tram to croydon

you realize, gliding along with a buzz behind backs of buildings, sat next to your 70-something father--no spring chicken yourself--that there is no need for a time machine. time has a way of speeding itself up and slowing itself down all its own.

a grey sky hangs over south london as your carriage fills with more and more people, people of all ages, destined for all corners of the metropolis but mostly for the sales and shopping in the town center. you are on your way to meet your father's old friend and his family, unseen for 30+ years. a reunion long in the making.

you look at yourself in the reflection of the plexiglass barrier by the carriage doors. you will always look the same to yourself, or close enough to sameness; it is the natural result of living in one's own skin. you look down at your jeans and slip-on loafers. perhaps not what you'd have worn a decade ago but nothing extreme sartorially speaking.

life is different. a sea change of sorts which began in your late 20s reached full steam around 31 and has bottomed out now in an attitude of calm acceptance of your life and that which it contains. there is no more uncertain yearning or trepidation; you have a pretty good read now on yourself and others. your bullshit meter is well calibrated, or at the very least you have shed the desire to please everyone all of the time. now, it doesn't really matter as long as the money comes in and the vague part of your mind that understands acceptance or pleasure is minimally stimulated.

which is not to say you don't enjoy things or seek pleasure. another benefit of these times is your clarified understanding of what you want. all those days and hours in your 20s spent in bars, dreaming of an alternate life, of achieving what you thought inevitable. it makes you want to spit in mild disgust. there was nothing very difficult about achievement. there was no barrier all along. it was all in your mind. the tram's buzzing ceases and you slowly ease into the station at mitcham junction.

but you can't blame your 20-something self. he knew no better, he was only living with what he had. it becomes your mantra in your new enlightened period. everyone is just trying to get by the way they know how. you had heard a self-help guru say it on a public television fundraiser and it resonated with you. perhaps the younger you would have dismissed the source and spewed some sort of indignance at the simplicity of the statement; these days you will take anything if it looks good enough on first inspection.

at long last, east croydon and you alight into the breezy cold. the clouds have disappeared and a robin's egg sky flecked with white billows extends infinitely above. you ask your father who to look out for but before the words finish he has spotted his old mate. they embrace and soon you are in a minivan on your way to sutton for dinner.

after a long evening of drinking champagne and presenting a succinct and carefully edited version of yourself to new faces, you settle back into bed in hanger lane. as your father brushes his teeth, you ask him what it was like to alight from the tram and suddenly see your best friend for the first time in 35 years. who was once a tall, striking young brit abroad was suddenly before you now an old man hunched in tweed and sporting a churchillian visage.

"hmm. it was different, that's for sure," he remarks. the thought doesn't seem to bother him. you don't yet know what 35 years feel like. perhaps at your father's age, it is enough time to understand that all things will change, all things will transform immensely. whatever remains will be celebrated, not scrutinized. but to you, at age 32, it all seems scary and surreal.

you look outside before switching off the lights. dark clouds have once again formed above. there is no moon to illuminate the cottages behind the hotel. london sits under a late evening gloom, as it has for centuries.

Translated from the Hmong by Kobe Bryant