6. Russell Square
I sat outside at the back of the museum and looked through the TimeOut to find a movie. There was one playing near Russell Square so I went there. I though that if I sat in Russell Square I might be able to see the theater and there was plenty of time, so I took out a cigarette. I looked around. This, I thought, is what London is like. I t was quite different from Central Park. Russell Square is tiny by comparison but somehow wilder. Maybe it’s the overcast sky or maybe it’s because I’m not used to British gardening techniques. Whatever it is I think the strange panic that I had been carrying in the small of my back lifted. “I’m here,” I thought. “I survived.”
I pulled the lighter from my pocket and flicked it. Two puffs and inhale.
“Pardon me,” a voice cam from over my shoulder. I turned to see a man wearing a gray T-Shirt that barely covered his protruding stomach. He was holding out a 20p piece with one hand and making the international sign for smoking with the other. “Do you Mind?” he asked as he sat down beside me. “You see I don’t usually smoke. It’s just that I’ve just had a bottle of wine.”
“Not at all.” I replied, and fished out a cigarette from my bag. I motioned away the coin but he insisted. I handed him the tiny lighter. It was running low and he was having trouble.
“It seems to be spent.” He said. “ Could I…” and he pointed to my cigarette hots.
“Oh, of course,” I said and I pressed my cigarette’s end against his awkwardly until smoke was bellowing satisfactorily from both.
“Thank you very much, you see, as I said before, I don’t usually smoke except when I’m drinking and I just had this bottle of wine. I get so terribly depressed you see.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “What was your name?”
“Oh, I’m Paul.”
“Nice to meet you Paul you, I’m Ian.” I reached out and shook his stubby hand.
“Likewise and thank you. I get so depressed you see. All the mistakes. The memories of all the mistakes.” I nodded with half understanding and half behavior copied from characters in movies. I wanted to say something encouraging, to give him advice that would solve his problems. But I was scared and in a foreign country and talking, I suddenly realized, to another human being. Really talking, for the first time since getting on the plane. I just nodded.
“Did you grow up here?” I eventually asked. “…In London?”
“Oh, no. The midlands. Nottinghamshire.” I nodded some more.
“Oh really. Is that a good place to go visit?”
“Erm… yes. There’s lots of historical things and the forest is nice. You know Robin Hood?”
“Yes, I know a bit about him.”
“Well that’s there, Sherwood Forest, Nottingham. You know. Well legend a lot of it, but there’s history to it as well.” I wanted to tell him that I thought legend is more important than fact when history is concerned. Instead I nodded.
“Yes, then you know Richard, King Richard the first. They called him Richard the Lionhearted.
“Yes”
“Richard… King Richard was off on the crusades you see, and his brother erm… what’s his name?
“John, Prince John,” I offered
“Oh yes, John--Prince John they called him, took over and he was not very good. Sheriff of Nottingham and taxes and all that.”
I almost brought up the Magna Carta but decided against it.
He asked where I was from and everything to him was “amazing”. Detroit is the “car place”—Amazing.
Washington is a state and Washington D.C. is a city—Amazing. D.C stands for District of Columbia? —Amazing.
He mentioned being in a pop band in the sixties. He played bass. The conversation turned to a detailed biography of Eric Clapton who was a guitar player who was amazing.
And then by chance, Paul asked: “Do you like the movies then?” And I told him I was in London to study film.
“That’s Amazing!” Do you know Alfred Hitchcock?” I explained that I did. I had recently taken a class on his films.
“I like some of his films.” And we proceeded to go though the Hitchcock cannon. He liked Psycho but not North by Northwest or Rear Window. He didn’t remember Strangers on a Train and I couldn’t remember that it was Farley Granger who played Guy.
He then thoroughly questioned me about Psycho and for the next hour, I kept passing him cigarettes and he kept giving me change. (I ended up with about one pound twenty). And he and I recalled every detail of Psycho—the motivation for every action in more or less chronological order. When we got to the end he said, “Yes. ‘I wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ He says that, doesn’t he?”
Paul Stood up and said. “I don’t know about you but my bladder is full. Wait here and I know a place around the corner where we can get a bottle of…”
“Oh, I have an appointment at 6:00,” I lied.
“All right then. Sorry to be keeping you.”
“Not at all. I had fun.”
“Well then, let me just tell you that I can tell you are very smart and I can tell you are going to go far.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“So, you’ll just wait here and I’ll go…”
“Sorry, but I’ve…”
“Oh right. You’ve got to go. Good luck then.”
“Good luck.” I said and he was gone.
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Friday, December 30, 2005
London - Part 5
5. The British Museum.
I was not too difficult to find my way back to the British Museum. I entered from the back and donated a pound. The museum was strange. They didn’t hide the fact that they were remodeling. Debris was everywhere and lots of exhibits had artifacts replaced by signs that said, “Temporarily removed”.
I saw bits of the Parthenon and the Rosetta Stone and then my stomach started to growl. I dashed to the cafe, which was quite fancy and paid five pounds for a smoked salmon sandwich and a glass of “lemon squash.” The cafeteria was packed and I had to sit next to a man whom, when I asked if the seat was empty, quickly put his wallet into his pocket and look in the other direction.
The lunch felt good but did not really make me full. I continued through the museum. The medieval English stuff bored me but I eventually found the Hall of Egyptian Funeral Art. I had never seen so many mummies in one place. They were all over. Still I didn’t really have any desire to look at them so I left the museum.
I was not too difficult to find my way back to the British Museum. I entered from the back and donated a pound. The museum was strange. They didn’t hide the fact that they were remodeling. Debris was everywhere and lots of exhibits had artifacts replaced by signs that said, “Temporarily removed”.
I saw bits of the Parthenon and the Rosetta Stone and then my stomach started to growl. I dashed to the cafe, which was quite fancy and paid five pounds for a smoked salmon sandwich and a glass of “lemon squash.” The cafeteria was packed and I had to sit next to a man whom, when I asked if the seat was empty, quickly put his wallet into his pocket and look in the other direction.
The lunch felt good but did not really make me full. I continued through the museum. The medieval English stuff bored me but I eventually found the Hall of Egyptian Funeral Art. I had never seen so many mummies in one place. They were all over. Still I didn’t really have any desire to look at them so I left the museum.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
London - Part 4
4. The Second Day
I awoke at a reasonable time. 11 I think, cleaned my room and washed my hair in the sink again. The night before I went to bed starving but I felt only sickish in the morning. I set out for the British museum and found it quickly, before I had expected. I couldn’t bring myself to go in yet so I walked past, telling myself I was searching for breakfast. Still I was too nervous to actually go into any place. I walked in a huge circle passing every café. Too expensive or too crowded I tell myself. At last I turned back towards what I thought was the British Museum and got enough courage to buy a coke, 60p. Prices seem so cheap until you think about them, and then they seem expensive.
I walked on, drinking my coke, expecting to see the British Museum but no luck. Soon I was in the West End. Staring at the Les Miserables theatre I almost got hit by a car. I stepped back too far and just missed getting hit by another. The streets got busier but I restrained panic. I turned down a less busy street and almost walked into a bum. He asked for a few pence and I gave him twenty. “You should be more careful walking alone” he told me. I thanked him but forgot to ask his name.
I walked some more following some Arabs and ended up on Oxford Street. There had been a parade earlier and the street was as packed as Times Square. I put may hand into my wallet pocket and thrust myself into the crowd. I trusted the compass in my nose and headed across Oxford Street in the direction I thought was north. Streets were deserted which made me even more nervous. It was follow the crowd and get pick-pocketed or walk down an alley and get mugged. I found a newsstand advertising phone cards and bought one for ten pounds along with an orangeade drink that was gross and good in alternate sips.
I stopped in a stairwell and nervously pulled out my A-Z. I was afraid to be seen with it. I glanced and tried to orient myself. I put it away and walked down Bond Street, then New Bond Street at last arriving at Grosvenor Square Park. I sat on a bench. Memorized the way back to the Museum with the A-Z, relaxed and had a cigarette. I felt strangely comfortable here. The park was beautiful and British looking but for some reason I felt welcome. Days later on a train I would look up Grosvenor Square park in a book and learn that it was called America in London. Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin had lived nearby. I understood.
After the quick rest I made my way back down Oxford Street. An old lady was yelling for me to get my “Pokemon Bubbles” there were kids all over pulling off Pikachu’s head and blowing bubbles out of his innards. I considered her offer but decided against it.
I saw a phone booth, turned off and called home. It worked well. I didn’t tell my Mom about spending the night in the airport. She seemed disappointed that I hadn’t seen any sights yet. I told her I was having a good time as I stared at a photo plastered to the phone booth wall of the biggest nipples I had ever seen.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
London - Part 3
1. London In the Morning
Then time, at last moved quickly. I was delirious and confused and blissful because an ordeal was over. I stumble around the corner and into the Tube station. I wait in a long line, tell the man in the booth where I want to go and he hands me a token. The next hour and a half seems like a blur of streets and past advice. I haven’t even noticed that cars drive on the left. It seems like they just drive everywhere. Unlike what I expected, London is not New York. There is no order and there is room to breathe. It is both cleaner and dirtier than New York and after a period of being pleasantly lost, I find Campbell house.
It is 9:30, check in at 12 but I ached so I sat down, ate some cookie and then made my way to the door. There was an intercom that you press and sign that said, “Clearly announce your arrival and someone will let you in.” I stood for a while trying to think up what to say. Some one lets me in before I have to debase myself by talking. The lady says I can check in as son as the room is cleaned so I sit in the TV room and read Q magazine.
Someone comes eventually and I get my key and put down my stuff, set the alarm and collapse on the bed. I awake eight hours later. I wash my hair in the sink and get dressed and set out to find food, a magazine and a calling card. There is more wandering but less lost. It is eight o'clock and everything is closed. I buy Time Out in a posh little grocery store and look for food. I find myself in a district of expensive trendy restaurants. Nothing looks right. I get courage from desperation and I enter a friendly looking kebab shop. It is good I think but hard to eat so I throw half away. A man walks by yelling to himself and asks me where Courtford Street is. I tell him I don’t know and he screams “What do you fucking mean you don’t fucking know? Why did you come to this fucking country?”
I come back and nap before embarking to find a phone to call home. I feel guilty, certain that they are worried. No phones take change outside. The phone booths all smell of piss and are plastered with pictures of naked ladies. I go back to the house and ask. When I find the phone it is surprisingly easy to use. I leave a quick message and feel better. On my way back to bed someone in the common room talks to me. There is a group of about ten, all from MSU. It feels good to talk to Americans, shamefully good. They are friendly and fun and encouraging.
I have more hope for social prospects while I am here. After a while some Irish students come and strike up conversation whilst drinking vodka and iced tea. We discuss stereotypes and impressions. Someone actually says, “fanny-pack”. It is fascinating, though I have the impression that this conversation will be repeated countless times before I get back.
Then time, at last moved quickly. I was delirious and confused and blissful because an ordeal was over. I stumble around the corner and into the Tube station. I wait in a long line, tell the man in the booth where I want to go and he hands me a token. The next hour and a half seems like a blur of streets and past advice. I haven’t even noticed that cars drive on the left. It seems like they just drive everywhere. Unlike what I expected, London is not New York. There is no order and there is room to breathe. It is both cleaner and dirtier than New York and after a period of being pleasantly lost, I find Campbell house.
It is 9:30, check in at 12 but I ached so I sat down, ate some cookie and then made my way to the door. There was an intercom that you press and sign that said, “Clearly announce your arrival and someone will let you in.” I stood for a while trying to think up what to say. Some one lets me in before I have to debase myself by talking. The lady says I can check in as son as the room is cleaned so I sit in the TV room and read Q magazine.
Someone comes eventually and I get my key and put down my stuff, set the alarm and collapse on the bed. I awake eight hours later. I wash my hair in the sink and get dressed and set out to find food, a magazine and a calling card. There is more wandering but less lost. It is eight o'clock and everything is closed. I buy Time Out in a posh little grocery store and look for food. I find myself in a district of expensive trendy restaurants. Nothing looks right. I get courage from desperation and I enter a friendly looking kebab shop. It is good I think but hard to eat so I throw half away. A man walks by yelling to himself and asks me where Courtford Street is. I tell him I don’t know and he screams “What do you fucking mean you don’t fucking know? Why did you come to this fucking country?”
I come back and nap before embarking to find a phone to call home. I feel guilty, certain that they are worried. No phones take change outside. The phone booths all smell of piss and are plastered with pictures of naked ladies. I go back to the house and ask. When I find the phone it is surprisingly easy to use. I leave a quick message and feel better. On my way back to bed someone in the common room talks to me. There is a group of about ten, all from MSU. It feels good to talk to Americans, shamefully good. They are friendly and fun and encouraging.
I have more hope for social prospects while I am here. After a while some Irish students come and strike up conversation whilst drinking vodka and iced tea. We discuss stereotypes and impressions. Someone actually says, “fanny-pack”. It is fascinating, though I have the impression that this conversation will be repeated countless times before I get back.
Monday, December 12, 2005
London Part 2
2. Gatwick
Gatwick is bizarre. It smells like smoke and I try to figure out who is English by the way they look. I follow the black man who sat in front of me on the plane. He looks familiar. He is safety but he steps on a conveyor and disappears. I am now on my own. There is an instant of panic when I feel like I can’t speak this language but I walk it off.
I pick the most congenial looking passport officer. He’s friendly but it’s a hassle. He wants a letter and I show him several. None of them are what he wants but he lets me go anyway. My bag is already off the conveyor. I walk through the doorway marked “Nothing to declare.” And to my surprise I am in the airport lobby. Without talking to anyone, without my bag being searched. I feel guilty.
I have walked into the ulcer I have been creating for the last month. My courage is gone. I think of all the better decisions I could have made but as punishment for not making them I spend the night in the airport.
What now seems like an adventure seemed like Hell at the time.
I find a bench and sit but I feel conspicuous. There are too many people so I go upstairs to the Mall. The benches are bigger here. Less people. So I sit but every time I get comfortable someone comes to mop under the bench. As it turns ten I am trying desperately to avoid the cleaning crew. I wander in circles trying to find the right spot
I finally get the courage to get some money—and panic when the ATM gives my card back. I can’t breathe. But the sign changes and the money comes out. It’s backward here. I look over my shoulder but I can’t find the rabbit anywhere.
I find a man sleeping and sit near but not too close. Finally I can read The Third Man but I can’t concentrate. I reread a page about every ten minutes. The shops close and more people come to sit down. I hope they are camping for the night. Some go to sleep. They are my imaginary companions and I can read a little better. People walk by periodically, late for their flights. Kids play video games. I am dead bored but I think I can make it. My head constantly calculates time zones. It is eleven in England and Six in Detroit but it feels like neither. At least I’m comfortable
Then these men walk by and smile at me. They look like taxi drivers or doormen but they have machine guns.
More sitting and reading and worrying. I look at the clock every two minutes. Whenever the hour changes I have to do more math. I get to chapter ten and see the machine gun men talking to boys at the other end of the benches. I panic again.
The boys pull out IDs and boarding passes. The machine gun men look unconvinced. I want to leave but don’t want to call attention to myself. Eventually the machine gun men leave. An old man who was sleeping asks a lot of questions but I can’t hear them. I stare at a page for ten minutes and then move downstairs.
There are more people here and it feels a little better. Lots of people are sleeping. I hope they are all spending the night. I take a seat across from a sleeping girl and I can read better. I try not to look at the machine gun men as they pass. At 1:00 I finish The Third Man. It has only been four hours—eleven more until my check-in time. I sit and do nothing for the rest of the night. I read a little but it doesn’t make time pass. I try to convince myself that it is ok to sleep buy I’m too scared. Around three, I close my eyes. There is no mental drifting. I count yoga breaths. Suddenly this seventeen-year-old girl pounces on the space next to me and lies down. I make room for her. A few minutes later she speaks. “How long you reckon you’ll be here?” I think she wants me to leave so she can have my spot but she just wants me to wake her at quarter to six. I accept. Around four, things start to change. Stores open again and flights arrive. Slowly, it gets busier. 5:45 finally arrives and the girl is tough to awaken. I have to shout “Hey you wake up” and she does. I feel like a Yank.
I spend the next hour between sitting and wandering. The airport gets really crowded. I force myself to sit until 7:00. Then I board the Gatwick express. I spend my first British money on the ticket. I’m afraid to look at the strange handful of bills and change I get in return.
I sit next to a couple from The States who talk about Egypt. And the train starts. My hellish first impression melts away. England seems so familiar and so foreign at the same time. The countryside recalls a movie but I cant think which one. I can’t help nodding off every ten seconds and seamlessly the country becomes London.
Gatwick is bizarre. It smells like smoke and I try to figure out who is English by the way they look. I follow the black man who sat in front of me on the plane. He looks familiar. He is safety but he steps on a conveyor and disappears. I am now on my own. There is an instant of panic when I feel like I can’t speak this language but I walk it off.
I pick the most congenial looking passport officer. He’s friendly but it’s a hassle. He wants a letter and I show him several. None of them are what he wants but he lets me go anyway. My bag is already off the conveyor. I walk through the doorway marked “Nothing to declare.” And to my surprise I am in the airport lobby. Without talking to anyone, without my bag being searched. I feel guilty.
I have walked into the ulcer I have been creating for the last month. My courage is gone. I think of all the better decisions I could have made but as punishment for not making them I spend the night in the airport.
What now seems like an adventure seemed like Hell at the time.
I find a bench and sit but I feel conspicuous. There are too many people so I go upstairs to the Mall. The benches are bigger here. Less people. So I sit but every time I get comfortable someone comes to mop under the bench. As it turns ten I am trying desperately to avoid the cleaning crew. I wander in circles trying to find the right spot
I finally get the courage to get some money—and panic when the ATM gives my card back. I can’t breathe. But the sign changes and the money comes out. It’s backward here. I look over my shoulder but I can’t find the rabbit anywhere.
I find a man sleeping and sit near but not too close. Finally I can read The Third Man but I can’t concentrate. I reread a page about every ten minutes. The shops close and more people come to sit down. I hope they are camping for the night. Some go to sleep. They are my imaginary companions and I can read a little better. People walk by periodically, late for their flights. Kids play video games. I am dead bored but I think I can make it. My head constantly calculates time zones. It is eleven in England and Six in Detroit but it feels like neither. At least I’m comfortable
Then these men walk by and smile at me. They look like taxi drivers or doormen but they have machine guns.
More sitting and reading and worrying. I look at the clock every two minutes. Whenever the hour changes I have to do more math. I get to chapter ten and see the machine gun men talking to boys at the other end of the benches. I panic again.
The boys pull out IDs and boarding passes. The machine gun men look unconvinced. I want to leave but don’t want to call attention to myself. Eventually the machine gun men leave. An old man who was sleeping asks a lot of questions but I can’t hear them. I stare at a page for ten minutes and then move downstairs.
There are more people here and it feels a little better. Lots of people are sleeping. I hope they are all spending the night. I take a seat across from a sleeping girl and I can read better. I try not to look at the machine gun men as they pass. At 1:00 I finish The Third Man. It has only been four hours—eleven more until my check-in time. I sit and do nothing for the rest of the night. I read a little but it doesn’t make time pass. I try to convince myself that it is ok to sleep buy I’m too scared. Around three, I close my eyes. There is no mental drifting. I count yoga breaths. Suddenly this seventeen-year-old girl pounces on the space next to me and lies down. I make room for her. A few minutes later she speaks. “How long you reckon you’ll be here?” I think she wants me to leave so she can have my spot but she just wants me to wake her at quarter to six. I accept. Around four, things start to change. Stores open again and flights arrive. Slowly, it gets busier. 5:45 finally arrives and the girl is tough to awaken. I have to shout “Hey you wake up” and she does. I feel like a Yank.
I spend the next hour between sitting and wandering. The airport gets really crowded. I force myself to sit until 7:00. Then I board the Gatwick express. I spend my first British money on the ticket. I’m afraid to look at the strange handful of bills and change I get in return.
I sit next to a couple from The States who talk about Egypt. And the train starts. My hellish first impression melts away. England seems so familiar and so foreign at the same time. The countryside recalls a movie but I cant think which one. I can’t help nodding off every ten seconds and seamlessly the country becomes London.
Friday, December 09, 2005
London Part 1 - Saturday July 22, 2000
1. Airplanes.
Airplanes and airports at least in the moment of hindsight are surreal. Window seats showed me wings and the patchwork of human development contrasted with the divine landscape of clouds viewed from above.
The first plane is short and satisfying, babies and businessmen. It was early and everyone, even the flight attendants, were subdued. The excitement was numbed. Although most of the time I felt like I was eight years old again. Orange juice and a cinnamon roll seemed like nursery school snacks and I was light—in awe of New Jersey and how many baseball diamonds. The landing was rough—Pure physics of going very fast and trying to stop. Noisy and painful as an amusement park.
Newark was so smooth. A modern monorail to a circular terminal. So many girls from Kentucky and the British family with the disappointed boy (The metal detector never beeped from him). The blonde Europeans with the blonde toddler and the wispy haired euro-infant who probably couldn’t focus to see he was in America. The Kentucky ladies smiled and cooed and I wondered what it is like to be eight months old.
The second plane was more of a spectacle. There were Dividers and hallways. Below, mostly ocean. So frightening to see just clouds and blue as if you are upside down or in between two skies. But when the movie comes on I have to close my shutters and I am in a tube or a Pringles can that is not really moving, and look, there is a movie. The same thing on three separate screens. It’s crap. She has cancer and dies and he learns that money is less important than love. But she dies. So he’s off the hook. There is no sacrifice for his revelation.
The stewardesses constantly pass out strange foreign objects. I am startled when I discover that I am holding a heated moist towelette. I have no idea what to do with it. The man in front of me puts it on his face and I do the same. And then I notice no one else is putting it on his or her face so I stop. What if that guys is just weird? What if I am just weird?
I drink way too much Dr. Pepper but only gather the courage to go to the bathroom once. I plan it so that the carts are on the other side of the plane. I will be quick and not make a scene but there are so many signs to read and symbols to figure out. When I try to open the door I hit the cart, startling the stewardesses and myself. How embarrassing.
It seems like the stewardess brings things just to me. A chocolate chip cookie--my survival food. I put it into my backpack and I live off of it. There is still a piece left.
Then I sleep a little anyway. I refuse to watch “You’ve Got Mail” but sometimes I try to analyze the editing. I don’t learn anything.
When the movie is over the screen shows flight information: maps, distances, temperatures, and times. I stare at it. Each time it changes, I’m hundreds of miles closer.
I open my screen and England appears under the wing. Even from up here you can tell it’s another country. New jersey was pools and all squares and houses and baseball. This is a jigsaw puzzle or a stained glass window of abstract art. Everything looks like it might be a castle and there are actually sheep.
I watch the sunset and the suddenly there is a runway. The landing is uneventful I kept waiting for the roughness, the pull but it was just land and stop. I am in England.
Airplanes and airports at least in the moment of hindsight are surreal. Window seats showed me wings and the patchwork of human development contrasted with the divine landscape of clouds viewed from above.
The first plane is short and satisfying, babies and businessmen. It was early and everyone, even the flight attendants, were subdued. The excitement was numbed. Although most of the time I felt like I was eight years old again. Orange juice and a cinnamon roll seemed like nursery school snacks and I was light—in awe of New Jersey and how many baseball diamonds. The landing was rough—Pure physics of going very fast and trying to stop. Noisy and painful as an amusement park.
Newark was so smooth. A modern monorail to a circular terminal. So many girls from Kentucky and the British family with the disappointed boy (The metal detector never beeped from him). The blonde Europeans with the blonde toddler and the wispy haired euro-infant who probably couldn’t focus to see he was in America. The Kentucky ladies smiled and cooed and I wondered what it is like to be eight months old.
The second plane was more of a spectacle. There were Dividers and hallways. Below, mostly ocean. So frightening to see just clouds and blue as if you are upside down or in between two skies. But when the movie comes on I have to close my shutters and I am in a tube or a Pringles can that is not really moving, and look, there is a movie. The same thing on three separate screens. It’s crap. She has cancer and dies and he learns that money is less important than love. But she dies. So he’s off the hook. There is no sacrifice for his revelation.
The stewardesses constantly pass out strange foreign objects. I am startled when I discover that I am holding a heated moist towelette. I have no idea what to do with it. The man in front of me puts it on his face and I do the same. And then I notice no one else is putting it on his or her face so I stop. What if that guys is just weird? What if I am just weird?
I drink way too much Dr. Pepper but only gather the courage to go to the bathroom once. I plan it so that the carts are on the other side of the plane. I will be quick and not make a scene but there are so many signs to read and symbols to figure out. When I try to open the door I hit the cart, startling the stewardesses and myself. How embarrassing.
It seems like the stewardess brings things just to me. A chocolate chip cookie--my survival food. I put it into my backpack and I live off of it. There is still a piece left.
Then I sleep a little anyway. I refuse to watch “You’ve Got Mail” but sometimes I try to analyze the editing. I don’t learn anything.
When the movie is over the screen shows flight information: maps, distances, temperatures, and times. I stare at it. Each time it changes, I’m hundreds of miles closer.
I open my screen and England appears under the wing. Even from up here you can tell it’s another country. New jersey was pools and all squares and houses and baseball. This is a jigsaw puzzle or a stained glass window of abstract art. Everything looks like it might be a castle and there are actually sheep.
I watch the sunset and the suddenly there is a runway. The landing is uneventful I kept waiting for the roughness, the pull but it was just land and stop. I am in England.
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