Getting Beyond the Familiar

The Day Before the Trail

London has a peculiar odor, perhaps a combination of antiquity, sweat, and human potential. But, I have to leave that odor behind for a while, trading it for what should be air that is less pungent. I enjoy traveling, but I'm always a bit anxious as I leave the go beyond the familiar.

I board a train in Paddington Station and ride it to the town of Stroud where I find the local information center and chat with the nice woman working there. She directs me to where I'll eventually find the bus stop I'll need later, but before first I find a busy bakery and sit down for a cup of coffee and a fine brownie, a Double Belgian Chocolate treat that hits the spot though for the most part, lately, I have eschewed such sweet things. Back out on the streets I quickly forget in which direction the bus stop is supposed to be, so I wander through some streets and through a shopping mall, just me, my knapsack, and my heavy bag of luggage. The bus shows up and I climb aboard. The only other passenger is the bus driver's son. The bus driver and I chat. He is married to a Filipina woman, and he and his family loves the Philippines themselves. We talk a bit about our travels to that country, and then a few minutes later he drops me off in Painswick, where I'll spend the night. I wander through the St. Mary's Church cemetery before making my way to the B&B. I am the only guest, apparently, though the night before the place was filled with seven psychologist. Once again I am a day too late to see people who might help me. I was once interviewed for a job, by seven people. They worked for the State of California, and I figured that seven psychologists might be more helpful. 

The B&B, which as a building that is several hundred years old, is owned and operated by a married couple. The female half of that couple and I have a good conversation that is filled with small talk, discussion of the Brexit and Donald Trump, of her daughter who has been working in Africa, of where to have dinner, of what I would like for breakfast. Painswick is a small town; perhaps it is just a village in the truest sense. I am shown to my room, which is up a steep set of stairs. It is a comfortable room. Half an hour later I have cleaned up and am out the door to The Falcon, where I  have dinner. I am seated at a small table in a corner of a large room. Though I do not mind being alone, there are times when even I would like someone to talk to. But the chair across from me remains empty, and that makes me think of one of the worst lines ever written for a mediocre song: "And no one heard at all, not even the chair." (Neil Diamond, "I Am, I Said," 1971).

After dinner I wander again through Painswick to kill some time. I am, I find, ready for bed. More of the unknown awaits tomorrow, and I want to be ready and rested.

St. Mary's Church--very old. Yew trees.

Where I slept, outside and inside.

Getting There and Setting Up Shop

Let's Go, S - F - O!

Hours before the flight and we're congregated within the United Lounge in the airport's international terminal. I'm not a member of said lounge, only a visitor blessed with a one-day pass. The world is different from the one outside where the lowly people who have no passes linger. We get free food. Free wine. Comfortable seats. An array of newspapers that provide viewpoints we agree with along with those we don't. I read them all. I actually get two meals, each different from the other: more food than many people in the world have access to in a full week. God assuredly blessed me with the benefits of trickle-down economics because I am an American.

On the airplane, though, things equal out and, though I am still an American, I am flying on United. My butt is too big for modern-day seats on modern-day aircraft: Those trickle-down economics stopped a few percentage points above my demographic. Ten hours of being a voluntary prisoner inside this aircraft might not be as bad as an hour in Guantanamo, but I'm pampered and self-righteous enough to make that comparison.

Here We Are, L - H - R!

I like London. I even like Heathrow airport, which must be larger than the town I grew up in. This is my fourth time here, and I even know where the bathrooms are after getting off the plane. Waiting in line to pass through Customs, I listen to the people behind me, strangers before they got into the queue, as they discuss their respective jobs. The man traveling alone, is a college teacher somewhere in the Sacramento Valley; the others, a married couple from Texas, are retired. The man asks the couple if they approved of President George Bush, since he, too, is from Texas. I don't hear their answer.

Just a Rube on the Tube

The fast way into London is via the direct Heathrow Express: quiet, efficient, clean. The chosen alternative is the Piccadilly Line: 10 or 12 stops, lots of noise. I emerge at Earl's Court Station, and it's still early morning, many hours before I can check into the Easy Hotel. I step into a Starbucks I've visited many times before, and I nurse a cup of coffee and try to acclimate to London's smells and commotion. Finally bored enough to move, I get back on the train and reverse course to the stop near the Victoria & Albert Museum. I check my heavy luggage and wander around for a few hours, then get on yet another train and travel to Paddington Station, which is near my hotel.

Killing Time and London Times

For a couple of days I wander around London: a few pubs, the Dickens Museum to search for remnants of the Muse. The British Library: bits and pieces of writers and musicians and philosophers, the paperwork of centuries gone by. I'm always amazed at what we save, what we label as important. And Hyde Park, too--one of my favorite places to visit. I could wander around Hyde Park for days, following the paths and roads. It's a respite from the city, a place that can help ease me into what will come next.