khaosworks | UK Trip Post-Mortem, Part 1

The flight to the UK, via Malaysian Airlines, is worse than I expected, even though my last trip via more or less the same route was barely 4 years ago. I had no idea how spoiled I was by American Airline's "more leg room in Coach" policy since 9/11, and the relief of having a break somewhere in the middle of a journey so each leg lasts no more than about 10 hours. By the time we're over the Middle East, I'm almost suffering from claustrophobia and happily imagining a blood clot travelling up my leg and causing instant thrombosis. It's also times like these when I wish I still drank - really, given the cattle car conditions of most Economy airlines, drugged out on one substance or another is the way to go. And for the first time in a long time, I could not finish the airline food. I'm not a fussy eater as a rule (except when it comes to vegetables), but Malaysian Airlines reminds me with its half-burnt omelettes, mushy fried potatoes and chicken that feels like chewing through steel cables just how bad airline food can be.

I reach Heathrow without much incident, and get through customs rapidly, after the immigration officer suspiciously gives me a once over and asks to see my return ticket in that officious semi-polite "I could demand it if I want to so don't fuck around with me sunshine" manner. One poor Chinese sod coming in front of me is being interrogated as to how much he's brought with him, how much he earns, who he knows, who he's staying with - they obviously think he's going to come into the country, find a sweatshop job, and stay illegally for the next sixteen years. And why not? Anyway, he gets shuttled to one side, his fate forever unknown to me.

I, on the other hand, am simply asked for my return ticket and whether I know anyone in the UK. I pause. You see, I have this slight problem when confronted with authority. To avoid trouble, I have the urge to start spewing everything I know. Don't trust me with double secret probation resistance wartime work, is what I'm saying. They don't even have to touch me with the electric testicle prods. All they have to do is just look at me and go, "Name?" and I'll start giving them my impressions of what it was like floating in placental fluid. So when the officer asks me this, I have to suppress the urge to start listing everyone I know, in alphabetical order and by legal status, and just say, "My old landlord and an aunt." The officer appears satisfied with the answer and waves me on.

I try to find a luggage trolley and try to balance several items on it - my reward is dropping the bottle of Bacardi I bought for "Grandad" (my landlord, this hulking old... well, growing increasingly fragile these past years... Jamaican gent). It smashes and drips rum over my new boots until I find a way to dispose of it. In addition, my growing disdain for Malaysian Airlines continues as it appears my entry point into Heathrow is on the far side of the airport from the Underground station. I first have to navigate my way through the Departures Lounge, against the flow of tons of middle-aged to old Indian biddies, and then slam into the Arab section - I swear, I'm not trying to be racist here - get lost, turned around, ask a porter for some distinctly unhelpful directions, then plow on, trusting the signs to get me there, and finally hit... a long, long tunnel that leads to the Underground.

Chugging up the Piccadilly Line, I make myself comfortable. The Greater London area is wet, and soggy, and already dark. Not unusual, you say, but remember, I haven't seen London in this state since my last winter here, which was the winter of 1993-4. The other times I've been back it's been in the summer or the spring. I had forgotten how dreary it all was this time of year, and this would prey on me a lot the rest of the trip.

After an hour or so, I reach my station, Turnpike Lane. That was the advantage of living on the Piccadilly Line - no need to switch around, straight up and down, and the Piccadilly Line was always the last line to shut every night, so it was an advantage during my undergrad days when I could stay up that late at the pub or around Leicester Square with mates. The old neighborhood has changed very little, really. The newagents I bought my papers from is still there, and I get a Traveller's A to Z from them - they accept my money with no recognition, not that I ever knew them that well. There's a couple of new shops on the High Street; I notice they've repaved the sidewalk so it's easier to drag things with wheels across the lanes that divide the blocks. The bagel shop is gone, but replaced by a pizza and kebab place. What, the British Home Stores across the road is advertising a shutting down sale? Oh man. There's a new Sainsbury's supermarket across the street, but the Alliance Leceister that marks the turn into Courcy Lane is still there.

I say hello to Grandad as I trundle into the even more familiar hallway of 22 Courcy Lane. Aunt Jane hasn't popped in yet, and won't be until eight or nine, I gather, so I plop my stuff onto the bed of the room that used to belong to Grandad's actual grandaughter (who's since moved out) and tell him I'm off to the pub to meet some friends.

(Aunt Jane is my father's sister and my godmother who went to the UK when I was still in grade school and stayed on illegally. It took some fourteen years of lying low before the UK government caved and are now letting her stay on in the country "indefinitely". We keep trying to get her to go home, at least for a visit, which is hard because she doesn't have her passport anymore. She's trying to sort that out with the Singapore High Commission in London. But I digress.)

I shlep down to the Silver Cross in Whitehall and surprisingly find it without much problem, thanks to my trusty pocket A to Z. Pushing my way down past the crowds of people, I ask where the filkers are and are directed to a table wherein around are

cadhla (Seanan),

autographedcat (Rob),

kitanzi (Larissa),

ladyat (Brenda) and Bill Sutton. I feel like I've stumbled into an impromptu meeting of GaFiA. I walk up to Bill and say, "I think I took a wrong turn at Alpharetta." Phil and Lissa Allcock are also in attendance, as is Joe Rafferty, I believe.

Hugs all around, catch up, but Bill and Brenda have to go soon because they're taking Rob and Larissa up to Peterborough where're they're staying the night until the con. Aww. I feel more comfortable with them than with anybody else, although I'm sure that's from sheer familiarity. After all, I've seen Bill and Brenda at almost every damn convention I've been to in the US, and love them dearly - if I had to choose surrogate parents, the Suttons would be at the top of the list - after all, Georgia is where I'm-a fixin' to be.

Still, enough for one last round - mine's a Coke - bought by the inimitable David J. Peek, and after asking them when they're planning to turn up at Ipswich, we walk back to Charing Cross station and say our goodbyes until the morrow. I return to Courcy Lane, pretty much in time for Aunt Jane to show up with some Chinese takeaway and we sit and chat until the jet lag catches up to me. And oh, my package from Amazon.co.uk has arrived, with lots of Arsenal stuff. I watch the highlights DVD for this past winning season until I drift off to sleep...

Next: Quinze.