Chapter 1a. Heathrow to St. Albans

So much was happening all the time! Twenty-two days in Europe, four countries, eight(ish) cities, countless countryside villages and homes, pubs, restaurants, castles, palaces, abbeys, bridges, public bicycles, sidewalks, subways, parks, cobblestones, stairs, a comedy/performance festival on the bank of the Thames.

Our European adventure began in London's Heathrow Airport. Jamie's childhood friend Elena met us there and helped us navigate the public transport to her sister's house 'in the country', about 45 minutes from the heart of London. We followed Elena, bleary-eyed from the 12-hour flight from SFO (and Jamie didn't even have a handsome man's shoulder to sleep on; we were seated on opposite sides of the plane), through the two hours of public transit into London (for a grand total of four hours on London transport for Elena),

and back out to the small town of St. Albans, where we spent the first night of our trip.










When we arrived in St. Albans, we considered a nap; we had arrived in London at approximately 6am PST (~2pm GMT) after a less-than-adequate-night's sleep. We elected instead to sit in the backyard as the sun gradually dimmed and set, leaving wispy electric pink clouds against a deep blue background.

That night, Jamie and Elena spent some time catching up over glasses of wine. Then they convinced me to share their wine and their catch-up session, and sooner or later, or all of a sudden, in some time that was between times and above time zones, we had finished another bottle and it was 3am GMT.

The next day, we wasted no time sleeping in. Who knows what time we woke up, but the sun was up, and it was a warm, beautiful day. Leave it to the Californians to bring hot weather to dreary England.

Our hosts (and Elena) had left for work (and to return home to Madrid) before we were out of bed. We had the afternoon to wander St. Albans, admire the cathedral and take a light lunch in Ye Olde Fighting Cocks, two buildings of apocryphal origins,






the latter claiming the distinction of being the oldest pub in England; the former being rumored to have a secret passageway, employed by the Benedictine monks, to the oldest pub in England.

The pub's foundation dates from around the 8th century, when it was used as a pigeon house. Why someone would want to build a house for pigeons is beyond me, but a different aviary history lends the pub its name, a "reference to the sport of cock fighting which was popular [in the 19th Century] and which took place in the main bar area. It is known by locals as 'The Fighters' or 'The Cocks'," says Wikipedia.

We headed back to collect our enormous suitcases and head to the train station nearby. We had friends to meet in London!