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Taco Bell, Knock-Knock Jokes and Lawrence of Arabia

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We are on our way to Europe. Two hours into our seven-hour flight and I once again detest flying. Dinner has been served. I forgot what I asked for and looking at my meal offers no help as to what I am eating. Airplane food has never impressed me. I do not think they put enough effort into it. I would probably feel this way with any place that would make me eat food that requires the use of utensils in a space that does not even offer enough room to have an eye spasm. We wait for the in-flight movie to begin and I enjoy a bag of peanuts and an alcoholic beverage.

I decide to make friends with the guy next to me. I feel it is the polite thing to do since our seats are so close together we are probably considered married by Amish standards. He does not seem like a lunatic and I feel it is wise to know the person I could later be using as a floating device. His name is Greg and he is from Detroit. He is pretty much doing the same thing we are, wandering around Europe, but with less of a plan and hardly any money. He seems to have amused himself with these two facts, so I become happy for him.

He tells me that traveling always makes him understand how good he really has it back home. I hope that is true. I am very unappreciative of what I have. I am not saying my life is worthless, it is just that I am bored with what I have been doing with my life. I am five and a half miles above the ocean, flying to another country, and I have nothing waiting for me where I am going and nothing waiting for me where I left. I am either a free spirit or a pathetic soul. Most likely, I am a bit of both.

From the get-go, I know I will be traveling with Chris. We met three years earlier and slowly became the best of friends. We are complete opposites. He is anal, orderly and not very good under pressure. I am lax, messy and do not normally show signs of stress. When I ask him if he wants to go to Europe, he is as enthusiastic as I knew he would be. However, at this moment, he is becoming disgruntled. There is a man two rows ahead of him with an enormous head and he is blocking the movie screen. For a moment, it is gone and Chris relaxes only to become twice as mad as the hugely proportioned cranium floats back into view. Apparently, the large cranium was just pulling something out of the seat pocket in front of him. I think it is safe to say that Chris is enjoying the movie much less than I am.

He gives up and decides to converse with me. He tells me how moving sidewalks are one of the greatest inventions of the twentieth century. He says they are miracles of modern man, making even the clumsiest people seem graceful. We had passed our free time in the Detroit airport riding these contraptions. Chris enjoyed walking in place. He said it was good exercise. I was just standing on them to avoid any unsolicited movement.

Another hour goes by before he finally loses his ability to not whine. He is mad at the space between the seats. There are five people sitting across the middle of the aircraft. We are lucky enough to be in the center seats, which makes me have to sit like I am sliding down a tube. Chris is finding it difficult to get out and go to the lavatory. He says it might be easier just to urinate in one\'s seat. He holds his empty cup aloft, in the direction of the stewardess.

" Oh please," he inquires. " Could I have some more to drink?"

***

We are almost to London. The excitement on the plane is obvious as everyone shuffles about and wipes themselves down with the moist, microwave-warm hand towels provided by the airline. Chris has pulled out our wish list that he had us write before we left. It lists all the things we think we want to see on our trip. It\'s not like they are all at the London airport when we land, but it passes the time and draws our attention away from the fact that soon, four-thousand tons of metal is supposed to be put down on a piece of concrete no bigger than a driveway.

My wish list is simple. I would like to pay my respects to Van Gogh\'s grave in Auvers, visit Amsterdam, see a pope-led mass in Vatican City and hopefully fall in love somewhere along the way.

The list Chris makes is a tad more youthful. A trip to Agincourt, to see where Kenneth Branagh filmed Henry V. A stroll through Prague, EuroDisney, a tip of the hat to Papa Hemingway at Harry\'s Bar in Venice and hopefully a chance to see Vienna. Oh yeah, and he too would like to meet the European sweetheart of his dreams.

Of course, these accomplishments are teetering on whether or not we will be let into London. The plane lands and we are given our freedom. There are things I notice about myself after long, overseas flights. I feel more tired than I should, I become very fond of the ground and I somehow acquire a pungent breath that the boldest of mints cannot extinguish.

The lady in customs decides there is something suspicious about me. Greg (the guy I met on the plane) and Chris breeze right by her with nothing more than a half-wave. Hell, even the guy with the really big head got through without a problem. Then comes my turn. She has me state my business, asks for my passport, checks my backpack, and wants to know how long I am staying and where I plan on residing. The other passengers are watching and a few jeers are tossed as they tell her to leave me be.

My answers do not help her any as they are short and not too well thought out. Chris has the names and addresses of the people and hostels we are planning to stay. I tell her I am just here to wander around for a bit. This answer does not seem to appease her. Maybe she thinks I am being vague. Perhaps she thinks I am a person of ill repute, with my black hair and cowboy-like stroll. Perhaps my sleepy eyes and denim jacket give me a sinister look. Do I look like the creep that stood her sister up for the prom? I am tired and it takes everything I have not to tell her what a wretch she is being. Eventually she grows bored with me and lets me through. I feel sorry for all the puppies she must kick on her way home each day.

We ride the subway, or underground, into Victoria station. Victoria Station is, by far, the coldest structure I had ever set foot in. I could slide down iceberg slopes on my bare bottom and feel warmer than I do now. The high vaulted ceilings and concrete floor offer no resistance to the icy wind blowing through the open doorways along the walls. I am afraid to blink in case my eyelids freeze shut and I think I see a team of sled dogs making their way to a train departing toward Wales.

We pile our bags on the floor. I spread-eagle myself over our belongings as Chris ventures off in search of a bathroom. This became a routine for us in the airports. One person would smother the bags in an attempt to ward off tempted bag smugglers and the other would venture off on some stupid adventure involving either a bathroom or a

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