The Day we Meet Again

The Day we Meet Again

September 19, 2010 Sunday.

I woke up in the morning, in my camp on the southern seacoast of Maine, after a rough night of sleep, having fallen into a hole while gathering firewood, straining my already touchy right knee. Not a fun way to end my glorious day of riding in a convertible with the top down, eating lobtsers and clams, and Not a good start to the rest of my holiday, but as an intrepid traveler, I am not deterred. I pick up a bit, never did the fall cleaning I meant to do, and get into my car, and drive home. I haven’t packed yet, or made some hotel and train reservations, and it was time to get all this done.

Packing, reserving, showering, all done. I actually will have a few dollars, pounds and euros to spend, precious few, but yippee.

I begin my journey with a cab ride to the bus. Now a bus to the airport. Checking in, my bag weighs 10 kilos, plenty left for all those goodies I buy along the way, cant weight to see what it weighs on the trip home.

Waiting to board the plane, a snafu when another plane is late, and has luggage discrepancies, and refuses to share the tow bar. This info came from our pilot. British Airways, about the late plane, Virgin Atlantic. We were thanked for choosing British Air. We take off, hit turbulence white being served supper, I had chicken and rice, difficult with all that ups and downs, and then I had both a pain pill, and a wine, Following up with a massive hot flash. Two hours sleep before the morning sun over Ireland hit me in the eye, and I watched England greet the day from my window.

Monday, 20 September, 2010

Deplaning, Heathrow Airport, Terminal 5, so civilized. A tram to immigration, a quick Q&A and they let me in! Baggage, and then through customs, empty. Ah, all the contraband I might have brought, and no one to stop me. Pulling my bag, I could be almost anywhere, the new Terminal 5 is very generic Airport, and with all the people, all the languages and accents, I did not have that “I’m in England” feel. I did have jet lag and post hot flash hangover, though, was it just 8 hours ago I was home? This traveling through time and space is hard, imagine how the stupid people feel, me with my superior intellect, having trouble assimilating, after all I have been in this country for 30 minutes.

My bus to Oxford arrives, just as planned. I might be in England now, I board on the left, and have a seat belt. The hum of the tyres on the tarmac starts to lull me to sleep, precious sleep, but but but, fat English sheep grazing by the side of the road, sheep who Baaaaa with English accents, and I am on the left side of the road, I wake up, with a start, and look out the window. The hum lulls me again, I nod off, then we hit the road works, and slow down, and I look at the fat English cows, grazing in the fields, moooing with English accents. I will not sleep today. We arrive in Oxford, vaguely familiar, as I had been here before.

My hotel, actually a room above a pub is as advertised, right at the bus station. I look for the entry, and remembering I am in England, I go into the pub itself, and ask the bar tender. She politely tells me that check in is at 2, it is only 12, and that I may leave my bags behind the bar, so I hand over all my luggage to a stranger at a pub, next to the bus station, in a foreign country, and off I go.

Not a few hundred paces from my new home, I pass the New Theatre, advertising a concert tonight! What a coincidence, I have a ticket to a concert tonight. I also run into someone who knows me. A bright fellow, really, makes his living being bright, gives me advice about the city, and how to occupy my time until I can use my ticket.

I go to Boots, buy my favorite shampoo, a sandwich and a drink, then hit the double decker topless Tour of Oxford. What a place. I go round a few times, the bus actually stops at the bus station, go figure, which is where my pub is, but it is still soon, so I go round again. Finally I got off, and wander about, making my way to my room, at least I hope I have a room, so far I have only left my bags at a pub. I run into more friends, hugs, kisses, and me with my jetlag, but eventually, I make it to the pub. 5 men at the bar, looking at me. I am too tired to be paranoid, or worry about just what sort of place I booked myself into. I follow the nice lady, and we go up, and up, and still up, they fit a lot of floors into these old buildings, and of course I am on the top floor. I am always at the top, there must be a secret society of quirky hotels that passes my name around, encouraging each other to put me in the attic. The room is surprisingly charming. I get out my assortment of plugs and adaptors, start the charging of my electronics, and set my alarm, and pass out for two hours, blissfully ignoring BBC 1 on the telly.