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

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

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!

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

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

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

London Fog

Slightly jet-lagged and ill, I'm nevertheless enjoying my first full day in London. Saw where some people are entombed in Westminster Abbey, and that was interesting. More later when I have my wits almost about me.

The Queen Does Not Ask Me to Tea

The almost-final day

This has got to end: travelogues are not my genre (yes, I know: what is?), and I am eager to move on, to find a way to better follow Kominski's insight....

My final day in London, and I am off to a slow start: checking out of one hotel and into another. As I pack, I wonder about the things I've missed these last 2 weeks, but I am also content with what I have seen. I have, in fact, been astonishingly astonished every day.... Took the train to Victoria Station and walked to Buckingham Palace--what a bizarre sight! Hundreds of people were pushed against the Palace fence, all of them apparently hoping to catch a glimpse of something or someone. I am reminded of how people at zoos stare at the large cats and then collectively ooh and ahh when a tiger, say, licks its paw.

I wonder what the Queen thinks when she stares out a window. And the guards: do they stare back at everyone and wonder just what we're doing? Here are some of the people, some of the time: at the gates, away from the gates.



Still on foot, I try to navigate to Harrod's, though I find some difficulty in tracing my way across the map. Harrod's is, simply, a hoot: crowded and intense. Those people who are not at the Palace must be here. I do not know the official name of the area, but the architecture in this neighborhood differs greatly from Paddington--much more stone here.

I also visit a couple of museums, including the Albert and Victoria, which has some wonderful sculpture. Returning to my room by train, I rest for awhile in the advent of a slight head cold. Then, I make my way back to Hyde Park to enjoy a leisurely hike through the crowds. I walk by Kennsington Palace and discover Albert Hall (below)not long before I begin to feel somewhat feverish. I cannot, however, stop, for this is London, and London is in England, and I have not been here. I walk counter-clockwise back to where I entered the park on my first day.


By the time I return to my room, my feet and legs are very tired, and I am very tired. After cleaning up a bit, I walk to a small cafe', one with metal tables and plastic chairs, and a couple of guys working a grill, and I eat a greasy bacon burger and some fries--the type of food I have avoided for decades but which now is the best I have ever eaten. I trudge back to my room with the burger in my gut, and I watch the alley outside my room grow darker.

"Look, Kids, Big Ben!"

We begin to wind down.

Leaving Dover, and the sun has finally come out, which is a nice change after being drizzled on for most of the day yesterday. I leave with an odd sense of sadness, something I also experienced when leaving both York and Edinburgh.

Then again, I have always felt sad about leaving places, even when I left the ship in Yokosuka, Japan, after being on board for over 2 years: I sat on the pier waiting for a bus to take me to Tokyo and the flight home, and I felt as lonely as I did the day I first arrived.

On the train to London, I think that I am not sure of what I'll do for the next 2 days: Westminster Cathedral is still on my list. I do hope for warm weather, for I'm sick and tired of wearing long sleeves and jackets... Victoria Station is extremely crowded when I disembark on this Saturday afternoon; people are going everywhere they can. I am quite pleased that I can get to my hotel via the Underground and do not have to walk across Hyde Park again.

My room at the Dylan is not bad, as it shouldn't be for the price of 65 pounds, the most expensive room of the trip, double what I paid in Dover and York. After unpacking yet again, I head to Covent Garden once more. Walking without design, I come upon Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery, which I visit for awhile. Trafalgar Square looks like this:


Then, seeing Big Ben in the distance, I head toward it and discover for Parliament and Westminster Cathedral. I am too late to enter the Cathedral, however, so it will have to wait until I return. I do get to hear Big Ben chime about 5 minutes after this picture is taken, which is a nice treat:


I had purchased an "Irish"-style cap in Covent Garden, and as I was walking along near Big Bend, a gust of wind took possession of the cap and dropped it behind a stone wall in front of an official-looking building. Surveying the number of surveillance cameras around me, I decide not to simply scale the wall but to ask a guard at the building parking lot if I'll get shot if I retrieve my cap. He tells me to go ahead, and I feel like the stupid tourist that I am. He watched me closely, of course.

Behind the Cathedral I find the Thames, and I am treated to this somewhat absurd view:



I don't know--I just don't see how something so Disneylandesque should be there. Especially when there is something like this nearby (Westminster):


Or like this (Parliament):




Returning to Trafalgar Square, I am stopped by a French couple and their map, and they ask me if I can help them read their map and get oriented--I don't know if I help much, but they pretend that I have. Back at Covent Garden, I eat a hot pasty for dinner, then ride the train back to Paddington, picking up a bottle of Pinot Grigio before returning to my room.

I am tired and fall asleep while watching one of the 4 television channels. Tomorrow is my final day in London.

London Calling

Minding the gap again.

Perhaps because I am only now beginning to feel somewhat comfortable in Edinburgh, I am sad that this is my last day here. But, I am also eager for London, where I will stay for one night before dropping down to Dover for 2 nights.

On the train from Edinburgh.... The previous 4 days have passed quickly, and I am trying hard to not regret doing one thing or another. If I return, I would like to travel north just to see more of the country, or perhaps make a trip to Glasgow.... The train's route follows part of the coast, which reminds me of the California coastline north of Bodega Bay: this is a place where a man could stop to rest and never start again. Each day of travel has helped my confidence as far as getting from one place to another, and I hope the entire journey will help me become less fearful of the world beyond. If nothing else, I have become proficient at packing my bags and moving from one place to another. Partway into the ride my watch stops working, and I am left to rely on my iPod for the correct time. At some point, however, the digital Timex is reborn. I can't help wondering if I've missed something....

Then, in London that day.... After arriving at Kings Cross station, I walk to the Fairway Inn, and I am instantly glad I will spend only a single night here. The neighborhood--and the people sitting on a doorstep across the street--could be improved. I return to the Paddington area to ferret out rooms for the 2 nights I'll be in London after returning from Dover, but I find that rooms are scarce for one of those nights, which will be a Saturday. Fortunately (or not, perhaps) I find a room for one night in the Glendale Hyde Park, where I spent my first 2 nights in London. The woman working the counter remembers me, and she says that while she has no rooms for my second night, she can recommend somplace down the street: The Dylan House.

"The what?" I say.

"The Dylan."

Of course.

At the Dylan House, Tony, an old, heavyset man, manages The Dylan. When I tell him I am spending that night near Kings Cross, he provides some history. "It's not as bad as it used to be. People don't get stuck with a knife as often now."

Oh.

Tony has more: "Most of those B & Bs should have red lights outside."

Thanks, Tony.

I return to a restaurant I visited on the second night of my trip to enjoy dinner and once again have a glass of Pinot Grigio, a wine I discovered during my first dinner here. I think that while I don't feel I've seen much of London, I am quite comfortable in the Paddington area.... Tomorrow, though, I will catch a 10:30 train to Dover, which means I have to get to Victoria Station early enough to figure out just how to find the Dover train....

The next morning I am served a bland breakfast by a woman who is as uninterested in my American accent as I am in her Eastern European voice. The day is overcast and rainy, and the train to Victoria Station is extremely crowded, reminding me of the trains in Japan. I am wearing my fleece jacket and am hot from carrying my luggage to train. The man who stands beside me is wearing a nice suit, oblivious to 2 beads of sweat that drip off my wrist and onto his shoulder. In Victoria Station, I rest at a table outside a coffee shop. I drink coffee and watch the people and pigeons, and every now and then I check the overhead display to see on which track my train will stop.

I have figured out how to get to Dover, and I am waiting to go there.

Snow Falling on Geezers

The first Moleskine entry for my second day in London is this: "Visited Charles Dickens' house (also a museum), which is a wonderful place for any writer." Yet another example of terrible note-taking: What in the hell happened before that visit?

I should have started like this:

I awoke early, showered, and walked out of my room and into the B&B's small and simple lobby where a couple of small tables were set up for breakfast, looked out the window and saw that it was snowing. Breakfast consisted of hard-boiled eggs, toast, coffee. I ate as much as I could since my plan was to spend as little money on food as possible. then, with my daypack slung over my shoulder, I stepped outside, took the snow as a good sign, and walked several blocks to Paddington Station where I would catch the Underground.

Or maybe this:

I have stayed in hotel rooms in my life that were filthy, ugly, unsafe--pick an adjective. In Olongapo, Philippines, during martial law, I once spent a night in a room I could not leave between midnight and sunrise. All night a music-loop of about 20 songs played through a speaker in the ceiling, which was bad enough but made worse because one of the songs was Abba's "Dancing Queen." You listen to an Abba song all night long and see how you turn out in later years.... The room in which I slept last night is more of a cell than a bedroom, and while I can endure it, I would not bring my wife here: The bed is concave; the bathroom is the Yugo of bathrooms; the window faces an alley filled with trash and the brick wall of the building next door.

But I didn't start either of those ways, so let's jump back to Dickens and his house, which looks like this:



The Dickens Museum is full of his personal relics: a drinking glass; a snuff box; a cribbage board; some of his clothing (he must have been a small man). There are photos of his children. Another item not in the Moleskine is that the museum was full of French schoolchildren who enjoyed running up and down the stairs or standing in front of the doorways so that I had to pass from one room to another with difficulty. One of their adult teachers was frustrated that the museum shop did not accept Euros; he then spent a good 10 minutes trying to get his credit cards accepted.

After leaving the museum, I wandered the neighborhood imagining Dickens doing the same, enjoying the the light drizzle the snow had become. I also took a picture of this pigeon:



Then, more by chance than intent, I found the British Library, where there are originals of the Magna Carta, works by Shakespeare and Mozart, hand-written lyrics by the Beatles.

Somehow, then, I ended up at Covent Market, where I visited St. Paul's Church and had a pasty for lunch. The last entry is this: "Then, later, I walk around near the Tower of London but refuse the entry fee. The place is impressive, as are the remnants of the Roman wall nearby." Here are pictures of the wall (left foreground) and the Tower (across the street).



That's it--incredibly incomplete, as if I had noticed no details of importance. What else is in the British Library? What's the significance of St. Paul's Church? WHAT WAS IN THE DAMNED PASTY?

Bread and Water

On March 21, 2007, I walked out of London's Victoria Station and found that I was lost. Not in a bad way, just in a way.

I had landed at London's Gatwick airport a few hours earlier, made my way through customs, took a tram to to a train, and finally--and eagerly--disembarked in Victoria Station. This meant that the easy part was over, as I knew would be the case. Disoriented, I asked for help at the information booth where I was greeted by a tall black man who had hair to the middle of his back. Giving him the name of the hotel I was heading to, he helped me find the location on a map. I had looked at many maps before arriving, and I thought that I could probably walk from Victoria Station to the hotel; all I had to do was navigate to and then across Hyde Park.

"Can I walk there?" I asked.

He looked at me. He looked at my backpack. "You want to walk?"

I told him that, since leaving home, I'd been in one car, in an airport, on a plane, in another airport where I had to ride a tram to a different terminal so I could sit around and wait for another plane to a different airport, where I rode another tram to the train that had brought me to him--and I thought I should walk.

Really, all I said was, yes, I thought I might like to walk.

So, I walked, relying on my small map as I learned that while sometimes signs showing street names are on the sides of buildings, sometimes they are not but are lower, perhaps on a fence. Nevertheless, I finally reached Hyde Park, which is much larger than it appears on a map displayed on a computer screen.

Then I got lost in Hyde Park. I thought I had myself oriented; I thought I was smart enough to figure things out.

A digression: When I was four years old, my younger cousin and I walked out of my family's apartment in Harvard, Illinois, and wandered up and down the railroad tracks. I remember an old man carrying a lantern telling us we should go home. I remember riding home in the back of a police car. I remember the two of us being fed lunch (bologna sandwiches) when we got back to the apartment and then being sent to different bedrooms. I do not remember being found--standing in front of a bar, crying.

Another digression: The person I generally go backpacking with knows how to read maps. He knows north and south with his eyes closed. He has navigated a sail boat in the dark. When I go backpacking alone, I never leave the trail. I have never navigated a sail boat.

Remember the man at the information booth? I should have taken his advice: "Take a cab."

But, like most children, I at least do know what to do if I am lost in the woods: hug a tree. That way, someone will find you, and you will be rescued. There are many trees in Hyde Park, but I did not hug one. Instead, I sat on a bench near The Serpentine, which is an artificial lake. I watched a couple of men clean some rental boats. Some joggers jogged by, and I watched them.

I was already tired of my backpack. I was also cold, weary, and hungry. But, I did not cry as I had when I was four. Instead, I pulled from my pack a small container of water and a breadroll--leftovers from the dinner served somewhere between Dallas and London.

Ha! Isn't that pathetic! A fat old man sitting on a bench in London's Hyde Park, washing stale bread down his gullet with warm water. Who did I think I was--Oliver Twist? What rights did I have to such misery?

Okay. It wasn't miserable. It was, instead, a way to relax, to look closely at my map without walking, of letting myself enjoy the fact that I was not only not in a cubicle dealing with the bizarre nature of the corporate world, I was in London. Eventually, I continued walking, only to have some difficulty finding my way out of Hyde Park. Then, when I finally did escape, I spent another hour looking for my hotel, which must have been moving around somehow.

And the hotel? It was a pit. A dive. A dump. A firetrap. But, at least for a couple of nights, it would be home--and I had more in mind than spending much time in bed.