Many years ago I applied for and was given a Master Card. Having it was great fun, and I earned miles on American Airlines whenever I charged something. Citibank and I enjoyed a nice relationship, for the most part, though I never let on that I was also using a Visa card issued by Chase, and with this card I earned miles on United Airlines. I saw no reason for either bank to know of my relationship with the other, though I'm sure each could have (and probably did) learn of my financial peccadillos.
Not long ago, however, Citibank sent me a note saying that the interest rate on my card would soon be over 23%, which is about double what Chase makes me pay. Feeling somewhat hurt, I called Citibank and said I wanted to end our relationship. The woman I spoke with seemed somewhat surprised at first when I told her my reason for calling, but after she put me on hold for a couple of minutes, she returned and quite cheerily asked if I would like an email confirming our breakup. Surprise, now, was mine, for I had expected at least a middling attempt at reconciliation. "Is it us?" I wanted her to ask. But, nothing. We were finished, both resigned to remembering our special times together, those tender moments. I wondered if in her time away from the phone she consulted with her boss, who found that I had charged nearly nothing on the card for many, many months, that I had been spending more time and money with Visa. If the woman had voiced a willingness to change to keep us together, I might have relented. On a slightly related note, in some moments on some days recently I have wished my former employer had made a similar effort to keep me around. Maybe I should learn how to bluff better than I know how.
Perhaps not oddly enough, just a day or so on one side or another of our breakup, Tiger Woods and his own peccadillos hit the news. When I first heard how he and his SUV didn't quite make it away from home unscathed, my first thought was that there aren't many reasons for a married man to dash from his house in those hours between midnight and dawn. I really don't care too much about Tiger Woods, for I haven't worshiped a professional athlete since I was a kid and Billy Williams played for the Chicago Cubs. Maybe Woods is, as some have said, the best athlete of the century, but that certainly doesn't mean he's an especially good (or intelligent) person. Then again, I don't know that he never really claimed to be either good or intelligent--those adjectives were ascribed by others who ascribe those types of things. Woods was once one of the faces of American Express, the snootiest of all credit cards, and I wonder how they ended their relationship.
On the heels of Tiger Woods' rush into gossipy tabloids, I read that the wife of Mark Sanford, the governor of North Carolina, had filed for divorce. Good for her! She's certainly milking the governor's affair for all the publicity she can, but I admired her for not standing beside him as he confessed to all that he had denied, all the lies he had told his family and the citizens of North Carolina. I also read that Sanford, who is a conservative republican, would not be impeached. Being a liar and an adulterer doesn't mean much in the political realm (see Clinton, William). In South Carolina, however, democrat Cecil Bothwell, a city councilman in Asheville, is at risk of being impeached because he is an atheist, which his opponents say is a sin. Now, Bothwell may or may not be a good person, and I certainly don't know if he is either a liar or an adulterer. It seems like he's being hounded because of a pre-existing condition, though, since from what I've discovered in my tentative steps into Christianity, everyone is a sinner. Comes with the territory of being human, I think. Threatened for impeachment simply because he doesn't believe in god? Bizarre. What if he were Muslim--would that spare him?
I also do not especially care what the governor of North Carolina does when he's not hiking the Appalachian Trail, and far be it for me to say that maybe he didn't find love when he wasn't hiking there. Maybe Tiger Woods thought he had found love, as well, though from what I've heard and read, I'm doubtful. I once wrote a novel in which the protagonist thought he had found new love, too, but he was a jerk and wanted to keep both his wife and his girlfriend. His girlfriend's husband, come to think of it, was a professional golfer, and only at the end of the story does that protagonist realize how much of a jerk he is.
Me? I think I'll get over my separation with my Master Card. My Visa treats me well, but I did notice today that the card expires in less than a month. I wonder, Will they send me a new card? Or, do they, too, see my very low balance and lack of activity? Maybe they'll be the ones who want a separation.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
From Here to Affinity
Before class I am sitting in a coffee shop. The course, pseudo-literature of the ilk only an educational subsidiary of a for-profit corporation could formulate, contains just 2 students. This is a mistake, and the only reason the course was not canceled is because the original enrollment was half a dozen. I saw 2 of those 6 on the first night, but from our second meeting on only a dynamic duo remains.
I usually make some time before class to go over my notes once more. The notes, however, were developed with the idea that I'd have more students and could actually teach for the requisite 4 hours. The school is serious about not leaving before 10 p.m., and if we sign out early, we are reported to whoever is our boss these days. Just what I need--more marks against me on my permanent record. I figure I'll have to do enough explaining about serious stuff if God and I ever meet, and if He's got an administrator that handles the small things, I may not even get a chance to enter the Corner Office to plead my case.
Both of my students are women, and they are troupers--hardly complaining, acting as though they don't mind being in the room with me when they would rather be home with their respective children. One woman, though, sent me a note before our third meeting saying she was not "feeling good" and did not see herself staying much longer than an hour. I resisted the urge to respond and correct "good" to "well." Odd thing about this woman: I discovered in our second meeting that her boyfriend is someone I've known for quite awhile. We coached our sons' Little League and soccer teams. We have a photograph of the boys when they were in elementary school, and they are holding a sign that reads "Best friends forever."
"I thought he was still married," I said to her, to which she responded, "He hasn't been married for years." This is strange because because his son and mine remain fairly close, and my son is also sociable with my friend's wife's former brother-in-law.
Over the years we have heard rumors and gossip, but we have heard nothing about a divorce. Coyly, I even asked my son about this, and he said he assumes that my friend and his wife are still together. Salient in all this, I think, are the words "not married," which do not necessarily equal "divorced." There is a distinction here, though perhaps not legally. And if God really cares about such civil things, he might not see the distinction, either. Frankly, I don't care much for gossip, and I believe that most aspects of people's lives are none of my business. When I was a kid, I'd heard a rumor that a young fellow down the street from us was a peeping tom. I mentioned to my mother that I had heard this, and she just nodded and continued on as though it was no big deal. Maybe the way she handled that affected me; who knows? Maybe she was, in her own way, trying to protect me from small-town secrets.
The woman never said anything about her boyfriend in our third class, and I did not ask. I assumed that she had told him about my being her teacher, and I wondered what he thought about that. Had he been found out, exposed? Or, did he even care? Whatever he thinks, I hope he is happy, that if it is right for everyone involved, the obvious affinity my student has for my friend is good and genuine. For many of the years I have known him his marriage has been somewhat troubled, though I have no idea how much he contributed to that trouble. I figure my students and I will all show up for our next meeting, and then we'll go our separate ways.
Looking over my notes again, I see there is nothing to be added; there are things only to be removed. I make a few changes, cross out some activities, and turn my attention to Phillip Levine's What Work Is. Somewhere in this book of poems, I know, is a stanza that contains just what I need right now.
I usually make some time before class to go over my notes once more. The notes, however, were developed with the idea that I'd have more students and could actually teach for the requisite 4 hours. The school is serious about not leaving before 10 p.m., and if we sign out early, we are reported to whoever is our boss these days. Just what I need--more marks against me on my permanent record. I figure I'll have to do enough explaining about serious stuff if God and I ever meet, and if He's got an administrator that handles the small things, I may not even get a chance to enter the Corner Office to plead my case.
Both of my students are women, and they are troupers--hardly complaining, acting as though they don't mind being in the room with me when they would rather be home with their respective children. One woman, though, sent me a note before our third meeting saying she was not "feeling good" and did not see herself staying much longer than an hour. I resisted the urge to respond and correct "good" to "well." Odd thing about this woman: I discovered in our second meeting that her boyfriend is someone I've known for quite awhile. We coached our sons' Little League and soccer teams. We have a photograph of the boys when they were in elementary school, and they are holding a sign that reads "Best friends forever."
"I thought he was still married," I said to her, to which she responded, "He hasn't been married for years." This is strange because because his son and mine remain fairly close, and my son is also sociable with my friend's wife's former brother-in-law.
Over the years we have heard rumors and gossip, but we have heard nothing about a divorce. Coyly, I even asked my son about this, and he said he assumes that my friend and his wife are still together. Salient in all this, I think, are the words "not married," which do not necessarily equal "divorced." There is a distinction here, though perhaps not legally. And if God really cares about such civil things, he might not see the distinction, either. Frankly, I don't care much for gossip, and I believe that most aspects of people's lives are none of my business. When I was a kid, I'd heard a rumor that a young fellow down the street from us was a peeping tom. I mentioned to my mother that I had heard this, and she just nodded and continued on as though it was no big deal. Maybe the way she handled that affected me; who knows? Maybe she was, in her own way, trying to protect me from small-town secrets.
The woman never said anything about her boyfriend in our third class, and I did not ask. I assumed that she had told him about my being her teacher, and I wondered what he thought about that. Had he been found out, exposed? Or, did he even care? Whatever he thinks, I hope he is happy, that if it is right for everyone involved, the obvious affinity my student has for my friend is good and genuine. For many of the years I have known him his marriage has been somewhat troubled, though I have no idea how much he contributed to that trouble. I figure my students and I will all show up for our next meeting, and then we'll go our separate ways.
Looking over my notes again, I see there is nothing to be added; there are things only to be removed. I make a few changes, cross out some activities, and turn my attention to Phillip Levine's What Work Is. Somewhere in this book of poems, I know, is a stanza that contains just what I need right now.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Working Man
What I thought about on October 23, 2009
Sometimes a problem with being the main bread-earner is that the bread grows stale. On the cusp of changing jobs, I look at the previous 9.5 years with my current employer and wonder at which point the bread there became less fresh.
What I think today
Whew, doggies!
Starting my third week in a new bakery, I'm wondering if I bit off more than I can chew. If my career is toast.... Okay, enough of that! These weeks have passed quickly, and I'm still trying to work my way through a morass of people, policy, and procedures. And while I have always enjoyed learning something new, I'd forgotten the feeling of being jolted out of a comfortable bed and coming to rest on pins and needles. Every day now is a challenge as I build relationships with new people and acquire different skills. Some fun, really!
Sometimes a problem with being the main bread-earner is that the bread grows stale. On the cusp of changing jobs, I look at the previous 9.5 years with my current employer and wonder at which point the bread there became less fresh.
What I think today
Whew, doggies!
Starting my third week in a new bakery, I'm wondering if I bit off more than I can chew. If my career is toast.... Okay, enough of that! These weeks have passed quickly, and I'm still trying to work my way through a morass of people, policy, and procedures. And while I have always enjoyed learning something new, I'd forgotten the feeling of being jolted out of a comfortable bed and coming to rest on pins and needles. Every day now is a challenge as I build relationships with new people and acquire different skills. Some fun, really!
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Batter Up & Hitting the Wall
Almost in between jobs, my second-oldest son and I get out of town early and head southeast for a 2-night stay in a canvas tent in Yosemite's Curry Village. The only other times I have been to Yosemite Valley were in winter. The first of those trips involved rain; the other 2 trips involved snow. All of the trips involved sleeping inside my own tent in Camp 4, the Valley's walk-in campground frequented by the frugal, the wall-climbers, and those who just want a place to sleep.
Previously reliant on friends who serve as guides, this trip is the first for which I am expected to lead and to know the answers. These are generally not good things, but I step up to the plate and swing the best I can. We find out tent, #559, which looks like this:
My son and I select our respective beds, fit them with the supplied sheets and wool blankets, then head out to find things. Over the next couple of days we will orient ourselves, figure out the Valley's shuttle system, learn some geology, spend time minutes prowling through the Valley at night, get into a brief and silly argument with someone who came too close to running us over in a parking lot, eat overpriced food, and generally play tourist. That night after dinner, we make our way to the visitors' center to watch the hour-long film Return to Balance by "world-renowned climber Ron Kauk," of whom I have no knowledge. We had purchased our tickets earlier that afternoon, and those tickets were, in turn, taken by a man who reminds me of my friend Shawn, someone with climbing experience in his own right. My son and I find seats, and just before the movie starts, the ticket-taker introduces himself as that same Ron Kauk. It's nice to see someone who is "world-renowned" taking tickets at his own movie.
I am too fat and cowardly to climb my way into or out of anything more than a bathtub, and I envy people who have the confidence to work their way up anything other than the corporate ladder. I also enjoy the film and Kauk's question-and-answer period afterward. Someone in the audience asks him if he has a "day job," and Kauk says that he once worked for 3 weeks as a dishwasher, but otherwise has been fortunate enough to not have had a day job. (Over the next couple of days my son and I will articulate how enjoyable life would be if we could call Yosemite our place of business.)
The second day includes a relatively short but, for us, strenuous hike toward Upper Yosemite Falls. Our destination is the Columbia Rock overlook, from where we get a very nice view of distant Half Dome, which looks like this.
Because we got a somewhat late start, we sweat a lot during the hike; my shirt will be soaked by the time we finish. The sign at the bottom of the trail mentions that there are 60 switchbacks to Columbia Rock. I hate switchbacks. I understand their design and efficiency, but I don't have to like them. More tired than I should be, part way into the climb I resort to mentally reciting lyrics to songs I know, trying to match the song's rhythm to my pace. I also think of what I read last night in Kominski's "13: Baseball Supernovellete":
In mid-afternoon we stroll leisurely with a Ranger-led walk during which we learn a bit about Yosemite's geology. Strangely, or perhaps just coincidentally, the Ranger covers material similar to what I'd read that morning and the night before in Mary Hill's Geology of the Sierra Nevada. It's a pleasant stroll, but my son and I both are nursing sore legs and stiff backs from that morning's hike. Then, after dinner, we venture out on the aforementioned "prowling," basically a guided tour with about 20 other people. We walk without flashlights, and after our eyes have adjusted, we all grow quite comfortable in light offered mostly by the stars. At one point my son and I can see what must be a climber's flashlight high up on a wall on the other side of the valley.
I slept very little the first night (which gave me time to read), but I sleep well the second. I awake as refreshed as I can be after sleeping in a bed not my own, and after breakfast we pack the car, lock the tent behind us, and head home. On the way out of the Park we stop across from El Capitan and look up. The granite face looks like this:
Looking up at this wall and searching for something that does not belong, I see light reflecting off something shiny. At least one climber, maybe two--too high for me to see clearly, and I lament my decision to leave the binoculars at home. I point to the spot, and I am glad that my son also sees something that does not belong there. We marvel. Later, outside the park and descended into a different valley, we listen to Beethoven's Symphony #9 for part of the journey, and my son takes over the wheel--I know he wants to drive, and I trust him to get us home. I consider the last couple of days and think that I should have taken him and his brothers to Yosemite many years ago, when they were more impressionable. But, I'm hopeful that I am not too late in showing them even little parts of the world. That they will know, in Kominksi's words, "...do the rest."
Previously reliant on friends who serve as guides, this trip is the first for which I am expected to lead and to know the answers. These are generally not good things, but I step up to the plate and swing the best I can. We find out tent, #559, which looks like this:
My son and I select our respective beds, fit them with the supplied sheets and wool blankets, then head out to find things. Over the next couple of days we will orient ourselves, figure out the Valley's shuttle system, learn some geology, spend time minutes prowling through the Valley at night, get into a brief and silly argument with someone who came too close to running us over in a parking lot, eat overpriced food, and generally play tourist. That night after dinner, we make our way to the visitors' center to watch the hour-long film Return to Balance by "world-renowned climber Ron Kauk," of whom I have no knowledge. We had purchased our tickets earlier that afternoon, and those tickets were, in turn, taken by a man who reminds me of my friend Shawn, someone with climbing experience in his own right. My son and I find seats, and just before the movie starts, the ticket-taker introduces himself as that same Ron Kauk. It's nice to see someone who is "world-renowned" taking tickets at his own movie.
I am too fat and cowardly to climb my way into or out of anything more than a bathtub, and I envy people who have the confidence to work their way up anything other than the corporate ladder. I also enjoy the film and Kauk's question-and-answer period afterward. Someone in the audience asks him if he has a "day job," and Kauk says that he once worked for 3 weeks as a dishwasher, but otherwise has been fortunate enough to not have had a day job. (Over the next couple of days my son and I will articulate how enjoyable life would be if we could call Yosemite our place of business.)
The second day includes a relatively short but, for us, strenuous hike toward Upper Yosemite Falls. Our destination is the Columbia Rock overlook, from where we get a very nice view of distant Half Dome, which looks like this.
Because we got a somewhat late start, we sweat a lot during the hike; my shirt will be soaked by the time we finish. The sign at the bottom of the trail mentions that there are 60 switchbacks to Columbia Rock. I hate switchbacks. I understand their design and efficiency, but I don't have to like them. More tired than I should be, part way into the climb I resort to mentally reciting lyrics to songs I know, trying to match the song's rhythm to my pace. I also think of what I read last night in Kominski's "13: Baseball Supernovellete":Give me guys with passion for the game. Believers in unbelievable finishes. Go about their business never getting too high or too low. Hearts strong enough to last a whole season. The game gives you three strikes and 27 outs. You do the rest.I'm not sure why this bounces into my conscious, but I'm glad it does. Somehow and in some way this little excerpt figures into hiking and backpacking: take what you've got, and put one foot in front of the other. Later that night when I reflect on the quote and revisit images of Kauk's movie, I think that Kominski's little quote applies to climbing, too--"Hearts strong enough to last the whole season." In some situations, after all, quitting mid-way through something really isn't a viable option.
In mid-afternoon we stroll leisurely with a Ranger-led walk during which we learn a bit about Yosemite's geology. Strangely, or perhaps just coincidentally, the Ranger covers material similar to what I'd read that morning and the night before in Mary Hill's Geology of the Sierra Nevada. It's a pleasant stroll, but my son and I both are nursing sore legs and stiff backs from that morning's hike. Then, after dinner, we venture out on the aforementioned "prowling," basically a guided tour with about 20 other people. We walk without flashlights, and after our eyes have adjusted, we all grow quite comfortable in light offered mostly by the stars. At one point my son and I can see what must be a climber's flashlight high up on a wall on the other side of the valley.
I slept very little the first night (which gave me time to read), but I sleep well the second. I awake as refreshed as I can be after sleeping in a bed not my own, and after breakfast we pack the car, lock the tent behind us, and head home. On the way out of the Park we stop across from El Capitan and look up. The granite face looks like this:
Looking up at this wall and searching for something that does not belong, I see light reflecting off something shiny. At least one climber, maybe two--too high for me to see clearly, and I lament my decision to leave the binoculars at home. I point to the spot, and I am glad that my son also sees something that does not belong there. We marvel. Later, outside the park and descended into a different valley, we listen to Beethoven's Symphony #9 for part of the journey, and my son takes over the wheel--I know he wants to drive, and I trust him to get us home. I consider the last couple of days and think that I should have taken him and his brothers to Yosemite many years ago, when they were more impressionable. But, I'm hopeful that I am not too late in showing them even little parts of the world. That they will know, in Kominksi's words, "...do the rest."
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Range of Light
Toward the end of yesterday's bike ride I first noticed a change in afternoon light. Shadows lay differently on the pavement beneath my wheels, and in this summer that persists beyond its appointed months, I welcomed the change. The ride itself became somewhat interesting when I stopped after the first 20 minutes to telephone a woman with whom I have been trying to connect for a couple of days. Nothing like dripping sweat onto a notebook I had carried with me as I tried to take notes of bits of conversation I will have to remember.
Our connection was weak--she was in her car in Southern California, hundreds of miles away from me and my bike--but we managed to accomplish our purpose. She is one of a few people who might be instrumental in my own change of light, to use a poor metaphor. Late next week, after a couple of discussions and after weighing certain risks against potential rewards, some aspects of my life might be different. Most people who are old like me don't seem to make these types of changes, perhaps because we are fatter and slower and more comfortable than we remember ourselves being. We'll see.
Our connection was weak--she was in her car in Southern California, hundreds of miles away from me and my bike--but we managed to accomplish our purpose. She is one of a few people who might be instrumental in my own change of light, to use a poor metaphor. Late next week, after a couple of discussions and after weighing certain risks against potential rewards, some aspects of my life might be different. Most people who are old like me don't seem to make these types of changes, perhaps because we are fatter and slower and more comfortable than we remember ourselves being. We'll see.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Random Memories This Way Come
Fuel and fodder for the insomniac.
We're standing on the aircraft carrier's port catwalk, the ship sliding through warm still water somewhere in the vicinity of Guam. In the distance we see what looks to be a wave moving toward us in an angle that we gather will intersect the ship's bow. When the wave gets closer we realize that it is not water but something living--porpoises. There are 20 or so. They match the ship's speed and accompany us for awhile, then when they have satisfied their curiosity or quest for fun they slow down, change their angle, and are gone.
On the first day of a 5-day backpacking trip with 2 companions I step through a creek and let my leather Vasque Sundowner boots get soaked, and rather than stop to change socks, I keep hiking. By the end of the day my heels are marked by raw circles the size of Washington-head quarters, circles that ooze viscous liquid onto my wool socks. I have to pull strands of fabric free. Every painful step for the next 5 days makes those circles grow. The trip is one of too many miles each day, too many ascents and descents, and our water filter fails on the third day, forcing us to drink water when and were we find it during the day. Asprin does nothing to stop the pain in my feet, and I barely sleep because of it. The final day, 12 miles' worth of hiking, the 3 of us not only barely speak, we barely see each other. When we meet again where the car is parked, I show them my heels. "Wow," one of them says, "I didn't think they were that bad." When I finally get home I tell my wife I will never backpack again. I return twice more to that area in future years.
My cousin and I once stole silver dollars from a jar in my grandfather's house, and we used them to buy baseball cards and bubble gum. We haven't seen each other much in the ensuing years, but we both feel guilty about our crime. This is the same grandfather who enjoyed drinking bourbon, who, I have heard in other ensuing years, found it necessary to alienate his 3 children, one of whom was my father, and his wife. He probably beat the crap out of anyone he could, but I'm not sure about that. My grandfather visited our house every other Sunday when I was a kid in Illinois, before he died one January night, and he would bring doughnuts. He showed up in his yellow Chevrolet one winter Sunday and I ran outside with only socks on my feet to greet him, and he said "I should kick your butt" for not having shoes on. His wife, my grandmother, died in my cousin's house many years before we stole those coins.
For several years I have tried with little luck to attract hummingbirds to my backyard. First I put up a hummingbird feeder, but I tended to forget to keep it full of liquid. This last summer I have kept it full, and I have hung flower pots nearby as an additional attraction. My son noticed that, though we seldom see hummingbirds, the ones we do have seem to like the purple flowers in the pots.... The trail where I usually ride my bike is where squirrels like to hang out, and they seem to enjoy dodging my bike's tires. Lately, their mouths are full of what must be nuts--probably getting ready for autumn and winter. In my back yard the other morning, a dozen or so sparrows hopped about in the loose dirt, pecking with their beaks and flapping their wings in the dust. Is that flapping meant to disturb the dirt, to unearth something edible? Two robins joined them at one point, and though I did not have hummingbirds, I had other birds.... Are the birds, like the squirrels, getting ready for the end of summer? People should know these things.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The Long Goodbye
On the night before my oldest son leaves for a year in South Korea, the family minus one son/brother gathers around the table and feasts. For the 2 previous nights we also feasted--meat and vegetables and wine, even dessert; I feel as though Bachus and his friends dropped by for a visit. As a group we discuss my son's upcoming adventure, and those who have considered such things promise to visit him. I might have mentioned before that I once spent several days in South Korea, where various incidents contributed to my being stuck onshore, unable to return to the ship that had been damaged by a strong storm. My then-friend Kent and I found a bakery where we bought a chocolate cake and a couple bottles of Coke. We took these comestibles to our hotel room where we found we had neither bottle opener for the Coke nor forks for the cake. We managed to open the bottles using the shower head in the bathroom, and we ate the cake with our dog tags....
Today, my son has finished packing and done everything he can think of to get ready. The paperwork is organized and in a handy place; the clothing is separated and folded; the loose ends around town are tied securely to other ends. I have offered all the advice I can (probably offered too much, for that matter), but he seems to have things well in hand as any good juggler must. A wonderfully gifted solver of problems, he will do fine with or without my advice, and he is right to stop listening to me when I have said too much. Too often, it seems, we parents forget that most of what we have learned, we have learned on our own, that lessons learned carry more weight than advice taken.
At some level we have been saying goodbye for many months, separating in ways we need to, getting closer in other ways. His brothers, I know, will miss him, for he has treated them all well and has connected with each in the best possible ways. I enjoy seeing how they have developed their own histories over the years, how they have created and lived their own experiences without their parents in the picture. (They have secrets among them, too, and they have been prudent enough to disclose none of them to me.) I even feel a bit of jealousy--being metaphorically landlocked for so long finds me a bit antsy. Maybe that little thing, that sense of being tethered to one place, makes saying goodbye more difficult.
He's a lucky bastard, and I think I'll tell him as much.
Today, my son has finished packing and done everything he can think of to get ready. The paperwork is organized and in a handy place; the clothing is separated and folded; the loose ends around town are tied securely to other ends. I have offered all the advice I can (probably offered too much, for that matter), but he seems to have things well in hand as any good juggler must. A wonderfully gifted solver of problems, he will do fine with or without my advice, and he is right to stop listening to me when I have said too much. Too often, it seems, we parents forget that most of what we have learned, we have learned on our own, that lessons learned carry more weight than advice taken.
At some level we have been saying goodbye for many months, separating in ways we need to, getting closer in other ways. His brothers, I know, will miss him, for he has treated them all well and has connected with each in the best possible ways. I enjoy seeing how they have developed their own histories over the years, how they have created and lived their own experiences without their parents in the picture. (They have secrets among them, too, and they have been prudent enough to disclose none of them to me.) I even feel a bit of jealousy--being metaphorically landlocked for so long finds me a bit antsy. Maybe that little thing, that sense of being tethered to one place, makes saying goodbye more difficult.
He's a lucky bastard, and I think I'll tell him as much.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Hook, Line, and Sinker
I would guess that my father was the person who taught me how to bait a hook, and often he would take my sisters and me to one or another local pond for a few hours of fishing. Mostly we used worms, though I remember my cousin taking me out one day and we used baloney surgically removed from my aunt's refrigerator. We got into trouble for that. And this was the same cousin who persuaded me that walking down the railroad tracks one sunny afternoon was a good idea--I was 4, he was 3--we got into trouble for that too. Someone found us standing outside of a bar, crying. That was my first ride in the back of a police car, and when we got back to the apartment we lived in, our parents fed us... baloney sandwiches. Then we got sent to different bedrooms to consider our sins.
But, back to fishing. I grew up using a bobber, probably because the small ponds we fished had nothing but small fish: blue gill, sunfish, the occasional catfish. I once hooked a turtle of some sort, which frightened me when I reeled it in. And once, fishing by myself, a muskrat surfaced, looked at me, and disappeared. That frightened me, too. My grandfather, though, was a true fisherman, and he and my grandmother took me to Ontario, Canada, when I was 12, and there we pursued walleye in the morning (no bobber, just a weighted line with a baited hook), which we'd then eat for lunch. In the afternoon we went after northern pike and muskie--big fish. We used lures for these fish, and though I quickly learned the art of casting and using my thumb on the open reel to stop the lure just shore of a log or the shore, too often I'd end up with a snag in my line. This, of course, caused my grandfather no small amount of frustration; he might have been embarrassed that I was even remotely related to him. He would turn out to be one of my true heroes, someone I could call a man's man. (I'd apply this to my father later, but only after years of battles and then, even later, deep contemplation.) We did not eat the pike and muskie, though I have photographs of myself holding them onshore. We must have given them to someone my grandparents knew.
Several years ago I stayed with my cousin at her family's cabin in northern Indiana, where we fished with worms and bobbers. I was happy to see that I could still remove a hook from a catfish mouth without getting my fingers pierced by the fish's whiskers, and I was even glad to see that I still felt some sadness for the greedy bluegill that swallowed a hook that could not be removed. I have fished other places, of course: for striped bass in the California Delta, for trout in Sierra lakes. I have not, however, delved into fly fishing, something my friend Shawn continues to both enjoy and write about. Shawn (and others I have known) possesses much more poetic patience than I ever will, a much better understanding of the art of fishing. I, on the other hand, am a plodder, suited to sitting and watching the white half of a bobber ride the crest of small waves.
I miss fishing. I miss watering the garden at night and getting up early the next morning to ply worms from the soft earth, and I miss casting a strand of filament out onto the water, hearing the plop of hook, line, and sinker as they begin their work, then feeling the first dip of the pole's tip as a fish samples the bait. And, I've come to miss watching my father remove fish from my hook, listening to my grandfather's admonitions as I sat in the boat, and watching my sons' faces when they, too, learned to fish. But, more than anything? I wonder just what the hell I was thinking a couple years ago when, on a quest to dispose of anything in the garage that was not being used, I disposed of a tangle of fiberglass poles and fishing line that had done nothing more than get moved from shelf to shelf for many years. Oddly, though, I did not dispose of my grandfather's homemade tackle box, which must be half a century old, or one of the open-face reels we used on that trip to Ontario.
But, back to fishing. I grew up using a bobber, probably because the small ponds we fished had nothing but small fish: blue gill, sunfish, the occasional catfish. I once hooked a turtle of some sort, which frightened me when I reeled it in. And once, fishing by myself, a muskrat surfaced, looked at me, and disappeared. That frightened me, too. My grandfather, though, was a true fisherman, and he and my grandmother took me to Ontario, Canada, when I was 12, and there we pursued walleye in the morning (no bobber, just a weighted line with a baited hook), which we'd then eat for lunch. In the afternoon we went after northern pike and muskie--big fish. We used lures for these fish, and though I quickly learned the art of casting and using my thumb on the open reel to stop the lure just shore of a log or the shore, too often I'd end up with a snag in my line. This, of course, caused my grandfather no small amount of frustration; he might have been embarrassed that I was even remotely related to him. He would turn out to be one of my true heroes, someone I could call a man's man. (I'd apply this to my father later, but only after years of battles and then, even later, deep contemplation.) We did not eat the pike and muskie, though I have photographs of myself holding them onshore. We must have given them to someone my grandparents knew.
Several years ago I stayed with my cousin at her family's cabin in northern Indiana, where we fished with worms and bobbers. I was happy to see that I could still remove a hook from a catfish mouth without getting my fingers pierced by the fish's whiskers, and I was even glad to see that I still felt some sadness for the greedy bluegill that swallowed a hook that could not be removed. I have fished other places, of course: for striped bass in the California Delta, for trout in Sierra lakes. I have not, however, delved into fly fishing, something my friend Shawn continues to both enjoy and write about. Shawn (and others I have known) possesses much more poetic patience than I ever will, a much better understanding of the art of fishing. I, on the other hand, am a plodder, suited to sitting and watching the white half of a bobber ride the crest of small waves.
I miss fishing. I miss watering the garden at night and getting up early the next morning to ply worms from the soft earth, and I miss casting a strand of filament out onto the water, hearing the plop of hook, line, and sinker as they begin their work, then feeling the first dip of the pole's tip as a fish samples the bait. And, I've come to miss watching my father remove fish from my hook, listening to my grandfather's admonitions as I sat in the boat, and watching my sons' faces when they, too, learned to fish. But, more than anything? I wonder just what the hell I was thinking a couple years ago when, on a quest to dispose of anything in the garage that was not being used, I disposed of a tangle of fiberglass poles and fishing line that had done nothing more than get moved from shelf to shelf for many years. Oddly, though, I did not dispose of my grandfather's homemade tackle box, which must be half a century old, or one of the open-face reels we used on that trip to Ontario.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Ch-ch-ch-Changes
Look out, all you rock n' rollers....
Thanks, David Bowie, for giving me a starting point.
Thanks, David Bowie, for giving me a starting point.
* * *
Maryanne was the first woman I ever made cry. It was the day I left for bootcamp, and she had driven me to the recruiter's office. Unsure of what else to do, I let her sob against my should for a few minutes as we sat in the front seat of her car, then said I had to go. She was still crying as I walked away, and just as I'd seen in so many movies, I didn't look back--something like that happens and you know what's going on behind you. Maryanne and I had been dating since we'd graduated from high school a few months before, and we pretty much were approaching the point of hot and heavy. (Sidenote: A few nights earlier we'd double-dated with my then-best-friend Gary and his girlfriend, and as we were driving back to my house for cocktails in my parents' Ford Maverick a dog committed suicide by running into the front bumper of the car.)
Before heading to the recruiter's office that morning, my sisters and parents lined up in a sort of receiving line to give their goodbyes. My sisters were eagerly waiting for me to get out of Dodge so one of them could take over my bedroom, and I remember that after I hugged my mother, my father said, "You can hug me, too." I probably wouldn't have if he hadn't said that--kind of a male-thing, I suppose. At least for us.
Then, I was gone for 9 weeks, returning home for 2 weeks before heading out to my technical school in Pensacola, Florida, a pit of a place if ever there was one. I learned to drink beer there, however, so maybe even the worst pit has value. Bootcamp wasn't much of a challenge, really--I was used to people telling me what to do, so I fit right in. In many ways that's all a person has to learn in the military: do what you're told, tell people what to do. Maryanne and I must have said goodbye another time, but I don't remember the details. I do know that it would be years before another living creature would run into the front bumper of my car.
But I do remember most of the flight to Pensacola on a Continental Airlines jet, how deeply sad I was as, conspicuous in my dress blue uniform, I turned my face away from the person next to me and stared into the darkness. I had a pen with me, and I found a scrap of paper and wrote new lyrics to Rod Stewart's "Mandolin Wind," lyrics I planned to show to Maryanne one day. I was 18 and immature and leaving home for the first time, and I was not especially happy. Months later when I flew to Japan where I would spend over 2 years, I didn't feel half as much sadness. Perhaps I was more confident and mature, and perhaps because Maryanne and I had finally parted ways meant I had less to feel sad about.
Of my many regrets is never asking my parents how they felt when I left. They had let me ride and walk and hike without overly protective supervision for most of my childhood, so I had a good foundation of independence. Still, I have often wondered if they wanted to talk to me about what it felt like to watch their only son walk out the door--not just to college, not just to his own apartment, but to someplace a good way around the world.
In the next few weeks I will try to imagine what they felt: soon, my oldest son will be heading out to nearly the same part of the world I went to. He's older than I was when I left home, probably smarter and more self-confident. He is approaching this journey with excitement and external confidence, and he, too, has been raised to be self-sufficient and free thinking. I want to tell him how he'll feel at different points: sadness, anger, frustration, loneliness, isolation--most at different times but now and then all at once. But just as I was concerned only about myself and my sadness aboard that Continental Airlines flight, now I am imagining how I will feel as my son walks through the security checkpoint in San Francisco's airport--walking through a type of portal that takes him both literally and figuratively from one world to another. At that point he'll truly be on his own, and I can only hope that his mother and I have succeeded in giving him what he needs.
Before heading to the recruiter's office that morning, my sisters and parents lined up in a sort of receiving line to give their goodbyes. My sisters were eagerly waiting for me to get out of Dodge so one of them could take over my bedroom, and I remember that after I hugged my mother, my father said, "You can hug me, too." I probably wouldn't have if he hadn't said that--kind of a male-thing, I suppose. At least for us.
Then, I was gone for 9 weeks, returning home for 2 weeks before heading out to my technical school in Pensacola, Florida, a pit of a place if ever there was one. I learned to drink beer there, however, so maybe even the worst pit has value. Bootcamp wasn't much of a challenge, really--I was used to people telling me what to do, so I fit right in. In many ways that's all a person has to learn in the military: do what you're told, tell people what to do. Maryanne and I must have said goodbye another time, but I don't remember the details. I do know that it would be years before another living creature would run into the front bumper of my car.
But I do remember most of the flight to Pensacola on a Continental Airlines jet, how deeply sad I was as, conspicuous in my dress blue uniform, I turned my face away from the person next to me and stared into the darkness. I had a pen with me, and I found a scrap of paper and wrote new lyrics to Rod Stewart's "Mandolin Wind," lyrics I planned to show to Maryanne one day. I was 18 and immature and leaving home for the first time, and I was not especially happy. Months later when I flew to Japan where I would spend over 2 years, I didn't feel half as much sadness. Perhaps I was more confident and mature, and perhaps because Maryanne and I had finally parted ways meant I had less to feel sad about.
Of my many regrets is never asking my parents how they felt when I left. They had let me ride and walk and hike without overly protective supervision for most of my childhood, so I had a good foundation of independence. Still, I have often wondered if they wanted to talk to me about what it felt like to watch their only son walk out the door--not just to college, not just to his own apartment, but to someplace a good way around the world.
In the next few weeks I will try to imagine what they felt: soon, my oldest son will be heading out to nearly the same part of the world I went to. He's older than I was when I left home, probably smarter and more self-confident. He is approaching this journey with excitement and external confidence, and he, too, has been raised to be self-sufficient and free thinking. I want to tell him how he'll feel at different points: sadness, anger, frustration, loneliness, isolation--most at different times but now and then all at once. But just as I was concerned only about myself and my sadness aboard that Continental Airlines flight, now I am imagining how I will feel as my son walks through the security checkpoint in San Francisco's airport--walking through a type of portal that takes him both literally and figuratively from one world to another. At that point he'll truly be on his own, and I can only hope that his mother and I have succeeded in giving him what he needs.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Doldrums
I once wrote a short story entitled "Horse Latitudes," a little piece about a marriage that is, to use another nautical term, in the doldrums. This time of year in northern California, the weather seems perpetually dominated by high pressure that builds up above the region and bakes us. I feel like a lobster in a covered pot that the cook forgot to fill with water. It'd be death with or without water, but being boiled is more dramatic than being... what--baked?
This same ridge of high pressure dominates what little bit of creative mind still exists in my pea-sized brain. My most not-so-recent short story, "The Map Reader," languishes in the needs-to-edited file, while the latest novel-in-the-works is little more than scribbles in a Rhodia notebook and a couple of plot points in search of a unified theme. In an effort to reclaim a bit of creative fire, I've resorted to reading novels rather than nonfiction--perhaps using my imagination a bit more will stoke that fire. Of course, the act of reading keeps a person away from writing, but what the hell.
Part of the secret is to pay attention--little gifts of creativity abound if we keep our eyes open. In his latest post over at These Rivers, Shawn does a nice job of illustrating what can happen when we keep our eyes and feet moving. Even sailors eventually made their way out of the Doldrums, and though they might have cursed the weather (or lack of it), I doubt they actually blamed it for anything. They put the sails up and caught whatever wind there was and moved on.
This same ridge of high pressure dominates what little bit of creative mind still exists in my pea-sized brain. My most not-so-recent short story, "The Map Reader," languishes in the needs-to-edited file, while the latest novel-in-the-works is little more than scribbles in a Rhodia notebook and a couple of plot points in search of a unified theme. In an effort to reclaim a bit of creative fire, I've resorted to reading novels rather than nonfiction--perhaps using my imagination a bit more will stoke that fire. Of course, the act of reading keeps a person away from writing, but what the hell.
Part of the secret is to pay attention--little gifts of creativity abound if we keep our eyes open. In his latest post over at These Rivers, Shawn does a nice job of illustrating what can happen when we keep our eyes and feet moving. Even sailors eventually made their way out of the Doldrums, and though they might have cursed the weather (or lack of it), I doubt they actually blamed it for anything. They put the sails up and caught whatever wind there was and moved on.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Bad Stretch of Time
A week ago I spent a day with Lazlo Kominski and got to listen to a couple of stories, one of which included Kominski's current Bad Stretch of Time, or BST. Without divulging details, this particular story includes several dramatic plot points, not to mention a couple of plot twists, and a good amount of back story. We live long enough and each of us will experience a BST, though certainly one person's BST might not seem so bad to someone who has endured a worse one. I gave Kominski some details about my own BST, which occurred many years ago but still plays into nearly every decision I make. Then we went into San Francisco where we looked at some books and had a beer, and the story-telling and conversation continued along July 4th sidewalk traffic that seemed eerily light.
How we in fact endure strings of very bad things varies, certainly; some of us choose medication, some of us choos denial, and some of us choose nothing. My father once experienced a brief BST, and I remember him telling someone that "things like this always seem to happen close together." My father would one day have a starring role in my own BST, and he ended up being quite right about the "close together" part.
I think of all this BST stuff because a couple of days ago I was driving home from work and watched a car fishtail and skid across 3 lanes of traffic, remarkably without hitting another vehicle. I lost sight of the car for a moment, and when I saw it again it was resting on its roof on the side of the freeway. My informal calculations determined that there was no room for the car to have flipped only once at about 60 miles before a sudden cessation of movement. I have rolled a car off this same freeway, though I was going only 30 MPH. I bounced on my roof and ended up on my wheels in a carpool parking lot, the engine still running, the wheels splayed out. I put the car into reverse and backed into a parking space, and I thought, "That was not fun." Somone stopped to help me and let me use his phone to call my wife so she could pick me up and take me to where I had to teach that night. This was about a year after I confronted someone who was trying to steal my neighbor's car, and that someone got perturbed enough at my attempted intervention to show me the pistol stuck into the front of his pants while I was keeping my eye on the screwdriver he had raised above his head. That wasn't fun, either.
But, neither of those events were part of my BST; in fact, they aren't more than a reflective digression from that car that tumbled and twisted in front of me. I've kept an eye on the news stories since the accident, but I've not seen anything that would tell me what happened, if anyone was hurt. I keep wondering if that moment was the start of a BST for whoever was in the car, or maybe someone's family.
How we in fact endure strings of very bad things varies, certainly; some of us choose medication, some of us choos denial, and some of us choose nothing. My father once experienced a brief BST, and I remember him telling someone that "things like this always seem to happen close together." My father would one day have a starring role in my own BST, and he ended up being quite right about the "close together" part.
I think of all this BST stuff because a couple of days ago I was driving home from work and watched a car fishtail and skid across 3 lanes of traffic, remarkably without hitting another vehicle. I lost sight of the car for a moment, and when I saw it again it was resting on its roof on the side of the freeway. My informal calculations determined that there was no room for the car to have flipped only once at about 60 miles before a sudden cessation of movement. I have rolled a car off this same freeway, though I was going only 30 MPH. I bounced on my roof and ended up on my wheels in a carpool parking lot, the engine still running, the wheels splayed out. I put the car into reverse and backed into a parking space, and I thought, "That was not fun." Somone stopped to help me and let me use his phone to call my wife so she could pick me up and take me to where I had to teach that night. This was about a year after I confronted someone who was trying to steal my neighbor's car, and that someone got perturbed enough at my attempted intervention to show me the pistol stuck into the front of his pants while I was keeping my eye on the screwdriver he had raised above his head. That wasn't fun, either.
But, neither of those events were part of my BST; in fact, they aren't more than a reflective digression from that car that tumbled and twisted in front of me. I've kept an eye on the news stories since the accident, but I've not seen anything that would tell me what happened, if anyone was hurt. I keep wondering if that moment was the start of a BST for whoever was in the car, or maybe someone's family.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Power Trip
One of the fun things about writing fiction is choosing which characters live and which ones do not. Maybe, deep down, writers are narcissistic sociopaths who allow their submersible dark side surface through their fingers, but that might be something I'd have to ask a therapist. Of course, I also believe that, given free rein, characters make their own decisions, decisions that sometimes cause their demise.
I'm thinking of this now because, with a nice pen and a Rhodia notebook on the table in front of me, I'm at the start of a new novel and trying to figure out who the characters are and what they'll do for the next 90-thousand or so words. I completed the first chapter a couple of months ago but then got stuck figuring out how--and even why--one of the characters would die. The death itself is instrumental to the plot and the protagonist's life, but this how and why had me stumped. Then, while out riding my bike one day, I solved the problem: someone else, not my first choice, would die. Simple.
My approach to most of my writing goes against what many people have told me either in person or in their own writing: do the planning before you do the writing. Unfortunately I am not much of a planner when it comes to writing, though it wasn't until I figured out my second novel's ending was I able to complete most of the story. I do enjoy letting the characters develop on their own, and I often feel that planning too much of their lives makes them less real. That my success as a writer is nonexistent, however, probably means that I should have learned listen to people who know about these things.
A good day with Kominski yesterday further helped me with some possibilities for this latest work. I am now, for example, considering at least one new character, someone who can add some fodder to the story. Both Kominski and my friend Shawn are very good planners when they write, and it does me good to hear their advice and to learn about their work habits. Talking to people like these also helps me think things through, lets me try out ideas.
I'm spending too much time not writing, but I kind of like this part of the writing process: figuring out who the characters are be so I can get to know them before I send them on their way. And, of course, it's always fun to see who has the real power: the characters or the writer.
My approach to most of my writing goes against what many people have told me either in person or in their own writing: do the planning before you do the writing. Unfortunately I am not much of a planner when it comes to writing, though it wasn't until I figured out my second novel's ending was I able to complete most of the story. I do enjoy letting the characters develop on their own, and I often feel that planning too much of their lives makes them less real. That my success as a writer is nonexistent, however, probably means that I should have learned listen to people who know about these things.
A good day with Kominski yesterday further helped me with some possibilities for this latest work. I am now, for example, considering at least one new character, someone who can add some fodder to the story. Both Kominski and my friend Shawn are very good planners when they write, and it does me good to hear their advice and to learn about their work habits. Talking to people like these also helps me think things through, lets me try out ideas.
I'm spending too much time not writing, but I kind of like this part of the writing process: figuring out who the characters are be so I can get to know them before I send them on their way. And, of course, it's always fun to see who has the real power: the characters or the writer.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Chicago, Chicago
April 9-10, 2009
A long flight takes me from the somewhat familiar to the familiar. After an extraordinarily long wait at Customs, I am allowed back into my native country and make my way to the Chicago Transit Authority's Blue Line that conveys me into The City of the Broad Shoulders, where my feet take over and propel me to the Palmer House Hilton. I have stayed here twice before, and I am enamored of the old-style hotel, the gilded ceilings in the large lobby. In my room I make myself as home as a person can be in a hotel, laying out these essentials.
After a walk of several miles, I find a perch in Miller's Pub, where food is always good, and order a domestic meal and a domestic beer (Honker's Ale). My waiter, Matt, sees me writing in my Moleskine. "What are you writing there, a book?" Matt says. I tell him of where I have just returned from and he says he wishes he had written down notes of all his experiences when he played professional soccer in South America. I ask him how he went from professional soccer to waiting tables; he points to his head and says, "brain tumor."
Of course.
I learn that he is from San Diego and wants to each English overseas, that he loves to travel and decided when he "was sick" not to spend his life not doing what he doesn't like. It is a good conversation, and it fits in well with conversations I had with both Sharon and two elderly women at the Windsor Hotel--a good cast of characters.
The remainder of my stay in Chicago itself is somewhat lazy, and I find that while wondering without a plan in London and Brussels was fine, I want a plan here. Perhaps it is fatigue, both physical and mental; perhaps my familiarity with the city edges out any strong excitement. When I leave, I am pleased to be headed home, and in my long layover in Dallas-Forth Worth airport I think back to the last 2 weeks, to what I have seen and the people I have met. And when I remember the people, I see a connection of theme: the elderly women who had breakfast with me at the Windsor House are probably still planning further travels in their carefree style. Sharon, so energetic and seemingly positive, must be performing somewhere; and Matt, the soccer player turned waiter and planning to teach, is still saving his money so that he can afford to live overseas.
I do not associate well with many people, but I found these 4 and thoroughly enjoyed hearing their stories. Then, just days after getting home, I ride my bike through wind and rain and am overtaken by a man about my age, a man who pulls alongside and starts talking. We speak of our occupations, and he tells me about his brain tumor, about still recovering from his treatments. He says his goal is to work at finding ways to connect people--not connect with them, rally, but to somehow attach them to other people. The rain and wind bother him less than they do me, and when I turn back toward home, now riding into the wind and rain, he smiles happily and tells me he has many miles to go.
A long flight takes me from the somewhat familiar to the familiar. After an extraordinarily long wait at Customs, I am allowed back into my native country and make my way to the Chicago Transit Authority's Blue Line that conveys me into The City of the Broad Shoulders, where my feet take over and propel me to the Palmer House Hilton. I have stayed here twice before, and I am enamored of the old-style hotel, the gilded ceilings in the large lobby. In my room I make myself as home as a person can be in a hotel, laying out these essentials.
After a walk of several miles, I find a perch in Miller's Pub, where food is always good, and order a domestic meal and a domestic beer (Honker's Ale). My waiter, Matt, sees me writing in my Moleskine. "What are you writing there, a book?" Matt says. I tell him of where I have just returned from and he says he wishes he had written down notes of all his experiences when he played professional soccer in South America. I ask him how he went from professional soccer to waiting tables; he points to his head and says, "brain tumor."Of course.
I learn that he is from San Diego and wants to each English overseas, that he loves to travel and decided when he "was sick" not to spend his life not doing what he doesn't like. It is a good conversation, and it fits in well with conversations I had with both Sharon and two elderly women at the Windsor Hotel--a good cast of characters.
The remainder of my stay in Chicago itself is somewhat lazy, and I find that while wondering without a plan in London and Brussels was fine, I want a plan here. Perhaps it is fatigue, both physical and mental; perhaps my familiarity with the city edges out any strong excitement. When I leave, I am pleased to be headed home, and in my long layover in Dallas-Forth Worth airport I think back to the last 2 weeks, to what I have seen and the people I have met. And when I remember the people, I see a connection of theme: the elderly women who had breakfast with me at the Windsor House are probably still planning further travels in their carefree style. Sharon, so energetic and seemingly positive, must be performing somewhere; and Matt, the soccer player turned waiter and planning to teach, is still saving his money so that he can afford to live overseas.
I do not associate well with many people, but I found these 4 and thoroughly enjoyed hearing their stories. Then, just days after getting home, I ride my bike through wind and rain and am overtaken by a man about my age, a man who pulls alongside and starts talking. We speak of our occupations, and he tells me about his brain tumor, about still recovering from his treatments. He says his goal is to work at finding ways to connect people--not connect with them, rally, but to somehow attach them to other people. The rain and wind bother him less than they do me, and when I turn back toward home, now riding into the wind and rain, he smiles happily and tells me he has many miles to go.
The Easy Hotel
Back in London: April 7-8 2009.
The Easy Hotel near Paddington Station is clean and spartan, and I pay a bit of extra money for a remote control so I can watch a bit of TV during my stay. Though I will sleep no better for my 2 nights here than I have in any other bed during this trip, the bed itself is large and comfortable as I lie on it for a few minutes before heading outside again. I walk around and find my way to Hyde Park where I walk some more before, near dark, returning to my room.
Early the next morning I ride the Tube to Leicester Square, then walk aimlessly while trying to conserve what remains of my cash. At Covent Garden again I consume a finaly pasty for lunch, then watch the street performers, two of whom look like this:
Deciding I've had enough of the area on this, my final full day in London, I head back to the underground and come face to face with Sharon, who greets me with a friendly "Hi, Bob!" Of all the people on all the streets in London, and we meet again. I now know why she had been schlepping all of those suitcases from Brussels to London: they contain her outfits and props. She says that she will be performing in 45 minutes, and how can I not stick around to watch?
Her show is entertaining enough if not especially inspired or unique, and the audience seems reluctant to feed her anything in the way of energy. It's interesting to watch these barkers work the crowd: prodding them, teasing them, getting them to move closer "or there can't be a show." She juggles, she teases the men who have "volunteered" to help, and she looks like this:
She is confident and strong and enthusiastic--quite the busker.
At the end, I give her all of the coins I have left; we say our goodbyes and I walk to Trafalgar Square, through Soho, around Piccadilly Circus, around Parliament, then toward and across the Thames until, among thousands of tourists, then back toward the Hyde Park underground station where my legs seem to give out. I catch a train back toward Paddington and my friendly Easy Hotel. The next day I awake too early. I had packed the night before, so after a quick shower I check out of the hotel and step outside into a nice mist. At the Paddington Station I catch an express train to Heathrow Airport where I sit and wait to board the plane to Chicago.
Next time: Chicago, Chicago
The Easy Hotel near Paddington Station is clean and spartan, and I pay a bit of extra money for a remote control so I can watch a bit of TV during my stay. Though I will sleep no better for my 2 nights here than I have in any other bed during this trip, the bed itself is large and comfortable as I lie on it for a few minutes before heading outside again. I walk around and find my way to Hyde Park where I walk some more before, near dark, returning to my room.
Early the next morning I ride the Tube to Leicester Square, then walk aimlessly while trying to conserve what remains of my cash. At Covent Garden again I consume a finaly pasty for lunch, then watch the street performers, two of whom look like this:
Deciding I've had enough of the area on this, my final full day in London, I head back to the underground and come face to face with Sharon, who greets me with a friendly "Hi, Bob!" Of all the people on all the streets in London, and we meet again. I now know why she had been schlepping all of those suitcases from Brussels to London: they contain her outfits and props. She says that she will be performing in 45 minutes, and how can I not stick around to watch?Her show is entertaining enough if not especially inspired or unique, and the audience seems reluctant to feed her anything in the way of energy. It's interesting to watch these barkers work the crowd: prodding them, teasing them, getting them to move closer "or there can't be a show." She juggles, she teases the men who have "volunteered" to help, and she looks like this:
She is confident and strong and enthusiastic--quite the busker.
At the end, I give her all of the coins I have left; we say our goodbyes and I walk to Trafalgar Square, through Soho, around Piccadilly Circus, around Parliament, then toward and across the Thames until, among thousands of tourists, then back toward the Hyde Park underground station where my legs seem to give out. I catch a train back toward Paddington and my friendly Easy Hotel. The next day I awake too early. I had packed the night before, so after a quick shower I check out of the hotel and step outside into a nice mist. At the Paddington Station I catch an express train to Heathrow Airport where I sit and wait to board the plane to Chicago.
Next time: Chicago, Chicago
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Mussels in Brussels, Pt. 2
After a quick buffet breakfast on the morning of my first full day in Brussels, I headed out to see what more I could see. I wandered to the Parc Brussels, a small version of Hyde Park, then through the park to the Palais Royale. No royalty actually live in the palace, but its girth is impressive. This is the palace from the opposite end of the park.
And the palace itself looks like this:
And the palace itself looks like this:Walking more, I come upon the Palace of Fine Arts, and after some internal debate, pay the five Euros and head inside. There I find many paintings by both Bruegel and Brueghal, and I tell myself to find out the difference between the two. One painting, by Pieter Bruegel, is De val van Icarus, which I am familiar with and think translates to The Fall of Icarus. I also find paintings by Peter Paul Rubens and Georges Seurat, some of whose works I have seen before. Still, I find myself saddened by my lack of familiarity with so much fine art. I finally find something I can relate to--in an antique shop.
Again returning to the Grande Place, I buy assorted gifts to take home, then find an outdoor café where dining would seem to be pleasant. But, when I order a sandwich off the menu, the waiter tells me simply, “No sandwiches today.” So, I settle for a beer, a Stella Artois, and wonder where sandwiches are served. When the beer is gone, I head to an area I walked through yesterday—a couple of streets lined with hundreds of different restaurants. It is an amazingly touristy place where waiters stand outside and, in assorted languages, try to get people to stop and eat. My feet are tired and my stomach is empty, so I let myself be seated at one of the tables just inside a restaurant, and I order shrimp, a glass of wine, and a bucket of mussels. Below are photographs of one of the streets, and from my table just inside the restaurant.
Again returning to the Grande Place, I buy assorted gifts to take home, then find an outdoor café where dining would seem to be pleasant. But, when I order a sandwich off the menu, the waiter tells me simply, “No sandwiches today.” So, I settle for a beer, a Stella Artois, and wonder where sandwiches are served. When the beer is gone, I head to an area I walked through yesterday—a couple of streets lined with hundreds of different restaurants. It is an amazingly touristy place where waiters stand outside and, in assorted languages, try to get people to stop and eat. My feet are tired and my stomach is empty, so I let myself be seated at one of the tables just inside a restaurant, and I order shrimp, a glass of wine, and a bucket of mussels. Below are photographs of one of the streets, and from my table just inside the restaurant.
Afterward, I of course get lost again as I navigate my way back to my hotel, arriving just after dark.
My final, partial day in Brussels involves little more than getting back to the train station for to catch the Eurostar back to London. And though I succeed in getting on the correct subway train and get off at what I think is the correct train station, I actually get lost in the station itself, end up at street level, and walk fairly aimlessly for half a mile before admitting I am lost. Retracing my steps, I find the station again, get lost inside of it again, and finally find the Eurostar terminal which is little more than a large waiting room. I buy a baguette and a chocolate bar, then eat them both as I wait for my train.
Then, as I read my book, I am approached by a tall, blonde woman who has stacked behind her several large suitcases. She asks if I will watch her bags while she finds the restroom, and though I have been trained not to do such things, I quickly say that I would be happy to. She disappears, and only minutes later two young men in black pants and white shirts appear, and they ask me if the suitcases are mine. I tell them that, no, they most certainly are not, but that their owner should be back soon. They talk among themselves as though trying to figure out what to do, and then they leave a card on the suitcases, a card that warns people to be aware of pickpockets.
When the woman returns, I tell her what happened, and we both laugh. Okay, I probably giggle since I’m not used to strange women talking to me. She tells me her name is Sharon, and she sits a couple of seats down. She says that she is a performer, that she travels much in Europe and makes a good living. She is also Canadian. We talk about many things: our respective occupations, our love of travel, where we grew up and went to school. We say our goodbyes when our train arrives, and as I watch her, I wonder how one person can require so much luggage.
I find my seat on the train, and I wonder what to make of Brussels. I am glad that I visited, but I am not sure I would visit again. My lack of knowledge of the city is certainly a detriment, as is my inability to speak the native languages. I would like to see more of Belgium, for I have heard many good things about the country. Now, though, I am returning to London, and I am glad to be going back to someplace familiar.
Next time: The Easy Hotel in the Small Town of London
My final, partial day in Brussels involves little more than getting back to the train station for to catch the Eurostar back to London. And though I succeed in getting on the correct subway train and get off at what I think is the correct train station, I actually get lost in the station itself, end up at street level, and walk fairly aimlessly for half a mile before admitting I am lost. Retracing my steps, I find the station again, get lost inside of it again, and finally find the Eurostar terminal which is little more than a large waiting room. I buy a baguette and a chocolate bar, then eat them both as I wait for my train.
Then, as I read my book, I am approached by a tall, blonde woman who has stacked behind her several large suitcases. She asks if I will watch her bags while she finds the restroom, and though I have been trained not to do such things, I quickly say that I would be happy to. She disappears, and only minutes later two young men in black pants and white shirts appear, and they ask me if the suitcases are mine. I tell them that, no, they most certainly are not, but that their owner should be back soon. They talk among themselves as though trying to figure out what to do, and then they leave a card on the suitcases, a card that warns people to be aware of pickpockets.
When the woman returns, I tell her what happened, and we both laugh. Okay, I probably giggle since I’m not used to strange women talking to me. She tells me her name is Sharon, and she sits a couple of seats down. She says that she is a performer, that she travels much in Europe and makes a good living. She is also Canadian. We talk about many things: our respective occupations, our love of travel, where we grew up and went to school. We say our goodbyes when our train arrives, and as I watch her, I wonder how one person can require so much luggage.
I find my seat on the train, and I wonder what to make of Brussels. I am glad that I visited, but I am not sure I would visit again. My lack of knowledge of the city is certainly a detriment, as is my inability to speak the native languages. I would like to see more of Belgium, for I have heard many good things about the country. Now, though, I am returning to London, and I am glad to be going back to someplace familiar.
Next time: The Easy Hotel in the Small Town of London
Friday, May 29, 2009
Mussels in Brussels, Part 1
April 4-6, 2009
The man working the desk at the Art Hotel Siru is not bothered in the least when I tell him I speak neither French nor Dutch. When I ask him about where to walk and to not walk at night, he points to a few places on the map he hands me, but he speaks so quickly and points so briefly I do not know exactly which streets to avoid and which are safe. "This area is not so good," he says, pointing to some small print. "Unless, of course, it makes you happy."
The elevator is barely large enough for one person, and I am amused that a sign, in English, specifies that no more than 4 people are allowed in the car. I know some small people, but I don't think even 2 of them would be comfortable in the ride to my room. In my 2-night stay I will never figure out exactly which floor the lobby is on and which button to push to get to that lobby, and in fact more than once I will ride the elevator down and get off on the wrong floor. The room at the Art Hotel Siru is an upgrade from the Windsor House Hotel in London--I feel as though I have moved from steerage to first class because I actually have space in which to move around. In fact, I can move around not only in the room itself, but also in the shower. Hell, I could take a bath if I was one to take baths! I do notice, however, that sounds from the street seem to be magnified as they rise up and through my window. There is a small desk on which to place assorted items, and some of these are shown in this photograph. (The wind did not come with the room--I had to buy that at a nearby grocery store.)
After I have scattered my clothing about the room and consulted my map, I ride the elevator down, get off first on the wrong floor, second in the basement, and third in the lobby. This is fun, I think. Finally outside, I cross a busy street and head in the direction where I think the Grand Place is. I then have a choice of 2 streets to continue on, and, because this is a good pattern, I head down what must be the wrong street and find myself walking by a variety of adult clubs and theaters. I realize this is what the man at the hotel was referring to as the area that "isn't so good." Retracing my steps, I head down what must be the correct streets, and after walking through assorted indoor shopping areas, one of which looks like this:
Soon enough, I arrive at the tourist-laden Grand Place, which looks like this.
I will return to this area several times during my stay, approaching Brussels the same way I do everyplace else I visit: get overly familiar with one place before venturing on to someplace else.
Ready for dinner, I scout out the various dining spots in the immediate area, finally settling on one only because I am tired of scouting. For dinner, I have this, a nice birthday dinner.
Next time: Mussels in Brussels, Pt. 2
The man working the desk at the Art Hotel Siru is not bothered in the least when I tell him I speak neither French nor Dutch. When I ask him about where to walk and to not walk at night, he points to a few places on the map he hands me, but he speaks so quickly and points so briefly I do not know exactly which streets to avoid and which are safe. "This area is not so good," he says, pointing to some small print. "Unless, of course, it makes you happy."
The elevator is barely large enough for one person, and I am amused that a sign, in English, specifies that no more than 4 people are allowed in the car. I know some small people, but I don't think even 2 of them would be comfortable in the ride to my room. In my 2-night stay I will never figure out exactly which floor the lobby is on and which button to push to get to that lobby, and in fact more than once I will ride the elevator down and get off on the wrong floor. The room at the Art Hotel Siru is an upgrade from the Windsor House Hotel in London--I feel as though I have moved from steerage to first class because I actually have space in which to move around. In fact, I can move around not only in the room itself, but also in the shower. Hell, I could take a bath if I was one to take baths! I do notice, however, that sounds from the street seem to be magnified as they rise up and through my window. There is a small desk on which to place assorted items, and some of these are shown in this photograph. (The wind did not come with the room--I had to buy that at a nearby grocery store.)
After I have scattered my clothing about the room and consulted my map, I ride the elevator down, get off first on the wrong floor, second in the basement, and third in the lobby. This is fun, I think. Finally outside, I cross a busy street and head in the direction where I think the Grand Place is. I then have a choice of 2 streets to continue on, and, because this is a good pattern, I head down what must be the wrong street and find myself walking by a variety of adult clubs and theaters. I realize this is what the man at the hotel was referring to as the area that "isn't so good." Retracing my steps, I head down what must be the correct streets, and after walking through assorted indoor shopping areas, one of which looks like this:
Soon enough, I arrive at the tourist-laden Grand Place, which looks like this.
I will return to this area several times during my stay, approaching Brussels the same way I do everyplace else I visit: get overly familiar with one place before venturing on to someplace else.
Ready for dinner, I scout out the various dining spots in the immediate area, finally settling on one only because I am tired of scouting. For dinner, I have this, a nice birthday dinner.
Next time: Mussels in Brussels, Pt. 2
Friday, May 22, 2009
Changing Channels
I was so much older then: April 4, 2009
Happy birthday to me...
Skipped cornflakes and toast at the hotel again today because the dining room was full of teenagers. I should have barged in, told them to respect their elders, and taken a seat. I walk to the bakery again but find that it is not yet open, and when I return to the hotel, I find myself locked out--not out of my room, but out of the hotel. One of the 2 keys I was given is supposed to open the outside door, but it does not and I stand in a light drizzle and think, nice way to start my birthday. Finally someone exits, and I smile and step in, then climb the steps to my room where I check that everything is packed for my trip to Brussels. But when I drag myself and my backpack down the steps, there is nobody at the front desk, nobody to return the 10-Pound deposit I had to pay for the 2 keys. In the dining room I seek out an adult who is serving toast, someone who barely speaks English but tells me to knock on a door around the corner. I pass an attractive woman in the hallway as I look for the door, and she disappears up the steps. I knock on the door, and it is opened by a young gentleman dressed in pajama bottoms and nothing else. I tell him I'm looking for the person who will check me out of the hotel, and he tells me she is not there. In fact, we repeat this conversation a second time, but I can tell he is not pleased to have been summoned from his bed. He shuts the door, I walk back up the steps, and I find the attractive woman I'd passed moments earlier.
She is the one who will be taking my keys and returning my deposit. I don't tell her of my encounter with her boyfriend/husband/companion, figuring I'll let him tell her about me later in the day. When she asks how my stay was, I tell her it was mostly fine except for the leaking roof and the Italian teenagers who were also staying at the hotel and thought it was great fun to congregate on the sidewalk beneath my window between midnight and 3 a.m. each night. She is tired. She says that she has not slept more than a few hours each night because of those same teenagers, and she says she is glad to be heading somewhere out of the country for a few days, to someplace quiet.
Then, I am gone and on my way to St. Pancras Station where I check my heavy bag and find someplace to serve me a croissant and a cup of hot tea for breakfast. As usual, I am much earlier than I have to be, so I linger on benches or walk through the station, all the while glad that I am burdened with only a small daypack. The station is full, the languages many, and I don't know if I am pleased or not to see an eldery American dressed in full cowboy clothing. Many young people, some of whom carry climbers' mats, stride easily through the crowds, and their youth and vigor remind me that I am another year older today. I watch them and try to believe that my back does not hurt, that my feet are not sore.... Security in the train station is similar to that in airports, and when I am finally through to the gate/waiting area half an hour before my train is to leave, we are told that the train will be late and the track has been changed. So, I wait some more.
The Eurostar train is comfortable enough, and intercom announcements are made in 3 languages in this order: English, French, Dutch. Passing beneath the English Channel is dark and quick, and though only some of the scenery changes as we ascend into daylight, I feel a small twinge of excitement that I am now in France. There, the order of announcements changes to French, Dutch, and then English, and a couple of uneventful hours later we arrive in Gare du Midi, one of the train stations in Brussels. This is the end of this Eurostar line for me, and I step out into the station and must figure out what to do next.
I knew I had a few options to get to my hotel: walk, take a cab, ride the trolley/underground. I had consulted my map enough to know that the distance between the station and my hotel was not far and was easily walkable. Instead, I find my way to beneath the streets to where the underground trains were. Knowing that my hotel was very close to the Place Rogier stop on the trolley, I consult the maps on the wall and decipher that I should take the Churchill line. I buy a ticket at a vending machine, wait for what I think is the correct train, and board said train--but do not know what to do with the ticket. So, pocketing it, I find a seat and tried to appear inconspicuous. The stops are announced in French and Dutch, and I wait patiently for "Rogier" to flow from a loudspeaker. Instead, 15 minutes later, the train creeps into a roundabout-type stop from which there is no exit, where 2 other trains are also parked, and during a fairly long announcement, I catch the word "terminus"--and then every door opens and every passenger exits. Remembering the experience my English-ladies had told me about when the rode the subway in Paris, I follow their lead and get off the train. And, for the life of me, I do not know what to do but stand there and pretend I am reading the plaque affixed to the statue of Winston Chruchill.
For 10 minutes I walk around that little circle, checking the sky and hoping the increasing gray did not signal rain. None of the trains appear to be going anywhere, and I can not see any street signs that might help me find my place on the map. Finally, one of the electronic signs on one of the trains changes to "Rogier"--I had, apparently, boarded the correct train, but had gone in the incorrect direction. I am sheepish, then, when I re-board a train, pass again through Gare du Midi, and in 10 minutes disembark at Place Rogier station, find my way past homeless people camped in the station, and ascend into Brussels itself--less than a block from my hotel, the Art Hotel Siru, which looks like this.
Yes. It's a Comfort Inn. But, damn, it's a Comfort Inn in Brussels!
Next time: Mussels in Brussels
Happy birthday to me...
Skipped cornflakes and toast at the hotel again today because the dining room was full of teenagers. I should have barged in, told them to respect their elders, and taken a seat. I walk to the bakery again but find that it is not yet open, and when I return to the hotel, I find myself locked out--not out of my room, but out of the hotel. One of the 2 keys I was given is supposed to open the outside door, but it does not and I stand in a light drizzle and think, nice way to start my birthday. Finally someone exits, and I smile and step in, then climb the steps to my room where I check that everything is packed for my trip to Brussels. But when I drag myself and my backpack down the steps, there is nobody at the front desk, nobody to return the 10-Pound deposit I had to pay for the 2 keys. In the dining room I seek out an adult who is serving toast, someone who barely speaks English but tells me to knock on a door around the corner. I pass an attractive woman in the hallway as I look for the door, and she disappears up the steps. I knock on the door, and it is opened by a young gentleman dressed in pajama bottoms and nothing else. I tell him I'm looking for the person who will check me out of the hotel, and he tells me she is not there. In fact, we repeat this conversation a second time, but I can tell he is not pleased to have been summoned from his bed. He shuts the door, I walk back up the steps, and I find the attractive woman I'd passed moments earlier.
She is the one who will be taking my keys and returning my deposit. I don't tell her of my encounter with her boyfriend/husband/companion, figuring I'll let him tell her about me later in the day. When she asks how my stay was, I tell her it was mostly fine except for the leaking roof and the Italian teenagers who were also staying at the hotel and thought it was great fun to congregate on the sidewalk beneath my window between midnight and 3 a.m. each night. She is tired. She says that she has not slept more than a few hours each night because of those same teenagers, and she says she is glad to be heading somewhere out of the country for a few days, to someplace quiet.
Then, I am gone and on my way to St. Pancras Station where I check my heavy bag and find someplace to serve me a croissant and a cup of hot tea for breakfast. As usual, I am much earlier than I have to be, so I linger on benches or walk through the station, all the while glad that I am burdened with only a small daypack. The station is full, the languages many, and I don't know if I am pleased or not to see an eldery American dressed in full cowboy clothing. Many young people, some of whom carry climbers' mats, stride easily through the crowds, and their youth and vigor remind me that I am another year older today. I watch them and try to believe that my back does not hurt, that my feet are not sore.... Security in the train station is similar to that in airports, and when I am finally through to the gate/waiting area half an hour before my train is to leave, we are told that the train will be late and the track has been changed. So, I wait some more.
The Eurostar train is comfortable enough, and intercom announcements are made in 3 languages in this order: English, French, Dutch. Passing beneath the English Channel is dark and quick, and though only some of the scenery changes as we ascend into daylight, I feel a small twinge of excitement that I am now in France. There, the order of announcements changes to French, Dutch, and then English, and a couple of uneventful hours later we arrive in Gare du Midi, one of the train stations in Brussels. This is the end of this Eurostar line for me, and I step out into the station and must figure out what to do next.
I knew I had a few options to get to my hotel: walk, take a cab, ride the trolley/underground. I had consulted my map enough to know that the distance between the station and my hotel was not far and was easily walkable. Instead, I find my way to beneath the streets to where the underground trains were. Knowing that my hotel was very close to the Place Rogier stop on the trolley, I consult the maps on the wall and decipher that I should take the Churchill line. I buy a ticket at a vending machine, wait for what I think is the correct train, and board said train--but do not know what to do with the ticket. So, pocketing it, I find a seat and tried to appear inconspicuous. The stops are announced in French and Dutch, and I wait patiently for "Rogier" to flow from a loudspeaker. Instead, 15 minutes later, the train creeps into a roundabout-type stop from which there is no exit, where 2 other trains are also parked, and during a fairly long announcement, I catch the word "terminus"--and then every door opens and every passenger exits. Remembering the experience my English-ladies had told me about when the rode the subway in Paris, I follow their lead and get off the train. And, for the life of me, I do not know what to do but stand there and pretend I am reading the plaque affixed to the statue of Winston Chruchill.
For 10 minutes I walk around that little circle, checking the sky and hoping the increasing gray did not signal rain. None of the trains appear to be going anywhere, and I can not see any street signs that might help me find my place on the map. Finally, one of the electronic signs on one of the trains changes to "Rogier"--I had, apparently, boarded the correct train, but had gone in the incorrect direction. I am sheepish, then, when I re-board a train, pass again through Gare du Midi, and in 10 minutes disembark at Place Rogier station, find my way past homeless people camped in the station, and ascend into Brussels itself--less than a block from my hotel, the Art Hotel Siru, which looks like this.
Yes. It's a Comfort Inn. But, damn, it's a Comfort Inn in Brussels!Next time: Mussels in Brussels
Saturday, May 16, 2009
No More Cornflakes!
Another London Day: April 3, 2009
More than anything, this is a day of transition between London and Brussels, Belgium, and I discover that the leak in the ceiling outside my room has stopped, or been stopped, and if by magic I now have decent water pressure in my shower. Then, not only washed but properly rinsed, I skip breakfast at the B&B and instead grab something at the small bakery I have become familiar with over the past near-week. I do not much relish Cornflakes (though was once a great fan of Sugar Frosted Flakes), and I could not face a bowl of them again. Later, I head to Camden Town, which I've heard is (and turns out to be) a throwback to the 1960s: tie-died clothing; bongs and assorted paraphernalia; tattoo and piercing parlors, along with current or previous clientele. It is an active place, but I do not linger long before returning to London for lunch at Covent Garden, where I also buy 2 nice, heavy bath towels and a bathrobe to send home to my wife. The transaction is sealed with a handshake and my providing my credit card number to a man who writes it on a piece of paper and assures me that the items will be shipped in just a couple of days. Afterward I take the Tube to St. Pancras Station, from where I will depart on the Eurostar tomorrow. The station is as large as many airports I have been in, and I am amazed at its size. I visit mostly to see if I can leave part of my luggage here while I am in Brussels, which turns out to be possible if fairly pricey.
After St. Pancras I visit the British Library, just a short walk from both the station and the hotel I stayed in after returning from Edinburgh a couple years ago. On that visit, I discovered the Library purely by accident after purposefully visiting the Charles Dickens Museum. The Library is a cool, softly lighted place that proves a good counter to the commotion on the streets outside. I once more enjoy looking at the Magna Carta and other, assorted original manuscripts before finding my way back to the Tube and the Windsor House, where I pack and begin thinking about Brussels, about how tomorrow my age will bump up another digit.
Next time: Changing Channels
Saturday, May 9, 2009
A Friend, Her Daughter, Their Friend, and More London
More of London: April 2, 2009
Trekking through London for a couple more days before heading to Brussels, I start out on April 2 hoping to find Harrod's, though I do not find it until after getting disoriented and then nearly disinterested in the whole thing. I am continually perplexed by my inability to orient and synchronize my eyes and feet to my map and compass, and my excursion requires much more time and walking than I think it should. In the hotel room this morning everything appeared so simple, so navigable.
Perhaps, though, my lack of sleep last night contributed to a similar lack of clear thinking. Deciding yesterday afternoon that a couple of t-shirts needed a bit of cleansing to get the smell of me out of them, I washed them in the small sink, wrung them up, then hung them in the shower to drip dry. Several times during the night I awoke to the sound of water dripping, a sound that was much louder than I reasoned any two t-shirts hung to dry should make. Finally frustrated enough to examine things, I stepped across the room to the shower, where I felt the shirts and discovered they were not dripping anything--they were damp, but just so. Still hearing water dropping from somewhere, I opened the door to my room and found that water was, in fact, dropping from the ceiling to the carpet. Actually, it was dropping quite freely. Remembering my navy training, I shrieked, did the Curly Shuffle, and dropped to my knees in prayer.
No. I didn't do those things. Rather, I put on my shoes and ventured downstairs to the manager's desk, where of course there was no manager. Creeping back up the 2 flights of stairs, I looked up to the ceiling, then went back into my room and did what any level-headed person would do: I packed everything I had, which included putting the 2 shirts in a plastic bag, and lay down on the bed to await the inevitable general alarm of "Flooding! Flooding! Flooding on the third floor." When the alarm didn't sound, though, I fell asleep with thoughts that this was only some kind of prank, some sort of false water-torture technique the Brits employed to get their American guests to spill the beans about, well, whatever beans needed to be spilled about.
Shortly after sunrise, after I had contorted my way into and out of the shower once again, I headed down to breakfast, passing the manager on the way. He was, apparently, aware of the potential flood and had already called in the Calvary. And, after breakfast with giggling Italian school girls, I started for Harrod's and points beyond. I purchased nothing in Harrod's, though I came close to buying chocolate from 2 Sirens who sang to me about how good their chocolate was, and how part of the money went to some charity or another. After taking a free sample of said chocolate, I told them I would pass by again, and if they saw me I would indeed trade money for sweets. I then dashed out of the store and out to the street, exiting through a door that must have been half a mile away from the one I'd entered through.
Leaving Harrod's behind, I retraced most of my steps and found my way to Hyde Park, and after several hours of walking found a park bench on which to rest and recover from the day's harrowing experiences. Then, taking the Underground toward Tower of London, mill about but for the second time in 2 visits balk at paying the nearly $40 admission fee. I instead cross the Tower Bridge, which looks like this from a distance:
And it looks like this if you're walking across it:
On the other side of the bridge is a pub in which I am supposed to meet a co-worker, her daughter, and their friend. The pub looks like this, with the Tower Bridge in the background.
My co-worker and her party arrived in London today, and they will be headed to Madrid in just a couple of days. I eat fish & chips of marginal quality, and we compare flights and hotels. Then, they go back to their hotel, and I head across the Tower of Bridge again, which looks like this at night:
Back in my hotel room, the water is still dripping. The carpet outside my room is very wet, and the ceiling above that carpeting looks as though it could collapse at any moment. I leave my bag pack and huddle in the corner of my bed, waiting for morning.
Next time: No more Cornflakes!
Trekking through London for a couple more days before heading to Brussels, I start out on April 2 hoping to find Harrod's, though I do not find it until after getting disoriented and then nearly disinterested in the whole thing. I am continually perplexed by my inability to orient and synchronize my eyes and feet to my map and compass, and my excursion requires much more time and walking than I think it should. In the hotel room this morning everything appeared so simple, so navigable.
Perhaps, though, my lack of sleep last night contributed to a similar lack of clear thinking. Deciding yesterday afternoon that a couple of t-shirts needed a bit of cleansing to get the smell of me out of them, I washed them in the small sink, wrung them up, then hung them in the shower to drip dry. Several times during the night I awoke to the sound of water dripping, a sound that was much louder than I reasoned any two t-shirts hung to dry should make. Finally frustrated enough to examine things, I stepped across the room to the shower, where I felt the shirts and discovered they were not dripping anything--they were damp, but just so. Still hearing water dropping from somewhere, I opened the door to my room and found that water was, in fact, dropping from the ceiling to the carpet. Actually, it was dropping quite freely. Remembering my navy training, I shrieked, did the Curly Shuffle, and dropped to my knees in prayer.
No. I didn't do those things. Rather, I put on my shoes and ventured downstairs to the manager's desk, where of course there was no manager. Creeping back up the 2 flights of stairs, I looked up to the ceiling, then went back into my room and did what any level-headed person would do: I packed everything I had, which included putting the 2 shirts in a plastic bag, and lay down on the bed to await the inevitable general alarm of "Flooding! Flooding! Flooding on the third floor." When the alarm didn't sound, though, I fell asleep with thoughts that this was only some kind of prank, some sort of false water-torture technique the Brits employed to get their American guests to spill the beans about, well, whatever beans needed to be spilled about.
Shortly after sunrise, after I had contorted my way into and out of the shower once again, I headed down to breakfast, passing the manager on the way. He was, apparently, aware of the potential flood and had already called in the Calvary. And, after breakfast with giggling Italian school girls, I started for Harrod's and points beyond. I purchased nothing in Harrod's, though I came close to buying chocolate from 2 Sirens who sang to me about how good their chocolate was, and how part of the money went to some charity or another. After taking a free sample of said chocolate, I told them I would pass by again, and if they saw me I would indeed trade money for sweets. I then dashed out of the store and out to the street, exiting through a door that must have been half a mile away from the one I'd entered through.
Leaving Harrod's behind, I retraced most of my steps and found my way to Hyde Park, and after several hours of walking found a park bench on which to rest and recover from the day's harrowing experiences. Then, taking the Underground toward Tower of London, mill about but for the second time in 2 visits balk at paying the nearly $40 admission fee. I instead cross the Tower Bridge, which looks like this from a distance:
And it looks like this if you're walking across it:
On the other side of the bridge is a pub in which I am supposed to meet a co-worker, her daughter, and their friend. The pub looks like this, with the Tower Bridge in the background.
My co-worker and her party arrived in London today, and they will be headed to Madrid in just a couple of days. I eat fish & chips of marginal quality, and we compare flights and hotels. Then, they go back to their hotel, and I head across the Tower of Bridge again, which looks like this at night:
Back in my hotel room, the water is still dripping. The carpet outside my room is very wet, and the ceiling above that carpeting looks as though it could collapse at any moment. I leave my bag pack and huddle in the corner of my bed, waiting for morning.
Next time: No more Cornflakes!
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Programus Interruptus
Briefly interrupting the slog through Europe, a couple of things.
First, one of the blog entries actually got a comment--it's nice to know that sometimes someone is stopping by for a quick visit. Second, the comment itself (thanks, Shawn), is an excellent poem by Mary Oliver, one of my favorite writers. Here's the poem:
First, one of the blog entries actually got a comment--it's nice to know that sometimes someone is stopping by for a quick visit. Second, the comment itself (thanks, Shawn), is an excellent poem by Mary Oliver, one of my favorite writers. Here's the poem:
When I Am Among the Trees
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into this world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Doing Battle
No fooling: April 1, 2009
Spent a second breakfast with the 2 women who joined me yesterday. They were quite pleasant, and we spoke about many things: traveling, British and American English (essentially, "who do Americans take the language and change so much of it"), and a bit of politics. As did Mark the Swede did a couple of years earlier in Edinburgh, the women wonder at why the United States thinks that it somehow has dominion over the world because of its superpower status. Though I am tempted to point out that the English Empire has a somewhat dubious history as a world leader, I instead hold my tongue and simply enjoy my toast, my tea, and my single hard-boiled egg. They also tell me of a trip they made to Paris, at how friendly people there were, at how they successfully navigated their way via subway and taxi even given their inability to speak French. Once, they said, they were on the subway late one night, and the train stopped at a station, an announcement of some type came over the train's intercom, and everyone on the train got off. Figuring they might as well do the same thing, they followed suit, correctly assuming that the train was done for the night.
Overall, the trip is worth the cost, and I am glad to have gotten a bit of tourist-type insight into something that happened so long ago, something so significant.
Returning to London late in the afternoon, I spend a few hours exploring areas south of the Thames, an area new to me. I make a mad dash to the Tate Modern art museum, where I discover that I have neither the artistic background nor the imagination to understand much of what I am seeing. One exhibit, a very old Volkswagen bus (with snow tires on the front wheels) trailed by a large gathering of just-as-old wooden sleds. It is a place, I think, where someone like me needs a true guide--the BFA/MFA types who are willing to educate me. Instead, I wander the exhibits with a haste more than likely governed by general fatigue and overall hunger. So, walking back across the Thames, I find a pub, sit down to a glass of wine and a dinner of sausage of mash, and try to figure out what the hell I have just seen.
Spent a second breakfast with the 2 women who joined me yesterday. They were quite pleasant, and we spoke about many things: traveling, British and American English (essentially, "who do Americans take the language and change so much of it"), and a bit of politics. As did Mark the Swede did a couple of years earlier in Edinburgh, the women wonder at why the United States thinks that it somehow has dominion over the world because of its superpower status. Though I am tempted to point out that the English Empire has a somewhat dubious history as a world leader, I instead hold my tongue and simply enjoy my toast, my tea, and my single hard-boiled egg. They also tell me of a trip they made to Paris, at how friendly people there were, at how they successfully navigated their way via subway and taxi even given their inability to speak French. Once, they said, they were on the subway late one night, and the train stopped at a station, an announcement of some type came over the train's intercom, and everyone on the train got off. Figuring they might as well do the same thing, they followed suit, correctly assuming that the train was done for the night.
An hour or so after breakfast I board a train to the town of Battle, where the battle of Hastings took place in October of 1066. (Read your English history for the rest of the story.) Though I have no map of Battle itself, I find my way to the battle site, pay my entry fee, collect my little audio-tour device, then set out walking. The day is sunny if breezy, a good day to be outside and walking in a place less hectic than London. Here is a photograph of the battlefield itself, now covered with peaceful sheep. Though the photograph does not show it well, this is taken from downhill of the distant building and wall.
And here, ruins of an abbey built after the battle itself.
And beneath the abbey, an area where the monks apparently liked to gather for their little monk-parties.
Overall, the trip is worth the cost, and I am glad to have gotten a bit of tourist-type insight into something that happened so long ago, something so significant.
Returning to London late in the afternoon, I spend a few hours exploring areas south of the Thames, an area new to me. I make a mad dash to the Tate Modern art museum, where I discover that I have neither the artistic background nor the imagination to understand much of what I am seeing. One exhibit, a very old Volkswagen bus (with snow tires on the front wheels) trailed by a large gathering of just-as-old wooden sleds. It is a place, I think, where someone like me needs a true guide--the BFA/MFA types who are willing to educate me. Instead, I wander the exhibits with a haste more than likely governed by general fatigue and overall hunger. So, walking back across the Thames, I find a pub, sit down to a glass of wine and a dinner of sausage of mash, and try to figure out what the hell I have just seen.
Next time: A friend, her daughter, their friend, and more London
Friday, April 24, 2009
Hard Boiled Eggs and English Women
Waking up in London: March 31, 2009
There is a nice feeling in waking up to strangeness, in a different bed and room. After contorting myself into and out of the shower, I plod down 3 flights of stairs to the basement for breakfast. I have a few minutes at a table by myself, and I try to learn the lie of the land: white toast, Cornflakes, hot tea, and a single hard boiled egg served in an egg cup. I peel and eat the egg. I eat half a bowl of Cornflakes and a slice of toast. Then, I am joined by 2 elderly women, and I realize that I will, indeed, be forced to converse with strangers. I'm not sure which bothers me more: rattlesnakes or having to talk to strangers in such close quarters. But, the conversation turns out to be bearable, and I learn that the women are in London for a couple of days, that they live in northern England and often travel together. One has an ex-husband, and I never learn about the other. We speak of many things: the music they listened to in the '60s; American soldiers in WWII wooing English girls with nylons and chocolate (the British soldiers were at such a disadvantage); visiting Canadian soldiers because they had eggs, which were uncommon; of Radio Luxemburg, which apparently played music of the '60s before any other station.... We also speak about traveling, of how important it is to get off the beaten path and away from typical tourist attractions, to get lost.... I notice that they do not simply peel and eat their hard boiled egg, but instead use their butter knife to crack a circle around the tip. They then remove that tip and use a spoon to eat the egg, leaving the remainder of the shell unbroken in the cup. Strange habits, these Brits.
The rest of the day seemed very long, no doubt due to my body's confusion about just where and when it was. I wandered and, as prescribed by my breakfast companions, got lost. I also made my way to Westminster Abbey, which was nice but less impressive than the cathedral in Canterbury. Perhaps that Westminster was full of tourists (like me, admittedly), many wandering in large groups, made the experience less than fulfilling. Seeing where such authors as Dickens and Chaucer are entombed, however, was an interesting highlight--Dickens because he is one of my favorite authors, Chaucer because he is, well Chaucer. Many royals and writers are entombed in the Abbey, and in Poets' Corner I finally figure out that not all of the authors with names carved into concrete blocks are actually resting in the area beneath. Rather, only their names and something like "Born in London, buried in India" indicates that because the deceased were British, they deserved a marker in the Abbey. Go figure.
After Westminster I walked through St. James Park, around Buckingham Palace, and up to Soho where I discover that there is indeed a seedy side of London. I had walked through Soho on my previous trip, but on these wanderings I found an area of town similar to nothing I have seen since my days in the navy. This was not the "theater district" that London is known for. But, it is city-spice nonetheless, and I make sure that I take a taste. I also stop again in Covent Garden, and area of shops, street performers, and bustling crowds. And, at some point during the day, I came across an establishment that sells nice cars, like this one:
I discover, also, that after about 8 hours of being on my feet, I am frustrated by being lost most of the time. Try as I might, I cannot seem to navigate well using my map and compass (no, I do not let anyone see me using the compass). Exhausted, I return to my room via foot and underground, picking up for dinner a sandwich at the local Marks & Spencer grocery store.
A dull day, really, but exhausting.
Next time: Doing Battle
There is a nice feeling in waking up to strangeness, in a different bed and room. After contorting myself into and out of the shower, I plod down 3 flights of stairs to the basement for breakfast. I have a few minutes at a table by myself, and I try to learn the lie of the land: white toast, Cornflakes, hot tea, and a single hard boiled egg served in an egg cup. I peel and eat the egg. I eat half a bowl of Cornflakes and a slice of toast. Then, I am joined by 2 elderly women, and I realize that I will, indeed, be forced to converse with strangers. I'm not sure which bothers me more: rattlesnakes or having to talk to strangers in such close quarters. But, the conversation turns out to be bearable, and I learn that the women are in London for a couple of days, that they live in northern England and often travel together. One has an ex-husband, and I never learn about the other. We speak of many things: the music they listened to in the '60s; American soldiers in WWII wooing English girls with nylons and chocolate (the British soldiers were at such a disadvantage); visiting Canadian soldiers because they had eggs, which were uncommon; of Radio Luxemburg, which apparently played music of the '60s before any other station.... We also speak about traveling, of how important it is to get off the beaten path and away from typical tourist attractions, to get lost.... I notice that they do not simply peel and eat their hard boiled egg, but instead use their butter knife to crack a circle around the tip. They then remove that tip and use a spoon to eat the egg, leaving the remainder of the shell unbroken in the cup. Strange habits, these Brits.
The rest of the day seemed very long, no doubt due to my body's confusion about just where and when it was. I wandered and, as prescribed by my breakfast companions, got lost. I also made my way to Westminster Abbey, which was nice but less impressive than the cathedral in Canterbury. Perhaps that Westminster was full of tourists (like me, admittedly), many wandering in large groups, made the experience less than fulfilling. Seeing where such authors as Dickens and Chaucer are entombed, however, was an interesting highlight--Dickens because he is one of my favorite authors, Chaucer because he is, well Chaucer. Many royals and writers are entombed in the Abbey, and in Poets' Corner I finally figure out that not all of the authors with names carved into concrete blocks are actually resting in the area beneath. Rather, only their names and something like "Born in London, buried in India" indicates that because the deceased were British, they deserved a marker in the Abbey. Go figure.
After Westminster I walked through St. James Park, around Buckingham Palace, and up to Soho where I discover that there is indeed a seedy side of London. I had walked through Soho on my previous trip, but on these wanderings I found an area of town similar to nothing I have seen since my days in the navy. This was not the "theater district" that London is known for. But, it is city-spice nonetheless, and I make sure that I take a taste. I also stop again in Covent Garden, and area of shops, street performers, and bustling crowds. And, at some point during the day, I came across an establishment that sells nice cars, like this one:
I discover, also, that after about 8 hours of being on my feet, I am frustrated by being lost most of the time. Try as I might, I cannot seem to navigate well using my map and compass (no, I do not let anyone see me using the compass). Exhausted, I return to my room via foot and underground, picking up for dinner a sandwich at the local Marks & Spencer grocery store.A dull day, really, but exhausting.
Next time: Doing Battle
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Diving Into London
Full immersion: March 30, 2009
Though the bed seems to quite literally invite me in for a visit, I leave the room without even sending an RSVP and proceed to get quite lost in a search for Hyde Park, where I hoped to walk for awhile, or perhaps sit and contemplate whatever there is to contemplate. Realizing, though, that the long day and long travel have left me without the energy to either walk or contemplate, I head back toward Earl's Court and find a small bakery that sells hot tea and wonderfully fresh apple turnovers. An hour or so later, with my legs feeling refreshed and my ability to contemplate apparently returning, I walk some more to get my bearings, stop in a Boots pharmacy to purchase the smallest bottle of shampoo I can find, visit my room to clean up, then go out in search of pub grub. I end up at Earl's Court Tavern, where I order my first Guiness and ask the waitress what the "pie of the day" is. Her English is not good, and she answers, I do not understand her. I order it anyway, and when I eventually dig into it I think it has beef and assorted vegetables, and it is served with green peas and a cylinder-shaped portion of mashed potatoes--and everything is hot
The day has been good, and I am glad to have successfully navigated my way from airport to hotel, to and from Hyde Park; I am happy to have found a bakery and a pub. Simple things.
Next time: Hard-boiled eggs and English women
Though the bed seems to quite literally invite me in for a visit, I leave the room without even sending an RSVP and proceed to get quite lost in a search for Hyde Park, where I hoped to walk for awhile, or perhaps sit and contemplate whatever there is to contemplate. Realizing, though, that the long day and long travel have left me without the energy to either walk or contemplate, I head back toward Earl's Court and find a small bakery that sells hot tea and wonderfully fresh apple turnovers. An hour or so later, with my legs feeling refreshed and my ability to contemplate apparently returning, I walk some more to get my bearings, stop in a Boots pharmacy to purchase the smallest bottle of shampoo I can find, visit my room to clean up, then go out in search of pub grub. I end up at Earl's Court Tavern, where I order my first Guiness and ask the waitress what the "pie of the day" is. Her English is not good, and she answers, I do not understand her. I order it anyway, and when I eventually dig into it I think it has beef and assorted vegetables, and it is served with green peas and a cylinder-shaped portion of mashed potatoes--and everything is hot
The day has been good, and I am glad to have successfully navigated my way from airport to hotel, to and from Hyde Park; I am happy to have found a bakery and a pub. Simple things.
Next time: Hard-boiled eggs and English women
Sunday, April 19, 2009
London Calling
The journey begins: March 29, 2009.
Close to 2 years after my first trip to England, I packed my carry-on bag, gathered maps and travel documents, outline a very loose itinerary, and boarded a Boeing 767 from Dallas, Texas, to London. On my first journey I also traveled to Edinburgh, Scotland, and in the course of the trip packed and unpacked my clothing too many times in 2 weeks. This trip would also include Brussels, Belgium, and Chicago, Illinois, though the number of hotels and bed & breakfast would be reduced in number from 6 to 4. A reduction of one-third may not seem like much, but when it comes to unstuffing and stuffing a small backpack, that one-third is significant....
The 50-minute layover in Dallas had me more worried than anything else. The airport there is huge--a person must take an automated choo-choo from one terminal to another for many flights. But, the American Airlines gods were happy that day, and I managed to get to my departure gate with 20 minutes to spare. At the gate, though, was a large gathering of intrepid travelers watching a fairly constant stream of men in overalls boarding and de-boarding the plane. These men turned out to be mechanics of some worth, or at least men as smart and important as mechanics. Minutes later a woman with a microphone announced that our shiny 767 was broken and would not be flying, and that someone who knows how to do such things was looking for a different one. Good, I thought. I like airplanes that are not broken.... And 90 minutes or so later we were airborne, heading north by northeast across a dark United States, a darker Atlantic Ocean, and about 7 hours later, on what is now March 30, descending into a London late-morning sunshine and light overcast. On my previous trip I landed at Gatwick, but this trip took me to Heathrow, and that included a descent over London itself at an altitude from which I could see Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Hyde Park. Quite a sight.
From Heathrow to London I rode the Picadilly Line, one of the million underground/subway /tube trains that go into and out of London, to Earls Court station, from where I successfully navigated my way to the Windsor House Hotel, the my first hotel of the trip. I am not especially familiar with London, but I felt quite comfortable emerging from the tube station and walking to my hotel--you visit a place once, and if you're lucky bits and pieces of it stick with you so on the next visit you don't feel so alien, so outcast. It's like meeting up with a lover you haven't been with in a long time: a bit of familiarity goes a long way.
I was, at the Windsor House, glad to see that I indeed had a room reserved just for me. All of my communication with the manager had been through e-mail messages, one of which had included my credit card number. As he shuffled through a stack of hand-written receipts and notes about reservations, I was was happy when he came to my name and said he was glad to meet me, and that I owed him about $250. Welcome to London, Buddy--hand over the cash. And, though I was never a Boy Scout (was a Cub Scout for awhile, a period in my life when I was in love with my den mother, who had one leg shorter than the other, and whom I once asked, "Sandy, do you have a boyfriend?" To which she replied, "No, why?"), I was prepared: I had just the money he needed. "You have a sink and shower in your room," he said, "but the bathroom is across the hall. But I am going up there now to put a note on the door saying that the bathroom is for your use only."
The room was small but big enough, and, from the doorway, it looked like this:
This was, apparently, a double room, only because the bed was what I took to be double-size. The room's shower was about the size of a skinny person's coffin, not constructed for a person of my girth. The shower's doors opened inward, which made getting inside the thing somewhat problematic. But, the shower will appear later, so I won't say much about it here. The sink (to the left of the doorway, but invisible here) came up to about mid-thigh, and each time I used it I had to genuflect much deeper than I thought humanly possible.
I did, however, get settled, and I even put some of my shirts up on hangars. There was also a small table attached to the wall, and I suppose it was some sort of dressing table. If I wore makeup, maybe I would sit there as I painted my face. Instead, I used the table to hold spare change and other essentials, like this, with those essentials: map and compass; passport; Moleskine and pen:
Next time: diving into London
Close to 2 years after my first trip to England, I packed my carry-on bag, gathered maps and travel documents, outline a very loose itinerary, and boarded a Boeing 767 from Dallas, Texas, to London. On my first journey I also traveled to Edinburgh, Scotland, and in the course of the trip packed and unpacked my clothing too many times in 2 weeks. This trip would also include Brussels, Belgium, and Chicago, Illinois, though the number of hotels and bed & breakfast would be reduced in number from 6 to 4. A reduction of one-third may not seem like much, but when it comes to unstuffing and stuffing a small backpack, that one-third is significant....
The 50-minute layover in Dallas had me more worried than anything else. The airport there is huge--a person must take an automated choo-choo from one terminal to another for many flights. But, the American Airlines gods were happy that day, and I managed to get to my departure gate with 20 minutes to spare. At the gate, though, was a large gathering of intrepid travelers watching a fairly constant stream of men in overalls boarding and de-boarding the plane. These men turned out to be mechanics of some worth, or at least men as smart and important as mechanics. Minutes later a woman with a microphone announced that our shiny 767 was broken and would not be flying, and that someone who knows how to do such things was looking for a different one. Good, I thought. I like airplanes that are not broken.... And 90 minutes or so later we were airborne, heading north by northeast across a dark United States, a darker Atlantic Ocean, and about 7 hours later, on what is now March 30, descending into a London late-morning sunshine and light overcast. On my previous trip I landed at Gatwick, but this trip took me to Heathrow, and that included a descent over London itself at an altitude from which I could see Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Hyde Park. Quite a sight.
From Heathrow to London I rode the Picadilly Line, one of the million underground/subway /tube trains that go into and out of London, to Earls Court station, from where I successfully navigated my way to the Windsor House Hotel, the my first hotel of the trip. I am not especially familiar with London, but I felt quite comfortable emerging from the tube station and walking to my hotel--you visit a place once, and if you're lucky bits and pieces of it stick with you so on the next visit you don't feel so alien, so outcast. It's like meeting up with a lover you haven't been with in a long time: a bit of familiarity goes a long way.
I was, at the Windsor House, glad to see that I indeed had a room reserved just for me. All of my communication with the manager had been through e-mail messages, one of which had included my credit card number. As he shuffled through a stack of hand-written receipts and notes about reservations, I was was happy when he came to my name and said he was glad to meet me, and that I owed him about $250. Welcome to London, Buddy--hand over the cash. And, though I was never a Boy Scout (was a Cub Scout for awhile, a period in my life when I was in love with my den mother, who had one leg shorter than the other, and whom I once asked, "Sandy, do you have a boyfriend?" To which she replied, "No, why?"), I was prepared: I had just the money he needed. "You have a sink and shower in your room," he said, "but the bathroom is across the hall. But I am going up there now to put a note on the door saying that the bathroom is for your use only."
The room was small but big enough, and, from the doorway, it looked like this:
This was, apparently, a double room, only because the bed was what I took to be double-size. The room's shower was about the size of a skinny person's coffin, not constructed for a person of my girth. The shower's doors opened inward, which made getting inside the thing somewhat problematic. But, the shower will appear later, so I won't say much about it here. The sink (to the left of the doorway, but invisible here) came up to about mid-thigh, and each time I used it I had to genuflect much deeper than I thought humanly possible.
I did, however, get settled, and I even put some of my shirts up on hangars. There was also a small table attached to the wall, and I suppose it was some sort of dressing table. If I wore makeup, maybe I would sit there as I painted my face. Instead, I used the table to hold spare change and other essentials, like this, with those essentials: map and compass; passport; Moleskine and pen:
Next time: diving into London
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