SO MUCH SILENCE (Saturday, June 28, 2003) by Ernesto Priego

The first time I saw the Earlham Road I had been
travelling for more than 20 hours. From the coach's
tinted windows it looked like an infinite road to
monotone suburbia, its houses on each side the same
color and size, its trees, not yet naked from the
Autumn winds, giving still more shade under the grey
and cloudy sky. I remember our host saying, "this is
Earlham Road, if you get lost at night coming from the
city centre, simply follow it and you will get to the
University". Back then I did not know how many times I
would end up walking that old road, in the wee hours,
sometimes with a few drinks causing trouble in my head
and in my heart. Not because I'd gotten literally
"lost", but because Earlham proved to be the fastest
way home when one could not find or afford a cab.

But what once was some sort of last resort measure
ended up becoming a habit and, in a way, a necessary
pleasure. Walking home via Earlham after midnight has
always been a very deep and intimate experience for
me. Between three and five a.m. birds will be your
company, singing incessantly, subtly ruining Norwich's
nocturnal calm with their high love songs. In the
Winter, and even more in the Spring, I remember
walking back home and saying, stupid birds, they are
so confused. It's only 2 a.m. and they think the Sun
has come out. Don't you know fools rush in, I would
tell them.

The CoOp delivery service joins the birds in the night
symphony that takes place on Earlham as the old day
fades out and the new one slowly fades in. They come
back and forth in their little white (electric?)
trucks, leaving fresh milk on elderly couples'
doorsteps, silently, like thieves, like leprechauns
hiding a very simple treasure.

I have stopped counting the times I have walked that
road. But I can almost recall with the most painful
clarity those who have walked it with me, as well as
the conversations we have had, or, when I have walked
it on my own, the storm of emotions and thoughts that
have clouded and electrified my tired and drunken
braincells and bloodcells. Once I walked back drinking
from a pocket-sized bottle of Vodka my friend Jon gave
me, and every step meant a flipping of the mental page
of my recent past history.

Without those walks back home after a night out in
Norwich, I would probably have been home only to face
insomnia and my own mono-thematic, ever-returning
emotional aches. I have done it, taken a cab, and then
I am here, without the ability to read or write, too
late --too early-- for anything, without being able to
close my eyes and sleep.

Yesterday, after saying good-bye to a Swiss
girl-friend who I may never see again, my thoughts
were surprisingly quiet, almost absent from my
walking. The birds usually over-crowding Earlham's
trees were oddly absent as well, quiet and respectful.
Only the slow buzz of the milkmen's little truck could
be heard along the clashing of milk glass pints.

Earlham Road, your trees, your birds, your apparently
endless path: I know you have listened to me more than
once. I know you will keep the secret.