My EasyJet flight to Prague having been delayed by several hours (at least), I'm back in the terminal and able to add one more quick post.
Every time I board an airplane I can't help but wondering if this will be the time it goes down. I assume I'm not alone in that. But I find myself thinking I should at least leave some note. But it can't be maudlin or overly emotional, as of course almost certainly all will be well.
So instead of "tell my family I love them" or "tell the following people I'm sorry," I thought, perhaps, I should focus on something else.
I've told a few people, recently, that this moving-back-to-Europe thing was empirically the right thing for me to do, regardless of the difficulties and problems I've encountered, from hassles involving getting Catalina over on the flight from the US, to problems finding a good apartment, to problems with banks, phones, and everything else, leading up and concluding with, of course, this unexpected and unwelcome exile.
Despite all that, coming back to Europe was absolutely the right thing for me to do. I had felt, during those five years in Arizona, as if I was spinning my wheels a bit, not getting any traction on what I wanted to be doing ... what I shouldbe doing. It was fine — I made a number of really good friends, had a nice big apartment, played a lot of tennis, got Catalina, was able to travel, was in a good financial position, and was in good health. It was good.
But ... it was missing something important. It really did feel like I was adding days upon days, life upon life, without ever feeling like I was progressing. And the minute I got back to Europe I immediately felt I was. Indeed, I think that's why I decided to come in the first place — every time I had traveled to Europe after moving back in 2019 I felt confident and happy, and as soon as I landed in the States I felt ... saddened, and empty.
The problem was mine, of course — I couldn't unpack it any more if I tried. I suppose it has something to do with the lifestyle I enjoy so much in Europe — the neighborhood and communities, the general hope, the absence of the cruelty that I think we've all discovered recently has in some ways has been lying only just beneath the surface in the United States. I don't know.
In any event, since I got back, and despite everything that's happened recently, I feel more positive, more hopeful, more engaged ... and yes, like I have more traction. It's a good feeling. I'm actively glad I did this. All of this is an adventure — which doesn't mean it's all easy, or fun. But it's good to feel I'm adventuring, rather than waiting.
I keep returning to Ithaka, the poem by Greek poet C.P. Cafavy. I don't know what Ithaka is, exactly, in my life. It's not really Ann Arbor, though, in terms of the geographic port from which I set sail in my adult life, I assume that city could conceivably play a similar role. But I'm not interested in getting back to Ann Arbor, soon or ever. Or ... West Berlin, or Kansas.
I think "Ithaka," for me, would be the state of contentment, of stability/security, of purpose, I had in my childhood, and that I've rarely had in adulthood, and that at some point I still hope to recover.
So, as I prepare to board this flight to Prague, please know that ... I've felt closer to my Ithaka in the past six months than anytime in the previous six years, and that, as Cavafy suggested, it's the journey that matters. I'm hopeful some day I'll be able to return to my Ithaka, but if not — if the Cyclops or the Sirens stop me on this trip home — that's ok. I've lived, and struggled, and fought, and loved, and laughed, and reveled, and cried. And I'm glad I found my way back to my travels. I'd much rather be brought down trying to soar than twiddling my thumbs.
The beautiful London Luton Vale Hotel ... in a weirdly abandoned business park north of Luton
So. 10 am on Friday morning, May 23rd. Watching an episode of Magnum P.I. on English TV in my hotel room, waiting another hour until it's time to check out, take an über to the airport, and get ready to fly back to Prague!
Special assistance for the hearing disabled, of course. What kind of country wouldn't provide that??
Speaking of American detectives, I've been both reading a Jack Reacher novel and watching a Jack Reacher TV series this past week, which does put one in a certain mood. Yesterday morning, on the train from Chichester up to my Luton hotel, I was in the middle of the novel when an announcement came on the train's P.A. system asking, if there were a policeman on the train, for that person to come to car 3. No more information was given.
My inner Walter Mitty kicked in (actually, more like "The Lady on 142"), and I found myself wondering what Jack Reacher would do — and thus, by implication, what I should do. Should I wander over to Car 3, explain that I'm not a policeman, but am available to help? Even more, in casting my eyes around the car, would I notice a bag of carrots under a seat, which would of course reveal the existence of a significant plot? Would I be forced to pull the emergency break and scream at everyone, "get out of the car and off the train now!"
I guess we'll never know. But I kinda wish I had.
---------------
Jay Raj, in Luton
I had, during my time in England, had fish & chips (in Chichester), and a steak & ale pie (in London). Last night, in my last mean in the country, I felt obliged to complete the triumvirate of traditional English cuisine — well, my personal triumvirate, at least — by getting a curry. The Romanian receptionist at the hotel recommended a visit to the Indian restaurant about a 20-minute walk away, which she said guests at the hotel had spoken highly of (though she herself, she said, "hated" Indian food). So I walked down there yesterday evening, sat alone at a table, and ordered the most English of all curries — a chicken tikka masala, complete with rice and naan.
Should have gone with the Butter Chicken?
It was ... average. Actually, "average" tikka masala is amazing, so this was probably below average. Nothing seriously wrong with it, and all quite edible, but bland, the consistency of the gravy was ... a little bit watery and maybe even granular(?), and the naan was undercooked in the center. But mainly just fairly tasteless. C'est la vie, as they don't say in India.
Still, when the waiter came by to ask, I was polite: "It was delicious," I said. Minutes later he returned with two small plastic tags, inviting me to tap my phone on them to automatically open up review sites, where I could then leave my (presumably glowing) recommendation. When I hesitated, he reassured me I needn't even write anything, just leave stars.
How ... thoughtful
I was nonplussed. For one thing, I hadn't enjoyed the food all that much, and while I was more than willing to be polite in person, actually being on the record recommending to others that it was delicious was something I'd rather not do. In addition, for all I knew they were monitoring those sites in another room (or had notifications of some kind set up when a new review of their restaurant appeared), and would know immediately if I gave them a bad review. I felt pressured, and trapped.
Still, reluctantly, I opened one, and tried to give it four out of five stars. When I clicked "done," though, it wouldn't close, but only noted that I hadn't yet filled out the text part of the review — meaning that, in fact, I did have to express my thoughts verbally.
This I couldn't do, so, after paying, I murmured my gratitude to the waiter and slipped out the door, hoping I could get far enough down the block before someone came after me to note I had failed to review them.
Jack Reacher, it occurs to me now, would not have acted thus.
---------------
Well, that's about it. In the madness that is the Luton Departures hall, having survived the maelstrom of madness that is security here. Fortunately I got here really early, and there were no particular hiccups, so no worries. Five hours from now I should be in my apartment.
Probably. Because there is one more potential roadblock to clear. About six weeks ago, en route from Kansas City to Podgorica, I had a layover in the Brussels airport. Having read online that the Business Class lounge — where free food, perhaps a shower, and quiet beckoned — was in a different terminal than the one I landed in, I decided to seek it out ... which necessitated going through passport control. "We'll have to stamp you," the woman said, and I shrugged, and said "sure."
I wan only in that other terminal for an hour — if that — before going back through passport control into my own. But that stamp I got does, I suppose, mean that technically I entered the EU — for one hour — before I was supposed to.
So I'm not quite sure what the fallout of that will be. There are, it seems, five possibilities:
They don't notice it and don't care, and I'm allowed back into the EU no problem
They notice it but it turns out it doesn't somehow count as enough to throw my return into doubt, so I'm allowed back no problem.
They notice it, it's a problem, but ... having spent 90 out of the previous 180 days in the EU before leaving, it was the Brussels passport control people who screwed up by letting me in when they shouldn't have, which doesn't really effect me personally.
They notice it, it matters, it effects the number of days until I can return ... by requiring me to wait one more day before returning, but they let me simply wait in that hall outside passport control for another 7 hours, until midnight, when I can be allowed back in.
They notice it, it matters, it effects the number of days until I can return ... and they force me to fly back to England for one day until I can return.
None of those is devastating; only the last one would even really be disappointing. So I'm hopeful. And hopeful, even if it turns out to be a problem, I can just say, "come on, come ON ... it was one hour in the Brussels airport 6 weeks ago. Puh-LEASE let me in."
The problematic stamps — Damn you, Brussels airport!
We'll see. Fingers crossed I can sleep in my own bed tonight!
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England
— Shakespeare, Richard II
That may be overstating it a bit.
Still.
Chichester
My last morning in Chichester, here in the south of England. In an hour or so I'll head home, put the bedclothes currently in the washer/dryer back on the bed, finishing packing my suitcases, vacuum behind me as I back out the door, and head out to the Chichester train station, then the slightly awkward three-hour journey (with two transfers, with two suitcases and a back-pack) up to my hotel near the Luton airport. I'll have a lazy evening there, then another lazy morning tomorrow, before finally finally getting on an airplane back to Prague.
So goodbye to Chichester. My friend David's parents graciously invited me to stay at their beautiful two-bedroom flat in this lovely little town for the past two weeks, and I've enjoyed every minute of it. Morning coffee and some work each day at Caffe Nero (one of the only places open at 6:30 am). Afternoon runs up to and around Priory Park. Meeting up (four times!) with Oliver from nearby Portsmouth for challenging tennis. Occasional visits to The Old Cross pub for a pint or to watch a football game. Shopping for groceries at Marks & Spencer, or for clothes at FatFace and White Stuff.
Watching episodes of the old British The Avengers show my Dad first introduced me to back in the 1970s.
Mrs. Peel — We're needed!
A long walk up to and around the Brandy Hole Copse nature reserve. Walking around town in the shadow of Chichester Cathedral. Finding the local bookstore, going in for one book, coming out with four. Buying fresh vegetables at the Wednesday farmer's market. Discovering The Park Tavern, stopping there for a small beer while I work.
Park Tavern patrons taking their pints to the sunny side of the street
It was all great. Well, almost. There were some disappointments ...
It hasn't been the complete English experience, of course
Still. I'm reminded of William Carlos Williams, who famously called out the value of the unexceptionally simple. Or perhaps the exceptionally simple.
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens
—"XXII", William Carlos Williams
That's the way I feel about these last two simple, easy, relaxed, calming, important, beautiful, green, and calming weeks in Chichester.
Oh, and calming.
Anyway, great thanks to the Goodwins for allowing me to conclude this unusual three-month exile in such a wonderful way. Today: Up to Luton airport. Tomorrow: Home.
Back in the spring of 2013, one Saturday in Budapest, Dave Goodwin — a young Brit who came to my company as an intern and quickly become a friend — invited me to go the Caledonia pub with him to watch the football. His favorite team back home, Crystal Palace, was playing a tremendously important game against arch-rival Brighton, with the winner advancing to a one-game playoff to advance to the Premier League, the top flight of football in England (and, by general consensus, though of course not officially, the world).
Palace, as the team is known by its supporters, had a long history, but had been relegated to the second division eight years before, and as recently as 2010 had been facing financial ruin and dissolution. Its supporters in South London had suffered many years of disappointment, and this opportunity to finally return to the Premier League, had been a long time coming.
I like sports, of course, and had played organized soccer with friends several years in college — and there I was, living in Europe — so I happily joined David, and we watched Palace pull off what turned out to be a famous 2-0 win for Palace.
I had been wanting to start following European soccer more closely — and the Premier League in particular — but I had a rule: If you start following any professional sport, you're not allowed to choose a perennial winner as your "favorite" team unless you live in that team's city. It's boring, and it suggests you're more interested in the reflected glory than in actually following a club.
So here was Crystal Palace: A historically-decent-but-never-actually-good club, famous for its remarkable (and remarkably vocal) fan support, and based on what I gathered from David, genuine credibility, but with an olllllld stadium in South London, a low profile, and an unimpressive track record
Perfect. I was sold.
Look familiar? It's the base for the fake F.C. Richmond team in Ted Lasso
In the middle of the next season I moved to Prague, and I started trying to watch every Palace game I could — which was a lot, obviously, as I didn't have many friends there, especially at the beginning, and most American sporting events were on way too late at night for me to actually enjoy. Various online stream options made it pretty straight-forward.
Being a real fan of a football team, I've discovered, takes commitment. Watching a game now and then — even live, in the stadium — just won't do it. You can enjoy the game, of course, and you can hope your team wins. But unless you know the players, know the stories, know their history and the club's — unless you know the stakes — you just can't be fully invested. Football is a game of personality, and the relationship between the club's players and the fans is a critical part of what makes it work.
What that meant, for me, is that the first few years, I wasn't quite in the loop. I watched, and after a while I started to care, but if you asked me who my favorite player was, or what made a particular win special, I couldn't have told you. It wasn't a blur, particularly, but it was a superficial fandom, enthusiastic but shallow.
Still, I worked at it. I went to London every year or two for one reason or another and made a point of visiting Selhurst Park with David, falling in love with the ancient brick stadium and the anachronistic spectacle of the games. Fans actually paying attention to the games more than the scoreboard, and screaming with joy and outrage throughout. It was wonderful.
Enjoying a night game at Selhurst Park with David, far left
And Palace, generally, did well. They grew, and never seriously risked relegation again since I started paying attention, but also never seemed to build much on their success, so while some teams would drop past them and then into relegation (Leicester City), other would come out of the second division (called, confusingly, "The Championship") and move right on past Palace up the table (Brighton).
With the bottom three teams being relegated to the Championship each year, and the top 7-8 teams qualifying to play in European leagues the following year, Palace charted its own consistent but underwhelming course. It became something of a joke.
Indeed, this season, with two games left to play, Palace is in ... twelfth place.
Still, over time, my enthusiasm for team grew along with my understanding of it, helped by a weekly club podcast I listen to that keeps me informed of the personalities, characters, and backgrounds of the players, the passion and investment of its long-term fans, and the context of it all.
I don't even compare myself to the long-term fans, of course. I've followed Palace from afar for the past 12 years or so, but I'm not from South London — I'm not even English — and I don't have the generations of passion (and disappointment) invested in the club that so many people do. My primary fandom will always be directed at the Michigan Wolverines and Detroit Tigers, I imagine, so Palace isn't my life the way it is for so many people around me during my visits to Selhurst Park.
David and some of his Palace friends outside Selhurst
But ... I don't know. Michigan football plays 11-12 games a year, compared to Palace's 50 or so. Controversy about how recent successes have been achieved at Michigan have tainted my enthusiasm for the team somewhat. I'm not, at the moment, at a particular high point in my Michigan fandom.
What's more, my experience of American sports fandom has, in recent years, been affected by the same strains of cruelty, crudeness, and vulgarity that have tainted by experience of American political life. Reading message boards and listening to podcasts in America can be ... distasteful, sometimes, whether the subject is the Michigan quarterback or the Secretary of Defense.
Meanwhile, Palace fans — at least in my limited experience — have been smart, friendly, open-minded, welcoming, and supportive. Some evidence of the general vibe can be found in the Tifo (here) created by the Holmesdale Fanatics — the most passionate group of Crystal Palace super-fans, who all sit in the particular end of the stadium for which they are names and are most crazed, leading the cheers and acting in all ways most insane —for Saturday's game at Wembley.
For the biggest game in club history, let's celebrate ... a father watching with his kids.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
----------------
The FA Cup
America is, of course, familiar with the distinction between a league season and a knock-out tournament ... it's just that we tend to have them one after another, and connect them. Pretty much every major American sport, including now college football, has a regular season involving round-robin play, which results in a "regular season champion," and then begins what we call "play-offs," in which the highest achieving teams during that regular season play against each other in a win-and-advance format to determine the overall champion.
In some leagues, like the NFL, this works well, because it is generally expected that the better team will win the great majority of its games, so the Super Bowl, at the end of a playoff season, is a reasonable way to determine the season's best team.
In some leagues, like major league baseball, this does not work as well, because the better team usually only wins 60-65% of its games, meaning in any short series, the inferior team has a significant chance of winning and knocking the better team out. As a result, the World Series Championship only occasionally goes to the team almost everyone agrees was that season's best.
Regardless, though, the knock-out round — the playoffs (or the NCAA tournament in college basketball) — is considered part of the season, not separate from it.
Not in European soccer/football, where the two are completely separate, held simultaneously, and, usually, managed by completely different (and in some senses competing) organizations. Thus, the Premier League represents the 20 best and strongest clubs in English football, and each team plays a 38-game season, one game against each opponent, home and away, with the team accumulating the most points winning the title. (This year, that's Liverpool). Meanwhile, over the course of the year, those same teams compete in separate competitions: The League Cup and The FA Cup. The League Cup, as you might have guessed, is fought for only between teams in the Premier League (and this year Newcastle won, for its first title in 70 seasons). Meanwhile the FA Cup is fought for by all 900 teams in English football (and, as a result, sometimes you get wonderful matches involving one of the biggest and richest teams in the world playing on a tiny pitch, in a small English town, against a ragamuffin club composed of semi-pro players).
In addition to a trophy, the winner of the FA Cup also gains automatic admission to one of the two pan-European football leagues — the Europa League, meaning the winning team will, as it is commonly expressed, "play in Europe" next year.
Is it better to win the Premier League or the FA Cup? It's not clear. Probably the Premier League, honestly, which — because every team plays every other team, and teams are not eliminated simply for one bad game — is less random, and more grueling. But different people have different opinions, and winning the FA Cup means, by definition, that you never tripped up, and beat every team you faced. Also, unlike the Premier League, where the winner is usually determined weeks before the end of the season, the FA Cup concludes with one winner-take-all game — sort of the country's Super Bowl. That makes that game a spectacle unlike any other, and provides a remarkable climax to the competition.
Tiny little Crystal Palace had never won any of the three competitions — Premier League (or its predecessors), the League Cup, or the FA Cup, although it had made it all the way to the finals of the FA Cup twice in its history, losing in 1990, when they actually tied Manchester United, leading to a replay, which they lost, and losing in 2016, when they scored a surprising late goal (again against heavily favored Manchester United), only to see their hopes ripped away from them by two late strikes, losing 1-2.
So Palace had never lifted one of the three biggest trophies in the sport, and it has never "played in Europe."
------------
Out of Nowhere
As last season wore on, Crystal Palace was struggling, and there was little magic. Some of the club's best players were injured for much of the season, and hopes began to dim. They sank slowly towards 15th place in the league, making relegation a possibility, and forcing the team to hire a new manager mid-season — Austrian Oliver Glassner — in the hopes he could salvage what was rapidly spiraling to disappointment.
Glassner succeeded beyond anyone's wildest dreams. Buoyed by the fortunate return of some of those injured players — most notably budding world super-star Michael Olise — the team quickly stabilized ... and then exploded,winning six of its last seven games (and tying the other), including dominant performances against powerhouses Manchester United (winning 4-0) and Aston Villa (winning 5-0) to finish the season with the most points in club history, and in 10th place in the league.
As a result, even though Olise left in the summer — for world super-power Bayern Munich, which snapped him up quickly — hopes were high going into this season.
And the team responded ... by falling on its face, winning one of its first thirteen games.
Even once the club finally righted itself, most fans essentially wrote off the season, contenting themselves with watching and enjoying the games, appreciating the effort the team put in, acknowledging the talent on display, and hoping that next season would be something special.
But, all of a sudden, the team ... just kept winning. And winning. And winning. Though any hopes of actually taking a historic position in the Premier League table were long out the window, from January on Palace played as well as almost any team in Europe, with only Liverpool and Arsenal having better records from New Year's on in the Premier League.
As for the FA Cup ... well, fortunately for Palace, Premier League teams don't start playing FA Cup games until January — well after the team had found its footing — and Palace kept winning those matches as well. And I kept watching, even managing to watch one big FA Cup win, against Millwall, on my laptop at Panera one Saturday morning in Ann Arbor.
Palace kept playing well, in both the Premier League and the FA Cup, and they kept winning, ultimately reaching the FA Cup final at England's national stadium, Wembley, where they would meet up, yet again, witha team from Manchester — but this time their opponent would be Saudi-owned and funded Manchester City, not United.
Still, hopes were high. The game was at a neutral field, of course, but Wembley is in London, not Manchester. Palace was playing well, and perhaps this time finally, the 120 year old club could overcome the odds and win one.
The great majority of England was cheering for Palace as well — an underdog team with an undistinguished history playing against one of the two or three richest teams in the world, which had dominated its competition for the past decade.
Thus, the game was described by some as being "for the soul of football in England." City is corporate to its core, with its Saudi owners paying the collection of superstar players over three times what Palace was able to pay its. (City's highest paid player, Erling Haaland, makes $36 million a year, while Palace's highest-paid, Daichi Kamada, makes about about $7 million). City's stadium, the Etihad, was built in the 21st century and holds about 54,000 people. Palace's stadium was built in 1924 and holds less than half that. City had won the FA Cup seven times, most recently in 2023, and had won the Premier League 8 of the last 14 years — and 4 of the last 5. Palace had never won any serious competition.
In all relevant ways, this was David vs. Goliath, and most of England was happy to put its support behind David.
When it ended the Palace players collapsed in relief and exhaustion and joy, and Wembley rocked with the pent-up emotion of a century. I, watching at the Old Cross pub in Chichester and wearing my new white Crystal Palace t-shirt, hugged and high-fived the old guys around me, all of whom were long-term Palace supporters.
I was wearing a Palace shirt, promise!
Palace with the trophy. Palace about to play in Europe. For one day, all of English football was looking up at Palace.
---------------
Watching the post-match videos, I was really struck by all the emotion on display — from the players, certainly, but primarily from the fans. Listening to post-match interviews and podcasts, people kept breaking down talking about fathers who had introduced them to the club and other family members who had shared their passion but died before having the opportunity to revel in this one, big, victory. That subject came up again and again, with tears, but also with happiness — life-long fans able to have one day of their own.
Watch it. It's good.
And I started thinking about ... what sporting experiences in my American life came close to what they were going through. I don't think American sports provides this exact feeling, though. Professional sports don't, really, because we don't have relegation. You always are competing for the title, every year. And most professional franchises have various financial structures in place to at least provide hope to each team that, if they build correctly over time, they could win.
I suppose there are exceptions. For me, as a Michigan football fan, the 1969 and 2021 wins against Ohio State come close, even though they weren't for championships, as such. But in terms of finally finally getting across the line, I understood that feeling of relief, of joy, of some ... amazement. Shock, really, but ... unreality, and amazement. (I watched the 2021 win on a pub TV in Prague, then spent the next hour just walking around the neighborhood, happily, an unwavering grin on my face).
Only 3000 miles away from Ann Arbor when Michigan finally won it
But it's difficult to argue that Michigan football — the winningest program in the history of the sport — is really ever an underdog.
Maybe when the Cubs finally won the World Series, or the Red Sox? That must have felt similar, though even there, both teams had payrolls that matched (or beat) all the other teams that played, so you're not really talking about David vs. Goliath in the same way.
When I hear about fans in Toronto dreaming about winning a Stanley Cup, I imagine it must feel like this. One of the Original Six teams in the NHL, the Maple Leafs haven't won the Cup in almost 60 years. Again, they're not quite like Palace. Their budget is similar to the teams that do win it, and they compete on an even level with them, even if they're never able to pull it off in the playoffs. It won't be an upset when they win — just long overdue.
I don't know. I'm certainly not meaning to argue that American sports are inferior. Nothing matches the thrill and community-bonding-togetherness of a baseball pennant race, the remarkable spectacle of a Super Bowl, the three weeks of March Madness, or the ongoing intensity of a seven-game World Series. And perhaps NFL fans in Buffalo or Minnesota can understand coming so close several times and never winning, always having to watch other fans celebrate. Everyone has their own sense.
In any event, as I said, I don't claim ownership of this FA Cup win the way most here do. I'm not a life-long Crystal Palace fan. I'm a dilettante, an outsider, an American, enjoying the team's recent run of success without having in any real way having had to suffer through its years —decades — of disappointment. I've never even seen the team play in a division below the top flight, which ... they did, not that long ago. But ... I've done my best, and I've been allowed to dip my toe into this cultural phenomenon, cheer on from seats at Selhurst, buy the t-shirts, and groan at the losses. This isn't in any way my win, but hell, this is the team I chose to follow, and I've stuck with them over the past decade. I'm allowed to enjoy it.
It's nice, sometimes, to see the little guy win big.
