What a glorious morning!
It’s 7:30 in the morning London time, my first morning to waken here, and the skies are blue as the ocean I flew over yesterday afternoon. The temperature is in the high sixties, and I am writing in a small garden area behind the home of my Notting Hill host.
It’s 7:30 in the morning London time, my first morning to waken here, and the skies are blue as the ocean I flew over yesterday afternoon. The temperature is in the high sixties, and I am writing in a small garden area behind the home of my Notting Hill host.
My son-in-lawn, Mike Miller, drove me to Dulles Airport early Sunday morning, the feast day of Corpus Christi. After he dropped me at the United Terminal, I stopped a moment to retrieve something from my toiletries kit and promptly sliced open a knuckle on my left hand. So there I was, bleeding profusely from the knuckle, not a tissue in the world, and trying to punch my boarding information into a kiosk. Eventually, I found the restroom, washed the blood from my hand, and applied pressure with a piece of brown paper hand towel.
In the boarding area I linked up with John, and after an hour, we entered the plane, a Boeing 757. Here in economy class we were packed elbow to elbow with our neighbors. The stewards were gracious and helpful, and throughout the flight ran their carts of drink and food up and down the narrow aisle. The wait at the latrines at the back of the plane was a relief from sitting, and I kept giving up my turn in the line to others merely to remain standing for a longer time. The quarters were so cramped that we who were in the line often had to move into the tiny kitchen to allow for the passage of carts and for passengers coming out of the tiny restroom.
We landed on time, at which point the aircraft shambled about the tarmac for a while. The first person I saw in Heathrow was a man way out on the tarmac walking a tiny dog and carrying a surfboard. Once inside, John and I hustled from place to place—luggage, customs, and even some sort of pre-customs—and then headed at last to the exit to find the man whom you see in the photograph. I snapped the picture because I am reasonably sure I will never again be met by a driver at the airport, a circumstance arranged by Geoffrey Kittredge, then gentleman with whom we were staying.
The driver, a native of Pakistan who has lived in London for more than forty years, got us to Geoff’s home in Holland Place/Notting Hill in twenty minutes. Geoff greeted us warmly at the door, welcomed us inside, and showed us to our rooms. I am staying in a study at the back of the house overlooking gardens and patios while John is camped out in the spacious basement quarters. We poured some drinks and visited until nearly one in the morning. (That’s London time). Geoff is an attorney for a large international firm, and he filled us in on certain details regarding the house and his family: his wife Susan and his sons Lyndon, age 7, and Raffie, age 3.
Later I stepped into the tiny patio at the back of the house, breathed the air, and could still scarcely believe I was in London. The night was still and cool, and beyond the brick walls one of the great cities of the world was an adventure waiting to happen.
In the boarding area I linked up with John, and after an hour, we entered the plane, a Boeing 757. Here in economy class we were packed elbow to elbow with our neighbors. The stewards were gracious and helpful, and throughout the flight ran their carts of drink and food up and down the narrow aisle. The wait at the latrines at the back of the plane was a relief from sitting, and I kept giving up my turn in the line to others merely to remain standing for a longer time. The quarters were so cramped that we who were in the line often had to move into the tiny kitchen to allow for the passage of carts and for passengers coming out of the tiny restroom.
We landed on time, at which point the aircraft shambled about the tarmac for a while. The first person I saw in Heathrow was a man way out on the tarmac walking a tiny dog and carrying a surfboard. Once inside, John and I hustled from place to place—luggage, customs, and even some sort of pre-customs—and then headed at last to the exit to find the man whom you see in the photograph. I snapped the picture because I am reasonably sure I will never again be met by a driver at the airport, a circumstance arranged by Geoffrey Kittredge, then gentleman with whom we were staying.
The driver, a native of Pakistan who has lived in London for more than forty years, got us to Geoff’s home in Holland Place/Notting Hill in twenty minutes. Geoff greeted us warmly at the door, welcomed us inside, and showed us to our rooms. I am staying in a study at the back of the house overlooking gardens and patios while John is camped out in the spacious basement quarters. We poured some drinks and visited until nearly one in the morning. (That’s London time). Geoff is an attorney for a large international firm, and he filled us in on certain details regarding the house and his family: his wife Susan and his sons Lyndon, age 7, and Raffie, age 3.
Later I stepped into the tiny patio at the back of the house, breathed the air, and could still scarcely believe I was in London. The night was still and cool, and beyond the brick walls one of the great cities of the world was an adventure waiting to happen.
RSS Feed