It had been a long time since I was able to travel far, and the restriction irked me like a bur stuck in a shoe or an itch on an inaccessible region of the back. For too long, I had had to deal with matters that were tedious, tragic and inescapable. Perhaps not entirely inescapable – running away from one’s responsibilities is always an option – but Wyrd, the sum total of our past actions, is a relentless pursuer and best faced immediately.
Finally, I had done enough to set things right in the house and had fully vacated my old home so that it could be let. The Yule holiday was over and it was time to make good my promise to visit Laurie, with whom I had been in daily correspondence via Skype and Facebook for over a year. She lives in Clovis in the state of New Mexico, USA. I have to say at this point that I always felt much less attraction towards the Americas than towards the lands of the Old World, and had only visited the USA twice – on the first occasion to Disney World in Florida, and on the second occasion a trip to Wisconsin and Iowa. Were it not for Laurie, I doubt that I would have chosen to go there again, and would have visited some country in Africa or Asia instead; Vietnam, for example, where a South African friend already teaches English to the locals. But in our daily video conversations, made possible by the marvels of modern technology, Laurie and I had truly come to love each other and it was high time to find out whether this would stand the test of meeting face to face.
As usual, I booked my flight via Number One Travel (www.numberonetravel.net), an independent agency whose staff always give great care and attention to their customers’ wishes. Its office on Tower Street, Harrogate is fairly small and has a quaint, old-fashioned feel to it, rather like a bespoke tailor or shoe maker. Indeed, the comparison is an apt one: whether reserving the flight only or a complete tour, everything is made to measure and all the factors are considered. I mentioned, for instance, that I would prefer to avoid using American Airlines, which uses ridiculously cramped Boeing 757s for long-haul flights. In the end, we decided on a British Airways flight from Heathrow to Amarillo via Dallas Fort Worth, with an overnight stay at the Holiday Inn Express prior to the flight. The ESTA (Electronic System for Travel Authorization) form was also completed, with its odd questions such as “Have you ever been or are you now involved in espionage or sabotage; or in terrorist activities; or genocide; or between 1933 and 1945 were you involved, in any way, in persecutions associated with Nazi Germany or its allies?” I guess they expect to filter out some rare breed of very candid spies, saboteurs and ex-Nazis.
About the only thing I have ever regretted about a journey has been that I did not make enough effort to see as much as possible. In Chile, for example, I had hung around the central area, never seeing the Atacama Desert or the southern Andes. This time, I decided, we would make a real road trip of it, regardless of the expense in car hire, fuel and motels.
Very soon, the day of departure arrived. Forewarned that I should expect just about any kind of weather, I had packed accordingly with everything from thermal underwear to khaki shorts and a sun hat. And the survival kit, naturally; Swiss Army knife, compass, miniature torch, lighter, space blanket, spork, candle, first-aid kit, sewing kit, condom (can be used to carry a gallon of water or as a flotation device) and a long piece of string. I like to work on the basis that if the worst comes to the worst, I can make do wherever the plane crashes, fixing up slightly injured fellow passengers who survived the impact, and carving delicious chunks from those who unfortunately didn’t. Until, after exhausting the contents of the cabin trolleys, I victoriously lead the survivors out of the snowy mountains or parched desert to the applause of the world’s press. Or, if we land in the sea, I float, buoyed up by an inflated condom, to some idyllic island inhabited entirely by dusky, lissom maidens. I like my survival kit. Most often it used to return an errant button to its appointed station, stick a plaster on a minor scrape or replace a broken shoe lace, but I do love the amazement on my companions’ faces. “Is there anything you don’t have?” they ask, and then I explain, enjoying seeing their jaws drop and eyes open wide in wonder and admiration. Or perhaps they see me as slightly deranged.
On that basis, you may have a picture of me as weighed down by impedimenta, hiring teams of porters at vast expense to convey my baggage train in relays, but in fact I travel lighter than most and could get away with hand baggage except that the pocket knife would be instantly confiscated. On the way to the station, I upgraded my mobile phone package so that I could keep in touch with everyone and came away with a shiny, new smartphone with lots of useful apps. The best one turned out to be ‘Here’ a GPS mapping application that shows you exactly where you are in the world, down to the street corner. It took me rather longer to learn how to answer simple phone calls with it (in fact I worked it out only today), but I have an odd relationship with technology.
The journey southward was pleasant, with no delays as the train raced across the sodden English landscape. Even the section by underground from King’s Cross to Heathrow’s Terminal 5 was acceptable enough, with little crowding until the final stages, when a lady of about 40 offered to give up her seat for me! I politely declined the offer, of course, instantly realising that she must be short-sighted and had mistakenly taken me for an old man. The jovial bus driver on the shuttle to the hotel, on the other hand, addressed me as “Young sir”… obviously a clear-sighted and discerning gentleman.
At the price of £45.00 for the night, the Holiday Inn Express was very good value, but that could not be said for its dinner menu. I ordered chicken tikka masala and got a portion that failed to satisfy even my meagre appetite. Even the side order of two naan breads turned out to be the size of a toddler’s shoes instead of the elephant’s ear-sized offering one normally expects. No matter… after a couple of pints of Stella and a glass of red wine, I was feeling distinctly mellow and at 9.30 pm slid between the nice, clean hotel sheets and fell soundly asleep.
Finally, I had done enough to set things right in the house and had fully vacated my old home so that it could be let. The Yule holiday was over and it was time to make good my promise to visit Laurie, with whom I had been in daily correspondence via Skype and Facebook for over a year. She lives in Clovis in the state of New Mexico, USA. I have to say at this point that I always felt much less attraction towards the Americas than towards the lands of the Old World, and had only visited the USA twice – on the first occasion to Disney World in Florida, and on the second occasion a trip to Wisconsin and Iowa. Were it not for Laurie, I doubt that I would have chosen to go there again, and would have visited some country in Africa or Asia instead; Vietnam, for example, where a South African friend already teaches English to the locals. But in our daily video conversations, made possible by the marvels of modern technology, Laurie and I had truly come to love each other and it was high time to find out whether this would stand the test of meeting face to face.
As usual, I booked my flight via Number One Travel (www.numberonetravel.net), an independent agency whose staff always give great care and attention to their customers’ wishes. Its office on Tower Street, Harrogate is fairly small and has a quaint, old-fashioned feel to it, rather like a bespoke tailor or shoe maker. Indeed, the comparison is an apt one: whether reserving the flight only or a complete tour, everything is made to measure and all the factors are considered. I mentioned, for instance, that I would prefer to avoid using American Airlines, which uses ridiculously cramped Boeing 757s for long-haul flights. In the end, we decided on a British Airways flight from Heathrow to Amarillo via Dallas Fort Worth, with an overnight stay at the Holiday Inn Express prior to the flight. The ESTA (Electronic System for Travel Authorization) form was also completed, with its odd questions such as “Have you ever been or are you now involved in espionage or sabotage; or in terrorist activities; or genocide; or between 1933 and 1945 were you involved, in any way, in persecutions associated with Nazi Germany or its allies?” I guess they expect to filter out some rare breed of very candid spies, saboteurs and ex-Nazis.
About the only thing I have ever regretted about a journey has been that I did not make enough effort to see as much as possible. In Chile, for example, I had hung around the central area, never seeing the Atacama Desert or the southern Andes. This time, I decided, we would make a real road trip of it, regardless of the expense in car hire, fuel and motels.
Very soon, the day of departure arrived. Forewarned that I should expect just about any kind of weather, I had packed accordingly with everything from thermal underwear to khaki shorts and a sun hat. And the survival kit, naturally; Swiss Army knife, compass, miniature torch, lighter, space blanket, spork, candle, first-aid kit, sewing kit, condom (can be used to carry a gallon of water or as a flotation device) and a long piece of string. I like to work on the basis that if the worst comes to the worst, I can make do wherever the plane crashes, fixing up slightly injured fellow passengers who survived the impact, and carving delicious chunks from those who unfortunately didn’t. Until, after exhausting the contents of the cabin trolleys, I victoriously lead the survivors out of the snowy mountains or parched desert to the applause of the world’s press. Or, if we land in the sea, I float, buoyed up by an inflated condom, to some idyllic island inhabited entirely by dusky, lissom maidens. I like my survival kit. Most often it used to return an errant button to its appointed station, stick a plaster on a minor scrape or replace a broken shoe lace, but I do love the amazement on my companions’ faces. “Is there anything you don’t have?” they ask, and then I explain, enjoying seeing their jaws drop and eyes open wide in wonder and admiration. Or perhaps they see me as slightly deranged.
On that basis, you may have a picture of me as weighed down by impedimenta, hiring teams of porters at vast expense to convey my baggage train in relays, but in fact I travel lighter than most and could get away with hand baggage except that the pocket knife would be instantly confiscated. On the way to the station, I upgraded my mobile phone package so that I could keep in touch with everyone and came away with a shiny, new smartphone with lots of useful apps. The best one turned out to be ‘Here’ a GPS mapping application that shows you exactly where you are in the world, down to the street corner. It took me rather longer to learn how to answer simple phone calls with it (in fact I worked it out only today), but I have an odd relationship with technology.
The journey southward was pleasant, with no delays as the train raced across the sodden English landscape. Even the section by underground from King’s Cross to Heathrow’s Terminal 5 was acceptable enough, with little crowding until the final stages, when a lady of about 40 offered to give up her seat for me! I politely declined the offer, of course, instantly realising that she must be short-sighted and had mistakenly taken me for an old man. The jovial bus driver on the shuttle to the hotel, on the other hand, addressed me as “Young sir”… obviously a clear-sighted and discerning gentleman.
At the price of £45.00 for the night, the Holiday Inn Express was very good value, but that could not be said for its dinner menu. I ordered chicken tikka masala and got a portion that failed to satisfy even my meagre appetite. Even the side order of two naan breads turned out to be the size of a toddler’s shoes instead of the elephant’s ear-sized offering one normally expects. No matter… after a couple of pints of Stella and a glass of red wine, I was feeling distinctly mellow and at 9.30 pm slid between the nice, clean hotel sheets and fell soundly asleep.