Surprises. They can be pleasant. Like not stripping to my trollies and having my nads felt at Schiphol. Those Jamieson stiffeners before venturing to the gate weren’t really necessary. I relatavise reflecting it is after nine. . . . . AM.
All I need for a long flight is a set of noise-cancelling headphones, free booze onboard, and an endless supply of mind-numbingly dumb comedy films. Films I’d be embarrassed to watch on TV, let alone buy a cinema ticket for.
KLM’s selection is of crap films is crap. So I watch The Big Lebowski. Never seen it before. Unless you count the 30 minutes I watched in Czech, after a long session, in a hotel in České Budějovice. Largest hotel room I’ve stayed in. Almost as big as my flat. Understood it in the inverse ratio to how I’d lost it. The plot, I mean.
Back to the film. Reminds me of The Big Sleep. Which I guess was the intention. It whittles off a few shavings from the stick of time.
I need to stay awake. My body may be no temple, but it’s my pad and I know where the woodworm and dry rot are. And get a cab.
It’s my first time in San Francisco. Around the airport isn’t pretty. But where is it?
Taxis are weird things in a strange city. You ask a stranger to drive you to location you’ve never been to before and you’ve no idea of the route. Like saying “Here, take my heart and my wallet” putting your life and finances in the hands of someone you know nothing about.
Every trip has its moments of paranoia.
My hotel keeps a fashionable distance from downtown. Like the elegant lady she is. I feel safe in a building that survived the earthquake (and fire). Plus it’s not as arse-clenchingly expensive as many. There’s a proper satellite box, HD TV, a fridge. And I can watch TV while in shower.
Which I do next.
“Your schedule is crazy.” Dolores told me.
“I prefer to call it challenging.”
I’ve an event this evening. Or club closing time as it is for me with the nine hour time difference. A train ride away. With a few hours before it to keep awake through.
The dust washed from my feet and the sweat from my armpits (and other places I won’t mention) it’s time to grab this city by the throat and say: “Can I have a beer, please? Sir.”
Where to go? Has to be Amsterdam.
Next time: my first beer on American soil in a couple of months.
1500 Sutter St
San Francisco, 94109 CA
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