It is true that I lack assorted basic social skills. I do not want to chat about the weather. I do not enjoy the banal routines of daily life. But give me an opportunity to go on a month long trip with a writer I’ve only met once over lunch? No problem.
Read deeply harrowing and personal stories to crowds of strangers? Sounds like fun!
The strategy was to travel with as little luggage as possible. This meant that my trip packing consisted of locating a sturdy plastic bag and filling it with black t-shirts and amusing gifts for AEM.
By the time I had trudged through King’s Cross my plastic bag was fraying. Before I made it to Heathrow, the handle had given way completely. I bought some magazines and tried to shuffle everything into a new bag, but that one ripped immediately.
The only thing I really want out of an international flight is an aisle seat. Clutching my possessions, now spilling every which way out of three ripped bags, I found my seat and settled in. Just as the flight was about to take off a man in a fluorescent vest stopped and asked to see my boarding card. He squinted at it and told me that I needed to move to a different seat. Unfortunately, that one was occupied.
The man with the vest sent me to a progression of other seats, all with people already in them, setting off a chain reaction of a dozen disgruntled people arguing with stewards who were also perturbed at the (unexplained) changes.
I decided to take up residence in the coffee service area and observe. I was still standing there, laughing at the chaos, when all the other passengers were sorted and the flight was ready to depart – and there were no vacancies left in the cheap seats.
By staying out of the way (and remaining cheerful) I somehow managed to get promoted to a swanky new seat in first class.
My bags were in tatters as we approached customs, and as I struggled to pull them together I saw the posters. I had completely forgotten that you are not allowed to bring most food to the states. It wasn’t clear if this injunction included my cans of spotted dick and meat paste, but I am a law-abiding citizen and could not face the prospect of a conversation with border patrol on the subject. I turned in at the first restroom and threw most of the food in the garbage.
Relieved of the heavy tins, my stuff was much easier to carry. I figured out the public transit system and arrived at Dan’s house in the evening. Janice asked what I wanted to do the next day; a museum? Some cultural attraction? I felt no shame (I’ve never enjoyed any punk credibility and never will) in saying emphatically: I need to go shopping. They blinked at me in confusion but helpfully provided directions to the stores.
I had only a few hours to acquire the items I would need for the trip and any items that are hard to find in the UK. I rushed from one store to the next, buying a five year supply of dental floss before arriving at my primary destination: the lingerie department of Nordstrom. Some might say that my dependency on this department store chain is unhealthy, but I have done extensive research and can assure you that it is impossible to get the exact items I require anywhere else.
Or at least not in the English stores I have access to, which is baffling; how can a nation have such an obsession with breasts, without a corollary effort to manufacture and distribute undergarments that are attractive and ergonomic?
It doesn’t make much sense that I had to fly to Chicago to buy German underwear, but there you have it.