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A Softspoken Name Collector
A curious run-in which transpired in the basement of a Brighton tea room
Richard Campbell: by his account, there is hardly a more ‘British’ name than his own. I encountered Mr. Campbell over Spring Break, when I was in Brighton, a beach town along the south coast of England that embodied the carefree carnival charms of places like Coney Island before there was a Coney Island.
After walking the length of Brighton Pier (a rather high boardwalk that goes perpendicularly into the water instead of along the shore), snacking on fish and chips, and touring Prince Regent and later King George IV’s Royal Pavilion (with an exterior designed to look like an Indian palace and an interior that’s all “chinoiserie”), my two travelling companions and I went to a small tea shop, The Mock Turtle, to recuperate. Though it was not the height of the tourist season in Brighton, it was tea time (I have a hunch that you would be hard pressed to find a time that isn’t appropriate for tea in Anglo culture), and the establishment was crowded. We jumped at the opporunity to get a table, even if it was in the close-quarters basement, and at a round table shared by other guests. At the other times when I had had this seating arrangement in NYC it has resulted in memorable arrangements and amusing eavesdropping, and so I was curious to see what might happen this time.
We were seated at a small round table in the corner with an oversized-floral centerpiece where an older gentleman was already sitting in a double-breasted tweed overcoat and a scarf despite the warm temperatures in the crowded cafe basement and the nice spring day outside. He already had a pot of tea steeping and was gingerly cutting away at a doughy, globular pastry that appeared to be experiencing an ice age of sugar crystals. His was very nearly bald and had cartoonishly large ears (like a septuagenarian Wallace, but I suspect, with worse teeth). In Prague it is not unusual to see the respectably-dressed elderly walking in the city centers and taking public transportation, but this seemed much rarer to me in England, and especially New York. I was intrigued by this man’s relatively sophisticated dress-sense (after being bombarded with some fairly unpleasant wares at H&M, Top Shop and dirt-cheap Primark) and after a few glances I had reached the point of awkward eye-contact with a stranger that someone has to begin speaking.
He began by telling me that he came to The Mock Turtle “every fortnight” for tea and a doughnut after visiting his younger sister who lives in Brighton and as he continued talking to me, about his family members’ names and ages, which names were old fashioned or were the same as film stars (so old I had never heard of most of them), it became clear that my two companions were going to be integrated into the conversation. When they joined, he did indeed delight at their names, the classic ‘Veronica’ and the unusual ‘Anneke’ (here in its Dutch spelling) not to mention my own, the hebreish rarity, Ari. With his keen interest in the personalities of the silver screen, I was a little concerned that we wouldn’t have much more to talk about with Richard, but since he was so eager to reach out and talk to us, it would be too callous to ignore him and return to our small talk and trifles.
Somehow, we chanced upon the topic of music, and he said he used to play piano as a boy, though abandoned it when he began working as a shopkeeper (which sounded like it was his job until becoming a pensioner – he’s concerned that he won’t be able to purchase much more than the tea and doughnut under David Cameron’s austerity budget). Richard to me, seemed to illustrate the pejorative remark, perhaps popularized by Napoleon, about England being a “nation of shopkeepers,” and he seemed especially insular when he confessed not to enjoy any ‘foreign’ cuisines, only Great British foods, and we assured him that we were cooking some that evening (it was actually tortellini). As we were getting ready to leave, I picked up my camera, which had been resting on my lap, and Richard asked if I wanted to take his picture. I was surprised, but gladly did so, because lately I’ve felt less bold with my photos, since my semi-manual camera requires more time to compose a shot and I (perhaps mistakenly) try not to be obvious when photographing strangers, and I think the tenor of my travel photography has suffered as a result.
After taking his photo, he asked us if we would write him postcards from Oxford, New York, and Prague, respectively, and gave us his address. At first, I didn't think I would send him anything, but then I realized that there was a landmark here he would love to get a card of: the Estates Theater Opera (one of three), which was the house where Mozart conducted the premiere of Don Giovanni over 200 years ago. When I hurriedly asked him if he knew about opera, because perhaps his dislike of foreign things extended to a language-heavy theater-going experience, he replied by quizzing me on no less than Verdi and Strauss. Quite unfortunately, I haven’t yet found a postcard with the opera house!
[my pictures, naturally]
After walking the length of Brighton Pier (a rather high boardwalk that goes perpendicularly into the water instead of along the shore), snacking on fish and chips, and touring Prince Regent and later King George IV’s Royal Pavilion (with an exterior designed to look like an Indian palace and an interior that’s all “chinoiserie”), my two travelling companions and I went to a small tea shop, The Mock Turtle, to recuperate. Though it was not the height of the tourist season in Brighton, it was tea time (I have a hunch that you would be hard pressed to find a time that isn’t appropriate for tea in Anglo culture), and the establishment was crowded. We jumped at the opporunity to get a table, even if it was in the close-quarters basement, and at a round table shared by other guests. At the other times when I had had this seating arrangement in NYC it has resulted in memorable arrangements and amusing eavesdropping, and so I was curious to see what might happen this time.
We were seated at a small round table in the corner with an oversized-floral centerpiece where an older gentleman was already sitting in a double-breasted tweed overcoat and a scarf despite the warm temperatures in the crowded cafe basement and the nice spring day outside. He already had a pot of tea steeping and was gingerly cutting away at a doughy, globular pastry that appeared to be experiencing an ice age of sugar crystals. His was very nearly bald and had cartoonishly large ears (like a septuagenarian Wallace, but I suspect, with worse teeth). In Prague it is not unusual to see the respectably-dressed elderly walking in the city centers and taking public transportation, but this seemed much rarer to me in England, and especially New York. I was intrigued by this man’s relatively sophisticated dress-sense (after being bombarded with some fairly unpleasant wares at H&M, Top Shop and dirt-cheap Primark) and after a few glances I had reached the point of awkward eye-contact with a stranger that someone has to begin speaking.
He began by telling me that he came to The Mock Turtle “every fortnight” for tea and a doughnut after visiting his younger sister who lives in Brighton and as he continued talking to me, about his family members’ names and ages, which names were old fashioned or were the same as film stars (so old I had never heard of most of them), it became clear that my two companions were going to be integrated into the conversation. When they joined, he did indeed delight at their names, the classic ‘Veronica’ and the unusual ‘Anneke’ (here in its Dutch spelling) not to mention my own, the hebreish rarity, Ari. With his keen interest in the personalities of the silver screen, I was a little concerned that we wouldn’t have much more to talk about with Richard, but since he was so eager to reach out and talk to us, it would be too callous to ignore him and return to our small talk and trifles.
Somehow, we chanced upon the topic of music, and he said he used to play piano as a boy, though abandoned it when he began working as a shopkeeper (which sounded like it was his job until becoming a pensioner – he’s concerned that he won’t be able to purchase much more than the tea and doughnut under David Cameron’s austerity budget). Richard to me, seemed to illustrate the pejorative remark, perhaps popularized by Napoleon, about England being a “nation of shopkeepers,” and he seemed especially insular when he confessed not to enjoy any ‘foreign’ cuisines, only Great British foods, and we assured him that we were cooking some that evening (it was actually tortellini). As we were getting ready to leave, I picked up my camera, which had been resting on my lap, and Richard asked if I wanted to take his picture. I was surprised, but gladly did so, because lately I’ve felt less bold with my photos, since my semi-manual camera requires more time to compose a shot and I (perhaps mistakenly) try not to be obvious when photographing strangers, and I think the tenor of my travel photography has suffered as a result.
After taking his photo, he asked us if we would write him postcards from Oxford, New York, and Prague, respectively, and gave us his address. At first, I didn't think I would send him anything, but then I realized that there was a landmark here he would love to get a card of: the Estates Theater Opera (one of three), which was the house where Mozart conducted the premiere of Don Giovanni over 200 years ago. When I hurriedly asked him if he knew about opera, because perhaps his dislike of foreign things extended to a language-heavy theater-going experience, he replied by quizzing me on no less than Verdi and Strauss. Quite unfortunately, I haven’t yet found a postcard with the opera house!
[my pictures, naturally]
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