AROUND THE WORLD I: BAY TO BRISTOL
Click on the pictures to enlarge.

Finally! The day had come. After a couple of weeks of anticipation, it was time to go enthusiastically back to my childhood stomping grounds - Jolly Olde England! Naturally, being in my 20's and going to Glastonbury, it was acceptable for me to do this with a backpack - a huge, honkin', heavy backpack. With camping gear, sleeping bag, a few days worth of clothes, and good spirits, I strapped myself in for my first overseas journey in over two decades.

Unfortunately, the trip started with a bump. Sure, I checked in at SFO, made it through the overly-elaborate-yet-none-too-effective airport security quickly enough, and even had enough time to buy a copy of the Darwin Awards book, and even got seated well before take-off time. The pilot, however, decided to eschew the schedule for the day, arriving at the airport 20 minutes late, thanks to "traffic." Considering everyone else had made it on time via the same roads that service SFO, this was an absolute load of shite. We took off forty minutes late. As a result, I had exactly 45 seconds to catch my connector to London via JFK. American Airlines, I love you. Bastards.

Fortunately, the transatlantic flight was great. The plane was larger, the service remarkably better, and - wow! The views toward the end of the flight were amazing. As day broke, we were pulling up past the North Atlantic and right over Ireland, which I learned truly deserves its "Emerald Isle" nickname. That place is tremendously green!

After another short stretch of ocean, we were descending over England, and I started to feel a nervous excitement. "I was last in this airspace on the morning of January 23, 1980," I thought to myself. I was grinning from ear to ear, imagining the ways things may have changed. I wondered if things would look the same, if the air would smell the same. As we approached London, the pilot came on the intercom to announce that due to slight delays, we would have to stay in a "low orbit" over the city until we landed. For nearly 10 minutes, we circled over my old home, and I couldn't be happier about the delay. I could see Buckingham Palace, the Thames, London Bridge, and Hyde Park where I used to play. I could hardly believe I waited so long and waited for something as random as winning a radio contest to travel again.

Travel is a joyous thing, especially when it's for leisure. Certainly, it has its share of headaches, and there's one aspect that's heartbreaking: Arriving at your destination and not receiving your luggage. I already documented the horrors of lost luggage in an early journal entry, so I'll spare the details. Let's just say that while I made the 45-second sprint between planes at JFK, my luggage didn't. I was rather devastated. It was 6:30 am and my bag would be coming on the next flight - arriving at noon. However, I was supposed to be on a 9:00 am train to Bristol (about 120 miles away), so there was no chance they could deliver the luggage to my hotel. The £20 food voucher they gave me was of little consolation. American Airlines, I love you even more. Bastards.

There's something to be said for family. You see, I have an uncle in London, and like his town, I haven't seen him in 22 years, either. Well, as I was at the American counter, someone came and tapped me on the shoulder. "Omid?" It was my uncle Javad. I had emailed him the night before saying that if he was around the airport (he runs a limo service), that my flight was coming in at the ungodly hour of 6:30. He showed me that he recognized me by the picture I'd attached to the email - on his phone. Isn't technology wonderful?

Although I was heartbroken about not making it to Bristol as scheduled, I was happy to see my uncle. All the better, he had the morning free! So I was deifinitely in luck. While my luggage was somewhere over the Atlantic, I was whisked around London in a shiny new car, with a few hours to get used to sitting on the wrong damn side of the vehicle. That was cool! After a full English breakfast, several cups of capuccino, and 20 years of catch-up conversation, I finally felt a little less frustrated. A ltitle bit later, I was back at Heathrow, collecting my luggage and hopping on the train to Paddington Station, from whence I would leave for Bristol.

The ride from Paddintgon to the Bristol-Temple Meads station was remarkably smooth and fast. The stretch between London and Reading was peppered with high-tech companies, so it was much like taking the CalTrain up the SF Peninsula corridor, only about 50x more efficient. This was probably the first of many times on this trip that I thought, "Hey, I could live here!" I swear, the fact that you could buy pint cans of beer on the train had no influence on such decision-making processes.

Upon arriving in Bristol, I only had to hike a few blocks to my hotel, the Holiday Inn Bristol. I don't know if it's a European thing to have nicer acommodations or if Holiday Inn is just inconsistent, but unlike other ones I've been to before, this was one nice hotel. Sure, it was no Four Seasons, but throw a little mahogany and marble into a room and I wouldn't know the difference.

When I checked in, the staff was unbelievably polite - a trend I had started to notice at the airport - and were surprisingly clued into my itinerary. When they handed me the envelope containing my Glastonbury pass, they told me, "Enjoy the show - really, you're going to love it!" Did I mention that I could live here? When I got upstairs and opened the ticket, I was excited and at the same time livid. There, signed by one of the members of the band Ash was my Glasto ticket - marked "Backstage VIP & Camping." Here I had full access to one of the biggest festivals on earth, yet thanks to my AA delay, I wouldn't make it there until nightfall. Between getting my gear ready, catching the next train down to Castle Cary, and shuttling into the festival grounds, I might have been there in time to see a couple of bands. I mixed myself a couple of drinks (fortunately, there was a Pepsi machine down the hall) and took a bath, trying to rationalize that a lot of the artists I was missing, I'd already seen recently (i.e. Garbage, Carl Cox, Sasha, John Digweed, Way Out West - most of whom can be seen in past adventures).

Eventually, I got over my predicament and stopped feeling sorry for my ass. After all, I was in freakin' England on someone else's dime, and it was actually a bloody beeeautiful day out. I put on my shorts and sunnies and decided to tour as much of Bristol as I could - on foot. I grabbed a map at the hotel lobby - which I couldn't figure out for squat, thanks to the circular layout of the town - and started hoofing west. I think. As I tooled around, I ran across St. Catherine's, one of a number of bridges in town (it's a port town with a river coming through it from the ocean), and marveled at the enormity of Bristol Cathedral.

After getting lost for a bit, I finally heeded my stupid-tourist-conscience and located a tourist information office, who provided me with a much better map, as well as some advice on where to go. I did as I was told and climbed a hill somehwere around the University of Bristol campus, after which I climbed a very tall, narrow spiral staircase with no windows. I was dizzy after maybe a hundred steps. I could fall backward into oblivion, lean forward and hurl, or just keep my head up and continue climbing.

Auto-pilot took over and I headed for the top of the stairs, disappointed to find a small door that looked locked. The remarkable thing about the tourist attractions here, I noticed, is that they're largely unattended. So you have to figure things out for yourself. Like pushing open a door that looks as though it hasn't been used in years. The tourists who had just made it up the stairs behind me commented, "It doesn't look like we're wanted here, does it?" I pushed. It opened. To a breathtaking panoramic view of the whole vicinity. If I'd already learned anything on this trip, it's that not everything is handed to you, even on an all-expenses paid vacation with a tight itinerary. Sometimes you have to improvise, and you'll experience great, unexpected things.

The breathtaking view at the top of the stairs. Or was it the climb? In San Francisco, they charge $7 for this.

Do you mind - pant - taking - pant - my picture up here? Thanks, mate. -collapse-

"The sexy man in the sunshades" as some cute, giddy and delusional Bristol girls called me. I could live here...

Not everything in Bristol is old and charming. Here's a big shiny thing at "@Bristol," a modern tourist trap complex.

After a brief stop at an internet cafe to brief the people Stateside about developments thus far, I walked around town a bit more. I looked at some record stores, trying to find rave/club flyers. I grabbed a pint of Guinness at one of many pubs along the street. I bought a £4 tall Frapuccino at Starbucks. That's $6, people. And you thought the stuff is overpriced in America... sheesh! Alas, I'm the dumbass for parting with a couple of lagers worth of money for an iced coffee, aren't I? Eventually, I ended up back at the hotel, ready to mix myself another drink or two and figure out what to do. It was about 9pm, I realized. Was my watch off? I gazed out the window and caught a glimpse of the sun, still hanging low in the sky. I didn't realize just how far north on the globe England is.

Hmm... What was I missing at the festival? I turned the radio on and found that BBC was doing a simulcast from Glastonbury. Sure, I wasn't there at the moment, but I could still groove out to some of the tunes while lounging in the bath and having maybe another Jack and Coke. (You can take the boy out of America, but you can't take the America out of the boy!)

I pondered my options. I guess San Francisco's megaclub scene has spoiled me. Among all the signage for clubs that I probably wouldn't be able to find, I didn't see any signs for any of the Bristol DJs that I was familiar with - No Roni Size. No Portishead. No Jody. No Nick Warren. And hence, no Way Out West. Oh wait, the latter were at the damn festival! So I opted to do the most British (and most Omid) thing I could think of. A pub crawl! Fortunately, a hotel bar is probably the only acceptable public place where one can drink alone and not seem like a raging alcoholic, so it was a good place to start. I walked down, looked at the selection on tap, sampled a few tumblers of this and that.. and saw Rolling Rock behind the counter! What the...? Over a couple of Old Latrobe brews, I made conversation with the barkeep, who informed me that hotel bars there don't close until there's no demand left. Excellent! I kept that in mind when I made the conscious decision to get out and go places where I can commune with people on this side of the wood.

Earlier on, on my way back to the hotel, I'd noticed a cool looking pub just up the street that piqued my interest. I decided this would be my first stop of the crawl. Considering I have an affinity for the Bard, the Shakespeare seemed a most fitting place to start. Inside, I made a beeline for the tap and marveled at how cheap the drinks were. Partying in the big city can desensitize a person toward exorbitant drink prices. I had figured that on my budget I could have a few drinks here and there. The unexpected difference in actual price ensured that the night away from the festival was not for naught!

It was only after my first pint of Guinness that the whackiness started. An older woman (much older, not in that American Pie MILF kind of way) approached me at the bar and stated, "You're beautiful!" I wanted to reply, "You're pissed!" but politeness prevailed and I merely expressed that I was flattered. The Yankee accent must've done something for her, as the next utterance was, "Can I kiss you?" Before I could quantify the image of being kissed full on the mouth by a fifty-something drunk in a strange English pub, she gently kissed me on the cheek. I was quite relieved. She then asked if I'd join her and her friends at a table. Immediately, the barkeep signaled to me the international hand-waving sign for "No! No! Don't do it!" I gestured the international nod signal for "Don't worry, I can handle the situation, and if I can't, I'm sure you'll bail me out, right?" and sat down with the oldies.

What can I say? The conversation with the old woman, her drunken pal, and the old homeless man who simply sat and grunted was defintely interesting. The topics ranged from travel to education to American politics - it was definitely entertaining - and they spotted me a few rounds before it came time for me to politely excuse myself. I had to hang with my peers once again. I survived the encounter, returned to the bar, and heard someone say "Happy Birthday." Well now, with a strong buzz going and me in a jovial travel mood, I just had to buy the birthday boy a pint. I guess it's not custom for people to buy complete strangers drinks in Bristol, so people were a bit taken aback, but hey - I was on vacation, dammit! And nobody should be deprived of a birthday pint. After that and a round of tequilas, we all (Ricky, Carol, Jason, and, uhh.. ok, I can't remember) became fast friends.

And then - at just after 11 - it was closing time. What the...? Carol explained to a rather stupefied me that pubs close around 11, but we can continue imbibing at any of a number of night clubs until the wee hours. Time to change this from a pub crawl to one of the club variety. It was time to move along, but not without stopping in front of the King's Head pub for a picture. You see, every other English pub in the States is called the King's Head. Apparently, it's the same in England. Go figure. Along the way, I also saw the sign for a place called the Rummer. Alas, thanks to this 11 o'clock bar time business, it was closed, but I had to take a picture of it to remind myself to go there next time. Yes, there will definitely be a next time. I could live here, you know...

Our first stop was, uhh, I don't remember the name. It was a popular club, as evidenced by the scores of university students going in and out the doors. Someone in our group balked at the £3 cover charge. Mind you, that's $4.50. Considering I'm used to paying $20 for starters in SF or LA, this was a treat - my treat. I don't think I've paid a cover that low after peak time since... I'd rather not say.

This place was definitely hip. The bar stocked plenty of young-person drinks. Trendy stuff. Liike Corona. For about $3 a pop. I don't get it. The beer comes further to England than it does to the US, yet it still costs almost half as much at a club. I could definitely live here. Then again, maybe I couldn't - the bartender looked a bit puzzled when I asked for a lime. At any rate, regardless of the lack of proper Mexican beer protocol, the place was fun. It was a bit like being at the Beach in Vegas, with all the cheese but none of the sleaze. The music was definitely Top 40 fare, which typically isn't my style, but I have to say, there is nothing more fun than singing along to the likes of Eminem, MC Hammer, and Shaggy with a bunch of drunk Brits.

To my boys back home - you should've asked for a few days off to join me.

Some very cheeky advertising hanging over the men's room wall. How Silicon Valley.

Once again, guys, why couldn't you get some time off of work?

Jules takes a moment to not snog Simon

Alas, although we wanted the fun to continue, Carol had to get her friend Jules home, as she was a bit under the influence. We said our goodbyes. They hopped into a cab. All the way to Bath. I sincerely hope taxis are as cheap as beers there. Not to be fazed by our sudden lack of X-chromosomes in the bunch, the remainder of the lads decided the show must go on! So off we were to the so-called "biggest club in Bristol." Once again, I can't remember the name, but it was a good time. Once again, I was reminded of a toned-down Vegas, this time of the MGM Grand's Studio 54, only a little more down to earth and with a variety of tech/house/trance or whatever it was that was distinctly more European. Great stuff to dance to! Sure, I wasn't getting that signature Bristol sound (well, I don't know if there is, but I always think of the same handful of artists) but it was great to be able to open my mind and ears to stuff that as a DJ, I probably would have skipped right over in the record bin.

You don't think I could have a gallery without streaky lighting pictures, did you?

Yes, here I am soaking up culture that's vastly different from my usual San Fran routine.

Proving once again that if it's Friday night, I shall not be in many pictures without a drink in my hand...

My cultural research continued, as I compared notes on the use of bare midriffs in club attire...

Diiscovering that the girl-girl thing apparently has an international allure.

The blokes certainly agree, right? Word.

Oh, and need I remind the guys back home that they really missed out?

Proof that no matter what the geographical location of the club, the hoochies will find my camera.

It was time to leave the club - and for those of you wondering, it was just the boys and I. We had a far bigger need than birdwatching to satisfy. I hadn't eaten since I had breakfast with my uncle in London. It was time for some chips and curry! I'm not quite sure who came up with the concept of pouring Indian curry over chips (that's fries to you and me), but it's the most brilliant marriage of foodstuffs since that whole Reese's "You got your chocolate in my peanut butter!" campaign. It was while buying said chips and curry that some girl approached me (notice how this never happens to me at home), pulled out a baggie and asked, "Would you like to come home with me and share this bag of ganj?" I politely declined. I was incredibly flattered, and at the same time curious as to what on earth they put in the water there. And how lax the cops must be. Earlier in the evening, we saw a suspect of some sort fleeing on foot, with a couple of orange vested cops running after him. They had no guns drawn as we're accustomed to here because, well, they don't have 'em. And then, more recently, we saw some big brouhaha with a fire truck and an ambulance and a handful of bobbies - but not once did they pull the power-trip attitude. Impressive.

After finishing off the fabulous grub, we walked around town a bit more. With most of the clubs letting out, the streets were full of party people wandering around. A couple more times, I was approached. Invited to some gatherings here, a café there. In the end, Ricky brought up the grand idea of going back to his flat - near my hotel - for some four player X-Box. Brilliant! As we walked over and he unlocked the door, I realized we were back at the Shakespeare. I've heard of people living in bars before, but this was too cool. The guy runs the place! We hung out in the bar for a bit, 'til I realized it was 5am and I had a festival to go to in the morning. I excused myself and trudged off a couple of blocks to the hotel and entered the lobby, only to hear rowdiness coming from the bar that I'd left almost 8 hours before. I sat down for another Rolling Rock or two and ended up talking to an Aussie expat... It just so happens that he was from Brisbane, so when I dropped the names of a couple of Queensland buddies, I was shocked to find that he knows Damian (who is now out in Connecticut). I realized the world is rapidly shrinking. Alas, I finally headed back to my room to collapse, in the process forgetting to set the alarm to get up bright and early the next..er.. the same morning. I had missed the first day of the famed Glastonbury Festival, and I'm glad I did. I wasn't sure what to make of Bristol at first, but in the end, I rocked out as much as I would have at any show. Thanks, Bristol! And American Airlines? I love you.

Continue the adventure in Glastonbury