into the Cathedral – after all, its magnificent edifices had commanded our attention for much of the afternoon, even in the faint edges of our peripheral vision as it peered through the occasional space in between buildings. We stepped into the visitor center, who told us that the cathedral would open at 5:00 for a 5:30 Evensong service. We had to kill an hour. What better than a pint to do just that?

The first tavern we came across was a rock-androll themed establishment with a certifiably non-corporate crowd, and we figured we’d give it a go. The British alternative scene was always an interest of mine, anyway. We had a bear of a time getting a table – they were setting up for a concert, which meant much of the floor space was crisscrossed with cables and other audio equipment, no place to risk a wayward pint. Solomon and I sat in a corner, enjoying good beer and better conversation. The highlight of that visit was a Briton who overheard our American dialect and thought that we were with the band – I have never been so tempted to lie to a stranger in my life. We sheepishly admitted that we were just tourists, and he laughed at his misperception and wished us a good trip. We had to go, anyway – it was time for Evensong.

We had no idea what this service was, just that it was our chance to see the church. Kat was going, too, so we met up outside on the wind-whipped lawn and ventured in. The inside of the Cathedral far surpassed even my lofty expectations – the vaulted ceilings were supported by graceful, sophisticated arches constructed with meticulous precision over hundreds of years. A glittering wall of stained glass caught the dying light as the sun crept below the horizon, throwing kaleidoscope-like projections onto the magnificent masonry. I stared in awe, my mouth partly agape – never before had I been inside a Cathedral, let alone one as ancient and storied as this one. The service, too, lived up to the moment. The choir – which I am told is famous – filled the halls with a collection of hymnals that reverberated in complex and varied ways, immersing my ears in a collection of timbres, pitches, and overtones that complemented each other with near-uncanny precision. It was a breathtaking vocal performance.

The rest of the trip was fairly straightforward – we unwound at a pub and hopped on the train back to London, taking great care to sit in the first six cars. As our train streaked across the now-dark countryside, I took some time to reflect on the series of decisions and outlooks that had made the day. In less than thirty seconds, I had gone from having no clue how I was to spend my day to agreeing to head to a town I knew nothing about.

A mishap on the way meant a chance to ‘figure it out’ and an even better experience. Finally, once we got there, we decided how to enjoy Canterbury in the heat of the moment, crafting an unforgettable experience out of what began as aimless wandering. My heterodox approach to travel had yet again been validated.