Chapter Twenty-One

- I See London -

LAX was quieter than I’d ever seen it. Could be it was a slow travel time (hence the cheap ticket on British Air) or maybe it was always like this in the international terminal on a Sunday. How would I know? It seemed a lot of things in my life had become abnormally quiet. The tension between 3b and me had calmed down enough that she and Conniving Friend (the only one of us who actually owned a car) saw me off. It was a nervous parting. Odd how after all I’d been through, I was suddenly overcome with the strongest desire to remain in L.A. ­ the influence of my old friend Fear, I suppose. Well, Fear could go fuck itself. I was bound for jolly olde England.

3b and I hugged tighter than we had in years. She wiped her eyes and kissed me.

“I’m afraid you’re never coming back,” she said. I smiled and kissed her cheek.

“I’ll see you in a week.”

Conniving Friend kissed me on the lips for a five count with her mouth slightly open.

“Don’t forget me,” she said.

“Not likely.”

I picked up a carton of Dunhills in the Duty Free. The coworker who offered up her house to me suggested them as a gift for her Brother, who was watching the place and would be my host for the week.

Many weeks of painless abstinence had allayed my fears of alcoholism, so I invited Booze to tag along. He didn’t take up much space, and on the international flight wouldn’t cost anything. We got caught up over a beer before the flight. It was all the same old same old -- just small talk and no hard feelings. Wiener was being antisocial.

The British Air 747 was a massive, yet subdued beauty. None of the garish yellow and orange carpet murals like domestic planes. Its muted greys and blues were very easy on the eyes. I slid into the aisle seat I always reserve (have I mentioned the claustrophobia I’d developed?) next to a retired New Zealand farm couple off to visit their daughter in London. They ended every sentence in an upward pitch, as you would a question. I’d always thought that was strictly a Midwest thing. Maybe they were from the Midwest of New Zealand. They were lovely people, but dull. No problem -- I also had my two favorite Jacks to keep me company: Daniels and Kerouac.

Five thirty came and off we went into the wild blue yonder. I slipped off my shoes and made myself at home. Ten hours on a plane needn’t be entirely uncomfortable. BA did more than most to make the flight pleasant: two movies, two excellent meals, and free cocktails. Not to mention a spectacular view of the northern lights as we crossed the North Pole.

Several hours into the flight, I swapped Lonesome Traveler for the BA magazine placed in the seat pocket for my reading enjoyment. It was full of handy tips for lonesome travelers like me. For instance, on long-haul flights, such as the one I was on, experienced travelers know to leave their shoes on, especially if they’re tight fitting in the first place. The feet tend to swell from long periods of high altitude making it difficult to put the shoes back on at touchdown. Wonderful. The vague tingling sensation in my toes turned instantly into a surge of expansion within my socks. My feet had risen to twice their normal size, like pasty little loaves of white bread made with too much yeast. I was doomed to walk the cold streets of London on my inflated bare feet, the subject of English scorn and ridicule at my obvious naïveté. Oh, the shame. Couldn’t they pass along this information at, I don’t know - the beginning of the flight? How on earth was I going to sleep now? I calmed myself with a few deep breaths. My shrink had been trying to get me to develop a positive mental attitude when faced with situations I would normally perceive as negative. This one just might fall into that category, so I rationalized that at the very least I had something to occupy my mind till the end of the flight, which came sooner than anticipated.

Heathrow appeared under the landing gear at precisely 11:50 Monday morning. Somehow I managed to wedge my feet back into my shoes and get off the plane without falling over.

Why do immigration departments always employ the sourest people on the planet to be the first person one meets upon entering any given country? I gave the gentleman behind the glass the benefit of the doubt. I’d be a sourpuss too, if I had those donkey ears flapping off the side of my face. It was mere steps from immigration to the train platform. A subway, er, tube stop, right in the airport! What a well thought-out public transportation system. I suddenly had high hopes for the forthcoming L.A. subway.

Five short stops and I was at Boston Manor, site of my coworker’s town home. I was prepared to wander the streets hopelessly lost, but it was no more than a sixty second walk to her front door, thanks to the devilishly simple map she drew. This trip was off to a fantastic start. My courtesy knock went unanswered, so I let myself in. Her Brother’s note indicated he would return by nine that night. I scribbled a reply greeting and hit the street running. There was to be not one wasted minute on this adventure. I got right back on the Piccadilly line and headed for the tube station where the most trains intersected, King’s Cross.

My plan was to turn a blind eye to tours of any kind and wander the streets. Every time I crossed a smaller street, I would take it. The idea was to see London from that level -- no tour buses and no guides reciting dull prepared speeches.

My first breath of real London air was staggering. This wasn’t a city, this was a movie of a city the script describes as “bustling.” Right-handed cars, the ubiquitous black taxis, and those red double-decker busses whizzed past at breakneck speed, without a thought given to the pedestrians who rushed every which way like a million giant two-legged ants. The noise was at once disturbing and soothing. What beautiful chaos! I stood, slack-jawed for ten minutes just soaking it all in. Soaking became the operative word here. The skies were overcast and opened up in showers periodically. An umbrella would be nice. You’d think I’d have brought one. Nah. That would require forethought. The situation was easily remedied, however. There was an umbrella vendor on every corner just for us tourists.

All right, so my plan to wander aimlessly contained one slight flaw: There were a few places I really wanted to see and I had no idea where they were. A map became essential. I picked up a “London A to Zed” and took refuge from the mild rain in the first pub I spotted. Over a hand pumped ale in the Northumberland Arms, I scoured the map for my current location and a few landmarks, lest I get into trouble or, worse, boredom.

I chose Piccadilly Circus to restart my adventure. Huge neon signs advertising Coca Cola and Panasonic towered over the cinemas and shops, much like Times Square. Street vendors peddled little plastic Bobby hats, salt and pepper sets, ashtrays, t-shirts, and anything else that can be stamped with a Union Jack. The rich perfume of hot roasted chestnuts and pistachios wafting from one seller’s cart lingered in the thick moist air. This must be what heaven smells like, I thought.

Goddamn, I felt great just wandering the streets, window-shopping and people watching. Something hurt my jaw. I caught my reflection in a glass storefront and was taken aback when I realized I was smiling. How sad.

An American Express office displayed fantastically low prices for flights to Paris. Gosh, wouldn’t that be an adventure? Christian wouldn’t arrive for two days -- why the fuck not? I ducked into the office and booked a flight for the next day. The only restriction was that I book the return flight from an American Express office in Paris. Whatever it takes, you know? It was just another one of those arbitrary airline regulations that put a dent in your time.

Speaking of which, it was time to look at London more. What did I see? South Africans protesting outside of an embassy, Turkish nationals protesting a politician at a five-star hotel, and lots of other groups staging protests outside lots of other buildings. That’s a lot of unhappy people. I felt a little guilty at my pleasure, but pressed on. I wandered past the offices for airlines to Bangladesh, Libya, Iran, and other places where holding a U.S. passport could make for an interesting visit.

The day’s travels were taking their toll on my legs, so I took my first double-decker bus ride. Jesus, the guys who drive those things are maniacs. They steer those big red beasts into hairpin turns, cutting off every object that crosses their path. By the time the white-knuckle ride ended in Victoria Station, I needed something to calm my nerves. Cross the street and into a pub -- Pop! Goes a Guinness.

And now I’m hungry. The first place that catches my eye was the Hard Rock. All right, so it went against my declaration of adventure at every turn, but I figured, hell, it’s the original and my blood sugar is dropping. How bad can it be? Really bad is the answer. How they turned that beige food into such a wildly successful franchise is a miracle of modern capitalism. Then there were the people. The waitress from Chicago, the busboy from Jersey, and all the patrons from all points stateside -- this was not my beautiful adventure. I put down the fork and made a beeline to the door. A group of people gathered across the street. Fire trucks screeched to a halt.

“I think it’s in the basement,” a guy says to me.

“What?” I ask.

“The fire,” he replies.

“Fire? Where?”

He points to the building I just exited. The adventure resumes.

I wander into the night, following my plan. I turn down every street smaller than the one I’m on, till I end up in a tiny cobblestone alley called Sheffield Mews. Save for me, the street is vacant. A funny feeling comes over me as I stand there under the dim street lamp. I’m alone in a deserted back alley in a foreign land. No one, but no one knows where I am yet I feel no sense of threat whatsoever.

At this moment all my senses started sending little telegrams to brain central. The Eyes describe how different everything looks -- the streets, the parked cars, the architecture, and even the sky. The Nose sent (pun intended) a note about the sweet smell of honeysuckle in the breeze. The Skin enjoyed a cool bath in the comfortably chilled air. It wasn’t a shivering cold, just a calmly moisturizing effect on my pores. And the sounds the Ears reported: So far off the beaten path, yet I could still hear life and laughter echoing in the distance. For a moment I thought I heard a faint voice whispering, though the words were too low to discern.

Then I saw them: In every building, in every upstairs window, red lamps. How peculiar. And the front doors to the buildings were wide open, as if to beckon one inside. Then there were more muffled whispers.

I tiptoed up to one of the open doors and saw a hand-printed sign tacked to the wall: “Linda, the new girl welcomes you upstairs.”

How priceless. My first trip anywhere, and I end up in a row of whorehouses. I reached for my camera, and then reconsidered. I reread the little sign. My life had been all about avoiding choices and here I was face to face with an interesting one, to say the least. An examined life might regard my ending up here as a sign. Was this chance, or did some subliminal force inside me direct me here? Does the universe want me to go in? If only Wiener was here. He’d know what to do.

There went that muffled voice again. I couldn’t make out where it came from, but it was starting to concern me a little. I chose to move on. Not because I was getting tired or the tubes were going to stop running soon. It just didn’t feel right. Not here, not tonight. I did, however, change my mind about taking a picture and snapped off a quick one before making my exit.

Back at Boston Manor, the Brother was waiting up for me. He was extremely polite. He had prepared a speech for the tour of the house and the goodies I could help myself to. My feelings about sleeping alone in a house with a fifty-four year old gym teacher were not fully developed. Visions of Uncle Monte (rent “Withnail and I”) pranced across my head. My fears were laid to rest upon learning he had a wife and kids (boy was I green) and was merely looking after Mum while she recuperated from some medical thing. She was due back toward the end of the week, at which time we’d have to adjust the sleeping arrangements, but that could be dealt with when she arrived.

“Shall we help ourselves to some of my sister’s wine?” Brother offered.

“Let’s,” I cheerfully accepted. He uncorked a bottle of Burgundy and we chatted till the wee hours.

“I’ll say one thing for the French,” Brother said, “They certainly can make wine.”

“That reminds me,” I said. “I’m going to Paris tomorrow. I’ll be back Wednesday.”

“Oh, Paris,” he frowned. “I don’t care much for the place. I haven’t been in twenty-five years.”

“Is that right?”

“Oh, yes. The French are really quite dreadful.”

Not going to Paris from London is like not going to San Diego from Los Angeles. Or living in Miami and never taking your kids to Disney World. I understand that people get set in their ways, but come on -- it’s Paris.

•••

Way back when, my old power pop band, The Wigs, did their last show in Milwaukee. People gathered from all over the Midwest for the event, as far away as Chicago, St. Louis, and Minneapolis. One of them approached me.

“This is awesome,” the Fan said. “I’ve never been to Milwaukee before and we came here just to see your last show.”

“Really,” I said, “That’s great. Where did you come from?”

“Waukesha.”

Waukesha lies fifteen miles outside Milwaukee. Fifteen. My sister lives in Waukesha. It’s a suburb. But apparently some folks can live their lives and die in Waukesha without going to the big city of Milwaukee. It was in their honor that I went to Paris the next day.

•••

The countless thoughts reeling around my head would normally have kept me up all night, but I was out like a light before my head hit the pillow. When Brother knocked on the door to wake me, I hadn’t even realized I’d been asleep.

You can learn everything you need to know about a place by watching the local television. As I dressed for my trip, I watched a documentary about a group of veterinarians who were saving a horse’s life by amputating his penis. If I were in the horse’s shoes (again, intended), I’d beg them to take me to the glue factory instead.

On the flight across the English Channel, two American girls flirted with two French boys. I ignored them as much as their excessive volume would let me, till one of them told the French boys, “Oh hey, da way yew sed that, yew sounded jahst like yew were frahm Wi-skahn-sin,” her mouth almost completely lateral on every elongated vowel. What were the fucking chances?

The French are the rudest people on the planet. Everybody knows that. It’s fact. But let’s say it’s your job to meet and greet every person that comes into America. Let’s further say that one in four of those people never take the time to learn to speak English (or talk American, if you prefer) and approach you in a loud, obnoxious manner. Their attitude reeks of entitlement and intimates that you should make every effort to accommodate them, while they do nothing in return. Would you be happy to deal with these visitors? Forget everything you know about the French -- it’s wrong.

“Yakety-yakety, yack, yack, yack,” was the sound coming from the Americans in front of me in the immigration line at Charles de Gaulle.

“Oh, my gahd, France looks just like M’waukee!” the girls from the plane kept yelling behind me, the “il” in Milwaukee apparently invisible.

“Passport, s’il vous plait,” the guard behind the counter asked the person in front of me.

“Yack, yack, yack, American, yack, yack, yack,” she shouted as she handed it over.

Of course he held her up with a million questions concerning her trip.

“Why do we have to answer so many questions?” She loudly demanded instead of simply answering. The guard didn’t seem to understand much of her English and was in no hurry to learn. I checked my watch incessantly. I was so screwed. I was never going to see Paris at this rate. Finally, he let the Loud party go through.

There’s no hiding an American passport. I handed it to him face up and softly said, “Bon jour.” He looked at me and I rolled my eyes in recognition of his having to deal with this group of people. He quickly stamped a page and handed the booklet back to me. The whole process took about ten seconds.

“Merci,” I said.

“Enjoy your stay,” he said with almost no accent, “Next!”

The Wisconsinites behind me hit the counter yelling. The guard immediately started into them with a litany of questions, to which they responded with even more questions. I was on a train bound for the Gare du Nord rail station before they left immigration.

The France that the train passes through from the airport to the city looks just like certain scenes from the old “Avengers” television series: inhabited, but not a soul in sight. Lived-in, but lifeless. Still.

My first stop in Paris was by necessity the American Express office to book my return flight. The office is located outside the metro station at the Opera House, near the Ritz Hotel, where Princess Di took her final bon voyage.

In my short time in Hollywood, I’d had the good fortune to meet up close and in person some of the most beautiful women in the world. There have been movie stars, a couple super models, and even a Miss America. Dogs, I tell you, all dogs compared to the French Pastry working the travel counter at American Express. I could not take my eyes off her, yet it hurt to look at her she was so beautiful. I said a silent thank you to whomever made the silly regulation that I book my return flight here -- what a genius. As I the reach front of the line, she is finishing up with a person who has been a royal pain in the ass. She makes eye contact with me to acknowledge I would be next.

“Oh, one more thing before I forget,” Pain In The Ass says. The Pastry and I both wince, though hers is couched with a just polite smile. For the second time in two days, I stand slack-jawed, taking in the magnificent view. Mesmerized, a mumbled voice tugs at my ear again, disturbing my trance.

“Sir?” The voice comes clearly, snapping me to attention. Unfortunately, the voice belongs to a rather unattractive Frenchman, who beckons me to his station next to the Pastry. Approaching the counter, it becomes apparent that this man is in possession of a snout that rivals even mine -- lucky devil. We both keep a safe distance from the counter, to avoid a collision of nose hairs.

“I need to book a return flight to London for tomorrow,” I sigh, disheartened at my luck of the draw. Jacques seems to understand his lot in life next to the Pastry. I hope pathetically that she will overhear and insist I let her show me Paris. She simply won’t take “no” for an answer. Jacques types away furiously and produces a ticket in a matter of minutes. I never take my eyes off the Pastry. Ticket in hand, I step away from the counter to pack it somewhere I will be able to find the next day. Between my Pastry-induced stupor and the fumbling through my belongings, I lost all sense of direction. My confusion led me to the wrong door. Someone called from behind.

“Sir?” I turned around and all my bodily functions halted. The Pastry smiled.

“Can I help you find the exit?” she purred in flawless English. I pinched myself to restart my heart. Slowly, I stepped toward her in utter disbelief of my good luck. Just as I reached her, suddenly and inexplicably I had to pee -- really bad.

“I, no, uh... Do you have a restroom?” I asked. Pastry looked perplexed.

“A toilet?” I offered. Pastry smiled.

“Ah, yes. Down those stairs.” She pointed over my shoulder. I followed the perfect line of her slender forearm to her gracefully extended index finger, taking in the view for as long as possible before my bladder threatened to explode.

“Thank you.” I walked as calmly as I could to the stairs. When I was sure Pastry wasn’t looking, I made a mad dash for the john, lowering my bag off my shoulder en route. I crashed into a stall and heard another muffled voice in another stall. What was up with my hearing? My ears didn’t even pop on any of the flights. No sooner than I had unzipped my fly, the voice got very loud and very clear.

“What the hell are you doing?” It screamed in English. I looked down.

“You’re here!” I said, all excited.

“Of course I’m here,” Wiener said.

“I thought you stayed home.”

“You think I’d let you make this trip by yourself?”

“So is that you I’ve been hearing?”

“Who do you think?” Wiener was indignant. “Now what are you waiting for?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Pastry, you moron. Go get it.”

“What, like, ‘Hey I’m in Paris for the night. You want to hang out?’”

“Or words to that effect.”

“Dude, she is so out of my league.”

“No she isn’t. She’s just the hottest chick you’ve ever seen. That doesn’t put her out of your league.”

“She probably has really, really rich guys falling all over her.”

“She probably has nobody after her because they’re all little pussies like you.”

“Hey, now.”

“Isn’t this is supposed to be an adventure?”

“Well, yes.”

“All right, then. If you don’t at least try, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

“I can’t.”

“If you don’t, I’m going to get all incontinent on you at a very early age.”

“All right. I’ll do it.” I didn’t quite make out the last thing Wiener said because my fly was already zipped. I gathered all my resolve and marched back up the steps, hastily rehearsing my opening shot. I scanned the office for the Pastry, but she was nowhere in sight. I approached the security guard.

“Excuse me,” I started, forgetting any sense of the language.

“Oui, Monsieur,” he said. I stammered, searching for the words.

“Uh, the Mademoiselle avec the uhÉ” I motioned with my hands to illustrate long hair.

“Ah,” he said, knowing exactly what I meant, “I am sorry. She has gone.”

“Gone gone?”

“Oui.” He was a French sympathizer of the best variety.

“Merci,” I sighed and dragged my feet out the door.

I kicked myself in the ass all over the streets of Paris. Even in a foreign land, I couldn’t muster up the Balls in sufficient time to act on an opportunity -- maybe the opportunity of a lifetime. Wiener kept his yap shut.

Oh, well -- on to bigger and better. I found an affordable hotel exactly two blocks away from the Louvre. Being the biggest thing in France, the Louvre should be relatively easy to find if I get lost. In the worst French ever I told the desk clerk that I don’t speak French. He paused for a few seconds and said, “Do you speak English?” I booked a room, dropped off my bag, and hit the streets.

The Champs-Elysees (the Rodeo Drive of Paris) was lined with the type of stores that didn’t exactly cater to my kind: Gucci, Hermes, Armani. There were also scads of picture-postcard cafes, theaters, and fast food joints. Yes, fast food joints.

•••

When the Italian criminal who bought out Cannon arrived at the Los Angeles office, he brought his daughter and her snooty French girlfriend to learn the business. No one knew what to do with them, so of course they ended up my responsibility. When the Snooty French Girl was feeling especially snooty, she’d call me a “Big Mac Eater.” Being French had nothing to do with her snootiness, but how I wish she were standing with me right then on the Champs -- the snootiest place in all France -- as I looked dead into a MacDonald’s. How wonderful that the menu was in French, the employees were all French, and best of all, so were the customers. There were so many French customers that the wait for those delicious MacDonald’s frites was too long for this American. I ducked into the Burger King next door and ordered a Whopper in my broken French. The view from my extra value meal with the ultra-chic Champs-Elysees just outside the window made an exquisite photo. I was sure Snooty French Girl was going to love my postcard made just for her.

•••

I wound around the streets of Paris toward the Eiffel Tower, arriving there just after sunset. It was so much taller and impressive than the version in my mind’s eye. An excruciatingly claustrophobic elevator carried me to the second level observation deck, along with a group of Italian students singing school songs at the top of their lungs.

Nothing can prepare you for that first view of Paris at night from the tower. The City of Lights more than lived up to its reputation. For the third time this trip, I stood slack-jawed at the beauty before me. The air was chilly, but I felt unusually warm. On this gorgeous night, high above the carpet of sparkling lights that extended into the horizon, good feelings were beginning to pierce my armor. The miles and miles of city streets and the din rising up from them made me feel that life might hold possibilities. Maybe I wasn’t so hopeless. Maybe I could breath some life back into my music career. I could certainly find inspiration here. 3b was worried I would not return from London. I was thinking I might not make it back to London.

I have no idea how long I stood there, staring. My god, what a romantic view this was. I could fall in love with a man up here, I thought.

“Yeah. You just try that, Flyboy,” Wiener piped up after hours of silence.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured him, “your homophobia is intact.”

It was a romantic view, though.

A cold front moved in, along with some rain clouds. I strolled along the Seine in the direction of the Louvre and my hotel. The clouds opened up with a gentle shower, but kept my umbrella under my arm. It was raining all over me, but it was raining on me in Paris, and I loved every drop. My stomach was feeling neglected, but I got distracted by a boat tour of the city. Paris wasn’t going to sleep any time soon. I promised my tummy a snack right after the tour.

As the Bateaux Mouche chugged along down the Seine, brilliant spotlights on both sides of the boat lit up the buildings along the river. Prerecorded speeches in several languages described the scenery over a loudspeaker. Everyone on board sat in silence, soaking in the history and beauty of the city -- everyone except the Italian students who were now singing “Jesus Christ Superstar” in Italian. That killed it for me, so I went inside for the duration. Seeing buildings that have been standing since before the U.S. was discovered sanded away at any arrogant veneer I had left. My problems, though all-consuming, didn’t seem to matter much from this perspective.

By the time we returned to the dock, the rain had really picked up. The only way I knew back to the hotel was to stay on the Seine, toward the Louvre. I opened my umbrella, but the ferocious wind whipping around the banks of the river rendered it useless. I’d never seen rain fall horizontally before. Cars raced passed, oblivious to the road conditions, but not a cab among them. Aside from river rats, I was the only thing on foot. I finally reached my hotel, but to my stomach’s horror, none of the surrounding cafes were open. I can’t believe that a place so full of life a mere six hours ago could be so dead. I raced up and down the streets, frantically searching for an open restaurant, but my quest was in vain. After circling the lone open bar a few times, I finally ducked in for a whiskey. If I can’t be full, at least I’ll be warm. Some Scottish patrons break from their soccer argument long enough to inform me my only hope for food was an early start in the morning.

Back at the hotel, I soak in a hot bath before falling into a coma in front of the television. Nothing as interesting as a horse castration to report.

“Café au lait, s’il vous plait,” I say proudly to the café owner two minutes after he opened his door the next morning.

“Une café, Monsieur?” He asks, subtly correcting my grammar.

“Ah, merci,” I acknowledge. I take my coffee and a croissant to a table and watch the city come to life. One after another, secretaries lined up at the counter for a coffee and a smoke, departing a quickly as they arrived. They were dressed so simply, yet looked so elegant. Put a French woman in a ball gown or jeans and a t-shirt -- either way she’ll look like she just stepped out of Vogue. Must be something in the water.

The rest of my morning was spent at the Louvre, letting more beauty seep into my pores. As much as it pained me to leave, I had to get to Charles de Gaulle. At Gare du Nord a street musician sang Lionel Ritchie songs in French, except when he got to the choruses and switched to English. He’s talented and I toss him a few Francs, but he can’t compete with another little cutie, whose perfect derriere has captured the attention of every man on the platform. I saw a few of her kind in Paris: perfect in almost every way, but with one remarkable flaw. In her case it was the black, bushy mono brow that crossed her eyes with no visible separation. No matter. No one was looking up there anyway. Thirty minutes later, I got off the train and headed to the escalator. Perfect Butt stood right in front of me, mono brow facing away. Coincidence? Perhaps. I had to smile when we reached the exit. In one swift motion, Perfect Butt leapt, gazelle-like, over the turnstile, cheating the train fare, and disappeared into the crowd.

Upon my return to Boston Manor, I just missed Christian’s arrival and immediate departure for the city. My impromptu trip to Paris scotched our connection, so I was on my own for the night. I tubed it back to the center of London and continued my street-to-street prowl. A little souvenir shopping in Oxford Circus might be in order, but everything’s closed early. I wander over to Carnaby Street. Again, everything’s closed. Did I not get the memo? I’d passed a number of pubs with dismemberment names -- The Queen’s Arms, The King’s Head -- and decided to take dinner at one. I think it was called Shakespeare’s Ass.

The restaurant part of the pub was tiny and dead quiet --only two other people eating. Not the best sign, but there I was. A pretty Dutch waitress seated me. Having a hard time managing this dinner rush, I think she was new. When I asked her what kind of beer they served, she became flustered and had to check with the manager. Everything worked out though. A few minutes after I eventually got my dinner -- that time when waitresses ask if everything’s fine -- Dutch Girl sat down at my table.

“You are American, yes?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.” This was interesting. Forward, pretty, fascinated by America -- I was willing to see where the conversation would go. It went immediately to her and her boyfriend who just arrived from Rome. He’s a musician and just had to come to London to get his career going. Now that he’s in London, he’s certain that he just has to go to L.A. to make it. When she learns that I am a musician in L.A., she asks me to tell her boyfriend how hard it is to make it in America.

“How long has he been trying it here?” I ask.

“Two weeks.”

“Two whole weeks?” I laugh. Dutch Girl laughs with me. The two other patrons had long since gone, leaving Dutch Girl and me free to chat the evening away. She was indeed fascinated by all things American and had an inexhaustible supply of questions. Funny how the things you take for granted can sound so exotic and appealing to someone who had never experienced them.

“Here,” she said, scribbling her phone number on an order ticket. “I work nights, but if you would like to see some of London together in the daytime, call me.”

“Okay,” I say, “The three of us can get together.”

“Well,” she starts, “my boyfriend works in the daytime, so he would not be able to come.”

I bid Dutch Girl a good evening. My wanderlust had kicked back in and I wanted to look at London a little more before the last tube west. Christian beat me back to Boston Manor. When I arrived, he and Brother were getting acquainted over another bottle of the sister’s wine.

“Dude!”

“Dude.”

“How was France?”

“French. How’s the wine?”

“French. Want a glass?”

The three of us finished that bottle and another. Thus far my adventure had way exceeded my expectations, but I was happy and relieved to have Christian with me. Wandering the streets of London and Paris alone was thrilling, but not having anyone to share the experience with was kind of pathetic. I talked their ears off. Later, as I lie in bed, the importance of shared experience weighed on my mind. That I had no one back home to share in my life or whose life I shared bothered me a lot.

The rest of the week went by in a flash. Christian turned out to be the best travel buddy I could have picked. We were both musicians, both Anglophiles, and we shared a certain viewpoint that reared its head often on this trip. I can’t tell you how many times we would see something and instantly both would be cracking up in the middle of the street. And for all our similarities, our differences complimented each other quite well. I benefited from Christian’s familiarity with art and theater, and he benefited from some of my arcane knowledge of British pop history.

We hit the museums, historical Beatle landmarks, and some great bookshops. We took in a show at the theater, discovered a fantastic Indian restaurant, and explored more than our fair share of pubs. The pubs served as the footing from where we began and ended each adventure. I loved that the crowds in the pubs ranged anywhere from eighteen to eighty years old. The atmosphere was on first look friendly and inviting, but underneath we became aware of a lack of warmth or welcome. We noticed that as we joked and laughed, we were quite by ourselves. Our attempts to engage the locals in conversation were met with mildly blank stares. I understood how this could happen on the outside, where everyone walks straight ahead with their eyes to the ground and lips pursed. But here inside the pubs shouldn’t people be off their guard and somewhat sociable? I noticed that a lot of the men sitting at the bar wore a mildly paranoid expression, always checking things out of the corner of their eye. When I first arrived in London I felt no threat of danger, but now I’m aware there’s no feeling of friendship or kinship either. The people are like a pocket full of English change -- it’s there, but it only makes a dull clink -- not bright and robust like a handful of quarters. I’d loved all things British my whole life. I’d hoped they would welcome me into their world with open arms. Not having it so was a little disappointing. Coming to find the French were friendlier to Americans than the British went against everything I thought I knew.

Toward the end of the week, the sleeping situation at Boston Manor butted up against Mum’s return and we were evicted. Undaunted, we booked a tiny room in a hostel at Oxford Circus. That put us right in the thick of things and we no longer had to worry about getting back to the suburbs before the tubes shut down. Did I mention the place was tiny? The shared bathroom and shower were down the hall, a situation that men of our age were not accustomed to, but it was all part of the adventure. There were a couple pubs conveniently on the corner and a French-owned café across the street where I could get a little Paris in a cup. We dropped our bags in the room and immediately dropped into one of the pubs to discuss our journey so far and what lay ahead. I told Christian about Dutch Girl.

“Do you think I should call her?”

“Depends. Do you want to have sex?”

“She’s got a boyfriend.”

“She’s got a boyfriend who works days,” Christian pointed out. A light went on in my head.

“OhhhhhÉ”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Wiener chimed in.

“How’s that?” Christian asked, lighting one of his hand-rolled cigarettes.

“Nothing,” I replied, “I’ll be right back.” I went to the payphone and called Dutch Girl. Her now former roommate told me she went back to Holland that very morning -- alone. I hung up and went to the bathroom.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I asked Wiener.

“I didn’t think I had to,” Wiener said, “She was so obvious.”

“It wasn’t obvious to me.”

“Say hello to lunch for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got your head so far up your ass, you should be able to see it,” Wiener scolded.

The last full day was spent wandering the shopping districts in the rain. I picked up a few things to take back for friends and family. Around six o’clock thirst dictated we go -- where else -- to a pub. Both pubs across from our room were closed. We head toward Carnaby Street. Every pub we pass is closed. All the pubs in Soho are closed. What’s wrong with this picture? A sign on one pub’s door explains that all pubs close, by law, at noon on Sunday and reopen at seven. Apparently shutting down the pubs was the only way they could get people to go to mass. Well, thank god. That could have been ugly. Just to be on the safe side, we buy a couple pints at the take out grocery and stash them in our room for later.

At seven-o-one we were enjoying our first draught of the evening and recounting a week well spent. By ten, I was ready to change venues. I’d been in London a week and hadn’t seen a band play. That didn’t seem right.

“Dude, let’s go to the Marquee Club.”

“I’m tired,” Christian protested, “you go without me.” I gave him my saddest puppy dog eyes.

“You’re not going to bail on me now, are you?”

He caved. We went around the corner to the Marquee Club and watched the last set of some god-awful band. A gang of young men huddled on the dance floor like a rugby team, thrashing all over the room with their arms locked together. It was loud and stinky and the perfect cap to the week.

Monday morning I woke at eight-thirty to gray skies. London is bidding me farewell in the same face it greeted me. Christian was bound for Paris later that day, so this was goodbye.

“Can I bring you anything from Paris?” he asked. I thought for a moment.

“Coffee,” I said -- something to remind me of France every morning. We shared a man hug and I left. I enjoyed one last taste of Paris in the little French café across the street. For the final time I marched down Oxford Street to the tube station. The light rain felt good on my face, so I didn’t bother with the umbrella. Most everyone I passed was trudging along in a Monday morning rut. I must have looked insane, all smiles and whistling a happy tune. There was absolutely no sadness in me as I descended into the Piccadilly station. I was ready to leave London. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go back to L.A. though. Paris would be nice. Holland suddenly held a certain charm.

My last tube ride ended exactly where the first one began: Terminal Number 4 at Heathrow. In my mind I drew a connection to the Number 4 bus that played such a big role in my life and I made a mental note to look into numerology to see if it held any special significance.

I dropped my last few remaining pounds on a magazine instead of changing them to dollars. As we were about to board, a very tall, very fetching girl arrived in the waiting area. Aside from her obvious good looks, something else about her stood out, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. She just had a thing that separated her from ordinary mortals. When they called for first class passengers to board, she was at the head of the line.

I sat in the bulkhead of cattle class. To my right was a vacant seat and next to that sat a fat slob with thin hair, thin lips, and thin little eyes. He immediately, and without consulting me, started loading up the seat between us with garbage. The whole way back to Los Angeles, he piled on the wine bottles and coffee cups and all the other refuse he produced.

“This person,” I thought, “is why the world hates us.” I ignored him and his garbage pile.

I finally finished Kerouac and mindlessly thumbed through the magazine I bought at Heathrow. It was all the usual stuff -- tons of ads and some uninspired articles. Then there was a fashion layout -- a really good one. The model had something haunting about her, something familiar. She was tall, she was fetching, and she was sitting in the first class cabin on my flight. Can I pick ‘em? I closed my eyes and thought about the Pastry at the American Express office in Paris who put this model to shame.

Shortly before we began our final descent, the person to the right of the thin-lipped slob moved to another seat. Thin Lips took over that seat, leaving his seat open and his garbage pile next to me, making it look like it was my trash.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, “Do you mind?” I gestured toward the trash pile.

“What?” He said, incredulously.

“I don’t care that you’re a pig, but I don’t want people thinking this is my mess,” I said. He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, whatever,” he huffed and reached over to gather his crap. He left one little scrap of garbage on the seat. Just when he got his pile situated, I picked up the last little scrap and tossed it over, barely missing his shirtsleeve. This left me with an odd sensation. It was vaguely testosterone-ish.

I couldn’t sleep that night to save my life. I tossed and turned in my uncomfortable little slab of a futon, but still I felt energized the next morning when I stepped onto the good old Number 4, bound for work. When I got to the office, nothing had changed but nothing looked the same. The elevator door opened on the fifth floor. New Girl greeted me with a cheerful “Welcome back” from the reception desk. I studied the outer office as if I’d never been there before.

“How was your trip?” she asked.

“Fucking incredible,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about it later. What’s new around here?”

“Oh, not much.”

“How are things going with Mr. Armani?”

“They’re not.”

“That was quick,” I laughed, “What happened?”

“He got fired.”

“Really?”

“He didn’t think that he could maintain our relationship up to the standards I deserved until he got another job, so...”

“Ouch. I hate to say I told you so.”

“Then don’t.”

“I have something for you,” I said, digging through my backpack.

“Really,” she said, “is it shiny?”

“Very. Here.” I handed her a small gold Egyptian cat trinket thing I picked up at the Louvre.

“That is so sweet,” she said. “How did you know I love cats?”

“I didn’t.”

I went to my desk, handed out a few gifts, told a few stories, and tried to remember why I was there. Around lunchtime I got the strongest urge to go to the Federal Building and tell Edward all about my trip. It passed.

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