The Past Comes Welling Up
11/10/09 21:53![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madrobinsWhen I was 22, after surviving The Winter of My Discontent (during which I wrote my first book, roomed with my mother in a one-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles, and wanted to be anywhere else), I sent my manuscript off to an editor in New York, then went to England and Europe for what was supposed to be a six week trip. Sold the book while I was there, and stayed, working a variety of odd jobs, traveling around, being young and curious about the world. When I was in London I lived at The Younger House, a youth hostel in Barkston Gardens, Earl's Court, a cheerfully chaotic place where people stayed for a day or a week or a month. Breakfast was served in a room in the back on the ground floor, you could sit around in the lounge talking or reading or singing, the rooms upstairs were stuffed with bunk bed dorms. There were people from everywhere--a guy in the chorus of The Rocky Horror Show, two women I wound up traveling with who were from South Africa, Americans, Irish, Scots, Australians, kids from all over Europe. It was cheap, so most of the people who stayed there were young and impecunious; I made some friends, most of whom I've lost touch with over the intervening years.
Then yesterday I got a note on Facebook from a guy who found my name and address in an old address book from '74-76, and wanted to know if I was that Madeleine Robins. He remembered that I had written a book I was calling "Ally" (it was published as Althea) and that I wore glasses. I mentioned a concert a bunch of us had gone to at Albert Hall where we heard the 1812 Overture and he remembered it clearly (it's still the best performance of the piece that either of us have ever heard); I remember climbing up 12 flights to the cheap seats--where there were not, in fact, seats, and one of the group, who didn't know that the 1812 Overture featured "explosions" at the end, running in terror at the end, thinking the IRA was attacking...
I spent an hour today remembering all this stuff. It was really a great time. And through the magic of The Interwebs it all came back. Neat.
Then yesterday I got a note on Facebook from a guy who found my name and address in an old address book from '74-76, and wanted to know if I was that Madeleine Robins. He remembered that I had written a book I was calling "Ally" (it was published as Althea) and that I wore glasses. I mentioned a concert a bunch of us had gone to at Albert Hall where we heard the 1812 Overture and he remembered it clearly (it's still the best performance of the piece that either of us have ever heard); I remember climbing up 12 flights to the cheap seats--where there were not, in fact, seats, and one of the group, who didn't know that the 1812 Overture featured "explosions" at the end, running in terror at the end, thinking the IRA was attacking...
I spent an hour today remembering all this stuff. It was really a great time. And through the magic of The Interwebs it all came back. Neat.