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.