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.