The Truth About London – A travel Confession – Part 2

Part 2   London:
Customs:

We get off the plane and follow a crowd of passengers into a crowd of passengers that merge into an ever larger crowd that bulges and then splits like an ameba, into two parts, European passports and ‘Other.’ We are other. There are thousands of us squeezed into an endless snake-like line.
Photo taken just before I saw the sign.  ‘Do Not Take Photos.’


 There’s no edges to the mass, just people, far as you can see.

An hour and fifteen minutes later we have finally made it to the inspector who is friendly and courteous, with smiles. How do they do it? He asks how long we will stay, and stamps us in. “Have fun,” he says. We’re on our way—almost. More time spent waiting for a bus that’s late.



An hour and thirty minutes later we get off and start to look for our hotel without much luck. It’s a pretty big hotel and we have the street address. We’re sure we are very close, but nobody knows where it is. I am gaining a first and lasting tourist impression. Nobody here is from here. They are all from somewhere else, friendly and helpful. Cell phones come out. We finally find it, take a three hour rest, then we’re on our way to Covent Garden and Leicester Square.
More crowds. We’re never more than three feet from another person. Introverts will understand my stressful point of view, but wife has plans and endless energy. She’s Swedish. We peruse the mammoth shopping center. Somebody’s singing opera with surprisingly loud voice amidst the passersby, and those at outdoor tables having lunch with drinks and conversation. We pay an extravagant price for a barely average dinner, but I’m grateful just to have a place to sit. I make it last as long as possible, then we are on our way again.
My legs and feet are killing me. I find a curbside space to sit as wait as wife goes off to do some short term, freelance shopping. Feet are on my mind and I start noticing the feet of people passing by. I took some photos. Wish I’d taken more. An interesting curbside vision. Could have led to something.

Wife returns with some notebooks  she’s been unable to find in Sweden and we take one last walk—not far, to Savoy Theater, and Dream Girls.



Good, soft seats, just three rows back from stage – a total pleasure. Great show with fantastic sets and actors. Wow, those voices, and the dancing. Cast is black, all but two token white guys—had to be damned good to make that show. They all were.
We got lost again on our way home, three blocks away from our hotel, but finally found it. Then to bed. Thank God. Tomorrow’s Saturday, and London Bridge. Seems like it ought to be an easy thing to find.

The Truth About London – A travel Confession – Part 1

Part 1    People On The Move

There are two kinds of folks on journeys—my opinion.  Travelers, and Tourists. By my definition, if you’ve flown a thousand miles to spend three days somewhere, you are a tourist. Nothing wrong with that. I am myself a tourist now, but used to travel in my youth. As tourist, I am here to see the sights, the monuments and castles. Subway bound —the tube, with wives and cameras, sometimes kids.

The travelers are mostly single, often younger, with no jobs, perhaps between jobs, less well healed than tourists, but the trip is less expensive. There is time to learn one’s way around, the price of things, and what’s worth having. Fewer baths, and Spartan beds—long rides on shaky buses. Learning to relax amidst the unfamiliar.

Lots of things are unfamiliar to me in this digital, technology—like cell phones. Mine defies me, always wanting updates or a code a I can’t remember. Others use them without thought. Facebooking madly. “We are here now.” There are photos, maps. Friends know exactly where we are. There was a time when no one knew where in the world I was. Now I prefer somebody does—just in case. Survivors get more cautious as we age.

I have digressed. Where am I? Tourist, London, with my wife. My birthday—eighty years.
The trip begins. A three hour ride. Wife’s driving with some kind of cell phone app. A woman’s voice instructs us, “In 300 meters, turn right onto Route 53.” Amazing. It’s unreal. We never miss a turn and it’s a complicated drive. No problem. We have reservations, pre-paid parking fee for days we’d be away, and airline tickets —Ryan Airlines—gets you there no frills, far less expensive. All this done on Internet and cell phone. Wife made all of these arrangements. She has been a long time traveler, and still good at it. She’s Swedish, can’t remember if I’ve told you.

We sleep over at the hotel airport. Nice rooms and free breakfast opens 4 a.m.  Airport in walking distance, then the wait. About two hours and then another in line waiting to get passports checked. Wife says to slide my passport through the slot along with Swedish ID card. Confusion. Why am I traveling with a U.S. passport? A long discussion begins. I had not thought to bring my percent resident card—ten minute hassle. Those in line behind us are unhappy. I have become one of the people I have cursed. “What the hell is wrong with that guy? What’s his problem?” At last a superior is consulted and we are let through to wait in another line, the last before getting on a plane with less legroom than planes with no leg room and non-reclining seats. We’re thirty hours into the trip and still not there yet.