Day 1 • Aug. 30

We awoke at 6:20 a.m. at my parents’ house and quickly got ready to catch our 7:25 a.m. flight.  Dad zipped us over to the airport.  It was nip and tuck, but we made it with 10 minutes to spare to catch our connector flight to JFK Airport.  We breezed through JFK and boarded the Pan Am jumbo jet to England.  Someone, however, was sitting in our seats.  And it wasn’t Goldilocks.  The airline either didn’t think we’d make the flight or else booked more passengers than they had coach seats; whatever, it worked out splendidly for us because they seated us in Clipper Class.  Life is good in Clipper Class—extra wide seats (two abreast), ample leg room, Champaign (French no less), and elegant dining (hors d’oeuvres, salmon, brie cheese, etc.).

We slept a couple of hours on the flight, although we could have watched the in-flight movie for free with our complimentary Clipper Class head sets.  We arrived in Heathrow Airport at 8:45 p.m. local time.  It was too late, we learned, to convert our Underground voucher into a pass, which costs us nine dollars.  Before we tackled the Underground, we each had a pint of beer in the airport terminal.

I called the St. George Hotel to confirm the reservations that I’d made earlier in the week, and I again spoke with Mushi.  He said that he would have a room for us, sort of, but you really have to Mushi to understand the “sort of.”

Taking the Underground to Paddington Station proved to be a trying experience, primarily because the “District Line” was such a disjointed route.  The prohibition against smoking in the Underground also didn’t help.  But with guidance from the locals, we eventually found our way to Paddington Station.  Then we headed off to find St. George’s Hotel on Norfolk Street (or Ave. or whatever it was).  I asked a couple of young Brits if they knew how to get to Norfolk Street.  They told us that there was no street in the area by that name.  I showed them the street on the map, to which they replied, “Oh, you mean ‘Norfick’ [the British pronunciation].”  Once that was cleared up, they told us how to get there and in minutes we were.  In hindsight, we should have accepted that there was no such street and looked for other digs, because the St. George’s Hotel was a complete dive.  It came with no shower, no breakfast, no in-room bathroom, a lumpy bed, and a single naked light bulb hanging by a threadbare wire from the ceiling high above.  And to top it off, we couldn’t figure out how to turn the damn thing off.  This place was crummy and creepy.

Hungry, thirsty, and unable to bear our room, we headed out into the pleasant night in search of food and beer.  We found food, shish kabobs, but there was no beer to be had.  London still turned off its taps at 11:00 p.m.  We ate in our dingy room, then read a bit.  Afterwards, we tried to turn out that damn bald-ass light bulb directly overhead, but never succeeded.  We finally went to bet about 1:00 p.m.—with our clothes on.

Highlight:  Clipper Class

Lowlight:  First prize is a week at the St. George’s Hotel.  Second prize is two weeks at the St. George’s Hotel.  Hell is eternity at the St. George’s Hotel.