Terminal Man

Samuel Johnson said, “If you tire of London, you tire of life.” Well, I’ll add that if London can’t revive you, your mother can’t either. I woke up this morning determined to check the architecture of my legs and the vertigo of my head, having survived my first airport sleepover. JFK, I hardly knew thee. But London, ah London, your Edwardian symmetry, your Lime Tree breeze, your double decker confidence—sent me back into a revere of memory as I made my way through Bloomsbury, over Oxford Street to Monmouth Coffee for a redoubtable $4 (2 lbs.) cappuccino, a Pain de Raisin pastry and three fresh chocolate truffles to share with Tim and our tour guide Allison. No wonder the young Parisians are moving to London by the 1000's and so what if each truffle costs a pound each. I had survived a bad 1970’s disaster movie and needed reconciliation, vindication, abdication.

And the kids—and that’s what I’ll call them, if only because ‘students’ takes too long to type and ‘young adults’ is condescending—well, the kids had a blast. They needed no revitalization. My ordeal was their ADVENTURE as they took over the west terminal and play-acted Airport and Airplane and If You Can’t Catch Me Now, renouncing sleep. “Everything has a purpose, LV,” and “Don’t worry, coach,” “We believe in karma, Mr. Hoeger” they naively spouted. Still, they hadn’t lost a tooth or more specifically a lower left molar crown. I had—on one of those peanuts treats for which we now pay.

So we missed a half day of London, but we made up for it in a hurry. With headache gone, toothache disremembered, and truffles hidden, we charged through Westminster Abbey, past the changing of the guards, into Leichester Square for lunch. After, we stumbled with awe under the dome of St.Peter’s and paraded with Beefeaters through the Towers of London. Tonight they’re all out with a midnight curfew, and we are all happy little ravens.

Photos won't upload now. Check later. Incidentally, I’ll start mentioning kids by name and making sure each kid gets a picture or two. Don’t expect a report on a regular basis. They come when they come.

Truly but wryly,
LV (the Literary Vagabond)

P.S. Here’s a joke our tour guide told us as we drove through the financial district of Westminster. “Those men in black suits you see on the sidewalk?” she said. “We call them a ‘wunch of bankers.’” (switch the first two letters of each big word). I've got another variation: "If you tire of English humor, you tire of life."