Early morning, at the airport. ‘Beer,’ W. commands. ‘You can pay for this.’ Later we drink beer in a railway carriage, passing through the German countryside. ‘What do you think of Europe?’, says W. I look around. – ‘Very flat.’
The best train journey, of course, was the long one from Warsaw to Wroclaw. Small round tables like in a cafe, but in the dining carriage of a train. And waiter service. We drank, steadily. Europe passed by the window, flat and green. All was well: our guide was with us, we felt secure, safe; like small children with their parents, we had nothing to worry about.
This time, we have look after ourselves. Of course, it’s already gone wrong. We steel ourselves: we have to concentrate. Are we on the right train? Is it going in the right direction? Left to fend for ourselves, we become panicky. Then the conductor comes round to take our tickets. Alles klar, he says, in a voice that is infinitely calm. He soothes us. Alles klar: we’re in safe hands, this is a safe country. Over the next few days, we will only have to repeat his phrase to feel safe; it watches over us like a guardian angel.
W. and I know we don’t really belong in Europe. But walking through the boulevards at Strasbourg, we grow calm and quiet. We find a bistro and drink Alsation wine from tumblers. W. speaks soft French, his voice lowered. ‘Bon.’ But we don’t belong here. It’s not long before inanity returns. ‘Why can’t we stop ourselves?’
W. once lived in Strasbourg for six months. He could have stayed forever in the calm boulevards. Why didn’t he stay? He missed the British sense of humour, he says. Self-deprecation, the deprecation of others as a sign of affection: how did we, the British, ever become so contorted? But we decide this is our saving grace. ‘We don’t take ourselves seriously.’
Sometimes our inanity frustrates us. Why couldn’t we have a more sophisticated sense of humour? But then, at other times, we know our inanity, in its simplicity, will get us through anything.
Every morning, away from the other delegates to drink orange pekong tea in the town square. We are simple and joyful creatures, content with inane chatter, which always arrives from nowhere and bears us along for the afternoon. If only our stomachs ached less! If only we were less bleary from drinking! ‘I haven’t had a single thought all conference,’ says W. I search my head: no, neither have I.
Sometimes, to our amazement, the clouds part and we are able to think. There was a moment on the train, coming back from Strasbourg. We held forth for some minutes, speaking clearly, calmly, sketching our philosophical task. W. was transported. ‘That’s exactly it! Write it down.’ But I’d forgotten my notebook. ‘We’ll have to remember it!’ But of course, we didn’t.
Then, on another occasion, walking out on a promotory at Mount Batten, we had another few minutes of insight. W. was amazed. In the water taxi heading back to the city, I wrote down a few notes. But when we look back at them, we have no idea what we were thinking. Today, just like any other, we are both perfectly free of thoughts; we’re like smooth stones, worn down in the river of our inanity. – ‘Alles klar.’ – ‘Yes, alles klar.’
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