Crossing The Pond

Good morning from London.

I’m here because I was invited to perform at The Other Songs concert, a pre-curser to the Ivor Novello Awards and a fundraiser for worthy charities. I was in the audience last year. It’s a big deal. The London Palladium is no small venue. Also on the bill: Bernie Taupin and Celeste 😳. Did I say I was nervous? I didn’t but I am.

I’m quite comfortable these days, standing in front of an esteemed audience of my peers and speaking. It’s my guitar playing skills or lack of them that concern me. And I decided after much thought, not to bring my security blanket — my Taylor — the only guitar I trust in my feeble hands. Too much schlepping. Phil Thornalley said I could borrow his. Gulp.

I practiced my two songs ad nauseam. I did so on unfamiliar more challenging instruments so I’d be ready for anything Phil graciously lends me. My therapist says there’s such a thing as practicing too much. I’m doing it. Though I skip it the day before I leave. At this point, it is what it is. it will be what it will be.

I’ve learned I won’t make any of the same mistakes I made in the past. But I will make new ones. It’s inevitable. Surprising little brain farts and novel clams. That thing about imagining the audience is naked to calm your nerves? Forget it.

I’ve planned thoroughly —  started packing 2 weeks ago. I’ll arrive 3 days before the concert so I have time to adjust.

I’m traveling alone so I have to be super mindful not to misplace my passport or my phone or my own body. Don’t walk onto the wrong plane. As if they’d let me. You never know these days. Service is slipping. I got through security with a water bottle in my backpack.

There’s a slight kerfuffle at boarding. We wait in the tunnel for 20 minutes at a standstill. Is something wrong with the plane? Are they reattaching the exit door? Is this a Boeing? I’m poised to call American Express with whom I booked my flight to ask what my options are. And do I have a change of underwear in my carry-on? The line moves.

I’m not going to have my usual Bloody Mary — which I only order on flights. Just gonna settle in, have a meal, watch a movie and then pop a half an Ambien. I think of Ambien as a treat. Only in emergencies. Desperate times call for desperate measures. If I arrive with no sleep I’ll be fucked for days.

Dinner is unidentifiable. Not hyperbole. I check the menu to see what it is. (Spongey tasteless) chicken. An edible meal should be included with the price of a business ticket. I could have brought a tuna sandwich. Some people say American Airlines is the worst. To be fair I think it’s hit or miss.

I floss. I brush my teeth. (Always floss first!) Pop the treat. Strap on a sleep mask. Pillow. Blanket. Bring it. It doesn’t take long. I’m getting drowsy. The treat is kicking in. But …

Turbulence. Sudden Onset. The kind of Turbulence you’re sure will defy what you know to be true: it’s as safe as a car on a bumpy road. I don’t think so. This time we’re going down.

We don’t go down.

But then someone a few seats behind starts coughing. And coughing. And coughing . Every ten seconds another double heave. I keep hoping it’s just a little something in their throat. But it doesn’t stop.

It’s not so much the germs I’m afraid of. OK maybe it is a little bit but can you blame me in this post Covid era? Honestly it’s more about … did I pop the treat too soon? Are all the disruptions going to quell the effects of the treat?

Irritated, I sit up. I unbuckle and rummage through my carry-on for a cough drop. I walk down the aisle with the drop raised between 2 fingers and ask (loudly) “Who’s coughing?” Nobody cops to it. The traveler in back of the cougher points over the cougher’s seat to identify her. The cougher is staring straight ahead pretending not to see me. I offer her the cough drop. She admits to having to cough from time to time. This is an understatement. I say “Take The Cough Drop.” PLEASE!” And I suggest she ask for some tea with honey as well.

She must have eaten the cough drop cuz she stops coughing. Or it could be the Ambien is finally having its belated way with me. I’m out. Wake up 5 hours later to a saltier than salty Swiss cheese omelette. Get it together American!

Ok. Landing. Eager. Still anxious. But we’ve made it across the pond. That’s a start.

I used to be fearless. A free man in Paris and everywhere else. Not any more. What happened?

Instead of mass transit (been there done that) I arranged for an actual recommended-by-friend human (I’ve earned it) to retrieve me. When I first contacted the human (Petr), he responded by telling me not to worry about anything. He knew exactly what to say to get the job.

I reclaim my luggage. Petr is there. Right where he said he’d be. In front of the Marks and Spence holding a sign with my name on it and a coffee to boot. I love you Petr.

On our ride to Saint Johns Wood, Petr talks incessantly. I wouldn’t have anticipated this. He offers a lot of opinions followed by “but no comments” as if to negate all the comments. It’s ok. I resign myself to a ride that won’t be head-clearing. Such is life. I embrace it. The Universe has assigned me Petr for a reason.

I have landed. I am here. I am safe. I am not worried. This is progress.

Petr drops me off. I forget to pay him. He never asked! I text him later in horror. He texts back — he’ll collect double on the return. Just Wow. The kindness of strangers.

I think it’s gonna be a good trip.

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