As a result, the Salton Sink or Salton Basin has long been alternately a fresh water lake and a dry desert basin, depending on random river flows and the balance between inflow and evaporative loss. A lake would exist only when it was replenished by the river and rainfall, a cycle that repeated itself countless times over hundreds of thousands of years

The sea was created in the early 20th century when the Colorodo River overflowed and burst down into the area known as the Salton Sink. After the flood waters died down, authorities investigated damming the river to prevent such a flood from happening again, leading to the development of the Hoover Dam. Since the Salton Sea had no outlet, the ecosystem was put on a sort of contained overdrive. The salinity is much greater than seawater since the water has nowhere to go but up.

Most striking, however, are the fish die-offs. Due to an abundance of algae and hence a large fish population that feeds on the algae, deoxygenation of the water results in massive fish deaths. Various parasites and bacteria have been discovered that would also contribute to the mortality rate, on top of the salinity of the water.

All of this makes for a really interesting site to take pictures. I had heard only briefly of the area from a photography teacher and one other student, so one weekend I decided to check it out for myself. But first, I would need some gear.My collection of lenses is nearly complete, save for a solid telephoto. The closest I can get right now is 70mm. To fill the frame without getting within 5 feet of the subject, you really need something north of 150mm. I went to Samy’s Camera in Playa del Rey and rented a Canon 200mm 1.8L lens. The used ones on eBay go for about $4,000. Along with the light meter and tripod I rented, Samy’s put a hold of $5,000 on my credit card.

At first I walked my bicycle down Jefferson Blvd towards the Big Blue Bus stop. The small suitcase that housed the lens was in one hand, the 15-pound tripod loosely contained in my backpack. I had grossly underestimated the sizes of both. After about 10 minutes, realizing how long it would take me to make it back home, I decided to just go for it. I carefully climbed on my bicycle, and slowly started peddling down the sidewalk. Unfortunately, tree roots had grown so thick they were pushing up the concrete slabs of the sidewalk, often making the path impassable. Even more unfortunately, the brakes on my bike don’t work so well, so every now and then I would have to drop both feet to the ground and skid to a stop. Then shuffle myself, the bike and lens over the ruined sidewalk with one hand and two feet.

The next morning I picked up a rental car from Enterprise and set out for the desert. About two hours later I hit the wind farm just west of Palm Springs. When I first saw them on the way to Coachella two years ago, I knew I had to come back to take some pictures. This time, one eye was on the road ahead while the other scanned the rest areas and side roads near the highway. Access to get close enough for a decent picture was limited. And even though I had an enormous lens, I wanted privacy. Finally, I found a service road that ran along I-10, and it looked like I could walk across some open lots, right up to the windmills.

I parked the car near some bushes off the side of the service road, and snapped on the monster. I cautiously walked across the undeveloped land, closer to the power station and rotating turbines. Indeed, there didn’t seem to be a fence until you got within a hundred yards of the first windmill. And even though there were no trespassing or keep-out signs, I was still nervous. After all, I was a brown man walking around power infrastructure equipment with a telephoto lens the size of a small dog.

Taking pictures of those things was about as much fun as I hoped it would be. Even though I couldn’t get right up to them, the lens got me as close as I needed to be. Railway lines ran beside the power station, which provided a nice foreground. I finished off a roll of black-and-white, walked back to the car, and continued east.

I had suggested that we go to the Daily Pint, a dive bar that specialized in craft beer and Scotch, only about a mile up Pico Blvd from my apartment, on the route of the #7 bus. I told Stedl that I planned on taking the bus there, the assumption was that he’d come with me. Immediately he asked “Am I going to die, Bj?” I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. I tried to calm him down and assure him that a 5-minute ride on the Big Blue Bus wasn’t going to kill him.

Stedl called back a few minutes later and after hesitating, said that he decided to drive. I grilled him about his reasons for not taking the bus. “I … I can’t be bothered”, he said. Stedl drove to the bar, and as we were walking from his parking spot, about a block away from the bar, the #7 bus passed us. I threw my hands up and gave Stedl the “I told you so” expression.

But the fact is that Stedl simply shared the belief of most people in LA, that the Metro was dangerous or unreliable or not worth it … at least most of the people who could actually take public transportation, but choose not to. Even worse, I had no way of countering the argument. What could I say? Look at me, I’m still alive and well and even though it takes a little longer to get to work, public transportation hasn’t done me wrong? Put me side-by-side with Stedl and that argument goes right out the window: most people think I’m black; Stedl looks like one of the Beach Boys.

Today my faith in humanity was restored. At some point between when I got off the bus until I was walking down the train platform at the Aviation/LAX Green Line station, I lost my wallet. I didn’t know it until I heard a very distinct yell through my headphones. The more you take public transit, the more desensitized you get to people yelling at you, at people around you, or at themselves (more on this later). But when someone is really trying to call you, somehow you hear it.

I removed one earbud and turned around. An African-American man was at the other end of the platform, holding an object high into the air with an outstretched arm. I moved closer. He shouted, “Is this your wallet??” With my right hand I quickly ran my palm across the outside of my right pocket. My wallet wasn’t there. Shit. “Yeah!”, I called out. The man acknowledged that it was my wallet, then suddenly kneeled down and dropped it on the ground. Then he turned his heels and ran down the stairs, off the platform.

Perfect. I imagined finding my wallet with the $3 cash missing, or at least my credit cards, but when I picked it up and quickly looked inside everything was there. Not a single thing was missing, not even my bus pass, and I have the Rolls-Frickin-Royce of LA passes. It gets you on any bus or train in all of Los Angeles county, good for the rest of the month.

I felt awful, that my first thought went to being robbed by this guy who was not only nice enough to find my wallet, but also to chase me down and give it back. He ran away like that probably because he was trying to catch a bus. The reality of getting all your stuff stolen in a situation like this might’ve been true in the past, but maybe times have changed and we should start trusting each other more. Or just stop dropping our most personal items behind us like a trail of breadcrumbs.

My time in San Francisco was great, and if I could stay unemployed forever, that’s exactly how I would want to live my life. Simply, I had the life of an American housewife. I’d have a leisurely breakfast in the morning and visit the local farmers markets. On other days I’d go for a run or do some yoga at a wonderful studio down the street (the Yoga Loft, check them out). Then I’d experiment in the kitchen with cakes, pies, cookies, bread, and a host of savory dishes. My brother and his girlfriend Nikki were my guinea pigs.

A couple months after I got there my brother got  a puppy. A little lab-boxer-pit bull mix that we named Newman (after the Seinfeld antagonist, of course). Here’s a ridiculously cute picture of him when he was still a baby:

I soon realized that raising a puppy was not the wonderland of cuddles, fetch and “awws” that I thought it’d be. If it’s anything like raising a child, well, count me out.

My life began being measured in hour increments, as the little guy had to be taken out quite often. I’ve now cleaned up more pee than I’m comfortable talking about. Every evening my brother and I would have an intense, 30-minute discussion of Newman’s bowel movements, his behavior at home, his behavior on walks, and what he’d learned that day. It was often frustrating and maddening, but in the end, how long can you stay upset at something that cute? Since then, Newman has grown up to be an obedient and loyal — albeit weird — young man, and I now miss him every hour.

Of course, all along I’d spend time applying for countless jobs around the Bay Area. It was tedious and disheartening as more and more of my applications went unanswered. I began to question whether I’d ever find a job.

I did receive an offer from my friend Ed’s company. They make unmanned aerial vehicles, or “drones”, to those who watch 24. They were forming a test team and were trying to beef it up with seasoned veterans of Big Aerospace testers. They ended up offering me a job, but it wasn’t as attractive as I had hoped (read: money), and in the end I was eager to live and work in a much larger city than Hood River, OR.

Finally I decided to see if I could go back to Australia and work for Kobold in Brisbane.

The immigration process was not what I expected. In my head I imagined myself striding confidently into the airport, my former boss waiting with a handmade sign, visa in hand. Reality was harshly different and months later I was still waiting for papers to even be submitted.

In the meantime, yet another friend got me an interview with his company, Space Exploration Technologies, in Los Angeles. I was vehemently opposed to living in LA at the time, but I decided to at least head down for the interview, just to see what it was all about. By the end of the week I had been offered a job and on the other side of the weekend I accepted.

I had seemingly come full circle, but I was confident I’d carry with me the lessons I learned traveling: to appreciate the arts, culture and character of the city I was in; to live locally and support the community around me; to take the time to enjoy life. I would soon find, however, that there’s a stark difference between learning and doing. Especially when you’re a rocket scientist.

I decided to head back to London anyway and see my cousin Shanti since I wasn’t able to before I left London the first time. Phil dropped me off at the Glossop train station and after a big hug goodbye, I waited for the train to Manchester with a car’s worth of rambunctious school kids.

On the train to London I considered my options. Backpacking with the wrong attitude is a recipe for disaster. It sounds like a cliche, but you have to want it. Otherwise you walk like a zombie through the streets of ________, never really knowing what you’re seeing or even appreciating it. Backpacking is a drug. People get addicted to it. But knowing when to take a break is the key to enjoying it in the long term (I started down this “backpacking as an addiction” analogy and now it just sounds disturbing).

I contemplated going to Ireland and trying to find a job, but the prospect of conducting the search I performed in NZ, except this time in a big city, it seemed daunting. Especially when I had engineering jobs on the horizon; two years of being away from the software game made me start worrying about my future.

I was nearly at London by the time I was nearly at a decision. And it was one of the most difficult ones I’d had to make so far. I called Satya’s cell from the local train station and he gave me walking directions. I reached and finally got to see Shanti, Krithika and the new house. I regaled them with stories from the road and what I had been up to for the last few months. That night I searched online and found a ticket back to Boston for an incredible price. I had no choice.

The next morning Shanti drove me to the train station, and I made the 45 minute journey to Heathrow. It seemed surreal, almost like coming home for Laura’s funeral. Even as they were serving the in-flight meal I didn’t believe it. I landed in Boston and got picked up by my mother at the airport.

Even though I knew that a year down the road I’d regret it, it felt good to be home. Just digging through my old clothes and boxes was an adventure. After wearing the same set of clothes for nearly 2 years, even an old pair of socks was exciting.

And although my stories wouldn’t be motivated by random travels anymore, I knew it wouldn’t be the end of my adventures. My future was just as open as it was sitting on that park bench in Interlaken, when with the turn of a heel I redirected the course of my journey. Now I can’t say that it’s going to be as interesting as a road trip across Tasmania, gardening in Western Australia, bartending in New Zealand, motorcycling around Southeast Queensland or hiking in Eastern Europe, but it’ll still sure beat whatever you’re doing.

We drove through some of the smaller towns, around several lakes and tried to figure out what we wanted to do. It was nice enough just driving, so by the time it started to get dark, we found one of the villages to stay for the night. It was called Ambleside and I’m sure if it had been during the peak winter season, or even the peak of the summer season, it would’ve been filled with outdoor enthusiasts and travelers. But to our benefit, we found a room at a really nice B&B for a pretty good price.

That night I actually had a second phone interview with Pixar (the first was conducted from Rebecca’s bedroom phone), so I spoke with the team manager while sitting on the floor near the hotel room entrance. After the interview Phil — who had been listening in the whole time — raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and blue out a gust of air, “That sounded intense, mate.” It certainly was. In fact, I now use some of the questions I was asked during that interview when I grill prospective rocket scientists (more on that later).

Phil and I got changed and went out to a local restaurant for dinner. Hangovers hit Phil like Tyson’s right hook so he usually saves up and plans for nights to go wild. That night wasn’t one of them, and since we had missed the last movie time at the town’s small, independent theatre, we called it a night after a very rustic meal.

The next morning we set off for Scotland, which was only a few hours drive away. As we drove into the city we looked up places to stay and what to do. We had arrived close to sundown, so by the time we found a suitable & cheap hotel near the Royal Mile, it was already getting dark. The Royal Mile is Edinburgh’s main drag, starting at Edinburgh Castle and moving down into the city.

We went out for dinner, then back to the hotel to get ready for the night, and finally down the street visiting a couple pubs. The first place had a great selection of Scotch and I did my best to sample a few that I had never heard of. They also had haggis on the menu, and after hearing so much about it, I had to try it. For those of you who don’t know,

Haggis is a dish containing sheep’s ‘pluck’ (heart, liver and lungs), minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock, and traditionally boiled in the animal’s stomach for approximately three hours.

As the 2001 English edition of the Larousse Gastronomique puts it, “Although its description is not immediately appealing, haggis has an excellent nutty texture and delicious savoury flavour”.

I ordered the half-plate, which actually ended up being quite large. And guess what, it was freaking delicious. Exactly as Larousse puts it, it had an excellent texture, like the inside of a mince meat pie, and an incredibly savoury taste. If I had the stomach to make it myself, I totally would … Sorry, I had to.

Sitting next to us were two middle-aged women and one asked if we would watch her purse while she went out for a cigarette. The two of them had been there the whole time and were previously talking quietly to themselves. I can’t remember the details, but one of them suddenly started asking us about using a coin to dictate the night’s activities. Phil and I were trying to decide on what to do next and where to go. We took the ladies’ suggestion and flipped the coin, which then told us to head to the next bar. As Phil and I were walking up to the bar to pay our tab he remarked, “You know, I bet they flipped a coin to decide to talk to us …”.

We went to another pub down the street and surprisingly the two women followed us shortly after. To be fair they were two of the only pubs open in that area, so it wasn’t THAT surprising, but Phil was quite convinced we had a couple cougars on our tails. We managed to escape without much ado back to the hotel. It was a quiet night, but we were gearing up for the next night in York.

The next day we found ourselves in York just after dinner time. My guidebook suggested a quite nice, small hotel near the center of town, but they were booked solid. The landlord was very helpful, and he helped us get a room at another hotel just around the corner.

York is a college town, and also a very pretty, medieval English city. It’s walled in, with the famous York Minster dominating the inner sanctum. Phil’s ex-girlfriend (now again-girlfriend, more on that later) went to school there so Phil was familiar with the area. We ate at a mediocre Italian restaurant, then followed some college kids who looked like they were in the middle of  game of Pub Golf to a bar down the street. It was surprising empty, but after a couple hops we finally found a couple places that were lively. One had a line half a block long, and eventually, Phil and I were waiting to get in. It was a really strange place, a 3-story building with various rooms and atmospheres. At once a house party, club and lounge bar, it was intense. Phil ended up meeting a girl and disappeared, and after some time, I got bored and went back to the hotel. Not ideal, but I still had a good time. Mostly because on the way back I found a food truck run by the Most Friendly Kebab Seller. Ever. And the food was amazing. Before I went to bed that night I drunkenly scribbled in my notebook “BEST KEBAB EVER – YORK – NICE GUY”.

Somewhere around 5 in the morning there was knocking on the door and Phil stumbled in. Even half asleep, I grin and probe him for details. We slept in a little longer before checking out and walking into town. The weather wasn’t great, but I got some pictures of the cathedral and we strolled around the town for a bit. After lunch we drove back to Glossop.

I bought a sandwich to go and had a cup of tea while I waited. The train ride was pretty uneventful, though I enjoyed watching the English countryside at a blur.

My last connection was running late, though by the early evening I was finally pulling into Manchester’s Piccadilly station. I called Phil to let him know I had arrived, but it went straight to voicemail.

I walked through the station towards the main entrance, and just as I was leaving Phil a message — in mid-sentence, in fact — I passed an older vagrant kneeling on the ground, looking concerned and confused. Suddenly, when I was only a few feet away, another vagrant rushes towards the side of the one on the floor, sweeps his leg out in stride and kicks the man on the ground squarely in the chest. Phil received a message that sounded something like this:

Hey Phil, it’s Bj. I just got into Piccadilly station and I’m walking through the station now. I’ll head … oh! uh … wha … ok, some dude just got kicked in the chest! There’s some kind of bum fight that just broke out in front of me. Listen I’ll be hanging around the main entrance, just give me a call back.

The man on the ground was clutching his arm and on lying on his side as a couple others pulled the aggressor off him. He didn’t seem like he was in critical condition, and others had stopped to help, so I made my way to look for Phil. I stood near the main entrance of the station and scanned the terminal.

My eye caught another group of people on the other side of the room from where the bum fight took place. One twenty-something was very angrily in another twenty-somethings face. And I must have been just outside earshot because I could’ve sworn they were arguing about one of the mens’ jeans. I stood alarmed and at attention, wondering what kind of place this was.

Phil called me back and asked me where I was in the station. I said I was standing next to what I thought was the main entrance. “Ehm … did you by any chance pass a couple old guys fighting?” “Yes! I’m like right near there.” “OK I know where you are, I’ll be right there.” Phil walked up to me with a grin on his face. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, raised his eyebrows and said, “Welcome to Manchester!”

I dropped my things off at Phil’s parent’s house and we headed out to the pub in Glossop, the suburb of Manchester where Phil lived with his folks. There was a fight on that night featuring Manchester’s favorite son, the boxer Ricky Hatton. The plan was to hit the bars and then head over to Danny Oakes’. If you remember, Dan was also at The Lodge in Wanaka when I first arrived and soon decided to stay. In fact, he and I were the first volunteers to help Gayle with her gardening. If I hadn’t met Dan that day nearly 1 1/2 years earlier, I wouldn’t be in Manchester at all. Of course, Dan couldn’t stay to join the adventures Phil and I embarked upon, but he was never far from thought.

We took a cab into downtown Glossop after a quick shower, shave and change of clothes. The best thing about the UK is that everyone has their “local”. The pub in town that everyone goes to, all the time. It’s where they watch soccer matches, where they bought their first beers, where the night now always begins. And in most of England the pubs are old enough that it’s likely where their grandparents and parents had the same experiences. Indeed, Phil’s parents were there too. I met Phil’s crew and it felt straight out of a Guy Ritchie movie, with thick northern accents and interesting nicknames like Gazza, Deanie and Fat Frank (The first two are real, the latter I threw in for emphasis … though I’m 90% sure one of Phil’s friends’ names begins with “Fat”).

From there we made the long trek three doors down to Harley’s, the one “club” in Glossop. Nine-point-nine out of ten nights in Glossop begins at the pub and ends at Harley’s. And those are the only two stops. One of Phil’s sisters was there, which made me realize that in less than a couple hours — by simply bar hopping — I had met almost all of Phil’s immediate family.

Suddenly, one of the bouncers was dragging Deanie out of the club in a headlock. Apparently this was not an isolated event. Phil was chasing after them, pleading with one very large and scary African to not hurt his friend. Bouncers in the UK can be rather brutal, even on harmless drunks. And their friends. The bouncer flashed a crazed expression at Phil and suddenly I was after Phil, pleading with him to stop pleading with the bouncer. So there we were, moving in a train towards the door. The bouncer had Deanie in a vice grip between enormous biceps, Phil was extending arms of peaces towards them and I was lunging after Phil yelling “Phil that guy is gonna kick YOUR ass too!”

They threw Deanie out and like the flip of a switch we were back on the dance floor, with Phil trying to convince me to go bump some girls with my ass. I’m not sure if I’ve discussed this before, but one of the leading methods of picking up a girl at a dance club in England is, wait for it, to mosey up to her and bump her butt with your own, in a semi-dancing motion. It’s an art form. Before Phil left New Zealand he and I went out for a night in Queenstown and at a bar there he actually convinced me to try it, and I gotta tell you, it works. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling it that night and my butt stayed safely within the bounds of my personal space.

After Harley’s we all hopped in cabs and made for Oakesies. Hatton lost, but Phil’s the Manchester lad who gets credit for a knockout. Deanie showed up and you could tell he had a look about him. He started laying into Phil, criticizing him for not standing up to the bouncers in the club. He nagged him incessantly about a night a couple weeks earlier when a fight had broken out at another  bar and Phil hadn’t lived up to Deanie’s high expectations. Phil’s not a man driven by his temper, but even he has his limits, and that night sent him flying over them. Phil took one swing and knocked Deanie out.

We had barely gotten a couple hours of sleep when Phil had to get up to go to work. He was racked with guilt. Not only because he had punched his friend (even though his friend was acting like an ass), but because he works for his friend’s brother. And when Deanie comes downstairs for the family breakfast that morning sporting a huge black eye, well, the workplace could get awkward. Phil was helping Deanie’s brother set up a paintball business, and I had planned to check it out that day, but since I was pretty much still drunk I decided to stay in bed a little longer. I had a chat with his parents and in the early afternoon Phil was back home. We had a quiet night, grabbing some takeaway fish and chips and heading to Dan’s place to watch a movie. We needed at least one day of recovery before embarking on our trip.

My traveling philosophy is based around doing things that the majority of other travelers wouldn’t do. I don’t like group tours, sightseeing buses, or going to museums for the sake of going to museums. I like visiting quaint neighbourhoods (and their bakeries), neglected galleries and museums, or maybe just spending an afternoon eating lunch in a park.

I met Rebecca in a neighbourhood near the British Museum, and we went to a small used bookstore where Rebecca was searching for a Christmas present for her boyfriend. She told me it was arguably one of the best secondhand bookstores in the city. We found a beautiful print of The Jungle Book as well as one of Jane Eyre, a favorite of Nick’s. We browsed around the store for a while before walking towards the museum. I had no intention of spending any amount of time in the British Museum, but there was one thing I wanted to see. Fortunately, the museum is free, so I had the freedom to spend as much or as little time there as I wanted.

The Rosetta Stone. Just like the Code of Hammurabi, it was another one of those vestiges of my elementary schooling that always stuck in mind. The ancient key that unlocked a forgotten language. I had to see it.

So did, apparently, several large groups of school children and Asian tourists. I managed to get close to its glass housing and took a nice long look before moving on. They allowed photography in the museum, which I don’t really believe in when it comes to historic artifacts, so while I took the high road hoardes of Japanese amateur photographers took turns taking pictures of each other.

One large hall of the museum was dedicated to the famous Parthenon sculptures, better known as the Elgin Marbles. The story of these artifacts is actually quite interesting: The sculptures, inscriptions and architectural pieces that make up the set were originally part of the Parthenon and other Acropolis buildings. At the beginning of the 19th century, Lord Elgin, then Ambassador to the Ottoman court in Istanbul, convinced the Sultan to let him take these pieces back to London for his own collection. Labelled a theif, vandal and looter by many, the removal of such precious antiquities sparked serious debate in and out of the the British Parliament, until they eventually exonerated him of his actions. But the government then purchased the pieces from Lord Elgin and donated them to the Museum.

Having Rebecca around to explain all this to me, as well as point out interesting features of certain sculptures, and describe how they would’ve appeared on the actual buildings was invaluable. The passion and excitement that she conveyed was infectious; I can only strive to speak so fervently about what I love.

Although I said I wanted to high-tail it out of there after seeing the Rosetta Stone, there were a couple temporary exhibits that deserved a look. I spotted them while surveying the floor map of the Museum. The first was a — and this might sound like a joke, but it really isn’t — a 50kg, £1.5 million, gold statue of British model Kate Moss doing an ankles-behind-the-ears pose. Seriously. It kinda freaked us out.

I can almost see where the artist, Marc Quinn, was going with it. It’s the largest gold statue created in modern times, and it was placed in an area of the Museum dominated by works of Ancient Egypt and other decadent cultures. Old world artists created similar statues of their gods and idols, can you say Marc Quinn did anything different? If so, you’re not watching enough E! and MTV.

The second temporary exhibit was a piece by hyper-realist Ron Mueck. I can’t remember where I first read about his work, but I knew I wanted to see it in person. His specialty are mixed-media sculptures of things that look incredibly real, but are out-of-scale. Like a human foot the size of a sedan, or in this case, a very large head of a sleeping man (supposedly a recreation of Mueck’s own face).

It’s hard to show scale with the photograph, but the width of the face was probably 4 feet, the length around 7 feet. It was simply incredible.

Rebecca and I had a nice lunch at a small sandwich shop and took a break from the cold wind. By the time we finished eating, the skies had clouded over and it looked like it might drizzle. We were in the area of a museum Rebecca really wanted to see, a place she had been to as a child, but wanted to revisit with fresh perspective: Sir John Soane’s Museum.

This is another interesting story: John Soane was an architect who’s buildings often shaped the landscape of late 18th/early 19th century London. Towards the end of the 18th century, he purchased a house near Lincoln Fields which he used as an office, library and home. He was an avid collector and over the years amassed a treasure trove of artifacts, artwork and sculptures that rivalled the quality of those found in the British Museum. Many of the paintings were ones he did himself, of his own buildings. Towards the end of his life, he bought the building next door to his house to expand his collection. Finally, four years before his death, he succeeded in having the house and collection bequeathed to the country.

It was a cold, windy and wet day — not unheard of in London — and as we approached the museum we were greeted by a very friendly doorman … or gateman, he was standing at the end of a short walk away from the building. As I would soon find out, the museum is so cramped they have to meter the flow of people coming in and out. When Rebecca and I were finally let in, I had to check my bag at the door … not because I had anything scandalous  in it, or they were afraid I would steal something, but because the house was so small and the hallways so narrow that there was a danger of knocking something over.

It’s hard to describe the experience of the Soane Museum. It’s unlike any other museum you will ever see. I won’t go too much into it, but it’s 3 floors of narrow halls, and hidden walkways and stairs, every inch of which is covered with artwork, or a tribal mask, or a scarcophagus. One room had hinged panels built into the walls that could be opened and closed, which uncovered many of Soane’s paintings. The upper floors had been meticulously recreated to mirror the original decor.

Later that night I took Rebecca and Nick out to dinner in Chinatown. It was a busy restaurant, and after some terrible service from the maitre’d, we finally found a waitress who gave us the scoop on what to order that night.

It had been a whirlwind visit to London, but as I would soon discover, the small twister was evolving into a typhoon. I was headed to Manchester the next day to meet Phil, and he and I were going to do an impromptu road trip of the UK in less than a week.

The Barbican is an estate in the northern part of the city which encompasses about 40 acres and contains everything from schools to residences to a massive performing arts centre. After WWII that part of London was completed destroyed and much the population had been killed or driven away. The city chose an architectural firm to design and build a replacement. It’s a pretty eerie neighbourhood, in my opinion. London is such a mix of old and new, traditional and modern, that to see such uniform planning — especially in the style of the late 60s and early 70s — was interesting and surreal.

I walked to the Performing Arts Centre and took a look at a small exhibit featuring artwork rendered from images in the film Waltz With Bashir. I passed through the large concrete courtyard and tried to find my way back to the main street.

After the Barbican I headed into town and went to Chinatown. London’s Chinatown is much smaller than I thought it would be, only about 2 blocks, but it consists almost entirely of restaurants. I picked a dumpling house where the fare is hand made. After an order of dumplings and some mint bubble tea, I went up to the theatre/arts district of Soho.

I passed a small street market that was just about closing, through a short alley of strip clubs and peep shows, and then to the Piccadilly/Leicester area near the British Portrait Gallery. The museum was featuring an Annie Lebowitz collection of portraits, which I desperately wanted to see, but I didn’t have much time before it closed.

I walked down to the Thames and took some pictures of the Millenium Wheel and Bridge.

Then I swung back to Covent Garden and checked out the Apple Market, one of the oldest public markets. I wandered around the grounds until I heard from Rebecca. She and I met up with Nick and his brother at a bar, then we walked through London’s West End and saw the famous Christmas light decorations. Nick, Rebecca and I had a couple beers at a true English pub, then called it a night.

Rebecca lives in the neighbourhood of West Hampstead, which borders one side of the massive Hampstead Heath. “The Heath” is 790 acres of parkland, one of the highest points in the city and home to the Kenwood House estate. We started by walking through West Hampstead towards another small neighbourhood nearby (can’t remember the name). That area is incredible, with narrow cobblestone streets winding through expensive property. We stopped at an antique shop and browsed for a little while before having some lunch. After lunch Rebecca stopped at a princess store (I’m not sure how to describe it … it’s a store targeted at 12-year old girls — or girls who think they’re still 12 years old — filled with pink fluffy things and glitter), where Rebecca bought presents for a couple young girls she teaches.

We walked through the Heath towards the Kenwood House where we stopped to check out a garden sale of herbs and plants, seed books and things like that. Just outside the Heath, near the Kenwood estate is a small pub that was our ultimate destination. It was the English pub poster-child: low doorframes leading to dimly lit rooms, and all of it built with ancient wood. We had a couple ciders while admiring the decor and sheltering ourselves from the cold and wind outside.

By the time we walked back to Rebecca’s place, it was getting dark and there was an incredible sunset over West London. I tried to take some pictures, but without a tripod and sure footing they didn’t come out very well.

I needed cash, to begin with, but strangely, I wasn’t hungry. A bakery stand had just opened and a line had already formed for coffee, but though it carried a range of pastries, I usually try to avoid bakeries in dirty bus terminals. A man stopped me and asked me about where I was from, apparently I had a very interesting look about me. The bald head really throws people off.

The foreign exchange booth finally opened it’s shutters and I exchanged my Euros for quid. I left the bus station and walked a block down the street to the Victoria train station. I wasn’t about to spend a day in London lugging my giant backpack around with me, so I needed to find baggage lockers. Unfortunately, by the time I finally found them at the train station, it wasn’t even open yet. I sat on a chair nearby and thumbed through my LP.

Victoria Station is situated west of the city center. In fact, a walk towards the city takes you by Buckingham Palace, Parliament and Westminster. I came up with a general outline of things I wanted to see that day and mapped out my approach.

After leaving my large backpack, I set out from the station towards St James Park and the Palace. The very same way Britain tends to greet all of it’s citizens each every morning, it greeted me: there was considerable fog and a light sprinkling of rain. The grounds of Buckingham Palace were understandably empty, the Yeoman Warders themselves wouldn’t be caught dead at this hour. Apparently the changing of the guards occurs at 11 AM every other day, and even if I was there on the right day, I wasn’t about to wait around for it.

A walk along the border of St James Park brought me to the Parliament buildings and Westminster Abbey. I continued on past Trafalgar Square and Charing Cross, then towards the Embankment. The plan was to walk by some of London’s more famous landmarks, then spend some time at the Tate Modern. The walk along the Thames was pleasant through the crisp and wet morning, but when I crossed the river and arrived at the famous museum, I realized I still had some time before it opened too. I found a diner nearby and ate an overpriced and overrepresented meal. Then I got a coffee at a cafe across the street from the museum with the hopes of surfing the web until I realized much to my dismay that I had forgotten my laptop charger.

Finally the museum was open, and I spent a couple hours wandering from floor to floor. The best part about the Tate Modern, more than it’s though-provoking exhibits and the care to which every object and every space is designed, is that it’s free.

Right next door is the original site of Shakespeare’s Globe theatre, or at least what’s left of it.

Further along the south bank of the Thames I passed the popular shopping/tourism/dining area near London Bridge, and further along was the even more popular Tower Bridge. Thankfully, the weather had begun to get better.

I crossed the bridge and ended up at the Tower of London. For just a second I contemplated going inside, but then recalled that I had been there many years ago and even though I didn’t remember a thing about it, it was good enough. Plus, I hate crowds.

That morning, while waiting for the bag check office to open, I read about the various public markets that are held around London. There was a popular one in Notting Hill called the Portobello Market, so with the time I had left before Rebecca finished work, I jumped on the tube and headed in that direction. Just outside the train station I saw a beautiful watch in the window of a pawn shop, of all places. I sat and stared at it for a couple minutes, then finally ducked inside. The owner was talking to a customer who was clearly a friend or a regular. I asked the guy behind the counter if I could see that watch. As I turned it over in my hands, remarking about how great it was, he smiled and said I could tell the owner myself, and pointed at the man he had been talking to. Then I made the mistake of asking how much it was. The answer was 600 pounds, somewhere in the neighbourhood of $900. I carefully gave it back, and told him I’d just step out to rob a couple banks and return for the watch.

Notting Hill is a really nice, upscale neighbourhood of quiet streets, beautiful and well-maintained houses and quaint shops. Portobello Road starts out with a few modest clothing shops and descends into a combination of food/produce stalls, arts and crafts and other merchandise, flanked by brick-and-mortar stores.

As I walked passed one of the clothing stores at the head of the street I spotted something that actually made me double back. No, not a pastry or pie … though what that would be doing in a clothing store I’m not so sure … it was a hat. To be precise, it was exactly the hat I was looking for, style, color and all. I tried them on and and found they fit better than any other hat I had tried so far. And remember that’s quite a statement: I had tried on nearly every kind of hat from Amsterdam to Geneva to Paris. It was breathable and stretchy, wool knit and conformed to my head perfectly (when you’re bald that really matters). It was more expensive than I wanted to spend on a hat (it certainly wasnt watch money), but as you can imagine from enduring my relentless recounting of how important one is, it’s well worth the investment. I ended up buying it, and it turned out to be a fantastic decision.

The market itself was on it’s last legs, so I didn’t get to see all of it. I walked down to the end of the road, pausing briefly at the stalls which remained open. At the end of the road was a small, empty pub, and I stopped there for a couple pints of Guinness. On my way back I picked up a chicken sandwich at a grill stand run by a very friendly and talkative German couple.

I met up with Rebecca at a Starbucks near Gloucester Road station. I hadn’t seen her in more than 1 1/2 years and in the middle of that crowd of strangers I put my pack down and gave her the biggest bear hug my tired and malnourished body could muster. We took the tube back to her place in West Hampstead and after I took a much-needed shower we met up with her boyfriend Nick (now fiancee, congrats Bec!) at a nearby restaurant. We spent a quiet night at her place, making up for lost time.