My Jane Day

"Are you traveling alone to London?" asked the middle-aged woman sitting beside me in the international boarding area.

"Yes, yes, I am. I'm calling this trip my 'Jane Austen's Literary London' excursion. I'm paying homage to my favorite author as a reward to myself for recently obtaining my English degree. That's how I spent my pandemic years, righting a wrong from years ago."

The woman eyed my shoulder-length gray hair and aging neck, undoubtedly putting me in the senior category. "Bravo! Righting a wrong, you say?" She looked surprised and delighted, inspiring me to share more.

"Yes, I got diverted by a well-meaning parent into a business and finance career. It turned out okay—it just wasn't me. Now that I'm retired, I can do what I really want. How about you?" The boarding announcements interrupted us, and we didn't finish our conversation.

We boarded, and I got settled for the nine-hour non-stop flight. I promised myself two things: one, don't overdo it, and two, expect something to go awry because it always does. I had just two goals to meet for my two-week venture, and everything else would be gravy. Goal number one was to pore over the Jane Austen exhibit at the British Library. That should be easy since the Library was just a 35-minute Underground ride from my hotel. Goal number two was to make a day trip from London to see Jane Austen's house. I called this venture my Jane Day. I already had my train ticket and a timed admission to Jane's house. These two minor objectives seemed achievable.

Upon my arrival at Heathrow, I had my first trip setback. Our luggage took two hours to arrive. It was good to stand after sitting that long, but not that long. I thought, oh good, this is the thing that will go wrong and the rest of the trip will be smooth sailing. After finally getting my bag, I got my Oyster card for traveling on the Underground. Armed with that and two traveling apps (Citymapper and Google maps), I was ready. 

I easily reached my hotel. It suited me perfectly, given that it was roomy, had a small kitchen and a just-large enough bed, was quiet, was in a safe neighborhood with lots of ethnic restaurants, and, best of all, was just two blocks from the Underground. Hallelujah! On my first day, I'd slated to visit the British Library to achieve goal number one. Upon reaching the Library, I went straight to the information desk, where the employee gave me a smile and an expectant look.

"Yes, I'd like to know where your Jane Austen exhibit is."

Looking apologetically, she said, "Ah, well, I'm afraid that's out on loan right now…"

The young woman said something after that, but I shut down. I'd flown nearly halfway around the world to see this exhibit, to see Jane's revered works in her own handwriting, and I was being denied. The moment hurled me back twenty-five years earlier on my previous solo international trip when the Tate Modern told me Rodin's The Kiss was on tour. I had only two goals for this trip and failed at my first one. Suck it up, I told myself. There's so much else to see, and there was. The remaining exhibits didn't disappoint, but I knew this put more pressure on my Jane Day to be a success.

Two days before my Jane Day, I took an expedition to Waterloo Underground/train station just to check it out. After all, it was the largest train station in England, and I didn't want to muff it up. My dear husband and I will never forget the 1989 Munich train debacle when our train, which we had tickets for, departed as we stood mere feet away. There are unspoken rules to travel, knowing where to be and when that foreigners are not always in on. I successfully oriented myself to Waterloo and laughed at myself because the Underground was, of course, down deep in the bowels of the earth, and the trains were at ground level—duh! I learned that the tricky part is that the train's platform is announced a mere ten minutes before departure. I was in the know this time.

The night before Jane Day, I set the alarm on my phone. As a retired person, I didn't need to do this often, but I wanted to get up early. Jet lag still dogged me, but I was excited. Apparently, I wasn't excited enough because I overslept nearly an hour over the time I wanted to get up. My alarm didn't go off for some reason that I would have to figure out later. I scrambled to get ready, threw a muffin in my backpack, and walked briskly to the Earl's Court Underground Station.

Awkwardly, I tried to access my apps to tell me which line to access, as I beat myself up for not being better prepared. Almost all lines went to Waterloo, some involving transfers, others not. I just needed to go East. When I reached the platform, a car awaited, and the doors were open. Because I was late, I jumped on board before determining if it was the right car. I found a seat and attempted to access my Citymapper app to determine if and when I would need to transfer. But my phone had no service because I was so deep below the surface. I felt helpless. At this point, I didn't even know if I was going in the right direction. I was so lost and panicky that I would miss my train. I got off at the next stop, took the steep escalators up to ground level, and eventually figured out how to get to Waterloo. By the time I got there, my train had departed. It was the Munich train debacle all over again. 

I sought out the help of the train agent as I tried not to cry. He kindly told me that I had purchased a flex ticket and I just needed to wait for the next train. I would be late for my slotted appointment at Jane's House, but at least I was on the right track again. I was elated when my train's platform was posted to the gigantic electronic board. When the conductor announced that we needed to be in certain cars to arrive at the end of the line, I enlisted the aid of a young woman who helped me get in the correct car. After just over an hour, we arrived in Alton, a small, unattended station. The taxi drove me the 8-minute ride to Chawton and dropped me off in front of Jane's house. 

This was it. Ahhh. This is where Jane lived the last six years of her short life. I asked myself, why was this so important to me? I reflected on the hours of enjoyment her novels had given me, not just the books but the adaptations of her stories into movies, mini-series, and even the modernized retellings. This setting provided context to her writing and made me feel closer to her, and understanding her on a deeper level would help me enjoy her stories even more.

I entered the gift shop to show them my ticket even though I had missed my time slot. "Hello, I'm Jane Elliot. I was supposed to be here at 10:00 a.m. but had a transportation mishap. Hopefully, I can still get in." My tone conveyed my earnestness.

"But of course. We're light on guests today. You can go right in. By the way, I love your name. Jane. Elliot. A combination of Jane Austen and Anne Elliot, perhaps? Nice!" She gave me a broad smile."

"Guilty. My mother was an English Literature teacher. Most people don't get that about my name. Well done, you." Being here and getting admitted melted all my anxiousness. 

As I exited the gift shop, I came upon an antiquated cart made of iron. The sign said, "Jane Austen's Donkey Carriage." I tried to imagine her traversing in such an insubstantial vehicle. Suddenly, a transparent version of Jane dressed in a coat and bonnet appeared on the cart's seat. It was a holographic ghost image like the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland from the late 1960s. How were they doing this? It seemed out of character for the venue, but before I could question what I saw, it was gone. I figured I must have imagined it, and I told myself to proceed slowly—I had all day. 

Next, I ventured inside the home. I realized that I had Jane's dining room all to myself, and I let that privilege sink in. I drank in all the details: the green fern wallpaper, the creaky uneven floors, and my favorite author's writing table. She had sat right there in that rickety chair and wrote and edited novels on that small, round table, stories still read and beloved more than two hundred years later.

"Hello," uttered a voice from the corner of the room. Startled, I jumped a little.

"Hello, sorry I didn't see you," I said. The woman, who appeared to be in her late thirties to early forties, looked remarkably like Jane herself and was dressed in the style of the early 1800s. Was she the same woman who I thought I saw on the donkey carriage?

"Do you have any questions for me? Original ones preferred."

"Ha. I like your sense of humor," I said. If you tell me some of the usual questions you get, I'll try to create a unique query." Why did I use the word query?

"Everyone asks which of my novels is my favorite, which heroine I love the most, and why I never married. And the answers are so obvious, are they not?"

"Oh, I see. You're acting as Jane. Okay, I'll play along. Let's see. Your favorite heroine is Elizabeth Bennett in your best-loved novel, Pride and Prejudice. And as for the question of not marrying, how could any suitor compare to the perfect man you created, Mr. Darcy? They can't, so rather than live a disappointed life, you didn't marry."

The Jane doppelgänger smiled and clapped lightly, “Brava. You are a true fan. Ask me your most cogent question, and I shall answer."

"As an amateur writer, I'd like to ask a writing process question." 

"Yes, of course," Jane said. She sat down in a chair and crossed her legs. I wouldn't dream of sitting anywhere here with all these antiques.

"Did you map out your stories from start to finish, or are you one of those writers who just create the characters in your head and see where the story goes?"

"Oh, I am definitely one of those who outline everything first. But sometimes, along the way, the characters tell me what to do, and I have to listen." Jane chuckled at her little joke. "Lady Catherine de Burgh was one such character. She was a bossy one, even to me." 

I clapped my hands together in delight at this response. My mind was spinning because I wanted to come up with more clever questions. But Jane had another idea. 

"Would you be so kind as to answer a few of my questions? Being here, I live in the past, but I really want to know what's happening now and how society has changed."

"What do you want to know?"

"Now that you don't have to marry for financial support, is everyone happier because they marry for love?" she asked.

"Well…" I dragged out the word because I would have to let her down. Wait. I reminded myself this was just a game, but I answered her question. "You'd think so, but sadly no. About 40% of marriages end in divorce in the U.S., where I'm from. Fewer people are getting married these days, too. Although people have apps on their phones to facilitate people meeting—"

"Apps?" she asked. 

"A modern-day version of a matchmaker, if you will." This line of question and answer had run its course for me. I didn't want some volunteer, probably a local actress who happened to look like Jane, to alter my experience here. I needed to move along.

"Sorry, I'm on a schedule," I lied. "I need to continue my tour. Thank you for the discussion." I scurried upstairs, where I suspected the bedrooms would be. 

As I stood in Jane's bedroom, I felt I was violating her privacy. I couldn't help but laugh at the shelves in the closet—true Janeites will get the reference to Lady Catherine de Burgh's idea of how Charlotte in P&P could improve her cottage. 

"What's so funny?" She was back. But wait, was she wearing a different outfit? This was weird. 

I felt compelled to answer her direct question out of politeness. "Oh, I was thinking about how there are shelves in the closet and how Elizabeth Bennett remarked that it was a 'happy thought indeed.'" Fake Jane sauntered further into the bedroom as I spoke, boxing me in.

"You are a devotee. I thank you for your close reading." Jane curtsied to me. How was I going to lose this dedicated volunteer? Maybe I could ask her a really tough question, one she couldn't or didn't want to answer.

"What did you really think of Bath?" I could tell by her face that I had asked a difficult question. Her nose scrunched up as she considered her response. 

"Bath… It reminds me of a sad time when our family fell on hard financial times." Her face conveyed sadness. "Bath is a cliquish place, and I didn't like all the gossip. Plus, all the balls and assemblies were like a meat market. Young women had to parade around, hoping to catch the eye of a wealthy suitor. How dehumanizing. And yet, I must admit, Bath gave me a lot of material for Persuasion, my second favorite novel if you want to know."

"Meat market. That's a modern expression. I'm afraid you just gave yourself away there." I started to edge away and head for the door. 

"What do you mean? I just coined that term. I hope you'll give me credit in the etymology journals. Wait. Please don't go. I find you fascinating. May I ask you one more question before you leave me?"

"Okay," I said with a tone of reluctance.

"How will you fulfill your life's dream as Elizabeth Bennett or Anne Elliot? Her question was a full-throated challenge.

"What do you mean?" My head tilted, trying to catch her meaning.

"I wrote those stories to inspire women so that they could stretch beyond their perceived limitations. I sense you have an unfulfilled wish and time to work toward it. What's your dream?"

I immediately knew the answer since it had been on my mind since the day I retired. "I've always wanted to write a novel and to get it published. I don't expect to be in print for centuries like you, but just to get it done and out there in the world would be an accomplishment of which I'd be proud."

"What's stopping you?" As she asked the question, I heard a conversation between two women entering the small bedroom. I turned toward them to see how we would all fit, and when I looked back at Jane, she had vanished. Feeling a little faint, I exited quickly and headed downstairs to inquire about some water and to get my bearings. Thankfully, they brought me water, and I sat and rested a bit. I dared not mention what I thought I saw.

Feeling refreshed, I went back upstairs and completed my tour. The Jane doppelgänger was gone. Photos of the real Jane appeared on many walls, and the more I compared them to the woman I had conversed with, the more I thought the two looked alike. 

After touring the home, I enjoyed strolling the grounds and seeing fellow Janeites dress up in period garb and take pictures of each other. Before leaving the venue, I worked my way to the gift shop to purchase a few mementos. 

While paying for my items, I told the cashier, "That volunteer that looks like Jane and stays in character is really something." 

"Oh, you are one of the lucky few to have met Jane's ghost. We only hear reports like this a few times a year. Consider yourself honored." The pretty, young clerk was clearly having fun with me. I gave her an exaggerated wink.

By noon, I sauntered to the cafe and had an authentic English Breakfast, thankfully altered for my vegetarian diet. I then walked to Chawton House, which would have been a daily walk for Jane to visit her brother. Next, I ambled the official Jane Austen Trail from Chawton to Alton and eventually arrived at the train station. I patted myself on the back for determining that I had to walk over the tracks on the overpass to catch the correct train that was mislabeled. I consider myself a savvy traveler now.

###

My two-week sojourn passed too quickly, and now I sat on the plane to depart for home. In reflecting on my trip, My Jane Day was the definite highlight and worth the cost of the journey. I pondered, off and on, who that apparition was that I encountered at the Jane Austen House. Not believing in ghosts, I disregarded that possibility, but unexplained events occurred. I would just have to live with not knowing. Or...

I grabbed the blank spiral notebook from my carry-on bag. Feverishly, I began to write notes: characters, plot arcs, conflict, point of view, settings, outlines, and scenes.

Then, I turned to a fresh, blank page. At the top, I wrote:

"A Conversation with Jane Austen" 

below that, I wrote:

"A Novel by Jane Elliot"