Back in America! Have a nice all-Muran distorted social.

Some leftovers from the trip. This really doesn’t have to do with anything but the travel details, which are always boring unless something goes horribly wrong, and then you skim ahead because sorry that happened but it’s really dull and there’s no way to make 14 hours at the airport interesting in the retelling unless there were fistfights and meltdowns.

No, my travel tales are revelatory episodes of anal-retentive nonsense. Perhaps you can have a good laugh. The following is all true.

We begin in Edinburgh. Last day, late afternoon.

Sara took a walk while I finished two columns, then went off to investigate the airport transfer situation. The Internet, which of course is authoritative on the matter, told me to take the train from Waverly station to a point where it intersects with the tram. I decided to go to the information desk to inquire, and she said yes, a lot of people do that, but really, there’s no sense when the tram line outside the station is lit’rully the aireport tram. Ah, and where might one catch it?

Ye know where the Scott memorial is? It’s the big brown thing.

Walter Scott, yes.

No, not - wait a minute, yes, Walter Scott. It’s there on the other side of the street. You’ll catch it in the middle of the street.

Do I need a ticket in advance?

Ye can pay when ye get on.

Great!

(We will return to this conversation in a while.)

I walked to the location, waited for the first AIRPORT tram, then waited to see how it took for another one to come along. Only a few minutes. I timed it back to the room, walking at a normal pace, observing all walk / don’t lights. It took 18 minutes. So then. Leave hotel at 9, presume 20 minute walk with elevator / baggage complications, possible 15 minute wait between trams, 25 minute tram run - arrive at airport well in advance.

The next morning we went to the spot where the tram was supposed to stop.

A man crossed the street and asked if we spoke English. Why yes; I wondered how I could be of assistance. No, he wished to tell us that the tram did not stop here. It stopped four blocks down.

In other words, we looked like the most out-of-town people imaginable: big suitcases, searching looks, standing in the wrong place as if waiting for an airship or a horse-drawn carriage.

The train was swift. The airport was efficient. But I began to sink into a funk. We had a two-hour window to make it to the connecting flight. Well, less than that if you factor in the fact that they close the doors earlier than the time on the ticket, and the fact that the arrival of the plane doesn’t mean you get right off, and it’s a big plane, and we’re in the back.

Oh come on, you say. Two hours is plenty. But have you done this at JFK? You have to wait for your bags, go through customs, recheck the bags, then go through security again. And JFK security is not a good place to be if you’re hearing the wheels squeal on Time’s Winged Chariot.

The closer we got to New York the more I began to relax - words not often spoken by any sane person, now that I think of it. The plane was early!

But now that means we have to wait for an open gate. So I’m getting anxious about that, even though we’re early. We’re eating up precious time that I had not previously considered we would be granted.

Get bag CHECK Recheck bag CHECK stride fast to security, augh. Slow. One TSA guy who wanted to have a happy moment with everyone. Father has three kids, he has to josh him about being the captain of the crew, etc.

It took me a while to get through security, as usual, because I have to recombobulate, and stuff all the things in their pockets. My bag was sidelined for inspection. Wife was irritated by this, because why do I always take so long to go through security. Well I can’t do anything about them sidelining the bag, I have to put away a laptop and an iPad and a phone, I have to put on a belt, and my shoes- you have none of that and just slip into your shoes, so slack, my dear, some to should cut me. We argue about this through the walk to the gate in comically old-married-couple voices , and immediately drop it when we get to the gate. I found it hilarious: I abhor arguing in public, and we rarely argue anyway, and here we are doing a Bickersons routine in front of the world.

I mean, we’d traveled 9 days without a single cross word, and had begun the day on the other side of the ocean, so I guess we were owed some unburdening.

Plane is on time. Boarding is smooth. Everything fine. Except I've been wearing big headphones for a day, and my hair has been shaped into an usual peak. Well, not to worry! On all transatlantic flights I carry a small aerosol container of dry shampoo, and I gave myself a fast blast in the restroom, mussed and combed.

Some of you have jumped ahead of the story, haven't you?

Some of you are remembering last Friday, when the man ran the shower too long and set off the hotel's fire alarm system, aren't you?

Yes, the spray set off the smoke alarm. And thus was the day perfectly bracketed.

The stews were apologetic but they did want to see the can of the stuff because the pilot had to know what happened. And, I gather, whether I should be clapped in irons at the conclusion of our voyage.

I was not detained. Home. Happy dog.

And then . . . back to the office. But that's for tomorrow.

I have so many things I didn't mention during the fortnight of travel Bleats. So let's tell some stories.

Walking back and forth from the hotel to the venue, I passed this building in Hampstead.

		"New" being relative here.

It has a plaque, posted by a grateful survivor.

The text:

This building was erected by voluntary contributions for (unreadable) and soup kitchen. It was founded as a thank offering to ALMIGHTY GOD For his special mercy in sparing this parish during the visitation of cholera in the year 1840. This site was purchased in 1850. And the building completed in 1853.

HE SHALL DELIVER THEE FROM THE NOISOME PESTILENCE

Thomas Ainger

The pestilence of dreaded cholera. I wonder how many have paused over the years to note it, and try to read its contents. It would’ve been easier to make out if it had been lower. This, I suppose, is more proof that people used to be much, much taller, and that history has been rewritten to remove the evidence of the giants. Wake Up Sheeple

We have to keep up on our serials, lest we fall behind.

I know - it's been a while, hasn't it? What the hell is going on? Let’s see, what do we have . . .

Oh come on

No one wants Dick Tracy at Sea

We want Dick Tracy slugging crooks on land. Then again, we want Dick Tracy with gadgets, and he’s been gadget-free again.

Who?

Right, right - part of a criminal syndicate that is forcing industrialists to hand over plans. TOOL PLANS. In the wrong hands, they could make . . . well, tools, I guess.

Which . . . goes into the sea?

In any case, it ended with a biplane bombing Dick and The Other Guy, and it looked pret-ty bad - until Dick spotted the trap door most remote cabins usually have.

Well, Dick learns that the Ghost stole the precision machinery dies from the safe, and probably will sell them to a foreign party. At which point the sidekick says “hey, I remember now, there was a telegram in the dead guy’s safe!” And it named a particular “known foreign agent.” This is all a bit murky and rushed, but who cares: we have to get out to sea so there can be MURDER.

They call up the foreign agent’s record on their telescreen: some dude named Ivan Drago. Sounds Bondy.

All of Dick’s Men are given Drago’s picture, and told to look out for him. Drago’s really keeping a low profile.

Not exactly how it was edited in the original, but yes, I know. I know. It’s a serial. But still.

Then it’s back to the League of Plutocrats - the first guy walking in may be the Ghost! One of the guys sets up the next plot point, and the rest of the League seems annoyed with this - jeez, dude, stop blabbing all the business, we’ll get hit again.

(Sorry bout the hum)

The gold will be transferred as soon as they get authorization from “the convoying nation.” Can’t name any specific country, of course. Not in Serialland.

Well, since the Ghost is sitting in on all these meetings, we know he’ll try to get the gold. For reasons. The end game for the Ghost and Lucifer is still a mystery, other than they’re BAD.

The Ghost does his invisible thing - not shown here, because it costs money, I suppose - and he tries to steal the information about the gold transfer . . . just as Tracy arrives. There was a shot!

Waaaaait a minute. Could this guy be The Ghost? He says he had his radio on, and didn’t hear the strange high-pitched sound that gives away the Ghost’s presence. Misdirection? Doesn’t look the type, physically.

Off to the docks, where the lights are flickering. Tracy suspects someone is “cutting into the lighting circuit,” and proposes a look at the vault where the gold’s kept. Sure enough, there are banging sounds inside! The Ghost’s men drilled through from below, using machines that required an outlet in the secret underground passage. Tracy storms the vault, and FINALLY: fist-fight, complete with sundered furniture and flying assaults.

The tunnel leads to the water’s edge. Tracy follows, slinging lead, makes it on the boat, gets knocked out. The boat with the gold gets a message - you’re in peril! The Ghost’s men are in pursuit! They head into the Mutara Nebulae - I mean, a fog bank! Tracy wakes! Tracy fights!

Tracy goes down again! But man, those gold-carrying guys aren’t fooling around; they rake the Ghost’s boat with a Tommy gun and wipe out everyone. Now the wheel of the boat is spinning madly!

Seems to me that collision was not inevitable.

Hey, train ep next! Those are always awesome.

That'll do. Matchbooks await.

Annnd, once again, the Diner.

And, of course, the Diner. Topic: well, it's timely. And the name I couldn't pull out was Joseph Mitchell.