Out of Lovelock, on to Winnemucca. Strangely, to my eye, the east side of Lovelock looks a lot like the west side of Lovelock. So as I march on in this desert, I return to our trip to Wales in 2003.
To recap, in the last part, we had arrived at the Heathrow Airport, and I went on and on about Secret deodorant. We were then ushered through immigration, and then picked up a few pounds at a money exchange at the airport. After getting our bags, we were left with that “whomp--what do we do now” feeling. See, not only can I write the Russian novelist’s view of our trip (i.e., long and then some), I can also write the Sparknotes version of the Russian’s novelist’s view of our trip. We pick up the story here.
Dorey has never really had to worry that I would step out with another woman. She knew pretty early on that my real love affair was exploring great metropolitan areas. A few years after we were married, Dorey noted a change in me as we drove from our place in Canyon Country to the Bay Area. She saw that as we came to the sign that indicated that we were entering Alameda County, my spirits raised visually as I pondered wandering through San Francisco again. From at least this instant, she knew that I was in love with city life.
I can pinpoint the instance when this love affair with the great cities began. I was seven. We were living in Concord. Bob and Sharyn took the family to San Francisco to eat in Chinatown. It was June or July. It was one of those foggy, cold San Francisco evenings that I have come to love. We were, as people did when the visited the City at the time, wearing something close to our Sunday best. We parked several blocks away from Grant Street, and started toward the restaurant. As we walked, a tall African-American gentleman came out of an apartment. He was wearing a short, white raincoat which had a belt. He entered a small, red sports car, and drove away. Shortly after this, a young, blond woman wearing a very short dress stepped out of the same apartment building. I decided at that moment that much was going on in cities that deserved further investigation.
I have been investigation cities ever since. In fact, of all my visits to cities, I have disliked only two--Los Angeles and Portland. I had a hankering to dislike Los Angeles before I ever entered the place. It was, after all, the city of the Dodgers. I rightly felt that if a city could support such a bunch of losers as the Dodgers, it did not deserve my affections. After visiting it, and living there for a couple of years, I found that the Dodgers deserved Los Angeles. Both are soulless, spineless, entities. In fact, the best description that I have ever heard about Los Angles is that it is 1000 suburbs in search of a center. Which is not to say that there are things which are not special about Los Angeles. (See, I hate the place so much, I have to use a double negative even to praise it). Watts Tower is a fantastic, wonderful structure. The Norton Simon Museum is a great, if underrated, art museum--if anything in Los Angeles can be underrated. I loved the shots of the hidden city in 500 Days (of Summer). But most of the place is glamour without substance.
I did not, I must admit, give Portland a fair shake. We traveled to that city in February a few years ago over the President’s Day weekend. It was dark the whole weekend. The City’s greatest aspect is its rose garden, which was pretty bleak in February. Powells Bookstore was great, but lots of ungreat places have great bookstores. So maybe I would like Portland more if I visited it in June. But then again, great cities are great even in their worst of times. I have been to New York City in February, and still think fondly of that trip. I have been in Salt Lake City several times in the bad weather, yet found it alluring with its wide streets and memories emerging from my DNA. I even liked Minneapolis in December, because its coldness defines the place and its people. We were in Boston in 88 degree heat with 100% humidity; such only caused me to develop a body heat for the place. So while anyplace can show off at its best times, Portland simply disappeared that February weekend. So I doubt that a June visit would change my mind.
To say that I fell head over heals in love with London at first blush should not be surprising, given my love for cities. What is surprising, though, is how fully smitten I instantly became. I felt alive immediately on my arrival with the excitement of a young man on a sexual conquest. Dorey, of course, noticed my wandering eye, and immediately developed a jealously usually kept for the other woman. We would have, I am certain, left London as soon as we came, but for the fact that Dorey has her own love affair with cities.
It did, however, take a while to get into the city from the airport. As I explained, we were experiencing that moment of crisis that comes on every trip as we passed the customs, and entered into the main terminal. It was such a feeling of being lost, hopelessly so, that I am often tempted to get into the fetal position on the floor of the airport. I am not alone in this fear. I read Trip Advisor forums a lot. I would estimate that one out of every four entries is a question about how to get from the airport into the city. It is the big fear.
Just as I was about to go into a full blown panic attack at the Heathrow Airport, crying to the heavens that we were strangers here and that we needed to go home, we spotted a visitor’s information booth. Dorey approached the booth while I practiced my hyper-ventilation control techniques. A few minutes later, Dorey approached me with instructions about how to take the underground from Heathrow to our hotel in London. We decided to go forward with our trip.
It was a long way forward. It is about a mile walk from the terminal to the underground station at Heathrow. And we had an overstuffed suitcase, and two carry-ons, and had to face several flights of stairs before reaching the underground. It would not have been the most pleasant of walks in the most pleasant of circumstances. It was made all the more unpleasant because we were exhausted, smelly and nervous. On the stairs, thing fell out of our bags. We blocked the stairs as we tried to pick the stuff up. One guy smirked at us, giving us the look that said, “Tourist.” I know that look well, as I use it daily on people walking the streets of San Francisco. I was not happy to be on the receiving end of a smirk.
Dorey and I were not very kind to each other at that moment. We were not happy to be other people’s comedy relief. The traveling Jonathan and Dorey show is not something I aspire to be part of. Nor does Dorey. In fact, I think at the third set of stairs, I saw Dorey’s hand on the cell phone, ready to break up the act permanently by calling the divorce lawyer. Much to my relief, she found that her cell phone did not work in England. So we remained wedded, if not blissfully so, as we completed the walk to the underground.
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Wow, we may get out of the airport yet, but I doubt it. I have walked 682,432 steps in 56 days. I have walked 323 miles since the figurative me left Alameda. I have 63 miles until I reach Winneamucca.
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