The lone ranger adventure, part 2

This is Part 2 of my 'Travel with no plans' trip. You can read the other parts here:

• Part 1: London, the beginning, and finding Brighton
• Part 3: Dublin, Ireland, and learning to live on a bag
• Part 4: Paris, Disneyland, and a return to London
• Part 5: Wrapping up London, and going home

Day Six:

Part because history, part because the countryside, but not at all because I'm interested in schools and universities, I take a day to go visit Cambridge, and a mutual friend graciously offers to hang out with me for the day.

It's easy for a west-coast American to forget that much of the western world has history that dates back further than 100 years (and that Native American history goes significantly further than that), so I'm mildly surprised to see churches, schools, and other buildings that are, at least in part, hundreds of years old. Which means, this place also has hundreds of years of culture and tradition to go with it.

For fun we snack at The Eagle in Cambridge, which is where Watson and Crick supposedly announced to the world their discovery of DNA. I can see how this place is conducive to deep discussions and scientific discoveries. My new friend and I spend a good chunk of time discussing Brexit, race and British history. She asks me about the American election, as nearly everyone does as soon as they learn I'm from the land where democracy becomes an entertainment show for one-and-a-half years. Maybe these topics aren't quite as deep as discovering DNA, but some credit is still due.

That said, I sincerely hope The Eagle served better food back then.

We go do the citywide-pastime that is punting. It's not at all like kicking a football down as many yards as possible because you couldn't complete a pass on a third down. Yes, I still remember my American football (go 'hawks...).

Punting, is this strange activity where one person stands at the back of a four-five meter wooden kayak of sorts, holds a very long pole that fans out at the end, and presses it against the river floor to propel the boat forward. Apparently it's something you have to do here, as well as in Oxford, and apparently it's easy to fall in the river while trying.

A bunch of people offer to sign us up for tours where they'll show off the sites (i.e. the schools) and they do the punting, and you get to try it for a minute or two.

I ask my friend if it's worth it, and if we should just do it ourselves.

"It's really up to you," she defers.

"How hard is it?"

"Well it requires a lot of upper-body strength. I'm not very good at it. You should be okay."

I turn back to the guy trying to sign us up for a tour.

"Oh, you'll actually be doing all of it," my friend jumps back in.

Why not, I say. It's cheaper to do it ourselves anyway.

I believe I have a decent set of skills in this life. Punting, is not exactly one of them. Forget that I look like a total fool. I am a fool. And depending on how you look at it, everyone crashes into me, or I force them to crash into me. I crash into no one.

It takes me way too long to stupidly realize that I actually should treat this long pole kind of like a boat's rudder, which can very easily change the direction of where the boat is going. Suddenly things become a lot easier, and the distance it takes us to travel in thirty minutes, now takes less than ten.

My arms are tired by the end. There's my gym workout replacement.

Thanks Ella, making Dan look like a pro punter since 2016.

We sit down for some tea and scones. Seems like a very British thing to do. Now that we're sitting down, my friend once again spins up a discussion on politics, wanting to get more of my take on Clinton v. Trump. Either that, or she's excited to share her thoughts with someone who might have some chance of swaying other people. In which case, she might have to keep looking.

It's one of those reminders that everyone is paying attention to our election. It matters to them. Unlike most of us in the States, who probably haven't got a clue about the affairs of any other country, or how what we do affects them. I suppose that's the real American privilege, you don't have to really remember that any other country even exists.

Before we head back to the train station for my trip back to London, we go to King's College. Unless you're a student, you're not allowed inside. My friend explains one exception, however: There's a worship service where the choir sings, and because it's supposed to be public, they can't actually deny you entrance. That's our way into the cathedral.

"Local tip," my friend says. I think I catch a bit of a smirk too.

The inside is beautiful. Definitely old and filled with hundreds of years of tradition, tradition that they intend of upholding throughout this service with long, drawn out songs and even a handout that describes the prayers, sermons and songs that they will sing. This sort of makes the two of us uncomfortable, and so we leave. We just wanted to see the inside anyway. We feel like we've somehow gotten away with something.

We head towards the train station and I'm about to say goodbye. But then a bunch of people start shouting out of a pub next to us, and we realize they're showing the Arsenal vs. Chelsea game. She's mildly interested in football. I just want to say I've watched a game in Europe. We head inside to watch.

'Watch,' may be a bit generous, given the actual amount of time we spend inside. But I say it counts. We witness the end of the first half where Arsenal is already up three-to-zero. She corrects me.

"Nobody says 'zero' here. They say 'nil.'"

The game is essentially decided at this point. The final score ends up being three-nil. I decide Arsenal is my Premier League team of choice.

Over the course of my train trip back to London and the subsequent 'tube' ride back on the London Underground, something hits me. It's a strange feeling and I try to walk it off by taking a stroll along the Thames enjoying the evening breeze and the lights off all the buildings in the distance. But this actually reinforces whatever it is I'm feeling.

I start thinking about a lot of the strange quirks I've seen in London. Like the double-decker buses, the painted signs on the streets telling you to 'look left' or 'look right' before crossing, or even the seemingly familiar sizes and font styles of the street signs.

And suddenly, the light pollution of the city around me, I realize, these are all the identical things in Hong Kong. It's obvious in retrospect, but this is where a lot of Hong Kong's little mannerisms come from.

I guess that's what I'm feeling right now: I miss Hong Kong.

Day Seven:

I feel like the romantic sheen of this trip has worn off a little bit. It's exhilarating, to be clear, having no plans and just going from one place to the next as I feel like it. But as I've already mentioned several times, that I keep running into things that think would be better if I had somewhere to share it with.

I'm also already starting to feel some sort of exhaustion. My shoulders are tired, and I feel like something is telling me to slow down.

I think about my upcoming trip to Dublin and Paris, how those are already booked, and that instead of trying to go somewhere else right now, maybe it's worth taking a couple days just to rest. You can only be on the go for so long. I nix Barcelona and Amsterdam, and decide to give myself a day or two in London before heading off again.

It's a Sunday, which sort of escaped me since I haven't really been keeping track of time. On a bit of a whim, I decide to go to church, just to see what it's like out here. I try out some place called Holy Trinity Brompton, which I read about in a magazine back in the States some time ago.

More or less everything is familiar; the songs, the testimonials, the sermon. I strangely don't hate the whole thing, which is new. i just feel oddly neutral. It was a fine use of my time, nothing great, nothing terrible. Just, fine.

They do a promo for something called 'Alpha', which is some course for learning about Christianity. I've heard about it. I make a note to potentially look it up when I get home. But if it's anything like my first time reading Mere Christianity which I'm doing at the moment, I'm not sure if it will be worth it.

On my way home, I stroll through some equivalent of Central Park, and then take the next few hours of the afternoon just to rest.

I think about how I've essentially already planned the rest of my trip. It's very difficult to have a list of places you want to go, as well as take your time in going to all of those places if you're on some sort of time table. You have to optimize for one, which seems to be a rule in this world: Like everything, you choose time or money. Never both.

And I can tell you, it does get costly to randomly decide to go from one place to the next, particularly if you have to leave that same day.

If I do this kind of trip again, and I think I will, I'll be sure to take at least a couple of months to do it. If anyone else does this, I'd recommend at least three.

I see a cousin for dinner. The last time I saw him was almost twenty years ago when he was still living in New York.

I remember that one of the last times I saw him, I actually had just been in London right before. and I'd discovered this soda called Lilt, which was a combination of pineapple and grapefruit and was amazing. So amazing, I asked my dad to buy several cans of it so that we could take it back to the States. I remember that being a strange moment when the security agents opened my backpack at the airport.

In New York, it got to the point where I had one can of Lilt left, and I begrudgingly had decided to go drink it. Except when I opened the refrigerator, it was already gone. I panicked, asked if anyone had seen it.

And it was then that my cousin had confessed that he had it. He thought it was there for anyone to drink.

I was so upset. Sad, really.

When I see my cousin for dinner, I forget to remind him of this story, but it's probably good that I do. His wife cooks for us, and it's honestly great to have a home-cooked meal on the go. He also treats me to a few beers, including a great alcoholic ginger beer and a porter at a local pub.

It may have taken twenty years, but I think trading those for a Lilt was worth it.

Day Eight:

Something told me to slow down. That 'thing' was my body, and now I'm sick. Ugh. My throat is scratchy and I can feel the cloud of weakness creeping over the edges of my existence. There is nothing worse than being sick in a hostel.

I take a note: Like all things, pace is important. Why is everything a marathon and nothing is ever a sprint?

I go find the mystical Lilt of my childhood. They only sell it in a two-liter bottle. I don't want that much soda, but I buy it anyway. I take a sip, and unsurprisingly, just like how my tastes have changed so that I almost never want to drink soda, I don't enjoy this either. I don't even enjoy the nostalgic factor.

I mock myself and pour the rest down the sink.

I sit in the hostel and just people watch for a little bit. I have no idea if my data is statistically sound, but it seems like most travelers go in groups. Very few of them are here on their own. This makes it difficult to just walk up and initiate conversation and make friends.

There's a very boisterous group of Australians. I think about how I originally wanted to go to Australia and New Zealand for my epic adventure trip. I resolve to go next time. There will be a next time.

My roommate back in Seattle messages me and is having trouble opening the mailbox. He sends me a video of him trying. It feels momentarily comforting, seeing my own mailbox.

Google is already saying "you've shown interest in Arsenal."

Day Nine:

I am experiencing feelings.

It's an expression that I picked up from a friend of mine. It's meant to be cheeky, but also an honest recognition of feelings and emotions for what they are—powerful, if temporary, reflections of something going on inside my brain.

It's with this mindset that I wrestle out what exactly is bothering me. It's not just the coughing or me missing Hong Kong. Eventually, I realize that actually, genuinely, of all things, I'm kind of homesick.

For all that's happened, the road is starting to actually feel like home. All the little mundane things you do eventually turn into a routine, and suddenly you wake up and this is what life is like now. This is how you brush your teeth, shave, shower, do laundry. It's the little things that make you feel that this just might be the new normal.

On Tomorrow's books is a flight to Dublin. I wonder if that will be another shock to my system.

I see Michael again for dinner, where we will, once again, go through a myriad of topics like church, studying abroad, gay marriage, grief, failures in dealing with grief, and public speaking on a whim.

He suggests a sushi place. I check a map and immediately know how to get there without actually getting directions. It really does feel like home.

I've been in this country for a week.

to be continued...