Dick Sutphen’s Road Diary
London, England & Barcelona, Spain
November 2003 (continued)

Tara in the dining area of our one-bedroom apartment in South Kensington. She may look alert, but after an 11-hour flight and three hours sleep, looks can be deceiving.

Wednesday, November 5: Cheyenne fixes a full-course English breakfast of eggs, potatoes, Irish toast, and baked beans.

We’re now fortified for a Tube trip to Piccadilly Circus. I hand the Tube ticket seller a 5-pound bill. She looks at it, looks at me funny and says, “This is old money.”

“Oh,” I say. Shrugging my shoulders.

“I can’t take it,” she says.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not new money.”

I shake my head, dig into my wallet and hand her another bill that looks exactly the same to me.

“This will do fine,” she says.

In time, I realize the British pounds we took home last year do not have a metallic spot on them. England has replaced some of it’s money, and the bank is the only place accepting “old.”

Stepping out of the Tube into Picadilly Circus is an exhilarating experience no matter how many times you’ve been here. You’re instantly surrounded by a gaudy array of plasma video screens and neon advertising -- the old and new slam you into visual-sensory overload. Cheyenne has dressed in what she perceives is the proper attire to fit in with the local crowd. We walk to Leicester Square.

Cheyenne spots a dance club, says she wants to go tonight.

“Well ... NO,” I say.

“I can go by myself,” she says.

“You’re 15 years old.”

“I can pass for 18 when I expose my figure.”

“We’re changing this subject,” I say.

Charing Cross Road is a street of bookstores, but we bypass books on our way to Soho -- Oxford Street -- the heart of the London’s youth culture, extreme attire, adult sex shops and coffee houses. The girls shop and to my amazement, do not find anything they’re tempted to buy.

Starbucks is on the second floor of a bookstore. They won’t accept my old money either. Tara and I agree, jet lag is coming in weird waves. We sip coffees, look at books. There’s a large display of “CRAP TOWNS -- The 50 Worst Places to Live in the UK.“ Browsing through the book, I laugh out loud. The author is vicious. But no author is listed, obviously to avoid being stalked by crazed townies from the “50 places.”

Late afternoon, we walk back to the Trafalgar Square area in search of a restaurant offering a large dinner salad. Restaurants post their menus outside, but only one has what we’re looking for. We continue on without success. Finally, just when we’ve decided to return to the restaurant we passed a mile back, I spot “The Texas Embassy” -- a huge Tex/Mex eatery. The menu offers an array of dinner salads. Tara rolls her eyes at being trapped by Texas in London. Upon entering, we’re welcomed by country music on the sound system. Guacamole is an appetizer. I could purr.

Tara returns from the lady’s room saying, “There’s a sign up there that says, ‘Life is too short not to live it as a Texan.’”

I want to say, “What you resist you draw to you.” I decide not to.

Before we leave, Tara insists I buy a “Texas Embassy London” T-shirt.

The National Gallery is just down the street and tonight it stays open late. We explore the magnificent paintings for hours. I buy Tara a book on Symbols in fine art. My wife is always interpreting symbols in her metaphysical work and Shaman view of life. She is fascinated with “Whistlejacket,” a life-size painting of a horse. I purchase a Whistlejacket mouse pad and refrigerator magnet for my wife. Cheyenne falls asleep waiting for us to shop.

From the museum, I call friend and medical intuitive Patti Conklin at her hotel. She arrived in London this afternoon with boyfriend Ajamu Ayinde. Both will be conducting workshops at the Healing Arts Festival. Patti answers the phone with a groggy voice. They were sleeping, adjusting to the five-hour time difference between here and Atlanta, Georgia. We had planned to get together tomorrow to go to Stonehenge, but Patti’s contact has not come through. I doubt we have enough time to make new plans. We’ll coordinate in the morning.

We cab back to the apartment. Cheyenne goes to bed. So much for the young outlasting the old. Tara and I hike off to an internet cafe to communicate with friends and finalize a Barcelona apartment for next week. I handle some business e-mails, agreeing to appearances in Lilly Dale, the spiritualist community in New York next August. We’re also invited to conduct a workshop at Whole Life Expo in San Francisco next April. Our 2004 calendar is filling up fast.

The National Gallery. Tara emulates Edward the Seventh, King of England. She is fascinated with this period of English history and has a large collection of books on the era and Edward in particular.

Thursday, November 6: A Barcelona apartment is not coming together via the web, so we visit three travel agencies. They will book hotels or resorts, but not apartments. Back to the web.

There is no way to put together Stonehenge and this is the only day we’re free. It would have been interesting to witness Patti’s take on the energy of the archeological site. As reported in the past, Tara had a traumatic experience here.

This is Patti and Ajamu’s first trip to London, so I suggest things they might enjoy doing. Tara says she would like to go to the British Museum. We have not been there since the 2000 addition of the Queen Elizabeth Great Court.

Tara sourcing Egyptian energy in the British Museum, unless of course she is doing something else.

Long ago, England gathered the finest Egyptian artifacts and statuary for the British Museum. I greatly admire the ancient Egyptian artistry, but I don’t identify in any way. Ruth Montgomery once told me her guides claimed she and I shared an Egyptian incarnation, so it seems to me I should at least feel a little familiarity or experience a shiver or two.

Tara identifies, and identifies, and identifies. Cheyenne identifies. I take pictures of them identifying.

The British Museum. I don’t recall why Cheyenne wanted to take a picture of us beneath this lion. But here we are.

A few weeks ago, my wife lovingly called me a “psychic clod” when I didn’t experience energy she felt was intense. So I am feeling a bit unperceptive until we reach the Celtic Britain displays. A presentation of Medieval music is taking place down the hall as we view the artifacts. The experience is surreal.

I identify. Scottish incarnations I am already familiar with? Maybe. A lifetime in which I was helping to protect our village from Viking invaders flashes through my mind. The Norsemen were terrorists as much as the Islamic militants we face today.

When the museum closes, I’m ready to walk through the theater district and down into Piccadilly Circus, but both Tara and Chey complain of sore feet and vote to take a cab waiting outside at the front gates.

We’re used to aggressive English cab drivers, but our journey home feels like riding with Moses as he parted the Red Sea. Pedestrians dive for safety, other drivers climb the sidewalks to avoid a collision. “Fastest ride across town yet,” I say and pay him in “old” money.

After dropping Cheyenne at the apartment, Tara and I walk six blocks to the Internet Cafe, where my wife finally secures us lodging in Spain. It was my assignment to handle tickets and accommodations in London. Tara was to handle Spain, which has proven more difficult.

Click HERE for the continuation
of Dick’s London/Barcelona
2003 Road Diary