I met an old Englishwoman in Bristol. She shared a room with me at night. Her eyes looked older than her body. She talked a lot. Too much, actually. She told me how much she hates England even though she grew up in Brighton. “The English are cliquey”. She liked her two hundred year old house in Portugal where she spends her winters but she seemed to like Thailand better where she spends her summers.

Three tomatoes. Cheese. A can of beans. And, a toast. This was my dinner as she was worried that I might have to go out in the cold to eat. Her uncle was with the East India Company. “He had a good time there.”

Did she have any family? A daughter in America and a brother in Canada.

I thanked her for dinner and went to check my email. Later, she wished me a wonderful night and said how pretty I looked without all the sweaters.

I had to leave the next morning. I wanted to meet her but I didn’t know where she was. I left her a note. I wonder if she found it.

While walking in Bath, I stopped for lunch. I ate and then went to the bathroom and cried.

“And one day I read in the papers that the hotel I stayed in was being demolished.”

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