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.

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.