Well folks what a difference a day and a few hundred kilometres makes!
As I write I am on the Stena Lines high speed ferry heading out the mouth of the Thames River towards the North Sea. In a few short hours I’ve gone from the snarling faces and traffic of London to some wide open spaces and smiling friendly human beings who seem more than willing to share a laugh, a conversation, and most importantly, smiles.
My last hours in London were much like my stay there. It took two hours to weave through the winding streets, where I got lost only once but managed to find my way through it, to Liverpool Street Station, where I arrived with three hours to spare, in advance of my train.
Right now we are passing land’s end, a spit out beyond miles of freighter warfs and docks, and are slowly ploughing our way into the murky eastern horizon. There is a single white radar tower at the end of the river. As I write this sentence it passes from the front of me, to my left, and disappears.
Yesterday I finally took some time for Hornsey. After visiting my Irish pal Helen, I went off to a local cafe and sent out that long travelog you all received the other day. Then I wandered around, visiting thrift shops, record dealers, and having more conversations with people than I had my whole time in London. Most of the folks who spoke to me were either Irish or Scottish. The English, what can I say, they’re just too busy with their cell phones and text messages, or too damned stuck up, to speak. Heck, even the internet centre man, who’d done nothing but scowl at me for two weeks, finally asked if I was American. When I told him I was Canadian, he wouldn’t stop talking at me, and quite nearly killed all my internet time with his banter. I came out of it with a lesson. In future, I’m going to pay more attention to the neighbourhoods I’m in, and the people I find there, and less to the sights and attractions. I have a sense my time in London would have been much more to my liking if I’d stuck to Hornsey and Crouch End, which some of the locals, I found out, refer to as Horney Crotch!
I found a couple CDs as I was wandering the thrift shops, a Ry Cooder album called
Johnny Handsome, and a Steve Miller album called Windy River, neither of which I’d heard before. I bought them for pennies. Also found a brand new pair of spandex shorts, which will allow me to show off my majestic thighs, once I make them majestic again with a little bit of riding.
Following my foray into my neighbourhood, I went back to the flat and packed up, giving the place a good cleaning, and basically making big strides towards insuring today is an easy one.
When all that was done I took my phone card to the local phone booth which, much to my surprise, was located right in front of a police station at the top of my block. I’d paid so much attention to where I was I didn’t realize there was a cop shop at the top of my street. Shows you all how on the ball I’ve been.
It took some time, several tries, and a couple breezy conversations with my friend Emma’s Mom, before I finally got through to Emma, a woman I met some years ago while riding the Green Tortoise out of San Francisco. Between us we managed to burn up my phone card and, in the process, have what I thought was a wonderful conversation. Sadly, between work and horses, Emma and I hadn’t been able to connect in the flesh. So it was nice to do so verbally, and in some depth.
Emma has a house in the south of France, and reiterated her willingness to let me use it if and when I pass through there. It is near the Pyrenes Mountains, and everyone I know says I’d be a fool not to take her up on it. Unfortunately again, Emma will not be there until mid July, and I’m scheduled to fly home in late June.
We have drifted well into the North Sea now. Through dirty windows, on a hazy day, there is not much to see. In a bit I’ll go to the back of the boat and see what the sun looks like going down over England.
Speaking of the sun going down on England, the other night I was laying in the foldaway looking out the window at the cloud mass moving over the city. I tried to imagine what it must have been like there 60 some odd years ago when the Germans were bombing the hell out of the place. There would have been no way I’d have been sleeping next to an open window. In fact, my windows would have been taped up to guard against implosion, and the curtains would have been drawn to bar the light. I wouldn’t have known when I layed down whether I’d be sleeping the night, or forced to run for an air raid shelter. London was a very different place then.
I’ve heard many stories over the years from people who were actually there. I’ve even managed to talk to a few people in London about it. Most tell me things have changed, and in particular, the people have changed. Helen, and others, said back in the those days Londoners were friendly and warm. It is not so now. Of all the big cities I’ve been in, and I’ve been in many, London is far and away the most crass, rude and unfriendly, and that’s coming from a guy who has wandered around in places like Dallas Texas and Los Angeles California. People are just too caught up in their own stuff now. They’re either on the cell, or running for the tube, or staring straight ahead pretending not to notice you as they barge their way past like you don’t exist. I swear folks, and I found several long time Londoners who agree with this analysis, if the blitz were to happen today, London would be broken, if it isn’t already. And that my friend is sad, because London has everything it needs to be one of the world’s great cities.
After my long happy chat with Emma I went back to the flat, charted out my path for the morning, then caught a real good sleep. Something I’ll need, because this boat I’m on, and the train waiting on the other side, aren’t going to deposit me in Amsterdam until after two in the morning.
Speaking of this boat, according to deck hands, and announcements, it is the largest and fastest ferry in the world. At present we are moving at nearly 80 K an hour! It is equipped with all manner of convenience, including three movie theatres, several bars and eateries, a couple casinos, slot machines, smoking and non-smoking lounges, large stores and computer stations. There is no wireless connection on board, so I can’t send this travelog to you in real time, but it has pretty much everything else, except for outdoor decks. There are two very small porches out the back, but as a cheerful and vivacious Dutch stewardess explained to me moments ago, the ferry moves too fast for people to really be able to stand on deck, if there was a deck to stand on.
This morning I treated myself to a long hot bath, a good scrubbing, a big bowl of porridge and a couple hot coffees. Then I finished packing, cleaned up the remainder of my mess, and headed out into the traffic. The ride was much easier than I anticipated, and mercifully, my three hour wait went quicky, but not without disruption.
Ticket agents made me pay three pounds to reserve a space for Wheels on the train. Then, just as I was making the dash for the train, security tried to stop me from taking Wheels on board. Apparently there’s a law in London that bikes aren’t allowed on trains during rush hours. It was stupid, because my train was hardly full and I’d paid for a space for the bike, which the agents had been willing to accept. Fortunately, I was a foreigner and that gave me some leeway. Eventually the security relented and let me pass, but not before they tried to convince me to go to another platform, well away from where my train was loading. It was all part of being in London, where the transit is so expensive its cheaper to buy a car, all the traffic drives on the wrong side of the road, the streets make no rhyme or reason, roads are called lanes, lanes are called roads, circles are called squares, concrete squares are called gardens, and they let a band of inbreds live in palaces and collect royal pensions.
For my last couple hours I hung out in a little courtyard in the back of Liverpool Street Station. I tried my best to talk with the others hanging out there, to no avail. They either ignored me or immediately pulled out their cell phones.
Helen put the cell phone thing in perfect context. Here’s what she said: “Hi. I’m climbing the stairs now, opening the door. I’m dropping my trousers now. I’m sitting down on the throne. I’m having a big dump now. Would you like to see it, this phone has photo capability. Maybe you’d like to smell it to, sorry, we’re still working on that technology.”
Then there was a funny little experience I had while riding one of the double decker busses. Across the aisle from me was a lovely woman in her mid-30s. I thought her quite attractive, and could tell by the rough book full of words layed out in stanza’s in her lap, that we had something in common, poetry. I wanted to talk with her and waited patiently while she talked on her cell. I caught some of the conversation. She was telling whoever was on the other end of the line that she was finding it difficult to meet men in London, and how she’d come to London hoping to meet someone worldly and energetic, maybe someone from overseas, or another poet. My chance never came, she kept talking on the phone until the bus came to its destination, then kept right on talking as she climbed off.
London, I got one thing to say to you, among other things, “GET OFF THE PHONE!”
Just before the train for Harwich and Holland was due to leave, two women came bouncing out of the station, a red head and a brunette, their wheeled suitcases in tow. They were laughing and joking and made a point of saying hello as they sat down beside me.
“You folks can’t possibly be from London,” I said, in response to their friendly gestures.
“How do you know? asked the red head.
“Well you’re smiling and happy and saying hello,” I responded.
They laughed, then told me they were from Norway, and had just come to town to do a little shopping. We talked a while. Like most Europeans I’ve met, they wanted to know about bears, and camping, and what its like to live in a place where there’s more trees than people. We had a nice visit.
Once Wheels and I were safely on the train I began to feel better. The further we rolled into the English countryside, the friendlier the people seemed to grow. By time I reached the ferry terminal at Harwich, they were downright hospitable. When a woman noticed me going the wrong way off the platform, she immediately raced to guide me in the right direction. It was the same at the ferry toll booth, where I was actually joking with the service personnel.
I was telling Emma last night that if I meet a tall blonde before I leave a town it means I’m in for a wicked adventure. She told me she’s no blonde, and I told her I didn’t want to run into her just as I’m leaving town. She’s a brunette, I prefer when they hang around a bit.
There were no tall blondes, but there are definitely some good signs, and I’m not adverse to brunettes and red heads, although the latter have been known to give me a rough ride.
Still, blonde or not, there are definitely some good signs.
Its getting dark now. England is invisible in the darkeness behind me. My adventure continues.
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