Nearly a year has passed since I left for and returned from England, and I continually think about a few people I encountered: the angel at the palace in Edinburgh; the Swede in the bar in Edinburgh; the woman from Arkansas. Somehow, I guess, I will always think about them, just as I think about people I have not seen in decades: a few friends from boyhood; people I must have slighted; people who do not know their continued influence on me.
But, perhaps it's just plain sentimentality, and who needs that?
Friday, January 25, 2008
Homeward Bound
Where our intrepid traveler prepares to leave, then does
My last day in London, I start the day with coffee and croissant at Caffe' Nero not far from my B & B in Paddington. One more subway ride today, once more to Victoria Station from where I'll catch a train to Gatwick, and from there take a cab to my final (the seventh) hotel of my journey....
Then, at Starbucks in Victoria Station, I linger for awhile before boarding the train, not in a rush to leave but not reluctant to do so. I think that everyone should do something like this: a couple weeks alone and unencumbered save for the annoyance of a backpack... In 2 weeks I have had a substantial conversation with, what, one person?
Arrived in the small town of Horley without incident, and it is here I will spend my final night in England. I find my way to the center of the town after depositing my luggage at the B & B, and once again find a coffee shop from which I can look through the large windows and watch people come and go. Walking again, I buy a sandwich at a grocery store and sit on a park bench near the middle of town, and I am comfortable with ending the trip like this: quiet, relaxed, unhurried. On the way back to the hotel later, I turn left and turn right and generally circle about the town before finding a secluded pathway that cuts from one neighborhood to another and ends a few hundred hards from the B & B. It is nice to find such pathways and to bet that they will end in good places....
Successful take-offs are always good, and I leave England behind on April 3, 2007, one day before my birthday, one day before the start of another decade. Approaching Dallas, where I will wait for 3 hours before catching the flight home, we fly through and then descend into beautiful thunderheads. The weather closes in not long after we land, and I can see the clouds and rain push into the airport. The monitors show the story: nothing's landing, nothing's taking off. I call home to let my wife know I will be delayed, and then I sit and think of the woman who sat next to me from Gatwick to Dallas.
She was returning from the Isle of Man and visiting her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson. She is returning to Ft. Smith, Arkansas, where she lives with her husband, her dog, and her cat. She and her husband both are retired military; she tells me of her cat, which, among other things, has carried into the house a bat and a baby copperhead. The dog and the cat explore together, she says.
Funny how you know things, though, maybe more funny how you know them too late. After she tells me about her pets, I ask her how many children she has. I regret it instantly. "I have two," she says, "but until recently I had three."
Yes, of course. I somehow knew this, and it was not funny.
She says that she has only now arrived at a point where she can say this without crying, and I do not know what to say. I tell her of a friend of mine, an artist, whose son was killed in a car wreck near Elko, Nevada, on a trip home to see her. Now, she has only one son. I tell the woman from Arkansas that my friend, too, finally reached a point where when people asked her how many children she has, she says "I have one son."
I don't, though, think my seatmate was comforted....
My wait is brief compared to other people who wait for the storm to move through, and at least my plane did not originate somewhere else. I keep checking the monitors, and my 90-minute delay is a third of what others face. I also check the flight scheduled to leave for Ft. Smith, Arkansas right before I board my plane: the woman's flight will be 4 hours late leaving Dallas. As we take off, I think of her and if she is not just alone but lonely now, that loneliness deepened by the exhaustion from the flight and the frustration from the delay. I find I wish I had said something more to her, found a way to help her feel better. And I think of her cat bringing her gifts, as poisonous as they might be.
My last day in London, I start the day with coffee and croissant at Caffe' Nero not far from my B & B in Paddington. One more subway ride today, once more to Victoria Station from where I'll catch a train to Gatwick, and from there take a cab to my final (the seventh) hotel of my journey....
Then, at Starbucks in Victoria Station, I linger for awhile before boarding the train, not in a rush to leave but not reluctant to do so. I think that everyone should do something like this: a couple weeks alone and unencumbered save for the annoyance of a backpack... In 2 weeks I have had a substantial conversation with, what, one person?
Arrived in the small town of Horley without incident, and it is here I will spend my final night in England. I find my way to the center of the town after depositing my luggage at the B & B, and once again find a coffee shop from which I can look through the large windows and watch people come and go. Walking again, I buy a sandwich at a grocery store and sit on a park bench near the middle of town, and I am comfortable with ending the trip like this: quiet, relaxed, unhurried. On the way back to the hotel later, I turn left and turn right and generally circle about the town before finding a secluded pathway that cuts from one neighborhood to another and ends a few hundred hards from the B & B. It is nice to find such pathways and to bet that they will end in good places....
Successful take-offs are always good, and I leave England behind on April 3, 2007, one day before my birthday, one day before the start of another decade. Approaching Dallas, where I will wait for 3 hours before catching the flight home, we fly through and then descend into beautiful thunderheads. The weather closes in not long after we land, and I can see the clouds and rain push into the airport. The monitors show the story: nothing's landing, nothing's taking off. I call home to let my wife know I will be delayed, and then I sit and think of the woman who sat next to me from Gatwick to Dallas.
She was returning from the Isle of Man and visiting her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson. She is returning to Ft. Smith, Arkansas, where she lives with her husband, her dog, and her cat. She and her husband both are retired military; she tells me of her cat, which, among other things, has carried into the house a bat and a baby copperhead. The dog and the cat explore together, she says.
Funny how you know things, though, maybe more funny how you know them too late. After she tells me about her pets, I ask her how many children she has. I regret it instantly. "I have two," she says, "but until recently I had three."
Yes, of course. I somehow knew this, and it was not funny.
She says that she has only now arrived at a point where she can say this without crying, and I do not know what to say. I tell her of a friend of mine, an artist, whose son was killed in a car wreck near Elko, Nevada, on a trip home to see her. Now, she has only one son. I tell the woman from Arkansas that my friend, too, finally reached a point where when people asked her how many children she has, she says "I have one son."
I don't, though, think my seatmate was comforted....
My wait is brief compared to other people who wait for the storm to move through, and at least my plane did not originate somewhere else. I keep checking the monitors, and my 90-minute delay is a third of what others face. I also check the flight scheduled to leave for Ft. Smith, Arkansas right before I board my plane: the woman's flight will be 4 hours late leaving Dallas. As we take off, I think of her and if she is not just alone but lonely now, that loneliness deepened by the exhaustion from the flight and the frustration from the delay. I find I wish I had said something more to her, found a way to help her feel better. And I think of her cat bringing her gifts, as poisonous as they might be.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Queen Does Not Ask Me to Tea
The almost-final day
This has got to end: travelogues are not my genre (yes, I know: what is?), and I am eager to move on, to find a way to better follow Kominski's insight....
My final day in London, and I am off to a slow start: checking out of one hotel and into another. As I pack, I wonder about the things I've missed these last 2 weeks, but I am also content with what I have seen. I have, in fact, been astonishingly astonished every day.... Took the train to Victoria Station and walked to Buckingham Palace--what a bizarre sight! Hundreds of people were pushed against the Palace fence, all of them apparently hoping to catch a glimpse of something or someone. I am reminded of how people at zoos stare at the large cats and then collectively ooh and ahh when a tiger, say, licks its paw.
I wonder what the Queen thinks when she stares out a window. And the guards: do they stare back at everyone and wonder just what we're doing? Here are some of the people, some of the time: at the gates, away from the gates.
Still on foot, I try to navigate to Harrod's, though I find some difficulty in tracing my way across the map. Harrod's is, simply, a hoot: crowded and intense. Those people who are not at the Palace must be here. I do not know the official name of the area, but the architecture in this neighborhood differs greatly from Paddington--much more stone here.
I also visit a couple of museums, including the Albert and Victoria, which has some wonderful sculpture. Returning to my room by train, I rest for awhile in the advent of a slight head cold. Then, I make my way back to Hyde Park to enjoy a leisurely hike through the crowds. I walk by Kennsington Palace and discover Albert Hall (below)not long before I begin to feel somewhat feverish. I cannot, however, stop, for this is London, and London is in England, and I have not been here. I walk counter-clockwise back to where I entered the park on my first day.
By the time I return to my room, my feet and legs are very tired, and I am very tired. After cleaning up a bit, I walk to a small cafe', one with metal tables and plastic chairs, and a couple of guys working a grill, and I eat a greasy bacon burger and some fries--the type of food I have avoided for decades but which now is the best I have ever eaten. I trudge back to my room with the burger in my gut, and I watch the alley outside my room grow darker.
This has got to end: travelogues are not my genre (yes, I know: what is?), and I am eager to move on, to find a way to better follow Kominski's insight....
My final day in London, and I am off to a slow start: checking out of one hotel and into another. As I pack, I wonder about the things I've missed these last 2 weeks, but I am also content with what I have seen. I have, in fact, been astonishingly astonished every day.... Took the train to Victoria Station and walked to Buckingham Palace--what a bizarre sight! Hundreds of people were pushed against the Palace fence, all of them apparently hoping to catch a glimpse of something or someone. I am reminded of how people at zoos stare at the large cats and then collectively ooh and ahh when a tiger, say, licks its paw.
I wonder what the Queen thinks when she stares out a window. And the guards: do they stare back at everyone and wonder just what we're doing? Here are some of the people, some of the time: at the gates, away from the gates.
Still on foot, I try to navigate to Harrod's, though I find some difficulty in tracing my way across the map. Harrod's is, simply, a hoot: crowded and intense. Those people who are not at the Palace must be here. I do not know the official name of the area, but the architecture in this neighborhood differs greatly from Paddington--much more stone here.
I also visit a couple of museums, including the Albert and Victoria, which has some wonderful sculpture. Returning to my room by train, I rest for awhile in the advent of a slight head cold. Then, I make my way back to Hyde Park to enjoy a leisurely hike through the crowds. I walk by Kennsington Palace and discover Albert Hall (below)not long before I begin to feel somewhat feverish. I cannot, however, stop, for this is London, and London is in England, and I have not been here. I walk counter-clockwise back to where I entered the park on my first day.
By the time I return to my room, my feet and legs are very tired, and I am very tired. After cleaning up a bit, I walk to a small cafe', one with metal tables and plastic chairs, and a couple of guys working a grill, and I eat a greasy bacon burger and some fries--the type of food I have avoided for decades but which now is the best I have ever eaten. I trudge back to my room with the burger in my gut, and I watch the alley outside my room grow darker.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
"Look, Kids, Big Ben!"
We begin to wind down.
Leaving Dover, and the sun has finally come out, which is a nice change after being drizzled on for most of the day yesterday. I leave with an odd sense of sadness, something I also experienced when leaving both York and Edinburgh.
Then again, I have always felt sad about leaving places, even when I left the ship in Yokosuka, Japan, after being on board for over 2 years: I sat on the pier waiting for a bus to take me to Tokyo and the flight home, and I felt as lonely as I did the day I first arrived.
On the train to London, I think that I am not sure of what I'll do for the next 2 days: Westminster Cathedral is still on my list. I do hope for warm weather, for I'm sick and tired of wearing long sleeves and jackets... Victoria Station is extremely crowded when I disembark on this Saturday afternoon; people are going everywhere they can. I am quite pleased that I can get to my hotel via the Underground and do not have to walk across Hyde Park again.
My room at the Dylan is not bad, as it shouldn't be for the price of 65 pounds, the most expensive room of the trip, double what I paid in Dover and York. After unpacking yet again, I head to Covent Garden once more. Walking without design, I come upon Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery, which I visit for awhile. Trafalgar Square looks like this:
Then, seeing Big Ben in the distance, I head toward it and discover for Parliament and Westminster Cathedral. I am too late to enter the Cathedral, however, so it will have to wait until I return. I do get to hear Big Ben chime about 5 minutes after this picture is taken, which is a nice treat:
I had purchased an "Irish"-style cap in Covent Garden, and as I was walking along near Big Bend, a gust of wind took possession of the cap and dropped it behind a stone wall in front of an official-looking building. Surveying the number of surveillance cameras around me, I decide not to simply scale the wall but to ask a guard at the building parking lot if I'll get shot if I retrieve my cap. He tells me to go ahead, and I feel like the stupid tourist that I am. He watched me closely, of course.
Behind the Cathedral I find the Thames, and I am treated to this somewhat absurd view:
I don't know--I just don't see how something so Disneylandesque should be there. Especially when there is something like this nearby (Westminster):
Or like this (Parliament):
Returning to Trafalgar Square, I am stopped by a French couple and their map, and they ask me if I can help them read their map and get oriented--I don't know if I help much, but they pretend that I have. Back at Covent Garden, I eat a hot pasty for dinner, then ride the train back to Paddington, picking up a bottle of Pinot Grigio before returning to my room.
I am tired and fall asleep while watching one of the 4 television channels. Tomorrow is my final day in London.
Leaving Dover, and the sun has finally come out, which is a nice change after being drizzled on for most of the day yesterday. I leave with an odd sense of sadness, something I also experienced when leaving both York and Edinburgh.
Then again, I have always felt sad about leaving places, even when I left the ship in Yokosuka, Japan, after being on board for over 2 years: I sat on the pier waiting for a bus to take me to Tokyo and the flight home, and I felt as lonely as I did the day I first arrived.
On the train to London, I think that I am not sure of what I'll do for the next 2 days: Westminster Cathedral is still on my list. I do hope for warm weather, for I'm sick and tired of wearing long sleeves and jackets... Victoria Station is extremely crowded when I disembark on this Saturday afternoon; people are going everywhere they can. I am quite pleased that I can get to my hotel via the Underground and do not have to walk across Hyde Park again.
My room at the Dylan is not bad, as it shouldn't be for the price of 65 pounds, the most expensive room of the trip, double what I paid in Dover and York. After unpacking yet again, I head to Covent Garden once more. Walking without design, I come upon Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery, which I visit for awhile. Trafalgar Square looks like this:
Then, seeing Big Ben in the distance, I head toward it and discover for Parliament and Westminster Cathedral. I am too late to enter the Cathedral, however, so it will have to wait until I return. I do get to hear Big Ben chime about 5 minutes after this picture is taken, which is a nice treat:
I had purchased an "Irish"-style cap in Covent Garden, and as I was walking along near Big Bend, a gust of wind took possession of the cap and dropped it behind a stone wall in front of an official-looking building. Surveying the number of surveillance cameras around me, I decide not to simply scale the wall but to ask a guard at the building parking lot if I'll get shot if I retrieve my cap. He tells me to go ahead, and I feel like the stupid tourist that I am. He watched me closely, of course.
Behind the Cathedral I find the Thames, and I am treated to this somewhat absurd view:
I don't know--I just don't see how something so Disneylandesque should be there. Especially when there is something like this nearby (Westminster):
Or like this (Parliament):
Returning to Trafalgar Square, I am stopped by a French couple and their map, and they ask me if I can help them read their map and get oriented--I don't know if I help much, but they pretend that I have. Back at Covent Garden, I eat a hot pasty for dinner, then ride the train back to Paddington, picking up a bottle of Pinot Grigio before returning to my room.
I am tired and fall asleep while watching one of the 4 television channels. Tomorrow is my final day in London.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
A Canterbury Tale
On the road to Canterbury
The train ride from Dover to Canterbury is direct and quick, but when I get to Canterbury itself, I have no idea of where to go. But, just as in Dover when I'd headed in the direction of what I assumed was a castle, I walk toward where I think I have seen a cathedral's spires. I find that my path is along the old city wall, which brings memories of York. Again, I walk through mist and am glad for my raincoat.
The cathedral is well worth the price of admission, and I further recognize how stupid I was to skip the cathedral in York because of the cost. Perhaps my scant knowledge of Canterbury's history is what sways me. Thomas Beckett was slain here, and the spot is marked with an understated subtleness that fits a cathedral. The Black Prince is entombed here, as are assorted archbishops. A distraction here is the large group of school kids--maybe the same French kids I saw in the Dickens museum--taking pictures with their cell phones as they chatter and squeal. If they would look down, they would see how gray stone has been worn smooth by pilgrims and supplicants.
Amazing: stone this hard worn smooth by countless people moving on soft feet or even their knees.
I spend a good amount of time in the cathedral, and I pause at a small shrine to martyrs--a touching display surrounded by small candles that visitors have ignited. I also walk around the cathedral grounds, which are extensive and include the ruins of an ancient church, then head toward the city center that reminds me of York in its layout. During a lunch of fish & chips and beer, I ponder my travels so far and think that if I return, I would like to return to Canterbury. Dover? I probably would not go there again--other than castle there, I did not see much of interest.
I am eager for London again, and I am perhaps a bit trip-weary. I have moved in one way or another for over a week, and I think I need a rest.
The train ride from Dover to Canterbury is direct and quick, but when I get to Canterbury itself, I have no idea of where to go. But, just as in Dover when I'd headed in the direction of what I assumed was a castle, I walk toward where I think I have seen a cathedral's spires. I find that my path is along the old city wall, which brings memories of York. Again, I walk through mist and am glad for my raincoat.
The cathedral is well worth the price of admission, and I further recognize how stupid I was to skip the cathedral in York because of the cost. Perhaps my scant knowledge of Canterbury's history is what sways me. Thomas Beckett was slain here, and the spot is marked with an understated subtleness that fits a cathedral. The Black Prince is entombed here, as are assorted archbishops. A distraction here is the large group of school kids--maybe the same French kids I saw in the Dickens museum--taking pictures with their cell phones as they chatter and squeal. If they would look down, they would see how gray stone has been worn smooth by pilgrims and supplicants.
Amazing: stone this hard worn smooth by countless people moving on soft feet or even their knees.
I spend a good amount of time in the cathedral, and I pause at a small shrine to martyrs--a touching display surrounded by small candles that visitors have ignited. I also walk around the cathedral grounds, which are extensive and include the ruins of an ancient church, then head toward the city center that reminds me of York in its layout. During a lunch of fish & chips and beer, I ponder my travels so far and think that if I return, I would like to return to Canterbury. Dover? I probably would not go there again--other than castle there, I did not see much of interest.
I am eager for London again, and I am perhaps a bit trip-weary. I have moved in one way or another for over a week, and I think I need a rest.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Interlude
For Alice: January 14, 1934 - March 20, 1993
Last week, I heard a commenter on National Public Radio note the number of blogs created each day, that the only people who read most blogs are the writers and their mothers.
Happy birthday, Mom.
Last week, I heard a commenter on National Public Radio note the number of blogs created each day, that the only people who read most blogs are the writers and their mothers.
Happy birthday, Mom.
To Dover, to Dover
We change places yet again.
Now on my way to Dover aboard a train that splits--half goes one way at some point, half goes another. With five nights remaining before I head home, I am even more weary of this damn luggage, of filling it up and emptying it out.... For the most part, from what I've seen from trains, the majority of people here reside in row houses, not detached homes. But, perhaps it is no different here than in areas near American cities. The landscape along this route is green hills; the trees are leafless, and true spring appears to be a few weeks away. In Edinburgh, people commented on the blooming daffodils, and the owner of the B & B said that the climate has changed so much over the years, she can no longer predict when the weather will be "good."
Though the Dover train station is small, I was a bit lost, or at least disoriented, when I got off the train. I also found that I did not have a map of the city, so after checking things outside, I sat down in the station's cafe' and soothed myself with a cup of coffee. Later, after a few wrong turns and working from a mental map created from countless glances of maps of Dover available on the Internet, I made the correct turn and found the B & B. And, as I had gathered from looking at those same maps, it is on one of the busiest streets in the city. Still, the price is right and the room is nice enough: a bed, a sink, and extra chair, a window that opens. The bathroom and shower are down the hall.
Though the day was gray, I decided to hike to where, from near the train station, I thought I had seen the outline of a castle high above the city. Unencumbered by my heavy pack, walking is much easier, and I finally work my way through town, find signs that point toward the castle, and ascend a couple of steep streets and a very long sidewalk. Wet from sweat and mist, I located the ticket booth where a very nice woman gave me a discount on my admission because of the late hour. The castle itself impressed me more than the one in Edinburgh had: less touristy, less commercial, someone more "genuine." Much of my stroll around the castle grounds was in the rain, but that was truly just fine. The sun emerged just as I left the castle and headed back toward town. I stopped at one point to look out over the English Channel, and I thought of the history there, the invasions and assaults that started across the water. From what I have read, Dover itself was nearly flattened during German bombings in WWII.
I have considered crossing the channel tomorrow to visit Calais, France, but instead decide to head toward Canterbury to see how much more wet I can get in the rain that is forecast for the region.
Now on my way to Dover aboard a train that splits--half goes one way at some point, half goes another. With five nights remaining before I head home, I am even more weary of this damn luggage, of filling it up and emptying it out.... For the most part, from what I've seen from trains, the majority of people here reside in row houses, not detached homes. But, perhaps it is no different here than in areas near American cities. The landscape along this route is green hills; the trees are leafless, and true spring appears to be a few weeks away. In Edinburgh, people commented on the blooming daffodils, and the owner of the B & B said that the climate has changed so much over the years, she can no longer predict when the weather will be "good."
Though the Dover train station is small, I was a bit lost, or at least disoriented, when I got off the train. I also found that I did not have a map of the city, so after checking things outside, I sat down in the station's cafe' and soothed myself with a cup of coffee. Later, after a few wrong turns and working from a mental map created from countless glances of maps of Dover available on the Internet, I made the correct turn and found the B & B. And, as I had gathered from looking at those same maps, it is on one of the busiest streets in the city. Still, the price is right and the room is nice enough: a bed, a sink, and extra chair, a window that opens. The bathroom and shower are down the hall.
Though the day was gray, I decided to hike to where, from near the train station, I thought I had seen the outline of a castle high above the city. Unencumbered by my heavy pack, walking is much easier, and I finally work my way through town, find signs that point toward the castle, and ascend a couple of steep streets and a very long sidewalk. Wet from sweat and mist, I located the ticket booth where a very nice woman gave me a discount on my admission because of the late hour. The castle itself impressed me more than the one in Edinburgh had: less touristy, less commercial, someone more "genuine." Much of my stroll around the castle grounds was in the rain, but that was truly just fine. The sun emerged just as I left the castle and headed back toward town. I stopped at one point to look out over the English Channel, and I thought of the history there, the invasions and assaults that started across the water. From what I have read, Dover itself was nearly flattened during German bombings in WWII.
I have considered crossing the channel tomorrow to visit Calais, France, but instead decide to head toward Canterbury to see how much more wet I can get in the rain that is forecast for the region.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
London Calling
Minding the gap again.
Perhaps because I am only now beginning to feel somewhat comfortable in Edinburgh, I am sad that this is my last day here. But, I am also eager for London, where I will stay for one night before dropping down to Dover for 2 nights.
On the train from Edinburgh.... The previous 4 days have passed quickly, and I am trying hard to not regret doing one thing or another. If I return, I would like to travel north just to see more of the country, or perhaps make a trip to Glasgow.... The train's route follows part of the coast, which reminds me of the California coastline north of Bodega Bay: this is a place where a man could stop to rest and never start again. Each day of travel has helped my confidence as far as getting from one place to another, and I hope the entire journey will help me become less fearful of the world beyond. If nothing else, I have become proficient at packing my bags and moving from one place to another. Partway into the ride my watch stops working, and I am left to rely on my iPod for the correct time. At some point, however, the digital Timex is reborn. I can't help wondering if I've missed something....
Then, in London that day.... After arriving at Kings Cross station, I walk to the Fairway Inn, and I am instantly glad I will spend only a single night here. The neighborhood--and the people sitting on a doorstep across the street--could be improved. I return to the Paddington area to ferret out rooms for the 2 nights I'll be in London after returning from Dover, but I find that rooms are scarce for one of those nights, which will be a Saturday. Fortunately (or not, perhaps) I find a room for one night in the Glendale Hyde Park, where I spent my first 2 nights in London. The woman working the counter remembers me, and she says that while she has no rooms for my second night, she can recommend somplace down the street: The Dylan House.
"The what?" I say.
"The Dylan."
Of course.
At the Dylan House, Tony, an old, heavyset man, manages The Dylan. When I tell him I am spending that night near Kings Cross, he provides some history. "It's not as bad as it used to be. People don't get stuck with a knife as often now."
Oh.
Tony has more: "Most of those B & Bs should have red lights outside."
Thanks, Tony.
I return to a restaurant I visited on the second night of my trip to enjoy dinner and once again have a glass of Pinot Grigio, a wine I discovered during my first dinner here. I think that while I don't feel I've seen much of London, I am quite comfortable in the Paddington area.... Tomorrow, though, I will catch a 10:30 train to Dover, which means I have to get to Victoria Station early enough to figure out just how to find the Dover train....
The next morning I am served a bland breakfast by a woman who is as uninterested in my American accent as I am in her Eastern European voice. The day is overcast and rainy, and the train to Victoria Station is extremely crowded, reminding me of the trains in Japan. I am wearing my fleece jacket and am hot from carrying my luggage to train. The man who stands beside me is wearing a nice suit, oblivious to 2 beads of sweat that drip off my wrist and onto his shoulder. In Victoria Station, I rest at a table outside a coffee shop. I drink coffee and watch the people and pigeons, and every now and then I check the overhead display to see on which track my train will stop.
I have figured out how to get to Dover, and I am waiting to go there.
Perhaps because I am only now beginning to feel somewhat comfortable in Edinburgh, I am sad that this is my last day here. But, I am also eager for London, where I will stay for one night before dropping down to Dover for 2 nights.
On the train from Edinburgh.... The previous 4 days have passed quickly, and I am trying hard to not regret doing one thing or another. If I return, I would like to travel north just to see more of the country, or perhaps make a trip to Glasgow.... The train's route follows part of the coast, which reminds me of the California coastline north of Bodega Bay: this is a place where a man could stop to rest and never start again. Each day of travel has helped my confidence as far as getting from one place to another, and I hope the entire journey will help me become less fearful of the world beyond. If nothing else, I have become proficient at packing my bags and moving from one place to another. Partway into the ride my watch stops working, and I am left to rely on my iPod for the correct time. At some point, however, the digital Timex is reborn. I can't help wondering if I've missed something....
Then, in London that day.... After arriving at Kings Cross station, I walk to the Fairway Inn, and I am instantly glad I will spend only a single night here. The neighborhood--and the people sitting on a doorstep across the street--could be improved. I return to the Paddington area to ferret out rooms for the 2 nights I'll be in London after returning from Dover, but I find that rooms are scarce for one of those nights, which will be a Saturday. Fortunately (or not, perhaps) I find a room for one night in the Glendale Hyde Park, where I spent my first 2 nights in London. The woman working the counter remembers me, and she says that while she has no rooms for my second night, she can recommend somplace down the street: The Dylan House.
"The what?" I say.
"The Dylan."
Of course.
At the Dylan House, Tony, an old, heavyset man, manages The Dylan. When I tell him I am spending that night near Kings Cross, he provides some history. "It's not as bad as it used to be. People don't get stuck with a knife as often now."
Oh.
Tony has more: "Most of those B & Bs should have red lights outside."
Thanks, Tony.
I return to a restaurant I visited on the second night of my trip to enjoy dinner and once again have a glass of Pinot Grigio, a wine I discovered during my first dinner here. I think that while I don't feel I've seen much of London, I am quite comfortable in the Paddington area.... Tomorrow, though, I will catch a 10:30 train to Dover, which means I have to get to Victoria Station early enough to figure out just how to find the Dover train....
The next morning I am served a bland breakfast by a woman who is as uninterested in my American accent as I am in her Eastern European voice. The day is overcast and rainy, and the train to Victoria Station is extremely crowded, reminding me of the trains in Japan. I am wearing my fleece jacket and am hot from carrying my luggage to train. The man who stands beside me is wearing a nice suit, oblivious to 2 beads of sweat that drip off my wrist and onto his shoulder. In Victoria Station, I rest at a table outside a coffee shop. I drink coffee and watch the people and pigeons, and every now and then I check the overhead display to see on which track my train will stop.
I have figured out how to get to Dover, and I am waiting to go there.
Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the Fifth
Where we linger further in Edinburgh whilst preparing to depart...and have yet another Dylan moment.
Another good, filling breakfast--and no computer problems to resolve. But, to start the day, we must return to Bob Dylan for a reference.... As I refilled my coffee cup, the B & B owner said, "You're like me: another cup of coffee. You know, like the Bob Dylan song?"
Walked around both New Town and Old Town throughout the day, starting with a hike in a light drizzle up and down hills and through parts of the city I've not seen. Each day I am here, I venture farther beyond th familiar, and I am less likely to consult my maps. Visited the Scottish Poetry Library and spent some time thumbing through a collection of both old and contemporary poets. Had lunch (excellent fish and chips, with beer) at the Bad Ass Cafe, which is down the street from both Filthy McNasty's and Dirty Dicks, names that are much more interesting than McDonald's.
I am not looking forward to tomorrow, when I've got to return to London, figure out how to get to Dover, and find a place to stay when I return to London after Dover. I am not, apparently (and obviously), adventurous enough to simply ad-lib everything as I travel; for if I were, I would not worry about where I'll stay.
While strolling about yet another cemetery today, this one adjacent to Princes Street and below the castle, I find a pathway that led through a park and then up the side of the hill on which the castle stands. I had seen the path from the castle, but had not given it much thought until coming across it here. It was a good, long hike up the side of the hill and to the Royal Mile, and I wondered how many people have made the same ascent over the centuries. Think of that: how unique we believe our journeys to be when they in truth are anything but.
For a couple of months before starting my trip, I would occasionally view a webcam focused on a spot on Edinburgh's Royal Mile. The camera would alternate between 2 views: one of the courtyard outside of St. Giles' Cathedral, the other of the street itself, including a garbage dumpster. I told my son that I would find that dumpster and that camera, which I finally did. From beside the dumpster, I looked up at the camera, and I suppose for a moment it was looking at me. Such cameras are everywhere I traveled--most are identified with signs such as "CATV"--and are used by one law enforcement entity or another to monitor what happens on the streets and sidewalks.
This same type of surveillance tool is becoming more common in the U.S. now, ostensibly for our own good, so that those charged with protecting us can tell us we are much safer if we are watched. In Sacramento, where I live, the Sheriff's department is gleeful that, in addition to cameras, unmaned drones will soon be hovering above us to fight crime. We are assured, however, that these drones will not patrol willy-nilly to watch us, but will be deployed only to those places where, say, a crime is in progress.
In the evening, I pack yet again, preparing for my walk to the train station tomorrow morning and the return to London. I feel safe in my hotel room, even though I am not being watched.
Another good, filling breakfast--and no computer problems to resolve. But, to start the day, we must return to Bob Dylan for a reference.... As I refilled my coffee cup, the B & B owner said, "You're like me: another cup of coffee. You know, like the Bob Dylan song?"
Walked around both New Town and Old Town throughout the day, starting with a hike in a light drizzle up and down hills and through parts of the city I've not seen. Each day I am here, I venture farther beyond th familiar, and I am less likely to consult my maps. Visited the Scottish Poetry Library and spent some time thumbing through a collection of both old and contemporary poets. Had lunch (excellent fish and chips, with beer) at the Bad Ass Cafe, which is down the street from both Filthy McNasty's and Dirty Dicks, names that are much more interesting than McDonald's.
I am not looking forward to tomorrow, when I've got to return to London, figure out how to get to Dover, and find a place to stay when I return to London after Dover. I am not, apparently (and obviously), adventurous enough to simply ad-lib everything as I travel; for if I were, I would not worry about where I'll stay.
While strolling about yet another cemetery today, this one adjacent to Princes Street and below the castle, I find a pathway that led through a park and then up the side of the hill on which the castle stands. I had seen the path from the castle, but had not given it much thought until coming across it here. It was a good, long hike up the side of the hill and to the Royal Mile, and I wondered how many people have made the same ascent over the centuries. Think of that: how unique we believe our journeys to be when they in truth are anything but.
For a couple of months before starting my trip, I would occasionally view a webcam focused on a spot on Edinburgh's Royal Mile. The camera would alternate between 2 views: one of the courtyard outside of St. Giles' Cathedral, the other of the street itself, including a garbage dumpster. I told my son that I would find that dumpster and that camera, which I finally did. From beside the dumpster, I looked up at the camera, and I suppose for a moment it was looking at me. Such cameras are everywhere I traveled--most are identified with signs such as "CATV"--and are used by one law enforcement entity or another to monitor what happens on the streets and sidewalks.
This same type of surveillance tool is becoming more common in the U.S. now, ostensibly for our own good, so that those charged with protecting us can tell us we are much safer if we are watched. In Sacramento, where I live, the Sheriff's department is gleeful that, in addition to cameras, unmaned drones will soon be hovering above us to fight crime. We are assured, however, that these drones will not patrol willy-nilly to watch us, but will be deployed only to those places where, say, a crime is in progress.
In the evening, I pack yet again, preparing for my walk to the train station tomorrow morning and the return to London. I feel safe in my hotel room, even though I am not being watched.
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