SORRY, MORE POSTS TO COME

I was thinking that I'd have more time in Paris with the wine faire to get out and see Paris once again but I ended up working 60 hours in 6 days and that didn't even include setting up each day and then the ultimate take down mad rush of 586 other vineyards scrambling to get out. It was kind of crazy and I'll fill you all in soon.

WHAT DOES YOUR BACKPACK HOLD?

            I finished fixing up the bike I found in the shed and decided to get some essentials. It felt great to race down the mountain thinking the whole time that if I crash without a helmet my sister will kill me but that didn’t stop me. I was going so fast that it pulled the tears in my eyes all the way back to my ears.  I know I’ll regret the whole thing since it’s easy to go down the mountain, but it’s going to be a bitch to get back home. But as I rocket off the mountain road onto the bike lane that jockeys the highway I didn’t care. I was free and able to go and do what I wanted without anyone having to take me and wait on me.

            I used this time to do some much needed shopping in Issenheim. It’s a little town that rests at the base of the mountain but across vineyards and farms so it’s not like I can coast from my front door there. Luckily I remembered how the mother got there a week ago although I did say a few times to myself, “this doesn’t look familiar.” Shopping at a French market takes just a second to get used to especially once you realize where their priorities lie. For instance, they have a whole side of an aisle dedicated to chocolate. On the other side of that it is cereal, which takes up about as much space as four offensive linemen. Not a whole lot when you think about our stores and how they have a super long aisles filled with every cereal including much of what you would never eat in the first place.

            I only get the essentials since I am riding back up a mountain and don’t need crap slapping back and forth against my handlebars or whatnots. Start the drum roll and…my little backpack easily holds four bars of soap, spaghetti, a bike tube, box of cereal, loaf of bread, cheese, and nine rolls of toilet paper. Put that in you smoke and pipe it!

I'M TALL IN FRANCE

            I was strolling down the mountain and realized I hadn’t checked out the hotel yet so I thought I’d give it a gander. As I made my way to the front door a little old tourist lady stepped out and looked me up from head to toe with her mouth so wide I thought of uncapping the beer bottle I had stuffed in my jacket.

            The following day I went with the father to pick up a refrigerator truck in Colmar and when we entered the renter guy, God only knows what he is in French, looked me up and down and then back again. OK, what is going on? I tried to ask the father what the problem was but he was more concerned about whether I really could legally drive his car back to the estate. “Hell yeah I can!” I replied and we were off. (See previous post)

            I forgot about all of the above until I was having drinks with Apolline that night and I told her what had happened. By the way, I was totally mistaken, she knows way more English than I do French and since she lived in London for a time her English comes with that accent. It’s cute; I’ll admit it, especially since I find the English accent about as attractive as a uni-brow.  She immediately knew what was up and told me that I am really really tall! I had to laugh at all of that since, yes, I’m taller than everyone here but I’m not Shaq, or even his pants for that matter, but here they don’t expect anyone over 5’8” and I’m just a bit over 6. It made me think of earlier in day when a girl was trying to jump and put a wooden box back on top of a locker. I stopped her, took the box, and slid it up on top of the other boxes and went about my way. I heard her mutter sweetly in French “who needs a ladder” in which I simply replied.

            “Je suis la échelle.” (I am the ladder)

            She turned red since she didn’t know I could understand her. It was all making sense, the words mostly; the French girls are still a bit of a mystery but that’s a whole other blog or book or Oprah. Does Oprah still have a show?

GIVE ME THE KEYS! I GOT A TOURIST VISA!

            I drove for the first time from Colmar back to Rouffach. I’ve never driven in a foreign country before and Mexico and Canada don’t count, not in my book anyway.  So not only was it my first time driving in France it was also the first time I drove a stick in six years. Sure I’ve moved cars with a stick but driving is driving and it felt great. I totally want to get rid of my auto when I get back to the states. I forgot how much fun sticks are but I do have to remind myself that in L.A. I wanted to kill myself every other day due to the traffic. My thighs would actually cramp at holding the clutch and such. Any way, I approached my first roundabout, you know, one of those circle type intersections with the roads that tentacle off? I entered and skipped out the other side without any flair and I thought, “Huh, that wasn’t so bad.” It kind of makes sense to never have to stop. I came to the second of about thirty roundabouts and low and behold as soon as I got into the intersection a late 80’s Dodge Caravan careened out of nowhere and nearly side swiped me. First off, who cares about the near accident? What I’m concerned about is the fact that a late 80’s Caravan is still on the road! I don’t even think there are any late 80’s Dodge Caravans left anywhere in the States and here is one in Eastern France driving all willy nilly. I thought they had all either rusted away or just plain blown up. Wouldn’t it be ironic though if it were a Detroit family funster that killed me while driving in France. I think so.

TOUR DE FRANCE

Finding a bike in a shed – Zero dollars

Finding a bike shop – Zero dollars

Items bought to fix said bike – 70 euros

Ability to leave the vineyard on my own and tool around the French country side – Priceless

RIGHT THE WRONGS - TWO WEEKS IN

            Things that have changed.

1)            Prince, the dog, now loves me. We rubbed it out and now the devil’s toss off will do my bidding. Granted I won’t be keeping bacon in my pockets.

2)            Apolline knows way more English than I do French. Imagine.

3)            When they speak, I hear words, not just sounds. It’s a start.

4)            I have internet

5)            I have a new nemesis in the form of a giant peacock.

6)            I have weaned myself from French game shows.

            Things that haven’t changed.

1)            The English are still on my shit list.

2)            I still have no phone.

3)            I don’t have internet…sometimes.

4)            Wine is divine.

5)            Belgium beer is wicked good.

6)            Although I don’t watch the game shows, I miss them.

MY NAME'S LABOR. MANUAL LABOR.

            Like I mentioned before this week the whole vineyard was abuzz with it’s first salon du vin (wine faire) of the season. It’s a hive of activity and I am the only one who stops and that is to pull out my bite sized French dictionary to look up every third.  The good part is that slowly but surely what they say is becoming actual words and not just sounds smushed together in a impossible hodgepodege of oo’s and uh’s and poo’s and puh’s. OK, who giggled when they read poo?

            So I got ready to pitch in and do whatever necessary since my nose is broken, figuratively, I’m sick, which kills the whole drinking and learning wine aspect of this experience. Little did I know they would take my offer and run with it in a way I hadn’t expected because once again I was in the distillers area amongst huge kettles all the while wondering, “what in the hell am I back here for?” Well folks, it was suddenly now my task to strip, polish, and refurbish not only the copper but all the painted surfaces as well. Ah hell, how bad can it be, right? I mean polishing has to be way worse than the painting just like descende du bois has to be harder than bottling. I know I’ve referred to myself as an idiot before and I’ll do it again right here, and probably for the rest of my life for that matter.

            In between paint strokes I was pushing around thousand pound stacks of booze destined for the wine faire. I’m getting a good work out and I’m still sick but I think all the work is helping me. I know I could sit down and watch my French game shows I miss already but what’s the point. I go to Paris next week and by looking at the truck we are taking it can’t be that bad and I doubt they salon du vin from early morn to night so I should be able to get to check out the city I miss so much.

            It takes me three days to finish the alambics (liquor stills) and a fourth for touch ups, which is perfect timing since tonight is the start of the big to-do. I wish I had taken a picture before because the place looks amazing now. I just had no idea how much work I would be doing. It all sounded so simple in the beginning. I guess most things do, eh?

WHAT'S YOUR DEFINITION OF ILLEGAL?

            The reason I ask is because I woke up with the sudden reality that the authorities think I’m in Switzerland, right? I mean that is where I got stamped and that is the door I walked out of and the nice gentleman at the French customs literally took my word, actually he didn’t even take the time to do that, and just waved me through. I wonder if this will cause a dilemma later or will it work in my favor since technically it is illegal for me to stay inside France for longer than ninety days. I wonder what other countries I can sneak into?

SO I FINALLY HAD A BAD DAY

            By the end of Monday my throat has seized up in that “oh my god it hurts to swallow” sort of way. I never get sick. I also never get sick from food but I proved that wrong last week. By the time I left the field, yep, I was back in the field for the day, I was totally exhausted and my throat was not having the cool air anymore. No worries, I’ll drink some OJ, eat a little soup at dinner, have a good meal and go to sleep early for a change. Guess what? I did all the above, including the sleep, and I woke up really well and ready for the day but then as I made the trek down the hill I began to feel it. That achy feeling that is not the “I hit the gym to hard yesterday” achy but that “shit” achy. I try my best to suppress it but by lunch I’m totally beat and since we are getting ready for a big wine fair at the estate we are cleaning anything and everything and we are using cleaning agents and the vapors slice my throat into tender ribbons before I move on to polishing the copper stills. The copper dust is the last straw but I continue mostly because I don’t know how to say, “calling it a day, I’m shit out of it so that means you are too.”

            At the end of the day the mother drops by and gives me three small stalks of what looks like “A Peanut’s Christmas” tree and tells me to make a tea out of it, add a lemon, and a spoonful of honey. I have no idea what it is but I’m sick enough I don’t care and I immediately set the tea into motion. What I found surprising is just how this tiny kitchen already had everything I needed. Something to boil water, check, large glass coffee pot to seep said Christmas tree, check, a large strainer that easily accomadated a coffee filter to catch all the debris, check, one sick ass American ready for relief, double check. It actually tastes quite nice and is rather soothing. I just hope the tiny Christmas trees aren’t a psycho trope and end up in the yard wearing my winter jacket as a diaper screaming in Spanish…since that’s the language I most frequently revert to in times of stress.

BLACK DEVIL

            I had a few moments before lunch was served and my jacket was just too much for the day so I made the trek up to the apartment to drop it off. As I approach I notice the gate is once again closed so I key myself in through the door next to the gate. I get two steps in and I stop as I look at Prince’s cage. If you don’t recall Prince is the 130lb giant Schnauzer that wants to see me dead.  These are the moments that I thank my lucky stars for having the parents I had and for also living in New York. Always be aware of your surroundings and if you have a bad feeling then there is a reason for that said feeling.

            Although I can’t see him in his cage that doesn’t mean he’s not there since he actually lives in an old wine cask. Appropriate don't you think? I stand there, two paces from the door, eyeing and listening for anything and everything until finally, thirty feet away hiding behind a tree is Prince. I can barely make him out but once he realizes that I realize he’s out it's on! I rush back through the gate and although it was a mere two paces he still nearly got me! Jesus mother of holy God! Prince lunges up on the fence with barely a try and his teeth reach the height of my forehead. Tricky little devil I think but this is where the next problem arises. The key, that I have to use to lock the gate that really doesn’t stay shut on it’s own is just inside the gate…still in the lock. It’s an ancient metal key with the old style head and I have to turn it a full rotation but Prince isn’t going anywhere and I’m not sticking my hand in there to turn it.

            So I stand there for about three minutes holding the gate closed and finally something catches Prince’s attention long enough for me to reach through the hole and turn the key. SNAP! The gate is locked and I am now safe and Prince’s blood lust will have to wait another day. Of course as soon as I finally get the lock affixed the father comes racing up in the car apologizing profusely. He had forgotten to tell me that the black heathen of death was out today. No worries, seven days down, eighty-three more of me cheating death.

JENNY CRAIG AIN'T GOT S*!T ON ME

            Before I left Michigan I was laying on the couch watching TV when my sister noticed something she’d never seen before, me, with a belly. I had begun to notice it about two months before but did absolutely nothing about it except tempt it with booze and Mexican food. I was also experiencing another thing I had never experienced before and that was when I would jog up a set of steps or the like I could feel the fat on my front slide up and down. Now I will guarantee you that if you are the typical American and you saw me you’d say I was skinny. I prefer thin since I do have muscle, skinny is when you can see bones, but here I was…heavy. I weighed myself and I was ten pounds heavier than I ever have been and I was heavy into racing and weights not so long ago and muscle is way heavier than fat. (I know that a pound of fat weighs the same as a pound of muscle but you know what I mean)

            You want to lose weight? I mean really lose some weight?! Go to England, get poisoned, then head to France and work like a madly inspired devil dog, taming vines and hand slinging nearly five thousand bottles and then pushing around thousand pound carts of booze. Fast-forward to Thursday night after I get out of the shower and low and behold my five pack is back. I could never get the six-pack but five is just fine. I knew I had lost some weight since I had to wear a belt on Tuesday to keep my jeans up out in the field but this was just plain crazy especially with how much food I have been eating. Now all I need is a long haired dictionary to show it off to.

BOTTLES! BOTTLES EVERYWHERE!

            Today I am promoted to bottler. What that means I have no clue since I’m pretty sure you take racks of bottles, give them to a machine, and then another machine fills them with whatever whatnots you want them filled with. I know…I’ve done the tour. So as I gracefully strut down the winding drive to work bottling I think to myself it’s going to be a beautiful day of ease. I even might be able to work on my tan which is coming along just nicely even with all the rain.

            I round the final bend to see a U-Haul sized machine that is obviously the bottler and I notice at the one end is a narrow two and half foot stretch of conveyer belt and beside it rest two giant stacks of bottles. I get a few more steps on realize it’s more than two, it’s about 15. All right, no big deal, can’t be any more grueling than taming those twig vipers. Once again I am sure they will show me something, give me some training or offer some insight into technique but nope, they say, “Ce botteilles ici,” and point to the cute little conveyer belt. Still can’t be all that bad I think to myself as they literally turn and flip on the machine and I suddenly realize that means I’m on. I begin to feed the machine in a controlled fashion and feel that all is well until Benôit comes up to me and says in French that it is very important there be no gaps which for me means I gotta work a lot faster. Later, as we momentarily shut down for lunch I can only say to myself.

            “I am and idiot.”

            Every muscle in my back and shoulders scream and we have only done a third of what needs to happen today. I figure they will rotate us but nope, I’m on again and jump back on the line the second that lunch is finished. The rest of the day progresses just as before except they eventually move to a taller clear bottled stack which requires me to step up onto a milk container to reach the bottles. Folks, I’m six foot tall and easily the tallest thing here outside of the German machine operator who I still think I have two inches on. Who did this before I got here? Who will do it after I leave? It was grueling and yet fun in the sense that all things are when you know they are not permanent. Besides, I’m beginning to be happy with the person I’m seeing in the mirror with all the labor so why not just keep pressing it while I can especially since I know that in two weeks I’ll be in Paris for six days for a wine fair. Of course now that I type that I can only wonder how heavy the booze will be that I’ll be pushing around. Screw it, I hope it’s a lot, because right now I am starting to be able to see all the muscles in my back and chest and I’m not spending $50 a month and gas money to go to a gym. I wonder what these people would think if I mentioned the gym as we think of it?

            I finish the day and it’s been a long day. Dinner is already being served upstairs and all I want to do is shower and hit the hay but I worked hard so I deserve a meal. I drag myself up to find another wonderful dinner prepared and folks who genuinely want to help me and it turns into a wonderful time where I’ve learned just enough to make even more people laugh. I walk home in the pure black that is night in the country and thank the heavens that I didn’t grow up in the city.

            The next day I do the same but instead of loading three thousand bottles like I did the day before we only do a bit over a thousand but then move into full bottles of jus de fruit and other old classics that are finally ready to clean and label. Yep, the second half of day number two is labeling so instead of feeding empty bottles, I am now feeding full bottles and the pace is the same.  We finish the bottles and my day is done, that is until I walk past the cave to find Antonio pushing palettes around. He sees me and asks if I could help him for a second. An hour later it’s dinner time and we have shoved and moved and cleaned about fourteen tons of wine that will be shown off at their wine fair the following weekend. Remember when I said no one has a job description, the vineyard is the description, well I never knew that to be more true than today. Ah, dinner.

DID SOMEONE SAY DINNER?

            Let me remind you. It was Thanksgiving when I was approached to do this. It wasn’t until mid December that I decided to do it and start studying my Rosetta Stone. I’ve had no formal teaching when it comes to French except for a five-week stint at the Los Angeles Valley College back in 2002. So here I am, not even three months later walking once again back upstairs for a dinner that will be completely in a language not of my own. What was I thinking?

            The previous dinner I showed up fifteen minutes late because my clock wasn’t set correctly. This time I showed up on time but the other guests showed up fifteen minutes late. I didn’t know there would be other folks but I did notice the time and now wondered if I was supposed to be late and that seven just happened to be a rounded sum. Oh well, time will only tell. I get to meet the distiller and his wife, sorry, their names elude me at the moment. He is the gentleman who makes the eau de vie for the father. They look very German and I will guarantee you she is total German and it makes sense because the mountains I look at off through the haze from my porch is Germany. I can only imagine what this area was like before 1945.

            So far I haven’t heard an English word and I quickly realize that the newly arrived couple are in on the fact that I need to learn. The distiller does know some English and eventually just can’t help himself to practice it a little, which of course is always appreciated. I have come to realize rather quickly that everyone in this area speaks not only French but also German and their own language of Alsace, which is a mix between the two former. It’s like going to the Texas/Mexico border and hearing Spanglish. Luckily for me though I can quickly tell when they are speaking the other languages so I don’t blow my own mind by trying to understand. I literally have a shut off valve in my brain once a Germanic word is spoken and then it flips back on once I hear French.

            After having a spicy red aperitif we head on into the dining room. The poor mother is so sick but she’s a hell of a trooper and presses on. When I thought it was just me I had tried to fathom how to say that we could do the dinner some other night and once I had it down the others showed and made my point moot. So we head inside the dining room and splayed out before me are three huge lobsters perfectly cut in half. I’ve never eaten lobster this way to be honest and I’m now actually more worried about eating it correctly than understanding just what in the heck they are saying.  Luckily I do just fine and not fling any meat or shell at anyone else in the room. Whoo hoo I think to myself after I finish the lobster. It was fantastic and I didn’t look like an idiot.

            We then followed that up with blackened bits of what I think are ribs and a thick rich black sauce, gnocchi, and a cabbage that is so deeply purpled it’s nearly black.  I really can’t get enough of the cabbage as I have seconds, which pleases the father. I think he was worried that I wouldn’t be an eater but is quickly discovering that if there is food, wine, or booze…I will consume it. Then it happens, the desert. In reality back in America if the waiter didn’t offer desert I’d simply forget about it and rarely do I ever order it. It’s often too sweet or huge and most often just puts me over the edge stomach wise. My kind of desert is a nice scotch or a Manhattan but chocolate cake, seriously, what am I eight? Last time we had a tart and tonight we have baked pears. Doesn’t sound like much right? Sounds kind of boring or bland but I notice there is gravy boat filled with a cream looking sauce. I watch carefully as the German wife drowns her pear in the sauce so I do the same when it becomes my turn. OH…MY…GOD! Now this is a desert! The sauce has a subtle rich flavor of ice cream and as of right now, has to be my second favorite desert ever.

            Several bottles of wine later and a sampling of chartreuse, eau de vie, calvados, and god only knows what else I finally make it back to my apartment at 12:30…in the morning! I worked like a mule for nine hours then had dinner for five and a half! Now that’s what I call living. As I think back on this I can only think of what my sister always says, “You don’t deserve all the nice things that happen to you,” and she’s probably right.

IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL

            You want to know how small the world is? I’m watching French news, of course, and they cut to Michigan to show how a lakeshore buildup of ice pushed into houses crushing them and breaking out the windows.  I have to admit that even if I was a news organization on the moon I would have shown that highlight since the ice looked so comically piled and placed and actually quite bizarre looking. Ooulala, bienvenue à le monde Michigan!

THE DAYS "AVEC MON SéCATEUR"

            I had thought the labor I had performed on the first day and the fact that I didn’t sleep the night before would ensure a good nights sleep. Nah, I’m way too much of a medium sized dumb animal for that. Half way through dinner and on my second glass of wine I suddenly became filled with an energy I hadn’t felt for a long time. I don’t know if it’s relief or finally being able to do some physical work or the combination of both mixed in with the fact that my system has finally killed the last of the Red Coats. I can’t imagine being out in that field with the screamin’ mimi’s if you know what I mean.

            But once again I watched television way to late and didn’t sleep and got up feeling a bit worse for the wear but all in all better than I had thought. I’d already worked my system out for the morning. Get up, flip on the espresso machine since it’s take a bit to prime, flip on the computer, and then off to the bathroom. I then come out hit the button for the coffee (I found this machine likes it rough as it will feign that it has no water and you have to smack it like you paid for it) and as that brews I check my computer to find once again I have no Internet. I haven’t approached the time where I’m annoyed by the lack of Internet but it’s coming. I grab my coffee, toss a few pieces of bread in the toaster, and make a bowl of cereal. Oh, and yeah, of course the TV is on so I can listen to things that mean nothing to me.

            So I make the quick jaunt down the road to the field and I notice for the first time that way off into the distance are a series of snow-capped mountains. I probably noticed them for the first time since previously they hadn’t been set against a set of menacing clouds.  It’s colder today and already raining. Once again I thank my lucky stars that I’m dressed appropriately and that I have a set of killer work gloves that although got soaked yesterday, still kept my hands warm. People are already amongst the vines clipping away so I join in. I don’t see Benôit and actually wouldn’t for the rest of the day. Apparently he has some other tasks to do. I’m introduced to several new people who always give me the same look when they find that I’m American.  Then they always ask if I’m from California and then they really are surprised when I say no, Michigan via Texas. I understand the California thing since to most of the world that is where all of America’s wine comes from but the truth is, for me, that has all been played out. I actually think the vineyards in Texas, especially the Fredricksburg area are really doing fantastic and interesting wines. I ask you, take a Texas Becker Malbec and compare it against any one else and you’ll be surprised. (It won’t be until the third day someone finally says, “Cowboy, bang bang.” When I was in Paris before that was every other person’s retort when I’d say Texas.)

            So after another wonderful lunch the ladies made sure I got a slicker to repel the rain. So far my jacket was doing a fine job but I trust them when they push one on me and thank God I did. Thirty minutes later the rain is driving hard and for some reason I just can’t help but smile. I know I should be bitching and regretting that I gave up a cush job to go and stand in a farm and get whipped by rain but all I could do was smile. The rain and the cold actually got so bad that they decided to call it a day. Of course me being so bundled up I wasn’t able to practice my ear as everything sounded like a muffled duck, “Quack quack, quack quack.” Later that night when I tell the night crew how I didn’t learn anything that day and did my impression of a French duck they all roared with laughter. Two days into work and I’m already figuring out my audience. Of course, to them, me being here is probably enough comedy.

            The third day “avec mon sécateur” was grueling. My hands felt as if the bones were bruised and kept snapping and popping like a child’s cereal but I pressed on and refused to bitch but then again, who would understand if I did? After about an hour though my hands settled into a rhythm and went numb and all was well but the day went on forever as we, without me knowing of course, decided to work an extra hour to make up for the two lost the day before. The one girl kept referring to me a l'etranger (foreigner) and I thought it was funny since, for one, it's something I know, and two I'm reading the damn book by Camus as we speak. All I could think was, "Yeah, I am that foreigner." As the sun sets I start to panic a bit since I am due to attend a dinner with the parents at seven and I don’t want to be late. At least the day is full of sun and is only slightly cool so it was a good day to go long and when they announced we were stopping I literally dropped my vine and ran back to the apartment to shower. I can only imagine what they were thinking when they saw a clogged foreigner racing with his weapon out of the vineyard.

FIRST DAY - WORKING THAT IS

            Who doesn’t hate the first day of going to work? Outside of my opening day at Hyatt I was totally dreading the start of anything. I guess in reality I just never want to be where I am and a job means I have a destination. With Hyatt I think I was excited because it was a huge turning point in my life where I was going into a salaried position in something I knew I could do blindfolded which would allow me to live the life I needed to live at that time. Serendipitous to say the least.

            I was so excited that I just couldn’t sleep. I was feeling great physically and my mind was racing with words I barely understood and every fifteen seconds I was flipping on the light to look up the meaning of a word. Not to mention over the weekend I became obsessed with French television and watched it way too late. Either way I fell asleep sometime around four and had to get up at seven.

            When mom took me to the supermarket I also bought the only alarm clock they had which was a small plastic replica of something that could be from the Beauty and the Beast. Little did I know that its alarm would literally lift me from the sheets. That thing went off like Krakatoa.  Holy hot lips hoolihan! The next night I wrapped it up in a shirt in hopes to calm it’s initial thrust but that did little if anything at all. At least it did keep me from hearing it tick, which could make someone dig a well and keep young ladies down there long enough to, well, you get the idea. “It rubs the lotion in or else it gets the hose again.”

            So I make my way down the hill after accidentally waking the devil dog. Wait, have I mentioned the giant Schnauzer they call, Prince? The way they pronounce it sounds much more like “ponce” but that’s neither her nor there. This dog could give you nightmares. I love dogs and dogs love me. It’s just one of those facts in life but this dog proves why scientists always say theory and rarely fact. I believe this dog wants to kill me. Any hoo, I make it down the hill and as I do I can only thank my lucky stars that I went ahead and spent the money on a new Patagonia jacket and base layer. It’s in the high thirties with spitting rain and a bit of wind to boot. I wore it all since I’m pretty sure they’ll start me at the bottom as they should and the bottom in the vineyard is tending the vines.

(I would later learn that collectively there is no bottom as it seems everyone and I mean everyone will drop everything and help a particular area to maintain the system. Over the three days I was amongst the vines, I prefer to call the vines twig vipers because they like to bite and strike randomly as you trim them. So if you are reading this and are at the vineyard please don’t think I mean you are at the bottom since in reality there is only one job at the vineyard and that is the vineyard, everything else is just a mere extension.)

            After a few missteps I finally find Benôit and his father, Antoine. Antoine finds me a pair of boots and shows me an interesting thing to do with newspapers. Apparently due to the conditions sole inserts, you know like gel inserts, just won’t last out there in the mud and the muck and they are expensive so he showed me how to take a section of newspaper, roll it just so and slide it on into the boot. I was suspect at first until my feet found their place and it was like learning a magic trick. I’m sure he found it odd that I found it so awesome but what can I do.

            I carry my boots with me as if they are nuclear secrets as Benôit gives me a tour and this is when I find out just why this place is so special. Every vineyard, except one, in the region of Alsace has gone to stainless steel barrels for fermentation but not this vineyard. I stood in what we would simply call the cellar and they call the cave amongst giant, and I mean giant wooden barrels. Lucky for me Benôit studied in Sonoma for four months and knows enough English to get me started but because of Adélaide he mostly speaks in French. Apparently she told him and everyone that I need to learn and the only way is total immersion. Yeah, me! Adêlaide told me to make friends with him and his sister, Apolline, since they knew English and would be a big help. I meet Apolline and realize that she probably knows less English than I do French and can only shake my head at just how tough this will all be.

            Today we take samples from several barrels to take to the lab and I have to admit I love the power of wood. When he takes a sample he pulls a simple wooden spike, maybe a third of an inch thick, out to release a controlled flow into the cylinders and with a quick push and twist the swelled wood forms a tight seal et voila, we have our sample. We jump in the company beater and drive up further around the mountain. At this point I’m a little more than curious why were aren’t headed down the hill and to the highway since the road we are on is a glorified two track that can’t possibly lead to a lab. We round a tight curve to reveal just how high up we are as a little town suddenly pops out of nowhere tucked at the base of the converging mountains. I can't help but think how I can't wait to take a bike down this bad boy. I bet I can get it to 50mph easy. The two track eventually turns into a paved road and we head on into town and drop the samples off at the lab. Benôit explains to the technician that I am here studying wine and she allows me back in the lab to check it out. Yep, it’s a lab alright.

            From there we head over to the local feed and weed but for the local vintners where Benôit buys me a sécateur to perform my next duties. A sécateur is essentially a heavy hitting set of scissors or if you happen to be the local mobster… an answer getter. I have fun saying over and over again as I make clipping motions with my new toy, “avec mon sécateur!” with the most impossible French accent. We head back up the mountain, pick up my boots, and head out into the field. Now I’m thinking there is going to be a training period to make sure I don’t do the wrong thing and to maybe show me a few tricks of the trade. Nope, they give me a row (rangée) and Benôit simply says, “Do not cut these. Cut these and put in straight line.” Then he walks off and starts on his own row. I slip on my gloves, pull my hat on, and get to it.

            After about an hour I started to worry that my hands won’t hold up with the constant clipping and tugging since I have so much damage to my hands from all my years trying to kill myself riding bikes on half pipes, especially the right one. Luckily for me I am pretty good with both my hands and begin to switch off after every few vines. The pain in my hands reach a point that I realize it’s not going to get any worse and I simply go numb to the whole thing. Before I knew it everyone instantly stops and begins to walk back towards the restaurant. Thirty seconds later a bell begins to ring calling everyone in for lunch. I love that there is a bell, so simple, no need for a watch or a field boss to tell you when you can eat. Just work and listen and when you hear that bell become that proverbial cow and head on home.

            I head in with Benôit unsure of what to do or where to go and we head into where I had eaten with Josette the previous Friday. The table is set with a bowl and a crock of soup rests on each table along with bread. I dish out a serving of the best vegetable soup I’ve ever had and then they bring in the main course of chicken and mashed potatoes and I watch as everyone loads their soup bowl with the new course. My god it’s so simple it’s genius. Why dirty a whole other plate and such when you can just use the same damn bowl. I follow suit and it is simple, hearty, and full of flavor. I finish that along with a glass of wine and then the cheese comes and more bread, and then the espresso. Have to have the espresso I realize.  After all this we head back out into the field feeling fine and full and I am ready avec mon sécateur.

            I started the day with Benôit and I finish it sitting in the restaurant eating beouf and bread and the best potatoes and drinking wine all the while strangers try to entertain me and help me learn their language. I find myself with that smile that is nearly uncontrollable. I am literally and utterly happy in this little world. I still have no Internet or phone and the only TV I get it is in pure Français and I could give a care less about any of the previous. I love my apartment and the view and the hidden town behind the vineyard down the mountain and this is all coming from a guy who up to three weeks ago was looking at his Iphone every two minutes and surfing the web. I know that I will need all the above especially the Internet soon so I can do what I want to do and plan what I need to plan but for now…I’m happy.

LE WEEKEND

I woke up at eleven, mostly because they were knocking on my door. The father wanted me to know they were serving lunch down in the restaurant. I looked back at my little stove and inaudibly replied “J’ai mangé.” I told him I had already eaten which was totally untrue but I just wasn’t ready for the day. It was the first night that I had slept through without getting up in some rushed manner to do things that you rush from bed to do. He took my answer in stride and walked off. I sat down, had some cereal, then went back to bed until two where I watched television until four, fell asleep again until the father knocked on my door. It was now dark as I opened the door. We basically repeated the lunchtime scenario with dinner and the result was the same. I sat down, ate some cereal, realized I was still wearing sleeping attire and went back to bed as French game shows played on television.

            You think that sounds bad, Sunday was exactly the same except on Sunday I actually stepped outside to see if it was cold or not. It was so I went back in and turned the radiant heat up just a notch. That night as I thought about my first day at work tomorrow I was stricken with the notion that although I am now feeling very good, my second impression was actually worse than my first. I arrive in France only to literally sleep for two days and watch game shows. “I have to train my ear,” I told myself and the television is a great way to do that. That is true but getting out and being social with folks who actually speak the language and by enjoying the hospitality of my host would have been a much better way to do it but I had to convince myself I did the right thing since for the first time in nearly five days I felt up to snuff. Luckily I was, as I would find out the next few days just how hard of work it is out here on the vineyard. You think the vineyard life is glamorous? Maybe if you got the bucks to hire a field of hands but if you have to do it yourself with a small team then you are in for a very tough and long day.

FIRST NIGHT

          I’m a bit more than nauseous and I’m already worried enough about first impressions but at least my malady has give me one expression to use that I know, Je suis malade! So that will get me through the door but God only knows what after that. We all sit in the parlor and have an aperitif, I choose whiskey, it was offered, and they go straight for the Bordeaux. Damn it! Whiskey is a digestif I began to bitch at myself but why was it there? Was it a trick? Are they trying to see just how American I am? Either way I needed the liquid courage to progress so tradition and general rules of etiquette be damned

            We sip and talk and I try my damndest to find words I recognize and although I am totally overwhelmed their smiles and laughs set me at ease. I no longer fear the father as it seems he already understands that I’m not going to understand him and he feels only a slight compulsion to make me.  It’s very hard to learn when you are under stress, you know, think way back in the day in school when you had to answer the question with all eyes on you and the only thing you could think of was, “how in the hell am I going to get out of this!” Now take that situation and have the teacher ask you in French, or Chinese if you know French, and if you know both well congratu-freakin-lations.

            They wait for me to finish sipping my neat whiskey and we all move into the dining room where we have soup and morsels before the main course. Once we finish the start of the meal the mother brings in a perfect huge steak. She shows me later how she cooked it in there own interior oven, what we would call a BBQ, where she utilized searing hot coals to cook a perfect piece of steak. I wish I had time to describe it but I wish I had one in my home. Although my stomach is the size of a pea I can actually feel it open up and take a look. Yes stomach, it’s not English food. The father loves to hear it when I say the English poisoned me so it’s a joke a bring up a few times, although I really do feel as if the English poisoned me so I’m happy he gets a kick out of it but each time I say it I want to raise a fist in their general direction. Oh and wine, their own of course, and it’s good even in my state.

            I really know that I’m making a horrible first impression but what can I do? I eat, drink, listen, and occasionally take a stab at speaking which is a lot like me doing a simple Jack impression from Tropic Thunder. I got a little impatient with my own verbage and for some reason I quickly spoke Spanish without thought or reason. Now why in the holy hell would I revert to Spanish when I speak English? She once again tucks out of the dining room and leaves me with the father for several minutes. This is when and where I discovered why I somewhat understand him. He speaks with his hands and with an inflection that resembles myself. The long and the short of it was it was a great evening and they were gracious as holy heck and the food was fantastic and to say it just kept coming wouldn’t do the evening any justice.

            We finished the evening with their brand of eau de vie, water of life, but it is far from being water. Half a shot is all you really pour and that half a shot is for sipping not for slinging back before flipping out your bourbon street boobs. He gave me one made of a type of root and said, “médicament.” God I hope so as I sipped it and prayed that it would finish off the remaining red coats in my stomach.

WEEFEE & THE TELE: THE SIMPLE THINGS

When you move to a foreign country it's the little things you find either the most difficult or fascinating. For instance, take your local supermarket, the one you go to everyday. How often can you not find what you are looking for and now think about how frustrating it is to go to a brand new supermarket? You really can't find anything now can you? Now take that last one and turn everything French, and on no sleep. I'm already taken aback by the fact that all four wheels swivel on the cart. I mean if you got this puppy going with some weight behind it there'd be no going back, or side to side for that matter. I tried to rotate a turn into the first aisle and ended up in the second. 

Also I mentioned that I had no Internet and her mother kept speaking at me quickly in French before finally breaking into English and said, "weefee." I swear to God you had time to slap me twice before I figured weefee was our wi-fi. It took me all of thirty seconds to adopt weefee just because it's so damn fun to say. Le weefee non travail!

I also had a hard time with the television. Yes I knew it would all be in French I just had no idea it would be so hard to turn on. I sat there dumbfounded for ten minutes pressing it on, off, on, off, etc. I could hear it start up but no picture or sound. Finally and quite by accident I found that it had two power buttons and they both have to be on for some reason. I don't need an explanation I'm just happy I have color.

Did I mention that when you return the cart to get your euro (or magic plastic coin) back? I don't know if the French have problems with cart theft but to get a cart you have to insert a euro into the handle which pushes out the locking mechanism and then you cart around with your euro stuck in the handle and when you are done, reinsert lock, et voila, you have your euro back! It's just the damnedest thing.

L'APPARTEMENT

We make the turn into the vineyard and even before I knew exactly where I was headed I knew exactly where I was going. Twenty-five hectares of vineyard were splayed out along the side of a mountain and I can't even see the restaurant and hotel that also rests on the estate. We twist and wind along the vines at a furious pace. I think the silence has finally gotten to her and she just has to get rid of me. (Later when she drives me for a bit of tour around town I learn that is just the way she drives, like a bat out of hell.) We pull up to the restaurant and she gives me a quick tour of the area and sets me out a plate of food and a glass of wine back in what turns out to be the break room and as people pass and talk the last moments of confidence are stripped from me as I now resort to shrugging and repeating "quoi?" et "je ne sais pas." I eat in a gathered silence and I remind myself that right here and now is the absolutely lowest I will ever be and to learn from it and concentrate on learning and, oh who am I kidding, it was just plain weird. But I knew it would be and that is what's been keeping me up at night. I wish there was some trick to advance the future all the while keeping the knowledge but skip the wrinkles. Yep, I want to stay pretty but it ain't easy when you live as hard as I do.

We finish lunch and as I'm following her we run into the father and the moment is that of encountering big foot but a weird thing happens as we meet. He speaks at me and I actually seem to understand what he says. I search for words and he finds them for me and I can only extend an emphatic "oui!" and before I know it we, the mother and I, are gone and off to the apartment I will call home for God only knows. Note: Adélaide told me that her father had warned her that I better not try and teach him English since he wouldn't be having it. The only English word he knows, supposedly, is no and that's because it's the same damn word. I mean if you forget the extra "n" and the nasal pronunciation but I think I already went into all of this. She gave me such nerves about the whole thing and here I find him to be a genuine and reasonably tempered person. She also did warn me to try and not drink him under the table since although I've considered going pro in the liquor ranks he will finish me. I believe her.

We drive up the mountain a bit further and duck behind a curve to reveal a beautiful chateau style home behind gates. After a beat we walk into the ground floor, which is my apartment and it is small but has everything I'd possibly need; dishes, a table, a shower, bed, an espresso machine and the best thing of all...heat. Not sure if I mentioned this or not but it is the beginning of March and it is cold and wet. She leaves me so I can get situated and I decide to finally lay down and take a nap. After thirty minutes of laying there I realize it's not going to happen so I unpack. I'm supposed to head upstairs for dinner at seven. Even though I'm sick, nervous, and can't speak the language I feel a sense of calm since I am now finally here, finally living what I had been talking about for so many months. I guess this is why women feel so relieved after marriage; they can finally stop talking/thinking about it. I should have married more of my girlfriends.

(I know it sounds sexist but it's true. No one says to a thirty year old man, "So you're thirty, huh? How come you're not married yet?")

MIND THE GAP

Sorry, one last thing about London. If I had never ridden another mass transit system like in NYC or Paris I would still think The Tube sucks. It's slow, very loud, sways as if it might leave the tracks and above all crazy expensive. For some reason they don't sell a three day pass like most cities do since, oh I don't know, most tourists come in for an f'n long weekend. In NYC when I was living there a three day pass was $7, a day pass in London is 7£ ($10.50) and that's if you don't leave during rush hour. The next step up is a week pass for 45£. I couldn't bear to look at what a month costs and I'm not exactly a person who thinks a lot on money.

To demonstrate what a sub standard system the whole thing is all you have to listen for is a pleasant sounding ladies voice say, "Mind the Gap," at every stop and she isn't kidding. I stepped up and over one spot that a person could have easily escaped into and started his own underground rodent empire. In NYC or Paris for that matter I'm not even sure if you could fit a shoe between most spots. I can see the court proceedings now, I'm going to picture them all with floured up wigs if you don' t mind.

"Sir, so you say your leg was sheered off by the train?"

"Yes."

"And you say you had both legs when you got on?"

"I think I'd notice one missing."

"So the said incident definitely happened upon departing the train?"

"Yes, my leg got caught in the space between the train and the platform."

"The gap?"

"Yes, the gap."

"Didn't you hear the pleasant lady say, mind the gap?"

"Well...yes."

"Case dismissed. He knew to mind the gap so it is his own fault that the gap was not minded!"

I'm also a bit of a germ phobe and the tube with all of it's cushioned dirty seats just looked contagious. I'm sure they had to add some comfort since it takes so long to get anywhere but I never found the plastic seats in NYC to be uncomfortable and I appreciated the fact that I knew what I was sitting on. Anything could be in those fibers and I suspect anything is. Maybe Purell could start selling ass liners like they have in airport bathrooms but now made exclusively for the Underground.

FRANCE (OR IS IT SWITZERLAND)

Although the clouds were thick all the way up until landing the only thing I'm pretty sure of is that I landed back on Earth. I saw a few industrial type buildings and such but outside of a lonely FED EX plane tucked off to the side I was pretty sure that this airport (Bâle, Basil) has to be either a bizarre after thought or bucolic thought towards the future. Either way, I'm here and I gather myself since this is for all intents and purposes the start of it all. Once I leave this plane there is no looking back. Oh, who am I kidding, if I looked back now all I'd see are another hundred people looking forward. I leave the plane and am kind of startled that I'm immediately out in the open. No customs people, no security, not even a janitor. After a few minutes I see my bag round the carousel and I head out the sortie. Easy enough I think as I finally find the customs agent waiting around the bend. She looks me over with a surprised look of confusion that I seem to strike most people with on this trip. She looks my passport over, front to back, literally just flips it to see if there is a cover on the back.

"You live in London?"

"No."

Now there are two confused people counting myself. Why would I live in London when I just got stamped there three days ago and wouldn't I have some sort of legalized visa to show why an American was living in England? Either way she shrugs it off and stamps my passport and I think the stamp answers my question. 

"So I am in Switzerland."

The reason I was wondering is on the Internet, depending on what site, it's listed as France or Switzerland. I thought the whole thing to be a bit odd until I walked out the door and realized that this airport is perfectly situated to enter Switzerland...and France, if you so chose to go out door number two but I left door number one and of course door number one is no longer available for reentry. Et voila! I am in Switzerland and my ride is in France.

I enter back through departures with the mission impossible theme song keeping me company until I find a British Airways worker who points me in the right direction. I find the French customs area and I begin to tell them what happened and all he does is wave me through once I reach the third word. The sign says to go down to enter France but there are no stairs and the area that points to France literally points to the concrete floor. I wander a bit more until I find an elevator and that is how I entered France, via a metal box. I soon find Adélaide's mother. She was supposed to have a sign with either my name or her name on it but as I was one of three people in the terminal and she being the second, well, we sort of figured it out...and then my lessons in French took the turn I was dreading. Total immersion...now!

I some how explained to her that the bastards in England poisoned me and that I haven't slept for two days and am very sorry for being such and idiot and only taking two (+) months to learn a language that I should have spent three years or more on. She said some things, rapidly, and before I knew it we were off. In reality this is probably how the KGB picked up unsuspecting patriots back in the day. One of the things I clearly understood was her question on how long I would be staying. Crap, she's probably already looking to be rid of me. All I can think as the conversation runs dry is that this is the mother; I still have to make acquaintances with the father. Mon dieux!

THE MORNING OF MY DISCONTENT

I am just not having any luck with this whole trip. So I have my train ticket from Victoria to Gatwick but I find that the Underground doesn't start early enough to get me to Victoria to catch my train. This is why you do your research folks. Don't be like Eric. Normally I am better than this but I thought I had a guide and all I've been doing with any moment of free time is learning French since that is how I will get through my day by day for the next three to eight months. Two plus days in London didn't rank that high on my priority list.

So I hire a car to get to Victoria which it turns out to be nearly the same price as if I had just hired a car straight away to Gatwick, I save 10£ and lose an hour of sleep I probably wouldn't of had anyway. Yep, you guessed it, I couldn't seep once again and I was so tired when I laid down last night I was sure I'd pass right out. Six hours later I'm sitting at the edge of the bed staring at Ray's Iphone waiting for the the alarm to go off. It does. I grab my bags, do a final run through and wait for the driver. I have to admit if you're going to get a lift it might as well be in a Mercedes. The driver is nice and he wants to talk but talking and watching the curving traffic from the wrong side of the road is really doing nasty things to my stomach. So I'm sure I didn't do much in the terms of American/Pakistani relations with this fellow. What can I do? I thought the most polite thing for me to do was to NOT throw up in his back seat.

Thirty minutes later and I'm at the platform with a whole host of workers who have no idea from where the train will leave. I finally ask a young girl who looks in the know and she confirms my suspicion...no one really knows. Five minutes before the train is due to depart the one right in front of me flings open it's doors and a man steps out and I can only muster, "Gatwick?"

"Yes sir, you'll want to be in the first four cars."

First four cars huh? Cool. Thanks for that info that I'm sure would have saved me the huge hassle of dragging my two backpacks down the narrow passage of the Gatwick Express. It all sounds so Harry Potter doesn't it? Funny thing is they never even mention Gatwick as one of the stops until way down the way and after the cars had separated. I looked back at the other cars after we separated and waved goodbye to the poor non-angleterre who were now headed to the lost city of Crumpetswick or the like.

Of course I have to make my way to the North Terminal and the train pulls into the South so I catch another train and am now able to move onto my new fear. Two nights prior I get an email from Easyjet saying that if my carry on couldn't fit in the overhead or if I had two carry on that I would not be able to board and would miss my flight...NO EXCEPTIONS. The night before I pushed and stuffed and twisted everything I could into my main backpack since I now had to squeeze my camera case into my secondary pack. They made it sound as if the plane was the size of Peter pan and I practice my plea and ponder just how much I'm willing to bribe the proper person with or even how much a train from London to Strasbourg would be. The primary moment was before me as I handed over my passport.

"You pack your bag today, sir?"

"Boy did I."

"Anything explosive or hazardous?"

At that point I thought it might be a bit of fun to mention my stomach but deferred out of fear security would make a piñata out of me.

"No sir."

I breezed through security and stepped out into this extremely modern terminal with Hugo Boss and cigarettes for sale everywhere. I mention this because I had just stood in a security hall that resembled something from the 70's TV show, Barney Miller, so this was quite the sight. I find my flight on the big board and it reads...BOARDING. It's gate number 101 and I am at 53 and I come to find that 101 is nearly back to the South Terminal but what's a guy to do but hoof it...again. I really don't care as long as my bag slides inside that beautiful storage bin. I make it there in plenty of time and slide my jacket over my sack so they can't get a good bead on just how fat the silly thing is. My plan always was that if I can get past the steward or stewardess that I'm home free because if my bag doesn't fit then I can slide out my camera case, collapse the bag, and slide both of them home. All this worry was for not as my fat ass bag easily slid into the overhead bin. It's a freakin' Airbus and they made it sound as if we lost power we could all just flap our arms and blow. I really need to sleep but as you all know by now...I can't sleep on planes.

So let's see, 5am-car, 6am-train, train again, security, sprint, hide and seek, and then the plane. Where's the slap and tickle I was promised?

LONDON - THE NIGHT

I'm not going to go into detail about the night but it was very reminiscent of the other time I got food poisoning. I finally passed out about five in the morning due to exhaustion. The second day of London was gone, I barely made it to the store to buy some Gatorade let alone go and check out the city. I guess I'll have to learn London on some other trip. I should come back though, even if I never really liked the place, which is strange for me since I love architecture and the old world and always feel as if I'm home when I find myself in those places. I'm sure that being sick didn't help but there was something askew with me from the get go. I can't put a finger on it and maybe I never will. I'll just chalk it up to being a bad first date but here, in London, I never felt so much as a stranger in a foreign land as I did here, and they speak almost the same language as I do. Oh well, off to France. I wonder what kind of English they speak there?

PS - Meredith and Ray did take me to an underground Belgium restaurant and we did have a nice time with all things considering so, thank you guys for letting me stay and for taking me out. Cheers.

LONDON: THE RECKONING

Yesterday worked out perfect. After several beers at a few local taverns, a home cooked meal, and a bottle of wine I turned in around ten and supposedly slept through a wicked storm. I woke up at seven and felt perfect. No jet lag, no hangover, and not even really hungry. I almost head straight out but I realize after my latte that it's about to be rush hour and the day pass is 3£ more and to be honest, what's the rush. I watch the BBC and I discover the only thing more dire than American news is European news and half of it is them discussing just what in the hell we are going to do. They poke fun at Gordon Brown and his pandering and goofball behavior when he meets Obama. I feel sorry for the SOB for an instant but then I have to think to myself, "There must be a reason."

I finally head out and take the District Line up to the Embankment stop and I meander my way in the most improbable of ways since I only have a simple without detail walking map. Up until two weeks ago Meredith, my friend in London, was going to be my tour guide but she finally got hired on and now couldn't take me about. I had been more concerned with learning French than figuring London so I decided to do what I do best, walk aimlessly and stumble into cool things. London is old world and in the old world streets lined up in a grid are about as hard to find as a working girl on Fire Island.

Street signs are located on the buildings at various heights and locations and sometimes not at all. Not to mention when you do find a map of any sort like at a bus stop or such they, the city or map people, flatly refuse to put "You are Here" on the map so unless you know where you are you have no idea where you actually are so therefore are still lost but now annoyed since you have a map to demonstrate just how lost you are. So if you get frustrated by not being able to simply walk two blocks, turn left, and there is where you wanted to be you might want to have someone else be the navigator. The best way to describe the London map is to look at it, squint a bit, and it'll appear as a thousand confused little worms. After a few missteps I find the Nat'l Gallery and all it's statues of dead men and panicked pigeons.

Don't ask me why I didn't go inside the Nat'l Gallery. I mean it's totally free and would have been a wonderful way to waste and hour or two and maybe even learn something but for some reason the sight of a 1000 tourists sort of repelled me. Don't ask me why since I am a tourist and in a sense at "tourist central." I make my way down Whitehall past Downing, where the British PM lives, and on to Parliament and over to Westminster and I take photos and watch the fashion of the people which has no rhyme or reason and I love it. I've always gotten a kick out of the locals way more than the inside of some nameless edifice.

I see a street sign for Buckingham Palace and Victoria Station and as I have no real plans and I do have to purchase a train ticket from said station I follow the signs for what seems to be roughly two miles, more if you count my inability to maintain a straight line as little nooks and alleys invite me down them. I find a little street closed to traffic and filled with the lunch crowd and one place in particular is handing out sandwiches as fast as people can order them. This must be the spot I think to myself and as I queue I hear the locals talk and order and many get the egg and bacon or the like so I decide to get the egg and bacon. Well folks, this is where London takes a sinister turn pour moi. The sandwich is good, surprisingly good really. The only problem is that about thirty minutes later I have my train ticket in hand and a sickening feeling that's either pointed north or south.

I can eat anything, really, anything and I pride myself on that. I've eaten street food in Mexico, Brazil, NYC, and many other places and never got a bit of the turns but here I was, well...sick as holy hell. I trudged on making the stops and turns that I wanted to make like Buckingham Palace and into the nooks of ST. James where Oscar Wilde made inappropriate advances and up to Piccadilly Circus. I wanted to see more but as I sat at the Circus and amongst the circus I could feel my insides turn to liquid. It was nearly rush hour so I hopped back on the tube and made my way back to the flat. I hope to get a little rest and relief before meeting up with Meredith and her beau at 7.

BTW: Pepto Bismol does not exist in England.

STEP ONE - GET TO LONDON

I stand at the airport before an older woman who squints through her glasses at the screen before her. She tries to tell me I only have a ticket to Atlanta and that she doesn't see anything to London-Heathrow. I bite my tongue as the comments inside my mind flow from comical to hysterical. Maybe you should get some glasses for your glasses or just finally retire I think to myself as I hold a controlled grin. After a few minutes of deodorant deteriorating moments she finally finds it and prints out my ticket and I double check my bag to make sure it's not marked to Atlanta and it is indeed headed to London. All seems swell but I can't shake the feeling of impending mishaps or the like.

I take off. I land. So far so good as I have three hour lay over but decide to settle London right away and head to the Delta desk where the lady smiles with that smile that tells me she doesn't want to deal wit the problem and tells me she can't check me into that flight. I have to go to concourse E14 (which involves a train at some point) so I head that way and it feels as if I've walked to Birmingham by the time I get to E14, which is closed or at least temporarily abandoned. Figures.

Quick fun fact: Every departure monitor I see shows no flight to London involving Delta so guess my mind set now. I console myself by reminding myself that Athena still lives in Atlanta and I could go and crash with her, I mean if I had her number which is on my cell phone back in Big Rapids but that's just one small detail. I would later find out that Air France was actually the carrier on my next leg but of course it says nothing on my itinerary. Thank you, Delta!

I head to the gate where the flight is scheduled to depart and all I find there are two people who look like they've seen the worst of the day. I head back down the hall and finally find a desk with living breathing humans. Luckily for me the one lady is a trainee so she has to help so she can learn and I rejoice until her trainer looks baffled and finally says, "You're headed to Grand Rapids?" I just came from Grand Rapids I tell him and he shrugs a bit and all I can think about is that lady all the way back before the walk to Birmingham and that grin of hers. As murderous thoughts invade my mind I suddenly hear the trainee meekly state "Is that his seat number?" Suddenly all is well as they realize they couldn't check or change my reservation since it was in use by some sweet angel who remembered to put me on the aisle. Apparently pre check-in and seat assignments with international flights are a misnomer. She prints me out my boarding pass and I can only giggle in relief, as if I'd won something.

One thing you should know, I can't sleep on planes. So trips like this always means that I'll be up for at least 24 hours or more and that's not counting the adrenaline spurt I get after I land where I decide to charge into the city. I had hoped it wouldn't be that way this time. I was exhausted when I got on the plane and I thought maybe a cocktail would help but liquor is more of a fuel than a sleep aid for me so I relented and soberly watched, "The Express," the Ernie Davis story. The following movie was "The Secret Lives of Bees." I don't know who picked them but they both have very strong racial overtones in regards to America's past. I'm not saying that it's a bad thing to bring up these issues and such but what a horrible postcard to give all the tourists leaving America before heading back home. Why not just show eight hours of GWB answering press conference questions.

I land at eleven London time, it's five in the morning back in America and I feel absolutely and totally fine. I make my way through the whole passport-stamping thing in about two point two seconds. I tell you it's easier to get into England that it is out of Dallas-FT. Worth. I grab my ankles and change some money since I have to take the underground immediately and will need cash since they stopped taking smiles as payments years ago. I collect my bag, get a day pass, and then take the Piccadilly line to the District line back to Richmond where I scat about for my friend's boyfriend's place of work so I can collect a key to their flat. I'm on a budget and am not afraid to bum a bed especially when they have a spare. He gives me what I think are pretty direct directions until I get twenty feet and realize what he's told me doesn't make any sense. right at that moment, of course, it begins to rain. I search and search with sixty  pounds of gear strapped to me until I run across a DHL driver entertaining a deliver. I wait, where am I going right? I apprehend him and he immediately knows where I am to go and gives me succinct directions there. I look at him with the most tired pleading eyes of my life and ask if he could just drive me.  He, at first, was totally game but the reality of possibly losing his job made him repeat the directions as he scurried off. No matter, six or seven minutes later I'm totally on the other side of where the boyfriend had told me to be but I stick the key in and the door pops open. I am so sure this isn't the right place that I check the mail to make sure it says his or her name. It does...ah sweet relief.

I tramp up the stairs and find the spare and drop my bags as I sit on the bed. A decision has to be made. I either stay awake and switch my sleep schedule here and now or I take a nap. I look down and see that my shoes are still on and I can feel that there's a rumbly in my tumbly so I head out with keys and cash in hand to explore Richmond. Oh who am I kidding, I just wanted a beer.