The singer playing Amy Winehouse last night wasn’t brilliant like Annie Lennox the night before but I had fun.  I sat beside a UK couple.  She was horrified that another traveller had recommended the Borough of Hackney when I visit London in ten days.  “Not there!  It’s dodgy.” 

And so the world goes ’round.  I don’t mind dodgy.

A fifteen-year-old girl on my other side gushed over the spirit of Brighton, a city of one million not far away.  “So many ______ restaurants!”  She used an adjective that was not understood and quickly lost but I got her meaning.

The coolest was that I danced, towards the end of the show.  My feet shimmied in a most youthful way.  Minutes later I was bent over for breath … but I survived nicely.

***

And then there was this morning.  A fascinating British couple shared my love of tennis, art and classical music.  They talked about the Musée Orsay in Paris, and the wonders therein.

He showed me a painting on his phone.  Here it is:

It’s Le Rêve created by Édouard Detaille in 1888 – a war scene at night.  The soldiers are sleeping and their rifles are propped up, waiting for the enemy.  But what’s that in the sky?  A battalion launching into the fight.  They were dreaming!  So cool.  And who knows what other miracles reside in Orsay?

***

I’m sitting in London’s St. Pancras Station, waiting for the train to Brussels. The fellow to my right is the nephew of Bernard Hinault, a five-time champion of the Tour de France. So I’m clearly connected to cycling royalty.

The woman to my left is from Ghent. I casually ask her if her name is Elise. Sadly she says “Nicki”. Oh well. After hearing my story she says “Never give up searching.”

I agree.

***

This journey still has four hours to go but my right index finger is getting tired. So I’m signing off from further written communication … until tomorrow.

Be well