AROUND THE WORLD IV: LONDON
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Over the course of four hours, I attempted to sleep, dancing with unconscious bliss and nervous energy along the way. By 6:00, I dragged myself out of the tent and packed my possessions into my backpack - except for the tent. My wonderful REI NiteLite™ tent was designed for summer - summer in California, not summer in the UK. Rain-soaked and muddy, it weighed approximately 3.2 tons more than it did when I brought it in. I had to dismantle my trusty shelter and put it in the refuse pile nearby - along with my Wellies. It had served me dutifully, protecting me over the years from English rain, California pollen, and Yosemite mosquitoes. Alas poor tent, I knew him well.

As I hiked up the hill toward the exit where the bus would pick me up, I couldn't help but feel a bit bummed. I'd just had the experience of a lifetime, and here I was leaving it. Leaving the cowfield, the crowd, the music, the sights, the sounds, the smells. Leaving without the indigenous art I had so wanted to pick up as a memento of the trip. On my way out, I saw a group dumping into another rubbish pile a large flagpole with a full-size English flag on it. I went shamelessly into scavenger mode. At last! I had my native artform! (It now adorns, after a trip through the washing machine, my bedroom wall, a trophy from the Glastonbury safari that was.)

On the way back to Bristol, I noticed something different. For the first time on the entire trip, people were not going out of their way to be nice to me. When I arrived at the hotel, I realized why. I was a mess! My face was bloated, my hair nappy, and I smelled like the splatmat of your local dive bar - an aromatic blend of beer and whiskey and wine and smoke and farmland mud. Needless to say, a long shower at the hotel was one of the finest sensations I'd felt all week. Another sad moment had passed when I removed all of my wrist gear, marking the end of my Glastonbury adventure. But I was cheered up knowing that in a few hours, I'd be back in my beloved Londontown.

I marveled again at how smooth, fast and efficient the rail system was. Back home, I would catch the CalTrain from Sunnyvale to San Francisco, an hour and fifteen minute trip to go less than 40 miles. The Railtrack system had me rushed the 120 miles between Bristol and London in about two hours. Do I have to reiterate that I could live here? Over the course of the ride, I relaxed, able to read my copy of NME in peace, watching the beautiful, green countryside dotted with sheep, and occasionally giggling to myself about the odd sheep-shagger joke.

Arriving at Paddington Station, I felt rested and ready to take on a bit of London. Moments later, I felt like the poor Peruvian bear abandoned at the namesake station. I gathered my giant backpack and headed for the station's Heathrow Check-in, only to find that the American Airlines counter was the only one closed. It seems that although they advertise to passengers that one can check in for any Heathrow flight at Paddington, the service had actually been closed down since September 11th. Either every other airline that was still operating their counters was foolhardy, or AA is paranoid. Knowing that I'd have to blow £12 and two hours on a return ticket on the Heathrow Express to check in at the actual airport, I pondered suing those bastards for false advertising. In just a few days, I seem to have developed an extreme love-hate relationship with the airlines.

A little lighter on cash and moderately shorter on time, I returned to Paddington to go and explore my old West London neighborhood. After walking a few blocks, I suddenly was overcome with the feeling that I was home again. I no longer needed my map. I knew where all the streets and the stores were. I knew just where I had to go to see the places where I used to live and the routes I used to walk. Over 20 years later, I was instinctively walking around the same streets and passing many of the same storefronts that were my stomping grounds as a kid. Call me a weenie, but my eyes teared up a bit as emotion took over, and I explored my old neighborhood with a combination of joy and melancholy.

I looked for the places that were most etched in my memory. The entrance to Hyde Park that I always used. The Bayswater branch of Barclays Bank, where, while hiding in the back of the car, my dad had thought momentarily that I had been kidnapped. The underground station entrances where I'd take the long, scary escalators down for shopping trips with my aunt on weekends. The Whiteley's on Queensway that my mom would occasionally drag me along to, with the promise that I could have McDonald's if I behaved. Naturally, there were some places that disappeared during my twenty year absence. There was no more Panda Grocer. The patisserie nearby was gone. And since it was a weekday, I couldn't take in the sights and sounds of the Portobello Market.

Going into my old residential neighborhoods was like a time warp. I first stopped by Leinster Gardens, which was only blocks from Paddington. This was the site of the flat we lived in for a while before leaving London, my last home abroad. I noticed that there were many hotels and hostels in the area and made mental note of that for future trips. Further along, around the trendy neighborhood of Notting Hill Gate, I followed the loop that was Linden Gardens and came upon our old house. There it was, unchanged, standing in the neighborhood whose only changes were in the cars parked out front and most likely the people. I wondered if any of the people walking around who were close to my age were the kids that I had played or gone to nursery school with, but didn't bother to ask such a silly question. Who would remember me? The street was quaint, an ideal place to live -Metropolitan enough not to be a suburbia, but not severely congested and littered like a typical big-city area. I noticed a good number of "to let" signs. I could really live here again.

Leinster Gardens. Home to the flat we lived in for our last few months before crossing the pond.

So if I were the stalking type, I could walk over to Madonna and Guy Richie's house from here.

Linden Gardens, my old street. Where I made my first snowman. *sigh*

This was our house. Looks a lot like the other place, doesn't it? This one was way bigger inside.

Finishing up the obligatory shopping trip (it took a massive amount of willpower not to go into the used record store on Bayswater, for I needed a little more money for the rest of the journey), it was time to head back toward Paddington. Although it was a very warm day, the sky decided to open up fiercely at random (as it so often does in England), soaking me through until I could find the emergency poncho I'd put in my daypack. I was now very glad I hadn't used it at Glastonbury.

Feeling the sudden urge to actually eat for the third time in as many days, I skipped the now-standard chips and curry and opted for some Halal joint where I had some of the best chicken shawarma ever. And chips. And Orange bloody Fanta! I boarded the Heathrow Express at Paddington yet again, and rolled back to the airport, fat and happy. I went through security, got a little duty-free souvenir shopping out of the way, and - thank you AA - went through the redundant American Airlines security at their own gate. I suppose they took Intel founder Andy Grove's business book title Only the Paranoid Survive way too seriously. Welcome back to the New America, I guess.