Kept seeing signs all over the country for something called a "CAR BOOT".
Saw an actual parking meter for the first time I could remember, in Newcastle upon Tyne, and decided 10 pence was a worthwhile investment to avoid a ticket... but nothing happened when I put the coin in!!! The meter still read negative 1:07, which is what it had been when I arrived. AARRGHH!!!
Four hard-parking stores in Newcastle centre, and I might, or might not, have avoided a ticket. Rushed back to the car with my coffee in time to plead my case, and after apologized the warden said "go on now". Hopefully nothing will be sent to Hertz in the mail.
After rushing, rushing, rushing to those four stores, that 90s singer Keith Sweat had nothing on me.
Meanwhile, I had no idea whether I'd visited 9400 or 9500 stores, because my data is really screwed up.
At the Silverlink Borders the manager and barista seemed sure that I wouldn't make it to Sunderland in time. When I got out to the car I saw that it was just 13 miles, with 75 minutes before 6:00 PM. What??? Inconceivable, that I wouldn't be able to make that distance in time. Yes, the Tyne Tunnel was really backed up, but I still hit the city centre by 5:30. Plenty of time, or so it seemed, until I ended up missin the Bridges shopping centre and instead finding myself on a bridge to the other side of town. Not good. I confirmed from another driver that I had missed the shopping centre, and I went back across the bridge, but I did not see any signs for the Bridges. I had to slowly work my way into town and ask several people before I finally found it. Turned out it didn't close 'til 7:00 anyway.
NEVER GIVE UP! NEVER GIVE UP, I SAY!!! When the staff at the Bridges told me Dalton Park closed at 6:00, I figured I'd never make it even though I still had about 15 minutes, to drive 8 miles. When I find myself lost in the Seaham centre, after a wrong turn, and looking at the fuel gauge reporting empty, I figured I'd missed it for sure. But I perservered, and even though it was close to 6:10 when I reached the outlet centre, I still rushed in and found the Starbucks. A barista noticed me standing by the door fiddling with my iPod (trying to untangle the cord from my camera), and she came over to the door and opened it. And amazingly, they still had filter coffee. I've gotta say something for these UK stores--even though they close early, the baristas have almost always been willing to talk to me, and I think I had a 100% success record of getting coffee when I asked. This in sharp contrast to baristas in America who are often reluctanct to even speak to me through the door, or to answer the phone if I'm calling after hours. Heck, one even called the police when I showed up a few minutes after closing. Neither she nor Starbucks have ever apologized for that.
Dude, a herd of cows crossing on an overpass over the A19 just north of Middlebrough. I so wish I could have taken a photo.
Rushed down towards Middlesbrough/Stockton, wondering which store would be open 'til 7:00. Wrong choice, but it turned out it didn't matter, because I had a phantom store on my map, from last year, which turned out to be the Borders location plotted twice. This kept happening, of course, because the addresses on the Starbucks web site changed between my 2008 download and my 2009 download.
Parmesan House, burger craving
Meanwhile, the negative side of human nature continued to manifest itself. After the Stockton Borders store I drove back to Middlesbrough to find wi-fi. I found a connection and a parking spot in front of Denture World, and I went about my business. I happened to be one shop down from a Chinese restaurant, East Ocean, and after some time a man, presumably the owner, noticed me in the car and started giving me the evil stare (I observed him with my peripheral vision but never looked right at him). He went inside and came out with another man, younger, his son perhaps and pointed over at me. After a few minutes the young man came out for a cigarette break, and while he smoked he walked down the sidewalk towards my car, then behind it, and out of the corner of my eye I could see him looking through my car window, presumably to see what I was working on.
I'd chosen my parking space poorly the night before, and sometime in the early morning I was awoken by the sound of a large coach backing up into the street. I was able to go back to sleep, but not for long before I was awoken again by the sounds of chatter between the driver, another man, and then a second coach backing up. No way to kiwi without being seen, and no way to go back to sleep without kiwi, so I had to move. Tried to go back to sleep, but those 17 samples I'd had the previous day made it impossible. Further, I also had a headache, common when my caffeine intake spikes like that.
Hoooooly cow! In Dunfermline, I finally went into Greggs, a bakery chain I'd seen all over. I ordered a bran scone, and I swear I could only understand about 50% of what the lady was saying, her accent was so strong.
I wondered why St. Andrews, of all places, has a Starbucks, and as I left town and spotted a "LINKS GOLF" shop I realized that St. Andrews has a well-known golf course that was used to play the British Open a few years earlier.
Nuts, a 3rd ticket, from NCP (National Car Parks) this time, instead of the municipality, for 30 pounds. Still was ahead of the game with just 3 tickets in 310 stores, but this one had come a bit too soon after the last one. One interesting thing, though--I walked out to the lot just in time to see the warden writing the ticket. I said I'd just got in for a coffee, but he said it was too late. I kept trying, and after I explained my situation he said he wouldn't have ticketed me if he had known.
I had a fairly quick run through the four stores in Aberdeen, a really good thing because I learned that the Eastgate store in Inverness would close at 6:00 PM. It was barely past 3:00 PM when I left the city, with just 105 miles to drive, including a stop in Elgin, but given that I would not be on a motorway, that trip could take a long time.
The St. Nicholas Centre store was near Marks & Spencer, and I could not help checking to see if the cafe had the chili con carner with rice. It did. I finally got to try it! It was pretty good. Not the best chili by far, not as good as I was going to find in America, in the south, in Texas, but definitely not bad. Expensive though, at 3.67 pounds.
Got lucky again, in Elgin, easy parking and a short walk to the store, but it was still around 5:15 when I left the store, and I had 40 miles to drive. It was going to be close.
Interesting--three days in Scotland, and I just now saw a sign for haggis!
Incredibly close call in Inverness. I had assumed the manager in Aberdeen had told the Eastgate store I was on my way, and just to be double-sure they'd have coffee I asked the supervisor at Elgin to give them the heads up. Not sure where the breakdown was, but when I arrived at the store, a few minutes past 6:00, neither the barista nor the supervisor/manager knew anything about me. Fortunately she cooperated with a shot of espresso, and I did not have to spend the night in Inverness.
Inverness is in the Highlands, and thus I wondered if I could somehow located the Highlander and get his autograph.
Hellz yeah!!! The best road sign I ever say, "Frustration causes accidents. Please allow overtaking." Wish the drivers in America were as good about it as the British.
A9 from Inverness to Perth moved extremely quickly and did not actually pass through any town centres, so I had to wait until Perth for dinner. Didn't mind though. The time passed quickly once I began engaging in a tough mental exercise, trying to recall the titles of all the episodes of Lost from seasons 4 and 3.
Finally!!! A convenient launderette. Ideally it would have been near a Starbucks, but given I'd already visited six that morning, by 10:40, and that the cycle was just 20 minutes, it was well worth waiting. Cost was 3 pounds for the wash plus 40 pence (all the coins I had left) for 8 minutes of drying (not enough) plus 40 pence for the soap, although I got 20 pence back that I found in the dispenser. Since I had not been wearing my shorts since I left the hostel, I was able to take everything off and wash it. I wondered how the attendant and other patrons would react when I took the shirt I was wearing off, but I guess she'd probably seen that before. Still, I was glad that I was able to wait in my car parked right outside so that I didn't have to worry about any embarassment that might ensue if I had a sexy thought.
Like I said, 8 minutes wasn't enough, and thus my shirt and socks were damp, and my pants even more so. The shirt dried quickly with my body heat, and I was able to put the socks on the dashboard defrost vents to dry while I drove, but there was nothing I could do about the pants. The damp pants accentuated just how chilly the temperature was. I'd been warned, but I still found it really, really cold. They night before I'd spoken with my father who reported record heat in Houston. I didn't want that, of course, but it would have been nice to not be so chilly. On the other hand, I wasn't getting as sweaty and funky as I had been when it was warmer.
Oooooh... feeling queasy. That carrot that had been sitting in my car didn't taste too funny, though. It seemed okay.
A view that refutes the criticisms of all the haterz who find no value in Starbucking. Without my pursuit, I doubt I would ever have found this view of Edinburgh Castle, from the Princes Street store.
I could hardly believe it, but I actually managed to visit the remaining stores in Edinburgh, 16 in all, by 6:00 PM (5:50, actually). In fact, since I didn't get to Haymarket 'til 7:00 PM the night before, I had actually managed all 18 Edinburgh stores in just under 23 hours!!!
I tried celebrating with some beef fried rice instead of the usual plain fried rice, plus the soup, but, as I should have known, as I probably did know, in the back of my head, I was not able to finish the meal. Like with the Indian meal I thought about saving it, and I figured in the cooler weather would keep it from spoiling. But there was still the issue of not being able to find a microwave. Later that evening, I ended up offering the leftovers to a woman panhandling across from the Lothian store. She refused, probably suspicious, and I just tossed the container.
Shortly before 7:00 I was woken up by, of all things, a cacophony of cooing pigeons who were seemingly interested in something right next to the car. A seagull also took interest and landed but was quickly driven away.
7:44
Oh, those wacky Scots!!!
As I photographed the the Borders an older lady walked by and asked if I wanted her to photograph me in front of the store. I said no, I was okay, and then she said something like, "You must be related to Mr. President the way you look so much like him." She then complained that he had not yet been to Glasgow. Well, that lady must not have seen many persons of color, because I don't think I look anything like Obama. She was right about his not having been to Glasgow, though. I guess that's something I've accomplished that Obama has not.
Positive and negative regarding Buchanan Galleries. The good news was it actually opened earlier than 9:00, as I found out when I rephotographed Sauchiehall and saw a woman entering the centre. The negative was that the manager gave off a definite air of distrust, immediately asking me which was my favorite Glasgow store. A perfectly normal question, to be sure, but it came across was like a quiz. So did her follow up questions about where I else was going in Glasgow, as if she was planning to warn the other stores. But the kicker was, as it often is, when she would not fill my sample cup even after I asked. I didn't hear exactly what she said when she denied me, but she followed it up with a comment like "I hope you get your coffee at other stores." I had no choice at that point but to pull out my Starbucks card and ask for a short, and then stop her from actually taking a short cup and explaining I wanted it in the sample cup.
I noticed something else in the centre. When I asked a guard if the Starbucks was open, he looked at my camera and asked if I was there to photograph it for them (the implication being that I worked for the company). I'd not experienced that reaction anywhere else, and I had to wonder if there was something about the centres in Scotland that made security more sensitive about cameras.
An unsual reaction on Byres Road--the assistant manager thought I wanted a job application.
A wrong turn on the way to the tunnel under the river put me on a stretch of Dumbarton Road where I spotted La Face and stopped to take a look at the treatment menu. An appointment was a possibility if I could get back from the airport in time, but I also noticed something called a full body scrub on the menu, and I wondered how that would work as a substitute for a shower. I did manage to get out to Braehead and the airport and back in time, and I decided to go ahead and give the body scrub a try. The process involved scrubbing an area with a sea salt solution using a pad/brush made out of corn husk. The therapist then washed the area off with water and then applied moisturizing lotion. She did the front of the legs, chest and abdomen, arms, back, and back of the legs, but she skipped my shoulders, neck, hands, feet, groin, and buttocks. I was especially disappointed about her skipping my buttocks, as I hoped an exfoliation there would help cut down on the pimples (I'll post pictures later).
Had to turn either left or right when I entered the Glasgow Fort via the back (not the proper entrance). Chose left, which was not the way to the two Starbucks, but that turned out to be the best left I ever made (except for the one at Albuquerque). I had walked a few hundred feet when I smelled it--the blessed beignet-donuts!!! Was my nose playing tricks on me? No, no, their it was the donut stand. I rushed over to find a sign--"NO MORE DONUTS". NOOOO!!!! But then hope appeared...
Bah, I say. I know I've complained before, but I figured in a big city like Edinburgh the shopping centres on a Friday would be open 'til at least 7:00 PM. Except it wasn't Friday. It was Saturday. That's what traveling for so long has done to me, that I don't even know what day it is. Mall still should have been open, though. Grrr...
Ouch--no filters for the filter coffee in Lancaster, so I took a shot instead. That early in the morning, on an empty stomach, it was like a kick to the head.
On the way back to the car, a older British gentleman complained to a friend that he still didn't know how to use Facebook, that he get friending all these people that he didn't know.
In Carlisle, which is in the county of Cumbria, I saw something new regarding parking, signs designating many of the parking areas as "disc zones". The way this works is that a driver obtains a card containing a disc used to set a time, and parking is allowed for one hour past that time.
Finally, after more than a week, I found a real beauty salon offering real massage with a therapist available within 30 minutes. Perfect, no delay at all, once I went over to the Starbucks and then located a disc. Some merchants have discs, but the salon did not, and neither did the Starbucks. I got mine from the tourist office. As I'd come to expect from the small English towns, the price was excellent, just 17 pounds for 1/2 hour, 25 for a full hour, and though there was no shower, the room did have a sink with soap so I was able to wash up afterwards. The massage turned out to be the best of my trip to that point, in part because it was a bit of adventure due to the fact that the therapist had never before massaged a male. Because of that she was eager to good job and very open to my feedback.
Though from Carlisle, the therapist's accent, she admitted, had a Scottish influence, and there were times I could not understand some of her words.
When I got back to the car, my cup holder was filled with water! Apparently the brand new cup of water the barista had given me had a leak.
On the way out of town I passed the Stanwix bakery and popped in to see if they had scones. Not only did they have yummy yummy scones, but they charged just 26 pence each! That was waaaay less than Makrs & Spencer. These scones were very much like southern biscuits, and the only thing wong with them was that I did not have scrambled eggs and bacon to go with.
13:34, crossed into Scotland for the first time ever.
14:35, KILT ALERT! KILT ALERT!! Hadn't been but five minutes off the motorway when I passed some kind of event. Most, or all, of the men I saw were wearing suits, but there was one, at least, in a kilt and playing bagpipes. So it's true! All this time I was thinking this kilt thing was a big joke that the Scots were playing on the rest of the world, that kilts didn't actually exist in real Scotland
Finally saw one, a sign with "tire" spelled "tyre", with a Y, a word I'd known from Scrabble but never seen.
My Starbucking in Scotland started off in dramatic fashion in East Kilbride. I thought my problem would be finding the store, as I had no idea what "Centre West" was, but that turned out to be really easy. Saw a sign for the centre when I reached one of the city centre roundabouts, and I did not have to ask anybody. No idea if it was an indoor centre, or if the Starbucks was visible from the outside, so I went into the car park to see if I got 30 minutes free. Ixnay on that, but I happened to pass by a customer service desk (inside), and I was able to stop the car next to the wall, go inside, and find out from the guard where the Starbucks was, and also that the grace period was 10 minutes.
I then exited the car park and reentered so I would have a full 10 minutes, and I rushed to find the store. There was a line, curses, but the cashier happened to be the supervisor, and I quickly gave my speil and got the sample. Hurried outside to take the photo, but by coincidence (or perhaps not), there happened to be passing by a man in a blue shirt that looked somewhat official. He did not have any security markings on his shirt, but he did turn to go inside a secured access area, and then he stopped and turned to look at me just as I was about to position myself for a photo. I quickly sat down on the bench and started sugaring my coffee, while the man continued to look at me and then pulled out a mobile to make a call. He then walked down the hallway a few stores, spoke to another man, and both came back and disappeared through the doorway.
I quickly jumped up, noticed that my frame was almost free of people, and took some shots, but they did not seem to look focused on the LCD. Curses, the camera had switched from autofocus to manual mode, as is wont to happen at the worst possible moments. I quickly switched it back, but now there were a lot of people passing through, and I had to wait at least 30 seconds, maybe more, for a semi-clear frame. As soon as I got a halfway decent shot I grabbed my coffee and rushed to find the escalator to the garage. I wasn't even a quarter way up when security went bonkers. I heard a shout, and a security guard was shouting or pointing at me, with another one right behind him.
Under different circumstances, I could have easily outrun them, but with my car in a garage (that's the #1 reason I hate garages), I was effectively trapped. I had no choice to explain that I was trying to visit every Starbucks. The guard replied, "then why did you run?" I pulled out my parking ticket and said I only had 10 minutes to get out. The guard said I couldn't take photos without permission. I said okay. He said, "So you're finished then?" I replied in the affirmative, and they let me go. And I managed to still get the ticket into the pay station before the 10-minute limit.
I should point out that a fundamental part of my problem with indoor shopping centres here in the UK was that so few of them had free parking, or even 30 minutes free. That caused me to do two things that tend to arouse suspicion: entering the mall with the camera around my neck, so that I wouldn't waste time with the backpack; and running, to avoid having to pay for parking. In the absence of both those factors I had been able to photograph countless mall stores in America and only be noticed a few times (after the first few times, before I had learned that what assholes mall developers are (for disallowing photography)).
Incidentally, what I had been told by various persons was correct--the Scottish accent was hard to understand.
Next store, another stupid shopping centre, but this time parking was free.
Marks & Spencer chili con carne craving, but denied. No chili con carnes with rice, just the chili as a topping for a baked potato. Not what I wanted, and they did not have take-away containers anyway.
At a light right outside Silverburn I took the opportunity of the wait to floss. From the corner of my eye I could see the passenger in the car next to me turning his head. When the light changed and both our cars made the left turn I could see that it was a young child looking at me with a strange look on his face. Hopefully he asked his mother why I was flossing, and hopefully she explained the benefits of flossing. I always want to set a good example for the children.
Barely made Bothwell. Next, Renfield, which I almost missed because I misheard the barista's directions as "Renfrew", not "Renfield".
Incidentally, my initial impressions of the Glasgow city centre was that, of all the big cities in the UK I'd visited, this one was most like an American or Canadian city centre. The older cities, of course, like Toronto, Philadelphia, New York. Streets are in a grid, and wide enough for two or more lanes of traffic plus parking.
Holy shit, third store in a row that had dumped the coffee and offered me a shot instead--I was buzzing so incredibly hard. Thank god the 4th store, in 50 minutes, had coffee. But with many others, I could kill myself with coffee if I wanted. 5:52, I could have gotten to Buchanan Galleries, but my head was spinning so hard I needed to chill and leave it for the morning.
Instead I found some free parking a few blocks away and then walked back towards the main pedestrian mall, Buchanan Street, where I went into the Borders and asked about closing times. Nelson Mandela was closing at 7:00, so I headed there, and then I had a break, time for actual dinner, before finishing up the other city centre stores (except Galleries). Since I was walking it took longer than in a car to find a pretty good deal on spaghetti from Pizza Crollo, 4.50, but I got to do a lot of people watching and get a better flavor of the city than I would have in a car.
I was surprised to learn that Sex and the City is going to be remade for the Scottish market, and by coincidence the cast of the show happened to be walking down Buchanan Street.
Headed back to the Borders in a rush, expecting serious splorg because of all the shots I'd had. Not sure why, but though I did use the toilet, there was no splorg. I was actually kind of worried by this, fearing that splorg would come knocking in the night and force me to take apelike actions.
When I spotted this harp player, I assumed she was just a local street mucisian, but she is actually studying harp at the university in Glasgow, and she claims she manages to pay for her living expenses from the donations.
As I expected, I awoke after a few hours...
another kilt, dude bleeding, possible fox,
Wigan was easy, but it took much longer to get down to Manchester than I expected, partly due to congestion, but also due to wrong turns (many wrong turns). Once I arrived I did not have that much time to spare before my 10:00 AM meeting with Channel M. I had planned to use the time to find the cheapest parking near Picadilly, but, as I had expected and feared, I went to the wrong store. Not Picadilly Station, but Picadilly Gardens, a good distance from each other. The parking near Picadilly Gardens was twice as expensive, but I had no more time to look.
I only put an hour in the machine, and so I guess it was a good thing that the interview was much shorter than I expected. The producer had implied they would follow me around to different stores, but because of the way it was planned, she didn't even show, and the photog only had time to do one store. A good thing actually, not just because of the parking, but because the producer had not gotten clearance. I hate it when they do that do me, because it puts me in an awkard situation. I was relieved when the photog decided he was finished, and when I went over to the City Tower store, I disguised myself, just in case, by putting on my long-sleeved shirt and buttoning it up.
Over at that other store I went into the bathroom and instantly detected the homeless odor that I would soon have if I didn't find a shower soon.
Scone from Sainsbury's not as good as the M&S one, but at least they heated it for me.
Missed the junction to the M6 north from the M62, but doing so worked out marvelously because it took me near Warrington and Widnes, and this reminded me of that spa with the jacuzzi, Finishing Touch. I did not have to detour much to drop by again, and though they had no massage appointments available right away, the jacuzzi was free for me to use, for just 5 pounds. Even better, there was a shower right in the room, making it really easy for me.
In Southport, an extremely busy coastal tourist town, the manager described herself as a "Starbucks enthusiast", which tickled me pink because that's the expression I use on my website. She was, of course, very friendly to me, and even offered me a not-yet-released bag of Tanzania that I had to turn down (as I have countless mugs and other souvenirs). There was also a customer, an older lady, who had heard about me in the times and instantly put out her hand to shake and later waved goodbye as I left. But of course the person whom I wished had been interested, the extremely attractive, voluptuous, fair-skinned young woman in a sexy black dress, she just smiled as she overheard the story, probably with bemusement, and never attempted to speak to me.
Outside the store, a woman, wearting too much makeup and an overloud flower-patterned green dress, sat at a table with her boyfriend/husband/man-friend who was making a call on his mobile. When I went to take some more photos, I could see the dude was displaying some crack. Uncool. The day before, when I hung out at the McDonalds (just using the wi-fi, just using the wi-fi!!!) and attractive woman had sat down to reveal quite a bit of ass-cleavage, and even more whenever she shifted around. This was cool, most definitely a bonus for the day. But burly man--no, no, no! Somebody give that guy an extra-long shirt!
On a side street behind the store, where I was making a three-point (or perhaps five-point) turnaround, a group of youths on bicycles and foot approached from an alleyway. One of them told me I had plenty of room between the car and the wall, to make my turn. Another wave his hand in front of his nose and said "those socks stink." Ah, kids.
On a fence near the Fishergate Centre, anti-vandal paint--what the heck is that???
Asked some guy, a mechanic perhaps, parked in a driveway, and I finally found out what "flytipping" is--it means dumping, like rubbish.
Since I got to the north I've passed thru several neighbourhoods that seemed to be heavily Pakistani. I assume the men I'm seeing are Pakistanis because they dress like that exchange student from the canceled show Aliens in America.
A cool-looking tall thing in Blackpool. A lighthouse?
Lots of hotels in the city centre of Blackpool.
After 2 1/2 hours of working on my site, on top of four weeks of steady Starbucking, I needed a change of pace. I moved the car closer to the centre and walked around in search of a pub where I could have a drink. Perhaps because of the name, the Tapas Bar appealed to me, although once I went in and sat down with a Smirnoff Ice I realized the music was too loud. I kept an I on several of the less conventionally attractive women, hoping for the opportunity to buy one of them a drink. After some time though, the place nearly emptied out. I sensed it was getting late, and my drink was almost finished, but before I left a couple of cuties walked in. Like I said before, I had had my eye on the less attractive women, ignoring the hotties, as they typically wouldn't give me the time of day, but these two were somewhere in between.
6:20, Wilmslow opened at 7:00, although it took me longer than I expected to arrive, in part because of, you guessed it, a wrong turn. Actually two wrong turns.
Noticed the Yeo Valley Greek style yogurt. I had not noticed it before because it came in a four-pack, as many of the brands did, and I figured I couldn't eat that much yogurt. But these containers looked small enough that I might be able to eat four, and I was right.
Made instantly uncomfortable by the way the black-haired barista with the British accent had spoken to me, so I decided to just buy a coffee. Even while doing this I was uncomfortable, as the redheaded one with the foreign accent gave me a really strange look when she asked if I wanted room for milk and I responded "Okay." I wanted to know when the store opened, and whether either of the two Manchester airport stores were landside, but I did not feel comfortable talking to the baristas again, so I had to leave and hope to get the answers in Altrincham.
Could this be true??? My Barclays withdrawal had finally posted, and the exchange rate was indeed 1.6426!!! That was the market rate, with no fee. Would the fee come later, or was I getting a really good deal?
Oh, bait n switched again, this time by Pancake Express, which I noticed when I walked out of one of the Trafford Centre stores. I got all excited and quickly walked over, but it turned out they were just crepes. Don't get me wrong, I like crepes, but I really wanted good ol' American style pancakes. I went ahead and bought the crepe, and it wasn't very good. Part of the reason might have been that I bought it too soon, before I visited the other store, and before I passed an Apple store and decided to go ahead and buy new earbuds. Maybe if it had benn fresh it would have been better, but I have my doubts.
Confirm Deansgate closure, but I still had some confusion. From 2005 I remembered that I couldn't visit a store because it was temporarily closed. But according to my photo, the memory I had of that store was wrong. I sorted this out by talking to the baristas at Bridge Street, but I had to go ahead and have coffee from both that store and Quay Street to make sure--can't risk thwarting the prophecy because of my poor memory.
Birdies keeping cool.
In Fallowfield, in front of a pub near the Starbucks, this man spotted my camera and was very insistent that I take a photo of the headline.
On the way to Oldham I passed a place offering car washes for 1.50, and the sight of the hose blasting water onto a car gave me an idea. If I paid my 1.50, would the guy hose me down, or would he look at me like I was weird?
Very, very important. Don't try to stick your head out the window at the same time that it's raising!!!
Okay, I got my answer. Apparently, carrots do spoil, if you let them sit in your car for 2-3 days. And no, rotting does not enhance their taste.
The supervisor in Oldham seemed to think Bolton would be open 'til 7:00, but I had my doubts, and I was correct to rush. When I got into town I had to ask around until I found somebody who knew who the location of "Market Hall", a task made more difficult by the fact that th mall is actually named "Market Place". Thanks, Starbucks.
6:55, an hour to wait until the Heswall store opens, but lots of web stuff to do in that time. Getting way behind.
More booty, a wool (or wool-like) cap, and some excited baristas.
The other white house.
A sign reads "AUTOMATIC BOLLARDS"--what is a bollard???
Took a couple of wrong turns on the way to the Prescott store, and I ended up on a dead-end street. I turned around, but when I tried to get out my path was blocked by a parked car. I took a minute to see if there was any way to squeeze past, and then I honked for a few seconds. I guess somebody heard, because a lady came out of the door and explained that because of the parking situation [he] the other person had to park there. I replied that I just needed a couple of inches, and at the same time a man came out of the door, looked at the situation, and said "You'll have to wait!" I repeated, louder, "I just need a couple of inches." as he walked back inside, and then the lady tried to convince him to move. Whatever the reason, he did change his mind, thought he was hardly happy about it. When the lady moved an orange cone so he could slide partways into a gap, he only tried backing up for a couple of seconds before he lost his patience and darted forward, flooring it until he found a gap up ahead.
Bah. I'd been craving a good scone, something different from the currant scones from Starbucks, something more biscuity. The Marks & Spencer scone was indeed good, but they would not heat it for me. I could see the oven right behind the counter, and another employee putting some food in it, so why couldn't they heat the scone? Grrr...
Over at the Starbucks, I got a completely new reaction from the manager. When I explained my mission and asked for a sample, he replied, "Can you buy it?" Wow, that was unexpected. I didn't know what else to say but "Well, yes I can, but I'd be paying 1.35 for this much coffee." (holding up the sample cup). He replied, "That's what you want?" and assented, though from his expression during the rest of my stay there, I don't think his suspicions were allayed.
Outside in the parking lot, a kid, maybe 11-14, still remained in the back of the red Ford. He had been there when I parked, and for the 10-15 minutes I'd been in the Marks & Spencer, and then for the 10-15 minutes I'd been in the Starbucks. His moms must not trust him.
Oh, I was soooo close. I made a wrong turn on the way to Warrington, and when I found a correct route, I passed a beauty spa and noticed the word "jacuz zzi" on the window and pulled a hard left. I figured that with a washcloth and perhaps a bar of soap, a jacuzzi would be almost as good as a shower. The therapist was available in about an hour fifteen, and I figured I could get the Warrington stores and return by then. Problem was my timing... I had picked the one day when they had cleaned out the jacuzzi. Bah.
Believe it or not, not all my ideas are good ones. Having found 30 minutes free parking in Warrington (yay Warrington!), I was able to sit on the toilet for a goodly long time. While there I could tell that I needed to freshen up some, and it occurred to me that if I took my pants off and laid them under the sink, I could keep the floor from being completely splashed with water, an effect of these British sinks' being so small. Didn't work though. Too hard to contain the splashing, and I was back to my technique of wiping the floor with toilet paper so it would dry quicker.
Seeing lots of shirtless young men now. The heat, of course, which was alsso having an effect on me, in that I was accelerating through odor levels more quickly.
Wishful thinking, perhaps, but I kept thinking I smelled those wonderful donuts from South Wales.
The supervisor down in Hanley had no idea if the Wilmslow store might stay open 'til 7:00, and he said he didn't have the number, so I just called it a night and drove around the corner to the Caribbean restaurant, All Nation Takeaway. I was disappointed to find that the oxtails had run out, but at least they still had rice and peas (beans).
While I ate I happened to google "massage Stoke on Trent" and pulled up a guide that claimed the town had more massage parlours per capita than any other in England. One of the listings on the page had a starting price of 15 pounds. If that was true, it didn't really matter how bad the massage, if any was. I couldn't view the full list though, without joining the site, and my googling yielded just a couple more locations, so I decided that if what thee site reported was true, I would be able find places left and right just by driving in the vicinity of the town centre. Wrong. The only places I saw that I hadn't found online were Caesar's, boarded up, and a place called Emma's which might or might not have been somebody's flat. When I knocked on the door a woman in something that resembled lingerie answered, but the room I saw, with stuff strewn everywhere, did not look like a business. I asked, "Am I in the wrong place?", and she replied "Yes." and abruptly shut the door.
The cheapest place I found offered 25 pounds for 15 minutes. Not a good value when you consider I'd seen full hours offered for 25 pounds. But I really wanted that shower. I'd learned from experience though, and I made it very clear that I was asking if I could get massage for the massage. But I quickly learned that wasn't an option, because the lady here, unlike the madam in Swansea, was honest. Shed straight up said I couldn't get a massage, but only a service like oral or intercourse. Wow--for 25 pounds. I'm sure many men would be thrilled by that, but I was not interested. So I left, and I had to wonder, what is up with this country that all these massage parlours seem to be all about the sex instead of the massage. Back in America, and in Canada, there are plenty of massage parlours where you can get a shower and an actual massage. Sure, the therapist may try to entice you into something extra, but it's rarely outright sex, and it's rarely offered up front like that, and so blatantly in place of the massage. To put it more succinctly, and crudely, who do I have to fuck around here in order to not have to fuck anybody???
Something biting me??? Or just going nuts??? Feeling sudden sensations, not exactly biting, but more like something on my skin, in my hair, on my face. Is the coffee finally driving me insane?
Okay, now I think they're doing it on purpose. All these closed stores have been dropped from the website more than a week after they go, instead of that same week. Kind of suspicious, and I think the reason is to make it harder for me to get an exact date, as absurd as that sounds. Sure, sure, it would just be a minor oversight... or it could be a conspiracy. To further irritate me, two of those calls were to New York, and I hate having to call NYC because half the time the baristas are rude, on top of the general rudeness that often comes when calling to inquire about other store openings or closings.
Found a great spot to sleep... except it was on a hill, and I learned that hills don't work when sleeping in the B Class. I had to go up towards the top of the hill, closer to the street, where the only spot I could get was right under a street light. Had to cover my eyes with my undershirt. Bah.
No point in going straight to the Bull Ring and Selfridge's from Solihull, because it would not open 'til around 9:00. I took a ring road, A4040, up towards The Fort store. Unsure how early it would open, so when I spotted Rita's Cafe, I figured I might as well get breakfast, in case I ended up having to wait. Like the other day, I avoided the standard English breakfast, because I'm not big on beans, or tomatoes, that early. Tried it once, back in '03, and that was enough for me.
As soon as I was handed my breakfast I rushed off so that I could find fresh-squeezed orange juice, but I drove on and on without seeing any supermarkets. I could feel my breakfast getting cold as the minutes dragged on, and I feared most of all that the toast would get damp and soggy. My situation was worsened by a wrong turn that cost me at least 15 minutes, and it was past 8:00 AM when I reached The Fort. First thing I spotted was the Marks & Spencer, and I sped across the parking lot, my tongue salivating in anticipation of the blessed fresh juice. But I was denied, for the M&S would not open 'til 9:30. NOOOOOO!!! I was so dejected that I just assumed the Starbucks would not be open, and I was about to speed off towards Sutton Codfield when I spotted the Starbucks with a promo sign out front. Duh. I was able to get the juice from the Starbucks, for 50 percent more, but it was too late--my toast was soggy. If that isn't proof that there is no god, I don't know what is, for what kind of supreme being would allow a person's toast to get soggy. No man should have to experience soggy toast. It's... undignified.
Please, please Starbucks, no more stores inside the Bull Ring. With no idea where in the Bull Ring the Selfridges is, I had to wander round and round asking people until I had an idea of where to try to park the car. Once I parked I found it easier than I expected, and I was able to get in and out without a penalty.
Ach. After nearly four weeks you'd think I'd instantly be able to tell the difference in weights between my backpack with and without the camera, but somehow I misjudged it and walked the 5+ minutes to the Starbucks without the camera. More time lost, and who knew what impact that would have on the day's schedule.
Another penalty charge, but only 50 pounds, reduced to 25 if I pay within 14 days. Given that I visited over 70 stores since my last charge and skipped parking fees at most, I'm still way ahead.
Stupid car park at Crown Whar had the fee schedule so far back I didn't see it, and I had to go find the office. The man in the van behind me was doubtlessly frustrated, but I'll point out that he never attempted to back up and use the other lane. In fact, he never should have been behind me to begin with, not when there was an empty lane. This man looked at least 40. I learned when I was 17 or 18, within the first year I started driving, to always take the empty lane!
Okay, you wanna know what bullshit is? Bullshit is seeing the Sainsbury's and then spending five minutes or more trying to figure out how to get into the parking lot. If that doesn't illustrate just how screwed up driving in England is, I don't know what does.
BTW, I finally saw the word "supermarket" in England. Every other sign for Sainsbury's, Tesco, etc. used the term "superstore".
Dude, what is up with these truck drivers? They are soooo sensitive, freaking out with the horns and the lights just because my car swings abruptly in their direction. I'd like to see them keep a vehicle in the lane while typing at the same time. It's not like my car is going to do any real damage to a big ol' truck.
A rare chocolate treat, a Kit Kat, for no good reason other than I felt like experiencing some yummy banana/choco pleasure.
Insect invasion!!! Don't know what they were (green on the bodies), but they were all over the parking lot of the Sainsbury's lot. Elsewhere mosquitoes and or gnats were rampant, and I could no longer sit with the windows down at thee end of the day.
The supervisor at the Shrewsbury Sainsbury's had heard of me, which was good, because it made it easier for me to ask him to call ahead to Wrexham, explain my mission, and ask them to hold a coffee for me. Hit time with a few minutes to spare, but I had no idea where or what Eagles Meadow was, and I had to ask around. Barely made it, right at 6:00, but they indeed had a coffee for me.
Saw a checkpoint, for buses and trucks, for the first time, on the A5 between Shrewsbury and Oswestry.
Woke up with the mighty thirst that water alone cannot quench. Unfortunately, the nearby Tesco in Heswall is not 24-hour, and I had no idea where I'd have to go to find a 24-hour convenience store. I'm sure there is one in Liverpool, but I had no intention of driving up their. In America, I can find a 24-hour store nearly anywhere, off the interstate or a highway. And if I'm at a rest area, there's vending machines.
Supervisor in Cheltenham, a local, definitely a different accent, one I hadn't heard, or heard much, before.
The good news--I found a pack of two toothbrushes in Sainsbury's for 10 pence. The bad news--I cut my finger with the plastic packaging, thus making me officially a moron.
Oh these silly British drivers. They seem to get so upset with me for drifting in and out of my lane. It's just not that big a deal, dudes.
Anne Hathaway's house? A sign pointed the way to something related to Anne Hathaway, but was it for the actress? Is she English?
Grrr... in Leamingston Spa, where the supervisor was in the toilet. That's to be expected, I guess, after 200 stores, I'd run into a situation like that. Very much wanting to visiting as many stores as possible, and possibly end up closer to Birmingham for the night, I went ahead and bought a coffee. But by the time I got outside to take the photo, the supervisor had finished her business, and she came outside to say hello... walking right in the middle of my frame in the process. She was just being nice, but not only did I have to pay for the coffee, I was delayed too.
On the bright side, the Kenilworth store is licensed, so I saved the time I would have otherwise spent stopping there. Still, while I did make it to greater Birmingham, I missed Solihull by 30 minutes and had to stay there for the night instead of being able to head closer into the city.
While I bought a soda at a convenience store, a kid behind me asked if I could buy him some cigarettes. I said no, and a few seconds later he complimented me on my American accent. I knew for sure he was just trying to get on my good side, to get me to change my mind, because nobody really likes an American accent. It's boring.
Dude, I totally smelled it coming, when I visited the Great Plains Plaza store, with its hours so limited because of it's out-of-the-way location. I said to myself that store was probably going to close, and I made sure to visit it even though it set me back on my schedule to catch my flight in Seattle. And what happened--yep, it closed.
6:59, took me a while to find Queen Street, and a place to park close to the pedestrian plaza, so I could reshoot the three stores. Wanted to take a photo of the Borders from the outside, but I couldn't figure out where it was from my car. I would have needed to walk about 20 or more minutes from Queen Street, and that was too much time to burn given that there wasn't even a Starbucks sign in front, just the logo.
Hmm... for whatever reason that first sample of the day, at Wellfield Road, was particularly good.
Scoped out several salons in Penarth for a shower and massage, but none of them worked, for either of two reasons, or both. First, none had a shower. At my last massage I was just gamy and deemed it sufficient to wipe off really well with a wet towel--easier to do while naked than in a bathroom. But after several days, my level had progressed to ripe, and I absolutely positively had to have a shower. In fact, though I had been washing my pits and privates, I had done nothing about my scalp, which, with over three weeks' hair growth, was getting greasy. In fact, I was suffering itchy scalp, and I felt a real need to wash it. Very hard to do in that tiny sink the Starbucks' bathrooms (here in Europe) have.
The other problem was that, unlike salons in America, where cards are almost universally accepted, a good number of these British salons were cash only, or cash and check. I was still loathe to pay a higher exchange rate if I could find something lower, and thus my cash supply kept dwindling. I kept asking around, and the attendant at the Aveda salon told me Marks & Spencer had a good rate. Not all locations offered currency exchange however, and she gave me directions to one that was on my route out of town. Unfortunately, those crazy road design engineers got me again, and all it took was a failure to see the store, and a wrong choice of which branch to take off the roundabout, to put me on a highway that had no way to turn around for over five miles!!! That's horrible design.
OMG the people who designed Talbot Green are a bunch of fucking morons! The lanes are too fucking narrow, making moving through the parking lot really risky, if you are, for example, driving a rental car that you don't want scratched! Cars have to pass each other really close, and whenever a car is waiting for a parking space, getting around it is tricky. Even a simple thing like turning is difficult without hitting the curb or a car in the other lane. Thing is, I can understand narrow lanes in a city centre, because most of these European cities are old and not designed for cars. But this developement is clearly newer, and all it would have taken was to eliminate a row or two of parking in order to widen the lanes. How do you get a degree as an design engineer and not be able to realize this.
SONOFABITCH!!! Toothbrush snapped in two!!!
DOUBLESONOFABITCH!!! Finally thought to look at a graph of the exchange rate, and it turned out the dollar was falling!!! Had I exchanged more currency back in mid-May, in Northern Ireland, I would have saved a lot more money!!!
As I looked for the Starbucks at the Bridgend Factory Outlet Centre, I passed a kiosk of some sort but did not take notice until a few paces later, when I smelled it. Ooooh, that beignetish donut smell. Could it be that thse donut stands were common in Wales? After visiting the Starbucks I rushed over, and it took all my willpower to buy just one donut. It was sooooo good, especially accompanied by the orange juice I had out in the car. As I drove away from the centre, I had the impulse, twice, to turn around for more donuts. Thankfully for my gut, I resisted. I was sure that after more than three weeks, I had lost at least a few centimeters off my waste. But if I ate too many donuts, I was quickly going to blow up again and be even more hideously ungly than I already am.
Hmm... could it be that the Internet access here in Wales is slower than in England? For some reason it's seemed fairly slow at a few Starbucks today.
Wow, I might actually be the dumbest person on the face of the planet, although I'll have to wait a few days to be sure. After checking the exchange rate at countless places, I finally thought to wonder just how much exactly Bank of America would charge me to withdraw cash ATMs here in Europe. Well, guess what I found, immediately upon going to the BofA site and searching for "foreign ATM". That BofA has a deal with various banks that waives the fee. I googled to confirm this, and then I called BofA (had to do it twice, after getting dropped by the first agent) and spoke to agent who gave me slightly different info. The rate she gave me though, was 1.71, still better than 1.73, so I decided it was worth trying.
Spotted a Barclay's in Swansea, withdraw a couple hundred pounds, and on the way back to the car I spotted Studio 95 with the interesting sign, "gentleman's club massage". I figured the price wouldn't be worth it for the massage and shower, but I had to investigate. I went upstairs, and an older lady bade me to sit in a small room as she pushed a button. Several women in lingerie came down, and when they finished I told the lady I just wanted to know what this place was, what they offered exactly. To this the lady specifically said they offered massage, and that the price was 40 pounds, and that there was no extra tip required, and that there was indeed a shower.
I went to my car to leave all my extra money (I've heard stories of girls going through customers pants' pockets), and when I returned, the lady went through the lineup of girls again. I assumed the cute Italian one would speak English, but I was mistaken. She only knew a little English, and when she showed me the shower, in the room, and proceeded to not leave, I was not able to explain to her that I wanted privacy. Not only did not not understand that I don't want to be looked at while I'm showering, she went further and took off her panties and sat on the bed and looked at me. Oh boy, I thought--the odds of my getting an actual massage are declining. There was nothing I could do but proceeded to shower and shave while she was there, and I cringed as I washed my ass with her looking on. When dried off and got on the bed, she proceeded to rub my back... for all of maybe 30 seconds before she made it clear that she was not interested massage.
Jeez Louise, bait and switched again! What is up with these parlours in this country? It's not right, from a perspective of human rights, that a man should be forced to expend precious sexual energy just so he can get a free shower. I especially want to preserve that energy, because I have inside knowledge of a secret research program at a major university, the purpose of which is to convert sexual energy into pollution-free electricity. When this problem is finally cracked, those people who maintain a high level of energy are going to be well-positioned to cash in big time, and I don't want to be left behind.
Let me be clear that the girl was very attractive, and had she spoken English, and in a different context, I would have been thrilled. But this time around was just exasperated. To illustrate just how unsatisfactory the experience was, I enjoyed an order of magnitude more pleasure from the donut I had eaten earlier than from that Italian girl. If she were standing buck-naked before me and I had to choose between her and a plate of those yummylicious donuts, I'd go with the donuts all the way.
BTW, the double (LL) in Welsh has a different pronounciation, like a CL or THL or something in between. Still unsure of that.
Okay, just checked my BofA account, and the initial amount shown for the 200 pound withdrawal is $328.52, which would make the rate 1.64. Would be great if that was the final rate, but I doubt it, because the BofA agent I got on the phone said the rate would be 1.71 (still better than I'm seeing at the exchange places).
The pull of the donuts was too strong, and when I passed Bridgend again I could not help pulling over for a couple more donuts. The same employee was still there, and when I saw her I said "I'm back" and then I proceeded to go on and on about how much I loved those donuts, how they were like beignets and better than the donuts in America. I was so enthusiastic that the girl decided she would give me four donuts instead of two. Then she went further and filled the bag, with like, seven donuts. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. So much for losing my guts. I went around the corner to the Odeon to see Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen a second time, in digital, and the staff gave me no trouble at all about the bag of donuts. So I had to sit there with temptation, and I could not resist eaten four, maybe five of them. I'm so weak.
I guess the e-mails that had been sent did not extend to Bristol, because none of the partners at the first three stores I visited had heard of me. And, as can happen when they don't know who I am, I was looked upon with a bit of puzzlement and/or suspicion at one of the stores. Or maybe she just didn't like my blog. That's always a possibility.
Interesting. At the Borders, the fourth Die Hard movie was on DVD, but called Die Hard 4.0 instead of Live Free or Die Hard.
After six stores, with one more to go before heading to Wales, I got in the mood for breakfast, a egg on toast with bacon sandwich from a place near the Clifton Down store called the Friary. I wanted the eggs scrambled , but for some reason that cafe did not fry them up like that, microwave instead. Only the sunny-side up eggs were fried. Odd.
Bah. Another store missed, a second location at the Mall on Cribbs Causeway.
Wow. Over three weeks traveling, and I could count on one hand the number of times a female who was not in a work capacity directed any type of attention my way. And what did one of those occasions end up being, at the Mall on Cribbs Causeway, but a woman with a baby in a pouch (don't know what it's call--a carrier perhaps) making a reference to how her (other) kids liked the condiment bar because they saw it as a chemistry experiment (mixing up things). A few days earlier, a girl smiled in my direction and said hello, but she was probably about 12 or 13. If there is a higher power, she is most definitely trying to screw with my self-esteem.
Holy shit--5 pound 40 to cross the bridge into Wales!
1:25 PM, cross into Wales for the first time. Signs in Welsh, of course.
Near the Cymbran Starbucks I spotted a donut stand, and all of a sudden I realized that I could not remember seeing a lot, or any, donut shops throughout England, and the owner confirmed this was true. Suddenly I felt a craving for donuts, and I decided to give them a try. I wasn't really that hungry, so the experience would be little more than an exercise in self-pleasure. They were expensive though (1 pound, or $1.73 for me, for two). As soon as I bit into the first I was reminded of beignets, and I had to go back and talk to the man again about how he made them. As I drove away from town and finished the donuts, I decided they were really, really good, and I started to feel the cravings that I often get for beignets.
Duuuuude, gotta love the fact that all the police cars throughout the England, and even here in the Wales, seem to have the same extremely loud color scheme. Almost pulled what would surely have been an illegal u-turn, but spotting the colors on the police car making a turn saved my ass.
My driving hijinks continued into Cardiff, in part because of the usual reason, in adequate signage, but also for a new reason, the fact that Wales has its own language. Accordingly, streets have both English and Welsh names, and, unlike for Ireland, AutoRoute was wholly inconsistent in which names it used. So I'm sitting there crawling at 5 MPH in rush hour traffic, stopped most of the time, late for my interview, frustrated, and I can't find freaking Kingsway on the map because they've put it in Welsh!!! That is truly absurd.
I was so late to meet the local reporter that I had to stop the car in a very illegal place, sprint 100 or so feet to the store, and then talk her into riding with me to go find parking. There was a garage nearby, but it was expensive. When we finally finished the interview, I went ahead and rushed to the three Queen Street stores plus the Borders, and when I returned to the garage the bill was stunning--6 pound 40!!! Yoiks.
On the way to the Borders store I passed a restaurant called Las Iguanas advertising Latin food. I took a look at the menu on the way back and saw something surprising, that they had the "lunch" menu available until 7:00 (they also called it early dinner), for 6 pound 90 (still expensive, but much cheaper than the regular dinners). When I saw the chili con carner listed, I got a craving. Unfortunately, they did not have a way to offer the meal to take away. I first left, but then I returned and asked the host to put my order in right at 7:00 while I went to retrieve my car from the car park.
Well, the third time turned out to be a charm, kind of. I was able to finish my meal, but primarily because the portion was tiny. I wasn't exactly surprised. Shi-shi pseudo-ethnic restaurants like that typically give out miniscule portions, but I was hoping for more.
Oops!!! When the waitress took my plate and led me out to find a seat, I wasn't sure about where, so I just gently took the plate from her and found my own. Except it wasn't in the section for Las Iguanas, but rather for the bar next door, Retro.
Aw, for fuck's sake--what the hell is wrong with me??? After losing that 20-pound note I make a mental note to put my bills in my front pocket. Well, apparently putting the notes in my right front pocket was a bad idea, because I must have lost a ten-pound note when pulling the iPod out of my pocket. AARRGHH!!! That's 30 pounds, more than 50 dollars, just pissed away.
6:27, plenty of time to reach Street around 7:00 (a little later actually, because I had to shake the cobwebs out--seemed to take longer every morning). Unfortunately, my greatest fears were realized, and the store would not open until 8:30. Thing of it is, I had asked the barista down in Taunton if there was any reason the Street store wouldn't be open by 7:00. They didn't seem to think so, but they were way off.
With only a little over an hour to wait, it didn't make sense to go up to Wells and back, so I just found a wi-fi connection and caught up on some stuff.
When I finished the arduous process of parallell parking in on Milsom Street in Bath, a passerby complimented me on not having hit the curb. Had he seen just how ugly my whole parking process was (still having difficulty backing up from this side of the car), as ugly as making sausage I imagine, he would not have been so free with his compliments. I suppose the reason he noticed was because he also had a Mercedes, and in the ensuing chat I leanred what I had rented--something called a "B Class".
At the suggestion of a reader, I decided to try having a "Bath in Bath", so to speak, in the form of a visit to the Thermae Bath Spa. The process was arduous. First I had to find a wi-fi connection someplace where I could stop the car (the original parking space I found didn't have a signal) and look up the location. The signal was too weak to Skype, so I just parked my car as close as possible and sprinted over there for info on treatments. The only thing available that interested me was the exfoliation, called a full body polish, at 4:30. I couldn't wait around, but once I got back to the car and looked at my map I figured I could get to Chippenham and back in time. So to book I grabbed my computer and ran over to the Starbucks to get on Skype. But when I spoke to the receptionist I learned that I could not book just a treatment, I also had to book a spa session, for a minimum of two hours. Well, that was a deal-breaker. I simply didn't want to spend two hours sitting in a spa, and I certainly wasn't going to pay for the spa session and not use it.
Passing a river or stream in Chippenham, a potpourri of avian life--swans, ducks, pigeons, and doves all living in harmony. Hungry as I was, I couldn't help but wonder what a meal comprised of a combination of the birds would be like.
It was all girly giggles in Chippenham, as one of the baristas quickly recognized me and went to the back to get the Times article, and then asked for a photo. That was something at least. I might not be a Chippendale in terms of looks, and thus wholly uninteresting to women out in the open, but at least my crazy antics have managed to get me some attention, if ever so brief, from a goodly number of attractive young baristas. Hey, it's better than nothing.
Fucking hell, man. Of all the wrong turns, on the way to Great Western Designer Village in Swindon, it had to be onto a road that was backed up solid in the other direction. 10-15 minutes I'll never get back.
Yes, I know. I'm a bad, bad person. But I can help myself, when a young woman is so prominent about displaying her... assets. Guys, if you want a high resolution image of this lovely and zaftig young woman, send me ten bucks. If I get enough orders, maybe I'll start a new website dedicate to coffee-loving hotties. And in the spirit of fairs, I promise I'll try to send each victim (unwilling) model a cut of the profits. Luckily for me, I'm an American, I don't think she can sue me from Britain (I hope).
On the way out of the Brunel Centre I walked behind a young woman, blonde, who's slacks appeared to have partially unzipped up at the waist (in the back), although it is possible the two-inch slit was by design. Anyway, when I passed her I could see she was eating a burger. Well perhaps that's why she was busting at the waist!!!
ASDA & Wal-Mart, sitting in a tree.
Seen several ring roads, typically known as a "loop" in America, referred to as "orbital". In London, in Swindon, and in other places.
At just over three weeks, I had finally broken my record for longest time spent in an overseas country. Previously, it was three weeks in France, mostly in Caen, as part of the Normandy Scholars Program, not counting the summers I spent in Panama as a child.
Sped west from Swindon towards Bristol on the M4, and when I saw the repeated signs warning of speed cameras, I realized that I had not seen any speed limits whatsoever. I had no idea what the speed limit was, and many of the fastest drivers were doing 80-90 MPH despite the cameras. I'm pretty sure they weren't all clueless, because drivers do seem to slow down, rapidly, when the "AVERAGE SPEED CHECK" signs appear.
Nearing Bristol I saw a police car on the shoulder behind another, and I pulled over ahead of the pair and waited. When the officer finished, I waved him down and asked about the speed limit on the M4. He explained that I would not see any signs because the national speed limit on motorways is 70 MPH. I asked about speed cameras, and he explained that they were not out that day (they move around), and that the things I thought were cameras were not speed cameras.
Found Cabot Circus immediately upon exiting the M32, and was pleased to discover that there was a Showcase cinema in the centre, screening Transformers at 12:05. Excelleeeent.
Took a bit of circling around to find the Broadmead store (the one I found first was actually Horsefair). When I finally spotted the store and lifted my camera to take a photo, a black-haired young woman clad in all black suddenly darted out of my frame and sprinted down the mall. I continued taking my photos, and when I finished and walked back to my car, the woman was around the corner, and she had her eyes pinned to me. She did not avert her gaze as I got into my car and drove off. She finally did stop looking at me and continued walking, but she would periodically jerk her head 180 degrees and look backward. I wonder if I seem as weird to other people as she did to me.
Bah. After seeing various Gourmet Burger across London and England, I gave in (after failing to find a Chinese restaurant near the Park Street Starbucks) and ordered a burger and fries. With the exchange rate, I think that was my most expensive burger ever, and, as I should have known, I could only eat half of it. Later I would eat another quarter or so, but still it was a waste.
My plan had been to get a few hours of sleep before the movie so I wouldn't be so dead on Friday. Unfortunately, I wanted to photograph several nearby stores first, and it took me quite a while to figure out how to get the car from the ring road around the Cabot Circus/Broadmead/The Mall area into the inner streets. By the time I finished shooting and got over to shoot the Park Street store, the single one in town I had visited in 1999, it was well past 9:00 PM. By the time I gave up my search for Chinese and foinish my burger, it was nearly 10:30. Too late to sleep, because I had no way to wake up in time.
Killed time at the nearby Platinum Club, one of the three that came up in a google search. It was lame, lame, lame. Judging from the website, and the size of Bristol, I expected something much nice, but the place really looked like a dive, the likes of which I would find in some small rural U.S. town. Girls did not seem to want to get on stage--only one every 10 or so minutes, and when they did they barely danced and did not even get topless. Laaaaaame.
Took a bit longer to find the Showcase again, and then parking, and by the time I bought my ticket and got up to the auditorium it was about 11:55, but the patrons had not been seated. Surprising, but not as surprising as what happened inside. We were finally seated, but it was well past 12:05 and the movie did not look like it would start soon since other patrons were still pouring in. So of course I pulled out my laptop to work on my site, but I had barely gotten started when a manager rushed over to me and abruptly said "that laptop has to come out. We can lock it up for you until after the show." I protested, because my whole trip depended on my laptop, and I did not want to risk it's loss for whatever reason. The manager's concern was obvious, that I was there to record the film, but also absurd, because I happened to be right at the front of the auditorium, which is not what a real film thief would do. Furthermore, the lights were on, and the movie hadn't even started yet. I continued to protest, and the manager said I could keep the laptop, but they'd be keeping an eye on me. Whatever, man. I do so hate stupidity like that.
6:19, took longer than I expected to drive just 56 miles to Exeter.
Signs around Abbotsbury advertising a local attraction--baby swans hatching.
Interesting. Seagulls are actually pretty big, when you sea them up close. All over these coastal towns, and perfectly willing to attack garbage bags. The two I saw around the corner from the Queen Street store in Exteter couldn't manage to get the bag open, but I bet it happens.
Unlike my experience in Bournemouth, where I struggled to find the store, in Plymouth I stumbled across it right away. Went into the car park to see if they offered any time free, but they did not. Having learned from experience, rather than trying to back of out the Drake Circus car park, I went straight through with my ticket, and the machine let me through. The turn I made out of the car park was a lucky one, and I immediately saw a free 30-minute space right across from the store.
Went to find the other store, Armada Way, first, and there I had my second confrontation with an irrationally suspicious person. This incident was even more egregious, because I had to tand outside the store waiting for a clean shot for at least 2-3 minutes. That was well more than enough time for the couple to move to a different seats, out of my line of sight. Instead they just sat there, and when I finished shooting from that angle and went to shoot from the other side, the woman came up and asked if I was photographing them. I was rather stern as I said I wasn't photographing them, and I added that if they thought I was photographing them, they could have moved.
When I finally finishing shooting from the other angle, walked into the store, asked for a supervisor who immediately said "Are you Winter?" Turned out the assistant manager from Exeter had e-mailed ahead to the two Plymouth stores. While these occurrences had the effect of interfering with my recognition statistics, overall the kind gesture ended up saving me time, and, by extension, money. No delays in getting the coffee, no suspicion, especially if the manager, or, as in the case of Plymouth, district manager was in the store.
As I left, the woman, who had had plenty of time to absorb the fact that I was in some way connected to Starbucks, as I had been chatting with the baristas, apologized. I felt obligated to explain to her the illogic of the situation, that she and her boyfriend/husband could have just moved if they thought I was photographing them. She kept apologizing, and I've no idea if she got what I was trying to tell her.
Sign at the door of the womens' bathroom in the Drake Circus (shopping centre) warning, "BATHROOM ATTENDED BY MALE OPERATIVE". Hope it's not the same kind of operative from the Serenity film.
Chatted as long as I could with the DM at Drake Circus, with an eye towards my car, visible from the store, and the fact that I'd exceeded the 30 minutes. Finally had to beg off, and when I went outside and waited to cross the street, it looked from the distance that there was something affixed to my windshield. Crap. A penalty. Thus was I greatly relieved when I actually crossed the street and saw that my eyes had just played a trick on me, but not as relieved as I was that the strange man exclaiming to himself (all I heard was "Miller" and some mild cursing) did not turn his attention to me.
Took a wrong turn around Torpoint and experienced the elation/deflation effect. First, I noticed a sign, on Keyham Road, that read "Pancake House". YES!!! I had not had pancakes in three weeks, and I was really craving me some. But I quickly noticed the rest of the sign and saw the place was just a Chinese restaurant. Bah. Even if they did serve pancakes, how good could they be? It was closed anyway.
Along the same street I noticed a lap dance club (closed at that hour, of course), the first I could remember ever seeing outside of London. Back in Brighton I had seen a promo card for a club, and in Southampton I saw a phone booth, or sidewalk bench, advertisement for one, but I had never actually seen such a club outisde London. Further down the road was a massage parlor, presumably of the adult variety given the general feel of the neighborhood and the presence of the strip club so close. I had to check the place out of course, and I was surprised to see a half-hour for 35 pounds on the menu. As I expected, that wasn't a real price--the attendant revealed there was a minimum "tip" of an additional 30 pounds, for what she called, I believe, "hand-relief". Nope, not a real massage to be expected there.
SONOFABITCH!!! THE ROUTE AUTOROUTE PLOTTED TO TRURO, THROUGH TORPOINT, REQUIRED A FERRY RIDE!!! THAT'S RETARDED WHEN THERE'S A LAND ROUTE THAT IS NOT THAT MUCH FARTHER!!! AARRGHH!!!
As it turned out, my wrong turn was actually the right way, but I didn't know it because I was following stupid AutoRoute's advice. Once I reached the ferry terminal and discovered my error, I had to end up driving right back where I had turned around before.
When I got to Chiverton Cross, they were also expecting me, and I had to wonder just how far the e-mail had been sent. Met a barista there from America, the first such I had encountered since the 2nd and 3rd days of my trip. Also met a young Cornish woman who had loved America since birth (not just since Obama was elected) and wanted to either marry me so she could live there, or trade her citizenship for mine.
Interesting. I did not know that Cornwall has its own language, related to Clectic, I was told. That explains why the place name signs have a second name under the English name.
I was also told that the area usually has a lot of sunshine. Just my luck that it would be raining when I arrived. Particularly irritating because, of all places I could have been when it rained, Cornwall is one of the worst, because it's out there, not on the way to anywhere. That mean it was unlikely I'd ever have a chance for a sunny reshoot.
WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE KILL ME NOW!!! On top of taking the wrong route out of Truto, I FORGOT TO TAKE THE PHOTO!!! I REALLY AM TOO STOOPID TO LIVE!
Of course I had to go back, and if I had had any chance of reaching Bristol that evening, my royal fuck-up blew those chances all to hell.
Serious drowsiness for the first time in the week I'd had the car. Didn't see a reason for it--I think I'd been sleeping plenty. Another reason to be irked by early closing times. Back in America I'd just pull over for a few hours and hope to visit the store around 9:00 or 10:00. But here, I'd have to push on and hope the store was open 'til 6:30 at least. If I pushed through drowsiness and the store ended up being closed, I'd be miffed, yo.
Music helped keep me away, but I was also aided by the anger that resurfaced when for some reason I flashed back to the shameful incident in Gurnee from months earlier. I even described the incident to the regional manager in May when she was helping to supervise the video shoot for the Wall Street Journal article. While I'm grateful they let the WSJ shoot in the store (probably because it was the WSJ), but from a customer service perspective I find it unacceptable that she, like the district manager (if she got the message), and the manager, chose to ignore my complaint and never even bothered to respond.
Yay, Taunton was open. But I still only got seven stores.
I needed a change from th fried rice, and after a couple of weeks of seeing Indian restaurants all over the place, I finally decided it was appropriate to give one a try. I ordered lamb biriyani (not a proper Scrabble spelling) from a tandoori restaurant named Dynasty. I knew it would be more food than I wanted, especially since I always have to order nan when eating Indian, but what the hell. I figured since I was not going to have time to travel to Asia or the Middle east, I was fine on my budget. The waiter threw in something called papadom, but I've no idea what it was. I was also a bit confused that the vegetable sauce came in a separate container. As expected, the meal was too much, and though it would require timing lunch or dinner to a gas stop, so I could use the microwave, I decided to save the extra lamb. If you are reading this before Thursday night's dinner, please cross your fingers for me that I don't poison myself.
I could not picked up the BTZone signal from the car parked across the street, so I sat on a step next to the Starbucks. Plenty of woman walked by as I ate, and not a one ever glanced at me, except one who was with her boyfriend, and one who I think might have been drunk (not sure about that). If that isn't proof-positive that I am one butt-ugly sonufabitch, I don't know what is. I guess I'm glad that I got brains, but it would have been nice to get looks too.
Meanwhile, excitement was building towards the Friday release of the new Transformers movie!!!
Who let the gulls out? Who? Who, who, who? Who let the gulls out? They were all over. I woke up shortly before 1:00 AM and went over to that club I'd seen earlier. But like in some states around the U.S., it closed at 1:00 AM (or at least wasn't letting anybody else in), and the bar down the street was the same. Drove around a bit, and I noticed a lot of seagulls. I've never heard anything about their being nocturnal, and I've seen plenty during the day, but there seemed to be more that night than I had seen earlier in the evening.
AARRGHH!!! The before I had held my camera and a cup, with some sugary coffee drops still in it, in my hand, and the sticky liquid had dripped onto the camera. I wiped most of it off, but some got into the space that holds the flash, and apparently it was sticky enough to form a glue that is now preventing the flash from opening. Fortunately, I hardly ever use the flash, but still it is annoying. Lost a good 15 minutes at the Starbucks in Winchester trying to unstick the flash with a pin (all the barista could find), but it didn't work.
Meanwhile, I was suffering from sock slide syndrome. Not nearly as well knowing as breast cancer or AIDS, sock slide syndrome is uncomfortable nonetheless. It happens when a pair of socks has faulty elastic and develops a tendency to slide down your ankle and bunch up down in the sole of the foot/shoe. If I keep walking without fixing it, I think I'll start to blister, so I have to keep pulling the socks up. Fortunately, it's only happen to one of my three pairs.
The exceptionally friendly manager in Fleet from the day before had alerted his district manager, and she happened to be at the Winchester Sainsbury's location and pretty excited to meet me. Left with more booty, another muffin, and also the first souvenir I was able to accept, a small espresso-sized mug. I had been turning down larger mugs and other goodies left and right, but this one I deemed small enough to carry around. The DM suggested I use it to ask for my samples, but I decided against that--I'd probably lose it or break it, given my clumsy/forgetful nature.
Aw... was that a dead fox on the road?
Pretty though the English countryside might be, routes that take me off the primary highways were risky because roads are very narrow. Moreover, my route to Salisbury took me along a road that was not just narrow, but "single track" (single lane). Several times I encountered cars in the other direction, and either I pulled to the side, or into space cut into the grass to allow passing, or the other car did. Most annoyingly, the time it took me to take the photo below allowed a large truck to pass the next road merge before me, and had he not pulled over when he had a chance, I would have been stuck.
After days of seeing only the plain and the honey flavors of the Fage yogurt, after having found the cherry (or was it strawberry) flavor exactly once, I finally decided to try an experiment. I bought some of the Yeo Valley strawberry yogurt and the Fage honey, and I alternated, taking a spoonful of one, then the other. Not bad.
Discovered something fascinating in Salisbury, that the price for a half-hour massage in the the smaller villages was really low. One place had it for just 18 pounds, and another for 19. Even at the lousy 1.73 exchange rate, a good price. Of course the same problem existed regardless of the price, at beauty salons, of the therapists usually working just by appointment and rarely being available within 30-60 minutes (about the longest I was willing to wait given my schedule). Of course the Asian (called Oriental over here) parlors were easier to get into, but their massage were rarely as good, and the therapists almost never spoke Enlgihs well enough to have a conversation. Anyway, before leaving Salisbury I checked a couple of places, and I stumbled across a therapist who owned her own massage, beauty, and photography business, and she was available right after she finished consulting with a photography client. I had to wait longer than the 30 minutes she had initially promised, but the wait was well worth it, as I received the best massage of my trip to that point.
One really usual thing about the massage was that the therapist asked me to leave my pants on. Very odd, especially since I'd asked her to focus on my lower back and glutes. I'd run into a few places that required underwear or boxers, but never the jeans. When I told her I'd never encountered this, she opened a cabinet and pulled out a small black object. She handed it to me, and she explained that for insurance purposes, in case I attacked her, I would need to be covered, at least by the disposable thong she had just handed me. Well, that was a first. When I first learned of the existence of the thong, I was pretty sure that I myself would never have occasion to wear one. Well, I guess there's a first time for everything.
Dang, I totally forgot to take a photo of that thong. In fact, I should have asked the therapist, a photog herself, to take a photo of me in the thong. I'm sure many readers are truly disappointed for that omission. Sorry, but you'll just have to close your eyes and use your imagination. Visualize. But to tell you the truth, I couldn't have posted those photos anyway. I don't mean to brag or anything, but the thong did a wholly inadequate job of covering up my manhood.
Over in Bournemouth/Poole I took about a dozen wrong turns, and I experienced an awkward situation that I've not yet figured out how to deal with--the smudgy samaritan. This is the person who is perfectly willing to help me with directions but then touches my laptop screen. When a person is helping you, it's hard to ask him not to touch the screen without looking like an ass. Maybe I should have anyway, because this guy had seriously oily or dirty fingers--when I went to wipe off his prints, I ended up with a large circular smear on my screen that I'd have to wash off with soap and water.
Kept forgetting to google to try and figure out what the C/S button next to the shifter means. However, after days of driving, I was guessing that the S is for driving on the highway and the C is for driving in the city.
Ran into the DM at the Borders in Bournemouth, and then again in Poole, where he was very helpful and called ahead to the Yeovil and Wyemouth stores to find out when they closed. Made a big difference, because Yeovil closed at 6:30. If I had visited Weymouth first, I wouldn't have made it to Yeovil in time.
Ah, this map of English counties will come in handy for grouping stores. AutoRoute and the Starbucks website both were confusing me as to which names correspond to counties and which don't.
6:19, plenty of time, once I found a place to put the car near the store, to upload photos, finally, and check my e-mail to find one from a religions man who seemed to gather from my blog, or my website, that I am homosexual. Talk about a crazy misinterpretation.
Finally--new shopping centre, the Atrium, free parking for 30 minutes!!!
Tummy pain. Not the splorg kind, but something different. Hard to describe.
Going on my third week in the UK/Ireland, I was finally starting to notice very different accents.
The manager in Fleet was extremely enthusiastic about my project, and we chatted quite a while. Unfortunately, that resulted in my first penalty charge, 35 pounds. Actually, the way they do it is psychologically interesting. Instead of setting a fine and threatening to double it after X days, as often happens in America, the English set a fine of 70 pounds and then reduce it by half if paid within 14 days. Carrot versus stick, I guess.
I quickly did some math. Factor in the free muffin I got from the store, and the charge goes down to 33.55. Figuring at least 1 pound in parking at most of the stores where I parked illegally, I think I had been to at least 30 where I avoided paying for parking. Factor in the the time I saved, and I was definitely even, if not ahead. If I could just avoid parking fees for another 30 stores, I could get ahead of a second penalty charge.
A new (for this trip) unpleasant sensation, bloating.
Finally thought to ask about this expression, "Are you all right?" Variants include "Are you okay?", "You alright?", and "You okay?" The first time I heard it, I was confused, because I thought that either my behaviour, appearance, or expression indicated that something was wrong. Turns out this is just a greeting in the UK, equivalent to "Hello." I don't like it, and even a week or two later, after I got used to it, I still hadn't gotten used to it, and I still didn't like it. In fact, I don't like any greetings, even "How are you?" that require a response, if taken literally.
Pounds had been dwindling for days, and I had been on the hunt for the best exchange rate. I saw nothing approaching the 1.68 I had gotten in London, so when I spotted 1.73 with no commission, near the Cascades Shopping Centre, I decided I had to take it. Again, the decision, how much to exchange. I knew I would need much more than $300, but I still hoped to find a better rate in a larger city.
2.70 minimum for parking at Gun Wharf--that's obscene! That's criminal! That's sociopathic!! I'm serious--these people ought to be hauled in front of a judge and punished for their greed. Well, since there was no sign indicating I could drive straight through to the exit for free, I had to put on my hazard lights on and block one of the two entry lanes until I could find the office and confirm that I could go straight through. Thus inconveniencing half the drivers trying to enter the garage, but was that my fault? Of course not--what was I supposed to do. If I went thru and the machine charged me, I'd waste who knows how much time trying to sort it out.
Found a lot with 20-minute free period nearby, but the pay machine would not print out the ticket. Because of that, I was forced to sprint quite a distance into the shopping centre and then to the Starbucks, slowing to a walk the couple of times I spotted cops, so I wouldn't arouse suspicion. When I left, I again, sprinted, a bit slower for my coffee not to spill, and this time some cops were talking to lady about something. They were all serious, and I definitely stopped running at that point, until I went around the corner. I started sprinting again, and as I reached the edge of the centre property I heard something over the loudspeaker, like a command from the police. I continued on to my car, and as I drove off I saw a big police van pulling into the centre lot. As I drove on, trying to get out of town as quickly as possible, more police rushed towards Gun Wharf.
Lucked out big time in Southampton, reaching the Borders just as they were closing and managing to get a shot of espresso. Even better, the other two stores were still open, and I was able to hit 15 for the day.
SONOFABITCH!!! I had just two twenty-pound notes left, from my $1.68 exchange, and I lost one of them!!!
After my first few times eating plain fried rice, I started ordering soup. I discovered that by getting chicken noodle or chicken with sweet corn soup I could get a little bit of meat with my meal without getting more than I wanted. If I ordered the chicken fried rice, I'd get more than I wanted and could eat. That was fine, but I had universally found that the soup I was given was waaaay too hot, like supernova hot. I typically had to wait and blow on it before I could eat it, and I often burned my mouth. To illustrate just how hot the soup was, I'll point out that after I picked up my order I spotted Paradise Thai Massage down the street, and I was able to go in shower and get a 30-minute massage, and when I got back out the car, no earlier than 45 minutes after I'd picked up my food, it was still warm!!!
After sleeping a few hours I drove down into the town centre and drove around a bit, observing the crazy drunked behaviour that I'd heard these Brits were prone too. Lots of wackiness, but the highlight was a young woman screaming over and over at a man, "YOU FUCKING WHORE!!!" while he and another man tried to calm her down.
On a bench or phone booth or something like that I spotted a sign for a strip club, the first I could remember seeing outside of London. According to the address it was just down the street, but when I walked over there was nothing but a gambling (they call it "entertainment") venue (slot machines, etc.).
6:14, a bit early, and I considered going back to sleep, but I decided that it was better to keep shifting my biological clock earlier and earlier, because car sleeping in the morning was gettin harder and harder.
Dang, forgot the order of my sock rotation. The car has, conveniently enough, three grips for hanging clothes that I can use to hang my socks. But I have to remember the order in which I'm rotating them, so each pair gets 48 hours to air out.
Shiiiiiiiiiiiiit. I was expecting I'd have to wait 'til 8:00 for Reigate, but it was so much worse. 10:00 AM. Jeez Louise man, 10:00 AM???
Owls? Or people having sex? No, that's gotta be a machine noise.
Dorkiness in Dorking. I glanced at the sign from the car and it appeared the store would open at 8:00 AM. So I went to park, and when I returned I was surprised that no one seemed to be inside preparing for the open. I sat a bit before I started to get suspicious. Then I looked again at the sign, and I had misread it. 8:00 AM was Saturday. Sunday was the good 'ol 10:00 AM. Stupid me.
Geez, not even the Guildford stores opened at 9:00 AM. I went around to all of them, and the earliest I saw was 9:30.
Since I had to wait 'til 9:30, I figured I might as well get a decent breakfast. Even that was easier said than done, as I failed to find any restaurants open in the city centre. I had to drive about a mile or two away before I spotted, the Woodbridge Cafe. Eggs, toast, and bacon. Hmm... hadn't had bacone in so long. In fact, that was only my second proper breakfast of my trip, in nearly three weeks, and I was so glad for it I didn't even mind that the eggs were sunny side up instead of scrambled.
Wiesling wackiness, but this time my note fails me. I have no idea what happened there. I think I'd have to run through the day sequentially and perhaps look at the photos to trigger the memory.
Phantom store, Cobham Anyards Road 14, at least 15 minutes wasted trying to confirm this.
Seeing people riding horses here and there throughout the English countryside, right in the middle of the road, without a care in the world.
Woking bah, supervisor not there. The store was pretty far from where I parked, and dared not risk waiting with my car where it was, so I just bought an espresso.
That shot from Woking seemed to be the catalyst for the effect of the 9 samples that had preceded it. As I was more than halfway to my car, I felt a familiar post-espresso pressure in my gut, but I decided to could make it to Weybridge before the pressure became critical. As I crossed over the M25, however, I felt an pang so intense I feared I would have to end up doing laundry sooner than I planned. Fortunately, it passed, and I made it into town, but it was a mad and panicked rushed to park the car (no time to find legal parking) and then awkwardly walk quickly to the store and straight through to the bathroom. My need was so urgent that I even had to ignore the zaftig young woman sitting up front and leaning forward so that her extremely ample cleavage was practically begging to be set free. On another occasion I would have exited the store and then come back in, more slowly, but this time I had a more pressing matter. No sooner was I on the toilet than, you guessed it, splorg! Much, much splorg.
So much, in fact, that I was fearing I would not make it to the next two stores, in Sainsbury's before they closed at 4:00!!! I just couldn't get off the pot though, for fearing of more pangs of pain. I finally managed to pull myself away and rush to Staines, and when I hit town I realized I did not have an address, none on the web site, AARRGHH!!! Fortunately the first pedestrians I asked knew. Unfortunately it was clear across town. The lights, my god, the lights, they were just killing me. Nearly 10 minutes I had, to drive about 2 miles, and I barely made it in time thanks to those fucking lights through town.
Rushing wasn't nearly over, of course, because it was only 4:00 PM, and I had no reason to think the store in Windsor, not in Sainsbury's, just 6 miles away, wouldn't be open 'til 5:00 at least. Started to feel the pressure again as I approached the town centre, and I prayed to find a parking space quickly. A loading zone nearlyin front of the store, blessed saints, and I was able to rush in and quickly find the toilet. No one in sign, praised be, and I quickly sat down for more splorg. Oh my god, 13 stores, 12 consumed (the thirteenth still sitting in the car), and my insides were in turmoil. I was actually glad it was early still, because I'd probably have to use the restroom many more times before I could settle in to sleep for the night.
Forgive me, I actually entered a McDonald's, but only for the wi-fi, I promise. I was testing to see if my wi-fi card was failing, or if it was BTZone itself, which had failed to come up at the last two stores.
Whew. Lucked out and avoided a ticket (called a "penalty charge" here), though I've no idea how. I was parked in the loading zone just like the car behind me, and he got a ticket.
Windsor Castle.
After recovering from a wrong turn that took me at least 2-3 miles out of the way, I found the easiest parking of the day in Slough (but only because it was Sunday evening), and before I started the search for the Starbucks (somewhere on the High Street), I spotted another Caribbean place, Cumber's. Lucky I spotted it first, because they had actually closed at 5:00 (it was 5:15), but since they had food I was able to order oxtail stew with rice and peas (beans). While they got my order I popped into the restroom, and---you guessed it--splorg. There was a cinema on the high street, and I planned to see if either The Hangover or Red Cliff was playing, but I expected I'd have to miss part of the film due to post-dinner splorg.
Son of a bitch!!! Movie scheduled for 6:30, and these moops show 10 minutes of ads before the previews even start. Bastards. Still, The Hangover was hilarious!!!
Despite what one of the Empire Cinema employees said, that part of Slough looked a bit sketchy to me. I drove west along the A4 about a mile and found a quiet spot a hundred feet or so in front of a food van, on a service road running parallel to the A4. I asked the (presumed) owner of the van if I'd be okay parking overnight, and he did not seem to think there would be a problem.
6:47, excellent! Time to file down toenails and get over to the North Road store bright and early. Except it didn't open 'til 8:00. I had misread the sign--7:00 AM was just Mon-Fri. Bah. But at least the supervisor opened the door and told me that the Western Road store was open, so I headed over there.
After more or less positive reactions at all, or nearly all, the stores I had visited while outside London, I finally saw a change in Brighton. I had expected it, as it is a larger city and probably has more homeless. The store on Western Road is right in the city center, and signs warn patrons to keep an I on their possessions. The staff is probably used to seeing sketchy characters, which probably accounts for the wait the manager looked at me, with an eye of puzzlement and/or suspicion.
Several tracks from the new Dave Matthews had been playing at Starbucks for the last few days, and despite the review on Sound Opinions, and the fact that I only liked about half of their last studio album, I decided to go ahead and buy it. A week earlier I had been pleasantly surprised by the Green Day album, the first I'd ever bought new (if "new" means anything in the age of iTunes--I think I had an older one used, but maybe not).
Perhaps I shouldn't have spent so much time downloading, because it took longer than I expected to walk to the five walkable stores in/near the city centre, and I found myself rushing to move the car, which was in a spot designated for permit only after 9:00 AM.
Something unusual, a sidewalk along a section of motorway. Don't think that exists in the U.S.
Definitely noticing different accents now that I had been in the UK/Ireland for longer than ever before.
Tried a different kind of pear, one that had these reddish spots all over it. Hated the feel of it in my mouth, and the taste wasn't great either. Nasty.
I tried the complaining thing again, this time at Gatwick. The situation here was different. The parking charge was just a pound for 15 minutes, but after that it more than doubled, to 2.40. Obviously I sprinted to the store and did not bother to even give my spiel, although I lost 30-60 seconds trying to find out from the supervisor if the store was licensed or not. Oh, yeah, that was annoying too, because he looked at me like I was crazy, saying over and over again, this is a Starbucks. He, who works for Starbucks and should know this, apparently had no idea about the licensed stores, and he, and the two baristas, were looking at me with condescension, like I was nuts or stupid, when it was they who didn't know what the fuck they were talking about.
Anyway, getting back to parking, when I got back to the lot I couldn't find the fucking pay stations. I asked some guy with a trolley, and he said they were out by the exits. By the time I reached them, I was over by 3 minutes. If I had been able to pay in the garage, I would have made it just exactly in 15 minutes. So I went into the office to explain this, and I had to have the attendant put me on with the supervisor. She was not receptive to my explanation, and even worse she kept saying that if I hit the next time increment, I'd have to pay 4.00, as if she didn't have to power to fix that. She was polite, but in a bitchy way. Finally the attendant spoke to her for bit, and then he put the phone down and said he was going to take care of it anyway, as a favor, in spite of what she said. But he screwed up and the fee went up to 4.00, and he fumbled all around trying to figure out what to do and finally had me fill out a form. Then he tore up the form. And he had me fill it out again. And finally I got out of there paying just a pound.
Of course the underlying issue was that the 15+ minutes I had wasted, on a Sunday, were precious, and could have cost me from visiting another store, but thankfully I made it to Horsham before they closed.
Managed one more, off the A23 in Hooley, and while there I looked up that Colombian restaurant in Brixton and headed up there. Took a long time to get there, but I figured there was no way a Colombian restaurant would close before 9:00 PM. Wrong. It was in a shopping arcade that shut at 5:00 or 6:00. Disappointing, but I was pleased to find a nearby a Caribbean restaurant still open. Not so much a restaurant, really, as a hole in the wall, with the pots and pans all visible from the counter because there was no "back", per se. When I asked the owner/cook if he knew about the Colombian place, he said he thought it was just around the corner, and always packed. Damn, that means it might have been really good. The owner then went on to talk about how if it weren't for the Blacks, the Asians, the Colombians, England would still be in what he called the "dark ages", by which he meant that everything would be closed early and closed on Sunday. Then he made a point of pointing out that he wasn't trying to be racist.
And now I'm not trying to be racist, but Brixton looked pretty rough. Don't know if there are "projects" or "ghettoes" in London, but some of the buildings I passed in the area seemed that way. Lots of sketchy characters about. When I finished eating I made sure to drive a ways south before I found a place to park.
Well, that didn't work at all. That bottle of lemon drink I'd picked up in Brighton to save for dinner. Well I forgot all about the issue of the cap. I tried to twist it off by wrapping my arm around my shirt, but that didn't work at all. I tried to pull it off against curb. Nope. I tried putting the cap against the ground and wedging it against the sole of my sneaker. Nope. Finally I tried knocking the top of the bottle off, and it just exploded. Fail.
6:50, right on time! I rushed to dress and grab my things, and I quickly pulled the car out to the High Street and immediately realized that the Starbucks was just a block down. There was no parking, so basically I could have walked and saved time. So I went back to park the car, walked to the store... and the the door didn't open!!! 7:30??? 7:30 was the opening time??? If this were an SNL Weekend Update Skit, that Seth guy would be saying "Really???"
Back to the car and over to the Sainsbury's. The sign upon entering said 7:00 AM--excellent. It was that crappy pay car park again, but I ignored pay-and-display and just rushed into. Saw the bathroom first, and then I exited I saw the door to the Starbucks... closed. The opening time--8:00 AM. NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Ridiculous. The window was getting smaller and smaller. From 7:30 AM to a likely 6:00 PM, just 10 1/2 hours. Back in America, I typically had a 6:00 AM to 10:00 PM window, at least 16 hours, but quite often it was 5:00 AM to 11:00 PM, or, in California, some stores opened at 4:30 or even four, and many stayed open 'til 11:00. My projected averages were based on those stores hours, but given the new conditions finishing in a month was looking dicey.
Back to park the car and to the Starbucks--at least I could get online while I waited. Except... AUTHENTICATIN FAILED!!! WTF??? WHAT IS GOING ON WITH the AT&T roaming???
Tried logging in a few more times before giving up and going to my blogging. As 8:00 AM approached I went into the bathroom for a quick shave and noticed a sign I'd never seen before, "SINK FOR HAND WASHING ONLY". Had someone at Starucks read my blog entry about arse-washing??? Nah, probably more likely that the store saw a lot of homeless, although I wouldn't have expected it in a smaller town so far from London.
As I left it occurred to me why I couldn't log on to AT&T. My card had expired, and those motherfuckers couldn't do me the courtesy of sending me an e-mail and giving me 24 hours to update the card information. As a result, I had to drive around looking for a free wi-fi signal and then spend a lot of time hunting around on the web for the right page that would let me log onto my wi-fi account. At the same time I was Skyping AT&T for support, but the guy did not seem to know a darn thing about the wi-fi service. When he finally put me on hold to escalate the issue I did some slightly different searches and found the page. Really hating AT&T for this, whoever decided that it was necessary to cut service immediately upon decline of the credit card. There's just no reason for it. In fact, it's ultra-stupid because the easiest way to update the credit card service is via the website, and if a customer is trying to log into the wi-fi then he's obviously most likely unable to access the Internet another way, and thus he is prevented from immediately providing new billing info. That's beyond stupid, man, and whoever dreamt that up really needs a beat down and a baseball bat up his ass.
Wow, it actually worked. To begin with, I would not even have bothered to pay for parking at the Sainsbury's in Maidstone if I had known that the store in the nearby city centre had never been built. But I didn't know that, so I paid and displayed and went in to visit the Sainsbury's location. When I found out about the phantom store, I grumbled about the parking to myself, but then when I got out to the car I decided, what the heck, let's give it a try. So I went back into the Sainsbury's and explained to the lady at the customer service desk that I didn't think it was fair for someone buying a single item, like a coffee, to have to pay an extra 1 pound 50 just to park. She explained that it was a city lot, not Sainsbury's decision... but then she decided to refund my money, as a courtesy. Sometimes it pays to be the squeaky wheel.
You know who else needs a bat up his ass? All the guys who design the annoying beeps that remind a driver the seat belt is not engaged. Some moron reading this is probably thinking right now, "it's for the customer safety." NO IT'S NOT!!! The seat belt interferes with turning around to drive in reverse, such as to parallel park, or to properly position the car in a parking lot, and there is virtually no fucking danger of a high-speed collison when driving a 1 to 5 MPH in a parking lot. And yet the Mercedes' beep kept chiming and chiming and chiming and putting me in a truly homicidal mood.
To add to the day's aggravation, after nearly a week, severe allergies returned. Not counting the two days I took benadryl to ease the bite itching, I hadn't actually taken an allergy pill since, what, the previous Friday, maybe Thursday.
Finally free parking at Sainsbury's in Canterbury, and for two hours, which allowed me to walk down to the town centre to visit the other two stores. As expected, the centre was mad crazy with people, lots of student groups, because apparently Canterbury is regardic as historic for some reason. I think some dude wrote a story about the place once, and there's also this cathedral thing that people seemed to want to visit.
Uh-oh. Congestion and phlegm and sneezing turned into a free-flow of mucous in Folkestone, and I worried that I was getting sick. Even if just hay fever, it was pretty severe, and I had to take loratadine, then fake Sudafed, then a cold tablet later that night.
Pretty store and facade at Bouverie Place, but couldn't get a shot free of people before good ol' security intervened.
5:30, the car-sleeping effect manifested bright and early, for the sky was light enough that my body thought it was much later. Back to sleep, woke again at 5:56. Then again at 6:16. In that time, I had at least two false awakening dreams. In the last one, my car was in the parking lot of some type of inn/restaurant, and an Irish man in a red sweater looked through my window and asked if I needed food, drink, a room? I replied that I was just waiting for the Starbucks to open, and then I woke up.
About a quarter of 7:00 I received an e-mail from a PR firm rep asking if I could call, so I headed over to the Starbucks for a stronger wi-fi connection. Still had trouble believing that the store did not open 'til 7:00 given all the commuters passing right in front of the store. Granted, there was no place to park, but that didn't stop some from pulling onto the curb for their coffee. And, across the street was a bus stop full of people--had this been America, or maybe even central London, many of those would have had Starbucks coffee in their hands.
Grrr... still happening, problems logging into the BTZone with my AT&T credentials. Same thing had happened several times on Wednesday, but I was in a hurry to make a phone call. Rather frustrating.
How does this happen??? According to the map I'm looking at, and my memory of the route I drove just about an hour ago, driving from Loughton back to Rectory Lane and then making a left onto the M11 should have put me on a northerly course to the M25. Instead, I'm way down at the edge of London, sitting in traffic, waiting for the first opportunity to head away from
London!!! Given the tube situation, I did not want to be anywhere near London, yet I got pulled back in. It was as if a spatial anomaly had sprung up in my path to thwart my schedule.
Who knows how much time I lost, but I finally worked my way to Basildon. Shopping centre with a car park that gave no free time. Grrr... that was threatening to be my most hated feature of English stores, so many in shopping centres that did not offer free parking. I felt every shopping centre should at least offer 30 minutes free, for those customers who just needed to rush in and out to make a small purchase. If what you're buying costs 1 pound and you have to pay 80 cents for parking--well, that really sucks doesn't it. Only thing I have to say in the car park's favor is that the pay machine, when I inserted my ticket, warned me that the machine was low on change. A good feature which can save customers the time and inconvenience of inserting a 20-pound note only to have it rejected. Never seen that feature in America, although there virtually all shopping centers offer free parking.
After that police officer outside the Chiswick Park station mentioned some terrorism act, I made a mental note to find that act online and download it. Kept forgetting, for the last week and a half (so much for mental notes), but I finally remembered. However, the first act that I found referenced on Wikipedia, from 2005, did not contain anything relevant, so I made another mental note to download the other two acts, from 2001 and 2000.
Forgot to mention, the UK has these things called speed cameras. I had seen them during my first or second time driving in the country, but this time I noticed something new, signs reading "AVERAGE SPEED CHECK". Horrible idea, because what should be penalized is unsafe driving, and speed is not inherently unsafe.
Holy shit, is that a fox? IS THAT A FOX??? If so, that would be only the second, maybe third, fox I've ever seen in my life. I hope somebody can confirm, because I went through a lot of trouble to get the photos. No place to stop, so I had to go around the roundabout about four or five times!
Parked in the wrong car park in Southend-on-Sea, which led to a mad dash as the hour approached, to avoid paying an extra 70 pence. I shouldn't have cut it so close, because I was actively trying to avoid sweating in order to delay the point at which I needed to wash my shirts.
Before leaving town I detoured towards the Sainsbury's, but when I realized the car park charged 50 cents minimum, I had to stop, try to back up until another car approached and prevented this, then look for a way to avoid entering the car park. Problem is, most of the car parks I've seen in the UK/Ireland are unattended, and I can't explain to a machine that there was no way to see if what the car park charged until it was too late to pull away. As a result I had to drive really slow, thus annoying the drivers behind me, while I looked for an escape option. In this case, it was pay-and-display, so I was able to exit, but I'm really hating all these pay car parks.
Across from the Sainsbury's I spotted the Spaghetti Cafe, and I could not resist the urge to see how much they charged. 3.95 for spaghetti bolognese--dang, I couldn't pass that up. Problem was, eating spaghetti and driving is inherently dangerous to my clothes' cleanliness, and if I spilled too much on my shirt, I'd have to wash sooner, and that would make the 3.95 lunch not such a bargain after all. Well, I only drove about 50 feet to the edge of the roundabout, and then I decided there was no way I was going to avoid spilling the spaghetti. I had to pull over at the next available opportunity and finish my meal.
First some background. When I first discovered I could sleep in my car and saved money, I quickly discovered just how quickly, if the weather was warm, I began to develop an odor. I was used to showering multiple times a day, so this was new to me. Some of my intial attempts at a solution were to try showering in rainstorms (didn't work, getting a room every few days, and truck stops). It was around that time (between 1999 and 2001) that I was becoming a big fan of regular massages, and at some point it occurred that if I could find a reasonably-priced half-hour massage at a place that also had a shower, I could essentially get the shower for free and be much better off than getting a room or wasting the money at a truck stop.
When I drove in Canada, and the few times I had driven overseas, this technique was tricky because of my inability to make phone calls cheaply. If I didn't just happen to pass a spa/parlor/salon advertising massage, I was out of luck. And in England, because of the parking situation, even passing a place wasn't good enough--I also had to be able to find parking relatively quickly. However, once I discovered how to use Skype, the cost of calls in England was no longer a factor, and so while I had extra time on my car park "meter" in Southend I googled for massage. Only got one person on the phone, sent two e-mails, and found an address, for the Orchid Spa, right off the road I was taking out of town.
Not wanting to waste time, I just parked illegally, for the purposes of just finding out more about the massage. I had actually called the place and been told 20 pounds for the half hour, but when I walked in the sign said 25 pounds. I tried to explain the discrepancy to the attendant, and also ask if they had a shower, but she understood so little of what I was saying that I just said "okay, thank you" and walked out.
I started to head back to my car when I heard a voice call out. Two women were walking down the sidewalk, and I think of them said something like "was it a good massage?" Not sure, but regardless I responded "I couldn't understand her." She didn't hear what I said, so I walked across the street and repeated myself. She then asked, "You were looking for a massage?" I said "Yes," and she said "That's what we do." Obviously it seemed like a dubious proposition, but this was the first time I'd ever encountered such an offer like this, and I had to see how it played out.
"How much?" I asked. "30 quid." Seemed reasonable to me, even if it wasn't the best massage, but I forgot to ask whether that price was for a full hour. Her answer might have given me an indcation of what was to come. I should have also been clued in by her request to take her and her friend to the city centre afterwards--I should have asked when they needed to be there. Final question, "Does your place have a shower?" "Of course, she said, it's a flat." Of course I knew that, but I wanted to confirm I'd be allowed to use it, just misspoke was all.
I had to go park the car, and this actually took quite a while, at least 20 minutes. A few minutes of that were consumed by my moving my backpack, including everything of value, and beddings to the trunk. If I was going to give two strangers a ride, I did not want either of them to have any access to my backpack and its precious contents.
Finished, I walked down to the end of the sidewalk to meet Jade (the name she later wrote down with her number) and her friend. No indication that she was in a hurry, except for a comment about how long it had taken me to park. Again, I should have asked about her schedule, but instead I just walked up into her flat, paid her the 30 pounds, at which point she began to apologize and said that she did not have a lot of time, that she needed to be down at the police station at 2:15. She pointed to the wall, and in fact there was a calendar with an entry for "2:15 PO". Furthermore, she lifted up her pants leg and showed me an ankle monitor. Great. I was really glad at that point that I'd put my backpack in the trunk. Arguing wasn't going to get me anything but kicked out of the flat, with no recourse that didn't involve wasting a lot of time, so I just tried to shower as quickly as possible. Easier said than done, because just as I soaped up the water pressure dipped to almost nothing. Meanwhile Jade had come into the bathroom to rush me through my shower. In all the massages I'd ever had, no "therapist" had ever done this, and I tried to hurry up while at the same time only getting a trickle from the shower head, then a brief spray, then a trickle again.
I finally finished rinsing and still had hopes of getting something close to 30 minutes, but before I had even finished drying off Jade made a rather surprising offer, hurriedly insisting that we didn't have time for the massage and saying "let's just skip the the massage and get straight to the blowjob." Well, I certainly wasn't expecting that. A rushed massage, a bad massage, yes. But an offer a blowjob instead? Holy crow! Talk about a bait and switch!!!
Now here's the part where readers, who might already be incredulous, are really going to have doubts about the veracity of what I'm writing. Thing of it is, I did not want a blowjob. I really didn't. If she had been a hottie, instead of heavyset and obviously low-rent, perhaps, but even so, that's not what I wanted. What I wanted (besides the shower) was the time to relax and chat during the massage, and to possibly feel like I was making a connection. Unlikely from a random woman on the street, but it has in fact happened in the past. So what was I to do? She was clearly eager to get to her meeting, so if I pushed her for the massage I'd get 10 minutes at best, if at all. She offered to make it up to me if I came back later, and if Starbucks in the area were open a few hours later, I could have killed time working on my site (at the risk of losing my 30 outright). But I needed to move on to Thurrock, so my choice was basically to accept her offer or effectively end up paying 30 pounds for a unsatisfactory shower. So what's a guy to do in a situation like that? Discuss.
After Thurrock, where I met my third district manager of the trip, I lost a lot of time finding Bluewater. Yes, there were signs, but all it takes is for one sign to omit the name "Bluewater" for me to go all off course. I'd already been there during my first visit to England, in '99, but I never took photos. After all that trouble, couldn't get the ones I wanted because just as this stupid lady and her stupid daughter moved out of my frame, a pair of police happened by. It was the first time I'd been told I couldn't photograph by cops instead of security. I played along, inquiring about the management office and how to get a permit. Trying to avoid being asked more questions and further delayed.
Meanwhile, I was itching all of sudden. A different kind of itching than the bites, it seemed. I wondered if, in the 15 minutes, tops, that I was in Jade's flat, that I had gotten bitten by something.
Down at the Marks & spencer, I spotted a food bar and stared longingly. I had already had a spaghetti lunch and really shouldn't have thinking of another meal, but I couldn't seem to help myself. The employee behind the counter, a sandy young blonde, first smiled when she spotted me, but as I stood there her expression changed. When I finally walked over and asked about the chili con carne with rice, she seemed genuinely concerned and a bit nervous. And that's another reason why human nature sucks and needs to be purposefully evolved, because humans are just way too prone to being scare and suspicious of what they don't understand. There's a million perfectly good reasons why a person might debate whether to eat or not, and no reason at all for that employee to have become nervous. And, after all that, they were out of the chili con carne with rice.
A wrong turn put me on a slow, congested route into Royal Tunbridge Wells, rather than Tonbridge as I had intended. Barely made it to the store before it closed, and I learned I'd had no hope of making it to all three area stores anyway. I'll say it again, these hours are killing me, but at least I was able to head up to Tonbridge and find a good parking space. Before that, though I hung around the store in Royal Tunbridge Wells downloading stuff until I had to leave at 6:30. I tried to continue outside, but even sitting in front of the store, on either side, I could not get the signal. Grrr... unsure of whether Tonbridge would have BTZone, I walked around a bit and noticed that Caffe Nero has BTZone. So I bought a lemonade, to save for the next day's lucn/dinner, and hung out there until it closed at 8:00.
I spent some time thinking about how I had gotten so far off schedule. Where did I lose the time?
* Delta call and time online in Wanstead--40 minutes
* Wrong route to Basildon--at least 30 minutes
* Googling for massage--20 minutes
* Sainsbury's and spaghetti--40 minutes
* Massage debacle--50 minutes
* Unspecified activity in bathroom in Thurrock--10 minutes
* Chatting with manager/district manager in Thurrock--10 minutes
* Bluewater reshoot (could have waited)--60 minutes
Decided I needed to change my habits to save time. No more meals during the day--just fruit, vegetables, yogurt, and a pastry to tide me over until dinner, after the last Starbucks closed. No blogging except at traffic lights. No processing photos except at traffic lights. No logging on at every store, unless I could do it while the computer was still in the car.
Incidentally, when I peeked my head in and asked the Nero barista, "What time do you close?" "8:00 PM," he replied. Just to see what he would say, I asked him, "Why does Starbucks close so early?" His reply--"Because they're rubbish."
Also should point out the the cafe had just one table next to an outlet, and when I asked the man sitting there if I could share the space, he curtly pointed to another table. In all the times I had had to ask a stranger to share his table, I could not remember ever having been spurned like that. I pointed out that I needed the outlet, and the man reluctantly moved his things. When I finally finished setting up the computer and went to plug in the adapter, I guess the man decided he really did want to remain undisturbed, because he said something that started with "...tell you what... I'll just...", and he moved.
Ew... had a mental lapse and spit my toothbrushing water back in my main water cup, instead of my kiwi cup.
No early rise for me, of course, given the nights hijinks. Couldn't sleep much after all the excitement, but I forced myself out of bed around 8:10 and managed the energy to do the final pushups I expected to do until I hit continental Europe and stayed in hostels again.
No sense in hurrying--the trip was going to take a while regardless, so I had a double-helping of toast for breakfast. As expected, a popular topic down in the bar (doubling as the breakfast area) was the extent of the disruption and the difficulty in getting onto the buses. I headed out around 9:20 and quickly discovered what the attendant, Emma, had warned me about--that there was a long line to get on the buses. No, scratch that--it wasn't a long line. It was chaos, despite two peace officers and a transport agents attempts to keep people orderly (hah), off the street, and preventing them from forming a crush at the door when a bus arrived.
I did not want to walk the entire distance to Hertz, in Holborn, for two reasons. Primarily I did not want to get my clothes all sweaty just as I was setting off on a month-long car adventure during which doing laundry would be an inconvenience. Second, it was raining. Still, the situation at the Shepherd's Bus stop looked uncertain, so I decided to go ahead and walk, to the next stop, to see if it was any better. It was. Fewer people, no officers, and multiple bus options. Instead of the 94 to Oxford Circus I was able to get on the 31 as far as Notting Hill Gate. From there I was able to get a 94 which for some reason stopped at Marble Arch. From there I walked to Oxford Circus and saw several options for buses to Holborn.
Oxford Circus was hardly better than Shepherd's Bush. Buses would pass by, with space clearly available, without stopping, much to the frustration of the waiters. An agent helped get people on buses, even going so far as to walk them out to the street rather than the platform. When I finally saw one, the 98, about four or five buses deep, I rushed over there, along with a woman. When the driver did not open the front door, she rushed in through the back as passengers exited. I did the same, and the driver immediately said something about "the platform" and told me to get off the bus. While I do not respect authority for authorities sake, I did respect the need given the situation for drivers to maintain control of their buses, so I exited and went up to the official platform to wait. The other lady did not appear to get off, and when I finally boarded, several minutes later, she was still sitting there. I was miffed that the driver had not made her get off too, but what are you gonna do?
In case you hadn't guessed it already, the bus was actually slower than walking, at least down Oxford Street. But, I stayed on as long as I could bear it, first so I could get down some blogging, and then for the same reasons listed above. It wasn't raining as hard, though, and eventually I reached the point where I decided to just walk the rest of the way. Getting off was no picnic either, however. I could already guess that this driver was not going to open the door until we reached the platform, but the other passengers either didn't realize, or didn't care. A man pushed the emergency button, hopped off, and then several other people followed him. The driver didn't want this however, and quickly shut the door, catching an older woman before she made it and separating her from her friend. The woman, short, asked me, tall, to push the green button. I instead listened to the driver explain that she could lose her job if someone got off improperly and was injured. This actually makes perfect sense, for a bus driver to be concerned about her job, but the old lady persisted. Hopping, she managed to hit the button, but she could not exit before the door closed. She tried again. The driver continued to shout at us. Finally, on the third attempt, I decided something had to be done, and I held the door and prevented it from closing so the woman could exit. The driver commented something like "I'm getting irritated by these people."
Car rental went smoothly enough, until the Hertz agent indicated that my car was to be the fancy Mercedes visible through the window. Uh-oh, I thought. Risky. For one, that model had the Mercedes emblem that sticks up from the hood. I've always thought that a stupid idea, because it's just too tempting for hoodlums to rip off. Plus, repair if damage occurred would be more expensive. I asked for a smaller car. Unfortunately, the smaller car was also a Mercedes, but that's all he had, so I had to take it or leave it. I took it, knowing I had the option to exchange it at any Hertz location if it didn't work. At least it did not have the emblem sticking out, and the back looked bigger than that of the Punto, and the seats came down too (not sure if all the way). And it was automatic, easier given the other factors I had to deal with, and it had air conditioning.
Okay, so phase three of my tour began, first store Stratford, and the difficulties of travel by car in a city like London were made instantly manifest. Still hitting the curb to the left and fearing i'd scrape the car. Rain, making visibility difficult. Crazy traffic, certainly not helped by the tube strike. When I finally reached Stratford, I had to pull off the road into a parking area just to ask a pedestrian where the store was. It turned out to be tucked away enough that I might have missed it on a first pass and assumed it was inside the centre. Then I had to circle around looking for parking, and, after missing the ramp to the car park, I just put it in a loading zone and ran to the store, covering my camera from the rain, and slipping and nearly falling, to the surprise/amusement of a group of young woman to saw the slip.
I had been warned that Stratfrd would be busy, and the barista who told me that was not kidding. Three baristas on the bar, so I tried to ask a fourth who the supervisor was. She told me, a bit sternly, or perhaps seriously, to hang on while she gave another customer a spoon. When she returned she answered that she was now the supervisor, which was too bad, for me, because given her tone I did not want to request a sample. But, as typically happens, now that I had already asked about the supervisor, she wanted to know why, and I had to beg off the question.
I attempted to order a short coffee in a sample cup, and to try to prevent the misunderstandings that typically ensue, I took one of the sample cups that were within reach and gave it to the barista as I ordered a short. A different barista noticed and said "you want just a taste--we're not going to charge you for that", and she took the cup and poured in not even half the cup. Not wanting to get into the whole explanation thing while my car was in the loading zone, I pulled out a 2-pound coin and said "just go ahead and ring me up for a short." This prompted the barista to toss my cup and reach for a tall cup. I said "no, no", grabbed another sample cup, put it on the counter, and said "in here." Meanwhile, the customer behind me couldn't help but chuckle. Finally the other barista took the cup, filled it, still said she wasn't going to charge me, and that was that. Whew.
Not many Starbucks in East London, and I don't think I'd ever had occasion to head out there. Very different vibe from central London. Much more international, it seemed.
East Ham, store on the pedestrian walk, but I was able to find a totally illegal spot close enough that I was able to run in and out of the store very quickly.
Traffic crazy to Romford, where I discovered another missed store, formerly in the Sainsbury's. By then, though, I had missed so many London stores that I was getting used to it. Still, I was going to end the day at just 5 stores, if I made it to Brentwood on time--pathetic.
Meanwhile, I had driven just 15 miles, and although the car had been running for the better part of 3 hours, I was surprised, and disturbed to see the fuel gage at 3/4. It was supposed to be full when I started, and no way does this car get just 60 miles to the tank. That would be crazy.
Barely made it to Brentwood by 6:00, when most of these suburban stores close.
Back in Ireland, I had not wanted to buy a pillow or even a better blanket because I only planned to have the car for two nights (turned out to be three). But now that I was planning to live out of the car for as long as a month, it made sense to make myself as comfortable as possible. Stopped a the Tesco Extra and picked up not just a pillow but also a duvet. Not sure what a duvet is actually, but I used it like a blanket. I hope I don't offend any Emily Post types out there who might feel it's improper to do such a thing. Anyway, I also looked around for some pajamas, so I could keep my jeans and t-shirts less gamy, and I found a discounted set set. Total charge, 13.35 pounds, well worth it given how long I planned to stay in the car.
Didn't expect to Wanstead to be open when I arrived... and it wasn't. Those weren't customers exiting the store, but the baristas, cleaning up, which mean the store had probably closed at 7:00. I could have made it, I guess, if I had left Brentwood immediately, but the shopping was important. Anyway, I tried to call some PR agency yet again about some opportunity they had in mind, but again they were not answering.
Hadn't been sure where I'd camp out, but Wanstead turned out to be pretty good. Somerfields for a soda, a Chinese place for chicken fried rice and soup (wanted to avoid being hungry while trying to get used to sleeping in the car again), and a quite place to park next to some bushes not far from the Starbucks. No surprise here, that the Mercedes was considerably more comfortable than the Fiat Punto, and while I didn't sleep great, I slept well enough.
7:39, welts still fading, but not as much as I would have hoped.
Hey!!! As I left the hostel I spotted a young German woman, a friend of one of Germans staying in my room, wearing a Starbucks t-shirt!!! It wasn't a style of shirt that I liked, white with the a big Starbucks logo centred on the front. But still, it was rare to see a Starbucks shirt worn by someone who was not a barista (although she might have been--I didn't ask). Reminds me that I forgot to mention...
I had been thinking during the evening, and all morning, about what I was going to do about the strike and moving up my car rental. I was putting off dealing with that until later, but as I walked into the tube station the loudspeaker reminded patrons that major disruptions were expected. I stopped in mid-stride and decided that I'd better deal with that immediately, lest I be end up having to kill time. I walked out of the station and over to the Shepherd's Bush Starbucks, a minute away, and I set about trying to find the best rate, avoiding EZ Car and Europcar because of what the reviews I had read. Took a while to figure out how to get Travelocity to give me a Hertz location outside the airport.
So the previous week the German journalist had asked me if I ever got lonely, and later that night at the hostel I experienced some loneliness. Well, during the massage on Monday, while we chatted about my starbucking, the massage therapist happened to ask if I ever got lonely. Interesting coincidence. Far as I could remember, no massage therapist had ever asked that. So what happens? Early on Tuesday, after I left the hostel, I started feeling lonely. I've usually said that if I'm focused on a task, such as reaching my next destination, I don't feel loneliness. In this case, I was focused on making a car reservation, but I could definitely feel the loneliness growing. To make matters worse, by coincidence one of the stories on the NPR "Most Emailed Stories" podcast was about "Sex Without Intimacy", and though I was only half-listening, it seemed to imply that some young people were finding companionship at the drop of a hat, which didn't make me feel anybetter in my lonely state.
Over the course of the next few hours the feeling of loneliness increased to the point where it seemed suffocating. My breathing actually felt strained, like there was a weight pressing down on me. Very uncomfortable, but fortunately rare for me. I was confident the feeling would pass if I could just ignore it. Still, I was not enjoying my journey as much as during earlier parts of my trip. No sense of ease, no sense of freedom, no sense of excitement. I did wonder, though, whether the overcast skies of the last few days had anything to do with it, and whether what I was interpreting as loneliness including a bit of weather-induced depression.
At the O2 Centre, where I had to pass through security (because it is a concert/sports venue as well as shopping centre), I met not only the district manager but also the regional director, both of whom seemed genuinely excited to meet me. As usual, the topic of whether I had met Howard Schultz came up, and the regional director could not seem to believe that he would not be interested in meeting me. I kept telling her that Seattle had known of my story for years, and that if Howard were interested in meeting me, he would certainly have contacted me by now.
Dude, what is wrong with me. Arrived at Woolwich, went to plug in my laptop, and... no plug adapter! Must have left it at the London City Airport DLR store. That's probably how I lost the original one within days of arriving in Ireland. How do I manage that over and over??? Cost me quite a bit of time, at least 30 minutes, and with the clock ticking down to the tube strike, those 30 minutes were costly.
So costly, in fact, that by the time I reached Bexleyheath I was not sure that I could make it to any more stores, even though I still had just over two hours before 7:00 PM. Actually, I was sure I could make it to Stratford, and probably East Ham and Stratford, but then I would have to get back from Stratford. When I boarded the train back into the city from Bexleyheath, I asked a passenger what would happen at 7:00 PM, and he seemed pretty certain that the trains running at that time would finish their runs. As long as I was on by 7:00 I was okay... that's what he said at least.
Oh, where did my brain go. I used to be smart. Totally overlooked the fact that I could change at Lewisham for Stratford, via DLR, and realized this two stops later. I got off, road the train two stops in the other direction, and boarded the DLR. As I boarded I saw a light-skinned black woman holding a book, or maybe talking on the phone. I fiddled with my iPod a minute, and when I looked up again, the woman was now a well-tanned white. So not only have I lost IQ points, but my senses are failing me too.
Anyway, the train moved really slow, though, and seemed to stop longer than necessary. At 6:18, while stopped at Huron Quays, I made the assessment that even if I could make it to Stratford in time to catch the Central Line back to Shepherd's Bush, it was unlikely I'd be able to visit the Starbucks without missing the train. I called it a day and hopped off the train to get get on the Jubilee Line. Based on this shot on the escalator down to the platform, I think I made the right call.
Significant welt reduction.
It was around 6:51, 6:52 when we reached Bond Street, just 8 minutes 'til strike time. I rushed to the Central Line platforms, quite a good distance away actually, but I probably just missed a train, as the next two were 9 and 18 minutes away. Delays were announced, however, and those 9 minutes dragged on and on. When I arrived, there weren't that many people on the platform, so I sat down next to a wall to wait. As time passed, however, the platform filled up, and it occurred to me too late that I needed to be towards the front. Accordingly, I missed the first train, which was packed as if we were in Tokyo or India.
Next train arrived just a minute or two later, though, and it was by far the better train. Why? Because it contained two young (late teens, early 20s) women, one blonde, one brunette, who proceeded to make out on and off during the entire train ride. Most of the other passengers appeared, or pretended, not to notice, but two young men (early 20s) standing next to them seemed to find the scene jolly amusing. In fact, after a few stations, as the train emptied, it occurred to one of them to ask if he took shoot phone video of the pair, and after a bit of pondering (they were drunk, so I doubt there was much actual mental activity there), they consented. The video is probably on YouTube as I write this.
Perhaps the shenanigans on the train put me in a wild mood, because when I got the Chinese place in front of the hostel, I changed my order from the Malaysian style fried rice to the curry chicken even though it was labeled as spicy. I don't really do spicy, but I figured I might as well take my chances. What's the worst that could happen, right?
Took my dinner to the chill-out room, so I could around people, but even the presence of a few people didn't help, and now that the task of making it back to the hostel was over, the feeling of loneliness returned.
Shortly after I got into bed, a pair of young women, Irish, walked into the room, very excited. They had come from a Kate Perry concert and by chance managed to get themselves on the guest list for the next eve and needed to figure out how to change there flights. The black-haired one, Rachel, was very attractive and gregarious, and when she came back from the computer a while later I decided that if I was going to initiate any kind of hostel intimacy, it had to be then, and while she was looking at her concert photos I prepped her for an odd question and asked if she would rub my back. She did not recoil in horror, but instead she said she was really knackered and said she'd do it in the morning. I suspected she was just brushing me off, but at least it was better than recoiling in horror.
3:00 AM, all hell broke loose. It kind of started earlier, when I had returned to the room to find Rachel looking at her photos. There was somebody in the bunk above mine who had not been there when I walked out to use the restroom, and I asked Rachel about this. She said something I couldn't quite understand about the person's not being able to sleep in the same room as his friend. I suspected it had something to do with the bra on the knob of a door down the hall--a sign his friend wanted privacy, perhaps, but the upshot was she let him into our room. Something in the back of my mind said that was a bad idea, but I didn't think to say anything at the time.
So 3:00 AM comes around, and we hear the door open, and there stands a staff member and three people wanting to check into the room. But there are only two free beds. I go to the restroom, and the staff member asks me about the missing bed, and I explain what I know. Takes me a while to kiwi, and when I return things have gotten more complicated. Apparently Rachel had slept one bed the previous night, but then switched to another bed. The staff members were apparently sticklers about providing clean linens (bedbug concern, perhaps), and they had to go and get linens for one, two, maybe three beds. While they were gone, the old man, who I had actually been wondering about, how he would deal with this, finally piped up and suggested to one of the new dormmates that he just take the other bed, that it was 3:00 in the morning, and then some expletives. The young man didn't quite know what to say, stammered a bit, and then Rachel said we would all be quiet, and the old man quieted down.
When the staff member returned with the lines, though, the old man started to lay into her, getting more belligerent with each passing moment. He was complaining about being woken up at 3:00 AM, and he had a point, but he was completely out of line (as crazy old men are wont to be) both in his tone and in his decision to take the issue up at 3:00 AM, loudly, thus disturbing everybody else even more than the bed change was. The staff member tried to be conciliatory at first and calm him down, but a few moments later she commented about how he was disturbing everyone, and this set him off even more. Seemed like this could escalate, but finally the old man let out a couple of expletives, "fuck it" or some such, and said he would deal with it in the morning.
The scene might have ended, but then the young woman who was trying to check in told her boyfriend, Chris, that she did not feel comfortable staying in the room, that she was scared to death, and that she would rather sleep in taxi, on the street (in London, bad idea I think), whereever. She backed out of the room and started to cry, and the other staff member, the cute petite Aussie Emma, began to comfort her. After a bit the old man overheard something Emma said to the girl, something about not sleeping on the street, and this set him off into another line of questioning, and he and the other staff member started arguing again. This time her tone was less conciliatory, and it looked like the situation would escalate again, but the old man let it go.
Finally the beds were all changed, the couple left the room, and the third person got into his bed. Thinks quieted down... for about a second.
I was about to settle into lamenting that how my chances of getting that back rub had been pretty much nixed, when the old man started to talk to himself about how he couldn't sleep. Didn't really bother me, but I needed to get the details down anyway so I went down to the chill out room to write. There I found the couple, and I confirmed my suspicion, that the young woman had never stayed in a hostel before. Even better, they were from Kentucky. Probably never thought they'd experience something quite like this.
The two staff members came back down after a while and assured the young woman that the old man wouldn't do anything, and that he'd be checking out in the morning and wouldn't be allowed to check back in. The young woman finally resigned herself to having no other option, and the couple went upstairs.
Oh, it gets better. A few moments later the old man came down to the room, saw me, and started complaining. I humoured him as best I could, with the intention of getting him to shut the fuck up as quickly as possible, and after a while he settled in front of the TV and mumbled to himself.
7:25, time for the daily welt check. Before leaving on my trip, I thought about many ways I'd have to change my daily routine, but never in a million years would I have thought a daily welt-check would become part of it. But on the bright side, the welts do seem to be shrinking, and, as a plus, I found success in filing my toenails down with the emery board. So no cutting myself as I walk--a good thing.
First bagel in nearly three weeks.
Another phantom store, in Moorgate Station. This time both a barista and a customer standing in line seemed pretty sure that there was no store there.
Liverpool Street Stn EC2 (Kiosk) was not a phantom store, but rather renamed. While investigating it, I learned that Fenchurch had closed, but also that there had been a Fenchurch kiosk that opened in 2006 that I never visited. Curses, another one that got away, and another piece of my soul disappeared.
The good news, found 3 Tower Place, E. Building, known as Tower Hill to the baristas, not a phantom store, and with my visit around 2:45 PM, I had complete all of the store in central London that I was aware of.
Earlier, on the way to Liverpool Station, on Wormwood St., I had passed a hair salon called Essensuals, an affiliate of Toni&Guy. I'd been to Toni&Guy once, in Dallas, on Halloween, to dye my hair as part of a costume. It was expensive. Thus was appropriately surprised when I noticed a sign avertising massage at 25 pounds for the half hour. I would have expective the price to be much higher at a hair salon in central London, let alone a Toni&Guy salon. Yet there it was, and I couldn't pass that up.
From Tower Hill I called to confirm that the therapist I'd spoken to, Jenny, was still available around 3:00, and I headed back there. She turned out to be excellent, better than the therapist from Be Health. No extra offers, of course, not at a salon like that, but neither was she as conservative as, say, an equivalent therapist in Alabama. And she was a great conversationalist too and seemed very interested in my Starbucks project. But that, perhaps, let to a bit of a problem, which manifested itself on Tuesday.
Something else interesting was that the masseuse was from... Sweden. Yes, I was, for the first time, as far as I knew, receiving a Swedish massage from an actual Swede. She wasn't blonde, but she was Swedish. This let me to speculate about another possible project I could engage in. A Thai masage in Thailand? How about eating French toast in Paris? Going to a Turkish bath in Istanbul. I don't like English muffins, but perhaps I should eat one while in England. What else? Do the Mexican hat dance in Mexico? Eat a Polish sausage in Warsaw? The list might be endless!
Another mixup, in Canary Wharf, because of a renaming, but it was no biggie as I needed a better photo of that store anyway, plus I had a new location to visit. Plus, one fewer coffee to drink.
View from outside Churchill Place.
Fish & chips. Gotta have fish & chips at least once when in England. Don't really love 'em, but I gotta have 'em.
Hung around Canary Wharf a while reshooting several stores, but what I really should have been doing was googling A Winter's Tale. I knew nothing about the play, and I had thought it would be a good idea to let myself be surprised. Wrong. I was lost. I was so lost, in fact, that when the curtain went down and everyone started clapping, I thought the play was over. Nope. It was just an intermission. But nobody was leaving, and when I went back into the auditorium I had to ask the usher, "there's more???" I thought the bear made for a fitting ending.
After the intermission, I was even more confused, because the setting changed to some place called Bohemia, and the first thing I noticed was Ethan Hawkes character, Autolycus, playing a guitar. Were guitars invented in Shakespeare's time? Then, a group took the stay and posed for... a photograph! Something definitely funny. And later, plastic helium-filled balloons!!! No way that was in Shakespeare's script. Then it occured to me they must have modernized or interpreted elements of the play, but I still couldn't figure out much of what was going on. Especially the dance of the balloon boobs and balloon cocks. That was weird. But even weirder was the laugh of the guy sitting one row ahead of me and to the left--he was very loud and laughed like a a heavyset older high-society woman.
Aw, nuts!!! Signs in the tube station warning of a possible strike Tuesday night. Fortunately I was planning on renting a car anyway Wednesday or Thursday, but even getting to the car could be difficult if there was a strike, and if I did not reserve until Thursday, I might lose an entire day.
Ah, there's the flip side of hostels. While the chance to see scantily clad young nymphettes is great, there is also the chance of seeing fat hairy smelly old men who talk to themselves.
7:39, welt-check, it appeared that the largest welts were not getting any larger. That was the good news. The bad news was that it appeared every tiny dot I'd seen was gradually growing, and I was guessing every bite was going to go through a full cycle of turning into a large welt, which mean I was going to face itching for a goodly long time.
Dreary day, overcast, no motivation to rush out the door, so I waited around for breakfast and to check in again (I'd had to make separate reservations because of the room type logistics).
Took a loooong time to get to Barnes, much longer than I expected. A 20 minute wait for the train to Clapham Junction so I could catch a train that stopped at Barnes. Except the train I took didn't stop at Barnes. I thought I had missed the stop for my blogging, but when I exited at Richmond and asked the attendant, he said the train had not stopped. Over on Platform 2, I looked closely at the electronic sign and say that the next train was not stopped at Barnes. I asked the attendant, and he said I had to wait for the second one, the 10:09. Apparently they don't all stop at Barnes. Who knew?
In Barnes I investigated my next possible mystery store, Kew Retail Park. This time I was able to get the supervisor to call over to the old Kew store, and they said there was no other store in the area.
Keep forgetting to mention that London has been a yoghurt paradise. Besides the Yeo Valley yoghurt that I love, I also discovered Rachel's Organic Yoghurt. From the logo I assume that this brand is manufactured by the same company that makes Rachel's Exotic Yogurt back in America. I still buy that brand on occasion, but I find it a bit strong. The Rachel's Organic, however, I enjoyed thoroughly. Neither the Rachel's nor the Yeo Valley were available in a single-serving size at the Tesco Express, however, so I decided to try the Tesco brand, strawberries 'n cream flavor. I was amazed by how good it was. As far as I can remember, I've never enjoyed a local store brand from America, but this English store brand was damn good. I'd have to say these Europeans really know their yoghurt!
SCORE!!! Not that I'm really thrilled at yet another London Starbucks to visit mind you, but after wasting time investigating three nonexistent stores, I finally found a real one, a second store in the Hammersmith Broadway. When I saw it, I actually let out a brief trill of excitement. I'm not kidding.
DOUBLE SCORE!!! In the same centre, a crepe stand. Hmmm.... crepes. Winter loves him some crepes.
The bad news--the overall size of some of the welts, especially on my left arm, and also one very large and discolored one on my right. The good news--the welts on my neck had definitely shrunk in size.
Bah. Made it to the Staines High Street store, just pas 5:00, but the Sainsbury's location was already closed. And double-bah--I had forgotten to check my map, and I had traveled outside of Zone 6.
Triple bah, to my honesty this time. Had to buy a ticket to get back into the zone, and before the attendant turned his attention to me I noticed a MasterCard in the card machine. I guess I'm not the only one who keeps leaving his credit cards everywhere. Who knows what I could have bought with that thing, but I turned it in instead. A damn shame. Even though I couldn't buy merchandise, because I had no way to carry it, and I could not make online purchases, because they could be traced back to me, I'm sure I could blow quite a bit at a table dance club without being asked for ID.
Back in Hounslow, while waiting for the 203 to Staines, I finally got my cousin Ivan David on the phone, and we arranged to meet later. When I returned to the hostel I called again, and he told me to meet him at 8:30 at the Burger King outside Picadilly Circus. I arrived with five minutes to spare, but I could not find the Burger King, because it had closed. A Starbucks barista pointed me towards another Burger King, in Leicester Square, and when I found it I set about trying to call Ivan David. Easier said than done, because the pay phone would not take my nickels, and I had to ask several people before I found one who would exchange my nickels, plus a dime, for a twenty pence piece. One of the persons I asked, a young man, gave me a rather stern look as he said no. I expected it was due to the area, a popular destination for tourists, and thus panhandlers and thieves, and I suspect he thought I was trying to scam him.
Ivan David let me to a pub where I had a beer and he two vodka orange juices while we chatted. When I left, I must confess that I felt a bit wobbly. I know I'm revealing to the world that I cannot hold my liquor, and I realize feeling wobbly after just one beer is hardly manly, but in my defense I had scarcely eaten all day, and I think the beer glass was larger than in America, and I wouldn't be surprised if the alcohol content was stronger.
While looking for some egg fried rice, or perhaps when heading back to the tube (can't remember--was too buzzed), I paused to look at a fancy old-style car, maybe a Rolls Royce. Suddenly, the newer car ahead of it backed up... and hit it!!! WTF??? I mean, this qualified as a WTF moment because earlier that day, in front of Ealing Broadway, I had seen another such collision, one car attempting to parallel parking backing into another. In both cases it was clear to me that the collision would have been impossible had the driver simply been looking backwards, as I learned to do when I was 17, the very same day I got my driver license, when I backed up at a light and hit a car, dislodging the bumper of my mother's car. I learned this at 17, and somehow these British drivers couldn't manage it? Again I saw, WTF???
In the earlier indicent, both drivers seemed to determine there was no damage, and they moved on. In this case, I observed a prolonged discussion. I walked across the street to listen it, at which point the discussion seemed to turn into an argument, primarly between victim's car's passenger, a short but excitable Asian man, and the driver of the other car, ethnicity uncertain, accompanied by a woman, who did not seem to think the collision was a big deal. I approached the driver, a meek-looking bespectacled and balding middle-aged man, and I told him I had seen everything and offered my contact information, which he put into his iPod. I left, and the other two were still arguing.
Sunday night's nightmare--that the plastic wrapping on my laptop power adapter had come undone, exposing the wires.
After sleeping in that bed Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday without waking up to any more bites, I thought I was in the clear. Then when I returned around 10:30 I felt the first signs of itching, but just on my right arm--I hoped and hoped they were from mosquitos. It was too late too make other arrangements. And thus, the consequence.
A pleasant encounter at Lambs Conduit--the supervisor Ernesto turned out to be from Colombia, from Cali, the larger city near the town, Palmira, where my father was born. We chatted for a bit, and he gave me the sample, of course, but then he really gave me the hook-up--he alerted me to the existence of a Colombian restaurant at the Elephant & Castle Shopping Centre! Just the night before I'd found two such restaurants googling, but one was in Brixton, and area I'd already covered, and the other was too far northwest of the city center to visit that night.
One of the stores that got away, Cowcross Street 50 Farrington.
As I put my camera away after taking the photo, a man walking down the sidewalk came up to me and asked if I had taken a photograph of him. I said no and said I was photographing the building over there. Then I asked why he was so suspicious. By coincidence, as I'd been walking to the store I had been thinking about privacy issues and how privacy creates problems in society, and I'd been having an internal dialogue explaining my position on privacy to an imaginary interviewer. So there we had this man explaining that he did not like to be photographed, and not without permission, and there I was with my anti-privacy viewpoint fresh on my mind.
The man asked, "Can you show me?" Now I could have easily shown him the photo, but I did not like his tone, and wanted to teach him something about his paranoia. So instead I unbuttoned (buttoned because of the cooler temperature and rain) my shirt to reveal the Starbucks shirt underneath, and I told him to walk over to the Costa Coffee next door and ask the lady if there had been a man asking about the closed Starbucks across the street. Seemed to me that would be ample evidence that my story was true. Perhaps the man decided he had wasted enough of his time, or perhaps the mere fact that I was wearing a Starbucks shirt served to validate my story--either way, he walked off.
Something else that flashed through my mind when the man asked me to show him the photo was that doing so would create a point of vulnerability. At the moment the camera was in my bag, and the bag was behind me. The man, at least 15-20 years my senior, was not my physical equal, and he was not going to be able to get to my bag by force. But if I pulled the camera out and held it in front of him--instant point of vulnerability. I've been accused of lacking compassion, and that might be true, but one of my pet peeves is stories about people who have been harmed who were partly responsible because they created conditions of vulnerability.
While having this dicussion with the man, I had not been worried about arriving on time to meet the photographer who wanted to shoot more more photos for the Neon article. But that was before I walked to the end of the street and discovered that the Farringdon station was closed. Even worse, the attendant who was supposedly there to inform people of the closure could not tell me the status of the next station. He wanted me to walk in the opposite direction to the Central line, which would involve more connections, but I decided to walk to Barbican. Mistake. It was closed, and furthermore a sign indicate all the stations through Aldergate, the one I needed, were closed. Great. I had to end up walking the entire distance, in the light rain, and by the time I reached the Whitechapel store I was 30 minutes late and very wet.
Shortly before reaching the store, I had to take a pedestrian subway under the Aldergate intersection. At one end I passed by a group of four or five homeless packing up their cardboard and blankets. Would have made for an interesting photo, but dangerous, and I'd have to be prepared to run. And in fact, as I passed, one of the men started yelling and cursing about something--not the best time to get all photojournalistic.
The photos took a while, and it was drizzling, but I didn't mind so much. The photographer was an attractive German blonde, and she had brought her attractive Polish friend to hold the umbrella. Though the job was the entire reason, the two attractive women were at least paying attention to me, a rare occurrence, and that was worth something.
After the photos it was nearly 11:00 and getting close to noon, when the Colombian restaurant would open, so I started to make my way down toward Elephant & Castle. I had time to visit that mysterious Bankside store first, but once again station closures frustrated me. I was not able to get off at Southwark, so I had to go to Waterloo instead. But this worked out, the Waterloo store was very close to the Shell Centre, and as I hoped I was able to find a barista there who seemed pretty sure that there was no real Starbucks there. I would rather have gotten confirmation from the support centre, something besides the Excel spreadsheet they sent me, but I guess I was going to have to take this barista's word for it--I couldn't spend any more time asking about this probably-nonexistent store.
By coincidence, the route from the station to the Bankside store took me past the Old Vic Theatre, where Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard was playing with Ethan Hawke in the cast. I had been thinking that seeing a play in London was a worthwhile activity, and the fact of Hawke's being in the cast was a good motivator. But I had for several days been foolishly expecting I could just find the theatre an hour before the performance and get in, and that was, in retrospect, a ridiculous notion. When I walked into the box office and made inquiries, it turned out most of the shows through Wednesday, when I expected to be done with London, were sold out or had only restricted views remaining or were matinee shows (middle of the day doesn't work with my Starbucking schedule). I finally had to settle for The Winter's Tale, a Shakespeare play, on Monday night. Same cast--it was a repertoire company or something like that. I kinda wanted some exposure to Chekhov, as I've already read and seen plenty of Shakespeare in my life, but what the heck--there's worst things than seen a Shakespeare play in London.
Heh. It wasn't until nearly an hour later, when I reached the Bankside 1 store and reached for tube map and pulled out the ticket instead that I made the connection between the title The Winter's Tale and my name.
As I waited for the train to Elephant & Castle, the itching that had persisted throughout the morning seemed more intense. I looked at my left arm and noticed a series of bumps there that I had not seen in the morning. I was also feeling itching on my neck, and the seveity of the itching plus the overall number of bumps I was seeing made me start to worry that this was something worse that bedbug bites. After my post-Beirut illess of the previous summer, I was starting to think I had some time of illness, or a severe allergic reaction to something. But what??
At the Elephant & Castle shopping centre I quickly found a sign for La Bodeguita, but instead of a restaurant what I saw was a cafe kiosk with some seating, and no bathroom. I turned around and located the centre's bathroom, but it was one of those that charged a fee. Moreover, there was a guard at the entrance. Having to pay to use the restroom is bad enough--I feel restrooms should be free. But posting a guard in front of the door--that was an indication that this place must be really ghetto.
I refused to pay, and I just went back to what I thought was the restaurant to order. Turned out it was just a cafe--the actual restaurant was over at the end of the hallway, and they indeed had toilets. In the bathroom I could see bumps on both arms, a large part of my back, my legs, ankles and I could even see the start of bumps on my feet. I had been told that bedbugs leave a line of bites, and this is what I indeed saw on my left thigh, but the bumps on my back and the rest of my body were all spread out. I did not, however, see or feel any bumps on my buttocks or groin, which were of course the only areas of my body to be completely covered throughout the night (thank god I wasn't by myself in the room, in which case I would have slept naked).
I was also feeling flush, with just a slight twinge of a headache, but the fact that I'd only eaten a small tomato all day long could have accounted for that.
I was definitely glad to have found La Bodeguita, and I was enjoying tasting Latin American food for the first time in nearly two weeks, but it was still far from the best Colombian I'd had. The steak was neither particular tasty nor of high quality. Neither were the beans or rice particularly flavorble. And as for the tostones, a key part of the meal, it was okay, but I was only given one (with that particular order). On the bright side, I was able to finish the meal. It was the first large meal I'd had since the spaghetti in Belfast, and really since I left Houston, and I feared by stomach would not be able to handle it.
Could not stand to continue starbucking the way I was itching, so I went back to the hostel. I asked to switch rooms, and the attendant was able to find me the one bed that was remaining, but she asked me to wash all my clothes to make sure I did not carry the bugs to the room. I had already been thinking about doing that, and the fact that she said the hostel would provide the washing power and coins made it even better. I may have been covered in bites, but at least I got to do laundry for free!
5:30 PM, I got up to dry the clothes, and the welts (that's what the hostel attendant called the bumps) were larger. Actually, the ones that had been large were huge, and the ones that had been small were large. The only good news is that the faint spots I could see on the back of my hands had not yet grown... much.
At least, I hope, I was not bitten on my face, although since the bites can take up to nine days to appear, hope I'm not jinxing myself by writing this. I'm also hoping that all the bites I was now seeing were delayed reactions from West Two and not any from St. Christopher's. Look at those photos, and you will totally understand why I will prefer to sleep in a car as much as possible when I travel!!!
With my day shot for Starbucking, and not really sleepy after my laundry nap, I went next door to see Coraline, in 3D. Not as great as I had heard, but still enjoyable.
I'd been in hostels on Saturday night's before, but this one seemed to be particularly crazy with the loud talkers, the drunk stumbling girls, and the drunkards throwing up in the hallway and in rooms (thankfully not mine). I tend to sleep pretty easily, even with the itching, and was not that bothered, but my dormmates were getting really irritated.
Earlier, while waiting for my laundry to dry, I had remained in the chill out room. Two others were in the room--Grace, an 18-year-old Australian from my room, and a young man from Romania. We engaged in conversation off and on, and it was clear that Grace found the Romanian more interesting with his talk of wanting to go on a pub crawl than me with my welts and talk of bed bugs. Lacking good looks and charisma, my positive attributes are not surface qualities, and thus I tend to compare less favorable to other males in the room. This feeling manifested itself during the night in the form of a dream centered in the dorm room in which I was hoping for the affections of the young woman in the room (nobody specific) but was beaten out by another male who ended up sharing a bed with the woman. In the dream I reacted rather negatively, with anger, pacing up and down the hall, punching the wall, feeling bitter and such.
5:54, felt like I'd hardly slept at all. No way was I getting up. Maybe I was being a wuss, but I could justify the decision because I felt there was a good chance the Tesco in New Malden would not open 'til 8:00. Also, if I had gotten up then, with my throat dry and the pressure in my forehead, I would absolutely not have done any pushups. An 80 minutes later, when I got up at 7:17, I felt much better and did three sets. Gotta watch it, though--if I push that right arm too hard, I'm going to cause an injury.
I returned to the room from my shower to find that Amy had rolled over such that she the thick blanket only covered her partyway, and I could see that, unlike the night before when she had worn pajamas, this time she was sleeping in a tiny midriff baring top... and panties. Oh, Amy, you sultry temptress, why must you tease me so!!! Thank heavens she was still half-covered, or I might have been driven mad with desire. Or at least tempted to take out my camera.
As the train approached Clapham Junction, the young woman sitting across from me readied a cigarette. I was reminded that I had not noticed as much smoking in London as on previous trips, or as on the previous year's trip to continental Europe.
Dang. Wrong train, not going to New Malden. Bah.
Got off at Tolford and took the bus to New Malden, having to ask the driver where to get off, and then having to wander around the "subway" trying to figure out where the Tesco was. This is not a subway as Americans think of the word. This is an undeground passage so that pedestrians can get across the large intersection, and unfortunately from that elevation I could not actually see the Tesco sign. At the store, the very pleasant manager, from the Middle East, alerted me to the fact that Egypt has nearly 50 stores now!!! HOLY CROW!!! And he acknowledged that address for the stores in the Middle East are very bad. I really want to get to Egypt, but making my way to all the stores is going to be quite a challenge.
Dude.
So basically, I have no idea which plan is going to be more effective. After several days of riding the tube, trains, and buses, and looking at how the train lines seemed to cover all the towns southeast of London that I need to visit, I started thinking that I'd be better off doing those via public transport, not car. For one, sleeping in the Fiat Punto had been such a miserable experience that the thought of extending the days that I had a bed and shower available seemed very appealing. But I did yet have a handle on what the cost differential would be, or how much slower it might be. I wasn't even sure that I could determine all the factors that would work into those calculations.
From my rail map, Epsom appeared to be outside Zone 6, and I wondered if I should wait until I bought the Zones 1-9 TravelCard. But an older, black-clad, man sharing my table (or vice-versa) in Cheam pointed out that since I was getting on the bus in Cheap, within Zone 6, I would not have to pay. He seemed to think that I would not have to pay to get back, either, and I decided to see if he was right. Couldn't be more than a few pounds either way, and if it was, I could always walk back into the right zone.
The manager in Epsom had not only heard of my story in The Times, but he guessed at who I was as soon as I spoke to him. Funny thing is, I had already visited over 70 stores in the UK/Ireland, and very few of the baristas had heard of me from The Times. I actually found that rather curious.
And just minutes after I wrote the above paragraph and finished a chat with the manager, a lady came around the corner and asked if I was the gentleman traveling around the world. The kicker--she recognized my voice from the BBC radio interview. That was a first for me, being recognized by voice.
It got even better--the manager was so keen on my story he drove me to Ashley Centre and saved me the extra time it would have taken to go by bus. There, at Ashley Centre, they had also displayed the Times article about me on the bulletin board, until somebody took it. The district manager happened to be there, the first I had met in the 73 stores I'd visit this trip. Between her and both managers I got some good advice about visiting my next few stores... but they missed one critical piece of information. When I reached the train station I learned that Epsom is not only outside Zone 6, but it is also outside the zone system. I had been assuming that Zones 7-9 would cover a larger concentric area outside the M25, even going as far as Brighton, but that was wrong. If I could not get there on a TravelCard, the cumulative cost of train tickets was certainly going to make the car more economical.
Wanting to hear some answers for myself, rather than reading them on a website, I traveled to Paddington and walked to the Hertz location on Edgware Road (since I had a TravelCard, it was cheaper to do that than to call). Found out mostly what I needed to know and then set off to try and visit a few more stores. Finishing the day at just four would be pretty bad. Stopped at the Starbucks near Marble Arch to check my e-mail, plugged in the laptop, and after a minute noticed it was not charging. I quickly tried another outlet. Same thing. I took a look at the plug adapter and noticed something, a message that read "FOR TEMPORARY USE ONLY". WTF??? Why would someone manufacture an adapter that doesn't last??? Bastards.
Everything was on hold until I restored power to my laptop. Without my laptop, my project comes to a screeching halt. I walked up the road to see if I could find some place that sold adapters. I passed a moble phone shop and saw an outlet on the wall. The attendants were all busy, so I just plugged in--nothing. I knew already they would not sell adapters, but when I got an attendant's attention I asked anyway, and she pointed me towards a Maplin down the road. On the way I passed an electronics store and found what I needed. I tested it right there and then--taking no chances. Then, when I passed that same Starbucks again, I went back in to use the restroom, tested the plug again, and it didn't work. AARRGHH. This was taking too much time. I headed back towards the electronic store to run another test, on the hypothesis that it was the outlet at Starbucks that was bad, and before I reached it I passed another phone store where the attendant let me run my test. It worked. Thank god.
Finally I was on my way to my next ordeal, the Shell Centre. The store was not on the spreadsheet I got from the support centre, which meant it was probably nonexistent, or fake, but given its proximity to another new store, I felt compelled to investigate. The building appeared to be closed, but a security guard outside said there was indeed a Starbucks, that opened at 7:30 AM the next day. On a Saturday? In the Shell Centre? Doubtful, but I would need to ask at another store. I decided to ask at the nearby Hayward Gallery store... except that store was no longer day. It had been replaced by a trendy bar. While there I felt compelled to try and obtain a closing date, at least the month, and I wasted precious time asking both the gallery attendant and the bartenders. All I got was a year, 2007.
All this time I wasted proved costly, because when I finally found the next store, in the vicinity of Bankside, it had closed 20 minutes earlier. I wasn't even sure if this was the store I was looking for, mind you. It didn't look familiar, but there seemed to be no connection between it's name on the website, The Gallery - Bankside 1 (Unit R1), and it's location, the Blue Fin Building. The guard was of no help with information, nor were the staff of a nearby restaurant. So I moved on, hoping that these delays wouldn't cost me a chance at a the final store in that area on Borough High Street. Thankfully it was still open, or I would have blown up the world.
Meanwhile, after nearly two weeks without any kind of sexual release, I was finally starting to manifest a discomfort that women, Jews, and males whose parents were foolishly cruel, will not understand. I won't go into the graphic details, but I'll say that for a male with an unusually strong libido, two weeks is a long time to go without any release, and after a certain point the hormone levels are such that anything sight or thought that is slightly sexy triggers arousal, and this in turn makes the simple act of walking uncomfortable. While it was common for me to be so busy on overseas trips that I had no opportunity for a suitable release of this tension, I was looking at my longest trip away from home ever, and six more weeks of sheer discomfort. Oy!
Exited the Tube at Tottenham Court Road and walked down Oxford Street in search of grubbins. Lucked out yet again with some pretty good egg fried rice from a place called Inn Noodle, and as I sat down on a step and ate it occurred to me that I had gone 4 out of 5 days with hardly any meat consumption. I was raised a lifelong meat eater, and I had to wonder what the effect of this sudden and dramatic drop in meat consumption would have. I suspected this contributed to the fatigue I was feeling much of the time, but I figured my body had to get used to it eventually, right?
While looking for a Coke to go with my meal, I spotted a Tesco down Dean Street and turned left off Oxford. No canned Coke there, so I walked farther down to a convenience store. After I finished my meal, I kept walking south, towards Soho, and I passed a sign advertising massage for 25 pounds. I had already assumed upon leaving the U.S. that I was not going to be able find my regular weekly/biweekly massage both because of logistics and price and exchange rate. I had already checked on Craigs List to see what prices were like, and they tended to be about the same, or slightly higher, than in America, but with the added expense of the exchangee rate. I couldn't justify that, not until I was at least a month into my trip, outside of London (where prices were bound to be higher), and confident that I was still on budget. But 25 pounds, or about $42, was well in line with half-hour rates in America, and I felt I needed the break.
The place, Be Health Chinese Medicine, advertised massage, acupuncture, and herbs. From the look of the office, the place struck me as a legitimate massage spa, not one of those fronts for prostitution like many Asian massage parlors in America. And, in fact, the therapist assigned to me turned out to be excellent, but most certainly not conservative the way her hands flowed liberally. And, as I started to suspect, towards the end, she offered more, but I had to decline. Despite my aforementioned discomfort, what she was offering was not the type of experience I was looking for. For one, I was still hoping for an intimate hostel encounter, unlikely though that might be given my schedule. Still, she really wanted that extra tip, because she tried to entice me for a second time, and I think I had to push her hand away.
Can never resist walking around to see what crazy perversions the British had to over. I, and the other passersby were amused, sure at the sight of barely-clothed males dancing on podiums and countertops at a bar called Village. Actually I don't mean to imply at all that this is a perversion, and in fact I applaud the equality of it. Usually it's women who are objectified in this way--it was refresing to see some balance.
What really shocked me was a place called SNOG. Small, but standing out because of its bright-pink color scheme, the place was filled with half a dozen or so patrons, upscale and trendy looking, sitting down and enjoying cups of pure frozen yogurt!!! With no shame, just out in the open there, for all the world to see. Amazing.
Another other observations, down an smaller street, passing the Hemp Trading shop, the British Sex Shop, the gay magazine shop, the Lebanese restaurant, and the apartments advertising "models" (prostitutes), I spotted the CIty Gates Church with many attendees visible through the plate-glass window, seemingly engaged in discussion.
As I walked, I was of course beckoned by hosts/hostesses to enter the table dance clubs. I knew better. I'd learned that lesson during my first trip to London ten years earlier, and I've avoided any such clubs ever since. I was also twice approached by a man asking me if I wanted a girl. I politely declined. Even if I had been so inclined, it was logistically impossible for me to go anywhere that was not public given the contents of my backpack. I simply had too much to lose if I was robbed. Nor would I leave the bag at the hostel so I could go out and find some fun, because I couldn't be sure that the bag wouldn't be stolen anyway. In fact, two nights later, I learned that some guy had gone on a rampage at the hostel, broken into some lockers, and made off with a couples luggage. Nope, my bag was not going to leave my possession unless it was taken by superior force.
Aw, somebody got cute with the sign on the door of the Starbucks bathroom (SOHO).
Ooh, Avenue Q is playing in Soho. I never got to see it in America, and the thought was tempting.
The Slug & Lettuce--would I really want to eat at a restaurant with that name????
On Wardour Street, two Caribbean restaurants, one trendy-looking, another more down-to-earth. But neither served green plantains, only the ripe ones.
5:50, finally managed to get up really early without feeling like crap. In fact, after eight days traveling I finally felt good enough in the morning to do some pushups. Right before showering is the only time I cash do an exercise when I travel, so that I only get my running shorts sweat and not my regular clothes.
Oh, I spoke too soon! Headed over to catch the train to Clapham Junction and from there to New Malden, but it would not leave 'til 6:49 so I headed over to the Starbucks to wait. Out the blue I started to feel a headache, pressure towards the front of my forehead, like dehydration. I had thus far gone 8 days without any pain medication, except the fake Nyquill and fake cold tablets, but it looked like pain meds might be needed.
Bah. Some station called Five News contacted me yesterday about a news segment, and again this morning. But a couple of hours later, an e-mail reply indicated that they wouldn't be able to cover the story. Don't know what changed, and it doesn't really matter to me whether I do or don't do this or that news interview, but I had tried to accomodate them by visiting some stores in central London to kill time while waiting for a reply, and I could have instead used that time to be well on the way to stores outside Zones 1-2.
That wasn't my only disappointment of the day. Amy had been so friendly, and when I asked (the night before) what she was doing that day, she said she had no plans, that she had already seen the sights and would wander around. So before I left I wrote a note saying that if she wanted to meet for lunch to e-mail me with her mobile number. I hoped she would wake up and e-mail while I was still in central London, but by the time I finished at St. Martins Lane, after 10:00 AM, no e-mail. I didn't really expect to get one. Out of sight is out of mind they say, and that is often the rule with people I meet, especially someone I just barely met. Had I not been Starbucking and gotten up later and spent more time in the hostel, I would have had a greater opportunity to interact, as had happened on previous trips, pre-starbucking. But a goal was a goal, and I wasn't about to deviate from it (unless she e-mailed) in the hopes that she would e-mail--I had to head out of the city.
Meanwhile, let's play Dueling Blogs! Kind of like Dueling Banjos, but different. I finally posted the blog from my big win Scrabble tournament in Austin, and then I added a stat counter to my current travel blog. The Starbucking blog was winning for most of the day, until my post to the Scrabble discussion finally posted, then the Scrabble blog was leading, but now Starbucking is leading again, 206-175, and will probably end up blowing Scrabble out of the water.
HOLY COW!!! I FORGOT ABOUT MY TOENAILS!!! I'm sitting here in Bromley filing down my nails some, and I realized that I hadn't done anything about my toenails. I'm not even sure if the emery board will work on them. If I don't do something, they are going to start cutting into my toes as I walk.
Well, I finally broke down and bought a microphone so I could try Skype and return some of these calls and do some of these interviews. I tested it out by calling up the stores I needed to confirm dates for, as only four trusty souls had responded to my entreats. That was the good news. The bad news? I was able to get through to these stores and thus experience the pain that is trying to deal with Starbucks baristas on the phone. They're getting paid for their time, and yet they can be so incredibly rude if I ask them to do something as simple as try to remember if a store that is generally just a few mile away closed on a Thursday, or was it a Friday, or was it the week before. How hard can it be to keep baristas well-informed of what happens at a nearby Starbucks. If the company franchised, I might understand, but these stores are all company-owned!!! How about an e-mail saying XXX store closed on XXX date? And where in the training manuals does it say that it's okay to talk to a customer on the phone like he had just killed your parents. Seriously, the hate is just dripping off these people's voices. I mean, if you don't want to deal with customers, don't freakin' work for a coffee company. And I've said it before, and I'll say it again--if Starbucks would just stop being so secretive and just publish the goddamn list of closure dates, then customers would have to keep asking "when are you closing?", "when are you closing?", "when are you closing???" Heck, the UK managed to get back to me with closure info, so why does Starbucks U.S. have to be all Dick Cheney???
Meanwhile, all these dudes were walking around England wearing jerseys sporting the words "AIG", in the AIG company logo. Didn't they realize that AIG isn't cool anymore?
If she actually does go to my website and looks at my blog, a shout out to West Wickham and the lovely young barista with the curly hair and the absolutely beautiful skin tone.
The manager of that store was extremely friendly and interested in my project. We had actually met back in Bromley, and he told me to make sure to ask for him when I arrived. Given his level of interest, I was surprised he had heard nothing about my website or the recent articles. During our chat, he asked if I had been to the support center, and learned that it had actually moved. I'd been to Parsons Green, where I met Cliff Burrows, but I had not been to the new one in Chiswick Park. Could be interesting to go and see if I ran into the new managing director, Darcy something or another. On the other hand, I'm sure I was well-enough known by UK partners that if Darcy wanted to meet me, I would get an e-mail. If I did go, I needed to remember to ask about a "secret" Starbucks inside. Doesn't count for the purposes of my project, but it would be need to see it.
Walked to the train station, planning to head to Epsom. Couldn't figure out how to make the train connections, and when I asked the station agent he said I'd be better off taking a bus to West Croydon where I could pick up a train directly to Epsom. But as I approached the bus stop, and as I stat their waiting, I felt really dehydrated, despite the water I was drinking, and I felt a headache, centered on the front of my forehead, increasing in intensity. It was a strange headache. Though getting strong and stronger, it was not debilitating, and I found that I could practically ignore the pain while being keenly aware that it was there.
The ride to West Croydon took a bit, and I took a seat at the back of the bus, off to the side, and put my backpack between my leg and the side of the bus. I was thus able to close my eyes and dip my head, and started to feel a little better. Still, as we reached Croydon I felt far from okay. I looked at the time, about 5:30, and I decided that the Epsom store, in a shopping centre, might just be one of those closing at 6:00 PM. I couldn't bear the thought of heading out there and finding it closed, so I decided to call it a day and just got off at East Croydon were I could take the train back to Victoria.
Oy, they're killing me here! Hoped to get one more store, a newly discovered central London location, categorized as Kensington on the website, in the Sainsbury's on Cromwell Road. Unfortunately, it was the same store I'd visited in 2005, just renamed. Fortunately, the barista working just happened to be the same one that was there when I originally visited (heck of a coincidence), and while she did not remember my face, she remembered that somebody had come buy asking for a sample. So I did a search of my database and found the photo with the old name. Waste of time, but at least I didn't have to drink the coffee.
FINALLY!!! Finally found a can of Coke for less than what I would pay in America (except from a vending machine at a grocery store), 42 pence. Score!
Needed to get back to the hostel to try doing a Seattle interview via Skype, so I didn't have time to hunt around for fried rice and just settled on a burger, from some Halal place near the Gloucester Road station. Not much of a burger guy, but as hungry as I was, that burger taste so good.
Well, I did the interview via Skype, but I can't say it went over well. Part of the reason was that there was actually a guy sleeping in my room at 8:30, and so I went down to the laundry room without realizing the wi-fi signal was weak there.
So is the security guard at the Walden Galleria a moron, or was he just lying to me when he said the store closed on Monday, when the barista said it closed two week's earlier. At least he was polite. Every single barista I spoke to at the two remaining Walden stores were rude.
I think the German reporter jinxed me. One of questions was whether I ever got lonely, and I responded that in general I was not the type of person to get lonely. And so it was that as I sat in the dorm room on Thursday night finishing up some tasks, and as I later lay in bed, I felt an increasing sense of loneliness. I was unquestionably disappointed that I had never received an e-mail from Amy, and this may have contributed to my feelings. I wasn't lusty like the night before mind you. This was a loneliness for a human connection, for an interaction with someone who might seem like she understood me. Oh, well, I'd felt that way before, on occasion, and I was confident that in by morning the feeling would have passed.
7:01, again I wanted to sleep more, but I simply had to shift my schedule up an hour or more to accomodate the London Starbucks' closing times.
Finished my shower, in the unisex bathroom, and when I exited I heard a voice say "excuse me!". It was a very attractive young woman, college age, peeking out from behind the door, a cast appearing to be encasing the arm that held the door open. In what seemed like a French accent, she explained that she had just broken her arm the day before, and that the cast was making it hard for her to wash. She seemed awful embarrassed as she said it, but she asked if I would mind helping her out. Not wanting to seem to eager, I pretended to think about it for a few seconds before replying "okay, I don't see why not." Of course she was not nude, I could see when she opened the door--that would have been too good to be true. Unfortunately, even scrubbing her down in a bra and panties turned out to be to good to be true, because just as she was handing me her washcloth I heard a door slam, and I was rudely awakened by one of the dormmates leaving the room. Motherfucker. In a week and a half I hadn't had any erotic stimulation, except for the ample cleavage sported by these European women in real life and on the magazine covers, the intimate experience with the Xlerator warm air dryer at Heathrow, and the sight of a couple of squirrels humping in the park (they were really going at it, too). Just when I was about to get some action, even if it was just in a dream, this guy has to go and wake me up. Bastard!
Had the closest thing to a proper breakfast for the first time this trip, scrambled eggs and toast from a cafe I passed on the way to Dawes Street. After 7 days of fruit, yogurt, and a pastry for most of the day until dinner, I found the simple meal extremely satisfying.
Passed a store, Ryman, that actually specialized in stationary. Still, I couldn't find a folder to replace mine, which was on the verge of falling apart. I didn't want my papers to get all messed up in the backpack, so I had to buy something. I went with two small black "zip bags". I could put my cash in one and other documents, receipts, in the other.
First store of the morning, Dawes Street, I saw the oatmeal (called porridge, I assume it was the same thing) for the first time. It wasn't called "perfect" porridge, however. I wonder why. I asked why I had not seen it, and I was told it was only at a few stores.
Unfortunately, the supervisor, again an immigrant, while attempting to be friendly the entire time, clearly had a puzzled look on his face as we chatted. He brewed the coffee afresh, and when he came from behind the counter with the sample cup, alas, it was only half full. As I sat and looked at the cup and wondered what to do, I thought, fuck me, man, I'm going to end up spending the cost of a visit to one or more countries in coffee alone if this keeps up. Perhaps the supervisor would fill the cup for me if I asked, or perhaps he would give me a more puzzled look. On the other hand, the other barista was also an immigrant, and her English was poor, and I fully expected it to be a painful process to explain to her that I was trying to pay the price of a short coffee for her to fill the sample cup. Oh, and then a customer walked in, and then there was a rush, and I had to wait. So much for an early start. Not sure what bugged me more, the fact that so many of the immigrants didn't seem to understand what I was doing (as opposed to Americans, Canadias, or native British), or that there had just been two articles published in London newspapers and yet so few baristas seemed to have heard of me. It wasn't about ego or desire for fame, mind you--I just wanted to receive fewer awkward and puzzled.
So what finally ends up happening is that I walk up with my half-full sample cup and Starbucks card in hand. I hand the card to the barista and saw "I would like more coffee." She takes the cup and tosses it into the garbage. I groan. She reaches for a ceramic cup and asks something like "you want it in ceramic?" I reply, "No, I wanted that cup, " pointing to the counter. She realizes she what she had done, and she grabs a new sample cup. After pouring the coffee and double-cupping it, she picks up my card from the counter and realizes she doesn't know how to ring it up. She asks the supervisor. He hems and haws and then decides that they'll charge me for the next one (he doesn't realize the first one was tossed). I say I only want one. He has a bit of blank stare and lets me go back to my seat. Yes, a lot of trouble to go through to save 1 pound 35. That was just the first store of the morning, and I was already thinking, "I have to do this all day?"
Fortunately for my sanity, the rest of the day went much better.
Except allergy-wise. That sucked. I was pretty confident, though, that I was suffering from allergies and not a bug, because the congestion seemed to abate during the night, in the room, and flare up again when I got out and started breathing the air again. Also, the fatigue I'd been feeling seemed to be eased by having had a more proper breakfast.
Finally encountered my first licensed store in England, at the Sutton Train Station. East Croydon Train Station was the same. Good, two fewer locations to visit.
At the older Sutton store I ran into the manager who recognized me from the newspaper article, and he said they had discussed me in some meeting. He suggested I go to Croydon next, instead of Cheam as I was planning. Seemed reasonable to me, so I headed to the train station instead of the bus stop. The manager had said to take the train to Wimbledon and them a tram down to Croydon, but when I asked a station attendant about this he said I should take the train to West Croydon directly. Getting more complicated it was, to move from store to store outside of central London.
In Croydon I learned of a store that had closed just a year earlier. I managed to hold back the tears.
Okay, this is very frustrating. Hundreds of Facebook friends, a couple hundred Twitter followers, and probably over a thousand fans of my site, and I have not gotten more than four people to make calls (or agree to make a call) so I can get exact closing dates for the stores that closed last week. 1-2 minutes is all it would take, and people can't even do that? Worst of all is my ex-girlfriend. I spent thousands of dollars flying her out, putting her up in rooms so we could meet at tournaments and back in the Midwest, and she can't be bothered to take a couple of minutes to make a phone call???
View from the corridor outside the Centrale location.
Ah, but it is most definitely not all awkwardness with the immigrant baristas. At the George Street store in Croydon I met a lovely young Spanish barista who had heard the managers, in a meeting, talking about me, and she seemed very interested in what I was doing. The fact that I switched to Spanish probably didn't hurt either.
The manager back at Sutton had told me I could take a bus from Croydon to Hooley that stopped right in front of the Starbucks. Nobody seemed to be able to know anything about Hooley, however, and I could not figure out which bus to take. I finally decided that I was wasting too much time on this, that it would be quicker to visit that store when I rented the car, as it wasn't far from the M25. So I decided to just head back to the city, and I took the train from East Croydon to Victoria Station, motivated additionally by a really itchy butt. Out by the bus and tram platforms, during the rush, there was no private place that I could scratch--not until I got on the train.
Had my first taste of meat in three days, since Sunday nights lasagna, in the form of some pork in the Malaysian style fried rice from a shi-shi noodle house across from the hostel.
Got back to the hostel early for the first time in five nights, and I went down to the "Chill Room" to work on my site and stuff, in the hopes of meeting people, but nobody was interested in being chatty. Shortly after I finished up and returned to my room, however there was a knock on the door. The car had not worked for her, just as it had not worked for me earlier. Apparently, I had jinxed the hostel with my earlier remarks about how is better than the other two. Anyway, I let Amy the Australian in, and she turned out to be rather friendly.
Amy was attractive--not what one would call "hot" in the conventional sense--certainly not a tight-bodied exotic young coed revealing ample cleavage as was common at the hotels. But she was definitely more interesting to talk to, and as I lay there in the bunk underneath her (she was in the top bunk), I felt a return of the libido and need for human contact that had been suppressed in the previous week by fatigue, hunger, rushing, and the other challenges of starbucking. Earlier in the week, a fan of my site had made a reference to pheromones. I don't know if women give them off, or if they actually work, but if they do, I must have been reacting to Amy's pheromones in a big way. My lust, even my desire for simple contact, like cuddling, grew to dangerous levels. By dangerous I mean the point at which I might say something stupid and end up looking stupid. It's an odd situation, being in a coed hostel dorm, in which two people who had just met were all of a sudden in pajamas (shorts in my case) sleeping in close proximity to one another. Seemed like the situation in which it would be easy to cross some unwritten line and try to initiate some type of intimate encounter with some inappropriate comment, and given the hormones coursing through me, such a comment was just a lapse of willpower away. Fortunately, I only had to contain myself for 30, maybe 60 minutes, before two other dormmates arrived. Once they were in the room, I could let go of the fantasy that Amy would at any moment come down to my bunk, and the fear that I would crash and burn with some type of lame come-on, like "boy, my back is really sore. Do you mind rubbing it?" Nope, don't think that would have worked.
Dehydration throughout the night, not a good sign, and in the morning I felt drained. Did not want to get up, even past 8:00, but I forced myself out of the bed. As I showered, I discovered the extent of the horror. I had more than ten, more than twenty--dozens of bites!!! Intolerable. I had booked for three nights, but no way could I spent one more night in that awful infested bed.
On the bright side, this place was kind of like being in college, in a coed dorm, in the sense that where else would you see young women walking around in bra and panties. Definitely not worth the bug bites, but at least it was something.
Squirrel!!!
Lovely. Installed a new iTunes update last night, and my iPod freaked out when I connected this morning. I wanted to the latest NPR to listen to on my way, so I had to take care of that before leaving, famished and jonesing though I was. Grrr...
As I left the hostel, a young woman, tall, blonde, perhaps from Australia or New Zealand, was on the front steps complaining to two men (staff?) about thes bug bite and how they prevented her from sleeping. At least I got sleep, I thought.
Had to go over to the Chiswick store inside the Sainsbury's (after doing shoppingg) to get directions to the new store in Chiswick Park. When I left the store I saw something truly creepy. The workers taking car of the grounds (and maybe security too) were wearing bright yellow polo shirts with the words "ENJOY-WORK" written on the back. For some reason, I had visions of 1984 or Brave New World, of the type of society where citizens are told what to think. "ARBEIT MACHT FREI" also comes to mind, that is probably too extreme of a comparison, and not really a comparison at all.
It was bound to happen--at the 45th store, I finally encountered a barista who look at me with suspicion and asked for ID. I immediately said that I do not work for Starbucks.
Years earlier I had visited the BBC complex at White City, but only from the outside, to visit the Starbucks. This time around, I was on the inside, at the complex across from the Wood Lane station, for an interview. As I expected, the questions the interviewer asked were a sight more interesting and insightly than most of my radio interviews in America, and even moreso that those on the big networks (ABC, CBS, NBC, FOX).
Much skullduggery inside the Westfield shopping centre. As in any mall with two Starbucks, I had to visit one store, forgo the photograph, then visit the other store, then take a quick photograph of the other store, then go back to the first store and take a good photograph, then go back to the second store and take a better photograph, all the while avoiding the attention of security, trickier here in London because the guards are wearing suits, not uniforms, making them harder to identify.
Wow, I spent much more time than I had expected with the reporter for the German magazine Neon. Part of that time was with the photographer. She managed to get permission to shoot in the store and decided to get artistic by posing several mugs in front of me and then having me make a pyramid out of them, first sitting in a comfy chair, then at a stool, than back on the comfy chair.
Kings Cross St Pancras Station 2, phantom store, listed twice. Waste of time. Bah.
Despite this delay, I was able to get to Lynton House (which I found by googling) and then make it to Brunswick Centre, which I had feared would be closed for the night. It is in an open-air market though, and stays open late. That was the good news. Then things got crazy. From the look the supervisor/manager gave me when she handed me the insufficiently-filled sample cup, I did not want to ask her to fill it. Rather than pay for a short immediately, I decided to try out an idea that I'd been toying with for a while. The shop was busy, and understaffed at the time, so there were plenty of coffee cups and mugs strewn about. If I poured the contents of each cup into mine, I think I could have filled it, but the problem was I couldn't be sure that the cups contained caffeinated coffee, which is what the prophecy demands. The other option was to offer a customer, after confirming he was drinking brewed coffee, 20 pence to top off my cup. Though his mug appeared to contain coffee with milk, I theorized that if he topped off my cup to the brim, I would still consume enough actual coffee to satisfy the needs of the prophecy. I also felt confident that the probability was extremely low that I might catch some disease from any germs that might be contained in the 1/2 (or 1/4) ounce of coffee from his mug. Lower, certainly, than the chance that I would in the near future need the 1 pound 35 that I would otherwise have to pay.
As I expected, the man responded to my request with a stunned gaze, and then proceeded to double-check what it was I wanted. It was clear he couldn't believe what I was asking. I'm sure he thought I was up to something really weird. In fact, he picked up the cup, took a sip, and then looked at me and asked "You want me to pour coffee from this cup into yours?" "Yes," I said. "No, I'm not going to do that," he replied, quietly, but assertively. I said "Okay," and I went over to my backpack to implemented my last-ditch option, paying 1 pound 35 for the rest of the coffee.
Oh, but even this was easier said than done. The barista at the register, an older lady, gave me this strange look when tried to hand her my Starbucks card. All I wanted her to do was take the freaking card and ask me what she could get me, but she couldn't even do that. I had to be proactive and say "I'd like a short coffee." I needed to be meticulous, though, because if I got distracted I would forget to stop her from doing what I knew she would do next, which was to turn around and reach for a short cup. I did not want her to waste a short cup, so I said "Stop. No." (without raising my voice). I forget the exact dialogue that proceeded, but it lasted over 60 seconds, during which time I did have to raise my voice to stop her from reaching for a ceramic mug and then again for the short cup. Keep in mind that my partly-filled sample cup was sitting right in front of her on the counter, and I kept pointing to it and indicating I wanted her to fill it. She finally did it, but the whole process was more frustrating than what I imagine a root canal must be like (never had one).
But it gets better!!! Not sure when it happened. I don't think it was when I was in the restroom, which was just about 30 seconds or less. No, I think she did it right in front of me, while I was busy typing, but the same older barista TOOK MY SAMPLE CUP OF COFFEE!!! I'd had to stand in line twice, suffer an evil look from the supervisor/manager, weird out a stranger, then fight with the elder barista to get her to fill it, and after all that SHE FUCKING TOOK MY COFFEE!!! MY CUP HAD COFFEE IN IT!!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, THERE WAS ANOTHER CUP, A LARGE PLASTIC ONE, AT THE TABLE, CLEARLY EMPTY, AND SHE LEFT THAT ONE, BUT SHE FUCKING TOOK MINE!!!
Okay, so at this point you're probably thinking, "this guy's had waaaaaay too much coffee. " And I probably have. BUT IT WAS STILL FUCKING ANNOYING!!!
So of course it was back in line, again. A new barista, a young male, had replaced the elder one, and when I asked him where the other barista was (so that I wouldn't have to explain the situation to him), the supervisor/manager says with a nasty tone, "She's on break--I can't call her back." I explain that she took my coffee, and she has the nerve to react with irritation and indignation that I am daring to complain about the disappearance of the coffee that I had just fucking paid for!!!
Fucking worst experience of those first 50 stores, I swear.
I still needed to know when the store opened, and when the nearby Lambs Conduit Street store closed for the night, but I didn't want to go back up and ask, because I knew the supervisor/manager was going to give me an even more vicious look, and I was really fucking sick of the looks she was giving me. I was itchy, congested, dizzy from hunger, and I just didn't want to deal with it.
I finally got ready to leave, and the final act of The Tragedy of Brunswick Centre was set into motion. I went to put the used sample cup in my backpack and found... another sample cup!!! Was it the cup from that store??? If so, if I had complained about something that the elder barista never did, well then, well, I'd be a royal asshole, wouldn't it. And I so very much want to not be an asshole and keep the promise that I made to the sensei all those years ago when he pulled me up from the edge of the golden cliff. Thing of it is, I couldn't remember finishing the coffee. No, I had no memory whatsoever of finishing my coffee, let alone putting the cup into my backpack. I'm pretty sure my routine is to leave the cup on the table 'til I'm ready to go, but I can't say for certain I didn't deviate from that routine and then forget given that I'm now an old man with a rapidly deteriorating memory.
The last few times I've visited London, I've tried to give to a busker at least once. I never give to the homeless, but the buskers are actually working, providing something of value, and since they have to have licenses, playing by the rules. This one, because he was playing Snow Patrol, was definitely getting my money!
Stopped back at the awful West Two to check out before heading over to St Christopher’s Shepherds Bush. The receptionist at West Two seemed to understand the complaints of bites, having heard them before, but she was powerless to issue a refund. The owner was only around during the day, and while I would have like to have complained, using the threat of a bad review as leverage to get a refund for that one night, it just wasn't worth my time to head back to that hostel in the middle of the day when I needed to be out Starbucking.
Though also above a bar, my room at St Christopher's Shepherds Bush was much better insulated from the noise than Bestplace had been. Further, the pub closed at 11:00 PM.
7:59, not quite eight hours, but hopefully enough to get thru the day.
Uh-oh. Sniffling stopped, for the moment, but replaced by thicker phlegm and a sore throat. More a sign of sickness than allergies.
After thinking about my route, it occurred to me that while I had the 7-day, 6-zone pass, I needed to visit as many stores as possible outside zones 1 and 2, in case I couldn't finish all the London stores in 7 days. That way, if I needed to buy a new pass, I could just buy a zone 1 & 2 pass, and perhaps just for a single day or two.
Back down to the Clapham Old Town store that had been closed the previous evening. In that part of town, some of the stores are far enough that taking a bus is more effective than walking. The problem is that it takes time to figure out which bus to take, and if I get it wrong, I might end up losing more time than if I had walked. Furthermore, I've always had a problem figuring out my stop after getting on a bus. Asking people, including the bus driver, does always work. In this case, the driver of the #87 bus towards Wandsworth said the Sainsbury's was two more stops. Wrong. Upon getting off, I asked a several pedestrians and was pointed in the wrong direction. I finally got back on the next bus, and I resigned myself to having to have my laptop open and follow the buses route along in my mapping program by looking for the road signs at each intersection. Tedious.
Grrr... neither Barclay nor HSBC would take my U.S. dollars without an account, and I was told that none of the "high street" (primary) banks in London would do so. Had I know that, I would have exchanged more dollars at the Northern Bank in Belfast. The post office rate was, of course, ridiculous, 1.76 instead of the current rate of 1.63. An article on About.com indicated that Eurochange offered the best rate, but there were none nearby--I'd have to return to central London.
Ooh, a topless sunbather, on the grass in Clapham Common. Sadly, she was on her stomach.
Squirrel!!!
Uh-on. Sniffling's back.
Jeez, Louise! Who's a guy gotta fuck around these parts to get a scone? I thought they were typically British, so why didn't the two shops I went into have any? Oh, well, I guess I can get one from Starbucks--probably more expensive, but I can pay with my Starbucks card (running out of pounds).
Spotted a PC World on the way to the Tandem Centre and popped in to see if they had AutoRoute 2007. It wasn't out on the floor, so I had to wait in line just to ask the cashier to get it from the back, and because it was from 2007, I had to wonder if there was a newer version. All it would have taken was 60 seconds of googling to find that out, but I was kept waiting for over 15, maybe 30, minutes, until I finally walked over to a group of employees, about five, just standing there, and asked if I could get some help. But at least now I don't have to keep mentally translating the French from the version I have, and hopefully it has additional date, like shopping centres where Starbucks are located.
Rain. England. Duh.
4:15, drowsy, but can't stop. Have to push as far out of the city as I can before stores close.
Hey, I'm a "star" (the word they use here), at least according to the attractive young brunette who was impressed by my troubleshooting of her wi-fi problem. My brilliant solution? I turned off her CAPS LOCK so the password would work. I took advantage of my newfound stardom to cop a feel, by which I mean I tapped her on the shoulder and wished her luck as I left.
Turning down US phone interviews left and right because I can't take calls easily.
OMG!!! Somebody decided to excert one of the juiciest parts of my blog!!!
Hey, this might actually work. After having to keep biting my nails during my 30-day overseas trip last year, and unsure of whether I could get nail scissors past airport security, I bought some wooden files (they call them emery boards) and brought three. Started working on my nails today, and if I keep doing it every few days, I think I can keep from having to bite them. Cheaper than buying, and then discarding, more nail scissors.
Oh... my... god! These early closures are killing me. How could I possibly conceive that, on a Monday, the Borders and the Bentall Centre stores in Kingston (upon Thames) would close at 6:00 PM!!! If I'd had an inkling, I wouldn't have spent so much time answering e-mails in Raynes Park. My total for the day looked to be stuck at seven, awful, and threatening to keep me in London much longer than I expected.
To add to my frustration, the supervisor/manager seemed irritated/frustrated/impatient by my questions about when the other stores closed. I had one more chance to get another store, Teddington, but I had to wait in line over 5 minutes just to ask her and once again get an impatient response. Well, what was I supposed to do, I asked her? The Starbucks web site doesn't list store hours (used to for the UK, I think, but removed when they changed database formats) or even the phone # for that store. So what am I supposed to do but ask the most logical person to know, a barista working at a nearby store.
Oh, well, so much for keeping my shirt fresh. Had to sprint to catch the 285 bus to Teddington, and when I hopped on and, wisely, asked "Teddington?", I was told it was on the other side. I didn't know what the "other side" was, and when I finally found the bus, it was pulling out. Thankfully, the driver was a human instead of a robot and let me on. Funny, I say that knowing full well that my philosophy is that buses in the future should be driven by robots, because anything that can be done by a robot should be done by a robot so that humans can be free to pursue activites that cannot be programmed (art, science).
Teddington, thankfully, was open when I arrive. I was still frustrated though, and I did not care for the looks at the barista behind the counter was giving me. When I finally went up to the counter to wait my turn (other barista, cute red hair, was chatting with two customers), the blonde one asked me for my order. I'd heard a tone like hers many times before, and it typically indicated that my request for a sample would be met with puzzlement, irritation, or suspicion, even if granted. Given my mood, I really didn't want to face that, so I went to find my remaining drink coupon. Couldn't find it, though, so, after 43 stores, I finally had to pay for a coffee.
When I stopped the barista from filling the ceramic cup and indicated I wanted the short coffee in a sample cup, she responded that I needn't have paid for it. I wanted to tell her that if she had not given me such dour looks and spoken to me with such an unfriendly tone, I would have asked. But I held my tongue.
Oh, come on!!! The UK release date for Up is October!!! That means I have to hope the film is still playing in early August when I return to the U.S.!!!
Grrr... after having several times wasted money on too much food, I wanted something really light, and I'd come to count on Chinese for that. Spotted Magic Wok on the Queensway just down from the Bayswater station, and I was pleased to walk over and find egg fried rice on the menu for just 2.50 pounds. The sign on the window clearly specified "take away"--however, when I walked in and ordered, the hostess told me I could not order egg fried rice to go!!! What the hell??? Fuck you very much for wasting my time.
Thankfully, the Gold Mine next door also had egg fried rice, for just 30 pence more, and they had no problems delivering it to me for take away. The quantity was ample and made for an excellent value. I had to forgo meat, but that's not such a bad thing.
So it begins. The mosquito bite onslaught. It could have happened the first night, at Bestplace, or last night at this hostel, but regardless I spent the afternoon discovering more and more bites. A ridiculous number. Must have been many mosquitoes. Either that, or I was breaking out into hives. I've never had them, so I can't really tell if they look anything like bites. That's one thing that was great about sleeping in the car--a sealed environment, so no bites!
Well, googling hives pulled up lots of photos that look nothing like my bumps, so I guess they must be bites. Worst thing about hostels in the summer, the bites.
Will need to book a hostel for more nights, and I'm looking for one that takes credit. But not this one!!!
Jeez, people complaining of bed bug bites at West Two as well--is that what got me? Definitely gotta find a new place!!!
