On July 3rd,
1998, I boarded my first ever international
flight, South African Airways departing Cape Town at 19:50 for London
Heathrow. My mind had gone into overdrive; it was abuzz with anticipation and regret (I was leaving behind everyone I loved). While the plane was still
boarding, a flight attendant came up to me, asked “Mr. Schreiber? Please come with me,” and whisked me
away. I was astounded – had I been refused entry to the UK even
before departure? Instead, I was led to business class, where I was offered a seat, wine and even
some CDs of classical music. The
flamboyant attendant took very good care of me indeed. I was somewhat embarrassed when I was unable to find my dinner tray
and needed the help of my neighbour.
(For two years before this, I’d been working at the Wild
Fig Restaurant in Mowbray. Here,
another waiter called JP had, in a former incarnation, been a flight attendant
for South African Airways. He had called
a contact and arranged for me to be upgraded.)
Landing at Heathrow at 06:30 the next morning (July 4th -
isn't that an important day somewhere?), my dear friend Kathy – whom you will
meet again and again in my travelogues – was there to meet me. (Kathy and I had worked together at La Scala Restaurant, my employer before the Wild Fig, until she was moved across to a sister restaurant to manage that. The two eateries lay across the hall from each other in Cavendish Square shopping centre. Kathy and I also lived in an apartment nearby with her brother and two other housemates.) Together we made for Barbican, where she
worked and lived at a home for aged men, The Charterhouse. After dropping my bags, we headed to
Piccadilly Circus. Here we would watch
Gay Pride marching by. What are the
chances that I arrived on
such a day?!
I stayed with Kathy for a week or so before moving into a
boarding house in Ealing. Here I shared a room with two strangers; I would become accustomed to sharing a
room in the months to come, as this was the only affordable way to live in the
British capital. One morning I did my laundry, and then hung it on
the washing line. I might have asked for advice (I can’t remember) but I do recall worrying that the clothes
would no longer be there when I got back. I’m South African – in my homeland, anything left outside the house, or even within, is fair game.
Two other friends were also living in London, girls who had worked with
me at the Wild Fig, Debbie and Tiziana.
They were now both working at Rules Restaurant in Covent Garden,
arranged an interview, and I was employed!
Rules
is an old establishment, having been founded by Thomas Rule in 1798. Rules has been visited by many
famous people, and it has also been featured in novels and film. For example, it made an appearance in the
James Bond film Spectre, and several appearances in the period drama Downton
Abbey. I started working here on July 17th. The staff was friendly and international,
among them Italians,
Canadians, Irishmen,
Poles, Brazilians, Englishmen, Scots, South Africans and a variety of others I’ve since forgotten. It was here that I’d meet a guy who would remain a
friend for the next 20 years, right up until the present day – Richard
Gregorowski.
I soon moved from Ealing into a boarding house above a pub at
Clapham Common, where again I shared a room with two others.
The pub owner and our landlady was a
no-nonsense businesswoman who was affable but scary. For some reason, I remember clearly that her sister
lived in Darwin, Australia. Residing
above the Windsor Arms with me was an Asian Canadian from Vancouver, who I would discover, was a friend of
Cameron, a Canadian I’d met in South Africa a couple of years earlier. Cameron had worked with me at La
Scala, and he would come to work at Rules. When we’d worked together, Cameron was on a
world tour, stopping for long to live and work in various places. If I remember correctly, he’d been in
Australia before South Africa, and he was heading to the UK next, overland
through Africa. He’d invited me to join
him, but I did not
have the balls at that time. It turned out Cameron was expected to
arrive in London within days of my arrival at the Windsor Arms, and he and his
South African girlfriend also moved in there.
This marked the end of his epic African overland adventure.
I'm afraid I don't remember the names of the
people in this picture, my roommates at Clapham Common. However, I do recall that the woman standing on
the right was planning a trip across Russia on the trans-Siberian railway. Wow!
The man seated on the right was Cameron's friend from Vancouver. The guy seated in the middle (in front of me)
was just plain gorgeous, and I think he was called Garth.
I also remember that I told him repeatedly how irresistible
he was. Oh, the shameless honesty of
youth!
In early August, I hopped on a train with Kathy and
headed to Brighton. That was the first
time I’d ever seen a beach of pebbles.
Later that month, I boarded a bus with Rob McCarthy. He is another friend from Cape Town, though
his family is from Ireland. He was living in
London at the time. The bus we were on
made its way to Dover, where it drove onto a train that would plunge beneath
the English Channel before rising again in Calais, France. We weren’t stopping there; the bus would
continue north through Belgium and on to Amsterdam. I was more than a little excited about getting onto the European mainland, and to do so via the Channel Tunnel was invigorating.
As a young man with a party attitude, I was not here to visit museums or art
exhibitions or even the Anne Frank House.
No, I’d come
mostly to sit in coffee shops and enjoy legal leaf. I watched as people went about their lives and decided that the Dutch were a likeable bunch. They seemed well adjusted, friendly and together.
The next month I would take in two shows in London’s West End. These would be my first taste of
international theatre, with which I’d fall in love. The first was the Ladyboys of Bangkok - by a
travelling group from Thailand - and the second was Miss Saigon. (These were not my first ever experiences,
however. I had seen operas, musicals and
classical performances when I was a music student in Port Elizabeth. In fact, it was a requirement, and
students got a special deal for season tickets.
At the Port Elizabeth Opera House I’d seen Fiddler on the Roof, Carmen
and Kismet, as well as many instrumental performances, all of which set in
concrete my adoration of performing arts. Sadly, twenty-five years later I am unable to find any worthwhile
event taking place at that opera house whenever I visit my brother Kevin in Port
Elizabeth.) Although I really enjoyed these West End shows,
I attended no more in the two years
following - my priorities were abstracted by the need to have fun in excess.
In the same month, mid- September, I’d have a quick bite at Heathrow
Airport with my German Uncle Gerhard and my Australian Aunt Erna. They were on their way to South Africa to see
their sibling, my father. I was sad that I'd be missing this Schreiber family
reunion, and it turned out to be the last one.
You see, I'd already
made plans for October, when I returned home to attend the wedding of Deon and Debbie. But before that, I spent a weekend with
Kathy and James in Norwich, which is where James grew up.
Circling back to the UK, I spent a day in southern England with
the same Rob from Amsterdam. We visited
Rye, Hastings and likely a few other little towns I’ve since forgotten. Then in December, Rob and I were off again, this time to the
Lake District in northern England.
At this point in my tale, my diary starts to fill up with activities
which do not lend themselves to being reported.
As I said, this was a time in my life when fun had to be had. Countless entries in my journal chronicle
night after night, and the occasional afternoon in a night club, dancing for
hours and hours. Not only did each club
have a name, names like The Fridge, Sunnyside Up and Camden
Palace, but each event was named also, for example, Return to the Source, Odyssey
and Fahrenheit. Events of the same name could also travel
from club to club. Trance was my music
of choice, but house would also do. As
long as it was techno and the beat wasn’t hard to follow (that garage music
made no sense to me!), I’d bop till I dropped. In February of 1999, I moved from the Windsor Arms to 26 Sirdar
Road near Wood Green, at the invitation of Richard.
He was living in a house with a bunch of
South African party animals. His brother
Matt also lived in the house, and he and I share a birthday, though he is
younger. Matthew, too, has remained a
friend, and I would meet
up with him years later in Sydney, Australia. (Coincidentally, I'd actually "met" Matt before this, in Cape Town. I'd hopped into a car whose driver I knew, but the other occupants - three of four of them - I did not know. Matt was one of those guys!) Here once again I shared a room, though within a few months, I’d get my own as housemates moved on
and I slowly ascended the pecking
order. I would live in this house for more
than a year. Here I found a home in London. Here I met many who were to remain friends
for years to come. (This place will be
mentioned over and over in this account, so I've decided to refer to it simply as
No. 26.)
