9. Lazy Day in Paradise

I opened my eyes to a shaft of light flooding in the room through the slightly opened drapes. Where was I? Oh yeah; the Canary Islands. I roll over on my side to look at the other bed. Cerstin is blinking her eyes.
“Morning.” I volunteer softly.
“Oh John…”
“How do you feel?”
“Sick.”
I could tell that this was going to be lazy day, which actually suited me just fine. The less I had to walk the happier I was going to be. Cerstin stayed in bed for most of the morning. I did walk down to the market to get stuff for breakfast. The whole way down the steep incline I audibly reacted to each sore, tentative step.
As I was coming out of the market Radiger literally ran past me without breaking stride. He was either just starting, or just ending a morning jog.

I set out breakfast on the terrace and made coffee. My cell phone chirped. I had a text message from Alina. She was writing to say how nice it had been to see me in Manchester and to thank me for video taping her act in the circus. Even allowing for the clipped and cryptic nature of most text messages I had to smile at how bad her written English was. It took several attempts to decipher her meaning. I suppose that’s unfair. I should have marveled at the fact that she wrote English at all seeing as how she never took the subject in school. I flashed back almost 13 years to when Jennifer and I first met her while we were performing with the Moscow Circus in Japan. Alina was 10 years-old and she would come to one of our rooms and we would sit with her and teach her English. We bought her a Russian-English dictionary that she carried around with her.

Cerstin was up now though barely functioning. She joined me for breakfast and then went back to bed. I cleared off the table and tidied up the kitchen a bit. I went out again to find the post office to buy stamps and stopped into an Internet café to check my e-mail. I actually felt a little guilty about intruding on my island experience by being so “modern”, particularly after commenting on the tourists that needed cable TV, but I suppose it’s just an excepted thing now. Not much in the way of e-mail. Tom had sent a link to the local TV station in Washington state that was covering the news of Charlie’s death. It seemed so surreal to be sitting where I was, a stones throw from the beach, and viewing a streaming video account of a young friend’s funeral.

I called Alan in Manchester to see if he would be joining me to visit Bob Doe, an RAF pilot that flew in the Battle of Britain. He said that he had really wanted to go but that Tina had to go to London that weekend and that he had to stay with the kids. I could tell that he was very disappointed and probably a little pissed. I assured him we would both go together the next time I was there. That eliminated my easy solution as to how I was going to get down to Sussex to meet Bob Doe. So, as long as I on the Internet I checked the United Kingdom Mapquest site to get directions from Gatwick airport to Bob Doe’s house in Sussex. It seemed relatively easy. About 26 miles away and the suggested travel time was 32 minutes. I could probably take a cab.

When I got back to the apartment Cerstin was stirring again. She felt like lying out on the terrace so I prepared a lounge chair for her and set up the umbrellas so the sun wouldn’t bake her. I brewed her some tea while she snuggled under a couple of blankets to keep her warm from the slightly cool breeze. I sat out there with her. I read “Spitfire Ace”, the companion book to the British TV series that inspired me to contact some of the RAF pilots in the first place. I wanted to prepare some intelligent questions so that I didn’t sound like the fawning, star-struck history geek that I was.

The day past by uneventfully. By early evening Cerstin felt well enough to go out for dinner. We walked to a restaurant that was surrounded by yet another field of bananas where we had a romantic, candle-lit dinner; only without the romance. The discussion finally got around to the nuts and bolts of our relationship: or lack thereof. In her eyes I wasn’t a strong enough man for her. I didn’t “use my elbows” enough to stick up for myself. For instance, why didn’t I insist on a new room when we were in New Orleans and the accommodations were so below par? Why didn’t a look for a job when I was in Berlin? Why didn’t I push harder to get a photo exhibit in Oxford or to find an agent for my book? Why didn’t I fight when Jennifer said she wanted a divorce?

Good questions. Unfortunately, not only didn’t I have any answers, I knew that whatever I might offer up in my defense would be too little, too late. She did her best to pay homage to our first year together. She admitted how wonderful it was and how, even now, she is saddened that it can’t be like that again. Of course I disagreed; convinced that if you wanted it to be it could. I said that I understood her concerns and that I had no expectations that this time together would rekindle old flames. For me it was more about spending time with someone that I truly cared for and with whom I felt I had lost a connection. The way things had just drifted apart wasn’t a fitting way for us to end. I told her that she would always have a special place in my heart and mind and that if we had gotten together at either of the two opportunities we had had last year we might have been able to avoid the awkwardness we were feeling now. In my heart I knew that love could win the day. What I wanted to tell her was how I had planned on proposing to her in Berlin. But that would have been a cheap shot and she would have just thrown it back at me. It was then that I discovered that reality has no room for romantics.

Somehow we made it through dinner. The serious talk gave way to small talk. I can’t honestly say whether or not we walked home arm in arm on this evening, nor do I remember looking up at the stars. We didn’t stop for an absucher. We went home and went to sleep in our separate beds.

8. Paradise Climbed

We started our trek inland, walking up the narrow roads of the neighborhood where the actual residents of La Gomera lived. The houses followed the natural elevation and contours of the ever-rising landscape. Halfway up one of these quiet, winding roads Cerstin turned left and began climbing up a wide set of stone steps that ran along side one of the houses.
“Where are you going?” I asked. Not so much for the sake of conversation or to really question her actions: though I did wonder why she was heading that way. I was really just trying to catch my breath. We had been walking uphill for the better part of, let’s see… Oh, Lord…8 minutes.
“See that mark?” She pointed to a slash of red paint above a slash of white paint: together about the size of a pack of cigarettes for those of you that still remembers what that is.
“That’s the trail marker.” Sure enough, someone had painted this symbol on the stone wall running besides the steps. How she found that in the first place is beyond me but it none-the-less appeared as if our hike was officially beginning.

At the top of the stairs the walkway veered sharply to the left and immediately turned into a rock-strewn path cut into the side of a mountain.
“This is it huh?” I confirmed, “Let’s get at it.” That was said more to motivate me than to impress Cerstin. So up we climbed. On and on. A series of seemingly endless switchbacks. The hard packed gravel had now given away to large rocks and small boulders that were often covered with a thin crust of very slippery (as I found out the hard way) crushed lava.

Although it hadn’t seemed like a particularly hot day when we began our "hike", as Cerstin still wistfully referred to it, I was sweating profusely. The sunscreen that I had rubbed all over my bald pate was now streaming down my face and burning my eyes. Shouldn’t they test this stuff on rabbits before letting me slather it on? It got so bad that I took off my T-shirt and wrapped it on my head like a turban. It stopped “die Sonnencreme” from blinding me but now I was over-heating.

To make matters worse I was, by this time, breathing very heavily: or more correctly, I needed to breathe heavily but didn’t want Cerstin to think that I was having trouble. So instead, I sucked in short little breaths and blew them quickly out again, until I realized that this was putting me on the verge of hyperventilating. My next tack was to pretend to be yawning so that I could pull in a lot of air, which, incidentally, was getting thinner with every step.

A mild sense of panic arose when I realized that my left arm was going numb. Let’s see; shortness of breath, blurry vision, hot flashes, numbness… I my God! Either I’m having a stroke or I’m pregnant. I can’t feel my left arm. I pump my fist hoping to get some circulation going and I feel pressure building in my wrist. I look down and confront the cause of my discomfort. I had fastened my watch too tightly. What was I wearing a watch for anyway? And so it went for the next two hours.

We met a German woman who was descending the trail. Everyone on this God-forsaken slagheap was German. They live for this stuff. This might be a casual walk in the park for the descendants of the Teutonic Order but for someone from L.A. who takes his car to the end of the driveway to check his mail it bordered on a death march. I instinctively knew that Cerstin asked the woman if we were almost to the top.

“Nein”

You didn’t need to understand a word of German to know that that wasn’t the response you were hoping for. So up we went. Occasionally a family of freshly scrubbed, rosy-cheeked Germans would skip deftly down the path on their way back from the top. “Guten tag” they would sing out. The underlying message was. “Isn’t it great to be German and climbing a mountain?” They looked as casual and at ease as the Von Trapp family crossing the Alps in “The Sound of Music”.

Worse yet was being over taken by a couple of lesbians in their late 50’s; in their shorts and hiking boots, trudging ahead like a machine, an aluminum walking stick in each hand. I encouraged Cerstin to go on ahead but she said that the rule of the mountains was, never leave the slow person behind. Apparently the mountains have rules. I was certain that I would eventually be lapped by a cloister of nuns or a Girl Scout troop from Bavaria. I was way past the point where my pride got in the way. I was going to die here on this mountain and that was that.

Finally, at the 2 1/2 hour mark we stepped off the trail and came to a wide, rolling tableau. I’m not 100% certain what a tableau is but I think this was one. We still hadn’t crested the top but we no longer had to deal with the hellish switchbacks. Now it was just a wide, meandering path stretching out ahead and leading to the ridge of the mountain. At least now we could see our goal. In fact, the vista from up here was so stunning that I momentarily forgot that my heart was saying, “What the #*@! are you trying to do to me?”

We donned our jackets, as we were no longer protected from the wind by the side of the mountain. We pushed on; past the ruins of several small domiciles built from mortar-less stones. I can’t imagine who would have lived up here but they certainly had a great view. When we finally reached the top we discovered that it wasn’t so much a summit as it was a ridgeline that ran further along this range. Some poor public servant had erected a geographical marker on the highest point. We used that as our final destination.

Cerstin said that she needed to powder her nose. That statement was all the more out of place in our current environ because A) She actually said, “I have to go powder my nose” and 2) We were on top of a very cold, wind-swept mountain. Undeterred, she wandered off to seek some privacy behind an outcropping of rocks and what few bushes clung to life in this area. As I sat at the base of the marker I began to hear bells. Not like church bells or the alarm on a hospital heart monitor: although God could certainly be calling me home at any minute. Then, from over the ridge wandered two baby goats. Got to say it: They were awfully cute. They almost looked like the claymation goats from “The Little Drummer Boy”, that holiday classic from the 60’s, brought to you by the same folks that gave us “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” They must have assumed that I was German, for who else would be up here where only goats go? They paid me no mind when I walked right up to them and took a picture.

Cerstin returned and we decided to seek a windbreak while we rested a bit and refueled before heading back. We found the collapsed wall of some long forgotten dwelling and managed to stay in the sun and out of the wind. I laughed out loud when I thought of the only German phrase that Tom knows, which is, “Die sonne ist heisse aber der wind ist cool.” Which means, the sun is hot but the wind is cool.

I asked Cerstin if she was ready for a banana. I know that I was famished. I unzip my bag. Hum…. Maybe in the pocket where the mouse and cables go…. Uh oh.
“Cerstin…you didn’t put the bananas in my bag did you?” I’m guessing by her icy stare that the answer is No. That would have been on my “to do” list. So, here we were, hunkered down on the summit of a mountain without any provisions. I have visions of catching a goat to at least get some milk and cheese. The way my luck is going these two are probably male. It hardly matters as I’m more convinced than ever that I’m going to die on this mountain. If the climb doesn’t kill me then surely Cerstin will.

My saving grace the whole way up was, the hard part’s almost over. Now that we were at the top it’s downhill all the way to the apartment. No one ever mentioned that the descent was the most difficult and technically challenging part. All the travails heretofore mentioned were multiplied by a factor of six. Actually the number six was a random choice on my part. I could have said multiplied a thousand times
but you would have seen through that hyperbole. Going down, your weight and mass are working against you. Your thighs clinch with every step. You have to carefully and deliberately pick every step you take to assure that the rocks don’t slide out form under you. I developed a kind of sideways, crab-style walk. I figured if I ever slid out with my leading leg (and I did) I would at least have an uphill leg to try and recover with. Cerstin used the “walk straight ahead” technique and I can’t honestly say that either worked better than the other. I’ll spare you the bulk of the trauma. Suffice it to say that we made it down safely; cramped calves, scraped knees, bruised butts and all.

Once safely down at sea level we stopped at a roadside restaurant and sat out on the patio that overlooked the ocean. After the banana incident we were famished so we had a late lunch and a couple of drinks. One of the specialties in the Canary Islands is small, boiled potatoes. They are usually pre-salted. After a hard climb it felt and tasted good to replenish some lost carbs. We had already made plans to have dinner with Ule and Radiger but we had to eat now. That evening we all walked down to La Playa. We all ordered seafood. Ule and Cerstin split a couple of bottles of wine while Radiger and I stuck with beer. On the way back to Vueltas we stopped at a bar called Tascas for a couple of rounds of some island drink. It was sort of like a Long Island Ice Tea.

By now the guys and I were close chums. They praised me as such a great guy and took turns ragging on Cerstin. Ule said that I was welcomed to visit him and his family anytime, with or without Cerstin. At one point when Cerstin and Radiger were talking Ule told me how lucky Cerstin was to know someone like me. As is often the case when I am with Europeans the talk turned to politics and history. Both subjects I feel I can hold my own in. They said that they had a bias against Americans before they met me but that they had been forced to reconsider their feelings. I assured them that we weren’t all “Ugly Americans” but added that if it made them feel better there were plenty of ignorant ones around.

Naturally, no evening with a German would be complete without the traditional absucher; or one for the road, so we went to yet another bar where we had three for the road. Cerstin and Ule got into what looked like a deep philosophical discussion. They were speaking German and had that glassy-eyed look and the stooped posture that drunken college kids get when they think they are solving the world’s problems.

We all walked back to our respective apartments and said goodnight. Cerstin couldn’t open the downstairs door: nor could I. The key kept spinning in the lock. Eventually the click. click. click of the tumblers woke up the landlord and he opened the door for us. I’m guessing that he wasn’t all that thrilled, standing there as he was in his wife-beater t-shirt and boxer shorts at 2:30 in the morning. We muttered “Gracias” and clumped upstairs. My calves were screaming. As soon as we got inside the apartment Cerstin fell into the bathroom and got sick. When she came out I steered her toward the bedroom, undressed her, and put her in the bed. I went out to the other room and curled up on the couch.

That exercise in chivalry lasted about 20 minutes. I was much too big and it was way too uncomfortable. I went back to the bedroom and fell into the other bed. I was asleep before I hit the pillow.

7. How Are Things In La Gomera?

It had been 16 months since we had seen each other. We last met in Paris in late September of ’04 and then traveled back to Berlin together. We went to the island of Usedom, on the Baltic Sea, and walked the beach to the border of Poland. It was a wonderful trip. After that, Life got in the way. I had rotator cuff surgery in February of ’05 so I couldn’t travel. Cerstin was supposed to come to L.A. after a business junket to Houston but she was recalled to Berlin when the Chancellor called a special election. After that, I booked a summer flight to Berlin. Talk was cheap but actions were more impressive. I had taken stock of my life and it’s wants and needs and discovered that what made me happy was being with Cerstin. It was illogical for her to move to L.A. because of her job and her son. But there was nothing stopping me from moving to Berlin.

My friends were all in my corner. Most reacted to my plight with a resounding, “Are you crazy? Move to Berlin. That is so romantic?” Of course that sentiment was expressed by women. Tom, of course had a slightly different take on it. We were on a long, grueling yet beautiful, bike ride along the Pacific Coast Highway when we pulled over to take a break at our usual scenic lookout. As we stood there munching on Powerbars I broke into our conversation by saying “I believe that Rule 37 of the Best Friend’s code of conduct requires me to tell you that I am going to Germany to propose to Cerstin.” I told him that I had written out my proposal and had it translated into German so that there would be no doubt as to my intentions. That was a big step for me. Not proposing to Cerstin. That was the easy part. The hard part was informing my best friend that although he would be my Best Man I would in all likelihood be moving to Berlin. There was an awkward, silent acknowledgement of that eventuality when suddenly, two F-18s from the Point Magu naval air base, screamed low and hard past us about 3000 feet above the deck.

“Holy shit!”
“That is soooo cool!”

And just that quickly we were back to being just a couple of guys, goofing off on a weekend.

Of course that trip never happened. Cerstin got a deal to write a book about German politics and the economy and waved me off, saying that she was too crazy to take time off for my visit. I continued to write and e-mail and call but her responses grew less and less. Finally, I received a long, tear-stained letter saying everything that she had been neglecting to say. She clung to the memories of our time together but the reality was that we could never recapture that magic. I was too much of an American (her words). I would never adjust to life in “Little Europe” She was too entrenched in her life to leave. She expressed disappointment that when I had last visited Berlin I didn’t do more to find a job. As a single mom of a teenage son she had no intention of being financially responsible for another person. Fair enough.

This then was the fundamental difference between us. I don’t know if it was a man/women thing or an American/German thing or simple a me/her thing. I think she had been waiting for me to demonstrate that I was going to take a responsible approach to a life together; meaning, give up my life in L.A., secure a job and move to Berlin. She often made reference to a t-shirt I had when we first met. On the back was a quote from Get Shorty that read, “What’s the point of living in L.A. if you’re not in the movie business?” Well, I was willing to leave L.A., the HDTV, the car, football, and my friends…. But I would only do it for Love. Cerstin had laid out what it would take for me to be with her but so far she hadn’t said the words I needed to hear that would impel me to give them all up. It was only three words, but she had yet to say them. It appeared, from her letter, that she would not being saying them.

When I was planning my trip my trip to Europe I e-mailed her to say that I was coming. I thought it would be a shame to not tell her, and that if she had any desire to get together I would work that into my trip. She said that she had booked a week in the Canary Islands and that if I wanted to come there that’s where she would be. Not exactly an engraved invitation but it was something. At least we would have a chance to talk in person and clear the air. I cared for her too much to let the awkwardness of our diminished relationship linger. Besides, when would I ever have a reason to see the Canary Islands? How bad could it be?
The day before I booked my ticket I once again e-mailed her to make sure that she wanted me there on her vacation. She responded, “John, come to La Gomera for a few days. Please.” That’s pretty straightforward. Over the course of the next few weeks she sent me more information on where we would be staying. This was the afore mentioned directions detailing the small village of Vueltas, in the area of Valle Glen Rey, that I had for the most part ignored. I began to bone up on my German with an online course. It was now approaching Valentine’s Day so I sent her an e-card in German. She immediately wrote back, thanking me for the card but once again she felt she had to tell me that we were not a couple anymore. I’m starting to get that “Uh oh” feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I call her and we hash things out. I get it, I tell her. You’re letter was very clear. It was just a silly Valentine’s Day card. And people wonder why I normally don’t celebrate the stupid holiday. That’s what I get for being sentimental.

And yet; here we were. Sipping coffee at an outdoor café in the Canary Islands, overlooking a tranquil blue/green harbor dotted with small multi-colored fishing boats. Cerstin brought me up to speed on her first few days here. The apartment she had originally booked was a rat hole. A friend in Berlin had recommended it to her; She said that the first night she had barricaded herself in her room. The next day, exhausted and depressed, she was at another café, crying into her coffee. She laid her head down on the table not knowing quite what to do.

Two German men approached and asked if they could join her as the other tables were full. In the course of their talks Cerstin mentioned her horrible accommodations. The guys offered to help her find a new place as they had been coming to La Gomera for years and knew the place quite well. One of them spoke fluent Spanish as well. They got her settled into a top floor apartment with a huge outdoor terrace that overlooked the village and the Atlantic Ocean. It was only €38 a day, or about $45. I had told Cerstin to book whatever she could find and that we would split the cost. $23.50 a day in the Canary Islands!

As we clamored up the staircase to the third floor Cerstin pointed out that there was only one bedroom with two small beds. She said that she knew I would be tired so I could have the bedroom and she would sleep on the couch in the dining room/kitchen area.

Let’s allow that to sink in as well….

“Why don’t we each just take a bed?” I ignorantly asked. “John…!” She began to admonish me –
“I know. I know.” I pleaded, “It just seems silly not to sleep in a perfectly good bed.”

Back and forth went this discussion. I was, by now, feeling the need to be chivalrous, when in reality what I wanted was to be a martyr for the cause in order to abate the angst that was beginning to brew in me. “I’ll sleep on the couch then.” I proclaimed, but Cerstin was adamant, and as I have learned the hard way, there was no dissuading her once her mind was made up. I would stay in the bedroom.

We sat out on the terrace and drank a beer and then decided to walk around the village. I refer to it as such to describe its size and not to give the impression that it is some rustic banana plantation. There is a narrow, twisting street that winds down from our apartment to the water’s edge. It is intersected by another “main” street; by which I mean, a narrow pedestrian-way that is used primarily by small trucks delivering goods to the shops, bars and restaurants that inhabit the labyrinth of alleyways and offshoots of these two main arteries. The only legitimate road starts at the harbor and follows the coast, west, for a mile or so; to the next resort village of La Playa. There it turns inland and begins its ascent and assault upon the mountains. I gather that, an hour later, if you’re lucky, you end up in the main port of San Sebastian.

Cerstin and I walked along this road toward La Playa; the newer, nicer, cleaner resort. That’s not meant to pooh-pooh the rustic, third world charm of Vueltas, where we’re staying. La Playa is for tourists that go to an island and still need cable TV and laundry service. Halfway down the road we turn in to a field of banana trees. Or is it a grove? Whatever. Hidden by the bananas was a green and white, clapboard building, that for the sake of argument we’ll call a restaurant. We sat down and had an early dinner with a delectable Spanish wine served in dirty glasses; or almost – until Cerstin sent them back – much to the unappreciative surprise of our waiter, who then sent another guy to deal with us. I ordered tuna and Cerstin had the chocos (squid) which was all locally caught. I seem to recall us laughing but I don’t remember the conversation. I do know that it was nice to make her laugh and I told her as much. The sun had long since set and we walked home, arm in arm, under a brilliant pinpoint canopy of stars. I could see constellations that I hadn’t seen in over 40 years. The sound of the waves lapping against the smooth lava rocks on the beach provided a smoothing bass to the staccato, soprano croaks of the frogs tucked deep within the banana forest.

The events of my day of travel finally caught up with me and I was ready to turn in. I made one last appeal for the couch but I lost (or won, depending on your point of view). We hugged, said goodnight and went in different directions.


The next morning Cerstin was feeling the affects of sleeping on a plywood couch with a modicum of padding on it. She began to set things up for breakfast on the terrace. Bread, cheese, meat, Nutella and coffee. Exactly what we would be eating if we were at her flat in Berlin. She said that Ule and Radiger, the guys that found this place for her, were coming over for breakfast. They had some suggestions for a nice hike that Cerstin and I could go on today.

They arrived around 9:30. Both were tall, gregarious. Slightly older guys. Probably early to mid-fifties. They brought fresh bread and local goat cheese and a couple of avocadoes. Ule was a doctor and Radiger owed his own business. They had known each other since University and their humor reflected that of guys that had spent a lot of time together. Ule was married with two kids and Radiger, so I gathered, was divorced with two kids. They said that they take a “guys” trip every year. Sometimes to places other than La Gomera, but mostly here. I couldn’t tell if perhaps this was some sort of Brokeback Mountain retreat or if they just got a week off form their families to do guy things. It’s not my place to judge. They both spoke fluent English but we did occasionally run into situations where they couldn’t find the right word to express a thought. It was like a parlor game. They would offer a very detailed, yet circuitous, explanation of some concept or definition and I would have to try and discern the most appropriate word. We enjoyed a nice morning together before they left for a day of rest, as they had taken a long hike the day before.

They bid us farewell and Cerstin and I cleaned up and got ready to head out ourselves. I grabbed my camera and two large bottles of water and stuffed them into my backpack; which truth be told, was designed to hold a laptop, not hike the backcountry of a mountainous island. I asked Cerstin if we should take a couple of bananas and she said yes. I also packed a couple of light jackets as I figured it might get cold and windy. We slathered on some sunscreen and headed out the door. God help me.

6. Paradise Found

After an all too brief, much to expensive stay at the Gatwick Airport Clarion I awoke at 3:30 am to prepare for my flight to Tenerife in the Canary Islands. £105 for 5 hours of sleep, or roughly $40 an hour. I was so paranoid about over-sleeping that I requested a wake up call and set my travel alarm clock. It seemed that I had just fallen into a deep slumber when my alarm began to blare the sultry refrain from Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing”. I bolted upright and engulfed the clock with one hand, pulling it to my chest while slapping down on the alarm button with the other. It continued to play. I squinted at the time. It was only 1:30. Wait a minute… My clock doesn’t play music. I look over at the bedside table to see my cell phone vibrating across the surface, pushing pounds and pence aside. I flip open the phone.
“Hello! Cerstin.” It was a text message. I can’t imagine that she had just sent it at this hour. I’m guessing that the message took a circuitous route from La Gomera to La and then over to London.

She was informing me of how to get from the airport to the ferry when I landed on Tenerife. It looked like there were all sorts of options to get to her. There were two ferry companies that operated out of the southern port of Los Christianos. Both made the 40-mile journey to San Sebastian de la Gomera, although the Fred Olsen express was faster.

As Cerstin had flown down a few days earlier she was assuming the job of point man, realtor and social director. She went on to write that she had spent a warm day on the Vueltas beach and that she had found a nice apartmentos in Valle Glen Rey. Once I got to La Gomera there were even more travel options. Taxi, bus, ferry. She said that she would meet me at the harbor. Seems like all I need to do is make my flight. I re-set my alarm clock and go back to sleep; if only for a couple of hours.

Gatwick was a short 10-minute shuttle away. I arrived long before the British Airways counter opened so I just stood at the front of the queue. When I eventually checked in I requested an exit row with a window seat for the four-hour trip and then waltzed through the security check. By now I would have to consider myself a bit of an expert on the hot spots of the London-Gatwick airport. The is a cavernous central waiting area with winding ramps at either end that lead down to the various boarding gates. Everyone stays in this area because no one knows which gate their flight leaves from. Much like the train stations in Paris there is a large tote board in the waiting area: think of it as a sports book for travelers. It lists all the flights and their departure status but the space reserved for the gate info is blank. Kind of like a Keno card. Maybe we’re supposed to guess the right gate and win a prize from the Duty-free shop.

This common waiting area, on the main level, is filled with shops selling various sundries and souvenirs. The second floor, which rings the main floor, is where all the restaurants and food courts are located. There is also an Internet café of sorts upstairs but as it is positioned next to the Smoking Zone, with only a low wall separating the two, I couldn’t bear to sit there long enough to send any updates on my trip.

After an hour and a half of wandering around my gate was finally listed as #56. I lost £10 by having picked #42. My fellow travelers and I wound our way down the spiral ramp that dumped us into a low-ceilinged room with the requisite airport lobby seats and a snack and drink vending machine. Here we were sequestered before being allowed to actually board our plane.

As it had been a week since leaving L.A. and checking in I decided to call Tom. It was 11:00 pm there but my earlier attempts to reach him had been unsuccessful. When he came on the line he sounded somewhat detached. Had I awoken him? No, he answered. Well, what’s going on? I inquired. Not much, he responded. How’re the renovations to the house going? Slow. He asked have my trip was so far. Fine. I saw Alina, the little girl I knew from the Moscow Circus; only not so little any more. Big difference between being 10-years old and being 22. On so on with the small talk. Finally Tom interrupted to say that he had some bad news.

In the nano-second I had to brace myself before he continued my mind raced ahead to fill in the blank. Knowing Tom, it could be that a Cleveland Browns’ wide receiver had blown out his knee while riding a motorcycle illegally or that NASA had once again grounded the shuttle fleet.
His voice betrayed him however and I knew that it wasn’t going to be one of these scenarios. I fast- forwarded to the more personal possibilities…. Had one of the dogs or cats run away: or worse? Before I could settle on a trauma of my own devising Tom calmly said, “Charlie was killed.”

Charlie is the nephew of Tom’s wife, Andi, who was on his 2nd tour of Iraq. The vehicle he was traveling in hit a road-side bomb. He was 23.

I’m sure I stammered out an awkward apology or words of condolence and wished Andi luck in dealing with the loss. At that moment they announced the boarding of our plane. Tom apologized for telling me during my trip but he knew that I would want to know. He told me to have a good time and to say hello to Cerstin. I said I would: on both counts.

I numbly made my way to my seat. 21F. An exit row, window seat, only without the window. There was just the interior of the plane and a large emergency door. My row had three seats across but there were only two seats in the row in front of mine so I was able stretch my legs all the way out. I was settling in and getting my iPod and headphones all set out when the flight attendant came by to make sure that I could operate the emergency door. I assured her that I was willing and able and for her to follow me through if we ran into any trouble. Although she didn’t outwardly show it I could sense that I had put her concerns to rest with the knowledge that the passengers were now in capable hands. I think as a way to linger longer she said that I would need to put my personal items in the overhead bin for take off. She offered to store them for me and promised that she would retrieve them after we were in the air. What an obvious come on….

She prepared the cabin for take-off and then slid into the jump seat directly opposite me. According to her nametag her name was Jo. She had a wide, mischievous smile and sparkling eyes, which were crowned by golden blond hair neatly pulled back. She was very young and I assumed that she probably hadn’t been flying for that long. I asked her as much and she responded that she had been flying for 5 years. She was from Aberdeen and started with a smaller airline up there before being hired by British Airways. I, of course, fell in love with her accent. Our brief wooing was all too short however, as once the plane leveled off at 30-something thousand feet, she left to begin the cabin service.

The flight was excruciatingly uneventful. I learned that the older, British couple next to me owned an apartment on Tenerife. Aside from that they kept to themselves. Even though the woman was only about 5’2 and couldn’t have weighed more than 102 pounds she somehow managed to take up both armrests so I found myself leaning up against my window-less wall as I tried to recapture some of the sleep I didn’t get the night before.

I felt the plane begin its long, arcing descent. The other passengers were beginning to stir. Those that had windows lifted the shades and the cabin was flooded with brilliant North African sunlight. Even though the Canary Islands are part of Spain they are situated 67 miles off the western coast of Africa. They are closer to Casablanca than L.A. is to Santa Barbara or Oxford is to Memphis. Okay, so Memphis is only 58 miles from Oxford but you get the idea. And while I’m on the subject of geography, The Canary Islands have nothing to do with the little yellow songbirds. They get their name from the Latin word Canaria, for the large fierce dogs that populated the islands. The smaller island of La Gomera, where I am heading, was the last stop for Christopher Columbus before he set off to prove that the world was round. I mean to discover America. No, that’s not right. I mean to enslave the indigenous peoples. Oh whatever. On September 6, 1492 after stopping for repairs he set sail to the west. Two months later he did one of the above three things.

Tray tables and seats were returned to their original positions and Jo once again took her place opposite me.
We were about to land on the largest island of Tenerife, which is dominated by a (hopefully) extinct volcano. I gather from the awed-gasps of the other passengers that the sight of its snow-capped peak protruding through a carpet of clouds was breathtakingly beautiful. Of course, I would have known nothing of it had Jo not asked, “Did you see the snow-capped peak of the volcano protruding through a carpet of clouds?”

“No” I said as I pointed to the blank wall beside me.
“Oh, it was breathtakingly beautiful.” She said as she daintily buckled herself into her harness.
We said our farewells. She said that perhaps she’d see me on the return flight. Immigration, customs and a quick stop at a cash machine later and it was out of the terminal and into the warm tropical breezes of Tenerife. I took a taxi from the airport to the harbor where, according to Cerstin, I would need to take a ferry to La Gomera. The short distance to the harbor was filled with pleasant conversation with Ian, my South African driver. His wife is originally from La Gomera. They met in London years ago when he was on a walk-about. He told me about the aboriginal people of Gomera and how they had developed a whistling language, complete with vowels and consonants, as a way to bridge the vast valleys between the mountainous terrains.

Mountainous terrain? I thought to myself. That’s the first I had heard about that. For some reason I had pictured Gomera as a lush, tropical paradise with coconut palms swaying out over wide, sandy beaches where Cerstin and I would ride horses through the surf.

“Not much of a beach I’m afraid,” Ian informed me. “Mostly sheer cliffs and volcanic rock.”

We get to the harbor where Ian directs me to the ticket office of the Fred Olsen Express; a steel tri-hulled behemoth that transports vehicles as well as people to La Gomera. The girl behind the glass window asks if I want to buy a round-trip ticket. I do, but I tell her I don’t know exactly when I’ll be coming back. No problem. I can buy an open return. Well that might come in handy. I’ll take one of those.

I boarded the ferry and settled into a plush seat in one of the spacious lounges. Just then I hear “Sexual Healing”. Another text message. Cerstin is welcoming me to the sunny Canary Islands. It seems that she knows my schedule better than I do. I text back that I did indeed make it this far and that I would arrive in La Gomera at 2:15.

“Will you take a ferry or bus to Valle Glen Rey?” was her near instant response. I wrote back that I was on the ferry. She said that she would meet me at the harbor.

Thirty-five minutes later I was disembarking at San Sebastian. That is, 700 German tourists and me. It seems that the Canary Island in general and La Gomera in particular, is the choice destination for Germans escaping winter back home. In that respect it’s probably not unlike Argentina in the late 40s, only with newer cars and less guilt.

As we gathered our luggage, bags, backpacks and other personal items the passengers began to disperse. As the crowd of holiday tourists dispersed I slowly turned toward the entrance to the harbor to gaze upon,
no one. No Cerstin. No official welcome. Strange, but not yet worrying-some. She was probably already on island time and was on her way.

After 15 minutes, still nothing. I walked up and down the dock. I sent a text message, “Wo bist du?” Nothing. At 2:50 I tried calling. She answered. “John! Where are you?!”
“I’m at the harbor.”
“You’re at the harbor of Valle Glen Rey?”
“I guess so. I just got off the ferry. Where are you?”
“I’m sitting on the seawall looking at the water but I don’t see you.”
“You’re looking at a huge yellow and blue Fred Olsen ferry?”
“John. You are still in still in San Sebastian…didn’t you get my text messages about the ferry to Valle Glen Rey?”
“Uh….”
“Oh John, you don’t listen to me!”

The dead weight of reality and stupidity collapsed on me. So that’s what all her cryptic messages were about. The ones with strange names and locations. Apparently the tiny Island of Gomera has three harbors ringing the coast. I was on the eastern, larger of the three. Cerstin was on the western-most. Suddenly, all the talk about busses and ferries and taxies made sense. I was there; but I hadn’t arrived.
I apologized profusely and said that I would grab a taxi. She informed me that a taxi would cost about £50 and take longer as it had to go through the mountains. Again with the talk of the mountainous terrain. I ran to book the local ferry that makes stops at the two other ports. An hour later I reach my destination. Just as promised, Cerstin is waiting for me at the entrance to the harbor, sitting at an outdoor café, enjoying the sun and a coffee. I drop my bags next to the table and lean over to give her a hug and a kiss. I utilize the plop technique that I had developed earlier on the plane and fall into the chair across from her. She looks at me with a bewildering smile: that searching, wondering, elusive, Mona Lisa-esque stare.

“Oh John….” She begins “Welcome to Paradise.”

5. Ferry Cross the Mersey

Sunday was to be my last day in Manchester. I awoke early and went downstairs to read my Roald Dahl book. I quite like his autobiographical style and found myself wandering why I had never read any of his children’s books. In my early reading days I was a Dr. Seuss connoisseur, with my favorite being The Five Hundred Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. I must have gone straight from Dr. Seuss to the Hardy Boys because I have little remembrance of anything in between.

Louis was the first downstairs to join me, followed close behind by Elli. They wanted to know if I was going to see Alina again. Elli had drawn a picture of our night at the circus, showing not only Alina performing both her hoop and cube routines, but also a diagram of the audience and arrows pointing to where we were sitting. She asked if I could get it to Alina somehow. I praised her work and assured her that I would make sure that Alina got the picture.

Slowly the household awoke. Tina and Theo were next down. She and I had coffee. Well, I had coffee. She might have had tea. I sat at the kitchen table with the kids while they drew more pictures. Elli was writing down something in her diary. Tina said that after breakfast we could all go take a walk. Elli rebuked that idea.

“Why don’t you want to go for a walk, Love?” Tina asked.
“It’s boring.”

I had to purse my lips to keep for smiling.

“We always go for a nice walk on Sunday.”
“It’s always boring.”

I interrupted.

“Elli! That’s a great idea for a book. Why don’t you write about a girl who has to go on a walk with her family and she discovers all sorts of mysteries?”

She straightened up in her chair and her eyes got wide.

“What kind of adventures?” She was keen to wonder.

I tried to think about some of the features of her neighborhood. The first thing that came to mind was a patch of sidewalk down the street that was broken up. Workmen had dug a deep hole, probably repairing a sewer line. We had to walk around it whenever we to see Alan’s mother or to go to the corner café.

“What if, the girl was bouncing a ball on her boring walk and it rolled into a hole in the sidewalk. When she goes to get it out she discovers that there is a tunnel that goes down to an under ground city that no one knows about.”

That was all the priming that that pump was going to need. She engulfed the idea. Soon she had come up with ideas for not only one book but for an entire series. She invented a friend to share the adventures with: Louis wanted it to be the girl’s brother but Elli insisted it had to be a girl. Louis was disappointed that his character had already missed the cut. The first book was titled, My Boring Neighborhood. I suppose the British release would naturally be spelled, Neighbourhood.

The city under the streets began to take form. Strange and wondrous citizens inhabited the world. Louis suggested dinosaurs, which was also vetoed by Elli. He threw down his crayon and put his head on the table.
“Hey Louis. Why don’t you write a boy’s adventure?” I encouraged.
“I don’t want to write a book.” He pouted. Obviously my child psychology skills of were beginning to wane. Good thing this was my last day here.

Alan was the last to arrive downstairs. He had been formulating his own plans for the day.

“I think we should all get dressed and drive to Liverpool.” He announced.

That seemed to meet with the approval of everyone.

“We can take the ferry on the Mersey.”

This was an unexpected treat. Not only were we going to the stomping grounds of the Beatle’s but we were also living out the lyrics to a Gerry and the Pacemakers song: Ferry ‘Cross the Mersey. Pinch me.

We loaded up the car, which was quite an adventure in itself. Elli sat on Tina’s lap in the back seat. Liverpool is only 30 minutes away from Manchester. Some days it takes me that long to get to Kodak Theatre and that’s only eight miles from my house. I entertained Elli by pretending to interview her about her best-selling book. She had some marvelous answers. Louis chimed in about his dinosaur book and Theo growled a lot.

As we got into the greater Liverpool area the affects of an economic downturn were pretty apparent. Whole blocks of row houses were boarded over. Maybe every fourth or fifth one would still be inhabited but the area was definitely in decline. Amazingly, when we got closer to the waterfront, the neighborhood began to improve. There seemed to be a renaissance of sorts taking place in the heart of the city. Old buildings had been, or were being, renovated.

The city wasn’t anything like what I had expected. I suppose I had never really given it any thought: aside from being the home of the Beatle’s. This was the 5th largest city in England, which really began to grow in the 18th century as goods from the colonies began to come in from across the Atlantic. It became the 2nd busiest port, behind London, and was all the more important as it gave the country access to supplies from America to help support the war effort. That’s why it was bombed so much by the Germans. Again, second only to London.

Two massive cathedrals dominate the skyline of the city. The Liverpool Cathedral is the largest Anglican cathedral in the world. It sports a classy neo-Gothic design. In contrast, The Metropolitan Catholic Cathedral of Christ the King, looks like Space Mountain. I’m not kidding.

We boarded the ferry for our hour-long afternoon ride upon the Mersey. It was packed with sightseers. The ferry cruises down the Mersey for about 30 minutes before turning around and heading back. Along the way it stops at two other docks; one on the Mersey side of the river. There is a running commentary from a pre-recorded voice highlighting the history and landmarks of the area. Amazingly enough the “voice” didn’t mention that the Catholic cathedral resembled Space Mountain.

We all sat out on the upper deck like a group of idiots, as the wind was bitterly cold. That lasted about 5 minutes and then we moved inside the cabin and had hot chocolate. I ventured out a few times to take pictures. After returning to the dock we had a nice lunch at the Tate Museum and then headed home. It was getting late in the afternoon and I needed to get to the airport. I had a 7:00 am flight out of Gatwick, to Tenerife, in the morning so I would have to fly to London tonight.

I think Elli was realizing that I was leaving for good and she followed me around the room as I packed up. She asked to help so I had her fetch things for me. I jokingly said I might need her to sit on my suitcase to help close it, and she was quite disappointed when I didn’t need her to do it. All the while we came up with ideas for her book.
The time had come to go. It was disappointing that Tina had missed most of my stay but I enjoyed getting to know Alan better. We had some great conversations on wide ranges of subjects, from airplanes and beer, to Life and British pride (or lack thereof). I was looking forward to seeing him again after I returned to London from the Canary Islands. I had invited him to come down and meet Bob Doe with me and he was thrilled. Tina was going to London that weekend for a friend’s wedding or birthday and Alan would slip away and join me. He could provide the technical questions about flying as he has long held the dream of becoming a pilot.

Hugs and kisses all around. I had planned to take a taxi but I was over ruled. Alan drove me to the airport and walked in with me as I had a bit of a wait. We had some coffee and talked about Life some more. I was glad that we got on together so well. I had felt early on that I was dumped in his lap after Tina had invited me to stay and then confused the dates of her ski trip. Alan assured me that that was not the case and that I was welcomed to stay there anytime. I knew he meant it. We shook hands and I headed off toward the gate.

The flight was quick and unremarkable. I grabbed my bags and found a place to stay for the night. A shuttle took me to an airport hotel where I pretty much brushed my teeth and went to bed. Tomorrow would be a long day of traveling. As I lied there trying to fall asleep I recounted the events of the past week. It seemed like I had been here for months; in a good way. Spending time with friends. Seeing Alina. What a great way to start off a trip. And, the best part was still ahead of me. By tomorrow afternoon I’d be lounging with Cerstin in the Canary Islands.

I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.


…. So ferry ‘cross the Mersey ‘cause this land’s the place I love, and here I’ll stay. Here I’ll stay. Here I’ll stay.

4. Alina

Friday passed like a whirlwind. Tina got home from her ski week with Louis. He seemed excited to see me again. Even more so after I gave him a bunch of emblems and medallions from NASA. I had earlier given Elli a pink t-shirt that said Hollywood on it. Okay, so I bought in the airport…. She loved it. Some of the best gifts my father ever gave me probably came from an airport store on one of his business trips. He would always bring me a felt pennant from whatever NFL city he was in.

I gave Tine the “Good news/Bad news” scenario. Good: I had tickets for the circus. Bad: The show was tonight. I offered to take all the kids if she and Alan wanted to get reacquainted but in the end Tina and I took the two older siblings; Elli and Louis, while Theo stayed at home with Alan. We drove down early and ate a very rushed dinner at the Pizza Express located across from the theatre.

At 7:15 I met Alina in our usual spot and walked her over to meet Elli and Louis. They were thrilled beyond words to meet an actual performer in the circus; and a beautiful one at that. Elli asked her if she was ever scared and Alina said only if she fell. We wished her a good show and left to take our seats.

The show was terrific. The Lowry holds about 1500 people so the evening’s fare seemed very intimate. No animals. No ring or big top. There were the traditional two clowns that provide breaks between the acts while equipment is readied. Admittedly, they were quite good, and judging by the laughter they were a crowd pleaser.

Alina performed a hula-hoop routine in the first act. You’ve all probably seen variations on this theme. It was so much more entertaining for the four of us because we knew her. Elli and Louis were literally on the edge of their seats when she appeared on stage. They felt like celebrities themselves I’m sure.

The circus featured the traditional acrobats, jugglers and adagio routines. The kids liked them all with the exception of the strongman. Something about him freaked them out. When he lifted the weighs with his teeth they almost dove under the seats.

At intermission each of us had ice cream and all was right with the world again. In the second act Alina did her aerial cube routine, which was a real crowd pleaser. I kept thinking that she’d come a long way since her adagio number she performed in Japan. Although, considering that she was only 10-years old then, she worked her butt off and rehearsed harder that anyone else I saw backstage. Obviously all that work paid off for her.

The night was over and Tina drove us home. The kids fell asleep from exhaustion and I carried Elli into the house. I passed her over to Alan.

Saturday I went back to the circus to attend the matinee. I had offered to videotape Alina’s routines so that she would have something for her demo reel. She was able to get me permission to not only tape her acts but to stand in the lighting booth to do it. It was a difficult shoot because of the light level and the scale of her act: tossing hoops in the air, being raised 15 feet above the stage, twirling in a death spiral. Still, I managed to capture it all plus take some still shots with my digital camera.

After the show Alina and I met up again for the last time. We made sure that we had all the right phone numbers for each other as well as e-mail addresses. As we worked on our cappuccinos Alina watched the footage I had shot of her. I started to make excuses for why it wasn’t as good as I would have liked it to have been. She “Shhhhed” me and watched quite intently and critically. When it was over she looked up and smile.

“I like it very much.”

Her break was over. It was time for us to say goodbye. She extended another invitation for me to come to Moscow. I said she should come to L.A. She said she would but that it was almost impossible for her to get a travel visa to the US. We agreed that we would some how, somewhere; see each other before another 12 years elapsed. I walked her back to the theatre and we shared a last hug. We both turned to go. As I walked toward the tram stop I turned one more time and caught a glimpse of her walking through the lobby of the theatre. She must have sensed my eyes and thoughts on her because she turned and waved and was gone. Life can go by so fast. It can take you in and cast you out. You can spend half a lifetime away from a person and yet, when you see them again, it’s as if a moment has past. I’ve been so lucky to have met so many varied and wonderful people. Some are in my life daily. Others, I hardly ever see: maybe never. But all of them have helped formed the person I am through their thoughts and actions and words. If I had never met Tina and her family on a cruise ship 15 years ago I wouldn’t be here now, with a comfortable home to stay in and new friends like Alan to hang out with.

If I hadn’t walked up to Cerstin in a jazz club in Berlin I wouldn’t be heading to the Canary Islands in two days.

And who could have ever predicted how much a 10-year Russian circus performer could affect my life?

It is a strange and marvelous world.

3. The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming

The next day I returned to the Lowry Theatre, which is located in the Salford Quays. This newly developed area is part of the Manchester Canal, which, over one hundred years ago, was built as a direct route from land-locked Manchester, forty miles, to the Irish Sea. Now it is an upscale center for restaurants, stores, theatre and condos. I walked around to the back of the theatre knowing that’s where the circus would be loading in if they were here yet. I saw their truck. There were a couple of people sitting in the loading dock smoking so I knew instinctively that they were Russian. As I approached they looked me over wearily.
“Dobre din.” I greeted them. “Eskin? Uh…flyers?” I made some ridiculous gestures with my hands that I thought conveyed the physical allusion of aerialists but which they somehow misinterpreted as me having an underarm rash. The only other Russian phrases I could remember were “I love vodka” and “You’re very beautiful.” Neither of which would have served me well at the moment. Some of the stagehands came out from the back of the truck, and stood guardedly on the loading dock above me. I continued my pantomime. “Evgeny? Irena? Here?”

“Nyet.”

I knew that they weren’t going to be performing here in Manchester but I had hoped that they would be around to help with the set up. They’ll begin their tour next week in Nottingham; not far from Grantham. Well. Another wasted day.
“Alina Eskina?” I looked up to see a woman peeking from behind one of the beefy stagehands.
“Alina is here? Uh…Vot?” I couldn’t believe it.

Alina was the 10 year-old girl that “adopted” Jennifer and me when we toured with the circus throughout Japan. In the eyes of the Russians we were interlopers. They were three and four generations’ circus families. Not only that but we were making them tailor their acts to our big Vegas-style magic show. The resentment was palpable. And then one day during rehearsals, Alina literally crossed the circus ring and started to interact with us. She didn’t speak English and our Russian was about the same but somehow we managed. After she broke the ice her parents slowly camr around. We became wonderful friends with Evgeny and Irena, and through them, the rest of the performers.

That was almost 13 years ago. We tried to stay in contact but it proved nearly impossible. They traveled most of the year and I had no e-mail address for them. After a while the letters and calls stopped. I hadn’t seen them since our last night together in Sapporo. Last year I got a wild hair and decided to see if I could track them down. It took some time but I finally got an e-mail address for their nephew and through him a phone number in Moscow. For months I tried calling to no avail. Finally, late last year, I reached them. Evgeny and Irena were home. Alina was on the road doing her solo aerial act. They said to come visit and I said I would. That’s why this trip was originally supposed to be Moscow. Then, just before I booked my flight they called to say that they had just gotten an 8-month tour in England and it started in Manchester. The writing was on the wall. I was going back to England.

“Alina is here? Uh…Vot?”
“Da. Jez moment.” Said the woman, whom I assumed was one of the performers. The workers looked at me suspiciously.
“Alina…droog.” I tried to explain to them as I patted my chest. I sounded like Tarzan. “Droog” is Russian for “friend”. Don’t ever use Comrade. Trust me. One of the guys reached down and offered me his hand.
“Come” He said as he lifted me up onto the loading dock. “Ochen priyatna.” Please to meet you. They waved me in the direction of the stage. I stepped through the curtain and into a bee’s hive of activity. The stage was crisscrossed with wires, cables and rigging for the various acts. I understood now why the Eskins trapeze act had been put off a week. They were having to adapt the acts to perform on a traditional stage instead of in a ring that can be set up in a bigger arena. I sidestepped my way to the far side of the stage and stood there, out of the way, as much as possible. The woman returned and shrugged her shoulders. I held out my arms. “Spaseeba.” I waited around for a little while longer. Just as I was about to leave I hear,

“Vanya?!”

A big smile spreads across my face. As you might have surmised there are only a few people that call me Vanya, and only one of them is here in Manchester. I turn to see; not a plucky little 10-year old girl in a purple warm up suit but a tall, beautiful 22-year old woman wearing jeans and a leather jacket. She runs over and gives me a long, tight hug. I let her. My face is buried deep in her long, dark hair. After what seemed like minutes I take her by the shoulders and hold her away from me to look at her.

“Wow. Ti ochen kraseevaya” (It doesn’t mean “I love vodka”).
“They said a man was looking for me. I asked, is he Russian? They say, ‘I don’t think so.’”

I’m not sure what surprised me more; how she looked or how she spoke.

“You speak English.” I stammered.
“Of course. What you think?”
“I think it’s wonderful to see you.”
“Da. Me too.”

She said that she had to test her rig and told me to have a seat in the theatre and I could watch. She brought out a steel-tubed cube and hooked it to a cable rig to the ceiling. She stepped inside of it and from off stage unseen crewmembers lifted her and the cube 15 feet into the air. She deftly manipulated herself within it, checking balance and rotation, and then they lowered it back to the ground. Alina stepped out, walked to the edge of the stage and swung herself down to where I was sitting in the front row.

“We go now?”
“Sure. If you have some time.”

As it turned out, she didn’t have much. They had a company meeting before tonight’s show so we walked across from the theatre to one of the restaurants that are situated around a wide, round, open-air plaza. We ordered a couple of coffees and settled in to an awkwardly happy reunion. She said that she spoke to her mother on the phone that morning and asked, “Mama. Why you not tell me Vanya in Manchester?” Irina said that she forgot. I told her how shocked I was when the stage crew asked if I was looking for Alina Eskin.

“I thought you had gone back to Moscow. I was looking for your parents.”

Alina said she was shocked when she walked on to the stage. As soon as she saw me she knew who I was.

“You not changed.”
“You have.”
“I grow up.”
“Yes you did.”

We exchanged thumbnail sketches of our lives since the Japan tour. She knew that Jennifer and I had married shortly after the tour ended. She couldn’t believe it when I told her that we were divorced.

“How long you married?”
“Almost 7 years.”
“Why you divorce?”
“She said she wasn’t happy.”
“What that mean?”
“I don’t know.”

She asked if we had children. I told her, no, but we sort of had joint custody of our sabaka (dog). I told her that Jennifer had remarried and was living in China?

“Is husband China man?”

I laughed.

“No. He’s American.”

Alina had to go but to her meeting but she asked me if I could come back after her show tonight; around 10:15. I told her that I would. I walked her back to the theatre and we gave each other a big hug.

“Ya lubloo Ti.” I expressed
“Me too.”

I headed back to the house. The trip takes 30-45 minutes depending on the traffic. I was by now riding on the upper of a double-decker. We were stopped at a light and I looked over and saw a used bookstore. I hopped off at the next stopped and walked back to the store. I was determined to find a copy of Bob Doe’s book. The man behind the counter looked like a small, emaciated Jerry Garcia. Well, actually he didn’t look anything like Jerry Garcia. He did have scraggily grey hair and a beard though.

“Excuse me. Would you have a copy of Bob Doe’s autobiography entitled, Fighter Pilot, about the Battle of Britain?”

“I doubt it.” He scowled contemptuously at me. “We’re democrats here.”

I had no earthly idea what he meant by that but there was no denying the scowl or the contempt. (Note to self: look up the manifesto of the English Democrats.)

“Thanks. I’ll just have a look around then.”

There didn’t seem to be anything untoward about this shop or it’s politics. As far as I could see they stocked the same books here as anywhere else. They had a section on military history and war so I’m really confused by the man’s reaction. I turned to leave and thanked the man for his help.

Naturally, I couldn’t find the right bus to get the rest of the way home. I wanted the 111 but never saw it. I knew I was in the general neighborhood so I decided to walk. After a block I gave up on that idea. I walked back toward the store and tried to decipher the route map. It was printed in English but it looked like a foreign language to me. Eventually the 111 came by and somehow I rode it to the end of the line. I knew it was the end of the line when the bus stopped in a parking lot and the driver grabbed his jacket and lunch box and left the bus. Naturally curios, I followed him out.

I explained my dilemma and he said that a new driver was on the way and I could just head back with him. This must be where the bus comes from when I take it into town so I was relatively confident that I would recognize where to get off. The new driver arrived and looked me over but wouldn’t charge me when I explained that I was lost and missed my stop. He must have surmised that I wasn’t a kook that rode busses for some weird sexual gratification.

Found the stop. Thanked the driver. Walked to the house.

Alan had been talking about getting a babysitter and going out to a pub and throwing darts with some blokes but I begged off, quite apologetically, explaining that I kind of had a date with a 22-year old Russian aerialist. He said he completely understood and wished me well. I told him it wasn’t that kind of date. No matter.

We had chicken and salad and did our work out and then I had a quick shower. Alan helped Elli with her homework and then they watched the “Nannie McPhee” DVD again. I stayed for a bit and then had to excuse myself to head back to the Salford Quay.

I got to the theatre just as the show was letting out. I stood in the lobbying and watched the river of people wash over me. They were all smiling and recounting their favorite part of the show. I was impressed. I took forever for the theatre to empty. Apparently it had been a sell out. As the last few people lingered by the souvenir table inquiry about the light up wands or the stacking Russian dolls, Alina rounded the corner.

“Okay?” She asked
“Okay.”

We went across to another restaurant and sat at a small table and ordered a couple of beers. Alina gave me four tickets to tomorrow night’s show so I could bring the kids. We caught up on her life and travels. She had performed a lot in England and lived in Birmingham for 3 years. After this stop she was going back to Moscow to work a show in a club. She said I should come visit. I said I would. She asked when. I said when it wasn’t –30º.

We moved to a booth and continued catching up. We ordered another round of beers. As we toasted each other Alina started to laugh.

“Shtoh?” (What) I inquired.

“Last time we were together you bought me ice cream. Now… beer.”

“I’m a giver.”

“Shtoh?”

“I remember.”

She was tired so we called a cab and I dropped her off at her hotel. The cabbie and I had a wonderful drive back to West Didsbury. He had grown up near the wharfs and regaled me with stories about the rough and tumble pubs. Lurid and delicious stories. One involved a bar fight where everyone got into the action. He said that it was like a Hollywood movie. The pub’s reputation for brawls was so well established that the owner nailed everything down. Tables and chairs were nailed to the floor and ash trays were nailed to the tables. On this one night, like most nights, it started between a local dockworker and an out of port sailor. Someone misinterpreted a compliment about the other’s mother and away they went. Fists and teeth were flying. People going ass over teakettle. Blood everywhere. Someone called the police and when they arrived, everyone was sitting down at a table drinking their pints, blood dripping from cuts, black eyes beginning to swell. There was no fight to break up so they left. Everyone sat and drank until last call without a harsh word being raised. Those were the days. Now the whole area has gone condo.

He dropped me off in front of the house. I thanked him for the great story.

“Thank you for a great audience.” He said

“You should write those stories down.” I encouraged

“That I should.”

I paid my fare and threw in a tip. He thanked me. We shook hands and I stepped out the door.

“Have a wonderful stay in Manchester.”

2. Manchester

Arrived in Manchester around 1:00 pm and took a traditional black cab to Tina and Alan’s house in West Didsbury. My cabbie, Brian, was a very pleasant chap who had been brought up in London but moved to Manchester many years ago. Learning that I was from America, which probably took him about 2 seconds to discern, he told me about his experiences there. He had been to New Orleans, Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon. You certainly get a wide-ranging view of America my visiting those places. He loved driving in America because there is so much room. I told him I was scared to death to drive in England. The only time I had tried it was my last trip to Manchester when Tina needed to tend to Theo and she asked me if I could drive the rest of the way home. How no one was killed on the streets that day astounds me.

He asked if people were being nice to me so far. I wasn’t expecting any political trouble in England but then again we did pretty much hand Tony Blair a live grenade. As Brian was the first person I had talked with I assured him that the English were being very hospitable. I continued with the observation that “we” didn’t seem to have a lot of friends on the world stage at the moment. He agreed but thought that was unfair based on how wonderful the Americans he had met were. “It always comes down to politics doesn’t it?”

So, I can safely say that there is at least one person in Europe that doesn’t hate us. I doubt that will help the President’s approval rating but it made me feel good. He asked if I were here on business and I told him all about my plans to meet Bob Doe when I got back to London after the Canary Islands.

I asked Brian if cabbies in Manchester had “The Knowledge”. In London, all cabbies must study for at least 2 years and know the location of every theatre, hospital, restaurant and the quickest route from point A to point B. He said that Manchester didn’t have the strict testing as yet but that the city council was installing a program to help educate drivers on being better ambassadors. Brian pulled up in front of the house. The time had past so effortlessly. We were still in mid-conversation so we sat there for a few more minutes and wound things up. I paid the fare and gave him the remainder of the change as a tip. I still have no idea what the tipping protocol is in Europe. I think on the whole you don’t give much. Someone told me you’re just supposed to “round up”. What the Hell does that mean? Brian thanked me for the tip and the company and then reached over and shook my hand. “Pleasure to talk with you. Enjoy your stay in Manchester.”

“I will. Thanks.”
“And have fun in the Canary Islands.” He offered as he pulled away.

So far so good, although, this portion of the trip had gotten completely turned around. Originally, Tina was supposed to take Louis, the oldest boy, on a skiing holiday this coming weekend. I would spend this week with the family and take the kids to the Moscow Circus on Thursday. A few days before I left L.A. Alan calls me up and says that Tina has mixed up the dates and that she and Louis will be skiing the week that I’m in Manchester. The up side was that I was still welcomed to come and stay. I got the impression that Alan was actually looking forward to a bit of male bonding. He was going to get us tickets to go see a football match and maybe a rugby game. Plus, we’d hit a pub or two.

Alan’s mother greeted me at the door. She was watching Elli, who was home sick from school. She gave me a warm welcome and acted as if I were part of the family, even though we had never met before now. Make that two people that don’t hate us. She put on a kettle as we sat in the kitchen. Elli came down stairs when she heard me talking. She was two years older than the last time I saw her but aside from added height she looked remarkably unchanged. She wore the same smart, mischievous smile as before and still tucked her hair behind her ears in an attempt to keep it from falling in her face.

The youngest member of the household was Theo was who was in a stroller my last visit. He was very much a little boy now. He came bounding down the stairs and appeared in the doorway wearing a plastic knight’s helmet with visor and brandishing a broad sword. He screwed up his face so that his eyes almost bugged out of his head and then he let out a growl that sounded absolutely primeval. He was either channeling his Mother’s Norman ancestors or his Father’s Greek. It was hard not to laugh at so much commitment on his part.

Alan got home early and gave me the ground rules for my visit. He had a personal trainer that had him on a strict exercise and diet program. I was going to have to join him in his routine. Was I ready for a whey shake? When he realized it was lunchtime we left Elli and Louis with his mother and we walked around the corner to a small corner café. It was the same place that Tina took me for hot chocolate with the kids my first day there two years ago. Alan got a baked potato with baked beans on top and I got an English version of a ham and cheese quesadilla. Can’t get too filled up: tonight we have crunches and balance ball to do.

For the most part this was our routine during my stay. We ate lean and worked out hard. It wasn’t nearly as bad as you might think. God knows I would have just eaten fish and chips in a pub everyday if Alan hadn’t thrown down the gauntlet.

Day Two, Alan took the afternoon off. We drove into Manchester proper and had a look around, grabbed a hot lunch (It was soup day on our prescribed diet) and popped into several bookstores to try and find the book that Bob Doe had written. Unfortunately it was out of print. Instead, Alan insisted that I buy a collection of Roald Dahl’s writings about his childhood and learning to fly. As I knew nothing of the man that gave the world Willie Wonka, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and James and the Giant Peach it seemed a fair trade.

We stopped off at the Railway, a pub up the street from the house and had a pint. Look; you can’t live life without a pint once and awhile. Besides, we had eaten well all day.

I’d usually go with Alan to drop off Elli and Theo at their schools and then I’d hop a bus into town. From there I’d take a railed tram out to the Salford Quays where the Imperial War Museum (North) is located and the Lowry theatre as well. The IWM featured an exhibition of WWI paintings. Even with the availability of cameras at the time it was astonishing how many painting were made to depict the war. They also have an interactive slide show that is projected on the walls of the main exhibit hall, enveloping the audience with the sights and sounds of all phases of war. The museum’s purpose is not to glorify battle. They try to define its time and place in man’s ongoing history.

After wandering through the museum I walked across the bridge to the Lowery theatre where the Moscow Circus would be performing tomorrow night. I hoped to catch them loading in. I was excited to finally meet up with the Eskins after almost 13 years. When I inquired inside I was told that they wouldn’t be here until tomorrow. Looks like I’ll be coming back here tomorrow as well.

That night Alan and two friends of his took me to a football (soccer) game. I have no idea how all the league play is set up. There is the Premier League, which I guess, is their version of the NFL but sandwiched between Premier games they also have qualifying matches for the European Cup and maybe even the upcoming World Cup in Berlin. We drove to Bolton to watch the home team take on Marseille. It was exciting to be there. Alan and I were dietarily naughty as both of us had a “pie”, as in a steak and potato potpie. The traditional game meal is a Pie and a Pint, but as this was a European Cup match there was no alcohol served. Worries about Hooligans and all that.

The game ended in a 0-0 tie and all the guys remarked what a lousy game it was to see for my first experience. I honestly didn’t mind. I learned about the off sides rule and even Alan admitted that the dives the players took to try and draw a penalty was out of control. All and all it was a nice guys night out. Even without the beer.

After we got home Alan’s trainer, Steve, called the house and Alan invited him over for a beer. Alan said that he was a great, hard working kid that was training for the Summer Olympics in London in 2012. Steve had graduated with an accounting degree or something along those lines but he soon realized that wasn’t what he wanted to do so he quit and struck out on his own. When he arrived the three of us sat around the kitchen table and talked for a couple of hours. It was getting late so we said our goodnights and I went upstairs to go to sleep. All and all a full day.

1. Bon Voyage

So I’m at this Hollywood party talking to Tera Lipinski. Normally, not 10 words that I would string together when forming a sentence. In fact, the concept of me being at a Hollywood party, let alone talking to a cute Olympic gold-medalist is, in and of itself, something of note. The occasion, of this particular circumstance, was the annual pre-Valentine’s Day dessert party that an ex-girlfriend of mine hosts for something like 250 people. She bakes every single delectable herself; from the lowly Toll House cookie to the lofty three tiered Magnolia cake with pink icing. Her husband is a television producer and writer and all-around great guy, so the party teeters comfortably between long time family and friends and the entertainment industry. I’m usually referred to, in the form of an introduction, as “Lisa’s old boyfriend.”

It’s a wonderfully casual and, dare I say, sedate affair with no overt or obscene displays of egos or ostentatiousness. No paparazzi; unless you include me and the digital camera I use to take “couples” photos of friends that I only see once a year at this party. Everyone’s there to drink at the fully catered bar or graze among the several dozen different dessert items. No one goes home without a take-out container filled with his or her favorite items.

I tend to hang out near the buffet that sports cookies and fudge. That’s where my favorites are: the Gold Rush brownies and espresso cookies. It was here that I encountered Tera Lipinski. When I say encountered what I really mean is: When I walked over and told her to get away from my brownies. She looked confused. And when I say confused what I really mean is, frightened. I sometimes forget that I’m a big, bald guy with a big voice. I also forget that as improbable as it may seem, there are still some people that have no idea who I am.
“Just kidding.” I countered and held out my hand. “I’m John.”
She probably assumed that no one would have invited a serial killer to a dessert party so she tentatively shook my hand. I quickly felt the need to elaborate.
“I’m Lisa’s old boyfriend….”

She introduced herself. I asked her how it was that she came to be at this party. It’s not unusual to see a name actor or actress, or even director, but in the many years that I had been coming I had never seen an Olympic skater. She said that she had come with a friend of hers and gestured to somewhere in the middle of the living room. I asked if she was living in L.A. now or just visiting and she replied that she had moved out here to be an actress. I wished her luck with that and bade her goodbye. As I turned to leave she reached for a Gold Rush brownie.

I mingled awhile longer, catching up with the events of the past year. So and so was pregnant. What’s her name was engaged. The main topic of discussion from my end was my pending trip. “Where are you off to this time?”
“Well, I was originally going to Moscow….” And then I would explain how my friends from the Moscow Circus had gotten a tour in Great Britain at the last minute so I had rescheduled my trip to take in England and the Canary Islands. I watched for any signs of their eyes glazing over but everyone seemed genuinely interested in my itinerary. Most people had the same reaction, “Wow, the Canary Islands. Where are they again?”
“Off the Western coast of Africa.”
“And why did you choose that destination?”
I explained that I was going to meet Cerstin there.
“The girl you met in Berlin on your last trip?”
The very one.
“That’s so romantic.”

That was how the discussion went with the women at the party. With the guys the topic revolved around my trip to England where I had arranged to meet with an 86 year-old RAF pilot that had flown Spitfires in the Battle of Britain.
“That is so cool!” Was the typical response.

I looked at my watch and it was getting on towards ten o’clock. I hadn’t even begun to pack for the trip and as I would need to prepare for two completely different climates I thought I should head home. My flight was out of LAX at 8:20 in the morning. Subtract an hour for security and at least 45 minutes for the shuttle bus from Van Nuys to the airport. Maybe another 30 minutes from my house to the shuttle station. I would probably need to wake up at 5:00.

Armed with that knowledge I began to make my farewells. Lisa packed me up a large entrée-sized container full of Gold Rush brownies and espresso cookies. It was going to be a long flight and she wanted to make sure that I had something to snack on.

Lots of well wishes and Bon Voyages. Home now to pack and grab a few hours of sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day. First stop on the schedule; Manchester, by way of Atlanta and London.

Amazingly, the flight from Atlanta to London was wide open. I had a window seat on an exit row with no one next to me. The downside was that I was directly next to the toilets, so that even in the rarified moments when I managed to fall asleep my olfactory glands were assaulted with the sickening-sweet smell of bathroom deodorizer. This particular attempt to replicate a pleasant aroma ended up producing something quite akin to strawberries and cream shit.

The flight crew was efficient but not over-bearing. If there is anything worse than being cooped up in a plane for 8 hours it’s probably having to deal with people that are cooped up in a plane for 8 hours. They must live for the time when most of the passengers try to sleep so they can huddle back in the galley and relax.

Somewhere over Greenland we picked up a wicked tailwind and arrived in London 30 minutes early. Unfortunately there was another plane at our gate so we had to sit out on the tarmac until they backed out. It hardly mattered to me as I had a four-hour layover waiting for me in the Gatwick airport. That’s where I sit at the moment. I have wandered in and out of every store, shop and kiosk that fills the cavernous waiting area. Somehow the $100 dollars that I exchanged when I got here is almost gone and I’ve only bought breakfast and a book that was the companion to the British TV show “Spitfire Ace.” It was that show that moved me to write the producer to see if I could get letters to the surviving pilots that had been interviewed for the show. To my pleasant surprise I received an e-mail from Di Francis saying that she would be happy to pass along my correspondences to the pilots but as most of them didn’t “do e-mail” I should send her letters. This I did.

This was early in August of ’05. I never heard back from any of the pilots. Then, one day in late December, I get an e-mail from Di apologizing profusely. She said that she was cleaning her office and found the package of letters I had sent her. They had fallen behind her desk and she had just personally forwarded them to the pilots.

Two weeks later I received an airmail letter addressed to John Grantham, Esq. The postmark blended into the stamps so I couldn’t tell where it was from. I opened the envelope and pulled out a hand written letter. There was a return address printed across the top listing Sussex as the point of origin. Above the address the name Bob Doe was written. My first pilot! I was so excited. It was like Christmas a week early.

He began, “Dear John, I received your letter dated 3-8-05 yesterday!!! via RDF Media Group. I dare to think what they’ve been doing with it. I get a steady flow of letters but I value yours more than most because it comes from across the pond.” He went on to tell me a little about his life since the war; 60 years ago. He closed by saying that he hoped I didn’t mind but he was enclosing a picture of him standing beside his Spitfire just before the Battle of Britain in July of 1940. He was 19 years old.

I wrote him back immediately and sent him a Christmas card. He answered with another letter and extended one of those “If you’re ever in Sussex….” kind of invitations. That was all the prodding I needed. I would spend a week in Manchester, a week with Cerstin in the Canary Islands and finish up with a visit to the home of Bob Doe, RAF Ace.

Later I would receive a letter from another pilot, Nigel Rose. His appearance on “Spitfire Ace” was very poignant in that he read from letters that he had sent home to his mother and father during the war. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to respond to his letter prior to my trip.

But for the here and now, here I sit in Gatwick airport, sequestered between Dixon’s Tax-Free electronic shop and the World Duty-Free store. Sitting across from me is a French dude wearing a yellow macramé knit cap and a scarf that looks like the Jamaican flag. He’s wearing a headset that looks like it’s from the 1976. I should know, because I had one that just like it; in 1976! He’s reading a magazine called Natty Dread; magazine du Reggae. Can you tell how bored I am? He looks like Richard Reid, the infamous shoe bomber; or Cat Stevens. Either way, not too comforting. Still, I’m sure he’s a nice guy despite my attempts to racially profile him.

I keep making excuses to talk to the shop girls at the various stores. I just can’t get enough of their accents. Maybe that’s how I ended up spending $100 on seemingly nothing. Well, all good things must come to an end and so too it is with waiting in an airport. I finally board my plane to Manchester and the clock officially begins ticking on my trip.