Do you know how some people can, say, look at a map of a subway system in a strange city and figure out where they need to go? I can look at the same map and cry.
When it comes to common sense and travel, I’m a zero on a scale of 272. Already this season, I’ve become flummoxed by Southwest’s pre-boarding policy and somehow lost my boarding ticket while sitting at my gate in Atlanta. When my wife first heard that I’d be spending a week in London, without adult assistance, she laughed. Really hard.
OK, this is what’s known as background.
And at about 6 a.m. Tuesday I was faced with what’s known, for me, as
mission impossible: How to get from Heathrow Airport to my hotel in
central London without ending up in Wales. Or Wisconsin.
So imagine my shock — and immense personal pride — when I successfully
purchased a ticket for the Heathrow Express, got on the train all by
myself and, magically, ended up close to my hotel in central London.
Brilliant, as they like to say here. All I had to was navigate the
one-mile trek to the Marriott Marble Arch. I got some directions from a
fine old chap at the station and, with dawn breaking, began walking with
my computer bag, a duffel bag and an overstuffed suitcase, which was
slightly heavier than Isaac Sopoaga.
No problem, though. Even on 77 seconds of sleep, I was thrilled.
Strolling through the streets of the one of the world’s great cities as
it came to life, I was mesmerized by the scenes. The double-decker
buses, the centuries-old brick buildings, the businessmen in great long
coats – I barely noticed that I was beginning to sweat with the
temperature hovering in the 40s.
At some point, though, I did notice that I was sweating. And my
shoulders were cramping. And my suitcase now felt like I’d packed
Sopoaga and cement.
I have no sense of direction, but can sense when I’ve walked two miles
instead of one. I had been given directions to the Marble Arch area of
London. There is even a Marble Arch monument, which is near Hyde Park,
and I went staggering right past it, thinking that, surely, the Marriott
Marble Arch had to be just up ahead.
In fact, it was not just up ahead. It was just way behind, on a side street, another fine chap explained.
Perhaps 30 minutes later, I fell into my hotel room. Sweaty. Jetlagged. Sleep deprived.
I immediately scanned the room for coffee. No coffee in the rooms here.
But there is tea and a silver kettle in which you heat water.
At least that’s what I think it’s for.
I’ll let you know when I figure out how to turn it on.
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