This unplanned trip to London gave me a chance to connect with friends. The past three days were a whirlwind of old faces combined with new places. Our previous haunts have been upscaled into more lucrative venues. At art galleries, museums, parks, and restaurants we caught up on the years. Everyone was kind enough to say that I hadn't changed physically and my cousin Sara held a mirror to my reality during last night's ride from Brixton, claiming my life is the same as it ever was even with child.
"You work, you write, you travel. What's the change?" Longtime friends are ruthless after a few drinks.
And we had a few more glasses at her house and I fell asleep on the floor watching a bootleg version of HUGO.
In the morning I ignored the cellphone's playing an insipid song, however the caller persisted in attempting to reach me. I finally shrugged off the wraps of a mild hangover and pushed the answer tab on the screen with the intention of telling the person on the other end to call me later.
"I'm at the airport waiting for my flight at 3." It was Persian Nick. The TV producer was a busy man. During the week he had less than a half-minute to field my calls.
"3?" I checked the time on the cellphone. "That's four hours from now."
"There's a reason."
"You're incredibly anal and have to be at the airport hours before departure." That was my modus operandi.
"No." This was a guessing game.
"You flight was cancelled."
"Close."
"You missed your flight."
"Correct." Persian Nick was heading off Istanbul to celebrate his wife's 40th birthday. He had arrived at the airport too late. This was not a good start for a holiday and he knew it.
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