Things have changed since my high school days in England.
High school memories are like black and white photographs: sooty, gray.
But maybe that’s just London.
Still: I love the gray skies and drizzle of my youth.
Today–summertime–and a million years since high school–the sky is bright blue and everything looks like crystal. Even the British Rail car is clean and white and shiny.
When I lived in the UK, the trains were filthy with tar and sweat; the seats worn with decades of use.
In fact, when you emerged from the train your snot was black.
Today the passengers are reading, except for someone wrangling her schedule on a cell phone.
I peer over the back of my seat and eye a suited businesswoman issuing commands on her phone.
Several minutes of conversation pass until an older passenger near me scolds the woman.
“This is a quiet car, you know,” he says.
“Sorry,” the businesswoman says. “My child is ill.”
The car resumes its calm and I notice lettering on a window that reads, “Quiet Car.”
Bless the British.