Roll up for the Mystery Tour

London is like no other place on Earth.  Sure, giant cities (and it is giant) have many things in common–efficient public transport, tons of concrete, crowds of people, and an unmatched diversity–but London is unique.  It’s London, capital of England, home to the Queen (who, rumor has it, is a real bitch) and to the mighty Thames.  My journey was long.  After a sleepless night with Resilient Rod-G and the lovable Gina and Bobby, I arrived at the airport on time, but barely.  

My bag weighed 61 pounds, 11 more than they were willing to carry for the now standard $20.  So hung-over, delirious and hurting, I rearranged my things.  To the dismay of the uniformed woman behind the counter, my carry-ons multiplied.  At first it was only my didgeridoo and my orange backpack filled with books that weighed 40lbs, then the sleeping bag, then the tent, then the thick yoga mat.  ”You’re only allowed to have one, you know,” she said to me.  I didn’t bother answering.  It was her stupid fault for charging me to take luggage to my destination, as if wanting to take some things when traveling is a fineable offence (that’s British for offense).

 I hurried to the security line and entered it, realized that the woman hadn’t given me my boarding passes.  I returned told her what happened and listened patiently while she complained.  Then she gave them to me and I returned to the longer line.  

Tick-tock, tick-tock.  My plane was leaving soon.  Just as it was my turn to hand over boarding pass and ID to the blue-shirted TSA agent, I realized that my sleeping bag had slipped out of its bag and now trailed behind me.  I handed the woman my documents and smiled as she looked over my armful of things.  Apparently it wasn’t her job to tell me I had too much because she smiled and told me to have a nice flight.  I did make it to the plane, MacGyvering my things together with my purple scarf.  I carried my didgeridoo over my shoulder and everything else was tied to that; the orange tent slid on the ground behind me like some hungry dog.  

I landed in Dallas and was ecstatic to hear that I had a 2 hour layover.  Time enough to take Rod’s two word advice as we said good-bye only a few hours before, Bloody Mary.  After my drink, relaxed and breathing, I settled down into a chair next to my gate to await my flight at 12:35.  I only had 40 minutes to wait.  I’m not sure how long I slept, but I did wake up at 12:36.  I ran to my gate and asked to board.  ”Oh, did you just get here?”  The woman asked.  I could tell that my crisis was exciting to her, that she was happy to have something to alleviate the boredom of her day.  ”Well, you’re a lucky man, there’s a maintenance issue with the plane.”  And she promptly allowed me to board.  I sat down and wondered if I was really lucky to be on a plane that had maintenance issues.  But I didn’t really care because I went back to sleep and woke up as we touched down in Boston.  

I lugged my things through Boston for a day and then boarded the plane for London.  If you’ve never been on a long-haul flight, consider yourself lucky.  They are massive ships that sound as if they could break apart with the slightest gust.  There are two aisles the length of the plane and 9 seats per aisle.  There are 5 grouped together and I was lucky enough to spend my time in the middlest of all seats.  With my knees touching the seat in front of me.  A long 7 hours and 7 minutes in a 777.   

I arrived in London and met my friend, a man named Peace.  I’ve stayed with him in his squat (a hijacked building runnign hijacked electricity) and surfed around the city, meeting old friends–the magical woman who planted the seeds of India in my head and a partner in crime from the Brighton days.  It’s been a quick few days in London, with a quick few more before I head out to Millau, France.  This shall be my new home for the next X months.  Hope to see you all there.  The door is open and you are welcome.  Much love to you all!!  

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