I leapt out of bed with a charging sense of purpose. My backpack was light and well-prepared, my travel plans meticulous, all business taken care of, and a beautiful travel-care-package presented by a tearful Nadieh. Said a very fond and difficult farewell, and then set off, as we always seem to be doing on this gap year. Setting off and setting off. The course of the days travel (a mere few hundred miles to London) took twelve hours and consisted of a long walk to the Ehrwald train station, a train to the nearby town of Garmisch, running to another train to Innsbruck, the all-too-familiar place where I had arrived terrified and confused and without a word of german only a month ago. Then a bus to the airport and, after several hours, the plane to London. Then onto an EasyBus that sped me from Gatwick into the heart of the city. Then, and only then, with all the complexities of travel fairly behind me, I allowed myself to get well and truly excited. I was back in England, in my beloved city, among English speakers and, most exciting by far, Casey awaited in the center of London. By the time I disembarked at West Brompton tube station I was literally shaking with excitement. Casey was sitting out front of the station with consummate stylishness and ease, strumming his guitar as if he owned not only the tube station, but the city. After a quick embrace and some overwhelmed exclamations of relief, we were back in the thick of it, finding a train to Hammersmith, on the road again, our travels and our tale united.
From here, once again, I can write about us and we, not solely me. Casey´s tale of the past month is bizarre and fascinating on a million different levels, and hopefully he will write it all soon. Arriving at Hammersmith, we leapt onto a bus, negotiating the unfamiliarity of English language, English money, English everything. Casey, as it turned out, had spent several days alone in London and so was now a more able traveler than I, which needless to say I did not find amusing. I made sure to firmly reestablish myself as the one who, whether I was write or wrong, got to pretend I was in charge and giving orders. He intelligently acquiesced. We found ourselves momentarily at the door of a lovely little house down a classic London tree lined street. Standing outside listening to the doorbell echo, we still could not quite believe that we were back on the track together, but when the door opened on light and noise and we were welcomed into the home of another familiar and yet distant old family, the Hollingtons, we entered into our storytelling routine as if not a day had passed.
The Hollingtons, which for our stay consisted only of the mom Sarah and daughter Danny, are old friends of the Stubbses whom we had somehow missed on our tour of England, but now they welcomed us unparalleled hospitality in the form of a vast roast chicken and a huge warm meal, good wine and great fun conversation. IN the warm golden light of their table we were comfortable and utterly happy.
After dinner we went upstairs and sat, strumming guitar and talking for a couple of hours. It became clear that the stories to exchange would take days, but we told all the most pressing tales and then, as eyelids grew leaden, fell into the deep sleep of relief and completion.