Great Britain

Still at the conference - it was strangely patriotic. I was caught completely off-guard by the nationalism.

Everyone is boasting about British technology, how many millions Britain is spending, what the industry is worth to Britain. A British sensor, a British subsystem, a British payload and especially a British astronaut. Again and again and again. It was the message I would have expected from the US, or a developing country with with threatening neighbours, or a teenager with self-image problems.

At first I thought it was simply to tell (British) students that there is a place for them, that they can contribute something, make a difference. But when a speaker highlighted the differences (and indifferences) in reporting about space here and in Europe, it started morphing into something darker. Us and them, agian. Pride? Or fear?

Yet, as soon as someone talks about the ideals, it is about the good of mankind.

Encountering old dreams

Yesterday I found myself at a conference, a meeting of students interested in or involved with space. There were talks by people from industry, a BBC man and scientists too. But it was definitely a student thing - the exhibition and recruitment by potential employers confirmed this. On a campus that felt overcrowded with buildings. Like a medieval walled city, but built in the 70s and 80s, in a largely inoffensive style. And then some modern redevelopments, from when a university's architecture again had to reflect it future-looking vision.

The attendees were young, mostly male, but not exclusively so. Generally bright, interested, but above all optimistic. And 99% of the room wanted to be astronauts once, at least 40% (those without glasses) still want to be.

And the optimism should have been contagious, but it mostly passed me by. Maybe I've become a cynic? Then I realised that the people around me were living the choices I did not make. The master's program I discovered too late, but still considered, the offer from the university I declined (the very university hosting the day), people staying in industry, or heading towards it with a mix of trepidation and excitement.

But they were interesting people, with interesting experiences, to the point where I felt distinct pangs of jealousy. I try to console myself: that I made my own decisions, they are being groomed into industrial bunnies, and that some might very well be jealous of me. But still. You're not supposed to be confronted with the roads you did not take.

I have to rush away from the dinner party, to catch my train. Suddenly it is dark, and raining fat cold drops. I make it, with 2 minutes to spare. As the train pulls away, I can see some late Guy Fawkes rockets explode in the sky.

Teardrops

There is a woman I sometimes see on the bus. She has a talkative girl in a bright Barbie pink pushcart, who also wears an anorak of the same colour. She looks as if she might be from West Africa - exactly where I cannot tell. There is a tiny scar on each of her cheeks, just below the eyes. Almost like teardrops.

I always wonder how she came to be here - I suspect her story would be much more interesting than mine.

Silence

At dinner a few nights ago, we suddenly had one of those unplanned silent moments, where all conversation, clinging of cutlery and chair scraping fades away to leave us with only the purr of the refrigerator.

"It must be 20 minutes before or after the hour", said the engineer. It was 20h32. "Well, that's what we say Greece, even though it's never accurate".

"When I was in France, the people said an angel passes through the room", says the Erasmus student. "And in Russia we say a policeman is born."

What does this tell us about the respective cultures?

Woman at the bus stop

While I'm waiting for the bus outside Asda, a woman joins queue.  

Tallish, almost middle-aged.  But it is the hat you notice first - true Robin Hood style, feather included.  When she turns, there is a swirl of the long purple cape, the lower edge frayed from dragging on the ground.  A smallish stuffed silver dragon tries to crawl from her suitably medieval knapsack. 

The trendy 18-year-olds peer and giggle.

She gets on the bus with me, pays her fare, and disembarks at Portswood.