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.