London Calling, pt. 1: Train in Vain

No fun to be around
Walking by myself
No fun to be alone
In love with nobody else
- Iggy and the Stooges, "No Fun"

You know, there's a million fine-looking women in the world, but they don't all bring you lasagna at work. Most of them just cheat on you.
- Silent Bob, "Clerks"

As Bokonon says: "Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God."
- Kurt Vonnegut's "Cat's Cradle"

It wasn't until I ran away from Michelle that I finally saw the Britain I had been promised.

Most of this was on account of British Airways and a ticket bought at the absolute last second in an attempt to not only save my sanity, but to try and keep Michelle safe from me. Never has anyone in my life hurt me so deeply, quickly, and irrevocably as to drive me to strike them. Never. It's not who I am, right?

Right?

I don't know. At this point, I don't know a damn thing except that I am a jet-setting heart-broken boy soldier who's hopping world capitals (How en vogue). All I know is that I hurt. All I know is that someone I loved (that would be Michelle, for those who need a clearly defined subject at all times) somehow not only fell out of love with me in the span of three weeks, but managed to find a little beau on the side almost immediately. All I know is that she had a track record of doing this (I'm strike three). All I know is that while that ad-hoc conglomeration of stone and cobble and obscure monuments and Victorian and Gothic and Tudor and Stuart and Imperial and Neo-Classical architecture did nothing to me, but I still loathe the very fact that there is an island at the same latitude as Minneapolis-St. Paul with the average temperature of the northern American Piedmont (A large part of me wonders if the Blitz wasn't a good idea, after all). All I know is that Laci is the cutest stewardess I have ever seen in my life, and she keeps refilling my tiny champagne glass with this nice concoction called Buck's Fizzy.

All I know is I hate someone; Whether it be the beau, myself, Michelle, or all three is up to you to decide.

I ran away from Michelle early in the morning. Ten AM or so, Greenwich time. Never told her. Never said goodbye in person. Never hurt more in my life for doing it. But I was gone to see my last bit of London before I ran away from the one person who honestly made me want to disappear more than anyone else. I wandered around the Thames for close to four hours. The Tower of London, the Britain at War Experience, the Tower Bridge, the HMS Belfast, the Tate Modern.... I honestly don't remember much. I went there, I saw them, but it wasn't me. It was some automaton leftover from a Romero film shuffling his feet through these landmarks to British culture and imperialism, some shell-shocked victim of an unspeakable act who perceived and travelled to those different things. Not me. That wasn't me, then. I had decided to take a very tactical leave of absence from that animated cadaver by that point, and I was off in the cosmos weeping over one of the most beautiful things mankind had never realized it had lost forever. Or so I thought at the time.

British Airways is the absolute embodiment of everything good about the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, but not so much the Crown Dependencies. That's what they get for being constitutionally vague with their status in relation to UK proper, though. All's fair in metaphor, I say. By the time I was on the blue line heading towards Heathrow's terminal 3, I was haggard. Worn. I don't want to say aged. That kind of powerful effect on someone is reserved for death of a family matriarch, an irreversible change of events in one person's life that is pregnant with its own meaning, maybe waking up and realizing that for the first time in your life you are a complete and total failure by any and every sense the word could possibly have. The Presidency aged Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton and somehow gave Ronald Reagan a coating of teflon since he physically couldn't age any further. This didn't age me so much as it killed a part of me. If you go to London, look for that part of me. It's buried next to Joe Strummer and it's epitaph reads "Passion is a fashion." British Airways did plenty to at least opiate that loss. I got an immediate upgrade to business class, and had the attendants checking me in take a look at me and ask:

"Sir, is everything quite alright?"

Wait. What? Christ. No! Fuck. This lovable, helpful guy could see right through me. Any facade I had put up was gone. Invalidated. Futile. Shit. Was it that obvious? Hell, I guess dragging your heart behind the Tube by piano wire has a certain effect on the way you look.

"No, sir. I'm alright. Just....tired. Very tired, sir. It's been a long week; I'm ready to be home again."
"Ah, yes! Back to the States! Well, we have you on a business class flight to Washington, again. You will be coming in at.....10:40 their time."
"Thank you, sir."
"Have you ever flow into Washington? I hear it's a wonderful town."
"No, I've never been to DC."
"DC?"
"Nevermind..."

I was airborne 4 hours later. In the meantime, I had managed to get completely gassed in a restaurant that luckily had the cheapest prices on beer in the entire fucking island that called itself an empire once-upon-a-time. By the time I had left British airspace and crossed into Irish, I had done the Irish proud and put away half a bottle of champagne on my own, constantly attended to by the beautiful and personable Laci (After my appetizer she asked if I had ever seen Washington, and what I was doing when the plane landed). I downed a wonderful vinaigrette salad with rock shrimp as a appetizer, one so large I accidentally confused it with my entree. Said entree was the most delicious alfredo pasta with salmon fillets I have ever had. Also the first.

If people could lose their virginity like I had my pasta, wars would end.

I flew into Washington, DC, capital of the single greatest nation in the world by virtue of measure of Saleen Mustangs, teeny eensie weensie yellow polka dot bikinis, bourbon, Michael Bay summer blockbusters, heavily-iced classic Coca-Cola, New York City, Chicago hot dogs, miles and miles of virgin forest, Cajun cuisine and culture, art galleries that allow photography, blues, rock, Brooklyn hip-hop, military hardware, big lakes, big buildings, and former whaling taverns that have still been able to stay open on Cape Cod over the years. I disembarked, found my bag (I almost grabbed a serviceman's bag who was returning from Qatar), and made it through customs despite having a BAC level that would have probably put Di's driver to shame. I stumbled into the main terminal, itself a testament to the failure of architects to ever plan for the future when designing buildings, and somehow found a place serving booze throughout the night.

At some point I rode a taxi somewhere. I don't know where, how, why, when, or who was driving. I just know I did. I had been, in the last 8 hours, drunk in two major world capitals, over Eire, in international waters, and the Commonwealth of Virginia. I had been given the lucky break of the most luxurious flight of my life, with some of the best food I had ever had, given to me by one of the cutest women I have ever laid eyes on, with some decent champagne to accompany my torment and meal. "I just know I did." That would prove to turn into the motto for the rest of the month, whether or not I was ready or willing to concede to that factoid of karmic destiny.

Say whatever you want, but flying British Airways goes a long way towards helping a broken heart.

Christ, it was good to be home.