“My Tribe” (c) 2005 Stu Jenks
[Image: "The East End Lover, London, England"]
I tried to sleep. I really did. But I couldn’t.
Walking like a zombie on caffeine, I make my way through the dingy maze of Gatwick Airport, south of London. It’s 8:00 a.m. London time, but it’s 12 Midnight, my body’s time, not to mention this weird thing called jetlag. [Note #1: I have a theory: It’s not the lack of sleep that causes jetlag, it’s that I left my soul in Tucson, and it’s having a hard time finding me. Right now, my soul is somewhere over Greenland]. I chewed my little “No Lag” gum on the flight over but I don’t think it worked. [Note #2: Four days later in Paris, I was still jetlagged like a son of a bitch.]
Customs was easy. A nice black woman with a London accent. She looked at me hard once and only once, and I was on my way. Now I’m at the luggage turnstile waiting for my bags. God, I want a cigarette. I’ve been chewing Nicorette since Houston, which was what, nine hours ago? The carousel goes round and round. My bags are one of the last ones to come off the plane. Figures. Maybe God is trying to tell me someone. I want a cigerette to bad to listen. Plus I have two cartons of Camel Filters in my bags. I ain’t quitting now, that’s for sure.
I have three bags; one huge bag with wheels, a slightly smaller one without wheels, that I put on top of the bigger bag and a sturdy carry-on bag that has all of my cameras and film in it. Within a few feet from the carousel, I realize lugging these bags through the trains and tubes of London may be more difficult that I imagine. Nay. I’ll take the train from Gatwick to Victoria Station and then take the tube to Helen’s house. From my Tube map that I download from my computer at home, I just need to change trains once past Victoria.
I roll my luggage now, down ramps with brown stains on the walls, and under acoustic tile ceilings that haven’t been clean since Elizabeth was a virgin. Finally, I’m out into a common area, where there’s a coffee shop, a pharmacy, assorted eateries and most importantly, a smoking section. I got a few Pounds from the ATM while waiting for my bags, and I now order a cup of way too strong coffee. I have to ask for milk. (Q: What, do English drink their coffee black? A: No, they drink tea instead, you idiot.) I lighten the thick brew and realize that I don’t have enough hands to hold my coffee and move my bags at the same time. Hmm. Anxiously, I leave two of my bags unattended and take my cup of Joe to the smoking section. After putting my coffee on a table there, I quickly recover my two other bags.
The Smoking Section is like a Lexan corral for the Nicotine Dependent. A four-sided box of sorts, with plastic walls that go up about 7 feet then stop. At the base of the Lexan are huge stainless steel boxes with powerful fans that suck the smoke through filters. A couple of metal bar stools are about, a few small circular tables, but most everyone is standing, hot-boxing their first cigarette in hours.
I pull out my pack and as I light my first cig, I notice the people around me and their facial features. The sad eyes, the pallor skin, the lantern jaws, the high foreheads, the deeply lined faces, and then it hits me.
These are my people. My tribe.
The descendent of Angles, Saxons, Celts, Picts.
My clan.
http://stujenks.typepad.com/photos/megaliths_and_sodapop_los/eastendlovers.html
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