How reading Homer saved my life

Yes, I mean that Homer, the one responsible for The Odyssey, not the one responsible for Bart Simpson.

This memory re-emerged during an odd set of synchronicities that took place last week. Friday, I was watching Good Eats with Alton Brown and drooling over his gyro ("YEER-ro") sandwich recipes (for those of you who don't know his work, Alton combines two of my favorite personalities: being a geek and being a foodie). By Saturday, I had to go to one of my local restaurants, Ithaki Mediterranean Cuisine for lunch. They do a gyro-style grilled chicken sandwich that will knock your socks off. It's eyes-rolling-back-in-your-head good. Chair-clutching good. Hugh-Jackman-Joseph-Fiennes-Seth-Green-with-Maytag-blue-cheese-on-top good. And not that there's any real connection between gyro sandwiches and Homer (the sandwiches were probably invented in New York in the 1970s), but I also happen to be reading The Odyssey out loud right now (see above: geek). Suddenly, I was remembering the first time I read The Odyssey as poetry and how I'm pretty sure it saved my bacon.

This was about, oh, eight or nine years ago, and I was doing research in Liverpool. Although I usually travel very light (see my friend and fellow writer Eileen Dreyer's notes on travel and packing), with a roll-on bag and day pack, also I had my laptop and research notes. And still, I brought my brand-new hardcover copy of Robert Fagles translation of The Odyssey with me. It's not a small book (500+ pages), but I was in the middle of it, and just couldn't bear to leave it behind. Maybe because I was going to be alone and away from home for nearly a month, I dunno, but I was also totally digging the story and the poetry.

Anyway, on a Saturday morning in the spring, I'm on an early train to London. I'm the only one in the car, and I'm looking forward to a little quality time with my book. All of a sudden, the train is swarming with very large, very rowdy Liverpool football supporters. They were apparently traveling to a match, and although it's only 7:00am, they're seriously drunk. I don't mean that some of them were giddy with high spirits, I mean they were plastered like they'd been drinking since Thursday, cans of lager still in their hands, flasks being handed around. Playful scuffles are breaking out, but it sounds like something angry is happening one car up. I look one car back: also heaving with bodies, equally unappealing. There's nowhere to escape to, no sign of the conductor, and I suddenly feel like I'm the only woman around for miles.

I'm not the only one who realizes that "one of these things is not like the other": I notice guys elbowing each other and gesturing at me. As the train pulls out, I'm getting seriously nervous: the only way I could have been more obviously out of place was if I was served up on toast points, wearing nothing but a bikini and a Manchester United scarf. The harassed conductor finally comes into the car and announces, "behave yourselves, there's a lady," which doesn't make me feel any better, as it not only underscores the fact that I'm there and alone, but he's answered with laughter and jeers. Great. I ask if there's anywhere else I could sit, and he says no. Brilliant.

Now I don't know that anything nasty was going to happen--no one said anything directly to me--but all my instincts were screaming "trouble" and I pay attention to that. But with nothing else to do, I just kept my head down, trying to hide behind my book, figuring if anyone tried anything, I'd cosh him with the book. It was either that or a ballpoint pen, and the book was heavy, at least.

The noise continues around me, and if anything, it's getting worse as we travel. But I'm also getting sucked into the story again, and that's helping me calm down, and eventually, I forget where I am. Not smart, maybe, but I didn't have many options. Then I got to the part near the end, where Odysseus, who's been away for twenty years, proves who he is to his faithful wife Penelope by describing their wedding bed. And when she recognizes him:

"Living proof--Penelope felt her knees go slack, her heart surrender/recognizing the strong clear signs Odysseus offered."

At this point, I'm totally immersed in that amazing, epic scene, actually sobbing, nose running, a mess. And it's only when I realize that I can't breathe for golliwogs, that I need a hankie, that I come back to earth and notice the car has gone dead silent around me. Not only is there no noise but my snuffling, but seats have been vacated in front and behind me, like there's a no-go zone around me. Men are staring at me, horror-stricken, completely unsure what to do with the hysterical, emotional woman in the corner.

I snuffled again, and thought, Cool.

I'd found a secret weapon. I don't know if it would ever work again, but that gave me a lot to think about. A while later, the muted football supporters got off at their stop, and I eventually arrived, safely, in London.

Now, I don't know whether there's a moral here, or if there is, whether it's about the power of poetry, the power of snot, or the utility of playing to your strengths (or weaknesses). Maybe it was Athena, "bright-eyed Pallas," who watches over all travelers, who inspired me ("no warrior, you, little one/I'll gift you with tears and phlegm/and your enemies will be unmanned"). Or maybe it's just proof that Oscar Wilde was right: you should always have something sensational to read on the train.