Overseas
Overseas
Apologies in advance, for not only am I overseas, but this is my first venture in keeping up with things using a tablet, and boy aren't they the finicky things? Needless to say, my wife and I began this return trip to her home country by going the most direct route, which in this case was backwards, that is, going in the opposite direction first which would lead to a direct route over the poles and then voila, smack into the land of tea and biscuits (the English term for cookies, although I'm not sure if they carry that term over to computer spam as in, "filter out my spam biscuits, chaps").
Thus, our arrival went first to Los Angeles, likely the most grueling part of our trip since we had quite the wait, a mere five hours to kill (an odd and gruesome term, no matter it's origins). So, there we were in the land of La-La and we thought, why not visit an old airport haunt and have a Cadillac marguerita. It sounded good except, our place was gone, replaced by all new bars and eateries and even a high-end far Era market selling bottles of $9 beers. And everything, including the market, was jammed and nary a seat in sight. So we waited, and waited and boom, a chair moved and we were in, grateful and naive and thirsty. So our glasses of beer and wine arrived and all was well for soon we would be off to high-priced England where our dollar would shrink by nearly half. Then our LAX bill arrived. Two glasses of wine, two beers, two salads and a small order of fries... $100. Hmmm, England might not be so expensive after all.
So now it is night, our massive jet (just in from Japan and now ready for its flight to London) seemed to purr as it accelerated down the runway, lifting up as effortlessly as a gliding kite. The scene below once again turned surreal, the equally massive planes parked below going by as quickly as toys and almost appearing as such. Then, we watched as the lights of the city went by, then a few lighted piers reaching out as if desperately anchoring the last pieces of land, and then, blackness, so utterly pure and total that even the night sky seemed a beacon, the stars offering a false lure of welcome by hiding their distance. Down below, the ocean offered not a blink, not a ship, not a speck, only a scary loneliness that was so gaspingly captured in the recent film by Robert Redford, All Is Lost.
Our flight was only one of the 33.4 million flights that depart each year around during the world, and of those, just 23 crashes occurred last year, which includes those caused by both mechanical and pilot errors, willful or not (as suspected in the German Wings Air tragedy). It was all rather dazzling at how casual air travel had become, my wife and I readying ourselves for the long flight as if we were making a journey of days to the moon instead of the 11 hours it was expected to take. So we pulled out the blanket, and the pillow, and settled in for the long haul, hoping to but not really expecting to sleep (ironically, the record for staying awake is 11 DAYS, held by a teenager just seeking to set a record). And then...we were there!
Arriving in Heathrow is itself an experience, the airport's casual reference to a 5-minute walk likely referring to something of Olympic proportions. Still, the organization of the place is amazing, the signs clear and as helpful as the people waiting at the bus terminal (pre-booking of tickets really helped). And then an hour later, we were at the other airport, Gatwick. A relatively quick hour sit and we were soon boarding our flight to the west coast and before we knew it (perhaps due to the mental fog now happening as we neared the 28th hour mark of travel), we had arrived again...but this time, where we wanted to be, in Cornwall.
And there you have it, at least for now...our hiking past old tin mines and coves that captured and destroyed wooden ships as easily as the pint glasses we were drinking from, treating our tired eyes to more than we could soak in and leaving our tired feet a reminder of the price of seeing all that history. But it's something everyone should do, perhaps not our particular English journey but something captivating to you, a trip back in time or a trip long-wished for, a trip worth the waiting and the distance and the tired hours and hours of travel. Do it now, do it to enjoy it, for one never knows. Before one realizes it, life has thrown you onto those rocky cliffs and left you as battered as the ghostly splinters of wood we pretended to see from far above. Take a trip, have a pint, and try a tablet...it's all an adventure and (as we hear almost daily) "good for what ales you," (well, at least, that's the pub version).
So now it is night, our massive jet (just in from Japan and now ready for its flight to London) seemed to purr as it accelerated down the runway, lifting up as effortlessly as a gliding kite. The scene below once again turned surreal, the equally massive planes parked below going by as quickly as toys and almost appearing as such. Then, we watched as the lights of the city went by, then a few lighted piers reaching out as if desperately anchoring the last pieces of land, and then, blackness, so utterly pure and total that even the night sky seemed a beacon, the stars offering a false lure of welcome by hiding their distance. Down below, the ocean offered not a blink, not a ship, not a speck, only a scary loneliness that was so gaspingly captured in the recent film by Robert Redford, All Is Lost.
Our flight was only one of the 33.4 million flights that depart each year around during the world, and of those, just 23 crashes occurred last year, which includes those caused by both mechanical and pilot errors, willful or not (as suspected in the German Wings Air tragedy). It was all rather dazzling at how casual air travel had become, my wife and I readying ourselves for the long flight as if we were making a journey of days to the moon instead of the 11 hours it was expected to take. So we pulled out the blanket, and the pillow, and settled in for the long haul, hoping to but not really expecting to sleep (ironically, the record for staying awake is 11 DAYS, held by a teenager just seeking to set a record). And then...we were there!
Arriving in Heathrow is itself an experience, the airport's casual reference to a 5-minute walk likely referring to something of Olympic proportions. Still, the organization of the place is amazing, the signs clear and as helpful as the people waiting at the bus terminal (pre-booking of tickets really helped). And then an hour later, we were at the other airport, Gatwick. A relatively quick hour sit and we were soon boarding our flight to the west coast and before we knew it (perhaps due to the mental fog now happening as we neared the 28th hour mark of travel), we had arrived again...but this time, where we wanted to be, in Cornwall.
And there you have it, at least for now...our hiking past old tin mines and coves that captured and destroyed wooden ships as easily as the pint glasses we were drinking from, treating our tired eyes to more than we could soak in and leaving our tired feet a reminder of the price of seeing all that history. But it's something everyone should do, perhaps not our particular English journey but something captivating to you, a trip back in time or a trip long-wished for, a trip worth the waiting and the distance and the tired hours and hours of travel. Do it now, do it to enjoy it, for one never knows. Before one realizes it, life has thrown you onto those rocky cliffs and left you as battered as the ghostly splinters of wood we pretended to see from far above. Take a trip, have a pint, and try a tablet...it's all an adventure and (as we hear almost daily) "good for what ales you," (well, at least, that's the pub version).
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