Mainland Trip Memoirs

Part 2: Appendicitis Anxiety in "The Smoke"

  Fortunately, London's smoky nickname is no longer relevant, since the Clean Air Act of 1956, (followed by revisions in 1968 and 1993), drastically decreased the "pea soup" smog that, historically, was a daily part of life for Londoners.  While researching London smog (smoke + fog) on the BBC News website, I was horrified by the fact that 4,000 recorded and at least 8,000 more unrecorded deaths were due to this pollution mixing with perfectly fatal winter weather conditions in December of 1952.*  If Ben and I had been alive in the first half of the 20th century and had felt inclined to travel to London, we probably wouldn't have been able to sightsee without pressing our noses against interesting buildings and monuments, while squinting our eyes and breathing through gas masks acquired through time travel to the future.  This is just one of the many thoughts typically running through my head - along with how off-track I am getting with this entry.
  I believe that I left you with a vivid description of our trip down to England's great city, but I have not yet shared with you how it felt to reach it.  I was a bit delirious from the long ride, and, keep in mind, London is sprawling.  This is why, when we found ourselves in city streets lined with laundromats, shops of any and every kind you can imagine, and pubs with  names like "The Ship and Shovell" or "The Admiral *insert random English-sounding name here*" or even "The Dog and Duck...Fox...Bull...Bell...etc. etc. etc.," I turned slightly to Ben to ask if we had arrived in London, while keeping one eye glued to the window, so as not to miss one thing.  Little did I know at this point how not little London is and that it would be impossible to take in everything in a number of years, let alone in the moments before we unloaded at the bus station.  Gawp I still did, however.  We were in the famous city of London!
  Resembling pack mules with our luggage, Ben and I headed for the London Victoria Train Station.*  I had heard some interesting trivia about how London was the most multi-cultural city in the world.  Standing under the bright lights of the beautiful station, drinking in my surroundings and guiltlessly people-watching, I could understand why.  In a small voice, awed by the intensity of one of London's most highly trafficked areas, I whispered to Ben, "We're in Britain's biggest city, and I have heard every language of the world except English!"  A young African woman with deep ebony skin and a height that seemed to nearly double my own gracefully floated past in a dress that would have sent a rainbow skittering for sunglasses.  Two little girls and a boy all with manicured blonde curls rotated around their parents' legs like prep school uniformed planets in a very busy solar system.  Languages curled, sizzled, oozed, smashed, rang, swung, tipped, clip-clopped, bounced, tinkled, and swirled in the air around me.
  I tried to concentrate on the next leg of our journey to reach our friends' house in East Dulwich but to no avail.  I held on tightly to Ben as he led us through the turnstiles and onto our train.  He is a good and patient man.  I should pause to tell you that, by gradually gaining travel experience, I am also gaining focus and losing some of my childlike wonder of every new country or area that we visit.  I should, perhaps, tell you this, but it would be a lie if I did.  If you hid in my backpack and traveled with me on our adventures, upon poking your head out for a breath and a peek, you would consistently find me with lips parted in awe, (I am not a cod-fish, Mary Poppins - simply astounded by my surroundings), eyes wide for the view, and nerves tingling in excitement.  The exotic, spicy breath of a thousand countries blows across my neck, enticing me to come and explore their secrets.  The addiction of traveling has found me, and I am powerlessly in its thrall.
  We arrived at our friends' house to find them incredibly welcoming and hospitable.  Over the next week that we had allowed in London, these wonderful people proved to be unfailing in their good hosting habits, and I will be forever grateful.  On our second day in London, Ben and I had plans to follow the typical tourist route of sight seeing.  Instead, we were able only to make brief outings in the Peckham neighborhood, as I was almost utterly incapacitated by sudden sickness.  I am still smarting from the memories of spending an entire week in London unable to even gaze up at Big Ben or Westminster Abbey except from the balcony of our friends' house.  A trip to a walk-in clinic led us to believe that I had chronic appendicitis or "a grumbling appendix," which the nurse practitioner explained to us could eventually result in acute appendicitis, burst appendix, unbearable pain, and an emergency surgery.  By the end of the week, we had added the inside of a London hospital's A&E (Accident and Emergency) department to our list of places visited.  After going through every test under the sun, I was finally diagnosed with severe dehydration and a bad case of gastroenteritis - a nasty bacterial or viral infection.  My cure was a strict adherence to a bland diet, constant fluid intake, and time.  So much for singing London Bridges while floating down the Thames on a barge, being enraptured by an afternoon performance in the Globe, or shivering through a Jack the Ripper tour!  The most depressing point of all was calling Ben's grandmother in Leatherhead to let her know we couldn't make it for a visit.  I had looked forward to meeting her so much, but life is unpredictable and, for better or worse, sometimes makes our decisions for us.
  We left London to continue our journey to France with a touch of disappointment but with a promise to return soon.  Next time, I'll be ready with a pumped up immune system, my own copy of London A to Z in hand, an Oyster card primed for a second (and hopefully not as nauseating) ride in those red double-deckers, and still-twinkling eyes, ready for a fresh adventure.     



* http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/december/19/newsid_3280000/3280473.stm
* http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/nov/09/first-world-war-dh-lawrence-report