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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1 comment:
First, I want to say that my comment is NOT inteded to point out a typo. I mean, who would do that on another person's blog?! But, I did want to share with you that a small typo in your text did provide me a bit of amusement. In fact, I thought you were using a British phrase at first, and when I realized you were not, I decided that this new phrase deserved to be included in our canon. Specifically, I'm referring to the line "...you visit a place once, and if you're luck bits and pieces of it stick with you ..." You'll notice that it's a bit difficult to follow without the "y," however, every time I do read it, as if it's correctly proclaiming a thought about "luck bits," I chuckle to myself. It makes me wonder, "Where are one's luck bits?" And, "if pieces of a luck bit were stuck to me, would others be able to tell?" I think you've turned a new phrase that will absolutely catch on, if we can spread it throughout the blogesphere... kudos and thanks for the chuckles :D
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