Back to the Somewhat Familiar

I awake early not by choice, but because in the hotel lobby near my room there are many eager, noisy people.  Resigned to starting my day before I'd wanted, I climb out of bed, dress, and head out of my room and down the stairs to where breakfast is served. I have found the noise-makers: a gaggle of American tourist on the Bath-end of an organized Rick Steves tour. They speak of their previous trips; one woman speaks of her previous husband. Shortly, they are all gone, off to meet their tour guide. Not long later I check out of my room, for the first time in nearly a week having to schlepp my  full burden of luggage as I make my way to the train station. I find a coffee shop and stop for coffee, killing time. 

The train ride back to London is quick; an hour and a half later I check into the final hotel of my stay, the Easy Hotel near Earls Court. The room is small, barely large enough for the double bed, nearly no space for my luggage, for the clothing that no matter how hard I try will get scattered about the room over the next few days. The next day I figure out how to get to Greenwich, where the Prime Meridian is located. You could say that time as we track it starts here. Many years ago in the navy we synchronized our cryptographic gear to Greenwich Mean Time, each day listening to the female voice announced each minute: "At the sound of the tone, the time will be 11:45 Greenwich Mean Time," for example. It was, perhaps, the only female voice I would hear for months at a time when we were at sea.

When I started my Cotswold walk in Painswick, I happened upon a plaque described how sundials work, and how sundial time relates to Greenwhich Mean time. Far above the plaque was a sundial, something that I would see again on the sides of churches in other villages. In Greenwhich, I think about how we define a "long time," and I remember the Long Barrows (ancient burial mounds) I during the walk, sites that were upwards of 6,000 years old. Then, a few days later I am in the British Museum, standing over the hoards of school children enthralled by the mummies, which are also very old. I cannot help but consider the human belief that we are at any time important or significant. These mummies are the preserved remains of people who also considered their lives important, and here they are barely saved from the same dust of those hidden in the Long Barrows.  It's not a pessimistic thought, really--more of a kick-in-the-mouth jolt I need every now and then when I start taking myself too seriously.

I am sad when I leave England, for it seems as though I have just started growing comfortable. I am in an airplane for over 10 hours, landing in SFO late in the afternoon, working my way through the morass that is U.S. Customs and finding the BART station from where I'll travel into San Francisco. I check into my hotel and am tired but also glad to be closer to home. I like the familiarity of my room: how the electrical switches work, how the shower functions, what the TV stations are. My room has a balcony, and I step onto it, sit in one of the chairs, and enjoy fresh air that is so welcome after so many hours of being cooped up. In a few days I am back to work, and at first I spend what seems like a long time staring at my computer screen and wondering what will happen next.