London, Alone: Pt. 1 - "In Transit"

I left in a ridiculous state of unpreparedness. At the time of my departure I had left one of my final papers unwritten, a job application incomplete, and the sink full of dishes. We'll see how many of those problems I can solve from London. Part of it was the fault of my shoddy computer battery... should have gotten my long-awaited replacement before I left, but there was no time.

I was so unprepared that I forgot to pack another pair of pants. One would think this would be a more essential thing to worry about than which novel to read on the plane (Orwell won -- Down and Out in Paris and London), but I'd been thinking about that all day instead of how to cover my ass. Fortunately, I had been meaning to get some new slacks anyway, so I bought a not-too-expensive pair at the airport. I really should have waited to go to SoHo and get something more "posh," but the fear of trouserlessness drove me to dull consumerism. And the value of the dollar was plummeting anyway.

So after a series of delays and a dash through the -- dare I say "beautiful?" -- Atlanta airport, I am on a plane to Gatwick Airport in London. (Digression: I love airports, train stations... like Gaiman's Delirium, I love any place that isn't really a place. This is one of the reasons why I enjoyed Spielberg's "The Terminal" more than I should have. I am actually typing this two days after the fact, and I should note that despite my sick affection, I did not find Gatwick to be beautiful in any way. Maybe it was because my luggage was lost. More on that later.)

For weeks I had been saying I couldn't believe it was real. I know the exact moment that changed -- when I saw the series of maps on the in-flight monitor that detailed my route. The American maps labelled the Blue Ridge Mountains; Rome, Georgia; Norfolk, Virginia; the sort of places whose reality I couldn't dust off if I tried. If they could be reduced to little white dots, I coudl believe that he most important city in the world could be one too. For a moment, at least.

"The most important city in the world"? Maybe not, but I can't shake the sense that everything important happened there. It's a historian's bias, but when people speak of liberty, of science, of commerce, of modernity, of "civilization" (good or bad) any of those things, I think of London, and not Washington or New York or Tokyo or Rome or whatever city I'm supposed to think of. Maybe it's because I feel like I know a little of its dark side, from these years studying the massive plunder that was planned in sites I'll be casually walking through in a few days. But I don't let those judgments get me down. The British Empire made our world -- that's one of the reasons it interest me, one of the reasons I'm here.

Of course, Engalnd made my world in a different way, one I didn't think of until I got on the plane and started listening to the Beatles. There is so much culture that I consider mine first and British second -- Wallace and Gromit, Monty Python, Douglas Adams, Elvis Costello, Radiohead -- that it's strange to think of going to the place where it was made. Maybe that's how the rest of the world feels when they come to America.

As the previous three grafs indicate, there will be far too much to see in just 11 days, especially when you consider that I'm actually here to work and I'm supposed to make day-trips to Liverpool and Oxford. Right now the most definite item on my itinerary is probably meeting Prof. Glassman for a beer. But, that said, here is my plan for the next 11 days.

I have to work -- that's the reason I'm here. On the first or second day (depending on jet-lag), I will try to work out a time schedule for getting through this particular archive at the Wellcome Library. I should try to take home as much of it as possible in the form of xeroxes, photographs or microfilm -- there's no way I'll be able to read everything here.

Fortunately, I am incapable of *really* working more than eight hours a day, and I should be able to explore every night. I'm not sure if I will make a concerted effort to meet people in my hostel; it would probably make me feel safer inside and out. But I don't hunt in packs at home, so it will be something of a relief not to have to do it abroad. I have always traveled in large groups before (yes, my family counts as a large group). Now I will almost be doing it the way I'm supposed to, without any possiblity of help or protection. I say "almost" because the real meaning of "alone" to me is "with Lindsay" ... without her I am a little less than myself, a little less than alone.

It's probably no surprise that my itinerary on free days will be decidedly personal. the big tourist sites are not a priority in themselves -- I only care if they've been recommended by a friend. So the Tower and Westminster and the Tates are all on the list, but so are bookstores and noodle shops, the Old Operating Theater and the "Jack the Ripper" walking tour. And maybe even a few of the places Orwell frequented, ha.

For now, it's time to stop anticipating and nap. When I awake, I'll be in Albion.