The lone ranger adventure, part 5

And here we are, the end of my travel with no plans trip. You can read the other parts here:

• Part 1: London, the beginning, and finding Brighton
• Part 2: Cambridge, punting, and London again
• Part 3: Dublin, Ireland, and learning to live on a bag
• Part 4: Paris, Disneyland, and a return to London

Day Sixteen:

As if to help prepare me for a return to my life back in America, Michael and his wife take me to joint called 'The Breakfast Club', appropriately named after the American movie, but serving not quite appropriate enough actual American breakfast.

Michael asks for some tea. They give him a cup that says 'I❤BC' on it. We come up with different things 'BC' could stand for. I go with 'I heart before Christ.'

“You fit right in,” Michael says.

Work items finally start showing up on my phone's to-do list. My first day back at work will be Friday, which will be a day full of catch up and other logistics. You know, fun things.

I think about heading home and I feel the combination of happy and sad. Like all things, sad often comes with the good, and a cost comes with the gift. The one feeling that sticks out is that there's no way I can just go back to my old life. This world is so big, there's so much we don't know and so much to see. And more than anything, there's so much to do. Whether you want to do something cool like influence an entire culture, or something seemingly small but just as meaningful like being a friend to someone who needs one right in front of you, there's just no reason to be bored. To live a mundane life. To not live a little wild.

Some experiences change you. They rip parts of you away and leave behind room to unearth something new. It's both painful, scary and exciting.

This is one of those experiences.

And with that, I decide to do one of the most mundane things possible, just to experience what it's like over in this part of the world: I go get a haircut.

The barber's funny, a real Londoner, born and raised. He asks me if I’d ever be interested in moving to the UK. I say yeah. Although in my mind, I feel like I already have.

He reminds me that everyone here says "cheers" after everything. Even if it's as simple as saying:

"Can you tilt your head down for me?"

"Sure."

"Cheers."

With my new British look (which to be honest, looks exactly like every other haircut I've gotten in my life), I pay a visit to "The Shard" to see a coworker for some drinks.

And for a couple hours, we pay for some incredibly overpriced, not super great cocktails. We're really paying for the view, which is amazing. It's like a three-hundred-sixty view of London and I'm loving it. I'm a total city boy. I love going to the countryside (Ireland.......), but the city is truly where I like to call home.

It's interesting, seeing a coworker while on vacation. Work naturally edges its way into our conversation, and it's funny how easy it is for me to jump right back into that mindset. No wonder the time away from the office is considered so precious. We decide that we need to timebox that conversation, and once our time is up, we switch to other topics: living far away from home, the expat life, changing social norms, Brexit, and maybe where we want to be in a few years' time.

Work comes up again briefly. I tell her to send me a calendar invite for next week to chat more, and to make it early in the day. I know what it's like to work with international offices. Plus, I'll probably be jet lagged anyway.

Day Seventeen:

When I was a senior in college with only a couple months left till graduation, one person gave me some very sage advice: "Soak it in."

So that's what I do with my last full day in London. Soak it in. I don't plan anything other than to just walk around and enjoy what London has to offer.

I start with the Borough Market, which is a cool open-air combination of farmer's markets and food stalls. I've seen quite a few of these on my trip, and they're some of the best parts of living life here. There's so many different things to sample, foods to try that like being a kid in Costco, you can easily get full off of trying a sample of cheese here, some fancy bread there, and even part of a burger.

Speaking of food, I think the common belief is that UK food is, uneventful, to be kind. It's true. But you actually can find some really good food here, very easily. It might just not be from the UK.

Take the Scottish egg, for example. It's a soft-boiled egg, surrounded in a layer of ground up sausage, breaded, and deep-fried. That easily sounds like it should be something that is way, way, way more than the sum of its parts. But it's not. Like, not at all. In fact, it just tastes, exactly as described. Which honestly, makes it underwhelming.

On the other hand, I find a stall that sells paella. I sample one spoonful, and immediately throw down seven pounds to buy a plate of it. Spain, will absolutely have to be on my next Europe trip.

I've eaten way too much by now, and so I take a long walk along the southbank of the Thames. In the span of a couple hours and as many kilometers, I see some sort of commercial being shot, a giant group of Japanese school kids on a trip, and a floating Yoda. He beckons me to step closer and check him out, and then give him my money. Instead, once I'm just out of earshot, I pull out my phone and Google the secrets behind his magic.

Along the way, there's also some musicians busking along the water, and so I stop to just watch, listen and enjoy. They're not as good as the folks in Dublin, but they're not bad.

I stumble across a man who I presume is homeless. I think back to some of those who beg on the streets of Hong Kong, and how my friends told me not to give them money or food because they're probably triad-affiliated and it's a humiliation technique. So I text my London friends and ask if it's cool to buy this guy a sandwich. They give me the thumbs up. I go into a Pret A Manger, (because it's my comfort thing, like I said), and I pick up some chipotle chicken burrito. I haven't had it. I hope it's good. But somehow, I don't think the man cares when I give it to him.

"That's very kind of you, mate." he says.

I think about how I've bought into the idea that changing the world must entail disruptive technology, millions of dollars and a workforce of thousands of people. Maybe changing the world, changing this man's world, is a hell of a lot simpler than that.

As I let my mind wander, work steps into my mind, and momentarily I regret having seen that coworker yesterday. But then I will it away, focus on being in the moment, and start thinking about the future.

I've learned so much on this trip and have so many stories to tell, even stories that I haven't discussed in my own journals.

But one thing sticks out in my mind as I often pull out my phone to jot down notes and thoughts. For once, I feel like I own my phone, and not the other way around. It's mostly because my cellular connection is so poor, but I find myself now never pulling out my phone because I have nothing else to do, because I'm waiting for a bus, because the situation is awkward. 3G—or worse—just doesn't cut it anymore for that.

And so I only use my phone when I absolutely need to. When I want to take a picture. When I need to look up directions. When I want to listen to music. When I want to write down something in my head so I don't forget it.

Never Facebook. Never checking the news. Never because my phone is buzzing for a billion different potential reasons. At least, not until I get back to wherever home base currently is, that hopefully has good wifi, and I can do all my Internet things with a dedicated slot of time.

It really is an incredible feeling, to own my phone.

I make it back to Michael's house and call it a day. We have a nice meal at home over fish and chips, Fentimans and whiskey. Brexit returns to the conversation. So does the future. Those two go hand in hand. Not a bad way to end the night.

Day Eighteen:

I pack my bag (in five minutes), one more time. There's something solemn about it. I've almost enjoyed packing my bag, because it means something new is around the corner. This time, that something new will be, home.

Michael, his wife, and I say our goodbyes. They've been such good hosts that I don't know how to repay them. I leave them my leftover pounds and euros because I don't need them anymore, but also because I don't want to carry it. I hope that's okay.

I make the long trek to the airport. I continue to be amazed at how security doesn't feel any looser, yet seems to run so much more smoothly than it does in the States. I don't understand how this happens. Also, apparently our naked-wall-swiveling security machines have made it abroad. I'm simultaneously comforted and disgusted by this.

“Welcome to British Airways flight 49 with direct service to Seattle,” a woman's voice booms over the intercom.

I make my way to Gate C66, behind two elderly ladies who don't know each other and are arguing about their ages.

"Ah, forties. That was so long ago."

"And how old are you?"

"Seventy-three."

"You don't look a day past fifty."

"Oh you're too kind. You don't need to lie to me like that."

"I'm seventy-one. Don't start with me!"

"No...really?"

I hope they don't see or hear me chuckling. I wonder if this is something to look forward to: laughing and arguing about your age, while hopefully still traveling and standing in boarding queues.

The finality of my trip, as I'm about to get on the plane, isn't lost on me. I'm back at Heathrow, where it all started. It feels like it’s been so long. Eighteen days plus another three or four for Disneyland in Los Angeles, feels like a lifetime ago.

Part of me wonders if Seattle is even the same place. Maybe some apocalypse has happened.

I haven't forgotten that this is also a Vicariously story, and with no hesitation, I'll tell you that this trip has been quite a ride. If this is at all what you want to do, to just travel and see where the winds take you, please go. Please. Go.

I know some of the objections.

If money is the issue, you can work around it. You'll adjust to the cheap hostel life. You don't have to eat at some of the fancier places I ate at. And I made a number of travel decisions which I’ll correct next time to lower costs even more.

If you have kids, Others have proven that this kind of trip is possible with kids. And I also can vouch for the fact, that the best history, culture, and economic lessons have come from being able to see the people and interact with them. I can't imagine a better way for kids to learn about the world either.

If you’re scared, this is the best thing you can do. It's almost crazy, how adjusted I've gotten to the idea of not knowing what's next. Feeling lost, and overcoming that feeling. And just going.

Speaking of going, I let my body sink into my chair for the next nine and a half hours and I review a lot of my journal notes. When I look back on things, I still think my favourite singular moment of this entire trip, was arriving at Brighton. The plans I did have, were upended. I had nowhere to stay. I did no research on Brighton other than one restaurant I wanted to eat at. I didn't even know what time the train departed. I just went.

I remember a slogan I saw there on the buses. Get on. Go somewhere. I like it and decide I’ll start using it around. You may have noticed it already on this site.

I think many of us get lost waiting for something to happen. Sometimes, waiting is the action. It's an active preparation for whatever comes next.

But I think waiting can get confused with inaction, complacency and fear of the unknown, of waiting for something but not knowing exactly what, and so you keep waiting. I think it's important, that for when the bus, train, plane, boat, or whatever metaphor you want—when it comes and stops in front of you, get on. Who knows where you'll go, but you will go somewhere.

And you'll have a story to tell.