Well, morning arrived on the day I had come to dread. I wasn’t ready to leave England, yet. I was ready for another two weeks.
Mark fixed a light breakfast and then headed out to pick up Sue from Holly’s, leaving me alone to start packing.
When I finished packing and lugged my bags down to the bottom of the stairs, I went into the living room and found Mark and Sue in front of the telly watching game 3 of the World Series!! Though the game wasn’t being broadcast live, it was a current broadcast of a recorded game! Very quickly I sat down and answered Mark’s questions for the lesson that had been denied us earlier in the week by the fluky television schedule!
All too soon, however, it was time to go. Mark helped me load my bags into the Defender, and after a long hug with Sue, we were off to London.
The ride was no different. We talked the whole way. We arrived at Heathrow too soon for our liking, and were suddenly muttering our reluctant farewells. The visit had turned out to be much more fun than I had anticipated, and I had anticipated a great, wonderful time. And now it was at its end. I did my part to keep the good-bye brief, as I’m sure I would have been in tears before much longer. I already missed those old Limeys!
The flight was on time and, after the usual hassles of air travel before ever getting on the plane, I was on the plane and heading west. One final joy of the trip was encountering the elderly(!) male flight attendant whose name on his food service smock read “Benjamin A. Dover.”
Yes, I met a real, living Ben Dover!!
I returned home much later that evening to the quiet dread of my empty, post-vacation apartment, with only memories, continued correspondences and Skype calls with Mark — and now this journal — to keep the trip alive.
It sucks to be back.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
The Birmingham Sojournal - Day Nine
Surprisingly, after the good buzz I had the night before at the Man of Ross, I felt quite well when I woke up. I hopped in the shower, got dressed, and headed downstairs where Colin and Mark were already preparing the traditional English breakfast for all of us...minus the black pudding, because Colin assumed I wouldn’t like it!
We ate up, and then we all headed down across the estate to the bank of the river. It was a pleasant walk on a beautiful, sunny morning, past a horse stable, across a lush pasture with sheep in the distance, down a rutted cart path to another meadow beside the river.
It was the walk back up that was the killer! SHEESH!
After another coffee(?) we piled into the Defender and headed to a place called Symonds Yat, a gelological formation where the river Wye, over the eons, has cut a gorge out of a hillside and created a breathtaking view of the valley below. We met an ornithology buff who appealed to both Colin and me for different reasons. Colin, an ornithology buff himself, was intrigued by this man’s — his name was Tony, by the way — interest; I was interested in talking to Tony because he was using a Canon XL-H1 HD video camera with a Canon 28-300mm zoom lens to record nesting falcons on the craggy rock wall about a half-mile away!
We stopped for a drink of water at the kiosk there, and then back into the Defender to return to Colin’s place. Once there, we had to say good-bye to Stu, who was eager to return to Bristol and, I recall, a meeting with another friend.
Very soon after, Mark and I also said our good-byes to Colin, as he was expecting another overnight guest — a birdwatching friend — very shortly.
More driving and more chatting got us home in what seemed like no time.
I don’t remember dinner that evening, though I’m sure we ate something. Then it was time for some more wine, telly and chat. Sue was still off at Holly’s, so Mark and I had the telly, the wine, and the stash of movies all to ourselves. It became somewhat of a movie marathon. I had never seen Bowfinger, so we watched that. It was as quirky as I thought any film written by Steve Martin would be. And just as clever! Then I indulged Mark by letting him expose me to Withnail & I a very British film about two out of work actors who “escape” London for a few days in the countryside. Next was About a Boy, a cute movie starring Hugh Grant as, guess what... a charming ladies’ man ...who hits on a great idea for picking up chicks: tell them he’s a single father. Awkward hilarity ensues.
Just when we both thought we were finished, I mentioned to Mark that I thought one of the co-stars of Withnail & I had appeared in The Max Headroom Story back in the 1980s. Though he remembered Max Headroom, he had never known of a film about the “origins” of Max Headroom. Strictly only to find the actor I thought was in the movie, I found it on YouTube in four parts. Mark was thoroughly intrigued, and we wound up watching the whole thing! OOF! Was I tired! And the actor wasn't the same guy! As I was leaving the next day, we just didn’t want to stop. But fatigue won out, and we retired.
We ate up, and then we all headed down across the estate to the bank of the river. It was a pleasant walk on a beautiful, sunny morning, past a horse stable, across a lush pasture with sheep in the distance, down a rutted cart path to another meadow beside the river.
It was the walk back up that was the killer! SHEESH!
After another coffee(?) we piled into the Defender and headed to a place called Symonds Yat, a gelological formation where the river Wye, over the eons, has cut a gorge out of a hillside and created a breathtaking view of the valley below. We met an ornithology buff who appealed to both Colin and me for different reasons. Colin, an ornithology buff himself, was intrigued by this man’s — his name was Tony, by the way — interest; I was interested in talking to Tony because he was using a Canon XL-H1 HD video camera with a Canon 28-300mm zoom lens to record nesting falcons on the craggy rock wall about a half-mile away!
We stopped for a drink of water at the kiosk there, and then back into the Defender to return to Colin’s place. Once there, we had to say good-bye to Stu, who was eager to return to Bristol and, I recall, a meeting with another friend.
Very soon after, Mark and I also said our good-byes to Colin, as he was expecting another overnight guest — a birdwatching friend — very shortly.
More driving and more chatting got us home in what seemed like no time.
I don’t remember dinner that evening, though I’m sure we ate something. Then it was time for some more wine, telly and chat. Sue was still off at Holly’s, so Mark and I had the telly, the wine, and the stash of movies all to ourselves. It became somewhat of a movie marathon. I had never seen Bowfinger, so we watched that. It was as quirky as I thought any film written by Steve Martin would be. And just as clever! Then I indulged Mark by letting him expose me to Withnail & I a very British film about two out of work actors who “escape” London for a few days in the countryside. Next was About a Boy, a cute movie starring Hugh Grant as, guess what... a charming ladies’ man ...who hits on a great idea for picking up chicks: tell them he’s a single father. Awkward hilarity ensues.
Just when we both thought we were finished, I mentioned to Mark that I thought one of the co-stars of Withnail & I had appeared in The Max Headroom Story back in the 1980s. Though he remembered Max Headroom, he had never known of a film about the “origins” of Max Headroom. Strictly only to find the actor I thought was in the movie, I found it on YouTube in four parts. Mark was thoroughly intrigued, and we wound up watching the whole thing! OOF! Was I tired! And the actor wasn't the same guy! As I was leaving the next day, we just didn’t want to stop. But fatigue won out, and we retired.
Friday, October 29, 2010
The Birmingham Sojournal - Day Eight
In the morning, after breakfast, Mark and I loaded Tom and Mia into the Defender and headed for the (name?) Reservoir. It’s a big, somewhat oval hole in the ground surrounded by green pastures and sparse woodlands. Mark told me it was dug by hand in Victorian times, and has been used as a reservoir ever since. Anyhoo, it was a nice, leisurely walk of about an hour, though the temperature and wind combined for a bit of nip on my nose. At one point along the walk, Tom’s attention was riveted on... nothing in particular off to one side. Mark explained that on one past walk around the reservoir a couple years ago, Tom had spotted a rabbit scampering along down there, and every time since then, when they reach this spot, Tom looks for that rabbit! Dogs amaze me sometimes.
We returned to the homestead and readied ourselves for our overnight at Colin’s in Ross-On-Wye, about an hour’s drive to the southwest(?). We were both just a little nervous about meeting our mutual blogger friend, Stuart Goodall, the Ultra Toast Mosha God, with whom we had arranged to meet, finally, during my visit.
Before heading Ross-ward in earnest, we stopped at a Tesco supermarket to get a few things. I bought a jar of Picalilli and some Yorkie chocolate bars. Mark hit the ATM, and bought a few items, such as zip-close plastic bags (for my Picalilli). It was kinda fun to browse a bit and see all the different items in an English supermarket, and to notice which things were the same as in the States, which were different, and which things were entirely unheard of at home.
As had become our usual, along the route Mark and I found no topic that wasn’t worth gabbing along about until our throats were raw, and before we knew it, we were descending into the Wye valley.
Mark had received a text from Colin during the drive, advising us that he was heading off to the grocery for a few items, and what time he expected to return. When we arrived in Ross, we had about a half-hour to kill, so Mark decided to give me a tour of the area.
Ross is on the river Wye, and as such is a picturesque little town in a picturesque valley area. Mark turned down a narrow lane that, had I been on my own, I would have avoided for the assumption that it was a private road. Mark assured me that it is not private. There’s no telling how old these lanes are, as they are between ancient hedgerows that border all the farmland. The earthen part of the hedgerows rise up to almost the rooftop level of the Defender, and the dense foliage tops off a good two to three feet above, creating the perception that I was riding through a tunnel. Each road has a series of lay-bys to be used when two vehicles approach each other; one would have to pull into the lay-by in order to allow the other to pass. That’s how narrow these lanes are! Soon it was time to get to Colin’s, but Mark, having as much fun driving these lanes as I had riding, was now unsure, exactly, where we were, and more unsure of how to get us back. Then the lane we were on suddenly went private, as indicated by a couple of small signs.
The river Wye. I didn't have time to turn off the damn flash,
or get out of the Defender. But you get the idea.
The sun was getting low in the sky, presenting us with great blasts of orange and red in the western sky, but it also meant we were running out of daylight. Mark turned the unwieldy Defender around in an impressive 8-point turn on a sloping three-way intersection, and he backtracked his way out of there.
Very soon we were pulling in to Colin’s cottage complex. He lives in a former resort estate, renting a very cozy, little, two-bedroom terrace cottage. No sooner had he made me a cup of coffee and they had left me to watch Band of Brothers on DVD in the living room while they made some tea, than Stuart arrived from Bristol, about an hour’s drive further southwest(?).
For some reason, I had more confidence than Mark did that we should get along well with Stu, though I had room left in my conscience for doubt. But as soon as he walked into Colin’s cottage and we all exchanged handshakes and hellos, I was comfortable and at ease with him. Stu seemed quite at ease, too. Later, Mark and Colin confessed the same ease upon the meeting.
We chatted briefly while Colin fixed Stu a cup of (I believe) tea, and while Stu sipped his, and I finished my coffee. Then we piled into a taxi and headed into Ross proper and to the Man of Ross.
I came to understand the role of the pub while in England. Where I originally thought of it as strictly a tavern, it is most indeed not. Yes, a pub serves libations, and people frequent it to meet with friends, or for a date, but it seems many married couples stop in for a pint and to catch up on the doings of their friends. It is truly a family place, usually with a full menu available, and it’s a nice evening out. Unlike a tavern or bar, a pub actually closes somewhat early, around 11:00pm or midnight.
And so did the Man of Ross. Colin, Mark, Stu, and I took a table amid a good crowd in the rather small dining room, and Mark took our drink and dinner orders to the bar. We each partook of a pint of (Doom?) while we waited for our food to arrive. I ordered the sirloin steak from the specials menu, and I was chagrined to learn that the others all ordered the salmon. That meant only one thing: no matter how good my steak might be, I would regret not ordering the salmon.
We had a great conversation, with Stu now adding to the mix. As the youngest of our bunch, but probably the most well-traveled — or at least the most exotically traveled — Stu provided fascinating insight to our talk. He’s also a drinker to match the stamina of Mark and Colin, so they felt more at ease while they outpaced me 2 to 1!
Our food came, and where I hadn’t been sure which of the side dishes — peas, steamed mushrooms, onion rings, and chips or baked potato — listed on the specials board came with it when I placed my order, I was shocked to find that it came with all of them, and the choice of potato (I think I got the chips)! The boys got their salmon and, though it was very good, and prepared the way I prepare it, with the skin still on, and despite my embarrassment at how much food was on my plate (I looked such the American!!), I was not sorry I didn’t order the salmon. Mark let me taste his, and it was very good. But my steak, despite it being a sirloin, was very tender and tasty!
After we finished our meals, we retired to the drinkin’ side of the pub, near the bar. I bought the next round for my second pint to their third. We talked about British and American television shows, and the absurdity of censorship in the free society of the United States of America. Stu answered the challenge of a fairly attractive woman (who was there with her man) to attempt to pick up a folded (card?) from the floor without using his hands or touching the floor with anything but his feet. He came oh-so-close, but could not do it. I didn’t even imagine I could try. The woman then demonstrated, to the delight of every man in the place who had the rear view, that she could meet her own challenge!
Someone bought a round of whiskys (Jameson’s?), and I was feeling a little buzzy. Mark and I, having often discussed the sitting before a roaring fire somewhere with a glass of single malt and a cigar each and setting the world to rights, got no closer to the idyll than the Man of Ross, two fingers of Irish whisky, and these teeny, tiny little cigarillos that we had to smoke outside, because the Man of Ross is a smoke-free pub!
Someone bought a second round of whiskys, and I was feeling mighty fine. But then the proprietor of the Man of Ross started shooing people out, as he was trying to close the place. I was sort of hoping for a lock-in, which Mark had described to me at some point during the earlier days of the visit, but it did not appear to be imminent. So a taxi was called, we returned to Colin’s, had a coffee and a little more chatting, and then to bed.
We returned to the homestead and readied ourselves for our overnight at Colin’s in Ross-On-Wye, about an hour’s drive to the southwest(?). We were both just a little nervous about meeting our mutual blogger friend, Stuart Goodall, the Ultra Toast Mosha God, with whom we had arranged to meet, finally, during my visit.
Before heading Ross-ward in earnest, we stopped at a Tesco supermarket to get a few things. I bought a jar of Picalilli and some Yorkie chocolate bars. Mark hit the ATM, and bought a few items, such as zip-close plastic bags (for my Picalilli). It was kinda fun to browse a bit and see all the different items in an English supermarket, and to notice which things were the same as in the States, which were different, and which things were entirely unheard of at home.
As had become our usual, along the route Mark and I found no topic that wasn’t worth gabbing along about until our throats were raw, and before we knew it, we were descending into the Wye valley.
Mark had received a text from Colin during the drive, advising us that he was heading off to the grocery for a few items, and what time he expected to return. When we arrived in Ross, we had about a half-hour to kill, so Mark decided to give me a tour of the area.
Ross is on the river Wye, and as such is a picturesque little town in a picturesque valley area. Mark turned down a narrow lane that, had I been on my own, I would have avoided for the assumption that it was a private road. Mark assured me that it is not private. There’s no telling how old these lanes are, as they are between ancient hedgerows that border all the farmland. The earthen part of the hedgerows rise up to almost the rooftop level of the Defender, and the dense foliage tops off a good two to three feet above, creating the perception that I was riding through a tunnel. Each road has a series of lay-bys to be used when two vehicles approach each other; one would have to pull into the lay-by in order to allow the other to pass. That’s how narrow these lanes are! Soon it was time to get to Colin’s, but Mark, having as much fun driving these lanes as I had riding, was now unsure, exactly, where we were, and more unsure of how to get us back. Then the lane we were on suddenly went private, as indicated by a couple of small signs.
The river Wye. I didn't have time to turn off the damn flash,
or get out of the Defender. But you get the idea.
The sun was getting low in the sky, presenting us with great blasts of orange and red in the western sky, but it also meant we were running out of daylight. Mark turned the unwieldy Defender around in an impressive 8-point turn on a sloping three-way intersection, and he backtracked his way out of there.
Very soon we were pulling in to Colin’s cottage complex. He lives in a former resort estate, renting a very cozy, little, two-bedroom terrace cottage. No sooner had he made me a cup of coffee and they had left me to watch Band of Brothers on DVD in the living room while they made some tea, than Stuart arrived from Bristol, about an hour’s drive further southwest(?).
For some reason, I had more confidence than Mark did that we should get along well with Stu, though I had room left in my conscience for doubt. But as soon as he walked into Colin’s cottage and we all exchanged handshakes and hellos, I was comfortable and at ease with him. Stu seemed quite at ease, too. Later, Mark and Colin confessed the same ease upon the meeting.
We chatted briefly while Colin fixed Stu a cup of (I believe) tea, and while Stu sipped his, and I finished my coffee. Then we piled into a taxi and headed into Ross proper and to the Man of Ross.
I came to understand the role of the pub while in England. Where I originally thought of it as strictly a tavern, it is most indeed not. Yes, a pub serves libations, and people frequent it to meet with friends, or for a date, but it seems many married couples stop in for a pint and to catch up on the doings of their friends. It is truly a family place, usually with a full menu available, and it’s a nice evening out. Unlike a tavern or bar, a pub actually closes somewhat early, around 11:00pm or midnight.
And so did the Man of Ross. Colin, Mark, Stu, and I took a table amid a good crowd in the rather small dining room, and Mark took our drink and dinner orders to the bar. We each partook of a pint of (Doom?) while we waited for our food to arrive. I ordered the sirloin steak from the specials menu, and I was chagrined to learn that the others all ordered the salmon. That meant only one thing: no matter how good my steak might be, I would regret not ordering the salmon.
We had a great conversation, with Stu now adding to the mix. As the youngest of our bunch, but probably the most well-traveled — or at least the most exotically traveled — Stu provided fascinating insight to our talk. He’s also a drinker to match the stamina of Mark and Colin, so they felt more at ease while they outpaced me 2 to 1!
Our food came, and where I hadn’t been sure which of the side dishes — peas, steamed mushrooms, onion rings, and chips or baked potato — listed on the specials board came with it when I placed my order, I was shocked to find that it came with all of them, and the choice of potato (I think I got the chips)! The boys got their salmon and, though it was very good, and prepared the way I prepare it, with the skin still on, and despite my embarrassment at how much food was on my plate (I looked such the American!!), I was not sorry I didn’t order the salmon. Mark let me taste his, and it was very good. But my steak, despite it being a sirloin, was very tender and tasty!
After we finished our meals, we retired to the drinkin’ side of the pub, near the bar. I bought the next round for my second pint to their third. We talked about British and American television shows, and the absurdity of censorship in the free society of the United States of America. Stu answered the challenge of a fairly attractive woman (who was there with her man) to attempt to pick up a folded (card?) from the floor without using his hands or touching the floor with anything but his feet. He came oh-so-close, but could not do it. I didn’t even imagine I could try. The woman then demonstrated, to the delight of every man in the place who had the rear view, that she could meet her own challenge!
Someone bought a round of whiskys (Jameson’s?), and I was feeling a little buzzy. Mark and I, having often discussed the sitting before a roaring fire somewhere with a glass of single malt and a cigar each and setting the world to rights, got no closer to the idyll than the Man of Ross, two fingers of Irish whisky, and these teeny, tiny little cigarillos that we had to smoke outside, because the Man of Ross is a smoke-free pub!
Someone bought a second round of whiskys, and I was feeling mighty fine. But then the proprietor of the Man of Ross started shooing people out, as he was trying to close the place. I was sort of hoping for a lock-in, which Mark had described to me at some point during the earlier days of the visit, but it did not appear to be imminent. So a taxi was called, we returned to Colin’s, had a coffee and a little more chatting, and then to bed.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The Birmingham Sojournal - Day Seven
Sue works on Thursdays, so Mark was up with her, and to walk the dogs, and I slept in. It was planned to be a lazy day, as we were really just waiting until evening for Sue to get out of work, at which point we were all going to dinner at Las Iguanas, a “Latin American” restaurant in city centre.
When I woke up Mark made us some breakfast, which, I do believe, was what he called Gypsy Toast: slices of bread dipped in egg and pan fried, and then served with cheddar(?) cheese sandwiched between two slices of the egg-fried bread, and covered with HP brown sauce. It was very savory tasty goodness. The English — or at least mark and Sue — don’t care for sweet things in/on their bread. As Mark dipped the bread in the egg goo, I asked him it he was making what we Americans call French toast. He said that he was not, that he knows what French toast is, and that it’s not very popular in the UK. And I don’t know if there is an abundance of maple syrup in the UK, for that matter...though most of what we call maple syrup here is actually high fructose corn syrup with maple flavoring and artificial color. But I digress.
After breakfast it was my turn to teach Mark about an American pastime. We sat in front of the telly, and he maneuvered through his DVR's on-screen menus to get to the World Series game he had recorded a couple nights earlier on one of the sports channels he gets through his cable service...only, when he started it up, there was no game. Instead, the channel that listed the game in the schedule had run a highlights program about the 2006(?) World Series. Poor instructional value, that, so we fell back and punted to the American football game he had also recorded earlier in the week! To my surprise, it was an edited version of the game, where most of the stopped clock activity, and even some of the kickoffs(!), were omitted in order, it seems, to keep the action moving.
It was a challenging, fun experience trying to teach someone the game; the concept of “the downs” is really tough to one who hasn’t grown up playing and watching the game, and I think I clarified it for Mark. He seemed to enjoy the play once he understood a few of the whys, and what some of the penalties meant. Also of interest to him were the technical aspects about passes caught at the sidelines and the goal lines. His DVR’s pause function, and the video’s slo-mo replays were extremely helpful in demonstrating to Mark how the pass receiver’s feet both need to be in contact with the ground before he goes out of bounds, and how only the ball in the carrier’s possession need cross the goal line in order for a touchdown to be scored. I also learned how exhausting it can be to teach someone the game of American football! But it was fun indeed!
I think this was the day Mark made chili for lunch. It was from a can, which he had heated and poured over rice. I mention this not as a criticism, but for the surprise when I looked at the can. I don’t remember the brand name on the label, but the labeling itself looked suspiciously familiar. And then I found the Hormel logo! I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. It’s as though they own chili.
After lunch, Mark helped me with my lines for the play I’m in at Northeastern Illinois University, Around the World in Eighty Days. He helped in two ways: first in helping me with memorization, by reading my cue lines and helping when I got stuck; second, by identifying and tutoring me on certain accents I’m capable of doing. My English newspaperman is from the south country! We ran through my lines a few times and then called it quits.
I can’t remember, now, but I think this was also the day that Mark, due to the late night previous and his early wake-up with Sue, felt a pressing need for a nap. I left him to his rendezvous with his sofa, and I retired upstairs, ostensibly for a nap, but I wound up catching up on e-mail and Facebooking for about an hour.
Then we got ourselves ready to head into city centre to meet Sue at the movie theater where she works. One of Sue’s bosses is pretty cool, and he happened to be working this evening, so he let Mark park the Defender in the theater’s employee car park. Sue had just come out the door as we pulled in, so we were immediately on our way to the restaurant.
It was a new experience for me, as I had not been to city centre at night. The air was a bit crisp, but it was nice. I had on my heavy brown coat, but I had to leave it unzipped. We arrived at the restaurant court. It wasn’t a “food court” like we have at malls in the U.S.; this was an area with three or four (or five?) nice, elegant, semi-fine dining establishments. Las Iguanas sits on the second level atop the stairway. Mark and Sue had been talking all week about Las Iguanas, and on the ride over, Mark spoke of his eagerly awaited indulgence of a drink called the “mojito.” I told him that it was pretty popular in the States, but that I don’t care for minty drinks.
The exterior of Las Iguanas struck a very familiar chord with me, as it reflects the same Latin American themes as similar restaurants in the U.S. do. I was very interested in sampling Mexican food as interpreted through the English culinary palate! We stepped inside and were met with yet another very familiar American-style setting, with a hostess at a kiosk bedecked with a telephone, a computerized seating chart, and stacks of menus.
And, unfortunately, we were greeted with yet another all-too-familiar American theme: a 90-minute wait to be seated. On a Thursday?! SHEESH!
So, on a day where he had learned about the source of the American phrase “drop back and punt,” Mark looked at Sue and said, “Zorba’s?”
The Greek restaurant was a mere thirty steps away from Las Iguanas, and was almost empty. Zorba’s has a very nice, calm atmosphere, with Greek music softly seeping in through speakers all over the dining room. It was interesting to see most of the same items on the menu as in Greek restaurants at home, though the saganaki doesn’t seem to be as popular in the UK; nobody in the place ordered the flaming spectacle while we were there.
I don’t remember what Mark and Sue ordered, but I did sample what they had, and it was very good. I think Sue ordered the veggie lasagna. I ordered a very traditional Greek-style pork dish. There were lots of vegetables piled on top of the generous portion of meat. I didn’t miss Las Iguanas one bit.
We ended the evening at Zorba’s with drinks. Even though it wasn’t listed on the drinks menu, Sue and I convinced Mark to ask the bartender if he knew how to — and would — make a mojito. He knew how to, but couldn’t. He didn’t have all the ingredients. Sue ordered a big, pink, sweet, fruity concoction; Mark ordered a whisky drink, I think; and they both marveled at the number of different liquors that combine to create my Long Island iced tea. Despite all of them, I really didn’t feel anything from the drink. I had gotten fuzzier from the wine we had had on the other nights earlier in the week.
Back at home we settled in with some more wine, some more telly, and my favorite part, the conversation. Sue went to bed, leaving Mark and me to ourselves to watch No Country For Old Men. What a disturbing, unfulfilling movie. It was intense and suspenseful, but I didn’t care at all for how it ended. It really felt like they forgot to tack on an ending.
When I woke up Mark made us some breakfast, which, I do believe, was what he called Gypsy Toast: slices of bread dipped in egg and pan fried, and then served with cheddar(?) cheese sandwiched between two slices of the egg-fried bread, and covered with HP brown sauce. It was very savory tasty goodness. The English — or at least mark and Sue — don’t care for sweet things in/on their bread. As Mark dipped the bread in the egg goo, I asked him it he was making what we Americans call French toast. He said that he was not, that he knows what French toast is, and that it’s not very popular in the UK. And I don’t know if there is an abundance of maple syrup in the UK, for that matter...though most of what we call maple syrup here is actually high fructose corn syrup with maple flavoring and artificial color. But I digress.
After breakfast it was my turn to teach Mark about an American pastime. We sat in front of the telly, and he maneuvered through his DVR's on-screen menus to get to the World Series game he had recorded a couple nights earlier on one of the sports channels he gets through his cable service...only, when he started it up, there was no game. Instead, the channel that listed the game in the schedule had run a highlights program about the 2006(?) World Series. Poor instructional value, that, so we fell back and punted to the American football game he had also recorded earlier in the week! To my surprise, it was an edited version of the game, where most of the stopped clock activity, and even some of the kickoffs(!), were omitted in order, it seems, to keep the action moving.
It was a challenging, fun experience trying to teach someone the game; the concept of “the downs” is really tough to one who hasn’t grown up playing and watching the game, and I think I clarified it for Mark. He seemed to enjoy the play once he understood a few of the whys, and what some of the penalties meant. Also of interest to him were the technical aspects about passes caught at the sidelines and the goal lines. His DVR’s pause function, and the video’s slo-mo replays were extremely helpful in demonstrating to Mark how the pass receiver’s feet both need to be in contact with the ground before he goes out of bounds, and how only the ball in the carrier’s possession need cross the goal line in order for a touchdown to be scored. I also learned how exhausting it can be to teach someone the game of American football! But it was fun indeed!
I think this was the day Mark made chili for lunch. It was from a can, which he had heated and poured over rice. I mention this not as a criticism, but for the surprise when I looked at the can. I don’t remember the brand name on the label, but the labeling itself looked suspiciously familiar. And then I found the Hormel logo! I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. It’s as though they own chili.
After lunch, Mark helped me with my lines for the play I’m in at Northeastern Illinois University, Around the World in Eighty Days. He helped in two ways: first in helping me with memorization, by reading my cue lines and helping when I got stuck; second, by identifying and tutoring me on certain accents I’m capable of doing. My English newspaperman is from the south country! We ran through my lines a few times and then called it quits.
I can’t remember, now, but I think this was also the day that Mark, due to the late night previous and his early wake-up with Sue, felt a pressing need for a nap. I left him to his rendezvous with his sofa, and I retired upstairs, ostensibly for a nap, but I wound up catching up on e-mail and Facebooking for about an hour.
Then we got ourselves ready to head into city centre to meet Sue at the movie theater where she works. One of Sue’s bosses is pretty cool, and he happened to be working this evening, so he let Mark park the Defender in the theater’s employee car park. Sue had just come out the door as we pulled in, so we were immediately on our way to the restaurant.
It was a new experience for me, as I had not been to city centre at night. The air was a bit crisp, but it was nice. I had on my heavy brown coat, but I had to leave it unzipped. We arrived at the restaurant court. It wasn’t a “food court” like we have at malls in the U.S.; this was an area with three or four (or five?) nice, elegant, semi-fine dining establishments. Las Iguanas sits on the second level atop the stairway. Mark and Sue had been talking all week about Las Iguanas, and on the ride over, Mark spoke of his eagerly awaited indulgence of a drink called the “mojito.” I told him that it was pretty popular in the States, but that I don’t care for minty drinks.
The exterior of Las Iguanas struck a very familiar chord with me, as it reflects the same Latin American themes as similar restaurants in the U.S. do. I was very interested in sampling Mexican food as interpreted through the English culinary palate! We stepped inside and were met with yet another very familiar American-style setting, with a hostess at a kiosk bedecked with a telephone, a computerized seating chart, and stacks of menus.
And, unfortunately, we were greeted with yet another all-too-familiar American theme: a 90-minute wait to be seated. On a Thursday?! SHEESH!
So, on a day where he had learned about the source of the American phrase “drop back and punt,” Mark looked at Sue and said, “Zorba’s?”
The Greek restaurant was a mere thirty steps away from Las Iguanas, and was almost empty. Zorba’s has a very nice, calm atmosphere, with Greek music softly seeping in through speakers all over the dining room. It was interesting to see most of the same items on the menu as in Greek restaurants at home, though the saganaki doesn’t seem to be as popular in the UK; nobody in the place ordered the flaming spectacle while we were there.
I don’t remember what Mark and Sue ordered, but I did sample what they had, and it was very good. I think Sue ordered the veggie lasagna. I ordered a very traditional Greek-style pork dish. There were lots of vegetables piled on top of the generous portion of meat. I didn’t miss Las Iguanas one bit.
We ended the evening at Zorba’s with drinks. Even though it wasn’t listed on the drinks menu, Sue and I convinced Mark to ask the bartender if he knew how to — and would — make a mojito. He knew how to, but couldn’t. He didn’t have all the ingredients. Sue ordered a big, pink, sweet, fruity concoction; Mark ordered a whisky drink, I think; and they both marveled at the number of different liquors that combine to create my Long Island iced tea. Despite all of them, I really didn’t feel anything from the drink. I had gotten fuzzier from the wine we had had on the other nights earlier in the week.
Back at home we settled in with some more wine, some more telly, and my favorite part, the conversation. Sue went to bed, leaving Mark and me to ourselves to watch No Country For Old Men. What a disturbing, unfulfilling movie. It was intense and suspenseful, but I didn’t care at all for how it ended. It really felt like they forgot to tack on an ending.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
The Birmingham Sojournal - Day Six
Today Sue was scheduled to babysit their daughter Holly’s son Ben for the day, so Mark had decided that, after breakfast, he would take me for a stroll through city centre in Birmingham.
Sue had walked over to her mum’s(?) to pick up Ben and brought him back, and we were around long enough to get to play with him a bit. He’s apparently a very energetic toddler, and I had the feeling, as Mark and I left, that Sue had been left to some sort of punishment. Torture by child.
Birmingham's city centre has changed very little, if at all, from 2005. The only difference I could see was the barricades around the fountain dubbed “The Floozy In the Jacuzzi;” She was undergoing some repairs, and the workmen were actually finishing up.
This is not "The Floozy In the Jacuzzi,"
but, apparently, Queen Vicky had quite
a set of hooters!
We walked a little bit, I took a few photos — the sky was crystal clear blue — but I had covered it in 2005 with Mark and Ashley and Ed. The circumstances did however afford Mark and me more time to just sit and chat. And watch the lovely English girls walk by. ...well, I did. Mark is a married man, and thus doesn’t do such things...though he did point out several for me to gawk at....
It's only a model....
There was a group of college-age people standing with some weird contraptions on tripods. I thought they were maybe some sort of camera, though I didn’t seriously think so. Mark thought there might be some place to eat inside the mall, so we went in.
We found a fairly large panini sandwich shop; think sandwich shop ethos with a restaurant interior. It seemed a nice place. The food was pretty good, and I fell in love with yet another beautiful Englishwoman seated a few tables away from us.
Afterward Mark and I headed to The Walkabout, an Australian — or at least Australian-themed — pub. We each had a pint of Foster’s and I tried to at once figure out what NASCAR documentary ESPN was showing on the telly hung in the corner, and explain the American fascination with NASCAR. I think I failed at both.
From The Walkabout, we headed back home. I think. On the way back through the city centre I approached the young people with the strange contraption and asked what they were doing. It turns out they were doing a study of the eye/hand correlation regarding the perception of slope. I’d explain the contraption, but it’s really not worth it.
When we arrived home, Sue was gone to return Ben to Holly. Not long after we got home, Sue arrived, and not long after that, Mark ran out to get some real fish and chips. We ate them in the living room on lap trays while watching telly. And it was good.
The rest of the night, as I recall, was spent chatting with Mark and Sue in front of the telly, sipping wine... and maybe Dura single malt Scotch (Mark and I, anyway) ...and we may have watched a movie or two. If we did, memory fails.
°
(Photos ©2010 Tony Gasbarro)
Sue had walked over to her mum’s(?) to pick up Ben and brought him back, and we were around long enough to get to play with him a bit. He’s apparently a very energetic toddler, and I had the feeling, as Mark and I left, that Sue had been left to some sort of punishment. Torture by child.
Birmingham's city centre has changed very little, if at all, from 2005. The only difference I could see was the barricades around the fountain dubbed “The Floozy In the Jacuzzi;” She was undergoing some repairs, and the workmen were actually finishing up.
This is not "The Floozy In the Jacuzzi,"
but, apparently, Queen Vicky had quite
a set of hooters!
We walked a little bit, I took a few photos — the sky was crystal clear blue — but I had covered it in 2005 with Mark and Ashley and Ed. The circumstances did however afford Mark and me more time to just sit and chat. And watch the lovely English girls walk by. ...well, I did. Mark is a married man, and thus doesn’t do such things...though he did point out several for me to gawk at....
It's only a model....
There was a group of college-age people standing with some weird contraptions on tripods. I thought they were maybe some sort of camera, though I didn’t seriously think so. Mark thought there might be some place to eat inside the mall, so we went in.
We found a fairly large panini sandwich shop; think sandwich shop ethos with a restaurant interior. It seemed a nice place. The food was pretty good, and I fell in love with yet another beautiful Englishwoman seated a few tables away from us.
Afterward Mark and I headed to The Walkabout, an Australian — or at least Australian-themed — pub. We each had a pint of Foster’s and I tried to at once figure out what NASCAR documentary ESPN was showing on the telly hung in the corner, and explain the American fascination with NASCAR. I think I failed at both.
From The Walkabout, we headed back home. I think. On the way back through the city centre I approached the young people with the strange contraption and asked what they were doing. It turns out they were doing a study of the eye/hand correlation regarding the perception of slope. I’d explain the contraption, but it’s really not worth it.
When we arrived home, Sue was gone to return Ben to Holly. Not long after we got home, Sue arrived, and not long after that, Mark ran out to get some real fish and chips. We ate them in the living room on lap trays while watching telly. And it was good.
The rest of the night, as I recall, was spent chatting with Mark and Sue in front of the telly, sipping wine... and maybe Dura single malt Scotch (Mark and I, anyway) ...and we may have watched a movie or two. If we did, memory fails.
°
(Photos ©2010 Tony Gasbarro)
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
The Birmingham Sojournal - Day Five
My gracious hosts, Mark and Sue, at Weston-Super-Mare.
Today was an earlier wake-up than what had been the norm for the week. Actually, it was a scheduled wake-up, whereas up to that point it had been a wake-up-whenever week. The reason for getting up early was our planned day-trip to Weston-Super-Mare in the southwestern coastal area. One reason Mark and Sue wanted to take me there was that it’s a place I want to visit on my dream journey, retracing my father’s wartime footsteps through Europe. His unit arrived first in England, and one of their training stops was Weston. And I learned why the moment I stepped out of Mark’s Defender: Weston’s seashore is a vast, wide, long, smooth beach, and it looked to me very similar to the coast in the photos I’ve seen of the Normandy beachhead. Mark said that, though it looks very sedate, it’s very treacherous out in the far reaches of the beach at low tide because of quicksand.
Low tide at Weston-Super-Mare. Photo: DarkFarmOwl
The downer for the day was the rain. Thus far in autumnal England, the weather had been superb, perhaps even flawless. But, of course, the one day we planned to go out sightseeing is the day England got her typical English autumn weather. It didn’t matter a great deal, as we still walked along the beach parkway, and to the end of the pier, where we had some salt & vinegar chips (which is what we call french fries in the States).
Taking the rain as the English do: in stride. With Sue, Tom,
and Mia. Photo: DarkFarmOwl
Chowing on chips at the end of the Grand Pier in Weston.
I appear to be totally absorbed in my food.
Photo: DarkFarmOwl
The sky fell on us in a steady, miserable drizzle, and we were all in varying degrees of soaked. The dogs even seemed less than enthused. We walked back along the pier, stopped for a spot of tea, which Mark bought for the three of us, only to bring back a somewhat discouraging, though hilarious, account of the “help” not being very helpful when Mark, who only has two hands, needed to carry three very hot take-away cups of tea.
I’m not sure if it was today or earlier that I amused and infused Mark with the concept of “number three,” in reference to the evacuation of body waste. Where “number one” is going pee, and “number two” is taking a dump, I created a third term, “number three” when you have to do both number one and number two. I mean, come on! It’s the kind of simple math that I can do!
Tom the greyhound once again proved, at Weston, that he is the king of number two. No fewer than three times in less than an hour did he grace the beachfront pavement with the remnants of his most recent meal. I however, claim the title of king of number one. The sudden reintroduction of copious amounts of caffeinated products to my diet brought ceaseless amazement to Mark, whom Sue has described as a “camel.” But it may have something to do with his two humps, so I’m not entirely sure.
We left Weston and headed for Glastonbury. To my recollection, it was only about a half-hour drive from Weston, but I could be mistaken. Glastonbury is the location of an annual music festival, cleverly called The Glastonbury Music Festival, which, to my understanding, very closely resembles Woodstock, to include the dancing naked in the mud; the free sharing of venereal diseases; and the three-day, mushroom-induced blackouts. However, as this year’s festival had long since ended, we contented ourselves to a stroll through the town’s high street, where Sue bought a box of incense while Mark and I stood on the walk and ogled wom... er, the really cool old building across the street from the incense shop.
A Glastonbury street scene.
We walked a few doors down and through a funky corridor into a small courtyard area where we stopped for lunch at The Blue Note Cafe, a cool little earthy kind of place that harks of the endangered Heartland Cafe in Chicago. Mark and Sue, dedicated omnivores, both recommended the veggie burger from this place, so we ordered a round with chips and tea, and we dined out in the rainy courtyard under an overhang while the dogs gazed longingly at us, and two young women — Blue Note employees — sat on the stoop for a ciggy and snuggles with the dogs.
We returned to the car park at Glastonbury and, before we hit the road again, I had to make a “number 3” pit stop. There, in the car park, were several loos of the future. One walks in and shuts and locks the door; unbeknownst to the user, closing and locking the door starts a timer. Everything in the bathroom is automated. The toilet is a cold, one-piece, stainless steel cousin of your basic, standard prison cell toilet. There is a touch sensor on the wall beside the toilet for flushing...no moving parts. The wash basin is literally a hole in the wall, a stainless steel rectangular box into which you stick your hands. Supposedly soap dispenses onto your hands, after which a timer, which has been set for the average amount of time it takes for the average person to wash his average hands to average cleanliness, begins its timing sequence. After the average hand-washing time, the average hand-rinsing time commences, during which the average amount of water is dispensed. Next, the timer switches on the hand dryer, which blows warm air for the average amount of time it takes to dry the hands. All this takes place in the same little rectangle in the wall. No drippies on the floor. The drawback for me was that the soap never dispensed, so I had only rinsed hands. And dried. Fortunately, despite how slow I am, I was out of the restroom before the alarm sounded, a device designed to deter squatters from camping out in the bathrooms overnight.
Then we loaded up in the Defender again, and we headed to the town of Wells, the recent claim to fame of which is that the film Hot Fuzz — or at least parts of it — was shot there. The film history aside, Wells is an interesting little town. There’s a huge church there, which is apparently the home of a bishop, which, if I recall correctly, is very castle-like and surrounded by a real moat!
[It is my sincere hope that Mark will read these posts and provide the clarity that I lack.]
The (formerly Catholic) cathedral at Wells.
MOAT!
By this time in the day the rain had mostly stopped, though there were a few spots of fine mist in the air. We left Wells and rolled on to Cheddar Gorge, which is the birthplace of cheddar cheese. No, really. Being that it’s a gorge, it was nestled in a geographically interesting area, with what I would never have guessed, had I seen it in photos, would be found in England. The road wound back and forth through the gorge and climbed its way past craggy rock cliffs up to... a rather boring area up top, and pointing us in much the wrong direction. So we turned around and, my ears popping as we zig-zagged along our way, wound back down to the river and town.
Cheddar Gorge.
I would post more photos of me, but I have the same stupid
look on my face in all of them.
Photo: DarkFarmOwl
The dam at Cheddar.
But it was closed. Well, not the town, but everything in it...except the “licenced traditional” chippie...which didn’t give away free samples of cheddar cheese. As night fell, we decided against breaking and entering and theft, and we simply got back into the Defender, and we left. And I intentionally made that previous sentence rhyme.
Our day’s exploring done, we wound our way back through the countryside and, despite Mark’s valiant efforts to avoid it, through the city of Bristol.
Before we arrived home, we stopped once again at an “Off Licence” for some wine.
I can’t for the life of me remember what we did for dinner that evening. It was fairly late when we got in, though Mark’s estimate of our arrival around 8:15pm was spot on!
I’m pretty certain we watched some telly, and we might have even watched Children of Men this night instead of Monday night.
Tom
Mia
All photos by Tony Gasbarro, except where noted.
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Birmingham Sojournal - Day Four
Years ago — I was still living in Georgia — Mark and I traded attempts at explaining our respective national pastimes to each other...to equal failure. Mark already had a passing understanding of baseball, though there were a few things he couldn’t figure out on his own. I knew absolutely nothing about Cricket, though it looked like something baseball could have come from.
After breakfast, Mark pulled out, with some measure of glee, The Ashes – 2005, a DVD record of the 2005 Cricket match between England and Australia, a huge rivalry that has raged for years, and which England won, despite a late surge by Australia.
Where a particularly grueling duel between baseball teams can seem to go on for days, a typical Cricket match does go on for days! I don’t recall how it’s all broken down, but they will play all day until sundown, and then pick up again the next day and play just as long, and then go again the next day. I think they play until someone dies of boredom, and then they call it a match.
But, seriously, with the highlights of the match to use as a guide (all the slow, boring bits were edited out, and the video showed only the scoring and the outs), Mark’s explanations gave me a much clearer understanding of the game than I ever thought I would care to have! And, even though I knew England wins it, the late surge by Australia to within 12 runs (and, believe me, that is an extremely narrow margin!) was pretty exciting!
In order that I could return the favor, Mark perused the television schedule and found a baseball game (San Francisco Giants v. Texas Rangers... WORLD SERIES!) to record later.
Mark and I later hopped into the Defender and he conducted a motor tour of Birmingham, commencing first with a crawl through Small Heath, which could also be labeled “Little India,” according to his descriptions. We made a meandering circuit, taking in the Birmingham Football Stadium, where Mark’s beloved Birmingham City Football Club (the Blues) play; Edgbaston Cricket Grounds, site of the 2005 Ashes match; the former site of the Rover Cars factory, which has since been leveled and appears to be in development of some new housing site; and Lickey Hills, which was the source of the urge within me to titter, but I contained it for fear of offending Mark, a concern I learned, through the course of the week, was entirely unnecessary. There we took a brief walk to the top of Beacon Hill, overlooking the whole of the city of Birmingham. Throughout the entire trip Mark and I talked and talked, in topics ranging from American politics, to British politics, to race relations, to cars, to women, to personal experiences falling off rocks... my throat was already sore, and I’d only been there two days!
The view of Birmingham from atop Beacon Hill.
Photo: Tony Gasbarro
After the tour we headed back home...I think. We gathered up Sue, I think, and we headed out again to visit their daughter Gemma and grandson Hayes, I think. Their son-in-law, Dave, was away at work, definitely. Gemma is pregnant with her second child, due in about 8 weeks, so she looked at once happy and uncomfortable. Hayes’s birthday was approaching, so Mark and Sue, being the proud and doting grandparents, had brought along sacks of birthday gifts for him. The boy was pleased.
After about an hour or so at Gemma’s, we headed back home. I think. More chatting ensued.
The view down Mark's street in this middle-class Birmingham
suburb. Photo: Tony Gasbarro
As night fell, Mark, Sue, and I headed over to Mark’s folks’ again and gathered up his Mum, and then we drove about a half-hour to Earlswood, and to the Red Lion pub. Mum was fun, and full of questions for me! She’s very quick-witted with a great sense of humor, and she didn’t seem as old as I expected her to be.
Dinner at the Red Lion was wonderful. I had some sort of lamb (again) stew followed by, I’m not certain, though, a slice of apple pie on a sea of custard. The custard I’m sure of, but the pie I’m not. Whatever I had, it was good.
A quick drive back and Mum was tucked away, and we headed once again to the “Off Licence” for some wine, and back home for some chat and wine, and I believe we watched Up. Mark has, as he characterizes it, “acquired” some films, and he happened to have Up in his inventory. I had strongly recommended this movie to them, and upon my arrival, they had not yet watched it.
As the film started, I noticed that all the titling was in French, to include that in the “newsreel” footage which starts the film. Knowing that Mark “found” this copy, there was no telling what language the soundtrack was going to be. Fortunately, the characters were speaking English, though; also fortunately, there were no subtitles. Fortunately for Mark and Sue, I had already seen the film twice, so in moments crucial, apparently, to French-literate viewers where writing on screen was in French, I was able to translate, such as in Ellie’s scrapbook, titled, “My Adventure Book,” the page where she has scrawled, “Stuff I’m Going To Do,” and, later, when the old man discovers that she had added stuff there, her handwriting, “Thanks for the adventures. Now go make some of your own!”
As I had warned them, they did cry, and as I had assured them, they loved the film!
Afterward, we either chatted some more and watched some telly, or Sue went to bed, and Mark and I watched Children of Men. Or that might have been Wednesday night. Children of Men is an apocalyptic story that takes place approximately 18 years after the last baby in the world has been born. Humans since then have been inexplicably incapable of procreating, and the world is in chaos. The United Kingdom has become a fascist state, and is expelling all foreigners and other immigrants, herding them into ghettos against their will. Then a woman is found who is into her third term of pregnancy. She’s in the hands of a group of freedom fighters, but the fear within the less zealous among the group is that, once the baby is born, the mother will be cast aside while the baby is used as a bargaining chip for the assured humane treatment of the immigrants. Or something like that. It was disturbing, all the same, but still a good film.
After breakfast, Mark pulled out, with some measure of glee, The Ashes – 2005, a DVD record of the 2005 Cricket match between England and Australia, a huge rivalry that has raged for years, and which England won, despite a late surge by Australia.
Where a particularly grueling duel between baseball teams can seem to go on for days, a typical Cricket match does go on for days! I don’t recall how it’s all broken down, but they will play all day until sundown, and then pick up again the next day and play just as long, and then go again the next day. I think they play until someone dies of boredom, and then they call it a match.
But, seriously, with the highlights of the match to use as a guide (all the slow, boring bits were edited out, and the video showed only the scoring and the outs), Mark’s explanations gave me a much clearer understanding of the game than I ever thought I would care to have! And, even though I knew England wins it, the late surge by Australia to within 12 runs (and, believe me, that is an extremely narrow margin!) was pretty exciting!
In order that I could return the favor, Mark perused the television schedule and found a baseball game (San Francisco Giants v. Texas Rangers... WORLD SERIES!) to record later.
Mark and I later hopped into the Defender and he conducted a motor tour of Birmingham, commencing first with a crawl through Small Heath, which could also be labeled “Little India,” according to his descriptions. We made a meandering circuit, taking in the Birmingham Football Stadium, where Mark’s beloved Birmingham City Football Club (the Blues) play; Edgbaston Cricket Grounds, site of the 2005 Ashes match; the former site of the Rover Cars factory, which has since been leveled and appears to be in development of some new housing site; and Lickey Hills, which was the source of the urge within me to titter, but I contained it for fear of offending Mark, a concern I learned, through the course of the week, was entirely unnecessary. There we took a brief walk to the top of Beacon Hill, overlooking the whole of the city of Birmingham. Throughout the entire trip Mark and I talked and talked, in topics ranging from American politics, to British politics, to race relations, to cars, to women, to personal experiences falling off rocks... my throat was already sore, and I’d only been there two days!
The view of Birmingham from atop Beacon Hill.
Photo: Tony Gasbarro
After the tour we headed back home...I think. We gathered up Sue, I think, and we headed out again to visit their daughter Gemma and grandson Hayes, I think. Their son-in-law, Dave, was away at work, definitely. Gemma is pregnant with her second child, due in about 8 weeks, so she looked at once happy and uncomfortable. Hayes’s birthday was approaching, so Mark and Sue, being the proud and doting grandparents, had brought along sacks of birthday gifts for him. The boy was pleased.
After about an hour or so at Gemma’s, we headed back home. I think. More chatting ensued.
The view down Mark's street in this middle-class Birmingham
suburb. Photo: Tony Gasbarro
As night fell, Mark, Sue, and I headed over to Mark’s folks’ again and gathered up his Mum, and then we drove about a half-hour to Earlswood, and to the Red Lion pub. Mum was fun, and full of questions for me! She’s very quick-witted with a great sense of humor, and she didn’t seem as old as I expected her to be.
Dinner at the Red Lion was wonderful. I had some sort of lamb (again) stew followed by, I’m not certain, though, a slice of apple pie on a sea of custard. The custard I’m sure of, but the pie I’m not. Whatever I had, it was good.
A quick drive back and Mum was tucked away, and we headed once again to the “Off Licence” for some wine, and back home for some chat and wine, and I believe we watched Up. Mark has, as he characterizes it, “acquired” some films, and he happened to have Up in his inventory. I had strongly recommended this movie to them, and upon my arrival, they had not yet watched it.
As the film started, I noticed that all the titling was in French, to include that in the “newsreel” footage which starts the film. Knowing that Mark “found” this copy, there was no telling what language the soundtrack was going to be. Fortunately, the characters were speaking English, though; also fortunately, there were no subtitles. Fortunately for Mark and Sue, I had already seen the film twice, so in moments crucial, apparently, to French-literate viewers where writing on screen was in French, I was able to translate, such as in Ellie’s scrapbook, titled, “My Adventure Book,” the page where she has scrawled, “Stuff I’m Going To Do,” and, later, when the old man discovers that she had added stuff there, her handwriting, “Thanks for the adventures. Now go make some of your own!”
As I had warned them, they did cry, and as I had assured them, they loved the film!
Afterward, we either chatted some more and watched some telly, or Sue went to bed, and Mark and I watched Children of Men. Or that might have been Wednesday night. Children of Men is an apocalyptic story that takes place approximately 18 years after the last baby in the world has been born. Humans since then have been inexplicably incapable of procreating, and the world is in chaos. The United Kingdom has become a fascist state, and is expelling all foreigners and other immigrants, herding them into ghettos against their will. Then a woman is found who is into her third term of pregnancy. She’s in the hands of a group of freedom fighters, but the fear within the less zealous among the group is that, once the baby is born, the mother will be cast aside while the baby is used as a bargaining chip for the assured humane treatment of the immigrants. Or something like that. It was disturbing, all the same, but still a good film.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Birmingham Sojournal - Day Three
(As I have written this a full week after the fact, I can’t recall certain details, such as what we had for breakfast on any given day, but breakfast ranged from simple buttered toast with coffee, to toast with Marmite (think Vegemite), to Gipsy toast (slices of bread dipped in seasoned egg and grilled, with a layer of (cheddar?) cheese between them, and covered in HP Brown Sauce), which was actually quite good!)
Mark woke me up in the morning with a knock on the door and, after first asking permission to enter, brought in a cup of coffee with a small biscuit. Moments later, and dressed, I carried the cup down and joined Mark and Sue for more chat.
Later on, we loaded the dogs, rescued racing greyhounds Tom and Mia, into the Defender and headed for the Kingsbury Water Park for the dogs’ weekly Sunday walk. At the end of the walk, and about four poop-stops for Tom, we stopped at the little snack shop there and had a late breakfast of buttered toast and coffee.
Mark with Mia (the gray greyhound) and Tom (the black),
in their home.
We brought the dogs back home and chatted some more, and then we went back out (I think) to a garden store to pick up some dog food. This place was pretty huge, even by U.S. standards, and very diverse and eclectic. Not only a garden store, it was also a crafts store, clothing store (though limited to shoes and outer wear), pet supplies and fish store, snack shop, coffee shop, AND a Starbucks! Mark tossed a bag of dog food into the trolley, and then we wandered around a bit. It became annoyingly obvious here that, due to my sudden increased intake of coffee, I had to break away very often to pee. The problem is that, when I’m on the road, I like to have coffee. And Mark and Sue also make tea every day, so, in an effort to do as much as possible as the British do, I had whatever they were having when they were having it. Hence, lots of coffee and tea! And pee!
So we wandered into the snack shop area and got coffee for each of us, though not at Starbucks. We sat at a table in the seating area for a short while, chatting and sipping our coffee. From there we headed toward the checkout lines and made our way out.
Back home for a while, we readied to go out to supper at The Eastern Curry Inn, just a few “blocks” away in Sheldon. The food was very nice, though I am not at all versed in Indian cuisine. I pretty much let Mark and Sue act as my guides into the menu, and I stayed pretty conservative. The nan bread came with some sauces, one supposedly very spicy, which I did not try; one that was a minty, yogurt based thing; and another that was a sort of sour...well, I’m not sure what. The thing is, I didn’t really care for any of them. My appetizer was a few strips of chicken prepared in (Tandoori?) style. My meal was basically a mildly spiced lamb stew over steamed rice. It was very good. I sampled Mark’s dish (he and Sue each ordered the same thing as the other. It, too, was very good.)
After dinner we headed home, once again via the Off-Licence for some wine. This time we got one bottle of red and one of white. Once home we (I think) watched some telly. British television has some damn funny shows. I can’t remember the names of all of the programmes I liked, but one of them was called Q.I. One episode had Rich Hall (of Sniglets fame) on the panel; he really didn’t say a whole lot.
A fairly late night, we called it around midnight, I think.
Mark woke me up in the morning with a knock on the door and, after first asking permission to enter, brought in a cup of coffee with a small biscuit. Moments later, and dressed, I carried the cup down and joined Mark and Sue for more chat.
Later on, we loaded the dogs, rescued racing greyhounds Tom and Mia, into the Defender and headed for the Kingsbury Water Park for the dogs’ weekly Sunday walk. At the end of the walk, and about four poop-stops for Tom, we stopped at the little snack shop there and had a late breakfast of buttered toast and coffee.
Mark with Mia (the gray greyhound) and Tom (the black),
in their home.
We brought the dogs back home and chatted some more, and then we went back out (I think) to a garden store to pick up some dog food. This place was pretty huge, even by U.S. standards, and very diverse and eclectic. Not only a garden store, it was also a crafts store, clothing store (though limited to shoes and outer wear), pet supplies and fish store, snack shop, coffee shop, AND a Starbucks! Mark tossed a bag of dog food into the trolley, and then we wandered around a bit. It became annoyingly obvious here that, due to my sudden increased intake of coffee, I had to break away very often to pee. The problem is that, when I’m on the road, I like to have coffee. And Mark and Sue also make tea every day, so, in an effort to do as much as possible as the British do, I had whatever they were having when they were having it. Hence, lots of coffee and tea! And pee!
So we wandered into the snack shop area and got coffee for each of us, though not at Starbucks. We sat at a table in the seating area for a short while, chatting and sipping our coffee. From there we headed toward the checkout lines and made our way out.
Back home for a while, we readied to go out to supper at The Eastern Curry Inn, just a few “blocks” away in Sheldon. The food was very nice, though I am not at all versed in Indian cuisine. I pretty much let Mark and Sue act as my guides into the menu, and I stayed pretty conservative. The nan bread came with some sauces, one supposedly very spicy, which I did not try; one that was a minty, yogurt based thing; and another that was a sort of sour...well, I’m not sure what. The thing is, I didn’t really care for any of them. My appetizer was a few strips of chicken prepared in (Tandoori?) style. My meal was basically a mildly spiced lamb stew over steamed rice. It was very good. I sampled Mark’s dish (he and Sue each ordered the same thing as the other. It, too, was very good.)
After dinner we headed home, once again via the Off-Licence for some wine. This time we got one bottle of red and one of white. Once home we (I think) watched some telly. British television has some damn funny shows. I can’t remember the names of all of the programmes I liked, but one of them was called Q.I. One episode had Rich Hall (of Sniglets fame) on the panel; he really didn’t say a whole lot.
A fairly late night, we called it around midnight, I think.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The Birmingham Sojournal - Day Two
On the plane, after I had settled into my seat with my feet on the bag of pillow and blanket and covered myself up under my jacket, I was awoken I-don’t-know-how-much later by the woman in the seat next to mine when she needed to get up to use the bathroom. When she returned I thought I might have to use the facilities soon myself, but I sat back down and covered up under my jacket again.
The next time I awoke, sunlight streamed into the cabin, and the flight attendants were wheeling out the breakfast service. There was less than one hour left until landing at London/Heathrow. I had slept almost the entire flight!!
The cabin crew handed out the landing cards for UK immigration, and as I filled out mine I realized that I didn’t know Mark’s address. I entertained the thought of fudging it, but I figured I could just call him when I landed...until I remembered that my phone would be useless in the UK. If I pled my case to the immigration official, I would probably be allowed to call him...and then I realized that, despite all the times I wrote down his number for others, I had never written them down for myself. Okay, so I could call directory assistance and hope to reach Sue, who could then tell me their address. But then I thought that I would probably remember the address by the time it got to that point.
When it got to that point, I still had not recalled their address. And I fudged it for the immigration agent. While standing in the immigration line, I wrote “86 Sheldon Way, Sheldon, Birmingham” as Mark’s address on the immigration form; I was WAY off! The agent asked me what sort of place the address was where I was to stay, and I told him it was my friend’s house. He asked me who my friend was, and I told him. He asked me how I knew this friend, and I told him, realizing how absurd it actually sounded. He asked how long I had known this friend, and I told him, adding that I had visited him in 2005, hoping that would make our original acquaintance sound less absurd.
The immigration agent allowed me in, though I was technically entering the country illegally!
I was early, at least according to Mark’s calculations. He estimated that immigration and bag claim would have me out the doors between 11:00 and 11:30 a.m. The flight had landed maybe only ten minutes early, but the immigration line for non-E.U. passport holders was short and quick-moving, and my bag came out quickly as well. I was standing on the curb by 10:30! I waited, wearing my agreed-upon, easily-spotted Cubs cap, until about 11:10, when I saw a black Land Rover Defender 110 enter the short-stay car park; it was the only Defender I saw in the entire time I stood out there, so I just knew it was Mark.
Or was it? I thought I recalled that he would come to the curb to look for me, so now I wasn’t sure it was him after all. There could be someone else with a Defender 110 coming to the airport, right? I didn’t want to head inside to try to find him and wind up actually missing him at the curb. What to do?
I caved to the fear and I headed inside. And I realized very quickly that I would never find him in that throng!
Meanwhile, as I found out later, Mark was himself embroiled in an ordeal. To keep it brief, he was misled by signage to a parking area for “high-sided” vehicles, only when he got to the barrier it wouldn’t let him in. He thought his Defender was over seven feet tall, but it isn’t, and the sensor that senses the height of vehicles didn’t sense his, so no entry was allowed. After dealing with a couple of parking attendants who couldn’t be bothered to actually help him, he went in search of the car park supervisor.
I left the madding crowd in the arrivals area and headed back outside. When I had earlier entered, I had noticed a door leading into a coffee shop in the arrivals area, though I walked past it. I saw it again from inside, and this time I decided to take it, as it would save me quite a few steps to get back to the curb. As I stepped outside from that doorway, I saw across the way from me, as well as across the way from where I had earlier been standing at the curb, a man who looked from a distance of about 100 yards a lot like Mark! He stepped briefly inside the valet booth there and came out again.
When I had decided to head inside to look for Mark, I had very dutifully walked to the crosswalks and made my meandering way in. Now, as this person who looked like Mark stood across from me, I made my way toward him across two lanes of traffic where there was no crosswalk. I was already criminally present in England; why fear crossing a roadway illegally?
As I crossed, the man who looked like Mark looked in my direction and set off determinedly toward me. It was Mark! We approached each other quickly, and as we closed the last few feet between us, I was without doubt he was Mark, but he glared past me as he trudged along.
“Mark?” I said as he went by.
The man turned to look at me. “OH! Christ! TONY! I’m sorry! I didn’t even see you!” He threw his arms out and hugged me. Then, as we walked back to his car, he told me about his ordeal, and why he didn’t see me from only feet away, and that, while he ventured off to find the car park supervisor, he had parked illegally. I felt right at home with a fellow criminal!
Very soon we were on the road north toward Birmingham, engaged in what would become the main activity during my visit — talking. About halfway to Birmingham we stopped for lunch at The Orange Tree, a nice pub in apparently a very posh area. The women there were very attractive and very attractively dressed. The Orange Tree became the frequent off-hand joke of where I wanted to go “tomorrow.”
When we arrived at Mark’s home, Sue came outside to greet me and welcome me inside. After a cup of tea and a brief chat, they suggested I take my things upstairs and have a quick nap, and I took them up on it.
Later, Mark knocked on the door to get me moving again, and when I got downstairs there was already-cold Domino’s pizza in the kitchen. Ordering pizza had been mentioned, and we had discussed a one-hour nap, but it would appear that Mark and Sue opted to let me sleep a little longer to catch up, and they went ahead and ate when they were ready. When I came down Sue heated up a couple slices for me, and I ate while watching some telly with them.
After dark, Mark and I headed over to his parents’ home where his brother, Colin, was visiting for the day. We went in, I was introduced to the parents, and we gathered up Colin to head over to The Griffin Inn for a couple of pints.
After only a brief stay — we were there maybe an hour — we brought Colin back to the folks’, headed to an “Off Licence” to pick up a couple bottles of wine, and then back to Mark’s where we sat to watch some telly and sip wine with Sue.
The next time I awoke, sunlight streamed into the cabin, and the flight attendants were wheeling out the breakfast service. There was less than one hour left until landing at London/Heathrow. I had slept almost the entire flight!!
The cabin crew handed out the landing cards for UK immigration, and as I filled out mine I realized that I didn’t know Mark’s address. I entertained the thought of fudging it, but I figured I could just call him when I landed...until I remembered that my phone would be useless in the UK. If I pled my case to the immigration official, I would probably be allowed to call him...and then I realized that, despite all the times I wrote down his number for others, I had never written them down for myself. Okay, so I could call directory assistance and hope to reach Sue, who could then tell me their address. But then I thought that I would probably remember the address by the time it got to that point.
When it got to that point, I still had not recalled their address. And I fudged it for the immigration agent. While standing in the immigration line, I wrote “86 Sheldon Way, Sheldon, Birmingham” as Mark’s address on the immigration form; I was WAY off! The agent asked me what sort of place the address was where I was to stay, and I told him it was my friend’s house. He asked me who my friend was, and I told him. He asked me how I knew this friend, and I told him, realizing how absurd it actually sounded. He asked how long I had known this friend, and I told him, adding that I had visited him in 2005, hoping that would make our original acquaintance sound less absurd.
The immigration agent allowed me in, though I was technically entering the country illegally!
I was early, at least according to Mark’s calculations. He estimated that immigration and bag claim would have me out the doors between 11:00 and 11:30 a.m. The flight had landed maybe only ten minutes early, but the immigration line for non-E.U. passport holders was short and quick-moving, and my bag came out quickly as well. I was standing on the curb by 10:30! I waited, wearing my agreed-upon, easily-spotted Cubs cap, until about 11:10, when I saw a black Land Rover Defender 110 enter the short-stay car park; it was the only Defender I saw in the entire time I stood out there, so I just knew it was Mark.
Or was it? I thought I recalled that he would come to the curb to look for me, so now I wasn’t sure it was him after all. There could be someone else with a Defender 110 coming to the airport, right? I didn’t want to head inside to try to find him and wind up actually missing him at the curb. What to do?
I caved to the fear and I headed inside. And I realized very quickly that I would never find him in that throng!
Meanwhile, as I found out later, Mark was himself embroiled in an ordeal. To keep it brief, he was misled by signage to a parking area for “high-sided” vehicles, only when he got to the barrier it wouldn’t let him in. He thought his Defender was over seven feet tall, but it isn’t, and the sensor that senses the height of vehicles didn’t sense his, so no entry was allowed. After dealing with a couple of parking attendants who couldn’t be bothered to actually help him, he went in search of the car park supervisor.
I left the madding crowd in the arrivals area and headed back outside. When I had earlier entered, I had noticed a door leading into a coffee shop in the arrivals area, though I walked past it. I saw it again from inside, and this time I decided to take it, as it would save me quite a few steps to get back to the curb. As I stepped outside from that doorway, I saw across the way from me, as well as across the way from where I had earlier been standing at the curb, a man who looked from a distance of about 100 yards a lot like Mark! He stepped briefly inside the valet booth there and came out again.
When I had decided to head inside to look for Mark, I had very dutifully walked to the crosswalks and made my meandering way in. Now, as this person who looked like Mark stood across from me, I made my way toward him across two lanes of traffic where there was no crosswalk. I was already criminally present in England; why fear crossing a roadway illegally?
As I crossed, the man who looked like Mark looked in my direction and set off determinedly toward me. It was Mark! We approached each other quickly, and as we closed the last few feet between us, I was without doubt he was Mark, but he glared past me as he trudged along.
“Mark?” I said as he went by.
The man turned to look at me. “OH! Christ! TONY! I’m sorry! I didn’t even see you!” He threw his arms out and hugged me. Then, as we walked back to his car, he told me about his ordeal, and why he didn’t see me from only feet away, and that, while he ventured off to find the car park supervisor, he had parked illegally. I felt right at home with a fellow criminal!
Very soon we were on the road north toward Birmingham, engaged in what would become the main activity during my visit — talking. About halfway to Birmingham we stopped for lunch at The Orange Tree, a nice pub in apparently a very posh area. The women there were very attractive and very attractively dressed. The Orange Tree became the frequent off-hand joke of where I wanted to go “tomorrow.”
When we arrived at Mark’s home, Sue came outside to greet me and welcome me inside. After a cup of tea and a brief chat, they suggested I take my things upstairs and have a quick nap, and I took them up on it.
Later, Mark knocked on the door to get me moving again, and when I got downstairs there was already-cold Domino’s pizza in the kitchen. Ordering pizza had been mentioned, and we had discussed a one-hour nap, but it would appear that Mark and Sue opted to let me sleep a little longer to catch up, and they went ahead and ate when they were ready. When I came down Sue heated up a couple slices for me, and I ate while watching some telly with them.
After dark, Mark and I headed over to his parents’ home where his brother, Colin, was visiting for the day. We went in, I was introduced to the parents, and we gathered up Colin to head over to The Griffin Inn for a couple of pints.
After only a brief stay — we were there maybe an hour — we brought Colin back to the folks’, headed to an “Off Licence” to pick up a couple bottles of wine, and then back to Mark’s where we sat to watch some telly and sip wine with Sue.
Friday, October 22, 2010
The Birmingham Sojournal - Day One
To be fair and honest, I didn't journal every day. Hell, I didn't journal at all! But, as this series of posts is a relatively accurate account — written as much as nearly a month after the fact — of the daily doings during my recent trip to Birmingham, England, IT'S A FRIGGIN' JOURNAL!
22 October 2010, Friday
Things did not go as planned. I don’t know why I ever thought they would. I worked through the night in the taxi, and that was uneventful. I had a late airport run which sounded off right about the time I had planned to leave for the 303 Taxi office, scheduling me for a pickup in Arlington Heights 20 minutes later, and setting me back about a half-hour in my schedule, after going out of my way to the airport to drop off the customer, and after waiting extra time for the tardy customer to get his shit together.
At the office, I turned in the taxi and the spare key, all very quickly, and then I went outside and tried to ask the first taxi driver who came out of the office if he could drive me to the Rosemont Blue Line station. The first guy said, “Yes, of course...in five minutes...I have to find my phone.” He crawled around in his car for a few seconds.
“Dial me, please,” he asked in his heavily accented English (I think he’s Indian). I didn’t hear him at first. “Dial my phone please!”
He dictated his phone number and I dialed it. It took two tries for him to locate it at the bottom of a cloth shopping bag full of stuff as it rang, but he did find it. then he said, “I’ll be one minute,” and he went back inside the building.
Ten minutes later, and about 5 minutes too late for me to catch the 9:18 Metra train from Jefferson Park, which set my schedule back another hour, another taxi driver came out of the 303 office. He took me to the Rosemont Station for free, but asked me along the way how much I make. When I told him, he was shocked. Not in a good way. For me. I spent the rest of the day rather depressed about it.
I seized the opportunity of the nearly 90-minute wait (I missed the 9:18 by about ten minutes, exactly the amount of time that stupid “I’ll be one minute” idiot made me wait) to get breakfast at McDonald’s. Since I had the time to eat in, I got the steak, egg & cheese bagel with the round egg instead of the scrambled. Either they changed something in the ingredients, or I’m just jaded, because it has never tasted as good as it did in the first year they made them.
On the train I called 303 to order a taxi. About 20 minutes before I was due to arrive at Palatine, I got the notification text that a taxi — number 567 — had been dispatched. About five minutes before arrival, I got the callout phone call. While I was about to enter the amount of time I wanted him to wait, I received another callout phone call from 303. As it was a redundant call, I pressed “Ignore” on the phone’s screen, and finished the other call, requesting the taxi to wait five minutes.
The train arrived on time, and I walked out to taxi number 567. As I approached, the driver asked me if I was Tony. I answered him and got in. Then he told me that he waited, just in case, because he had gotten a cancellation notice! FUCK! What is it about me that, whenever I use 303 Taxi Service’s fantastic automated dispatch system, I always get fucked...or nearly so, in this particular case? So, after having a very calm, brief argument with the driver about the rate number (he was charging rate 2, I thought it was rate 1 from Palatine to Hoffman Estates; he changed it to the cheaper rate 1), he drove me home.
Being so far behind in my schedule, I began packing with the full resignation that, despite working through the night and having been thus far awake since, I would get no time to take a nap. I called Saad (303 Taxi number 530) and asked him if he could pick me up at 5:30 to take me to the airport. He said that it would be no problem.
It was a problem. At 5:30 he didn’t show. Patient as I am, I waited, and used the time to move myself outside to wait. As I got to the deck outside the “rear” door of the apartment building — at 5:40 — my phone rang; it was Saad.
He had taken a fare to the airport and was now stuck somewhere in traffic that was not moving. He said that he would make it, and that everything would be okay.
At 6:00 I called Saad back. He apologized and said that he had not moved at all from the place he was when he had called me 20 minutes earlier! AT ALL! I had thought in the earlier call that he was exaggerating when he said the traffic was “not moving,” but he wasn’t. I was a little pissed off that he had not called me again sooner when traffic still had not moved, so he said he would call one of his other friends; he said he would tell him not to charge me, and that he would pay him for my trip out of his own pocket. I was too pissed off to feel at that moment that his gesture was not necessary.
The friend he called was cab number 508, someone I’ve met before, but whose name I do not know. He showed up around 6:30, which was ten minutes past the time I was “supposed” to be at the airport (8:20pm flight). He said he would speed to the airport. And boy, did he!
Traffic was fairly light for a Friday evening, and he got me to O’Hare in about 20 minutes! I confirmed that Saad told him not to charge me for the trip, and I tried to give him a tip for taking the chances, but he refused, even telling me that I was making him feel guilty. I didn’t push it. I will insist to Saad that he let me repay him. It wasn’t his fault that he got stuck in traffic behind what was apparently a wreck involving an 18-wheeler.
Once at the airport, things finally started moving smoothly. The plane was on track to depart on time, a fact which I reported to Mark via text/e-mail.
Once in the air, and before we were even flying completely level, the flight attendants began the dinner service. I had already removed my shoes and set my feet on the bag of pillow and blanket (EXCELLENT idea!) Dinner was served and eaten, the tray was cleared, and after toying with the idea of watching a movie, I pulled my jacket over me and “reclined” my seat.
22 October 2010, Friday
Things did not go as planned. I don’t know why I ever thought they would. I worked through the night in the taxi, and that was uneventful. I had a late airport run which sounded off right about the time I had planned to leave for the 303 Taxi office, scheduling me for a pickup in Arlington Heights 20 minutes later, and setting me back about a half-hour in my schedule, after going out of my way to the airport to drop off the customer, and after waiting extra time for the tardy customer to get his shit together.
At the office, I turned in the taxi and the spare key, all very quickly, and then I went outside and tried to ask the first taxi driver who came out of the office if he could drive me to the Rosemont Blue Line station. The first guy said, “Yes, of course...in five minutes...I have to find my phone.” He crawled around in his car for a few seconds.
“Dial me, please,” he asked in his heavily accented English (I think he’s Indian). I didn’t hear him at first. “Dial my phone please!”
He dictated his phone number and I dialed it. It took two tries for him to locate it at the bottom of a cloth shopping bag full of stuff as it rang, but he did find it. then he said, “I’ll be one minute,” and he went back inside the building.
Ten minutes later, and about 5 minutes too late for me to catch the 9:18 Metra train from Jefferson Park, which set my schedule back another hour, another taxi driver came out of the 303 office. He took me to the Rosemont Station for free, but asked me along the way how much I make. When I told him, he was shocked. Not in a good way. For me. I spent the rest of the day rather depressed about it.
I seized the opportunity of the nearly 90-minute wait (I missed the 9:18 by about ten minutes, exactly the amount of time that stupid “I’ll be one minute” idiot made me wait) to get breakfast at McDonald’s. Since I had the time to eat in, I got the steak, egg & cheese bagel with the round egg instead of the scrambled. Either they changed something in the ingredients, or I’m just jaded, because it has never tasted as good as it did in the first year they made them.
On the train I called 303 to order a taxi. About 20 minutes before I was due to arrive at Palatine, I got the notification text that a taxi — number 567 — had been dispatched. About five minutes before arrival, I got the callout phone call. While I was about to enter the amount of time I wanted him to wait, I received another callout phone call from 303. As it was a redundant call, I pressed “Ignore” on the phone’s screen, and finished the other call, requesting the taxi to wait five minutes.
The train arrived on time, and I walked out to taxi number 567. As I approached, the driver asked me if I was Tony. I answered him and got in. Then he told me that he waited, just in case, because he had gotten a cancellation notice! FUCK! What is it about me that, whenever I use 303 Taxi Service’s fantastic automated dispatch system, I always get fucked...or nearly so, in this particular case? So, after having a very calm, brief argument with the driver about the rate number (he was charging rate 2, I thought it was rate 1 from Palatine to Hoffman Estates; he changed it to the cheaper rate 1), he drove me home.
Being so far behind in my schedule, I began packing with the full resignation that, despite working through the night and having been thus far awake since, I would get no time to take a nap. I called Saad (303 Taxi number 530) and asked him if he could pick me up at 5:30 to take me to the airport. He said that it would be no problem.
It was a problem. At 5:30 he didn’t show. Patient as I am, I waited, and used the time to move myself outside to wait. As I got to the deck outside the “rear” door of the apartment building — at 5:40 — my phone rang; it was Saad.
He had taken a fare to the airport and was now stuck somewhere in traffic that was not moving. He said that he would make it, and that everything would be okay.
At 6:00 I called Saad back. He apologized and said that he had not moved at all from the place he was when he had called me 20 minutes earlier! AT ALL! I had thought in the earlier call that he was exaggerating when he said the traffic was “not moving,” but he wasn’t. I was a little pissed off that he had not called me again sooner when traffic still had not moved, so he said he would call one of his other friends; he said he would tell him not to charge me, and that he would pay him for my trip out of his own pocket. I was too pissed off to feel at that moment that his gesture was not necessary.
The friend he called was cab number 508, someone I’ve met before, but whose name I do not know. He showed up around 6:30, which was ten minutes past the time I was “supposed” to be at the airport (8:20pm flight). He said he would speed to the airport. And boy, did he!
Traffic was fairly light for a Friday evening, and he got me to O’Hare in about 20 minutes! I confirmed that Saad told him not to charge me for the trip, and I tried to give him a tip for taking the chances, but he refused, even telling me that I was making him feel guilty. I didn’t push it. I will insist to Saad that he let me repay him. It wasn’t his fault that he got stuck in traffic behind what was apparently a wreck involving an 18-wheeler.
Once at the airport, things finally started moving smoothly. The plane was on track to depart on time, a fact which I reported to Mark via text/e-mail.
Once in the air, and before we were even flying completely level, the flight attendants began the dinner service. I had already removed my shoes and set my feet on the bag of pillow and blanket (EXCELLENT idea!) Dinner was served and eaten, the tray was cleared, and after toying with the idea of watching a movie, I pulled my jacket over me and “reclined” my seat.
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