Indelible stamp on the brain (USA / Czech Republic / UK)

I heard last week that a friend who’d lost her husband recently still hears his Parkinson’s-induced shuffling footsteps around the house, nearly two months after his demise.

    This reminds me of my own experiences of the brain retaining sounds after the event.

    I was visiting an American friend who was living in Hartford, Connecticut, at the time.  During my fortnight-long stay there, I’d hear police car sirens frequently throughout the day and night.  

    After my return, I’d continue to hear those sirens for a while.  I lived in a cul-de-sac in a residential part of Highbury (a suburb in Zone 2 of London), therefore not exposed to traffic sounds, not even police car sirens.  Also, this was 1983, with British police car sirens having a different pitch from American ones.

    I went to Prague at Easter 1992, staying three nights at a Brit’s flat in Dejvická, a residential area of Prague that has a tramline a few hundred yards from the flat.  I could hear the keklunk-keklunk of the tram at night.

    Back in Highbury, where there isn’t a tram line, that same keklunk-keklunk that I’d heard over only three nights would play in my head night after night for a while after my return.

(USA, 1983 / Czech Republic, 1992 / UK, 2025)

The assertiveness of Americans: 01 (Connecticut, USA)

An American chap, Michael — who’d done his MA in S.E.Asian History at SOAS during my BA days there — continued to keep in touch after he went back.  One day, he said he was going to write a guide book on Connecticut.  What did that entail, I asked.  Driving around all the places in Connecticut, writing up notes on features in those places, then going home to do write-ups on them, he said.  As one needs a car to travel around in America, I leapt at the opportunity to tag along as a passenger, offering to cook for him, and type up and edit his writings.

One day, since Michael was going into town, I decided to get some more U.S. dollars.  Which bank?  “Might as well go to mine,” said Michael.  He stood in one corner of the enormous marbled hall area, gesturing me towards the counter.

The bank clerk took my Thomas Cooke sterling travellers’ cheques, then asked for my passport.  When she saw that it was a Singapore passport, she told me they didn’t accept Thomas Cooke travellers’ cheques.  If they didn’t accept them, I thought, there was nothing else to do but go elsewhere.

Michael could see from his corner that something was not right, so as I turned away from the counter, he came up and asked, “What’s happened?!  Why haven’t you changed your travellers’ cheques??”  I said, “They say they don’t accept Thomas Cooke cheques.”  Michael said, “Nonsense.”  

He went up to the clerk, and asked her, “What’s wrong with her Thomas Cooke travellers’ cheques?  I will have you know that Thomas Cooke is the second largest in the world, with x branches in y countries.”  The clerk stuck to her guns, “I’m sorry, Sir, we don’t accept Thomas Cooke cheques.”  Michael said, “Where’s your manager?  I want to see your manager and close my two accounts.”  

A little while later, the manager came out.  Michael went with him into the office behind the counter, then emerged a couple of minutes later, issuing this instruction to me:  “Go and change your cheques.”

Back in the car, Michael said, “This is America, you know, kiddo.  You must not act meek and mild.”  I said, “I’m not ACTING meek and mild.  I’ve just not been brought up to be so assertive.”

(Connecticut, USA, 1983)