Pamplona’s Pearl – Revisiting the Small Town Heartbeat of Hemingway’s First Love

On the Road with Hemingway - Pamplona, Spain

Toasting Hemingway at Café Iruña.

Traveling can be exhausting. Even more exhausting than traveling: hosteling. And too many picnics consisting solely of peanut butter sandwiches are rather exhausting, too. Let’s face it, economizing while traveling is an exhausting business. And that’s why about a third of the way into my two-month long European travels, I decided to take a few days to pamper and recuperate. And no better place to do it than in Pamplona, Spain, where Ernest Hemingway spent a good deal of time doing the same thing … at La Perla, a five-star hotel on the corner of la Plaza del Castillo.

Most people go to Europe to see the sights, to check a few must-dos off their bucket lists, to immerse themselves in new cultures. I don’t deny any of those reasons for going to Europe. But my primary reason for remaining in Europe after my London study abroad program ended was due to Hemingway. Perhaps going all the way to Europe to learn about the life of an American author sounds a bit strange. But Hemingway was a well-traveled ex-patriot who spent a good deal of his life outside of the states.

And so as my travels through Spain came to a close, I decided to spend my last two days in Pamplona at La Perla. (In honor of Hemingway, of course.) I can confidently say that I am probably the first resident of this posh hotel to arrive by bus. Of course, there aren’t any bus stops anywhere near La Perla’s glitzy domain, so after de-boarding the bus, I proceeded to roll my luggage several blocks to the hotel. I arrived in the beautifully carpeted and chandeliered entranceway heaving and slightly sweaty.

The concierge pretended not to notice. Instead, he showed me to my room, which was dedicated to yet another American author – Orson Welles. His name glimmered in gold letters by the door.

“We don’t like him much here,” the concierge said, cheerily, as he opened the door.

Bullfighting - not just a sport but a lifestyle in Pamplona.

Following him inside, I found that I’d purchased what appeared to be a small house for two days, not just a room. A long hallway led to the bathroom area on my left and to a large sitting room before me. Beautifully carved chairs and a small table in the sitting room pulled me through the entranceway. Only then did I see the huge and dreamy bed with Egyptian cotton sheets awaiting my tired limbs. I had touch-sensor reading lamps, a large desk for writing and a mini-fridge all to myself. Goodbye hostel, hello 5-star hotel!

The bathroom was a treasure unto itself. I could have easily fit the entire bedroom from my previous hostel inside the hydro massage cabin, marble-tiled walk-in shower – no hyperbole necessary. (The concierge proudly told me about the high-power jet stream, but I didn’t catch the details because I’d just noticed the large footed double bathtub and a basket of ointments promising a luxurious bubble bath in my near future.) In a separate room, off of the bathing area I found the toilet, and rather unnecessary bidet (bidet for one?) – a staple item in every hotel and hostel where I stayed. (Even when I had to share a bathroom with other guests, I always had a bidet to myself.) I quickly found the “royal” bathrobe, which I wore as much as possible, even out on my picturesque balcony, which opened out onto Calle Estafeta, the street where the annual running of the bulls takes place.

A large portrait of Orson Wells hanging near the bed reminded me to ask why La Perla wasn’t fond of the American writer.

“He never paid his bill,” the concierge said with disdain.

I made a mental note. “And Hemingway?”

“Always,” he beamed. “A man of great class and poise.”

Ernest and me, in front of Plaza de Torros in Pamplona.

“Ernest Hemingway” was on everyone’s lips in Pamplona. The name was uttered with reverence, as if the very consonants and vowels were made of gold. (The larger-than-life statue placed right outside the Plaza de Torros is actually gold-tinged.) I couldn’t stop at a café for a cortado (espresso shot cut with milk) without hearing his name. Hemingway had been to every café in town. There was no reason for me to even make a list of the places I should visit. I couldn’t help following Hemingway’s path. He had footprints all over the map!

One afternoon, stepping onto Plaza del Castillo, I found myself in the midst of a rosé wine festival and tasting. For just €3, I received a wine glass (to keep), the opportunity to taste about a dozen wines (and when I say taste, I mean that I received entire glasses at each station) and a pink straw cowboy hat. I proceeded down the line, tasting each rosé. A few were quite good, others (usually those with the most creative names) were not. For instance: 8:00 AM Rosé – an amusing title, rendered all the more amusing because it is one of the drinks of choice during the San Fermin fiestas – that is during the Running of the Bulls. Perhaps the rosé would taste better with a few bulls barreling toward you.

As Pamplona is rather small with only one huge annual event, the entire town had come out for the wine tasting. Live music played in the background and women and children in historical costumes danced through the streets, clapping their hands and chasing beautifully-decorated floats.

Gotta see the hot pink cowboy hat to believe it!

The wine tasting and festival were seemingly desperate activities but they flowed together seamlessly, so that by the end of the afternoon, women dressed in petticoats and mob caps had fashioned pink sombreros to their bonnets and were dancing through the streets with half-filled glasses of rosé. And in the midst of all the singing and dancing, one particularly dapper young fellow in a plaid beret and overcoat roared “To Hemingway!” followed by a thousand toasts, some in English, some in Spanish, and all quite enthusiastic.

Returning to La Perla (cowboy hat safely away) and with Hemingway imminent on my mind, I asked to see his room. I had already looked into actually spending a night in his room but with a price tag of over €1,500 a night and with no desire to pull an Orson Welles, I asked for a tour instead.

Let it be known that Hemingway had exquisitely opulent taste. As someone who has tromped around Europe, dipping inside just about every hotel, café or favorite writing nook boasting his presence, I can say that he was not a cheap date. So I went to my room and changed into my dress and heels before stepping inside Hemingway’s room.

While La Perla was renovated and modernized back in 2007, the hotel preserved several of the rooms’ historical character – those of Pablo Sarasate (Spanish violinist and composer), don Juan de Borbón (the heir-apparent who was usurped by Franco in 1969), the Royal Family, and, of course, “Papa” Ernest Hemingway. Only “Mr. Hemingway’s” room, room 201, has been left untouched, with the same furniture and decoration as when he stayed.

Inside Ernest Hemingway's bedroom at La Perla. The concierge shows me the
Hotel's collection of Fiesta editions.

I must admit that I was rather surprised by the décor. Hemingway posed as the iconic Manly Man – machismo sprouting from his bushy gray beard and four marriages. After all, he came to Pamplona nine times – every time for the eight-day festival characterized by bullfights and lots (and lots) of drinking. So when I walked inside his hotel room, I was surprised to discover that I matched the room in my pink and purple polka-dot dress. Two small beds with ornately carved and hand-painted white and gold headboards rested along a pink patterned silk wallpaper, a small bedside table sat between, over which hung a medallion painting accented by little double-lamp sconces. A small pink loveseat and reading table stood a small distance from the foot of the beds and glass bookshelves flanked either side of the beds, each filled with every Spanish-language edition of Fiesta (The Sun Also Rises) – both Hemingway’s and Pamplona’s debut novel – ever printed.

Hemingway's view of Calle Estafeta. Of course, Hemingway never watched the
encierro from his window. He was always in the thick of it - running
(and sometimes even fighting!) the bulls.

I gravitated to the long windows, which opened out onto the balcony. Just a floor below Hemingway’s room, I shared a similar view of the main street of the Running of the Bulls. Below me, I could see shopkeepers closing, a few locals walking down the street, grocery bags in tow. Turning from the window, I noticed yet one more piece of furniture – one that I had not at first seen. In the corner of the room, was Hemingway’s roll-top writing desk, pen and paper laid out, a wine glass at the ready. The concierge invited me to sit down.

Since talking about my time in Pamplona, I’ve heard many people sigh over how I just missed the San Fermin fiestas. Can you get more Hemingway than the Running of the Bulls in July? But I wouldn’t take anything for the chance that I had to sit in his chair and write for an hour, undisturbed. An opportunity that I would not have had in the early days of July. (After all, one Hemingway aficionado has booked Room 201 for the eight days of the San Fermin festival all the way until 2040.)

At Hemingway's writing desk. I sat in his chair and
journaled for an hour.

Hemingway’s Pamplona changed in the time that he spent there. The Pamplona of today (and even of Hemingway’s last trip) was different than the one he immortalized in The Sun Also Rises. In The Dangerous Summer, a book published by his wife after his death, Hemingway wrote: “Pamplona was rough, as always, overcrowded... I've written Pamplona once, and for keeps. It is all there, as it always was, except forty thousand tourists have been added. There were not twenty tourists when I first went there... four decades ago.”

Now, over one million people flock to the festival each year. Hemingway recognized that he’d –inadvertently – globalized a rather precious local secret. It was a consequence that pained him until the end of his life. He worried that his pearl, Pamplona, had been forever tainted.

I can’t speak for San Fermin, but I can say that Pamplona in the off-season is still quite lovely. The small town vibe is just as real in the springtime as it was when Hemingway first attended San Fermin back in 1925. I saw living, breathing characters and descriptions that could have been lifted from the pages of his novel. Children dancing, singing and climbing on the iconic structure in the center of the square. Teenagers lounging on the benches, eating gelato and flirting outrageously. Grown-ups and the elderly sitting together at the sidewalk cafes, drinking coffees (or something harder), smoking and talking about the day’s events.

Writing at Café Iruña, enjoying a spectacular view of the plaza,
along with my churros con chocolate.

I didn’t feel hurried as I walked along the streets or dipped inside the shops. I spent an hour with a painter inside her studio, listening to her talk about Hemingway and the country house where he lived and wrote for a while. I ducked inside an antique bookshop in hopes of finding my own copy of Fiesta and found instead a copy of Death in the Afternoon with illustrations by Pablo Picasso. Just a few visits to Bar Txoko (my vote: Best Sangria, uhhm, anywhere) and to Café Iruña made me one of the regulars. At Café Iruña, I was greeted by name and brought to the side bar, where I toasted a grand statue of Hemingway, immortalized at one of his favorite cafés. I spent countless hours at Café Iruña, reveling in the quaint, literary atmosphere of the tall gilded mirrors, thin wrought iron columns and tin-tiled ceiling. When I wasn’t inside feasting on copious amounts of calamari and red wine, then I was luxuriating on the terrace, sipping a cortado or nibbling churros con chocolate and journaling as I looked out over the square.

It was in these small moments – sipping coffee at Café Iruña, walking along the windy paths that make up the Running of the Bulls, sitting at Hemingway’s writing desk – that I found myself at home in Pamplona. In Hemingway’s Pamplona.

In the Heat of the Fight

On the Road with Hemingway - Madrid, Spain

Bullfight at Plaza de Torros - April 2013/ Madrid, Spain.

I came to Madrid with the intention of seeing a bullfight. I actually purchased my tickets to the Plaza de Torros before I purchased my airline tickets. I didn’t actually expect to enjoy the fight. Gore has never been something that particularly interested me. I never minded dissecting frogs or small mammals in biology class, but, then again, they were already dead when I started cutting into them. So when I entered the gates of Plaza de Torros for my first bullfight, I expected hot sun, bad seats (I’d bought some of the cheapest available) and lots of blood and nausea in my immediate future.

Two hours and six bulls later, I was dragging my feet leaving the stadium. I had loved the fights. Not for the blood. Not for the deaths. But for the artistry with which each fight played out. I loved the swish of the cape, the cocky jaunt of the matador and the undaunted determination of the bull even in the face of death.

But I should backtrack. Why would a 21-year-old college student travel to Spain for a bullfight that she didn’t expect to enjoy? After studying abroad with UNC’s Honors Semester in London program, I decided to extend my travels, following Ernest Hemingway’s path from journalist to novelist. I’ve always admired the author’s succinct writing style and bravado. Now, I wanted to experience it first hand by retracing the author’s footsteps through Spain, Italy and France. And the best way to understand Hemingway’s character and style was to return to some of the places he went – to write in his favorite cafés, to wander through galleries filled with the art of his friends and contemporaries, and, of course, to watch a bullfight.

Madrid was the place to do it. That’s what Hemingway said, at least. In Death in the Afternoon, published posthumously, Hemingway wrote that Madrid provided the ideal venue for a spectator’s first fight. Before arriving in Madrid, I’d studied the fighting schedule carefully and reserved my ticket. I hadn’t yet finished Death in the Afternoon, so I wasn’t privy to Hemingway’s advice regarding the perfect seats. Instead, I chose my seats based on price. Seats in the partial sun were cheaper, so I brought a hat.

When I entered the stadium, I immediately fell in love with my surroundings. The arena: thick and heavy with excitement. The crowded stands: stuffed with locals studying their programs and anticipating the best fights. The horses: parading around the stands in full regalia. The fights were about to begin!

I did not need a hat. And I used my sunglasses for a grand total of five minutes. I may not have had a box seat, but I still had a great one: close to the ring and surrounded by local spectators who take the fights seriously. They came early and conversed with one another over foil-wrapped bocadillos con jamon and bought beer in the can from the vendors that walked up and down the stands in the two minutes between one bull being dragged from the ring and the next entering. They cheered and jeered, depending on the skill of the matador and the bravery of the bull. “Torro aburrido” (“Boring bull”) one man complained, alluding to the beast’s hesitancy to charge, and, later, “Ya tengo hambre” (“I’m already hungry”) and “Quiero ir a mi casa” (I’m ready to go home”) when the fighting lagged. (Later, upon finishing Death in the Afternoon, I discovered that Hemingway actually suggested these seats for first-timers. I guess he enjoyed the hometown ambience, too.)

Every move of the first fight surprised me. I’d never watched a bull fight and did not understand the rules. Luckily, the woman to my left took me under her wing and explained the ins and outs of bullfighting to me in Spanish. Three matadors each try their hand at two bulls during an encierro, or running of the bulls – the name given to a bullfight. The bull enters the ring and matadors-in-training bate him into fury, swishing brightly colored capes in front of his eyes, then dashing behind posts when he charges. The matadors-in-training also use bandillas, or long arrows, that they shoot into the back of the bull to irritate and weaken him. As the fight persists, judges are keeping tabs- fighters who throw their bandillas and miss the bull, hurt their team.

Next come the picadors, riding atop fighting horses. In this round, confusion reigns. Your sympathies are split in all directions. The picadors, sitting atop the horses, poke and prod the bull into a bloody fury, aligning you first with the bull. The bull, recognizing the horse and picador as one entity, charges into the horse, ramming his horns deep into the horse’s fleshy underbelly. Sometimes the horse topples over, other times it simply tilts to one side, its legs kicking furiously. Always the horse is injured. Immediately, your sympathies turn to the horse. You hate the bull. You suck your breath. You just know the horse has died even though he usually doesn’t. “The horse never dies,” the lady next to me says.

And the horses didn’t. The horses survived all six fights.

“El inglese,” a man nearby rolls his eyes. “The English, always worry about the horses.”

But you’ll worry about the bullfighters, too. They are human, after all.

Man against beast. Beast against beast. You could liken the bullfight to the games in the Coliseum, but then you’d be missing something. This “something” is difficult to describe. Impossible really without experiencing the bullfight yourself.  

By the third or fourth fight, I’d caught onto the rules. By the sixth fight I was ready to buy tickets for the next one. Hemingway wrote that those who leave the bullfight disgusted, came to the fight ready to be so. I too came with preconceived notions. But I left them at the gate.

So if you ever go to Madrid for a bullfight, here’s what to expect: In the heat of the fight, you will lose yourself to the encierro. To the grace of the matador. To the sacrifice of the horses. To the bravery of the bull. In one moment, you can appreciate them all, loved them all, root for them all. And yet all the time, you know what will happen. The outcome is almost guaranteed from the start. Almost always, unless there is some tragedy of errors, the horse will hobble from the arena. The matador will plunge his sword into the bull. And the bull will die.

The bull will always die. Even in the offhand chance that he kills the matador, the bull will be killed after the fight. It has to be this way. If the bull killed the matador and lived to see another fight, the next matador, too, would surely die. Once the bull has learned to kill a human, it can do so again and again quite easily. In the old days, bulls that survived were repeatedly used in fights. Matadors left the ring defeated as often as the bulls do today. So nowadays, the bull’s fate is known before he even enters the arena.

The bullfight is not a fair fight. Unlike most sports, bullfighting is not watched to determine an outcome. Rather, it is watched to see how the outcome is determined. Each fight is fought differently and can never be repeated. Some bulls are bigger. Some are stronger. Some are braver. Just like the matadors against them. There are no rematches as in football or basketball. No do-overs. Just one good fight.

I left the arena with a deeper understanding of a longstanding passion – a passion common to Spain and to Hemingway. And as I left, I felt not so much a passion for the sport myself but a deep appreciation for having the opportunity to take part in it. For a bullfight is about much more than the bull and the matador. It’s about the people surrounding them, too. It’s about the bocadillos con jamon, the canned beer, the gentle jabs. It’s about a community coming together around a centuries-old tradition. And in the heat of the fight, I was swept into the passion – into the community – as well.

My Day with Simon

In Jane Austen's back garden, preparing for my interview with the director Simon Langton. 

The charms of Chawton brought me back to Jane Austen country, this time because Simon Langton, the director of the famed 1995 BBC miniseries “Pride and Prejudice” was giving a lecture about the film. I had discovered the lecture while leafing through pamphlets on the train ride home from my first visit to Chawton – a delightful day spent in a writing workshop in Jane’s home. What luck! The lecture would be held just two days before the Honors Semester in London program ended. I secured a place at the lecture immediately, and even got the last spot (someone dropped out at the last minute) at the 25-person dining room table for dinner with Langton afterwards. The director had also agreed to a personal interview: the perfect way to answer the last outstanding questions for my research.

I arrived in Alton in the early afternoon, just in time to explore the church where Austen worshiped and the graveyard behind it, where her mother and sister are buried. Then I headed to Cassandra’s Cup for a cream tea and ducked into Jane’s side garden to work on my interview. The flowers were bright with blooms, and as I scrawled down questions, I could feel the writer’s presence urging me along.

From Jane’s gardens, it was just a short walk down a side road to Chawton House Library, which is the former home of Edward Austen Knight, Jane’s wealthy brother and the former head of the estate. Years ago, the estate was about to be demolished, but Sandy Lerner of Cisco Systems saved the house from decimation and converted it into a women’s writers library, a truly unique endeavor comprising much of her own personal collection. 

As we walked through the house, I imagined Jane strolling down the same halls. Coming into the dining room, which was ornately set for the evening’s dinner, we were told that Jane herself had dined at that very table. A portrait of her brother hung nearby. I tried to imagine where Jane sat and wondered if later that night I would be sitting nearby, or perhaps in her very seat. Scenes of countless Austen films with the characters talking animatedly around the table flashed through my head.

My favorite room on tour was called the Oak Room: all wooden paneling with beautiful views of working fields and the horses fenced in front. I could just imagine curling up in the large leather armchair by the window and reading (or looking out the window) for hours. “This was Jane’s favorite room,” the guide said. “She’d sit right in that chair by the window and read.” I almost laughed aloud.

Reading the Victorian edition of Pride and Prejudice. Every book reads
better with gilded pages!

My interview was scheduled for later that afternoon, so while I waited, I went into one of the neatly furbished reading rooms. The librarian had pulled a number of books that would be of interest for my research. And I’d made one special request: to read the Victorian edition of Pride and Prejudice, a gorgeous golden peacock pluming on the front cover. Gingerly, I turned each page, careful not to rip the precious book. The cover was already coming apart at the seams, but the words on the page seemed to read so much better from such an antique version.

And before I knew it, I was being called to meet Langton for our interview. To my great excitement, I was told that the location of the interview had been moved – from the Great Hall, where the lecture would be held later that night, to the Oak Room. On tour, we had been careful not to touch anything, but as I shook hands with Simon and pulled out my recorder, we took a seat around the large oaken table and Simon drank a cup of coffee. At first, Simon was the one interviewing me. “So when did you first watch my movie?” he asked with interest.

I laughed. “When I was three.”

No exaggeration, when I was little, my parents could pull me away from birthday parties and excursions with friends with the promise that “Pride and Prejudice” was playing on A&E. I told him so. He was stunned.

“That young?”

I shrugged. “You introduced me to Austen,” I told him. “I guess you can take credit for this whole project.”

Thus, our interview began, and, like all good interviews, the next hour went more like a conversation than a one-on-one. We talked about his inspiration behind the film, picking film locations and his own interpretation of what many consider to be Austen’s greatest work. The interview only ended when it did because the director pulled him away to get ready for the lecture.

With Simon Langton after our interview in Jane's favorite room.

I only had just enough time to dip back inside the library for another chapter of Pride and Prejudice before changing into a nicer dress for the evening’s activities. A cocktail party ensued before the lecture. I’d looked forward to wine and hors d’ouvres before I suddenly realized that I’d come alone and knew no one but Simon – and he was still preparing. But, contrary to stereotype, I’ve found that many British people are quite friendly on first meeting. (I think the stereotype stems from Londoners, who, like most city folks are too busy catching the next train to notice the person beside them.) Two women, both from Alton, snapped me up in a hurry, and I never left their side, all the way into the Great Hall, where they managed to get me a seat right beside them.

Simon was as animated on stage as he was around the oak table. In fact, I felt that the lecture was really just an extension of the conversation we’d had earlier. He showed clips from the film and talked at length about the famous “lake scene,” where Mr. Darcy takes a dip in the pond. “It was actually a pool in the studio,” he said and went on to describe how Colin Firth’s stunt double (that’s right, not only was it not the real lake, it wasn’t the real Darcy either!), got injured swimming during one of the takes.

And before I knew it, we were sitting around the dinner table. I’d carefully taken a place across from Simon in hopes of extending our earlier conversation.

“Where do you think she sat?” mused the lady to my left – grand woman in size, voice and interest in the world. She was talking about Jane, of course.

“Well, let’s see,” said the lady to my other side – a woman of miniature features and the only one in the lot to take her tea without cream. “An unmarried woman of undistinguished birth and rank. Certainly nowhere near the head, no. Hmmm… Far down the table, certainly. I’d guess somewhere just about in the middle.”

We sat in the very center. We made no further inquiries.

Despite knowing no one, I was never at a loss for conversation. In fact, between the ladies on either side of me, I hardly had time to talk with Simon. Over poached salmon and steamed vegetables, we talked about my time in London, their jobs (one was a former lawyer turned landscape design writer, the other a retired math professor), and of course our shared love of Austen’s works.

"Look at us,” said the writer. “All 25 of us, most of us don’t know but maybe one other person. We all come from different places, backgrounds, careers, ages. And yet, here we are all together having a great time, with just one thing in common: Jane!” I do think Jane would have enjoyed the evening, and certainly the diversity of people with whom to talk and mingle.

Following dessert – a grand lemon tart with raspberry drizzle – we were served tea. The lady sitting beside Simon offered to swap places with me for the duration of the drinks. This was partially a very generous offer and partly self-motivated. You see, I had befriended the women to my left and right, and the poor lady across from me had been deprived of conversation all evening; the woman to Simon’s left had hooked him into a conversation that had somehow rambled from her job to her love of dogs without a moment’s hesitation. Still, I was grateful for the offer, and we both switched places happily; she finally had people to talk with and I was at least next to Simon listening to the saga of the lost dog. But soon the conversation opened – we came full circle to Austen and everyone was satisfied.

The evening concluded all too soon – or maybe just in time. I had just enough time to exchange emails with Simon and get a kiss on both cheeks before dashing to the door to meet my taxi. I realized only as I grabbed my bags that I’d never actually told the cab service where to meet me. Luckily, the taxi was right outside the front door. I needed 15 minutes to get to the station, and I had exactly 10 minutes to catch my train. If I missed it, I’d arrive in London just as the Underground station closed down.

But as I got inside the cab, I knew that I’d get there in time. For I actually recognized the driver as the man who had driven me to Alton during my first visit. “Emily!?” he said with a laugh.

I’ve mentioned before that Alton is a small town.

“Kit!” I cried.

“We’re a little close on time,” he said, offering me a bag of Skittles. “But they don’t call me 10-minute Kit for nothing.”

We sped through town, chatting all the way. I had a lot of news since my first visit to Chawton.

“You come back again now, Emily,” he told me, as I bolted from the door. “I’ll miss our conversations.”

I turned around and returned the compliment, meaning every word. Rushing up the staircase to the station, I arrived on the platform with several minutes to spare. I thought of Cinderella’s carriage turning into a pumpkin. Just in time, I thought. And, indeed, I truly did feel like a princess. But when you spend the day in Alton – and with Simon in particular – you’re bound to receive royal treatment.  

The Charms of Chawton

Standing outside Jane Austen's home, following the writing workshop.

Jane Austen is known as the author of six incredible novels, most famous among them Pride and Prejudice, which has been adapted into numerous films in all corners of the globe. Her critics argue that the woman herself had a very limited life – and it is true that she didn’t travel outside the country and died only a few miles from her birthplace in Steventon, but as the author herself once expressed, much can be experienced within the confines of a country town. I had not properly appreciated this sentiment until I took a journey to Chawton House, Austen’s quaint Hampshire abode.

Boarding a train from Waterloo station in London, I set out on a day’s solo journey to the author’s house for a writing workshop titled “‘But Intricate Characters are the Most Amusing’: Relationships, Characters and Conflict.” Already in my correspondence with the manager of marketing and events at the Jane Austen House Museum, I had experienced something unlike the fast-paced and harried lifestyle of London; while the workshop had been filled for weeks, Madelaine Smith agreed to let me overenroll in the course. I was ecstatic: the opportunity to write and workshop with others on the very grounds that my favorite author penned her last works!

Ever the planner for a thousand things to go wrong, I left on an 8:30 train for an hour-long journey, even though the workshop would not start until 11:00 a.m. Still, I was right to plan ahead: the train system broke down between Farham and Alton, and we had to catch a bus. Still, we managed to arrive only a few minutes later than initially planned, meaning that when I called the cab company to say I’d be late and then arrived early, I was angry with myself for being too efficient. But somehow, Alton seems to operate on a very different system than the stereotypical small town: no one was late. My cab, rescheduled for 10:15, arrived shortly after 10, and I waited not long at all with the receptionist of Wilson’s Cabs, a service with only two drivers.

Kit drove me both ways, and we chatted the entire time.

“So you’re a writer?” he asked.

I said, “Yes.”

“Well, you’re just gonna love today,” he said. “’Course, after the workshop, you should head down to the library.”

Although he didn’t say “library.” It came out more like “lie-bree.” Other words came out so fuddled that I just nodded and smiled and laughed where I deemed it appropriate. For two people speaking the same language, I definitely felt like a foreigner and hoped he didn’t realize that half the time I had no idea what he was saying. Still, we managed quite well during our short journey – all about him growing up in London, getting married and moving to Alton.

“Much better here,” he said. “You can breathe. Not rushing all the time. ‘Course-sometimes-I-forget-I’m-not-‘n-London-‘n-I-talk-t’-fast.”

And boy, did Kit talk fast! As if all the words poured out at once in a jumble. We’d arrived at Chawton House, but we were so deep in conversation, he showing me the best pub for lunch, the tea house down the street and then pointing to the end of the lane. So I thought perhaps I had to walk the rest of the way. He laughed at that, rubbing the tears from his eyes. “Hafta walk!?” he wheezed. “But you’re here. There’s the gate!”

I fumbled with the pounds sterling as he opened the door for me.

“What time do you want to come back?” he asked. “Fifty-fifty chance, I’ll be the one drivin’ yah.”

He pointed down the lane again. “Be sure to head to the lie-bree,” he reminded me. “Definitely worth a visit.”

The workshop started at 11:00 a.m., but we were invited to arrive as early as 10:30 for tea and biscuits. Arriving twenty minutes early, I stood outside the gate, rubbing my hands together to keep warm. Then, as no one was around, I easily stepped over the loose chain and wandered into the gardens. I was greeted by the curator and invited to keep warm inside the workshop room, although “we’re just now setting up.” And in the same breath, “Can we get you a cup of tea?”

Growing up in the South, I’ve always been taught to pitch in – whether asked or not. So when Olive Drakes, an elderly volunteer at the house, who stands at no more than five feet on a good day, asked me if I could reach the teapot on the top shelf, I immediately offered to help set the table.

Nothing says comfort like a steaming cup of Assam tea, laden with milk and sugar. And Olive was just the sort of lady to make it. “Do you take cream?” she asked me, pouring with a steady hand.

As I sipped, I helped lay out the cookies – or biscuits as they call them in England – four different varieties: chocolate chip, Belgian chocolate, white chocolate and chocolate-covered sugar. With the teapot, pitcher of cream and two bowls for sugar – light and dark – I felt as if I were right at home.

The workshop started promptly at 11, with most people filing in just minutes before. The dozen of us took our places around small circular tables as Rebecca Smith, the workshop facilitator, led introductions. It was evident from the get-go that we were all ardent admirers of Jane Austen’s works. The facilitator herself was the author of four published novels, the latest of which is titled, Jane Austen's Guide to Modern Life's Dilemmas and was inspired by her yearlong position as the Writer in Residence at Chawton House. Two girls, about my age, had come all the way from Naples, Italy, for a Jane Austen holiday. After Chawton House, they were heading from Bath and from there to London to see what they called “King Lion,” a West End musical admittedly not Jane Austen but still certainly a classic. Another woman, a middle-aged school teacher from China, had come with a different purpose in mind: She was developing a computer program based on Pride and Prejudice that would teach students at Shanghai High School in China how to speak English. Her idea was inspired by Austen’s incredible popularity in Asia, particularly in China and Japan, and is being sponsored by O2, a U.K.-based mobile phone company. And two other women, young mothers and aspiring novelists, had attended another one of Rebecca’s workshops a few years before and started their own intimate writing group, meeting every three weeks in Winchester.

Austen wrote often to her niece, Anna, (an aspiring novelist, herself!), giving her writing advice. Austen told Anna that she wrote as if on “a little bit of ivory, two inches wide on which I work with a brash so fine as to produce little effect after much labor.” And while that fine style is difficult to emulate, emulation was not our goal. Like Austen, proud of her own writing style, we’d come together to improve our own styles – and hopefully make them just a little more worthy of that small piece of ivory. 

Over copious cups of tea, we began writing, working our way from different styles of introducing a protagonist to distinct modes of illuminating characters through their relationships with both friends and antagonists. Throughout the afternoon, we’d pause to share our work or to read aloud excerpts of Austen’s works. Austen’s Pride and Prejudice inspired each lesson: how to introduce a protagonist, how to draw points of comparison between characters through the use of best friends and sworn enemies, how to further draw out a character through the use of gifts and surprises.

A mastermind of character, Austen wrote some of the most unforgettable heroines of her time – heroines that have been brought back to life again and again through a number of depictions both on the screen and stage. We did not aim for that level. But then again, neither did she. And I doubt that she could have ever imagined how acclaimed her works would become. Now, 200 years after the publication of Pride and Prejudice, readers from all across the world are still reading her novels.

Although her family supported her work, Austen was not able to profess her own success. Sense and Sensibility, her first published novel, was published anonymously, through the help of her brother, Henry, and her following novel, Pride and Prejudice was published as “by the author of Sense and Sensibility.” Hardly the level of clout and congratulation that her works deserved. Playing two hours at her piano every morning, Austen often hid the fact hat she was writing, choosing not to fix the creaky door that led into her study in order to give herself ample time to hide her pages beneath a book before company came in. In the workshop, we were not working under those same constraints. Modern-day women authors enjoy high clout in the literary community. Just take a look at J.K. Rowling’s success and you know that she wasn’t busy hiding her quills and paper.

During our lunch break, I toured Austen’s home. Walking through the creaky door, I had the chance to see the small writing desk where Austen could often be found hard at work. Trying my own hand with a quill, I only managed a very few shaky words before the ink dried up (and so did my patience). But through my visit to Chawton, I gained a better understanding of what motivated Austen to keep writing – despite finicky quills and social pressures to the contrary. When the workshop ended, I took a brisk walk to the Chawton House Library, a large estate where Austen’s brother, Edward, resided. The approach with a circular drive was quite picturesque. Off to the side was a small churchyard and gravesite, where many in the Austen family are buried. Pastureland and a schoolyard mark the short walk to the estate. The sheer beauty of the countryside would be enough to inspire Austen’s heroines to go on long walks seeking adventure.

I spent entirely too much time at Edward’s home … meaning I had to run back to the museum (and was still late) for the cab that I’d scheduled earlier that day. Unlike the cabbies in New York or London (or just about any big city for that matter), my good friend, Kit, didn’t charge me until I hopped in. He just said he’d wished he’d driven up to Edward’s house instead. He’d suggested it, after all, so he should have known that’s where I would be. “No reason to make yourself all out of breath,” he told me.

And as we parted ways at the train station, Kit said he’d miss me. “I rather liked our conversations,” he said.

And I agreed. Yes, the countryside of Alston is beautiful. But it is the characters that make up the town that truly define it. And I think it was those characters that inspired some of Austen’s most dynamic heroines. She probably met Lizzie walking down a lane. And I bet there was a coachman named Kit.