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Road Diary MAY 19, WEDNESDAY: Los Angeles International Airport. Not wanting to scramble the brains in my laptop computer, I avoid the electronic security arch and hand my computer bag to the uniformed woman overseeing entry to the boarding gates. I step through the arches without setting off any buzzers and she hands me the bag. "Take out your computer and turn it on." I begin to do as instructed, when a male overseeing another security arch, says, "You can't do that here." "She told me to." I gesture to the woman who is glaring at the man challenging her authority. "You do what I say," she says to me. "Not here." He is almost yelling. "Hey, come on you two," I say. "Go down there," the defeated woman says, pointing to a table ten feet away where another uniformed woman awaits. She is holding what looks like a "scrubby" to wash dishes. I hand her the computer, which she lifts with one hand as a waitress would balance a tray, then begins to rub the scrubby all over the outer case. "What is that doing?" I ask calmly, hoping she is not scrubbing data from my harddrive. "Detecting explosive materials," she says. "Do you want me to turn it on?" I say. "No need," she says, handing it back to me. I join my wife Tara and children, Hunter (13) and Cheyenne (11), who wait patiently several yards down the corridor. Hunter (13) looks glum. "What was that about?" Tara asks. "I'm not going to blow up." "That's good." We are on our way to London, where for ten days, Tara and I will participate in the Body Mind Spirit Festival. Afterwards, we will board a train to Edinburgh, Scotland, where we will plan to stay for June and July. With four of us traveling together, we must be mobile. In other words, everyone must be able to carry their own luggage -- which comes down to one suitcase and a backpack. In my case, I'm also carrying a small case that includes my laptop, a printer, supplies, and discs containing thousands of pages of documents. This configuration just barely allows us all to fit into one English Black Cab. This will be the longest we have ever been out of the country, so planning and preparation was an arduous task. Packing was a "process" in itself -- an exercise of judging necessities against values. I needed a dress up and dress down wardrobe, a complete office, all my herbs and vitamins, reference books, guide books, plus a selection of music and electronic players. Packing quickly became an exercise in "weeding." Three days from our departure, I had enough room left in my suitcase for a pair of Levi's and three T-shirts. Hunter and I decided electronics were more important than clothes. Tara and Cheyenne decided clothes were more important than electronics. After the first packing, there wasn't a square inch of unused space in the bag. Only problem, I could barely lift it. "Maybe you'd better weigh it," Tara said. "There's a 70-pound airline "limit." I knew that, but rather than saying so, I carried the bathroom scale to the suitcase, rather than the other way around. Eighty pounds. Out went my treasured full-size split keyboard and a lot of the vitamins, which I hope to replace in Edinburgh. Eight books followed. Hunter took pity and added a few of my volumes to his suitcase, but no one was willing to take the split keyboard. "My hands will become deformed working on a tiny keyboard," I tell my family. "Oh, Daddy, they won't," Cheyenne reassures me. After five re-packings, the bag weighs in at 60 pounds. My life for 74 days in 60 pounds. We're flying Air Canada for the simple reason they offered a round trip fare of $359 each -- unheard of this time of year. After years of frustrations with travel agents, I now book everything myself -- a simple process that I've found saves money and headaches and reduces the number of surprises. Tara and I skip the in-flight movies. She works on astrological calculations, while I write and read Bad Trips, a collection of travel horror stories by famous writers, edited by Keath Fraser. Had I experienced what they survived, I doubt you could pry me out of house to travel anywhere. Every time we board a plane, I want to thank Sony for developing their noise canceling headphones. Somehow, the electronic system eliminates almost all distracting background noise -- from jet motors to flight attendants, while at the same time enhancing whatever you are listening to, from music to an in-flight film soundtrack. Sometimes, I switch them on to listen to nothing but the thoughts in my head. The four-hour flight to Toronto is easy. We clear customs and have thirty minutes to spare before boarding the plane to London. The children are hungry and only a Snack Shop is open. "Do you take American dollars or British pounds?" I ask. She laughs, says, "American." It's now 8 PM Toronto time. Our food choices are glazed donuts or hotdogs. The children have hotdogs. Tara and I have coffee. Onboard, we're informed that the flight will take six hours and ten minutes. After the meal is served, I take two meletonin, sleep three hours and am awakened by the breakfast cart.
MAY 20 -- THURSDAY: We arrive 15 minutes early; 10:40 AM London time, but because there is no gate available the plane sits on the tarmac until our scheduled arrival time. The day is warm and overcast. During the cab ride from the airport, a school bus full of young boys keeps pace with the cab. The boys wave to Cheyenne. Embarrassed, she waves back, but after about ten miles of this she wants them to disappear. I feel as if I am seeing a preview of things to come. Robert, the owner of our South Kensington apartment, greets us warmly and informs us that we will have the same unit we had last year. The unit offers a separate bedroom for Tara and me, and a large living room and kitchen with a sleeper bed for the children. The French doors in both rooms look down upon on a busy street in this multi-cultural section of the city. Kensington Palace, the Natural History Museum, and Hyde Park are only a few blocks away. The apartment won't be ready until 2 PM. It is now 11 AM, so we store our bags in Robert's office and take to the streets. We walk to Costa -- a Starbucks-like coffee shop we've frequented in the past. They have added banks of computers, so we sip coffees and explore the system. Two minutes after clicking our first keys, we are on the Web reading our e-mail from around the world: the Agoura and Ashland offices, friends, family, and inquires. While waiting for a new url to materialize on the screen, I realize how contented I am, being here, doing this. The children drink hot chocolate at a nearby table. Tara clicks away, writing the ranch manager where her horse is boarded. Last minute instructions. Once the espresso kicks in, we're ready further explore our new world. We find a health food store and Tara buys Aloe Vera juice -- a staple in our lives. The price is double what is it is in LA, but we're glad to have it. Nearby Sainsbury's super market has everything you would find in a Southern California store, except natural yogurt without sugar. I quickly tire of reading labels and settle for plain low fat -- damn the sugar. I search out staples such as muesli, apples, and whole grain bread. Tara appears and disappears with gourmet goodies -- favorite delicacies from English shortbread cookies to French wine. "We need some treats," she says. "Agreed." We purchase just enough food for the four of us to comfortably carry back to the apartment. At 4 PM (8 AM at home). We've been traveling 23 hours with three hours sleep. Hunter falls asleep on the couch and I'm fading fast. I awaken two hours later, to find Tara and the children asleep. It's raining outside. Naked, I open the bedroom deck doors to inhale the scent of rain, then realize a couple is watching me from a hotel window across the street. I should probably bow, or at least gesture futility, but instead duck behind the drapes. At midnight, we all awaken and want a snack. Muesli digests slowly, providing good hibernation fuel. I write for 90 minutes, then sleep until 5:30 AM when Tara and I open our eyes to the light of day. The first step in overcoming jet lag.
MAY 21 -- FRIDAY: We lie in bed, talk, play. By ingesting large amounts of "Emergence C" and forcing ourselves to sleep and awaken with the sun, we should resolve jet lag within another 24 hours. I wish it were this easy going home, but we're often out of kilter for a week after our east/west return trip. Following an English breakfast in a nearby restaurant, we purchase a Family Day Pass and take the "tube" -- the underground subway system -- for a ten-minute ride to Piccadilly Circus, the heart of the entertainment district. The sidewalks are so crowded it is difficult to move through the waves of people -- a sea of races, languages and dialects. Over-amped music assaults your senses from shop doorways, drowning out the blaring vehicle horns. Dozens of hustlers thrust promotional folders into your hand as you walk by. Two-tier, open-air tour buses vie with bumper-to-bumper auto traffic. The air is tinged with carbon monoxide. Street entertainers vie with each other to attract crowds -- an easy task with such a large audience, even for the minimally talented. In Leicester Square, at 11 AM, a block-long line of people wait for an opportunity to purchase play tickets at discount prices. Charing Cross Road is the street of bookstores. Some blocks offer as many as five huge bookstores -- a writer's dream. We are delighted to find our Valley of the Sun titles on display. Tara discovers unusual esoteric astrology books that would be unavailable at home. I look through a couple volumes while waiting for her. They might as well be printed in Greek. During lunch in a chain restaurant, Cheyenne politely asks the waitress if she can have a soda refill. The woman says, "We don't do refills in London, Dear." This also applies to coffee. I have to ask her three times for another cup of coffee, which she finally brings in a new cup. Cost of two tiny cups of regular coffee with meal: $5.25. While eating, we watch the human parade on Charing Cross Road. Every third person appears to be smoking. Every fifth person is talking on a cell phone as they walk. Just outside the window, a cab driver hits the back wheel of a young man's bicycle. The man yells at the cabby who leaps from his vehicle ready to fight. He has a shaved head, body-builder physique and sports a pack of cigarettes rolled into the sleeve of his T-shirt. The young man, who wears a bike helmet appears to be a student. He pulls out a cell phone to call the police. They scream, yell, threaten and block traffic for 15 minutes. After a day of shopping and wandering, we take the tube back to South Kensington. The children are happy to remain in the apartment, while Tara and I walk down the street to the Costa coffee shop. We rent side-by-side computers and sip tea while answering e-mail. Cheyenne's teacher has written two messages. Part of our daughter's homework is to write back. One of Tara's aunts has died. The death was expected and my wife e-mails instructions for sending flowers. She says this probably explains the feeling she had in bed early this morning, when she literally felt someone combing her hair. She awakened to make sure it wasn't me. "Maybe my Dad came down to help Aunt Pat cross over and he stopped in to see me," she says. In the Agoura office, my son Steven is editing the last of our newly recorded 74-Minute Courses on CD. The Spirit Guide's Course is 11 minutes too long and he needs me to edit the script so he can finalize his work. Thanks to technology, this is an easy task. Back in the apartment, I pull up a copy of the script from a disc, do the editing, and will send it to him Monday morning as an e-mail attachment. (There is no way to plug my laptop into the phone line in our apartment.) I end the day by starting a list of the many differences between this country and our own. First up, almost everything here is double the cost we're used to paying. To attend a movie is £9.50 = $16.30 for an adult, £6.00 = $10.50 for a child. The equivalent of a Denny's dinner for four with tip is $65 here. Between trips, I always forget that in England the ground floor is considered zero. The first floor is the second floor, et cetera. I also tend to forget that most British water faucets do not mix the hot and cold water to create warm water. Instead, hot comes out of half the spigot, and cold the other. You scald half your hand and freeze the other half. British television is a sobering experience unless you subscribe to cable. There are five channels and a choice of programming that must discourage viewing by all but the pathologically bored. As an example, tonight during prime time, two stations offer major shows on flower gardens. If that doesn't turn you on, there are soap operas or "Brookie Basics: An Adult Learning Show." None of us cared to find out what a Brookie is.
MAY 22 -- SATURDAY: Our bodies can't figure out what's going on, so we all sleep 13 hours. I awaken, look at the alarm clock and realize I'm on stage in three hours. We arrive at the Royal Horticulture Halls by cab with 45 minutes to spare -- time to greet and talk quickly with some close friends. Erika Elliott is from Australia and working the festival. The last 12 months, she has stayed in touch with us via cyber cafe e-mail from some of the remotest places in the world. She's engaged and happily displays a unique ring. Fifteen minutes before my one-hour talk on "PSI Mind Power," we meet more friends in the lecture room. Richard Symons, from New Zealand, will introduce me as he has in numerous festivals in Sydney and London. We have a new sound man and together we quickly balance the room and work out the music. The festival will record the talk and offer a tape for sale immediately after the session. On stage, I regularly circle back to the fact that we are all energy interacting with energy. E=MC² proved that matter is energy. Everything breaks down to subatomic particles, and according to cutting-edge physicists, our world appears to be more like a "thought form" than anything else. The Buddhists have always said we live in a world of illusion. Seems to me, the mystics and scientists are in agreement. Thirty years ago, J.B. Rine's Institute of Parapsychology proved that the human mind can influence atomic particles with directed thoughts -- energy influencing energy. This is what we do to each other positively and negatively -- your energy influences others and their energy influences you. And each of us is influencing and contributing to the state of the overall energy. Although the English audience is subdued, they seem to enjoy my presentation and the accompanying altered-state-of-consciousness session. Afterwards, Tara and I sign books at the Valley of the Sun UK booth. An older woman who attended last year gives us pictures she took of Tara and me. "How long will you be with us?" she asks. "When the festival's over, we'll go to Edinburgh for June and July," I say. "Oh my, will they accept you?" "We've never received a warmer reception anywhere," I say. "Oh, the Scots don't like us," she says, tapping her chest. "I thinks it's time to let go of the past, don't you?" I say. The festival is like any in America: booth after booth of New Age offerings -- body work, organizations to join, aura photographs, Krilian photography, herbal concoctions, books, tapes, CDs and videos. For opening day -- a Saturday -- the festival appears to be lightly attended. I'm hoping the New Age malaise that has spread across America hasn't jumped the Atlantic. Because of diminishing interest, even Los Angeles can no longer support a Whole Life Expo. Tara believes the New Age has so integrated into the mainstream that it no longer offers anything unique. If this is so, I guess those of us in the field have fulfilled our dharma by helping it to happen. A new set of books from the AMA (American Medical Association) include instructions for visualizations, meditation suggestions and herbal remedies. We even know a Born Again Christian woman who runs a massage center and promotes flower-essence and herbal remedies -- all with the blessing of her minister. Even reincarnation seems to have been accepted on a mass scale. If not accepted, at least no longer thought of as a weird idea. At 4 PM a professional photographer saves us from further small talk when he asks us to come to his studio on the third floor. The children eat soft ice cream with fresh fruit, while Tara and I pose together and separately for photos to be used by the festival in the future. Leaving the festival, we walk a few blocks to Politico's Bookstore. I'm anxious to learn more about the meaning of the changes in Scotland. On May 6, for the first time in 300 years, Scotland elected its own parliament. The new legislature will make laws and levy some taxes, but the country will remain an integral part of Britain. Labor Prime Minister Tony Blair called for a referendum on the creation of a Scottish parliament in an attempt to satisfy Scotland's nationalism and avoid secession. When the votes were counted 42 percent were for Labor and 30 percent for the Scottish National Party -- those who want Scotland to be a free independent country. Although I wish the Nationalists had won, they should be a powerful minority party. Although most Scots remain united against England as a peaceful adversary, some fear that full independence might cause the Celts to fall back upon regional and tribal differences -- "clan thinking" -- when left to their own devices. As detailed in With Your Spirit Guide's Help, my maternal bloodlines are Celtic, including Campbell's and Grahams of Scotland. Tara shares a similar lineage of McDonalds and McMullens. Were I able to vote in Scotland, I would be a Nationalist who worked diligently for freedom. After purchasing a couple volumes on Scottish politics, we walk up the street to Albert's, an elegant bar with a two-story ceiling, decorated in Victorian style. Sitting at a tiny table designed to hold drinks, we have a delicious meal. Tara orders shepard's pie, Cheyenne, chicken and mushroom pie. Hunter and I have fish and chips. Some of the best food in the UK is served in bars. Back in our South Kensington neighborhood, we take a long walk and discover several new restaurants, including one that offers live jazz several nights a week. It's after midnight before I get a chance to go over some of the materials we picked up at the festival. Wave is a slick New Age magazine featuring a story on Beltane on the cover: "Hooray, hooray the first of May! OUTDOOR SEX BEGINS TODAY." And I thought Paganism was dead in the UK. The Pagan May Day festival was very special this year -- falling on the night of the full moon in the sexy sign of Scorpio. The article says, "Pre-Christian Beltane was an excuse for universal wife swapping. Fires were lit which one danced around naked before slipping off with a dark-eyed stranger for some commitment-free sensuality." Evidently Beltane was well celebrated in Britain. The article encourages readers to create "a fertile breeding ground." I pass the article to Tara, saying, "We should have come to the UK earlier." She reads the headline and intro paragraph before throwing a pillow at me. |
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Road Diary LONDON -- MAY 23, SUNDAY: Our workshop at the Body Mind Spirit Festival is titled "With Your Spirit Guide's Help" and runs from 5 to 10 PM. I start the talk and Tara joins me at the podium to help answer questions. After all, she's the spirit-guide expert in our family. The audience is enthusiastic and asks many questions. Some want their spirit guides to help them manipulate a loved one to change. "Bad idea," we explain. "Never, ever misuse mind power. You may get what you want, but you'll end up wishing you hadn't." The group is intrigued with the idea of Socrates interacting with a spirit guide. I explain: "The Western belief in spirit guides probably goes back to the ancient Greeks, who wrote of Daimons, who were said to be intermediary spirits between man and the gods. "Socrates claimed that he had been guided by a Daimon all his life. He said the spirit warned him of danger and unwise decisions, but never directly told him what to do. This guardian spirit, according to Socrates, was more trustworthy than any of the other forms of divination popular at the time. "The church initially viewed Daimons as evil, but in absorbing the concept, they ended up accepting protectory spirits, which were labeled guardian angels. "I suggest you combine rituals with spirit guide contact, which means you invoke magic. The history of man is the history of magic, for it has been practiced since ancient times. Magic was man's first science, because the techniques when properly used, produce an intended effect. Early professionals included the ancient Chaldean astrologers, the Chinese magicians, the Egyptian priests, the Greek oracles, the Celtic Druids, and Knights Templar. "The real power of rituals, symbols and invocations lies in their potential to assist you to focus upon your desires. And if you're using ancient techniques or variations of ancient spiritual or high-magic techniques, you draw upon the energy of those who came before you and used them for the same purpose. When you tune into a particular vibrational energy in the collective unconscious, you draw upon the power of those who share the lineage." Tara conducts the first meditation in which the participants meet their spirit guides. After the introductory session we answer questions, then I conduct an "earthly purpose" session, followed by a talk on how to go into trance on your own and connect with your guide on your own. The final meditation is on self-actualization and ends with everyone combining their energy with their spirit guide's energy and having a "thought-language" conversation. Following the workshop, we remain to sign books and talk with people individually. A middle-aged man confesses to me that he's been using "remote influence" techniques to try to seduce a woman he's attracted to. He hopes he hasn't screwed up karmically. A woman with relationship problems is trying to figure out how to make her relationship work without manipulating her mate. "Just send him love and visualize yourself as happy, without any attachments," I say. A man I guess to be in his mid-thirties tells me that everyone else seems to be luckier than he is. I don't know what this has to do with spirit guides, but I say, "Have you considered that maybe those who appear luckier are more active and industrious?" "Active?" "They get out and go after what they want. Thus they have more choices." "I think it's my karma. You can't change your karma," he says. "The root meaning of the word karma is 'action.' Maybe it's your karma to learn that you have to be more active and industrious," I say. "Oh." The participants now realize Tara is very psychic and many request on-the-spot readings or private appointments. She explains that she can't perform while standing in the middle of a crowd of people and she doesn't do private readings at this time. MAY 24, MONDAY: In the UK, most hotels and apartments do not offer double beds, much less king-size double beds. Upon our arrival, we removed the night stand separating the twin beds, then pushed them together. Only problem, one bed is three inches higher than the other. We're used to sleeping as spoons, but to do this we must both be on one twin bed. Last night it was my turn to fall off the higher onto the lower, or worse yet, sleep on the crack tilting down hill. But as uncomfortable as it is, we'd rather spoon than sleep separately and we both manage to sleep ten hours. We're either still adjusting to the time change, or our bodies are plotting against us. If we sleep all day, we'll eventually get back to Los Angeles time where we belong. As usual in this country, we've been encountering electrical conversion problems. I've already burned out an 85 watt transformer (converts English 220 to American 110). When Tara forgot to switch her hair dryer to 220, it blew up. Our remaining transformer only works if I hand hold it at an angle, half way into the socket. This is a little difficult when trying to coordinate my computer and printer. Thank goodness the laptop senses the incoming current and switches on its own. This morning, Hunter and I set off in search of a stationary store for school supplies, and a hardware store for a transformer (hardware stores in the UK stock small appliances and anything that plugs into the wall, but none of the things we expect to find in a hardware store at home). Electrical over-kill seems to be in order, so I purchase a heavy-duty, mean-looking transformer that weighs ten pounds. When I plug it in, our American devices work perfectly. Of course, at the rate I'm buying books and acquiring things like this, my suitcase is probably already back up to 80 pounds. While the children do homework, Tara and I go to Costa for coffee and to send e-mail. Before they will allow me to send the first "Road Diary" attachment, the disc is scanned for a virus and they have to input the attachment. It would be easier if I could tap into the apartment phone line. I do have a screwdriver. Maybe later . . . Following a relaxing afternoon, we all walk a few blocks to a Waterstone's Bookstore. I'm looking for medical reference for a new series of professional hypnosis tapes. Comfortable chairs invite customers to sit and read. Tara dives into astrology titles. Hunter picks a book on the new Star Wars movie, which he is sad about missing at home. Cheyenne searches out a novel to read for homework. I'm sidetracked by a book titled Where To Live In London by Sara McConnell. Looking up the South Kensington area where we're staying I read: . . . "the borough with everything -- beautiful and varied architecture (70 percent of its territory is a conservation area), properties to die for, excellent transportation links, a wealth of museums, galleries, parks, a range of shops from the eclectic to the practical and some of the most up-to-the-minute bars and restaurants." The author goes on to say that Kensington is ". . . one of the most affluent boroughs of London. It's resident are not just domestic, but international, from businessmen to diplomats." And now, metaphysical writers and occultists. But by American standards this would not be an affluent neighborhood. Each long block is one solid wall of 24-feet wide Georgian-style homes, each exactly alike and five-stories high. All the surrounding boroughs look almost exactly alike. In Ireland they paint the doors different colors so you can find your way home even when drunk. Here, the doors are all the same. After an hour of reading we purchase several books, then walk down the street a few more blocks to the Troubadour Coffee Shop -- a kicky hideaway offering "Bangers and Mashed" (a big bowl of mashed potatoes, topped by three sausages and a flood of onion gravy). I love, love, love the food in the British Isles. And I know it's not cool to say that. You're supposed to love French food and Italian food, but not British food. Wrong! The Troubadour is my kind of place. The front window is leaded glass and shelf after shelf of coffee pots. Inside, it is ultra-casual -- a candle-lit cave with Renaissance folk music playing softly in the background. There are huge hand-hewn, dark-wood beams. Musical instruments hang from the ceiling: lutes, violins, drums and some stringed instruments I've never seen before. For some less-than-obvious reason, a hand-carved, cigar-store Indian balances on a high beam, towering over the eating area. US/UK DIFFERENCES: I started this in Part I and will continue it as we travel. These are not complaints, just interesting differences: Many of the businesses all over the UK (including some banks) keep their doors locked until you ring to get in. I remembered this today when we stopped at a computer supply store to purchase a surge protector. Many grocery stores charge you a pound just to use a shopping cart. That's $1.73 US. Also, you're expected to sack your own groceries. And no matter what you buy, most retail stores hand you a bag along with your purchase. They aren't about to do all the work of bagging just because you patronized their establishment. If you want your coffee or tea with cream, don't say so. It confuses them terribly. Say, "Two white coffees, please." This way you get what you want, although they add the milk. I guess Brits don't trust people with milk. If you want catsup with your french fries, pay extra. If you buy a scone and want a tiny plastic packet of jam to put on it, "40 pence extra, please" (70 cents).
MAY 25, TUESDAY: Tara and I have a lunch meeting with new book distributors who will represent Valley of the Sun in the UK, Ireland, Europe, and Scandinavia. The cab ride to South London takes longer than expected, and upon dropping us off, the cabby says, "Man, I haven't been down here in years." It will be a few hours before we understand the significance of this remark. The company is located in what I would call an industrial park, but in London they're called "trading estates." Sounds a little more highbrow, doesn't it? Lunch with Chris and Linda is a pleasant experience. Chris was a book rep before starting her own distribution firm. The company's warehouse is well organized and appears to be operating efficiently. By the time we're ready to leave, I feel we'll be in good hands with these people. We're due to be on stage at the Body Mind Spirit Festival in 45 minutes. They try to call us a cab and every company is too busy or refuses to cross the River Thames. There is evidently considerable prejudice between North and South London. "The North London Black cabs will bring you down but won't return to take you back. Most of the South London cabs won't cross the river into North London," Chris explains. She adds, "Come on, I'll take you." She's an angel. Arriving at the Horticultural Halls with a few minutes to spare, we learn our five-hour Past-Life Workshop is a few seats short of being sold out. The room seats 200. This is a workshop I can almost perform blindfolded. Almost, not quite. Tonight is one of those nights when nothing goes right. There is no podium. Someone shuts off all the lights while Tara is out of the room, so I can't refer to a new script. Because the room is jammed with people, the temperture jumps to a sweaty level. The air conditioner induces arctic cold -- back and forth. The sound system malfunctions three times. I'm embarrassed that workshop is being recorded to offer for sale. Thankfully, the participants seem to love the experience. After signing books and saying our good-byes, we hail a cab, drop Erika at Victoria Station and have the driver take us home. No two cab drivers have ever taken the same route to or from our apartment to the festival. Cabbies here seem to have an aversion to driving straight down a major street, turning right and proceeding directly to a destination. It just isn't done. If the fares varied, I'd guess some of the drivers were ripping us off by running up the fee. But the fares never vary more than 40 pence. Every trip is a different sight-seeing experience as we dart down narrow streets, turn left, right, circle around, backtrack, and eventually arrive at our destination. The cabbies are white English males between 30 and 60-- good, fast, aggressive drivers. This in itself is surprising when compared to New York where an ethnic nationality and the inability to speak English seems a prerequisite for the profession. Back in the apartment, to celebrate the end of a very intense day, I pour a single-malt Scotch and switch on the five-station "telly," which only receives four stations clearly. "Suburban Strippers" (I'm not kidding) is on the fuzzy station so, that's out. Through process of elimination, we end up staring blankly at one of the dumbest shows I've ever seen. Three different people take turns drawing little tell-tale drawings that will help the other two identify someone in the news. As an example, one man draws a picture of a tennis racquet, and a Canadian maple leaf, and one of the other players guesses the name of a Canadian tennis player participating in the French Open. Oh my, is this exciting. The next show follows two 18-year old boys and two 18-year old girls as they prepare to go out "night clubbing." We go along from club to club. Nothing happens. Tara wakes me up when it's over. Any one of the American networks could take over British and Irish TV in a week, if given the opportunity. In all fairness, I must point out that this is my opinion and Hunter and Cheyenne's opinion. Tara actually likes the English shows. Their weird humor and skewed viewpoints fascinate her. The kids and I are worried about her and we'll be watching her closely.
MAY 26, WEDNESDAY: Tara wakes me up at 7:30 AM. She is ready to go to Sandringham -- the estate of King Edward VII. This is one of the sites she has most wanted to see on previous visits. "It's way too early," I mumble hiding my head beneath a cave of covers. There is no talking her out of it. "We need to get to King's Cross station, then it's a two-hour train ride," she says happily. Peeking out, I see that she is getting dressed, opening French doors to let in traffic sounds and the voices of noisy people. "Will you make the coffee?" I croak. The train trip to the west coast of central England is an opportunity to relax. After yesterday, I need to relax. We travel past rolling green fields, edged by hedge rows and dotted with stone houses. Rows of single trees top ridge lines and tiny clumps of forest often appear in the middle of open plains. Some communities seem to consist entirely of dreary-looking row houses, but then we travel miles without seeing anything that would indicate we're in the 20th century. Towns flash past: Finsbury Park, Hitchin, Waterbeach (no beach here), Cambridge, Ely and our destination, the coastal town of King's Lynn. From the train station, we take a cab for the 20-minute ride past fields of asparagus and through beautiful rural countryside to the Sandringham Estate. The cabby, who hasn't said a word until we're climbing out of the car, says, "I've lived here all me life and never visited the place." Family pass admission is £13 = $22.50. The estate was given to Albert Edward by his mother Queen Victoria as a wedding present, and more or less, to get rid of him. Today, the home is one of the royal family's favorite residences. The walk through the immaculate grounds is more impressive than anything inside the house. We have tea and cheese sandwiches in the stable courtyard, then explore the museum. It is probably lowbrow to say this, but the only items I find fascinating are American. An octagonal barrel, 1874 Winchester repeating rifle may be the most beautiful rifle I've ever seen. (We have a Winchester hanging above our fireplace at home.) A huge bronze of an American cowboy on a bucking horse is something I'd love to own. The plaque reads, "Presented to Her Majesty the Queen by President Gerald Ford of the United States of America." This magnificent sculpture now sits on top of a tall cabinet in the stables and appears dusty. Not one person in a hundred would look up to see it perched almost out of sight. Obviously, the Queen didn't want it in her living room. Close to the main house is the King's church: Saint Mary Magdalene, Sandringham. Services are conducted every Sunday by Rector George Hall. But today, scattered here and there among the pews are racks of souvenirs for sale. I say to Tara, "They've turned the church into a souvenir shop to make extra money." The old man behind a sales desk overhears and scowls at me. Most of those visiting Sandringham are elderly and seem appreciative of everything on display. In the full-fledged souvenir shop, I listen in fascination to three women go on and on about a wondrous teacup. Back in our London apartment, over dinner, we watch the final European Cup soccer match -- England's Manchester United versus a German team. We cheer for England and they win 2-1. Later, after renting 30 minutes of computer time and having coffees in a pastry shop, we decide to watch a BBC2 exposé on Southern California. "We shouldn't do this to ourselves," I say. "Sure we should," Tara says. The show is called "Weird Weekends" and for 50 minutes exposes the swinger lifestyle of Southern Californians. Host/reporter Louis Theroux goes to CA to investigate. We get to go along to the home of a couple who offer on-premises, group-sex parties. The "pony chair" and under-water, rubber "fetish wear" are featured. Theroux likes to go quiet and let people dangle -- a counselor trick that works well, for people get nervous and keep talking. Most of those being interviewed reveal more about themselves and their activities than they probably intended. In keeping with Brit TV sexual openness, they show a lot of nude bodies and even take the camera into a wall-to-wall mattress room where at least eight couples are having sex. The investigation is hardly in-depth, and it leaves an inaccurate impression of Southern Californians. But this is typical of the tabloid journalism so popular here, even on the prestigious BBC. To be continued ... |
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Road Diary LONDON -- MAY 27, THURSDAY: All week, we've been coordinating with the Impact Public Relations Agency about being interviewed on a London TV show today. For some reason, the appearance has fallen through and I'm relieved. I never mind doing such publicity, but it usually means the better part of your day is spent preparing, getting there, doing the show and coming back. After a morning spent writing, Hunter and I set off in search of the Fulham Road Post Office. My son forgot his video games and his uncle has sent them air priority. But instead of the games showing up at the apartment, we received a card saying the postage was underpaid by £48.27, which is $83.51. "Ridiculous, Jason could have mailed himself to London for that," I say to no one in particular. Asking directions at a coffee shop, a helpful individual says, "Oh, that's only five minutes down the road." He is correct about the five minutes, if you were driving a very fast car and ran all the stoplights. Hunter and I walk and walk and walk. Great exercise, but not how we had intended to spend the afternoon. The post office sends us to a "pickup place" -- a hole-in-the-wall office down the street. Behind what appears to be bullet-proof glass and a little exchange box, is an empty desk. I ring the buzzer and we wait. Five minutes pass and I ring it again. This time, two men come out, one leaves and a guy with large hoop earrings in each ear accepts my pickup card. He finds our package, which shows $17.50 has already been paid to get the CDs to England. The $83.51 is import duty, the postal man explains. "These are used games my son forgot to bring with him on vacation," I say. "Hardly worthy of this duty?" He is unsympathetic and gives me a card with an address to protest. I hand him a £50.00 note. "Must be the exact change," he says. "I don't have exact change, can I overpay you?" He shrugs. I hand him the 50. "Can I get a receipt to send in with my request for repayment?" He writes out a receipt on the corner of a piece of paper, tears it off, and rubber stamps the scrap with a map on how to get to this post office. Hopefully, I'll never need it to find my way back. "Can I also have a Xerox copy of the overdue postage notice?" For $83.51, this doesn't seem too much to ask. "No problem," he says, but he is clearly pissed off. He disappears. We wait. Three people form a line behind us. Having waited so long for the postal man to appear in the first place, I check my watch. After ten minutes, I know the guy is extracting revenge by reading a magazine in the back room. We leave without our copy, waving goodbye to the other people in line. "Good luck!" I say. I get the feeling they're used to this kind of treatment and simply take it in their stride. Back at Costa, we find Tara sipping coffee and answering e-mail Cheyenne is reading a book. I have the Web-guy scan photos, which we send with "Road Diary II" to the California office. The children have been looking forward to an evening at Segaworld in Piccadilly Circus. Tonight is the night. Segaworld is five stories of intensity -- an assault on the senses and a test of endurance for anyone over 30. Motion-oriented video rides are the featured attractions, but to get to the different rides on different floors, you must run a gamut of neon, bizarre images, statuary, and hundreds of video games projected on huge monitors. Ultra-powerful audio speakers play disco music and sound effects at a volume three notches into distortion. Two and a half hours after entering Segaworld, we leave a little dazed. The children are happy and express their thanks. On the streets, we make our way through crowds to a huge Tower Records store on the main square. At home it's rare to find Americana favorites, Ray Wylie Hubbard, Dave Alvin, Jimmy LaFave, and Tom Russell. All are available here. Only problem, the price of a normal album is almost $30 US. People in England must have small CD collections unless they're rich. Earlier in the evening, when we emerged from the Piccadilly Circus Underground, a black man was making music with a tribal drum. As we leave Piccadilly, the drummer has been replaced by a solo saxophonist playing smooth jazz. MAY 28, FRIDAY: My "Remote Viewing 101" workshop sells out. Everything goes well, right down to a 59-minute timing. This assures the recording company can fit the talk on one cassette. Evidently I went overtime on the five-hour workshop from hell on Tuesday night. As a result, their recording clicked off in the middle of the last, most important, meditation. Bad form. If we were receiving royalties, I might feel a little more empathy. Two young men who publish a magazine called Dream Creations have attended the session. They're writing an article and want to take some pictures. Their publication is slick, full-color, and features things like "K countdown Acid Techno Insect Wallpaper," "Mayan Prophecy" and "Adventures in Psyberdelia." What does this say about me? I enjoy talking magazine publishing until it's time to sign books on the festival floor. Before leaving the festival, Tara and I visit with Graham Wilson, owner of New Life Promotions, which puts on this event. We're going to get together for dinner in London in July and we'll see Graham and his family in Los Angeles in October. A cab takes us to Shaftesbury Avenue, where we sit by the window in Starbucks Coffee, watching the human parade. Every size, shape, race, and persuasion passes by. Two transvestites in Goth makeup stare at us. Hooded Arab women peek through eye slits. Ma and Pa from Iowa wander as if overwhelmed and lost in a maze. I almost spill my coffee when a Black Cab careens around the corner and screeches to a stop, nearly reducing the population of London by three. Pedestrians pay no attention to red lights in this city. Every intersection offers an opportunity to play dodge-the-Black-Cab. To someone from a tiny village in Slabobia, it must look as if the people are purposely jumping in front of cabs as a quick way to exit this world. I'm from Los Angeles, and I'm not so sure the cabs aren't purposely trying to run down pedestrians. A block up the street, we pass a well-dressed elderly dead man sprawled across the sidewalk. Tara later tells me he had a peaceful look on his face. Two police officers kneel beside him. Maybe a heart attack ... or maybe a Black Cab. A few yards up the street, a scantily-clad teenage girl chews gum and dances to music only she can hear. Oxford Street is like stepping into an MTV video -- a gritty, hyper-edited musical explosion. Homeless hustlers, weave through people with red, green and purple hair. Walking at brisk paces, men and women shout into cell phones -- Italian, Spanish, French and a dozen languages we don't recognize. Music erupts from the doorways of shops selling cheap merchandise -- belly-dancing music fades into rap, which fades into chants. The scent of ethnic food melds with cigarette smoke. I almost step on a glassy-eyed heroine addict sitting on the sidewalk half out of his sleeping bag. Our route through Soho is a purposeful search for particular video, art supply and computer-supply stores. And all the while we move closer to Charing Cross Road -- lemmings, drawn to a sea of words in the bookstores. We make up excuses to return. This time it's to help Hunter find metric- conversion information for his homework. Of course, this takes an hour or two of browsing. Here in this predominantly gay area, a few pink cabs appear among the abundance of black ones. Hunter decides that we should not hail a pink cab. Cheyenne disagrees and wants me to find one. "Black or pink, whatever is available," I say raising my hand to the driver of a Black Cab with his light on. We start for his cab but only make it to the divider where we are trapped in the middle of hundreds and hundreds of bicyclers slowly riding through the Shaftesbury/Charing Cross intersection. Jumping between some slow cyclers, we make our way to the cab. "What's that all about?" Tara asks the cabby. "They're protesting. They want the city to create more bicycle lanes. Do it every month, but it doesn't seem to do any good," he says. Having engaged the driver in conversation, he becomes a tourist guide. "These are the gentlemen's clubs for the wealthy," he points out. A few blocks down the street, he says, "And these are the conservative gentlemen's clubs that the IRA used to bomb." Conversation about the great weather and London's wonderful parks follows. I tune out. Tara picks up the banter, until the cabby takes off on a rant as to why the UK shouldn't be part of the EU. Then he's on his own. Neon signs reflect eerily in the cab windows as we weave through heavy traffic going the other way. In a city of seven million people and a trillion tourists, most of the population seems to be heading for the entertainment district.
MAY 29, SATURDAY: Our morning coffee is something new I picked up at the grocery store: "Hot Lava Java -- Powerful Dark Roast Coffee With A High Caffeine Kick." No kidding! Tara got up like a shot, whipped the children into doing their homework and rearranged her closet three times before brushing her teeth. I've been typing away for two hours as if I were being paid by the word. Flipping through my writing notebook, I realize I haven't shared the experience of riding on the top tier of a two-tier bus, driven by a man who probably started his day with Hot Lava Java. We board the bus at Sandringham Estate and an elderly driver takes several minutes to decide upon the cost. He figures, refigures, then punches our statistics into the bus computer. "Yep, I'm right, £6." I pay the fee and the four of us scurry up the circular stairway to the second tier and the front seats. There were plenty of people on the bus, and no one else seems interested in these seats, maybe for good reason. As the bus pulls out of Sandringham and into the first curve, it tilts to one side -- tilts to the point I easily imagine us upside down in the ditch. "Whew!" We all look at each other. Now the driver has the pedal to the metal and the next curve is worse as we cross over the center line in the narrow two-lane highway. "Thank goodness no one was coming the other way," I say to Tara who is white-knuckling the ledge beneath the windows. I lean forward to get the full, wide-screen effect when, "WHACK," the bus slams into overhanging tree branches. I jump back so fast and hard, I think I have whiplash. As the speed increases, the whole bus begins to take on a weird, unstable swaying. This time I see the branches coming and close my eyes. "WHACK, WHACK, WHACK!" "Shit!" We are now careening down the road. "Careen" according to my Brit dictionary means to "tilt or kneel over." Exactly, but at high speed. Up ahead a car is stalled in the oncoming lane and another car is going around, crossing the center line, right into our lane. Insanity! Surely the bus driver will slow down. But he doesn't. Oh my god, I think he's speeding up ... playing chicken with a passenger car. As a bus driver, maybe he hates passenger cars. Maybe he has waited all his life for this opportunity. No one will be able to blame him for the accident. I want to close my eyes but instead watch in horror as the auto shoots back into the other lane with inches to spare. I look at Tara. Her eyes are wide, knuckles white. Coming into the next curve, I'm sure this time we're going to tip over, but the bus recovers, shudders and carries on. The driver is crossing way over the center line on every curve. My face to the glass, perched over the driver's head, I can't see other cars coming, so neither can he. "WHACK!" More trees. I look around at our fellow passengers to see if anyone else is ready to join me in a mutiny -- to forcefully take control of the bus and turn the crazed driver over to the police. But the other passengers look half asleep. Unconcerned. I suspect they're regulars. They know what's coming so they drink before boarding. Surely the driver will slow down when he gets back into King's Lynn. No one would drive like this through a city. Wrong! The driver has assured me that he will call out to alert us when we've approaching the train station. I watch the train station appearing before us and then it's gone as we shoot past at 60 mph. I leap from my seat, fly down the stairs and yell, "TRAIN STATION!" "Oh, sorry! Forgot about the train station," he says, "but I can't stop here." "Why? Because it might be too DANGEROUS?" He drives for several blocks before pulling to the side of the road. "Where's the train station?" Hunter asks as we climb off the bus. "About a mile down the road." Coming back to the present, I notice my Hot Lava Java is wearing off, but certainly not enough to sit back and read the London Times. "I think I need to go buy a small suitcase to carry my new books and converter," I tell Tara. "Or maybe some more printer paper, or I could go to the ATM to get some more money. " "Let's all go to the British Museum," she says. "Okay." To be continued ... |
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