All Roads Lead to Boss Goodman

On Saturday morning there was so much to deal with, I forgot I had just hurtled out into the wide world all alone. I had a 9:40 a.m. British Airways flight to Heathrow from Glasgow -- so, as usual, got up early and hauled my grand new rolling duffel (in the UK known as a sports bag with wheels, apparently) and my shoulder bag into a cab and then to the airport. Got there early, place was pretty deserted. I checked my bag -- it was 19.8 kg (limit is 32). The clerk said that my old itinerary (i.e., going on to Chicago and then LAX on that same day, instead of on Tuesday) was still in effect, but she put me on the flight anyway and advised me to contact American before leaving Heathrow to make sure everything was up to date. I had a printout of the correct itin that was my online receipt, but I was still kinda concerned. It all turned out ok, though.

At Heathrow I got my bag, phoned AA to make sure my ticket was right, and trundled out to find the Heathrow Express.



At 26 pounds it's expensive, sorta, but it only 15 minutes to get to central London. Worth it!

Behind the ticket counter was a young, pretty black guy with a close-cut hair/beard style. He had amazing eyes. He was on the phone when I approached. I hung back but he gestured me forward. He was saying, in a British accent (duh), "Dad, Dad -- [pause] Dad, I'm at work."

Me: [waves hand] That's ok, I'll wait. (The train leaves every 15 minutes. What do I care to wait for a second and gawk around while the dude finishes his parental bizness?)

Clerk: "No, what do you need? [very pleasant] [then, to Dad] No, Dad! I'm at work. Are you all right? [pause; takes my order of a round-trip ticket and my credit card] Ok, good. Good.

Me: [signs slip, etc.] Thanks.

Clerk: Have a nice day! [to Dad] Yeah, no, Dad! I'm at work. I'll call you later.

Me: [leaves]

I lugged my stuff down two alarmingly steep escalators into the bowels of the earth to catch the train. Got on, and quickly was at Paddington Station, where I managed to get a cab (only the British could come up with this orderly yet chaotic way of snagging a ride), then went to my hotel, the Queens Park Hotel.

It is kinda dumpy, but I have a double bed, and the sheets are clean, at least. The room is small, but that's usual. I got settled and called Boss Goodman, who suggested we meet at the Portobello Gold at 3. It was a short walk from the hotel, about 15 minutes, and, as it was Saturday, the famed Portobello market was going off. A riot of booths and wares for sale. Clothes, shoes, antiques, trendy stuff, jewelry, handbags, tools, fixtures -- just anything and everything, as the song goes.

I found the pub and went inside under the tall blue sign with big gold letters vertically spelling THE GOLD. Stood there blinking for a moment, then walked around to the right side of the bar.



I spotted the man from the picture at the far end. Not too tall, but a big guy with short salt & pepper hair and casual dress. I peered at him and approached, pointed at him, and he at me. "Are you Boss?" I asked, although I knew. He was, of course. On the counter next to him was a white plastic bag, like a grocery bag, containing a bitchen pair of shoes he'd just bought in the market, oxblood wingtips. totally cool.

So we chatted, and he bought me a drink, John Powers neat. We talked about Mick, my trip, his heart attack, the city, and getting some Indian food later on. I then drank a shot of absinthe, and soon we went on up the Portobello Road, eventually to his place to hang out some more. I was feeling pretty good by that time. It wasn't hot out but not cold, a little cloudy but pleasant. The market dazzled with its produce, leather goods, tapestries. Souvenirs and faux-couture.

We caught a cab to Boss's apartment, where I met his roommate Anthony. Who is big and gay. And we smoked, listened to music, talked. I toured the little garden Tony planted behind the flat. So pretty and inventive, with every niche and nook used wisely. Typically, coming back inside, I tripped on a step I forgot was there, giving myself a nice goose egg on my right arm, which caught the doorjamb. Afternoon drinking is hazardous. but fun.

Presently we went off to the Indian restaurant. We took the bus, which was not scary at all due to Boss's presence. We were standing on the corner waiting for the bus, talking about whatever, and I felt strangely happy to be there. I think Boss did too. It was like we could be sudden friends due to our mutual friendship. It was cool.

Tony met us at the restaurant, where we ate and drank soooo much. (Moan.) It was all so good. Just playing with the papadams and sauces/condiments: a coconut/curry hash, the raita, mango chutney, weirdly addicting pickled lime, and some chopped onions with maybe mint? (Didn't have that one.) Boss was really into combining the flavors -- mango w/lime, coconut w/raita & onion ... that was fun. We had chicken tikka masala, chicken makti masala, lamb w/tomatoes & peppers, motor panir, eggplant something, pulao rice, garlic naan ... some kinda salad ... plus beer for them and wine for me. And Drambuie at the end. 75 pounds for the whole feast ... crazy! Delicious.

Went back to Boss's in a mini-cab and smoked some more. Hung out and got tired. He called me my own cab, and I was back at Le Dump in no time flat. A rather eventful and enjoyable first day in London, but I am sooo tired (and not a little drunk). Which is probably why I feel too awake. I gotta try to sleep. After all, this is my time to relax and recharge. Heh. Despite hectic day, it does feel far less action-packed than most of the days in Scotland.