Interlude (What's Goin' On)

The prior post represents the end of the attempt I made to keep a diary of my travels as everything went south in Seattle and then picked back up.  Which leaves me something like nine or ten days behind on our travels.  Short form: We've been running the hell all over the place; Mom's drinking cider; a band in Dublin shouted out to Steve Earle (if you don't know, don't worry); museums, trains, buses, cabs-the black cabs are wonderful-Bristol, Avebury, Liverpool, Galway, Moher and Burren, Dublin, Belfast, Troon, Edinburgh, a creepy coincidence with some ladies we encountered at Galway, York, and now London.  And I'm sure I left a few things out of that list.

Presently we sit aboard a comfortable train en route from York to London; word arrived yesterday that Dad reached Hawaii safely; Michael wants me to do a structural study of the English language but I can't get past the bit about gerunds (again, don't ask).  Time to pass off the wi-fi and finish my beer; London calls.

30 May - Solsbury Hill

Climbing up to Solsbury Hill, I could see the city lights.  Wind was blowing, time stood still.  Eagle flew out of the night.  He was something to observe, and coming close, I heard a voice; standing, stretching, every note-I had to listen, had no choice.

Solsbury Hill!

No, really, it’s one of those secret things.  I might say, “If you ever asked me if there was one place in England I wanted to see, I would say Solsbury Hill.”  Except I wouldn’t say it.  Really, more than anything else, I want to see a bald hill in the middle of the English countryside?

It is a sacred place, this hill.  I can’t say what it means to the Christians, or anyone else, but yes, to me it is a sacred site.

It wasn’t dark enough to see the city lights.  Rather, the view is somewhat breathtaking.    But, yes, the wind was blowing, and time stood still.  I wouldn’t see the eagle, though, until later.

“Son,” He said, “grab your things, I’ve come to take you home.”

30 May - Bath

The backpack, by now, was heavy as hell, and nothing about arriving-seeing everyone, knowing this part of the journey was finished, enjoying the fact that I was in England and could simply relax and enjoy a holiday-quite matched the joy of dropping the damn thing in the back of a Nissan Note.  Exhausted, as such, there was drinking to do, or maybe that’s sights to see, and wandering around Bath on sore legs was more pleasant than I might have imagined.

A curious surprise: I’m sure I probably knew it at one point, but forgot along the way.  After settling in for a pint and chips (with bacon and cheese) at a pub whose name, as you might guess, escapes memory, we toured Bath, and then at some point, Drew asked if I felt up for a short hike to the top of a hill to look over the countryside.  Hesitant, well-played.  I wasn’t going to drag everyone else down just because I was tanked and exhausted.  And, having the pack off me, and knowing I had made it, I was up for almost anything.  A short hike wouldn’t kill me.

We were probably making the last turn before I realized where we were going.

Solsbury Hill.

30 May - Arrival

30 May - Heathrow to Bath Spa (via Reading)

There is a phenomenon, I suppose you could call it, whereby a drinker doesn't realize how loaded he's managed to get himself.  This should come as no surprise, of course, but I mention it because I'm pretty sure it got me, somewhere in there.

Landing at Heathrow, I joined the herd to customs, which turned out to be a thoroughly not unpleasant experience.  In the first fifteen minutes on the ground, I can't recall anyone speaking with an actual English accent.  I don’t suppose that matters, but I did notice.  The first I encountered was an actual immigration agent.

I settled into line and chatted with a couple of women on their way to Qatar, which was interesting since neither were musicians, but one carried a guitar on her back.  I'm sure there's some profound philosophical or educational aspect in there for me, but something goes here about how loaded I apparently was.

Or, that is to say I found, in order, a currency exchange, a place to smoke, a bar to drink, a Boots-don't ask-and the bus terminal.  Whatever epiphanies awaited me, I forestalled, if not obliviated altogether.  Good show, I suppose.

At the ticket counter, I simply recited my instructions: Bus to Reading, train to Bath Spa.  Easily enough accomplished; a single ticket would accomplish the mission.

Integrating the transport system like that in the States, as I found myself suggesting to an Irish fellow from Reading along the ride, is impossible.  Amtrak is essentially federal; the bus systems are city or county.  We’re however tall and twice as wide.

I’ll mention the Upper Crust, a chain eatery serving baguette sandwiches and beer.  I just wanted a baguette, but the chap behind the counter offered some mozzerella cheese with it; how can one say no?  Especially when you’ve been drinking for … um … yeah.  And the train was pleasant enough.  The beer, which label escapes memory at this point, was good, and welcome on the train.  My seat mate was a pop drummer from Dubai studying at a local music school, the name of which also escapes me.

A happy chapter, though.  Welcome faces as I descended from the platform and passed through the gate.  A mother’s hug-I’m sure there’s something profound there, but apparently I was quite drunk-and, at last, I had arrived.

29-30 May - Calgary to London Heathrow

A bit of a nightmare occurred while sitting at gate B24 in Calgary; what seemed an infinite troop of French-speaking Canadians paraded by.  Twelve year-olds, that is.  Nobody you could buy a drink.  Nobody you could chat up.  Well, a couple of chaperones, but, really, they've got more important things on their minds, you know?  The murmur, though, was steady, and near cacophonous to my weary, inebriated brain.  To the other, I didn't notice until after the fact that they boarded another flight.  Don't ask.  I didn't; problem solved.

The flight from Calgary to Heathrow was, strangely, pleasant enough.  Part of this is simply the fact that I was, by now, well on my way to devastating intoxication, though some of it had to do with the fact that I was riding an Airbus 340 across the Pond.  Eight across, and the flight was nowhere near full.  Those who actually booked middle seats stood a good chance of being alone, and having room to stretch out and sleep.  I found myself seated next to a pleasant old chap with only a thumb on his right hand.  A bright-eyed world traveler, he was something of a kick.  That is, he didn't so much drink with me, but certainly didn't mind the rate at which I put away the Jack Daniels, and had fairly encouraging words for my efforts to procure more liquor.  Which is another thing.  Apparently, booze on these flights is free.  A stewardess, whose name I forgot if I ever knew it in the first place, secured three bottles from First Class; apparently, not even the attendants from coach are welcome up front.  After that, she and another attendant allowed me another four bottles of Canadian whiskey-don't ask me the label, I couldn't tell you-before I did them the favor, apparently, of passing out.  I had watched Iron Man, but didn't make it through How to Train A Dragon before I went down.  At the very least, I can say I wasn't especially obnoxious.  To be certain, I have no memory of anyone telling me to tone it down before ... er ... um ... right.  Exactly.  There is a chunk of time missing.  I was awake well before the end of the flight, but I cannot account for a few hours in there.  I must have been out.

Coming into Heathrow, I noticed two things: council estates, and sheep.  Don't ask me to explain.

29 May - Calgary

The only downside of being in Calgary was the seven hour layover, during which I chose to not leave the airport.  Whatever can go wrong will, says Murphy, and I’m told some chap named Moore once expressed that Murphy was an optimist.  Moore’s Law of Disaster, which has nothing to do with computer technology-well, nothing specific, though it seems applicable on many occasions-swirled through my mind like the snows of Calgary.

Yes, yes, boo, hiss, and all that.  I know.

But, yes, when you’re stuck in any airport for seven hours, drinking seems like a good idea.  Upshot: bacon in Canada rocks.  Not Canadian bacon, but what Americans consider bacon, except with fewer nitrites and a lot less sodium.  And the ketchup is better, too.  Sure, that sounds strange, but it’s true.  Anyway, yeah.  The downside, of course, is that the beer selection at the airport sucked, and the closest thing they had to bourbon was Jack Daniels.  So I went with a Crown and Coke.  Right.

Found another bar.  Changed my shoes finally.  Drank some more Crown.  Found a bar on the map, except it turns out the terminal is divided, so I couldn’t get there from where I needed to be.  But, to the other, I did find a liquor store before passing through security.  Three-fifty for a little bottle of Jack, which is about three of what the bartenders considered a shot.  Worked out well enough, sort of.  In the end, I'm not going to complain.

29 May - Seattle to Calgary (Bad jokes in good humor)

29 May - Seattle to Calgary

When Drew called, all of fifteen minutes before the alarm rang, it was easy to tell it was going to be one of those days.  Everyone seemed calm.  Instructions for meeting up in Bath Spa were simple enough, both for me and the folks in England, but that’s later.

Of note at Sea-Tac was only TSA security.  I had blundered, or so it seemed, and left a bottle of Beam in my pants pocket.  Most days, this wouldn’t be an issue.  Today, though, a security guard instructed me to step aside for a brief, additional security check.  He frisked down my legs, specifically.  And you know how it goes.  Liquids in a bag, and all that.  But he completely skipped my pockets.  I don’t know, maybe they feared plastique wrapped around my calves, or something.  The profile seemed of simple enough criteria.  Every third adult male, or some such.  I chuckled about it with a random stranger; we both recalled better frisks at concerts, and come on, those checks are a joke.  Life goes on, &c.

Bought a note pad and pens at a news stand, knowing full well I was going to drink my way through the day, starting with a shot of Woodford at a sports bar in the terminal.  Wondering what I might forget, it seemed a good idea to scribble down a few things.  Whatever happened, it would be a fine and fun story to tell people, and each turn seemed more and more bizarre.

Instead of Vancouver, the original transfer point, I was off to Calgary after a three-hour wait.  Probably should have drank more, or maybe not.  Philosophically, it’s a wasted (ha!) question.  I was just tight enough that the wait didn’t bother me.

And I was also just tight enough to embarrass myself, but that’s a long story and easily forgiven by the offended.  Or, rather, the blessedly not offended.  If I live a thousand years, I don’t think I will ever be able to explain how one of my descent could mistake Canadian tribal for Filipino.  Did I mention it was embarrassing?  Can we leave it at that?  I mean, I didn’t flinch when I mistook a guy’s mother for his wife, but this ....

Right.  We’ll leave it at that.

The flight to Calgary was pleasant enough for a Bombardier jet.  Probably a bit more pleasant than a turboprop would have been.

And, just as we had to walk across the tarmac to board in Seattle, so also did we have to come in through the snow in Calgary.

Wait, wait, wait.  Let me make that clear.  Yes, it was snowing in Calgary.  The lovely, unoffended woman I rode next to on the plane was amazed at that bit.  And, indeed, it seems only a couple days before, Calgary saw thirty centigrade and sunshine.

Customs was an interesting experience, though, as an officer quizzed me for about five minutes in what seemed less like an official interview than a pleasant chat we were undertaking because the rules say we must.

Picked up a pack of Belmont cigarettes for an outrageous price, even accounting for the twenty-five count, according the recommendation of my seat mate.  I’m afraid I must disagree with her though.  Belmont’s are not excrement like Marlboro, but they’re hardly the great smoke she suggested.  But standing out in the snow with a few locals who couldn’t stand the weather and the pleasant Chinese fellow with the mother who was not his wife was pleasant enough.  There is this old saying among my friends: “I’ll step outside for some fresh air and a cigarette.”  In Calgary, though, it was true.  Even crossing the tarmac among however many jets spewing exhaust, the air was clean, the breeze swirling snowflakes quite refreshing.  Of course, after breathing on an airplane, almost anything short of nineteenth-century Manchester is probably an improvement.

Sack the bloody diary

Okay, so we're going to sack the diary entries for a while.  After all, it's been Bath, Bristol, a beer festival in Cirencester, a tour through the Cotswolds, Galway via Liverpool, Dublin, Edinburgh via Belfast and Troon, and I'm presently sitting in a pub called The Three Legged Mare, in York.  In other words, there is much to catch up on, and if I keep up with the damn diary approach, I'll be home in the real world before I finish blogging Dublin.  So I'll have to do all that by memory, and hope for the best.

Meanwhile, York itself is charming to the point of sickness.  Mine, not theirs.  I mean, the whole city is a period piece, kind of like Leavenworth, Washington, only for real and on a shocking scale.  Setting aside the number of rabbits in Edinburgh-more on that when I get back to the diary entries-it's worth taking a moment to consider, as Vincent explained to Jules in Pulp Fiction, the little things.

The little things: In the Kingdom, they use this ceiling-mounted "intelligent water system" instead of the all-seeing blind eye in the men's rooms, except it's just as stupid.  Like at the Patriot, in Dublin, just off Kilmainham Gaol, where I stepped up to the urinal and the three to my right all flushed.  Or earlier today, in The Golden Lion, when all six urinals flushed-five being empty-as I zipped up.

Never mind.

For all the green fever in Europe, water isn't near the top of the list.  To the one, they have the little placards to just make the beds at the hotel instead of changing the sheets, and the This Juice I had this morning also paid for a month's worth of water for some poor sod in Malawi, but the toilets in the hotel flush an amazing amount of water, and I've already mentioned the (un)intelligent water system in the pubs.

Then again, 'tis time to set out for ... um ... something, so that's where we're at.  The Three Legged Mare.  I'll start posting photos when I have time, but we're packing up our gear for the next stop in York.  Hopefully, there will be more beer.

Which is another little thing.  Budweiser is strangely popular here, though it might have something to do with the 5% alcohol content.  I won't laugh too hard at the poor SOB who wrote in to the editors of The Irish Independent lamenting the six Euros per bottle for the "King of Beers" on the train.  More importantly, though, the beer is outstanding.  Crushingly good.  I just finished up a JHB, which I think stands for Jeffrey Hudson Bitter, and if it ranks among the "weak" beers I've had here, I'll have to ignore the ... um ... was it Tetley's? ... that I drank from cans on the train from Edinburgh to York.  The TLM also serves a wonderful local brew called Centurion's Ghost, and the Wonky Donkey that Drew enjoyed tremendously is apparently exclusive to this particular institution.

But, yes, the beer is good.  More-and more coherently-later.

Cheap pizza, bad television

May 28-29, Seattle

It’s the little things in life that frustrate me.  The big crises-and this, in terms of a holiday abroad, counts as a monumental cockup-are what they are.  Like losing my keys in the passing of five seconds.  Infuriating.  But finding my car stolen?  That’s happened a couple times before, and what can you do but make the requisite calls and move ahead?  Life goes on, for the living.

And, besides, I had cash.  The folks at the UAL/AC ticket stand did what they could.  I could fly out at 0850 the next morning, which worked well enough, as it beat paying out for a whole new ticket via BA.  Many thanks to Barb M. for straightening all of that out.

So I retreated to a nearby hotel, a Red Roof Inn, got a room with a king size bed-despite their apologies, I loved it-drank steadily, and watched five hours of NCIS on TNT, followed by Casino Royale.  Cheap pizza and cigarettes, along with enough bourbon, can make any dark night of the soul seem a bit brighter.  Or, at least, you don’t mind the darkness so much.

I could be wrong, of course, but it seemed a simple enough proposition: What is a holiday without an adventure?  And, to be certain, the adventure was just getting underway; at least the rest of it was, if not strictly enjoyable throughout, better than that.

May 28 - Seattle (I'm not psychic, just paranoid)

28 May - Seattle

The First Rule of International Travel: Do not, under any circumstances, allow your Passport to the custody of anyone else.

Well, obviously you have to hand it over to various officals whose job it is to inspect the things, but aside from that, no, no, and no.  The story so far: On Thursday night, at dinner, Carisa suggested that we photocopy our passports; in case of emergency-that is, a lost Passport-it should make at least some difference as the Embassy irons things out.  You know, with all that technology, the State Department needs that kind of basic help in order to help you.  It almost makes sense if taken with a stiff shot of sarcasm.

You can almost tell where this story goes, already, right?

Mom stayed with her sister Thursday night.  "Sue has a photocopier," she said.  There's a bit more to it than that, but this is the vital point.  It seemed logical.

Friday morning dawns, and shortly before setting up to rally with Drew and Carisa, I called Mom, feeling almost foolish.  I am the one who forgets obvious things, like, oh, say, a Passport.  "Just making sure we've got all the Passports," I said.  Of course she did.  "Sorry.  Guess I'm just  being paranoid."

Sue drove us to the airport from Drew's.  Along the way, I asked for my Passport.  I'm superstitious in certain ways.  Everyone is.  Superstition is one of those things in life, you know, those things, wink-wink, nudge-nudge-that everybody does, and if they say they don't, they're lying.  “It’s in the back,” she told me.  But I did get the photocopy.  In truth, at this writing, I have no idea where that went.  Never mind.

See it?  See it coming?  Of course you do.

The look on Mom’s face when she discovered my Passport missing-resting comfortably, as she soon recalled, on the copier glass-was something I hadn’t seen for about twenty years.  It was the same anguished expression and tone of voice I remember when I wrecked the hell out of her car.

Things fall apart.  Life goes on, for the living.  And, since nobody was dead ... right?

Frantic phone calls all around until we caught up with Jim, one of my cousins, who immediately agreed to see what he could find at his mother’s.  And, surely enough, there it was.  He made a valiant effort to get the Passport to me in time for the flight, but the fates of traffic were against him from the outset.  Hope for the sake of hope, certainly, but always be realistic.  Disappointment hurts less on some occasions when you don’t bite your nails or gnash your teeth in hope of a last-second miracle.

Many thanks to Jim, though.  It certainly beat taking a cab back to Edmonds.