18. Meet Bob Doe

As Betty was escorting me toward the house I suddenly remembered the flowers and wine that I had brought. I ran back to the car and popped the boot. I also grabbed my backpack with cameras just to be safe. I joined Betty near the door and presented her with the flowers.

“They’re lovely aren’t they?” she said as she admired the bouquet.

“They seem so inadequate after all the help you’ve been so far.” I offered apologetically.

“Nonsense. Let’s get you in and warm you up.” Betty ushered me through the door. There, standing beside the kitchen table, was a bear of a man. His physical presence caught me by surprise. For some reason I had always pictured a fighter pilot as a small, wiry guy. My assumption being that the cockpits were small and cramped in order to allow for the lowest possible profile of the plane. Bob Doe did not fit this description. He was more John Wayne than Tom Cruise in sense of stature: both actors having played the part of a fighter pilot.

“John. It is such a pleasure to finally meet you.” He intoned as he swallowed my hand in his, the grip strong and firm. The flesh soft and supple.

“It’s an honor to meet you Mr. Doe.”

“Bob.” He corrected me.

I had, of course, seen him interviewed for the “Spitfire Ace” series, which aired originally on British TV and was later rebroadcast on the Military Channel here in the States. The show had stirred me. Emotionally. Historically. I was moved to contact some of the pilots who waxed so poetically about those heady days, almost 66 years ago. And yet, even though I had seen his image and heard him speak, I was still unprepared for the deep, rich, honey-smooth timbre of his voice. The accent alone was enough to give instant credibility to anything he said.

Now, I’d like to think that after all the time that I’ve spent in Hollywood I’m somewhat immune to the allure that celebrities have over people. I’m not jaded… just not overly impressed. I’ve been around astronauts and actors, athletes and authors. Most were interesting and engaging and I’d like to think that I showed the proper respect for their particular station in life. But I was never much of a fawner. The only possible exception was meeting Jimmy Stewart.

But as I stood here in the kitchen of an English country home in East Sussex, shaking hands with an 86 year-old man, I can honestly say without fear of embarrassment that I was in awe. I stammered an awkward, yet heart felt, introduction and a sincere thank you for him having taken the time to write me back, and for extending the invitation to visit him in his home.

True to her word, Betty brought me a glass and gave me a generous two-finger pour of brandy. We all sat down around the kitchen table, on top of which rested a collection of papers and books; a beautiful old magnifying glass nearby at the ready. This was where they spent most of their time Betty explained. The light was good, which gave her husband a comfortable place to answer the correspondences that he still receives from all over the world. Bob added that it was also just easier to be in here: after twenty-one surgeries as a result of the war, he doesn’t get around that well anymore.

“Bob is always getting invitations to go on speaking tours but he has to turn them down. It’s too hard for him to deal with all the traveling.” Betty offered.

I looked around at the cozy confines of this wonderfully lived in room. It spoke volumes of the life of these two. I could picture children and grandchildren sitting around the table talking, or standing at the counter helping prepare a meal, waiting for the water to boil for teatime. Everything you needed was where it ought to be. It was a warm and welcoming room that enveloped you in a resigned sense of well-earned peace. It was, as if, the room itself was a member of the family; a living participant in the lives of the household. The steaming teapot formed its breath. The windows framing the door were its eyes, through which the passing of time was witnessed, acknowledged and respected. The laughter and conversation supplied its voice. This was a good room.

“I’ve always felt that the kitchen is the most important room in the house. It’s where all the socializing and living happens.” I volunteered.

“That’s right, isn’t it?” Betty agreed. “Well come, you should see the rest of the house too.”

I stood up to take the official tour. I was surprised when Bob did so as well. (It’s going to take some getting used to, calling him Bob.) As we were leaving the kitchen and about to pass through the door he pointed to a box mounted high on the wall near the corner.

“That, is the original butler’s bell box. If you remember, the master’s of the house would ring for the servants and the signal would come through to the kitchen. It hasn’t worked in ages but, isn’t that marvelous?”

Marvelous, like its cousin Fantastic, is another of those evocative adjectives that the British use so deliciously; stretching out the first syllable as it flows, dark and dewy into the last two. I can’t think of when I last heard an American use the term, but wafting off the tongue of a Brit it’s poetry in one word.

Just off the kitchen was the scullery. Harkening back, once again, to the days when a home like this had servants, this was where meals were prepped, vegetables were prepared and the dishes and utensils were stored. Beyond this was the main hall from which the other rooms branched. We went into the dining room, which, like the kitchen, served as an office from which Bob could spread out the things to be signed on the larger table. Several prominent aviation artists have featured Bob’s exploits in their paintings and many of the originals hang on walls of this room. One of these was called, A Gentleman’s War, by artist Geoff Nutkins. It depicts Bob Doe’s Spitfire, wingtip to wingtip with a crippled Me109 belching smoke. They were cruising ten feet off the surface of the English Channel. Moments later the pilot of the Messerschmitt would ditch his plane.

“I just didn’t have it in me to kill him. I probably should have because he was rescued by an E-boat and came back and killed more of our boys.”

The Luftwaffe pilot was German Ace Hauptmann Rolf Pingel. He survived the war. After his death in the 1970’s, some thirty years removed from the event depicted in the painting, Frau Pingel wrote a letter to Bob Doe thanking him for his act of chivalry in letting her husband live.

The limited edition prints, like the ones that cover the dining room table, are offered with the signatures of the pilot’s that are portrayed in them. I’m assuming that this has financial benefits for the veterans. I would certainly hope it does. These pilots performed the duties of their job before it was fashionable to set out a tip jar. If the kid at Starbucks expects to be tipped for handing me a Venti serving of Sumatra, imagine what an RAF pilot in the Battle of Britain could have reaped.

“One chap was selling articles that I had signed by saying that I was dead.” I couldn’t discern whether this amused him or not. I know that I wouldn’t ever want to be called out by Bob Doe.

The next stop on my tour was the family room, located at the rear of the house. It looked out onto the backyard: or more correctly, the expansive lawn. As it was February the gardens weren’t in bloom but you could see where the various areas had been laid out for flowers and vegetables. There had been a pool once but they had long since filled that in. A small statue of a deer adorned the lawn: a gift from their children. Betty said that she would leave chicken carcasses, leftover from their dinner, on the porch outside the large glass doors. At night the foxes would come right up to the house and eat. That seemed like fitting thing to do in a land so closely associated with hunting foxes.

This room – like the kitchen- felt warm and welcoming. Pictures of children and grandchildren lined the mantel above the fireplace and occupied the hearth beside it. Visual echoes of the people that have called this house, home.

Back in the kitchen, we once again settled down around the table. I asked if it would be all right to videotape our talk so that I wouldn’t forget any of the details. Bob graciously gave his consent. I set the camera on the table and used some of the books that were there to prop up the lens so that I could get Bob in the frame. It wasn’t the visual record I was after as much as it was the verbal account of his life. As I was messing around with the camera Bob showed me a copy of his book entitled appropriately enough, Bob Doe-Fighter Pilot. He apologized that he couldn’t give me a copy but he only had two left and it was out of print.

When I had my initial letters forwarded to the pilots, I knew next to nothing about the men that I was writing. "Spitfire Ace" dealt more with their collective remembrances of the plane itself and the training they received (or it some cases, barely received) before taking off against the battle hardened pilots of the Luftwaffe. By the time the Battle of Britain was underway new pilots assigned to Fighter Command were lucky to get nine hours of flight training in a Spitfire before being thrown into the fray.

In the series, the chyrons (titles) introduced each pilot with their name and unit. The first flicker I saw of the man I’m now sitting across from simply said, Bob Doe: Pilot Officer 234 Squadron. He was sitting comfortably in a high backed leather chair, in what I now knew was the family room, recounting his rationale for war.

“As far as I was concerned, I was just a young boy, I’d every intention of stopping those bastards from coming into my mum’s backyard. That literally was what I was fighting for.”

After exchanging letters with him, and going on-line to dig a bit deeper, a more complete picture began to emerge.

Bob Doe was the third highest scoring English Ace during the Battle of Britain with 14 1/2 planes shot down. He received the Distinguished Flying Cross. In January of 1941 he was flying a night sortie when the oil in his engine froze and he crash-landed. His harness broke and his face smashed into the reflector sight, requiring plastic surgery and over 21 operations. He also suffered a broken his arm. After recuperating he was reassigned as a Flight Commander and went on to form the Indian Air Force during the Burma campaigns. For this he received the Indian DSO; one of only two men to be so honored. After the war he stayed on with the RAF and retired as a Wing Commander in 1966.

“Everybody knew Bob Doe was good, even Bob Doe knew he was good. He was always in the thick of it, somehow.” – Joe Roddis, ground crew.

For the next two hours I fell under his spell. I sat riveted to my seat as he enthralled me with accounts of his life. I tried not to steer the conversation; instead, allowing it to soar to whatever heights it wandered. I would occasionally ask a question or interrupt for clarification on a term he used. Betty had a wonderful sense awareness and familiarity with these stories and she would interject on my behalf when Bob made on off-handed statement or used a colloquialism that she felt I might not know.

“…. Eventually I finished up with a very elderly bloke who had a hat lying on the desk that had scrambled egg all around it….” He imparted as the discussion built around his first meeting with someone in the Air Ministry office. I must have raised an eyebrow or given and otherwise queer look because Betty jumped in.

“Do you know…you don’t know what scrambled egg means?” She interjected.

I laughed, somewhat embarrassingly, “I don’t know that.”

She turned to Bob. “You have to tell him.”

“…. Gold braid. We called it scrambled egg.”

“Oh. Of course.” I conceded. That makes perfect sense. Senior officers would have gold braid on their hats, ergo, scrambled egg.

That was just the beginning of a magical evening. I had sat down at the table with an 86-year old man and before I knew it, I was listening the words of a 19-year pilot who was about to save the world.

17. Rural Britannia

With Gatwick airport receding in my rear view mirror….Wait a minute! Where is the rearview mirror? Oh, for Pete’s sake, I keep looking up and to my right. This is going to take some getting used to. So is shifting left-handed. So is just using a manual transmission regardless of where it’s located in the bloody car. I remind myself that the driver side stays closest to the centerline and I repeat my new mantra, “Keep on the left. Keep on the left.”

I no longer feel as though the car will careen violently out of control. Of course I’m still on the service road that leaves the rent-a-car place. I also haven’t had to deal with a car coming at me from the opposite direction yet. I should have asked my Catholic friends who the patron saint of driving on the left is. I’m guessing that St. Christopher handles those duties but it would be nice to know if there is someone else that more specifically looks after drivers in England. Now that I think about it; probably not. Maybe in Ireland….

Okay, let’s have a quick glance at these directions –

1. Slightly left onto Ring Road North. Check.
2. Enter roundabout - Take 1st exit onto M23. (Oh God. A roundabout to the left…) Got it.
3. Straight on the M23 for 1.3 miles.

And so it went for the rest of the first seven key instructions. Unfortunately there were twenty-four such steps on my map and by the time I got to….

Slightly left onto Old Hollow – 1.1 miles

….I was wonderfully, hopelessly lost. The wheels had come off: figuratively speaking.

Now don’t get me wrong. England is a beautiful, warm and welcoming country. It has a rich and glorious history full of tradition and pageantry, myth and majesty. What it does not have is one discernable street sign. I suppose that if you live on an island – albeit a really big island – you probably assume that everyone knows where they’re going. But seriously; it’s been 66 years since the last threat of invasion. Don’t you think you could put back all the street signs that the Home Guard took down when the Nazis were knocking at your door? Just a thought.

I’ve been driving up and down this one particular road for some time now without a literal sign of where to go next. Up ahead a see a parking lot for something called the World of Water. It’s the third time that I’ve passed it so that’s the charm. I pull in and park. I thought that maybe this was a local tourist destination, like Rock City or Chico’s Monkey Farm. There were more than several cars in the parking lot. More, I thought, than would be here on a Sunday afternoon.

As it turns out, is a garden centre for all things aquatic. Fountains, Koi ponds, aquariums, the works. If it’s wet, you’ll find it here. What would possess anyone to venture out in 3º C weather to their local World of Water is beyond me , but thankfully enough people do that the store felt compelled to be open for business.

Like that enduring Southern icon, Blanche DuBois, I have come to depend on the kindness of strangers. During my first foray upon European soil, two years ago, I often found myself (after getting lost) having to approach the locals by saying in their respective language, “I’m sorry I don’t speak (German, French, Czech…”). Obviously I couldn’t sail that tack here. Instead I approach one of the blue-aproned employees.

“Excuse me. I have a stupid American tourist question.”

“Yes sir?”

“Where am I?”
I explained my dilemma and showed him my handwritten directions. “I think I’m here…” I said, pointing to #8 on the page “…But how I got here is completely accidental.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got there.” Said the clerk confidently as he took the paper from my hand and pressed it flat on the counter.

“I’m coming from Gatwick if that’s of any help.”

He ran his fingers down the first seven steps of my map.

“Well, you’re here on Turners Hill Road….Hey Charlie! Do you know where Church Street is?”

Another employee walked behind the counter to see what was going on. “Where are you looking for?”

“Church Street.”

“Not sure. Let’s check the map.”

Before long, five employees were huddled behind the counter, each with his own map, as if it were a contest to see who could help me first. One of the problems I was having with Turners Hill Road was that I assumed that it ran basically east/west. Or north/south. Either way would have been helpful. Instead, it snaked through the whole of the area. It was finally decided, though by no means definitive, that if I went right, out of the parking lot I would come to Church Street. I had just come from that direction but now that I knew (or hoped) that Church Street was back that way I would be even more diligent in my search. I thanked the helpful staff and retraced my steps. Sure enough, a mile and a half up the road, there was a church on the corner and a small sign indicating Church Street. I veered onto it and continued through the little town of Turners Hill. I was now fixated on locating Selsfield Road; or B2025 as it is also designated.

I drove for miles before I realized that I shouldn’t have gone this far. I turn around - which is no small accomplishment on the narrow roads with blind curves. Trying to quickly regain my awareness of which direction other cars might be coming at me, I shoot back into the road and into the left lane. Sure enough, approaching from this angle of attack I now saw a small sign that read, Selsfield Road, painted on a brick wall, partially hidden by a bush.

What a surprise. Why didn’t I think to look behind shrubbery? Oh well, I’m on my way now. Back on track. Somehow I’ve jumped from #7, and passed through, over or around such landmarks as

Next roundabout – 1st exit – Copthone
Next roundabout – 4th exit – Copthone Road

There was also this great one…

Slightly left onto Old Hollow

It’s almost impossible to comprehend that less than 24 hours ago I was still in the Canary Islands and now I was sailing serenely down this lonely country lane. It hit me at that moment just how at peace I was. No angst. No fear. No sorrow. Sure, I had spent an hour trying to get back on course but there are worse things in life than being lost in the beautiful, wintry landscape of rural Britannia. I had been so pre-occupied and anxious about losing my way that I hadn’t given a recent thought to the fact that I was actually driving on the left side of the road. I still misplaced the rear view mirror occasionally but it didn’t surprise me anymore. There was the odd missed shift; throwing the car into second when I really wanted fourth, but aside from that I was rather having fun. I fly around the corner, sending dead leaves spinning in my wake. I hug a tight corner, shift into overdrive and before I realize it I’m humming the James Bond theme. Loudly. Oh what I wouldn’t give for a passenger-side ejector seat or at the very least a button in the gear knob that sprayed oil out the back of the car.

Another nice feature about England are all the wonderful names of the small towns and villages that I’ve skirted past. Pease Pottage, Duddlesgate, East Grinstead, Bells Yew Green, Tunbridge Wells (not to be confused with Tonbridge) and the ever popular Horney Common. It’s like being lost in a Dr. Seuss book. Speaking of literature, A.A. Milne had a vacation home in nearby Hartsfield. The area that I’m driving through was the inspiration for the Hundred Acre Wood where Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin played. Poohsticks bridge still exists. I had hoped to arrive early enough to visit but at the rate I’m going that doesn’t seem likely. It’s still very peaceful and soothing.

But as you know; in general, and in my case, specifically, all good things must come to an end. Reality once again reared its ugly head, as Reality is prone to do. I start to second guess myself. I’ve been on Seldfield Road for quite sometime now, waiting for…. Let’s see, uh, here it is…

14. Selsfield Road becomes Chapel Road

Only it didn’t. Or hasn’t. It’s pretty obvious to me that I’m heading in the opposite direction. Another challenging U-turn and it’s back from whence I came. Up ahead I see a roadside sign pointing to something called Sulley Farm. As I get closer it appears to be a combination farmer’s market, restaurant, working museum and petting zoo. The parking lot here is even fuller than the one at World of Water. I went into the restaurant but they were so busy, there was no one I could pin down. I wandered over to the market, housed inside a barn. It was freezing outside and little better inside. I waited my turn in the check out line behind dowdy women with baskets full of produce. When it was my turn I asked the cashier if she knew where Crowborough was. She had no idea. Even the potentially helpful folks eavesdropping on my conversation shook their heads.

As I walked back to my car I stopped a woman that was saying goodbye to a friend of hers. She looked at my directions and was equally ignorant of the specific roads that I was searching for – Chapel, The Hollow, Top Road and my personal favorite, Plaw Hatch. She did, however, know where Crowborough was.

“This is confusing.” She confirmed, handing the notes back to me.

“”That’s what I’m discovering.”

“Why didn’t you just take the A22 from the airport?”

“I didn’t know I had that option.”

She was very helpful in getting me sorted out, and although she didn’t know the specifics of the town she told me how to get to the Crowborough vicinity. I thanked her profusely for her trouble and hopped in my car with a renewed sense of purpose and hope. It was now 3:15 so I called the Doe’s to inform them of my progress; or lack thereof. Mrs. Doe said not to worry about running late as they were in for the night and for me to call again when I made it to Crowborough and they would talk me in the rest of the way. I said that I felt sure that I was close and that I’d see them in about 10 minutes.

Some how I found the A22 without the slightest incident. I never saw a hint of the Hollow or Plaw Hatch but miraculously, up ahead, like a vision of the Virgin Mary that suddenly appears on a freeway underpass in Tijuana, I see a small sign informing me that Crowborough is somewhere five miles down the road to the left. Hallelujah! I ring up Mrs. Doe with the good news. Surely I’ll be there within minutes.

Oh if life was only that simple.

About three miles down the road I come to a T-stop. There is no indication which way to go. I crane my neck to see where the sun is. I realize what a stupid gesture that was. My instincts say that I should go right, and since my instincts haven’t done a thing for me lately, I head to the left. Drive. Drive. Drive. I see people that have pulled off the road and are walking in the fields. Some are flying kites. If I didn’t have somewhere to be I would probably have joined them. It looked very refreshing to be all bundled up and frolicking in the fields and the nearby woods.

Another U-turn, another call to Mrs. Doe, who by this time has insisted that I call her Betty.

“I have no idea where I am…”

“Are you driving through the forest?” She asked. I could imagine her trying to get a mental picture of where I was.

“Well, there are a lot of trees….”

“Oh dear. This has been quite an adventure for you I’m afraid.”

I’ll say.

“Hold on… there’s a sign for Crowborough ahead.” (Obviously one that the Home Guard had missed during the war) “It says, Crowborough – 3 miles.”

Just then I lost my signal. No matter. This feels right. A little further along and there up ahead a village comes into view. If it isn’t a mirage, it must be Crowborough. It is. I did it! There’s a sign proclaiming that this is the home of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Who knew? It doesn’t matter now as of course I’m still essentially lost as I have long since thrown my notes in the back seat; like I was punishing them or something. As I entered the township my cell signal crept back. I called Betty; afraid that by this point the Doe’s were having second thoughts about inviting such an obviously mentally deficient person to their home.

“Hello John. How are you getting on?”

“I’m in Crowborough.”

“Good for you.” She sounded genuinely happy for me. “Where are you exactly?”

I described the buildings and landmarks around me.

“That doesn’t sound familiar… Bob dear…where is the White Elk’s Pub?”

“Well, actually, I’ve past that now. I’m coming up on the Police station.”

“Oh dear. I’m afraid I don’t know where that is either. Hold on: Bob is taking out a map.”

BEEP BEEP.

I look at my phone to see that the battery indicator is in the red and blinking. Oh Lord, not now. I’ve come too far to fail now.

“Betty,” I interrupted, “I hate to cut you off but my phone battery is dying. Could you give me a landmark to shoot for?”

BEEP BEEP. Please blurt out something big and obvious, I silently implored. She thought for a moment and then offered up a couple of pubs with colorful names and another civic landmark that would be impossible to miss. If I pass the old orphanage then I had gone too far.

“Thank you. I promise I’m almost there.”

I drive through what appears to be the center of town. I head down a hill a make my way around a long, gentle curve. Before I know it I’m back out in the countryside. There’s nowhere to turn around so I keep going. Up ahead I approach another township. How in the world do these people conduct commerce with all these convoluted towns and streets. I manage to get headed back toward Crowborough. I turn left at the town centre and see a pub that has cars parked at it.

I run inside and crash headlong into an undulating wall of blue/white cigarette smoke. Hacking my way asthmatically and physically to the bar I ask the barmaid if she can help me. She knocks a heavy ash off the end of her fag and exhales a column of smoke so rich and white that you could signal the election of a pope by it. She comes out from behind the bar and takes a few steps toward the door. Pointing to the street that runs in front of the pub she indicates that the equestrian centre is at the top of the hill. Just a short distance. Can’t miss it.

“Let me get this straight.” I hoped to clarify. “That’s my car in the parking lot there. I want to drive out of that and take this road to the top of the hill and the equestrian centre will be on my right?”

“Straight up the road.” She said with a confidence that only someone that doesn’t care can possess.

“This road right here?” I pointed to the street in front of the pub and made a back and forth motion with my arm as if I was physically marking it with my pointed finger.

“You can’t miss it.” She replied as she pulled a long drag on her cigarette.

Wanna bet? I thought.

Out the door and into the parking lot where I execute perhaps the worse three-point turn of my life. The misplaced rear view mirror doesn’t help. I finally get headed straight and peel out of the parking lot, spraying a cloud of crushed rocks behind me. Up the street. On my left I see the pub that Betty mentioned. So far, so good. Let’s not get cocky. Ah ha! There’s the equestrian centre. Right turn. I catch a glimpse of a street name and it matches #23 on my list. My heart is beating out of my chest. Their street should be here somewhere. I pass what appear to be narrow alleys or private drives. Up a little further and I come to the old orphanage. Too far. One last U-turn for good measure. I creep back down the street. It… should… be… right… about…THERE IT IS! I’m finally on the last street of my map.

Betty had mentioned which driveway was theirs as (and you’ll be shocked at this revelation) there are no street numbers. The houses were nestled behind ancient hedgerows and trees. Even with the lack of foliage it was nearly impossible to see them as they were tucked back at the end of long curving, gravel driveways. I pull up in front of the house. It’s very serene. Exactly what I’d expect from a small country estate. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing. I look around. I ring the bell again. Still no answer. I turn toward the car and notice the top of a flag pole sticking up above the wall of hedges in the property next door. I’m at the wrong house. Only on RAF pilot that flew in the Battle of Britain would have a regulation flag pole.

I back down the drive of the wrong house and into the drive of the Doe’s. I parked beside another car and get out. I had hoped to arrive at 3:00. It was now 5:30 and getting toward twilight.

Betty walks out to greet me. She gives me a hug and leads me toward the kitchen door at the side of the house.

“Oh you poor dear. Let’s get you inside and get a nice double brandy in you.”

God Bless the British.

16. Going My Way

Nothing about the flight from Tenerife to London-Gatwick etched itself into my memory. Not the movie. Not the meal. Not the people that sat beside me. After the events of the past 24 hours I was just happy to be on a plane. It was half past midnight when we landed in London. I bid adieu to Jo #2 and headed out the plane. Immigrations and Customs were a breeze. Claimed my bag from the carousel and made my way to the exit. I was exhausted. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. It was too late to head into London at this hour without a reservation so I knew I’d have to find another airport hotel to get me through the night. Before going to the Canary Islands I paid £105 for a room at the Clarion. I was hoping to do better than that now but I knew that at this late hour beggars couldn’t be choosers. As I walked through the terminal I saw an advert for the Premier Travel Inn at £52. That answered that question.

Time to rustle up a ride. In order to get a taxi at the airport you must go to a windowed booth, located in the nether region between the toasty, warm inside of the terminal and the bitterly cold outside of the airport. The resulting conditions make for a rather uncomfortable wait. I informed the man of my desire to be spirited away to the Premier Travel Inn, He asked me, Which one. I answered, How many are there? He replied, Nine. I settled for the closest. Within 5 minutes a driver arrives and calls my name. Only in England do they pronounce it correctly without batting an eye.

I hop in the back of a traditional black, London cab and just start to get comfortable when 2 minutes later we pull up in front of the hotel. Say…that was close. Somewhat embarrassed, I apologize to the driver for the short duration and over tip him for his trouble. I enter the lobby; such as it is, just inside the main doors. The place is surprisingly busy for 1:30 in the morning. I’m standing fourth back in line. This doesn’t bode well, I think. Adjacent to the check-in counter, separated by a glass partition is the bar and lounge area. It‘s packed. Good thing, as I realize that I haven't had anything to eat or drink in some time. My turn comes at the counter and I ask if they have a room: It strikes me that I’ve been doing that a lot lately. The receptionist assures me that they can accommodate my needs. Wow. First try. My luck must be changing. I give her all my information.

“How many nights will you being needing?”

Hum… good question. I hadn’t really thought that for ahead. I did have the number of the private home where I had said during my last visit. It was conveniently located within walking distance of Harrod’s (which didn’t interest me) and Buckingham Palace (which did). Still, there was something to be said about the freedom and service that a hotel offers. But if I stayed here I’d have to take the Gatwick Express into London every day. Just to be safe, I put off the decision.

“May I let you know in the morning?”

“That would be fine. Check-out is at noon. If you could let us know before then….”

I assured her that I would. Now that my shelter needs had been addressed I could turn my attention to sustenance. After depositing my bags in my room I went down to kick off the last leg of my trip. I ordered up a pint of bitters and a basket of chips and sat down to watch the highlights of the day’s football matches. Okay, so perhaps watching soccer was a bit too much assimilating but when in Londinium….

The next morning; or more correctly, that same morning (only 9 hours later) I awoke to a beautiful, albeit cold and crisp Sunday. After a hot, traditional English breakfast I retreated to my room to plan the rest of my stay. I was determined to see the Changing of the Guards, climb to the top of St. Paul’s and to walk across Abbey Road; events that had alluded me during my first visit, two years ago. Aside from that I was wide open to whatever coincidences or circumstances occurred. My first surprise was realizing how relatively close Gatwick was to the area where Bob Doe lived. Both were located in Sussex County. That alone made me feel better about trip. In fact, it inspired me so much that I decided to call the Doe’s then and there and see if I could our planned meeting to this afternoon.

Mrs. Doe answered the phone and I told her that I had arrived in London safe and sound. She sounded genuinely happy to hear that. I gave her a thumbnail sketch of my plans and asked if it would be too much of an imposition to visit today.

“I have you down on the calendar for Thursday” She said. It’s true that when I was in Manchester I had spoken to her and threw out the date of Thursday the 28th as my target day for seeing them. What I realized now was that Tuesday was the 28th. So I was already mucking things up. I didn’t want to go into the reasons for moving my plans up: that after what transpired in the Canary Islands I might just cut things short and head home early. The only really important thing I wanted to do was to meet with Bob Doe.

She discussed my request with her husband. The only caveat seemed to be that their grand daughter was coming over to watch a rugby match on TV but she should be gone by two or three. I inquired about a three o’clock arrival, assuming that wouldn’t affect their dinner plans. Betty said that shouldn’t be a problem, although their home was very lived in and that she hadn’t had a chance to put it right.

It suddenly hit me that I was being very selfish. We had set a date for my visit and there was no reason to change it. I had gotten it into my head that I needed to get my visit with them out of the way early so that I would be free to do whatever else I wanted at my own pace. I was the guest, not the host. I felt very petty.

“ You know… we could keep it on Thursday. There’s no reason to change it. I was just being overly excited about meeting Mr. Doe.”

Mrs. Doe took a beat. “But still, you’d like to come today?”

“Only if it’s not going to put you out.”

“I think today would be fine. Say three o’clock then.”

“Three o’clock. Thank you very much. I will se you later.”

I was ecstatic. Suddenly I had a lot of things to do. First I decided to stay here another night. I’ll be heading away from London so no sense in packing up everything. Better to get a clean start tomorrow. I grabbed my camera and stopped by the reception desk. The morning shift was in full swing dealing with checkouts. I stepped up to the counter and caught the attention of one of the girls as she was ending her phone conversation. I looked at her nametag.

“Hi Julie. I think I’ve decided to stay on another day.” I proclaimed as I handed her my credit card.

“Wonderful. Just the one extra night then Mr.…” She looked down at the card. “…Grantham?” (I love having my name pronounced correctly).

“Let’s take it one day at a time shall we?”

I asked Julie how much she thought a cab would be for the 28-mile trip to Crowborough. She said it could cost as much as £70 pounds just to go to London, but that was a bit farther away than where I wanted to go, even though she wasn’t 100% certain where that was. One of the other girls concurred. I asked if there was a bus line that ran in that direction. Again, they weren’t sure. Probably spotting service at best even if there was.

“Why don’t you just rent a car?” Julie asked. (Why don’t you mind your own business Julie, I thought.)

“I’m not sure I’m ready for that.” I confessed.

The shuttle swung into the turnaround in front of the hotel, so I thanked Julie and ran out the door. Two minutes later I was once again at the airport. I first approached the taxi stand attendant to officially inquire on a fare to Crowborough. He said it would be £50. Hum… that’s about $175 round trip. On the other hand, the friendly car rental girl that I’m now standing in front of said that she would rent me a lovely sedan for only £38 ($66) a day.

“But what about the left-hand driving thing?” I sheepishly asked.

“Oh it’s easy. You can do it.”

Well. If she thinks I can do it….”

Still –

“Besides, if you have your own car you can stop where ever you want and enjoy the area’s sites.”

“Are there many sights?”

“Could be.”

“Let me think about this a little more.” I replied as I headed off into the South terminal of Gatwick. Allowing for the suggested 30-minute drive I had plenty of time to get there, regardless of my mode of transportation. I found an Internet café inside and once again pulled up the directions. Okay, it looks pretty simple. It’s almost the same distance from Gatwick to the Doe’s house as LAX is to mine. Plus, it’s Sunday so I’m guessing that the traffic will be lighter than during the week. To top it off, it looks like the suggested route takes me on smaller country roads; less opportunity to get into trouble I think. The final piece of the equation was ultimately sheer, stupid pride. If a 19-year old boy from Surrey can strap himself into a Supermarine Spitfire with a 1,175 h.p. Rolls Royce Merlin engine and take on the full might of the Luftwaffe then surely a 40-something year old American tourist can navigate through the English countryside in a Ford Escort. I even had better odds that no one would be trying to kill me.

The die was cast. I had crossed the Rubicon. I was going to brave the back roads and byways of England’s rural South. To paraphrase the girl at the rent-a-car place, how hard could it be? Indeed.

There were no printers by which to print out the map so I had to write it all down by hand. I got half way finished when my time ran out and I had to go get change. All I had were £20 notes so I bought a coffee at the ubiquitous Starbucks next door and came back to complete scribbling down my directions. Satisfied that I could get from Point A to Point B, and back, I pushed on. A couple of quick side trips before I hit the road. I had with me a bottle of California wine as a gift for the Does, but I also stopped to buy some flowers for Mrs. Doe. I tried to find a MiniDV tape for my camcorder in case it Mr. Doe allowed me to tape our talk, but I had no luck. I couldn’t think of any other excuses to stall so I went back to the rental agency.

“I think I’m going to give this a try.” I said; trying to sound more confident than I really was.

“Fantastic.” She encouragingly replied.

There’s something about the way the British say the word “fantastic” that really inspires you. They’re so emotionally invested in every syllable. If you ever receive that verbal stamp of approval you feel as if it really is a remarkable situation.

Amazingly, even with all my protestations and reluctance, she still saw fit to hand me the keys. I approached the car. Tentatively. Respectfully. It was black and sporty. Not what I had expected when she said Ford Escort. I had been instructed to inspect it for damage before I left so I slowly circled the car. I checked under the “bonnet”. I figure if I’m going to operate this thing I should at least refer to its parts by their British names. I popped the “boot”. I kicked the “tyres”. I unlocked the “door” (alright, so that one falls a little flat linguistically). I slide behind the wheel, which of course, is on the right side. That also places the “gear box” awkwardly on the left between the front seats. How are you supposed to shift with your left hand? Worse yet was the placement of the rear view mirror: up and to the left. Is there no end to this Hell?

I turn the ignition. Sounds like a regular car. I ease into 1st gear and creep out of the parking space. So far, so good. I manoeuvre (maneuver) the steering wheel to the right and head down the wrong lane of the parking lot.

“Left side! Left side!” I yell, mentally smacking myself in the head. My hands had too much of a death grip on the steering wheel to literally hit myself. I make a quick adjustment and surprisingly find myself heading out the main road away form Gatwick airport and Southeast towards Crowborough.

15. Escape From Paradise

My stay in Purgatory was drawing to a close. After 12 hours in the Tenerife airport flight BA6997 was finally boarding. I dutifully stood in line as we were funneled into a long glass hallway that ended at a security booth where a uniformed official checked our passports. Then we proceeded to the gate agent who scanned our tickets before we made the last journey down the jet-way. I had once again requested seat 21F, the exit row, window seat, (without the window). As it was pitch black outside there was no need to try and catch a last, fleeting glimpse of the snow-covered volcano peeking up through the clouds. I bent down to walk through the hatch. As I entered the plane I saw Jo, the flight attendant who had sat opposite me in the jump seat on the flight down. She was standing in the galley outside the cabin and recognized me as I straightened up.

“Well hello.” We both said. “How was your stay?” She continued.

I blew out an exaggerated breath of air that caused my cheeks to vibrate. “I’ll tell you later.” I answered.
“I’m working up here on the return.”

“What?!”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure that Debbie will treat you nicely.”

“It won’t be the same without you Jo.”

We shared a knowing laughed and parted with a smile as I trudged down the aisle toward Steerage; I mean Tourist Class. When I made my way to my row there were a couple of young guys sitting there already; one of whom was in my seat.

“Sorry…I’m in 21F, there.” I said with confidence and just the slightest twang of annoyance as I was way past ready to sit down and take off. To my amazement this “dude” casually looks up at me and says that he has 21F. We go through the ritual of comparing our ticket stubs and sure enough, we have both been assigned seat 21F. Great. What business did I have assuming that my luck was changing just because I was leaving Paradise? I signaled to the nearest flight attendant and showed her my seat assignment. She took the other guy’s stub as well and stood there staring at them as though she was confirming the numbers on a lottery ticket. I plopped down (and I believe in this case plopped is the correct word for how I landed) in the seat across the aisle and waited for someone to sort it out. By now two attendants were huddled together trying to discern what to do. There was much back-and-forth whispering and gesturing. Debbie, the seeming successor to Jo’s throne appeared to be out of her realm. A “senior” crewmember came and took both tickets away to try and solve the problem.

As the plane began filling up I found myself marveling at how at ease I was about all of this. No sense of panic. No nasty scene about airline screw-ups. Just a cool wave of calm that rolled over my body like the cold blast of air that was drilling me from the air conditioning vent above my head. The person that was assigned the seat I was waiting in finally arrived. Before she could object or panic I stood up and said that I had just been keeping her seat warm for her. I was now forced to stand in the aisle as the rest of the passengers began to settle into their seats. Finally the lead attendant came back, holding my ticket and the passenger manifest.

“Mr. Grantham…I’m afraid you’re on the wrong plane.”

Let’s let that sink in for just a moment shall we. It bears repeating.

“Mr. Grantham…I’m afraid you’re on the wrong plane.”

How could that possibly be?

“You’re booked on flight 6999. This is flight 6997.” She handed my ticket stub back as if the act of doing so would miraculously empower me with the understanding of what was going on.

“You’re kidding? You have two flights going to Gatwick airport at the same time?” I asked, somewhat incredulously.

“Your plane is that one over there.” She said as she pointed out the window in the general direction of the night-enveloped tarmac.

I made a half-heartened glance over my shoulder as if I was really trying to see the other plane. I popped open the overhead bin and grabbed my bags. By now all the busybodies in the immediate vicinity were beginning to stare and talk amongst themselves. As I made my way back up the aisle I overheard someone ask, in a not-too-subtle tone,

“How did he get on the plane with the wrong ticket?”

I caught his eyes as I walked past, refusing to take the blame for this foul up. “Makes you wonder about the security procedures doesn’t it.” I said.

As I got to the door Jo stood there almost apologetically. “I’m on the wrong plane I guess. I’ll race you back to London.”
“Have a nice flight.”

I had no sooner stepped through the hatch than they swung it shut behind me. It was just about this time that I began to get a little anxious. Okay…. You let me get on the wrong plane. Where is the right one? Hello? Anybody going to help me out here? Suddenly, the people standing around only spoke Spanish. I increased me pace up the jet-way. As I made it into the waiting area I looked up at the departure sign and, sure enough, there were two different planes going to the same place. Flight 6999 was leaving from Gate 16. It indicated that final boarding had been called. I was at Gate 6. I broke into a run. If I had possessed this much speed and dexterity when I played high school football I would have gotten a scholarship. I weaved. I juked. I felt like vomiting. My head hurt and I thought I was getting a stitch in my side. I hope it’s a stitch and not a stroke. Up ahead I see my gate. What I don’t see is a plane. I’m looking out the windows. There’s a jet-way, but there’s no plane parked at the end of it. I come skidding to a halt just as they call my name for final boarding.

As it turns out, for reasons that were never given and for which I never asked, the plane was parked way out on the tarmac. We had to go down a set of stairs and then get bussed out to the plane where we would board the old-fashioned way; up a set off rolling stairs. I stepped down off the bus and walked to the rear off the jet. We are so far away from the terminal that the plane is shrouded in darkness, with the exception of the tail fin that brightly sports the suggestion of the Union Jack. I begin to climb the stairs. As I look toward to front of the plane it seems as if it’s being illuminated by a single 150-watt floodlight. I’m not sure why but I swing my camera from around my shoulder and take a picture. It all seemed so surreal.

I settle into 21F, slipping into it like a pair of old gloves. A flight attendant comes by to inform me that I am sitting in an exit row and asks me if I’m able to open the door in the case of an emergency. I tell her I’ve been reading up on it and that I’ve practiced at home. She seems satisfied. I take off my shoes and prepare my iPod and headphones. I feel myself relax as my body begins to shape itself to the form of the seat. I suddenly felt like Adam; of Adam & Eve fame. Or I imagined we shared a similar lot. Both of us being expelled from Paradise to some extent. Only I was over-dressed and was certainly less guilt-ridden. I closed my eyes and await the pushback, or whatever it is we’ll do to get this thing off the ground. I hear, as well as feel, the cabin door close and the change of pressure in the plane.

I look at my watch. It’s 8:20 pm. My Exodus is eminent. And then,

“…Something leaking from an air conditioning valve. This shouldn’t take too long to correct. Our flight time to London is scheduled at 4 hours, 10 minutes and just as soon as we’re in the air we’ll try to make up as much time as possible. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

Thirty minutes later we are finally ready to leave and head back to the emotional security of England. A flight attendant slides into the jump seat opposite me and buckles herself in. She’s a young, brunette with a slim figure. We exchange awkward smiles. That kind that is evitable when two strangers are forced to stare across at each other without the benefit of a formal introduction. I look down at her name tag. It says, Jo.

I ponder this for a moment and finally decide to break the ice. “Excuse me. I hate to seem intrusive, but does British Airways have a policy of protecting the identities of their flight crews?” As soon as I asked the question I knew it was a convoluted query. Even I was confused by the question.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s just that when I flew down here from London the flight attendant in that seat was also named Jo.”

“How odd. That’s really my name.”

“Wow. What a small world.”

Yes indeed. What a small world it had turned out to be.

14. Hurry Up and Wait

At 5:00 AM my alarm clock went off just like, well… clockwork. The only other things that I had taken out of my suitcase last night were my toothbrush, paste and razor so I didn’t have to waste time getting reorganized. I smiled as I stepped gingerly into the shower. It was a private joke. When I was married, and Jennifer would tell me that she was going to go hop in the shower I would playfully admonish her by pointing out how dangerous it was to “hop” in a shower: you might slip and crack your head open. It became part of the routine. She would announce her intention to hop in the shower and I would ask, “You’re going to do what?” to which she would respond, “I’m going to step gingerly into the shower.” I can’t imagine why that marriage didn’t last.

It felt so good to take a long, hot shower, as if the soap and lather were washing away the trials and tribulations of the past 12 hours along with the grit and the grime. The water kneaded my tired muscles. The steam opened up my lungs. Remind me to move indoor plumbing into the number one spot of things I can’t live without. Gold Rush brownies can take a back seat for a while.

I got dressed, pulled on my jacket, threw the backpack over my shoulder, grabbed up my suitcase, opened the door, walked out into the hall and took my first blind steps toward leaving La Gomera. Blind, because it was pitch black. In order to conserve energy all the hall lights were on timers. Switches outside the doors turned them on if you were coming or going after hours. I reached for the switch, snapped on the lights and made my way towards the stairs.

I had taken my key with me just in case I forgot something but when I got to the lobby it was still closed so I left the key inside the gate by the foot of the door. Dawn comes late to this side of the island, as the sun has to rise above the mountains to make its appearance. It was still essentially night then as I walked down the wide, open sidewalk under a canopy of stars. I reveled the opportunity to see such a magnificently star-filled sky one last time. Orion, Cassiopeia, Canis major and minor as well as Ursa major and minor kept me company. Somewhere to my right I could hear waves lapping against the black lava rocks that littered the island, forming what little coastal beach there is.

Life at the harbor was beginning to stir. I went into the ferry office and bought a one-way to San Sebastian. I already had my return ticket on the faster Fred Olsen Express that would take me last 40 minutes to Los Cristianos, on Tenerife. There weren’t many people buying tickets. I’m guessing that most people are coming to the island; not leaving it. I walked over to a café that overlooked the harbor. There were probably a half dozen men sitting at the bar inside. Judging by their dress and demeanor I’m guessing that they were fisherman. Most sipped on strong, black coffee. One drank a beer. I took my coffee and sat outside at a little bistro table, under a dim, yellow light that was mounted under the eaves. Out in the harbor I could see several fishing crews prepping their boats for the day’s catch. Their activity was silhouetted against the lights on their decks and was echoed by the reflections in the calm dark water. The result was a liquefied dance of fireflies.

It wasn’t until I was pouring sugar in my cup that I realized that I was at the same café where Cerstin had waited for me to arrive, 5 days ago. It’s amazing just how much life you can cram into a few days.

The huge diesel engines of the Garajonay Exprés came to life. I collected myself and my bags and strolled over to the gangway that awkwardly straddled the space between the dock and the boat. I stowed my bags (as I believe that is the correct nautical term) in the storage area just inside the cabin door and made my way towards the front, where I took a port side seat by the window. Not that it made for better viewing. The lights of the cabin reflected back the interior of the ship and, aside from the afore mentioned fishing boats, there were no other lights to be seen.

The ferry began to pull away from the dock. I could feel my body relax into the seat as either I formed to the contours of it, or it, me. I was finally on my way. The atmosphere in the cabin was subdued as most of the passengers had fallen back to sleep. My only company was a bad video dub of an old Jacque Cousteau special that emanated from small monitors mounted near the ceiling around the cabin. I expected it to be about the aquatic life and beauty of the Canary Islands. Instead, it featured their attempts to photograph hippopotamuses by building a fiberglass hippo body, sticking a camera in the mouth, and have two guys inside it walk into the herd in order to film hippos doing whatever it is that hippos do.

There was one quick stop at the second port before we swung round the southeast side of the island and made our way to the main harbor in San Sebastian. Dawn was peeking curiously through a curtain of low clouds: a gauze fabric of the deepest cerulean, like a theatre scrim used to hide the scenery until a light is shined upon it. The coast of La Gomera began to take shape, though my view of the island was streaked and smeared by a build up of sea salt and grime on the windows; creating a vista that seemed appropriately out of focus.

As we arrived in San Sebastian I could see the yellow and blue Fred Olsen ferry moored to the dock space in front of us. Its titanic, hulking form looming ominously over us. Normally “titanic” is not a word you want to use in describing a ship, but let’s face it; you read about these things sinking off the coast of African at least once a week. We had just coasted into our slip when the water behind the Fred Olsen ferry began to churn violently and this leviathan began to pull away from the dock. Well that was certainly ill timed I thought. There was no way I could have made that connection. So, it seemed as if the decision had been made for me: I’d just stay aboard and take this smaller passenger ferry over to Los Cristianos. We were moored for only about five minutes before we cast off from the dock to follow in the wake of the Fred Olsen Express.

An announcement came over the PA system, all garbled and blown out from the tinny speakers embedded in the ceiling. It was in Spanish. So unless they said the words “margaritas” or “papas” I was blissfully ignorant. Next came the German version. I never noticed what an unattractive language that was. Again, I listened but couldn’t recognize any key words or phrases. Finally, almost as an after thought, came the English version. If this had been an abandon ship alert we now know who’s going to die.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard the Garajonay Exprés to Los Cristianos…”
I was falling asleep.
“…. Please have your tickets available to show the stewards.”
I was awake.

I’m beginning to think that, just maybe, trusting Cerstin’s advice isn’t necessarily the best way for me to live me life. I watched as the attendants made their way through the cabin, going from person to person to check their tickets. I stood up and handed my ticket to one of them. When he saw that I had only booked as far as San Sebastian a worried look came over him. I held out my money; which I hoped was the international sign for, “Tell me how much more the fare is and I’ll pay it.” He looked at me, muttered a noncommittal, “Momento” and left.

After awhile he returned with another attendant; the same woman that had sold me the ticket in the first place.

“You did not tell me you were going to Los Cristianos when you bought your ticket.” Her tone surpassed suspicion. It bordered on accusatory.

“I hadn’t planned on staying aboard.” I proffered. “Look. I have a ticket for the Fred Olsen Express but it left before we got there.” I waved the ticket in front of her. She was unmoved. About this time a uniformed officer of some sort joined our round table discussion. They conversed in Spanish. It didn’t sound as if they were going to offer me a drink or any potatoes. The woman’s demeanor suggested she was leaning toward having me arrested. The officer just waved his hand, turned on his heel and left.

The woman wrote something in her notebook. “€18,25” She snapped.

I peeled off a €20 note and handed it to her. “I’m very sorry for the trouble.”

She pulled out a coin purse, ripped a receipt out of her book and handed them both to me: all without comment. I sat back down and tried to enjoy the remainder of the approximately 45 minute journey. The TV monitors flickered to life. Oh look… Philippe is gaining the trust of the baby hippo….

There were no further traumas. We docked in Los Cristianos and made our way off the boat. I was almost the last to disembark. Most of the cabs had already left with their fares. I approached the queue and stood behind a mother, father and teenage daughter. Obviously from Germany. A taxi pulled up. The father turned to me and asked if I’d like to share the cab with them? I gratefully accepted. We threw our things in the trunk and then they hopped in the back and I climbed in beside the driver. I turned slightly in my seat.

“Woher kommen Sie?” I asked
“Hamburg. And you?”
“Los Angeles. ”
“Los Angeles? An why did you come all the way to La Gomera?”

I thought about all the possible answers. About the obvious German connections and how, had it not been for a chance encounter with Cerstin in a smoky cellar jazz club in Berlin, I would never have thought about coming to the Canary Islands. I considered explaining that I worked as a tour guide at Kodak Theatre and how I had a month off while the Academy Awards ceremony was being prepared. I could have told them that I was going to London to meet an RAF pilot that had shot down Germans in the Battle of Britain and that this was a stop over. In the end I settled for the easiest explanation.

“I came for the mountain climbing,”

We rode in silence the rest of the way. At the airport we said our goodbyes and split the fare. It was 8:30 AM. when I walked into the terminal. The Sur Reina Sofia airport is probably twice as big as the Burbank’s Bob Hope airport. The only terminal is one large cavernous space. It’s sort of divided into two sides with a few restaurants and shops occupying the center. The generic ticket counters run along length of the back wall. A large departure board on either side of the terminal announces which counter will service which flight. So upon entering, I wasn’t able to walk up to the British Airways counter and inquire about an early flight out, as there was no British Airways counter.

The tote board only listed flights two hours in advance. If you were going to Seville you would wait until the board told you which counter to proceed to and then you would queue accordingly. In the meantime you had little choice but to sit in the main terminal and twiddle your thumbs.

I had a couple of time restraints that were weighing on me. One was trying to get out. The other was to not run into Cerstin. I think her flight was at 1:30. Knowing that she was leaving Valle Gran Rey at 10:30, that should put her here a little after noon. In the meantime, I was hungry. My choices were Burger King, a Spanish restaurant/bar and a cafeteria-type food court. I felt like I was straddling two worlds; one foot in Tenerife, the other foot in London. I decided that my foray back into the real world should begin with breakfast. I had done the island diet for five days. It was time to live a little.

“I’ll have a double cheese burger, large fries and a Coke.”

Never has bad food tasted so good. After that, I wandered around the terminal. I’d look up at the big board when I got to either side to see if a London flight had appeared. There was a duty free shop and an all-purpose store catering to the last minute shopping whims of the tourist class. I was dying for an English newspaper but the only thing they had were British tabloids with screaming headlines about some footballer’s wife that had posed nude or a scandal involving a Member of Parliament. Perhaps it was the same story.

I chose instead to sit out in the main terminal and read. Hours crept by. I’d walk around some more just to keep the circulation in my legs going. Ten o’clock came and went. Eleven… and still nothing to London. Not surprisingly, all the flights listed were going to either Germany or somewhere in Spain. The left side of the terminal began to show flights heading away from the Fatherland. I saw a Paris flight and one to Dublin. Somehow this end of the terminal seemed a better place to hang out. It was after noon and I knew that Cerstin must be here by now. I thought about what I would do if I saw her. I suppose it would depend on whether she saw me seeing her. I imagined looking up from my book and there she’d be; standing there. Luggage by her side. Looking up at the big board. I’d stand and stare at her. She’d look down and see me. I’d slowly approach. She’d look anxious. I’d walk up to her and give her a long, hard hug. And then I’d turn, without saying a word and walk away. In some respects that’s all I wanted to do from the very beginning of this trip. I hate to use the word “closure”. I hadn’t wanted our relationship, however awkward it had become to remain that way. I wanted it to end on my terms, which, I guess was to say, that there’s still a place for civility and kindness. That just because two people had wildly different views of how life should be lived it didn’t mean that they couldn’t enjoy some common ground.

As I sat there fantasizing about our encounter I knew that it would never happen. She was too single-minded of purpose. For reason’s known only to her she needed to sever the ties. Maybe she knew that an emotional slap in the face was the only way to wake me up to the reality that we would never be together. That by hurting me now, and in this way, I would get on with my life. I know she never believed that I had.
Whatever the reasons and whatever the causes, it was over. I sat on one of the marginally uncomfortable, black leatherette airport chairs and continued to read. If Cerstin had wanted to find me she could have, She didn’t: on either count.

Time crawled by more slowly than it does for a five-year old on Christmas Eve. City announcements came and went. By two o’clock I knew that Cerstin was gone. Now, at least, I had some sense of finality. An hour later the British Airways window opened. I asked them about an earlier flight. She looked at my ticket a moment and returned it to me. “That is the early flight.” I felt like the Cowardly Lion outside the Emerald City when the gatekeeper slammed the door shut after telling them that no one saw the great OZ. It looked as if I would be spending 12 hours in the Tenerife airport. I felt emptiness in my stomach. I was hungry again.

Another delicious meal at Burger King. The grease and high fat content was comforting; like wearing a warm, fuzzy sweater on the inside.

I called Alan and Tina to check in with them; to see is Alan had found some way to make it to London and meet Bob Doe with me. He was going to be stuck at home with the kids. When I told him what had happened to me he suggested that I come back to Manchester and hang out with him. I thanked him and said that I really needed to do what I had set out to do. He suggested that I grab a taxi and go down to the beach and relax as opposed to sitting in the airport all day. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Perhaps because there was no way to check in my bags, or anywhere to stow them, I decided not to go to the beach. I did however walk outside and across the street where I laid down on a low stonewall next to where the tour busses waited for their passengers and enjoyed the sun and tropical air.

Around six o’clock I wandered back into the airport. Still no information on my flight. At six-thirty I checked back to find that the London-Gatwick flight was now listed. I took my place in line behind a couple of families from the UK and a family from somewhere in the South: my guess was Atlanta or South Carolina. Normally I would have stuck up a conversation about “Where y’all from?” and “Do you know So-and-So?” but today it just seemed like too much trouble.

As I stood there, deciding not to interact with anyone, an elfin man with ruddy complexion and wild Andy Rooney-esque eyebrows approached me. As this was the only line for a flight to London-Gatwick he asked me what time my flight was. I told him 8:20. He showed me his ticket, which said that the flight was at 8:00. Same flight number. I told him that I hoped his was the correct time, as I wouldn’t mind leaving a bit earlier. I pointed out the British Airways ticket office and he wandered over there to inquire. A few minutes later he returned, saying his itinerary was misprinted. 8:20 was correct.

I stepped up to the counter and requested seat 21F. At least I knew that I’d have legroom. It would be night as we flew back so the lack of a window, at my window seat, wasn’t a concern. With a ticket in hand I was finally able to proceed through to the Gate area. Here I was greeted by more stores and places to eat. It wasn’t much better but the change of scenery was much appreciated. I found a British Pub, or rather the chain restaurant/airport version of a British Pub. I sat down in an over-stuffed leather reading chair and enjoyed a pint of bitters and a small tin of curry Pringles. It was then that I realized just how exhausted I was. I drained the glass and ordered another. I waited for the announcement to board the plane and leave this paradise behind.

13. The Longest Night

So down the hillside, from the bus station, I trekked; row upon row of banana plants on my left, the Atlantic Ocean to my right. Dusk was dawning as the sun slid into the ocean and disappeared, like a red plastic bobber pulled under the surface of the water by some unseen fish. The only remnants of the day were the crimson brush strokes that streaked the clouds hung above the horizon; a ball of cotton candy pulled apart, leaving billowy strands of spun sugar to dissolve in the evening sky.

With night fast approaching, my quest to find a place to sleep took on more significance. The good news was that I was now so concerned with this task that I had little time to feel sorry for myself. Mostly. I was so emotionally numb that somehow I was still able to function as a human being. Kind of.

As I made it back into the village of Vueltas I once again passed in front of the restaurant with the ratty apartments above it. The slovenly landlord yelled down at me.

“Apartamentos?” He was nothing if not persistent.
“No, Gracias.” I waved him off. Surely I could do better than that claptrap.

I remembered on our first walk together Cerstin pointing out to me all the flats with the letters AP next to the door. Those were apartments for rent she told me. Oh great; I’m thinking about Cerstin again. It’s times like these that the synapses in your brain start rapid firing, filling your head with all sorts of strange and disjointed thoughts. Should I have accepted that ROTC scholarship? What’s the Dolphin’s third round draft position? Did I leave the iron on? Why did I take French in high school? The last question really came home to roost. Growing up in South Florida I knew that I would leave to pursue a life of adventure. I distinctly remember thinking that I was going to move far away from anywhere that Spanish was spoken. I’ve now lived in Los Angeles for 27 years. How’d that work out for me? Say what you will about America first and English as the official language…. But it’s a sad state of affairs to have been around Spanish speakers for all this time and all I can say is “Uno mas Margarita, por favor.”

Up and down the streets I walked. I saw familiar faces of people I had been seeing all week. This is such a small village that I had befriended many of them as well. There was a husband, wife and daughter from Munich…. They had sat at the table next to ours after the second climb when Cerstin, Ule, Radiger and I were having a celebratory drink. Ironically that was at the restaurant/bar with the ratty apartments above it. They waved to me as a rolled near.

“Guten tag.” I said
“Hello.” They all chimed together.

They looked queerly at my bags; I’m sure they knew that there was no transportation off the island at this hour. I almost asked them if they had a spare room but that would have been terribly presumptuous. I just said that I needed to get to San Sebastian tonight so that I could get an early ferry over to Tenerife.

I saw the blond, Russian girlfriend of the German bar owner where Cerstin, Ule, Radiger and I stopped for our three absuchers the night Cerstin got sick. Damn…. Cerstin again.

“Dobre vercher.” I said
“Dobre vercher.”

She didn’t seem to give me or my appearance a passing thought. She’s a beautiful girl living with a successful businessman on a tropical island. No reason to be concerned with anyone else.

How it was that I didn’t run into Cerstin, Ule or Radiger is beyond me. You can walk down every street and pedestrian way; see every restaurant, bar and shop in five minutes. The entire village could easily fit with a tiny neighborhood block.

I knocked on doors. I rang bells. No one it seemed had a room for the evening. Most places would only rent for a week. Cerstin had mentioned that she had trouble getting our place with only a five-day rental.

It was now officially night. And dark. I must have cast quite a pathetic shadow as I dragged my suitcase past outdoor bars, under the faint, yellow/white glow of the ornamental lights strung in the branches of the trees that canopied over the walkways. Music was playing. People were laughing. Couples were wooing. During all this time I had been so single-mindedly concerned with finding shelter that I had given no attention to my other necessity; food. I needed to eat. It would also give me a chance to collect my thought and also warm up a bit. I didn’t want to eat in a place that was literally within sight of the apartment I had been staying at with what’s her name, so I walked back to the harbor entrance, which took about 1 minute.

There I had two choices; a couple of restaurants, side by side. Their respective doors sharing the same jamb, so that if there had been a doorman, he could have stood between them and held each door open at the same time. I stood outside on the crushed gravel parking lot (assuming that if anyone drove a car here to eat, this is where they would park) and looked through the windows of each restaurant. The one on the right was packed. The one on the left had hardly any customers. Judging by their signs and menus, both were seafood restaurants (what a surprise). Logic dictated that the one on the right was better, so with that as my barometer, I stumbled in.

Dragging myself and my bags into the tightly packed dining room I looked around for a small table. Quite a few heads turned in my direction. I must have looked like a fish out of water. I caught the eye of some innocuous staff person and held up one finger to indicate my seating needs. He looked around the main room, which we could both plainly see was full. He looked in to the back room and shook his head as a way of saying; You’re out of luck buddy. I turned for the door, knocking into chairs and the wall on my way out. Down four concrete steps to the parking lot. One step to my right. Turn. Up four concrete steps and into the door of the other restaurant.

The only diners here occupied the tables by the large picture windows, which, in the daytime would look out on the seawall that formed the harbor. Tonight it merely reflected back the inside of the restaurant. I sat in the middle of the room with my bags occupying two of the other seats. Not wanting to deal with a menu I pointed to the nearest diner who wasn’t eating squid, and indicated that whatever he was having was good enough for me. Oh…and uno cerveza, por forvor. I also ordered a basket of pommas, which I knew by now as the word for the Canary Island potatoes. Last chance for them.

I was hungry, yet I had no appetite. I hadn’t eaten lunch and there was no telling when I might have my next opportunity to eat so I wanted to take advantage of this calm port in the storm. I might as well have been eating Styrofoam peanuts. I could barely muster enough enthusiasm to bring my fork to my mouth. I stabbed at my fish, sipped on my beer and asked for the check. I made sure I took advantage of the restaurant’s indoor plumbing, as that too might become a rare commodity in the coming hours.

It was becoming painfully obvious (with the accent on “painfully”) that my best chance of finding a place to stay was to get to San Sebastian. It was the biggest town on the island so I assumed there would be more places to stay. I would call a taxi service and use the harbor as my pick up point. Otherwise I would have no idea how to explain where I was. Hello, could you send a taxi to take me to the other side of the island? …Yes, tonight; right away…. Well I suppose that does mean you would have to drive over the treacherously narrow, winding roads through the mountains…. Where am I now? Good question. Just go to the harbor. I’ll be the big, bald guy in a black leather jacket with a rolling carry-on suitcase and a laptop bag that can be used for mountain climbing. I might be crying but don’t let that put you off.

The payphone was just outside the harbor gate, about 50 yards from the restaurant. I took out the crumpled paper with the taxi company’s number on it; the one that the girl from the ferry service wrote down for me. I held it up under the dim light. I looked down at the dialing instructions. Spanish naturally. I could understand the amount of money that I was expected to deposit so I started pumping in the coins and punched the number. I got a recorded voice. I don’t know if it was informing that I had done something wrong or if I had reached the taxi company and they were closed. I hung up and tried again. Same result. Ok. So I will be staying in Vueltas after all.


Time was running out. It was 9:00 pm and I had been walking around for over 4 hours now. The night was chilling and my body was finally catching up to my mind in its exhaustive state. It was time to concede.
My options had run out. There was, after all, at least one place on this island that I knew had an apartment for rent. I turned down the narrow walkway and headed back to the restaurant with the ratty apartments above it. I entered the stairwell. There were no lights on. Obviously someone was trying to create the correct ambience for my mood. I trudged up the stairs and walked down to the last room where I had seen the man standing twice before. The door was open. The man was sitting at a table just inside of it. This must be his look out position. From his vantage point he could see tourists arriving from the harbor, carrying luggage. He obviously didn’t expect anyone to come around now, some four hours after the last ferry had arrived.

“Hola.” I frantically grasped for whatever Spanish I had picked up watching Zorro as a kid. “Habla Engles?”
“No. Engles.”

Great. Well, I couldn’t very well blame him for not speaking my language, under the circumstances. I was forced to continue on in English and rely on the fine art of pantomiming to convey my needs. I pointed at my luggage and then pointed at the floor.

“Apartamento?”
“Si.” He answered and then kept talking. He made no attempt to pantomime.

I held up my hands and shrugged; the universal sign for “I don’t understand.” He motioned me inside. The only illumination came from a small black and white TV. I now saw his wife, lying on the couch. She sat up and motioned me toward a fading calendar on the wall. I stared at it. Oh, for the love of God, why didn’t I know the Spanish word for “tonight”? I stabbed at today’s date with my finger and then pointed to my watch. I twirled my finger around the dial, which even the lowliest Bedouin would recognize as the symbol for the passage of time. I then held up one finger.

The wife took over the business end of the deal at this point. She stood and pointed at the calendar; underlining a week with her finger; the international symbol for “I’m screwed”. I shook my head. I held up one finger again. She looked over at her husband and back at me. She thought for what seemed like an eternity.

“Ochenta.” There was that word again. Eighty euros. They were out of their minds. They might think they had me over a barrel but they couldn’t make me get inside. I shook my head and held up my fingers.
“Quatro.” I knew that meant “four”, so hopefully she would understand that I meant it to be “Forty”.
She pointed to the calendar again.
“Ochenta.”

I was in no mood to haggle. I was in less of a mood to be taken advantage of. There had been enough of that today already. I held up my palm, hoping that the expression “Talk to the hand” had made it to this part of the world. I grabbed my bags and left.

Banging down the stairs I turned right and ended up by the music store where I had bought the CDs earlier in the day. It also doubled as an Internet café so it was still open for business. Regional music was wafting out of the entrance, which was a wide, open folding door. I rolled past and then suddenly stopped. I didn’t want my CDs anymore. I would never be able to listen to them without the memories of this last day over powering me. I turned around and went inside. The owner was behind the counter finishing up with a young, beautiful, happy German couple. I hated them.

It was my turn. I stepped up and he recognized me.

“Hello.” He said.
“Hi there. Listen. Here’s the thing. You remember the girl that I was with the other day? She bought five CDs yesterday…?”
“Ja.”
“Well, the truth is…. “

I took a deep breath. I had to pace myself.

“… She just broke up with me. She asked me to leave. And well, I don’t want the CDs I bought from you. It would be too hard to listen to them. Would you buy them back please?”

He stared incredulously at me as if I had just asked him to find another place to stay for the night. He blinked a few times. I couldn’t tell if he was processing the English to German nuances of my explanation or if was thinking of how to tell me to fuck off.

“Ja. I will buy them back from you. I am very sorry.”

Okay. So now I couldn’t hate the Germans on a wholesale scale. This guy was very genuine in his understanding of my dilemma. I fished the CDs out of my suitcase and handed them back to him. He gave me 34 euros. I thanked him for his generosity and started for the door. I hesitated.

“Do you know of anyplace I could stay tonight?”

He thought for a moment.

“There are some hotels on Avenuida Maritma the way to Playa. You might try there.”
“Danke. Tschüss.” May his children and his children’s children raise up their voices and call him a saint.

With renewed hope I once again lumbered down the cobbled stone street, past the markets and shops that were all closed or closing; past the bars that were all open or opening. I got to the main road that ran along the beach and headed away from the harbor. By now I was so familiar with the backstreets and byways of the Valley Gran Rey area and it’s tiny villages that I could hire myself out as a guide. I walked, maybe a half mile; I was on autopilot so the distance wasn’t nearly as much of a concern as was the destination itself.

Rolling down the wide, terra cotta tiled sidewalk now. Newly planted palm tress were equally spaced along my route: their drooping fronds smacking me in the face as I tried to duck under them. Up ahead, two middle-aged couples are leaning against a low wall that formed a raised planter that ran beside the sidewalk. They were sipping on fruity cocktails and conversing in German. A group of friends enjoying their vacation. As I rolled past them one of the guys let out a yelp and said something that I instinctually knew meant, “Hey! You just ran over my foot with your bag.”

Now, I might have been emotionally comatose at that moment but I was acutely aware of my surroundings. He had been joking to get a reaction from his friends and me. Besides, if I had hit his foot my bag would have tracked wildly and flipped over. At least that’s what it does when I’m in the airport and hit a seam in the rug. I didn’t even break stride or look back.

“That’s a good one.” I said as they continued their guffaws.

The attempt at a practical joke almost caused me to miss the hotel. There was an opening in the walled planter with a set of step that went down to a lower walkway. The hotel was located off that. I lifted by suitcase off the ground as I bounded down the steps, like a parent swinging their kid ahead of them as they walk. I entered the open lobby and reticently approached the girl behind the reception counter. She looked up pleasantly. I asked if there were any rooms available. Sorry. All booked. Weekends are always busy this time of year. I’m sure that my face and body language told a fuller story than my voice did when I asked if she knew of other hotels. She said that she didn’t know but she did suggest another hotel up the road.
I passed a couple of places that looked like they were private, seasonal condos before coming to what looked like a luxury apartment complex. I entered the courtyard trying to find the lobby and found a sign on a door that indicated that late check-ins with reservations should go to room 203. I wound my way up and around until I was standing in front of door with the number 203 on it. Unfortunately there were two doorbells; an A and a B. I rang A and a few moments later a tall, attractive brunette woman opened the door.

“Excuse me. Is there any chance you have a room available for this evening?” I posed the question; expecting the answer “No”, all the while trying to sound upbeat in order to mask my despondency.
“Do you have a reservation?” She asked.
“Would that help?”
“We are totally booked for the weekend, I’m very sorry.” Not half as sorry as I was….
“Do you know of anyplace that might have a room?

I must have looked like a dog lost in the rain. She seemed to sense that I was in a bad way. She stepped out her door and pointed down the street.

“You might try the Charco del Conde. It’s about 100 meters up the street; just past the bank.”

I had been to the bank earlier in the day to get money to give Cerstin for our apartment. That seemed like a lifetime ago. I thanked her and headed off toward Casa whatever it was she had said. Miraculously I found the place. I remembered it because of the thick wooden timbers that formed a wide stairway up from the sidewalk to the lobby. This afternoon there had been an ancient Great Dane sunning itself on the steps. I had tried to take a picture of her but she snorted and slowly moved off.

This building looked more like condos than a hotel. I lugged my bags up the stairs and into the deserted lobby. A woman came out from the office behind the counter. She was very cheerful and friendly. Her nametag said her name was Anna.

“Do you have a room available for tonight?”
“Just for one night?” She asked pleasantly but with a sense of confusion.
“Yes.”
“We rent by the week at €65 a night….” She began to explain.
“Oh.” I interrupted. I was crestfallen. “I only need a place to sleep for a few hours. I’m hoping to get the first ferry off the island in the morning.”

She looked me over empathetically.

“Did you just arrive?” I guess she was wondering why I was dragging around my luggage at 9:45 at night.
“No. Uh…Actually, I’ve already been here. I mean, I’ve been here for 5 days. The girl that I came here with just broke up with me.”
“I’m sorry. Why did she do that?” Anna asked.
"I don’t know. It was our last day together and she sent me a text message on my phone saying that she wanted me to find my own place to stay tonight.”
“On your last night together?”

I could feel the tears coming. Like at the bus station earlier; my body just wanted to collapse on itself.

“I can’t find anything.” I was surrendering.

Anna smiled. It was a kind and sympathetic gesture. We had shared an awkward yet honest moment and now she has to find a way to let me down gently.

“I could find you a small room for tonight.”

I’m sure I didn’t hear her right. She continued.

“It doesn’t have many features, but I can show it to you if you’d like to see it first.”

The rock that had been lodged in my chest exploded into a million pieces. I felt my shoulder relax and my body begin to unknot.

“Oh thank you so much. I really appreciate this so much. I’ll be gone by 5:30.”

Anna took my passport info and other particulars and showed me to my room. She apologized again as she unlocked the door.

“I’m sorry it is…do you say, 'No bones’?”
“Bare bones. Please don’t worry about that.” She opened the door and showed me the room. There was a living room with a couch, a small TV on a dresser and a dining table with four chairs.

“Does the couch unfold into the bed?” I inquired, though at this point I could have gratefully slept on the floor.
“Oh, the bedroom is in here….” Anna said as she opened another door. “And in here is your kitchenette…and over there is your bathroom.”

It was beyond expression. I couldn’t thank her enough. She said for me to get settled and then stop back by the reception desk before 10:00 so that I could sign my passport information. I told her I’d be right down. I brushed my teeth and laid out my alarm clock. Anna said she needed about 10 minutes. When I got there she had the paperwork ready and ran my credit card.

“I will only charge you €42 since you stay only a few hours.”

I wanted to hug this woman. After suffering through one of the worst days of my life; certainly a top three contender for all time relationship suckiness, I had been showered with a kindness that was immeasurable. We chatted for a while. She had been to Los Angeles but preferred San Francisco. I assured her that was usually the case. It was 10:00 now and Anna had to close the lobby. I had just gotten in under the wire. She told me to leave the key in the room when I left and she wished me a safe trip. I thanked her profusely and bid her a good evening as well.

Back in the room: My room, I turned on the TV. Finland was playing Russia in the Men’s ice hockey semi-finals. I carried the TV into the bedroom and put it in a chair at the foot of the bed. I undressed and slipped under the sheets. I was asleep within 5 minutes. The rest of the Longest Night would be spent in blissful slumber.

12. Paradise Lost

The next day, morning dawned, as it is likely to do, and I felt remarkably unaffected by the events and maladies of the previous night. Cerstin got the coffee going and set out the meat and cheese. I walked down to the market to buy fresh bread and some orange juice. The unsmiling girl that rings up the purchases tried to short change me. When she handed me my change I looked down at my palm and the loose coins she had given me. Admittedly I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer when it comes to foreign currency. I find British money particularly confusing with all its varied shapes, sizes and denominations. I usually end up just holding my hand open and let the shopkeeper pick out the correct amount and hope for the best. But this morning I knew that something was amiss and worse yet, I knew that the girl knew it too.

I pointed to the receipt, which was still in the cash register and then I pointed to the bread and juice. She gave me a troubled look like I was bothering her as she ripped the receipt out of the machine. The line behind me, which was long to begin with, had grown longer. I could feel the other shopper’s ire beginning to build. I turned to the person behind me and offered up an apologetic. “Es tut mir leid.” She shrugged non-committally.

Naturally, I couldn’t think of the Spanish word for “ten”, as in the ten euros I had given her. I pointed to the register and flashed my left hand at her two times to indicate the money I gave her and then I weighed the change in the right hand. She punched open the register and fished out the correct change without any display of fault or apology. Day One of using my elbows, I thought to myself as I walked out of the store.

As I stepped out the door and on to the narrow street I was almost run over by Radiger who literally ran around the corner on his morning jog.

“Morning.” We both said as he streaked past. He didn’t break stride and was soon out of sight.

Cerstin and I had our breakfast. It was a beautiful morning; warm and sunny, in contrast to yesterday’s cool, gray overcast demeanor. I assumed that today would be another day of rest. We talked about our schedules for tomorrow. I had booked a return to Tenerife on the Fred Olsen Express before I learned about the island shuttle that Cerstin had taken: the one that finally brought me to her four days ago. That seemed so long ago. She said that I should just book my passage to San Sebastian and stay on the ferry when it goes across to Tenerife.

“They don’t check tickets to know if you paid or not.”

That made sense. That way we could leave in the morning and be together at the airport until our flights left.

I cleared off the table and then sat down to read. Cerstin said that since this was our last full day on the island she would like to take a book down to the beach and have a little time to herself. That was fine by me and certainly understandable as this was in some respects “her” vacation. I said that I would hang out and do a bit of research for my meeting with Bob Doe and maybe wander around and take more photos since I knew that bored her.

She gathered up her things and headed for the door. I propped my feet up on her chair and cracked open “Spitfire Ace.” It was a compelling read, even knowing how it ended. I wrote down some questions I wanted to be sure to ask Bob Doe when I saw him and then I decided to go off on my own. I’ve never a big souvenir buyer, with the exception of music that reminds me of the places I’ve visited. That, coupled with my photos is all I really need. Besides, knick-knacks kind of freak me out.

I stopped by the music shop and asked the guy about the CDs that Cerstin had bought. I remembered what the covers looked like and asked to hear some samples. One was a really good guitarist from the African coast and the other was a compilation called “Music from Coffeeland” or something like that. I bought two of them.

I wandered through the streets looking for good photo ops and stopped by the Internet café. I hadn’t read a newspaper or seen a TV in 5 days so I had no idea what was happening in the world. I decided to remain blissfully ignorant and not read any news, so after I checked my e-mail I logged off. After a few hours of aimless wandering I was ready for some lunch. Unfortunately all the restaurants stop serving food between the lunch and dinner period. Even the markets closed for several hours in the late afternoon. I couldn’t even get a plate of potatoes so I settled for a couple of beers at an outdoor patio bar.

Just as I was finishing up my second beer my phone began playing “Sexual Healing”. Maybe Cerstin was back from the beach and was wondering where I was. I flipped open the phone to see that she had sent a text message.

“John. I’ve been at the beach all day thinking. I want you to get your own apartment for tonight. It was a mistake for us to get together.”

All the muscles in my upper body contracted into my gut and dragged my heart down with them. It was like extinguishing a fire by beating it out. This time the roiling in my stomach was definitely not the result of over exertion or of a bad piece of fish.

I stared at the display as though I expected the letters to rearrange themselves and deliver to me the real message. They didn’t change. They remained resolute and unwavering, like they had been etched into the screen.

I read the words again. I didn’t understand. I did. But I didn’t want to.

I was literally speechless. Not so much because there was nothing to say but because I had no one to say it to.

And that was that.

I threw a couple of euros on the table and walked back to the apartment. I was hyper-aware of everything around me and yet oblivious to it all at the same time. I had but one purpose: to get the Hell off this island. That was the extent of my game plan. Maybe I could get a plane out of here tonight. It was 4:45 pm. My flight tomorrow leaves at 8:00. It’s almost a 2-hour ferry trip to Tenerife and then a short taxi ride to the airport. I’d have to be very lucky to pull that off and at the moment I don’t think that I have any luck available.

I beat a path through the apartment like Sherman through Georgia. I grabbed my clothes and gathered all of my belonging and jammed them into my suitcase. The suitcase, ironically, that Jennifer had given me as a birthday present after she told me she wanted a divorce. I always appreciate a good bout of irony. I couldn’t find the case to my telephoto lens and I didn’t feel like wasting time searching for it. Hopefully it was crammed under a layer of clothes.

I reached in my wallet and peeled off 80 euros for the 4 nights that I had stayed there. I went back and forth about whether to leave anything at all but in the end I knew I would feel better if I at least lived up to expectations. If I were going to be a martyr for the cause it would be on my terms.

I hastily scribbled out a note and left it and the money on the bedside table. I thought about texting her back to say that I was out of the apartment but in a moment of spite decided not to. Let her deal with whether or not it was safe to come back to the apartment. I mean, what if I hadn’t gotten the message? What if I didn’t leave? Yes siree… I’d just leave and not let her know when the coast was clear. That would show her!

In the midst of all of this I thought. “How am I going to get Ule and Radiger their photos?” Maybe I should add a PS to my note and tell Cerstin to give my e-mail address to them so that we can stay in touch. Obviously I was losing my mind. She would have to deal with the “Where’s John?” question.

Rolling my suitcase down the stone streets and sidewalks I went to the harbor to check the ferry schedule. I walked into the office and the girls behind the desk looked up and simultaneously said, “We’re closed.”

“When is the first ferry in the morning?”
“6:35”
“What time did the last ferry leave?”
“4:25”

I looked at my watch. I had missed it by 35 minutes. I asked one of the girls how much a taxi ride to San Sebastian would cost. She looked at me as if I had just told her to leave the apartment that we were sharing.

“Maybe 50 euro.”

I asked how I could get a taxi and she wrote down a number for me. Maybe I was being over emotional and a bit sensitive but I got the impression that these girls trained at the same customer service center where the cashier at the market had.

As soon as left the ticket office I heard the door lock behind me. Here’s you hat, what’s your hurry? I started down the main (and only) road that led from the harbor. I had no idea where I was going. Cerstin and I were supposed to leave on the 10:45 ferry tomorrow. I certainly wasn’t going to wait around for that. What if she had the same idea? Maybe she would try getting out early to avoid me. This was getting stupidly convoluted. No: I figured. Anyone that would tell someone to leave on their last night together was probably not the person to change their plans and leave early. So I would take the 6:35 tomorrow. Better yet, I’d get to San Sebastian tonight and get the first ferry out of there in the morning. That would get me an hour closer to leaving.

I must have looked very conspicuous walking down the road with a laptop backpack slung over my shoulder and dragging a rolling carry-on suitcase behind me. I was accosted every 100 yards or so by guys in cars that would pull up and ask, “Apartamento?”

“Nein. Danke.”

When I was passing by a restaurant that had apartments on the two floors above it a slovenly guy in a wife-beater yelled down at me from the railing of the second story. “Apartamento?”

“Nein. Danke.” I have no idea why I was answering them in German.

I flagged down a taxi and asked him how much it would be to take me to San Sebastian. He looked at his watch and then at his gas gauge and said something with the word “ochenta” in it. I instinctively understood that to mean “80”. I backed away from the taxi and waved him on. I might be miserable but not enough to pay 80 euros for what would be a 6-euro bus fare. Hey wait a minute! I can take a bus to the other side of the island. We had passed the station yesterday on our way back to Vueltas. It was only a couple of miles up the road. And so I walked. And walked, And walked. I never saw another taxi the whole way. Did I mention that it was uphill? Not a terribly steep grade, but as the road veered away from the beach, it started to rise with the contour of the land. As I got to the station I saw a couple of busses parked in their slots. I walked around the small building that served as the ticket office and it was locked. I found a scheduled mounted on the door. Last bus to San Sebastian – 4:00 pm. That was the last straw. I was physically and emotionally defeated. I had no life left in me.

I set my bags down and lowered myself to the bench. I wanted to cry. With every fiber of my being I just wanted to open up the floodgates and get it over with. I pulled out my phone and dialed a girl’s number. Why her? Why then? I couldn’t tell you. In the midst of my vulnerability I settled on someone that I thought could later forgive me during my moment of total emotional collapse. We had dated briefly a few years ago. I was quite smitten with her back then and probably still was now but things hadn’t work out. One evening I had invited her over for dinner. I had prepared a full on Southern meal. Corn bread, black-eyed peas, cheese grits and grilled Cajun catfish. Everything was timing out perfectly. I opened the oven to check on the catfish and the Pyrex tray I was using exploded. Glass and catfish went everywhere. I just stood there dumbfounded. I was crushed. I had so wanted to make an impression that I had placed everything on this one dinner. The scene was so ridiculous that I could have easily laughed it off. Instead, I started to tear up. I stood in the middle of my kitchen; spatula in hand, and cried. She took me by the hand and led me outside where it was cool and she hugged me. She settled me down by saying that it was no big deal. Not to worry… and all the while probably realizing that I wasn’t the guy for her. It was soon there after that she said she didn’t want to go out with me anymore. It took me a while but I got over her. Mostly.

It was probably 8:30 in the morning in L.A. The phone rang. The connection was made.

“Hi. You’ve reached….” Her voice mail was directing me to leave a message at the tone. I wasn’t paying attention. BEEEEEP. The sound panicked me. I was supposed to be saying something. What did I want to say? Why was I bothering a friend?

“Uh…hi. It’s me.” I was making the assumption that she would recognize my voice. “Oh boy. I really wish you were there right now….” I could feel my eyes start to well up and my voice was beginning to waver. “Oh well. I guess I’ll talk to you later.” I might have told her that I missed her. I might have even said that I loved her. I don’t remember ending the conversation. If I offered up either of those salutations it was purely in the deepest sense of friendship. I had snapped the phone shut and sat there on the bench looking at the bus that wasn’t going to take me from here. I took a very deep breath and let it out as slowly as I could. Looks like I was heading back into Vueltas.

I grabbed up my bags and started off down the hill. Along the beach and past the banana groves.

How do I get myself in these situations I thought. Here I was, on the brink of an emotional meltdown, my pride, like the exploded catfish, all about me. I had held this week up to impossibly high expectations, just as I had done with that dinner years before. And now I was walking alone along a beach on a foreign island off the coast off Africa without a place to stay or the ability to speak the language. This time there was no one to lead me by the hand and hug me and tell me that it was going to be all right.

I weighed my situation; both emotionally and intellectually. It didn’t seem as if things could get any worse. In fact, that’s a phrase I’ve always avoided. I much prefer to say that things can always get better. With the weight of the world on my shoulders I shrugged, and I think that it was at that moment that my Grinch heart grew three sizes.

As I headed back down the road with no idea of where I was going or where I was sleeping tonight I had an epiphany.

“Could be worse. Could be raining.”

I actually laughed when I thought about that line form “Young Frankenstein.” Now, at least, I knew I’d make it through this. I wonder what would have happened if I’d laughed when the catfish exploded?