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.