As I am relieving myself, I mentally pat myself on the back for having practiced superb foresight by being ready with the correct change. Then I remember that I am going to have to somehow get all my luggage back up those long, steep stairs - so much for being prepared.
I surprise myself and a number of other gentlemen, who pass me on the way, by getting my duffel up the stairs with appropriate but not superhuman effort. I know this is counter-intuitive but I find, over the next seven weeks, that going up the stairs with the duffel, in spite of it's wheeled nature, is actually more convenient than going down. I think it has to do with some kind of physical law I don't understand. I also find that my strength improves over the seven weeks as I haul my duffel bag around Europe.
After checking the schedule and validating my pass, I board the train for the two hour or so ride to York. Since, I don't have a reservation; I must find an unreserved seat. With the help of a smart-assed British gentleman who points out, after I ask, that if the train were to go in the direction I am seated, that we would encounter a great deal of cement, I am able to find an open seat facing the same direction train is headed.
On the way to York, we encounter about a 30 minute delay that is explained as a signaling problem. While we sit there, trains go whipping by in both directions, either without any signaling problems or showing they just don’t care. We finally get to York about 45 minutes late and I became a little more understanding of the British frustration with their rail system.
and Thoughts
Finally, after a year's planning, we are going to actually hike along Hadrian's Wall. We being Tom Duff, an old friend from Mattel, who is now renting our condo in Redondo, Larry Landesman, another Mattel buddy, who was a consulting client but mostly a friend, and Dave somebody, a dentist friend of Tom's. Larry and Tom both say they are ready to go. Rumor has it Dave is a real hiking machine. I wish I felt the same.
Unfortunately I had ruptured my achilles tendon in February while celebrating on a friend's new junk houseboat. (junk as in Chinese type vessel not as in run-down condition) The combination of an excellent white wine and no lights to see where I was going resulted in an ignominious fall off an unseen stair and the subsequent tendon tear. It has not recovered as fast as I had hoped. It's still painful and I have been unable to do any real conditioning. Well, I'm going to do what I can do and still have a very good time.
I'm off to Chek Lap Kok at 10:00 P.M. on the Airport Express to catch my 12:45 A.M. Cathay Pacific flight to London. I decide, enroute, to spend some of my hard earned award miles on an upgrade to business class. My last flight to London in economy class resulted in a sore knee I could hardly walk on for weeks and eventually, an operation to repair a torn meniscus. I sure don't want to risk that now.
Business Class is available and I spend my 35,000 award miles in exchange for a good night's sleep. At the gate, as I surrender my boarding pass, I am told my seat assignment has been changed. I immediately demand to know if the new seat is an aisle seat. The gate agent looks at me funny and says, "No problem."
Heading down the ramp, I look at my boarding pass and note it is seat 2A. My God, I've been upgraded to First Class. Am I going to sleep tonight or what? Was that a stupid question I just asked the gate agent or what?
First Class on Cathay Pacific conjures up images of the old Pan-Am Clippers where the flight attendants would make up your bed and you could sleep for hours droning your way across the night skies. The seats here open up a full 180 degrees and flight attendants come around with pajamas and blankets. The entertainment system is on demand so you can watch movies when you feel like it not on a schedule. Plus you can fast forward through the mushy parts.
I drink. I eat. I sleep. I watch one bad movie, "Starsky and Hutch" and one good movie, "Secret Window" with Johnny Depp. He's the greatest. Voila! We are descending to Heathrow Airport and the 12 hour flight is over. It's 7:30 A.M. in London and the sun is shining. It must be either a mistake or a good portent.
Thursday, July 8, 2004 - London and York.
I've never seen the outside of Heathrow airport and this morning is no exception. After Immigration and baggage claim, I head for the Tube and the Piccadilly Line, the shortest and by far the cheapest way to get to King's Cross Station. It always seems so weird to be riding the train on holiday, after an all-night flight, with people on their way to work. It's as if I've come from a different planet and am among members of a different species.
I've got to determine when the next train for York leaves, get my BritRail pass validated, but most of all I need to urinate.
At 9:00 A.M., people are scurrying all over King's Cross Station and I am encumbered with a 70 pound wheeled duffel bag and a 20 pound backpack.
I had packed my bags with necessities for a seven week trip that will include at least two temperature zones, a hike, and lots of time for reading. Therefore, the duffel, while it does contain some clothes and other necessities, is mostly weighed down with guide books and paperback novels.
The WC, as it is identified all over Europe, is, as in most locations, down a flight of stairs, a long flight of stairs. As I begin to struggle down with the duffel and the backpack, I am rescued by a young man who grabs one end of my bag and helps me get it down the stairs.
The train station, for starters, is magnificent. At one time, York was the railroad capitol of England. They have a Railroad Museum I never got to but the old yet serviceable station is a superb example of terminals in the "Age of Railroads."
A most helpful woman at the Tourist Information Center ((TI) directs me to my hotel, the Ramada-Jarvis Abbey Park. How's that for a name to try and remember? It is only a short distance away. A short distance, that is, unless it's raining and you are hauling a 70 pound duffel bag and carrying a 20 pound backpack. I have a wait to check in but the staff seems to realize how tired and grumpy I am because they really hustle. They are very nice. When I unlock the door, I realize that the room could have been smaller but then I wouldn't have been able to get my duffel bag in. However, the price is right and I am excited about joining a free afternoon walking tour of York.
Since the tour doesn't start until 2:15 P.M., I stop at a pub for lunch. For reasons, which even now I can't figure out, I order a chili stuffed potato. It is horrible. Quite frankly, it's the worst pub food I have my whole time in England. The beer is good, though. Never again, until my last night in England seven weeks hence, do I order American type food while I am in Europe.
I join the tour group waiting in Exhibition Square. Our enthusiastic volunteer guide is named David Ransom. He explains things in great detail and is very honest when he doesn't know the answer to a question. The highlights of the tour include walking along the Roman wall and standing on the towers, seeing a Roman cemetery, visiting the Yorkshire Gardens and seeing a medieval abbey whose unsupported walls are still standing, ascending the Monk Bar (medieval tower) where Richard III once stayed and exploring Holy Trinity Church with its box pews and thousand year old foundation. I am sorry when the tour ends even though by this time I am exhausted.
After the tour, I stop at a couple pubs on my walk back home. My tendon is hurting terribly and I decide a few pints of good English ale will help assuage the pain. The cure doesn't work but so what? The ale tastes good. I am so tired, though, that I actually fall asleep in one of the pubs. I decide enough for one day and head back to the hotel where I grab a quite good toasted sandwich, head for my room, swallow a couple Celebrex and crash out about 7:30 or 8:00. I would have fallen asleep sooner but the pain keeps me awake. Not a good omen for the Hadrian's Wall walk.
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