april 13th, 1993 (d). Orientation

“He also enjoyed meeting Young Columbus winners from California, New York and Florida. He noticed that he and they all used different slang.  “It was kind of funny when you brought us all together,” he said.

                                                --Josh Smith, Journal Star interview, Young Columbus 1990.

We exit the hotel shuttle bus, each garnering our respective luggage, toting it behind on swivel wheels that make annoying cheap-hotel sex springboard sounds while being ferried. The boy with the blonde hair and the Suzanne Vega 99.9 Fahrenheit degree t-shirt places sunglasses on as we walk from the shuttle bus into the lobby of the hotel. We are surrounded. What started out as seven getting off the plane morphed on the shuttle to fifteen has now somehow somewhere in the ball park area code of eighty kids each toting luggage, each with bemused expressions etched into their lips, each not knowing sure quite where to go.   Eighty youth from across the country toting luggage, ready to exchange currency.  Eighty youth representing every state with accents and polaroid's and luggage and anxiety and questions. There is a table in which we are to identify ourselves and where we are giving a nametag with our name on it. Each nametag has Group number on it and a different color sticker. There is another table where we can convert dollars into pounds. 

My nametag has an orange dot. I am purportedly in Group #3.

And there are girls. They drip past. They have long hair. There is a different scent. Everyone is ferrying luggage. There is a sense of awkwardness coupled with a sense that we are in this together.  That we don't know exactly where we are going. That we have all somehow made it. 

That we are all somehow here.

I stand in the line to convert US dollars into pounds.

She has short black hair slightly-crimped and is lugging a suitcase behind her with heels like a doting toddler. She is behind me in line. The golden haired lad who I couldn’t stop looking at on the Bus shuttle who I feel as if I know from a dream has completely dissipated.  Like everyone in the room the girl next to me seems lovingly baffled and lost. She looks like Lois Lane. I wonder if she is mourning the death of her super-power beau.

“Are you a newspaper carrier?” I inquire, trying to make small talk.

“No, I’m a writer. I’m here to write about this contest for my school paper.”

“What are you looking for?”

The girl looks down, blushes, presses her hand into her forehead as if checking for fever.

“Yes, I’m looking for the check in? And where to convert currency? Oh, and I’m suppose to interview Liz Madigan for my high school newspaper.” Oh, and—..”

I point to the check in table. I point to the gentlemen who is converting dollars to pounds.

“If you have traveler’s cheques he’ll also transition those into pounds if you like.”

She continues struggling to tame her luggage. She is wearing a hat that Dawn Michelle looks like she would wear.

 She smiles. She nods her head cosigning gratitude.

 She continues to talk fast.

“So, you are a journalist? You won the contest through writing an essay?”

 She tells me no.

“I was asked to come on this trip and to write about England. It’s a scholarship that our school district offers based on high school journalism.”

 Lois Lane goes on to note that she currently writes a column for her high school Newspaper.  So far there have been raffles, names pulled at random, recipient of essay award contests. So far noisome Nat and I are the only ones that had to give a speech to win the heralded trip of a lifetime. I exchange most of the remainder of my dollar bills into British pounds. The coin currency is heavy. All the bills seemed watermarked and have Queen Elizabeth’s countenance on the front. The pound sign looks like a mathematical L.

I keep a few more US dollars in my wallet in case I need to get another cup of coffee before I leave the airport. The man behind the desk tells me that the hotels we are staying at will be easily able to convert travelers cheques into British pounds so not to worry. Lois Lane has three pieces of luggage even though we are mandated to only take one. I ask her if she needs help. She smiles and says yes. As I hoist up her luggage.  Nat seems to scowl, wondering why I am helping this creature I have just met. 

As we enter the conference room we are greeted by ladies standing near the front of the door who shake our hands and inform us to place are suitcases along the sides of the wall, noting that out luggage will be safe in here.

“Please. Help yourself. There is food over there.”

“Oh, thank you.” I say, heading towards the buffet, as I turn to look at Lois Lane I realize she has abandoned her luggage and is holding out a pen and paper in front of one of the Parade representatives.

I go to the buffet and grab a plate.

I am starving. I am ready to leave.

                                                                       ***

It is a lightbulb and it dangling for all intents and purposes upside down in trapeze posture, a singular glass testicle containing a uterus of filament sporadically flickering in a shadow of stuttering blinks as if to cast a subtle strobe light appearance on the room full of youth congregating in a surf of lost elbows and scattered luggage. The light bulb that is burning placed in the wreath of a chandelier in the conference room at the Holiday Inn Newark. A lightbulb that will be used to host burgeoning dot com conferences and timeshares in the conference room we find ourselves a part of now fraught with the din strangers our own age.

A light bulb that, like the vagaries of youth illuminated below, will burn out all too soon.

                                                                               ***

At the front door to the conference room are staff writers’ and marketing agents for Parade who are greeting us,  welcoming us, reiterating that we make sure we check in at the front desk and procure our nametag which has our group number labeled on it, pointing to the lit-buffet, telling us to please, you’ve had a long day, help yourself, stating the orientation will begin in half an hour or so. I continue to mill around with Justin and Chris. Nat is nowhere in sight. Neither is Lois Lane. There is confusion. Several of the young kids look petrified while idling around the room looking for a place to sit.

From behind me I hear Chris turn to Justin and state to look for more people with number three and an orange sticker on their nametags since they are in our group. Justin turns to Chris and states damn, there are definitely some hotties on this trip. I try to make small talk as I grab a plate to feast about how cool Trevor seems.

“We really lucked out. Some of the other male counselors look like stiffs. Trevor looks like a really cool guy.”

We are helping ourselves to the buffet. To chicken and roast beef and mash potatoes and gravy. There is also a coffee urn at the end of the buffet line. I help myself to a cup (java refill #21) and sit at nearby table, noticing that the lad with the golden hair who looks like I have somehow known him all my life is seated directly across from me. I look behind me and note that Nat Pflederer has waved Chris and Justin over to his table and for some reason they feel impelled to oblige.

The round table I am seated at is with complete strangers. A few aren’t wearing their nametags. Directly across the arc from the table is the boy with the golden hair I feel I have known all my life. When I look next to me I see Heath, smiling, parking his tray, asking in his subtle Midwestern drawl if this spot his taken. His nametag states that he is in group number ten.

One of the older lads uses the phrase sausage fest to talk about the lack of feminine presence.

The kid in the black from Texas dressed in black notes that, like the population of  the planet we are soon to be traversing, there are more girls on this trip than guys.

I look back at Nat. Justin and Chris seem stuck as he is inevitably relaying to them his single-A junior varsity circa wrestling record.

There is the clanging of plates. That the carpet in the hotel conference room smells brand new.

The searing grate of Depeche Mode’s “I Feel You” the electronic and goth cogs oscillating like blades on an industrial mill inside my chest. Everyone’s voice sounds different. The kid from Alabama with the thick glasses sounds like he is giving a sermon on late night cable every time he opens his mouth. There is an older lad from Staten Island who sounds like he is auditioning for the part of a Italian pizza-driver slash hit man in the next Godfather film. The kid from Texas sounds like he is hunting Democrats. This group is much more affable than the group orchestrated by the person I traveled with who lives less than the distance of a marathon away from my front lawn.  It appears that the conversation ensuing chimes with the same query I have been asking people all day—how in the hell did you manage to win a contest of this magnitude. How the hell, at the ages less than five years after entering puberty did you manage to win a gift where strangers escort you around the contours of the globe?

The majority of the high school juniors and seniors on this trip seem to have been awarded the prize via scholastic accolades. The blonde headed lad I have been metaphysically mesmerized with since we stepped onto the shuttle is directly across from me states that he won the contest by writing as essay about the European community.

So far none of the Young Columbus ambassadors have had to give a speech with the exception of myself and Nat. I think about being randomly selected for this contest. I think about all the hours I spilled scribing out my speeches over the last three years. I think about rehearsing the mechanics of my speech non stop.

For some reason I can’t explain I think about the back of Karen Christmas’ neck, her dress, holding the phone, void of any possible hint of excitement nodding her head, telling her mom that she won.

I take a slurp of the coffee and overly state that is tastes like something you would get from paying at the pump.

“I mean, they think they could hook us up with a descent cup-o-java."

  The boy with the golden hair is smiling. Almost none of the kids are paper boys with the exception of the kid wearing the thick glasses from Alabama.  All of a sudden it occurs to me where I know the boy with the golden hair from. He looks just like a student at Manual. A junior named Jacob Simeon.

We arise from the table at the same exact time.

 

We are walking together. We have just met. I don’t even know his name. It feels as if we are somehow walking in slow-motion. Even though it is only mid-afternoon the sun is streaming down the wing of the lobby where the payphones are planted. I promised my mom I would call her when I arrived in New York just to let her know that I am okay. He is smiling. He is older. he exudes  independence. He says that he should probably call his mom too.

“Where you from brother?”

 “Arkansas.”

 “That is the last state I would have surmised you hail from. You don’t look at all someone from Arkansas to look like.

 He smiles. In a perfect stream of enjoined sentences he inquires where I thought he might be from.

 “Perhaps a hybrid of Bill Clinton and Billy Beer. You don’t sound like you are from Arkansas at all. You don’t have a southern accent like the kid from Alabama.”

He smiles. He says that Alabama differs from his state by having one additional vowel.

“Plus you like cool music,” I say, alluding to his shirt.  “I honestly would have thought you were from someplace like say Seattle. Seattle or San Francisco. Somewhere like that. Or maybe even New York.”

 He smiling. He says maybe someday. I hold up finger little-light-o-mine charade style and say excuse me as I pick up the phone.  It feels good to talk with someone who  is older. It feels good to, in a weird way, have found a friend.

 Mom picks up the phone after the first ring.

 The lad with the golden hair is next to me. He uses the pay phone three phones down.I tell mom that I arrived safely. I try to sound precocious. I tell her that it was a good flight. That I have met some cool people. That we have all arrived here in New York and that we are waiting for orientation.

“The flights weren’t bad at all.” Mom is saying praise the Lord. I can tell she is praying with her hands above her head as if she is waiting for Prof. Jesus to call on her in the classroom of spirituality.
I hear the boy with the halo of golden hair who I can’t stop looking at. He is talking to his mom. I hear him saying that he just realized that she has a southern accent. He is saying that his flight out of Dallas to Newark was long but he’s doing alright right now. When mom asks me if I am enjoying hanging out with Nat Pflderer I pretend I misheard her question. I tell her that I have already gone ahead and converted sixty dollars into British pounds.

 I look at the boy with the golden hair again.

 I tell mom that I need to go. That orientation is scheduled to begin. Mom tells me that she loves me. She tells me that she is praying for me.

 I tell her to say hi to Beth, Jenn and Dad.

There is an I love you and a click and a goodbye.

                                                                                ***

The conference room continues to over flood with the drift of bodies. In a way it feels like it is a high school assembly although everyone hails from a different school, a different state. There is one lightbulb ahead that for some reason, inadvertently flickers causing me to pause and look around. Causing me to pause contemplating where the hell I am. Compelling me to notice things I wouldn’t otherwise notice. That there is a total of six African Americans on the trip and two appear to be counselors. That there is something overtly southern-lemonade hospitality catering in the charm in which the females or said belles speak with a southern accent. That the males, on the other hands, sound like they are scratching themselves while watching NASACAR. That the accelerated nasal subway rush inflection of an indigenous New Yawkers  is not nearly as annoying as the White Castle and Pop south Chicago suburban accents of your relatives on your moms side of the family. That the accents of everyone I have spoken with from Massachusetts or Connecticut just sound like they are sipping Old Fashion’s on a yacht and related to the Kennedy or the Vanderbilt’s or both. That Lois Lane is still dragging her suitcase in the room and she seems adorable, already scribbling down questions. That Justin has already commented more than once when goaded by Chris that none of the girls in this here room are as hot as his girlfriend back home in Nebraska City, Nebraska.

That my friend from Arkansas who doesn’t seem like he should hail from that state is just plain cool.

 That there are girls everywhere. There scent is exuding and fragrant. I am melting. Beautiful girls. Girls from across the country. Girls with accents and boyfriends and promise rings. Girls who are intelligent and intellectually riveting and well read. Girls who go to the best high schools in America and, like the mysterious golden-hue lad from Arkansas, like cool music.

More students are filtering into the conference room. I am recognizing the faces of counselors whom I have been intellectually drooling  over in the itinerary sent last month. I recognize Simone and Allison who is a broadcast major and will be on TV someday.  I  recognize Eric the future theologian from Georgetown and Tarnisha who plays varsity volleyball for the same school.  It  seems that every counselor is scheduled to graduate from a swanky college where, even if I just uttered the name in simple iambic pentameter my father would swipe his brow back and forth informing me not even to think about.

It still has not set in that this is our final port. It is hasn’t emotionally registered that I will be in England come twelve hours of what is calculated as time.
 I find Justin and Chris hanging out near Trevor. A black man who bald head comes up to our group. He is cool. Trevor gives him a complicated hand shake before swiveling in our direction.

“Hey, yo group three. This is our other counselor. This is our other counselor This is Charles."

 Charles is friendly. He is gregarious. For some reason we are the only group that seems to have two counselors.  Trevor says that Charles is actually his roommate in college hailing from Michigan as well.

"Fell free to make Charles Barkly jabs since Charles can't go a weeks without shaving his head."

Trevor massages the top of his roommates head. Charles turns to another member who purportedly will also be in our group.

“And this is Spencer.”

Spencer got in last night and thre was some sort of problem with his passport  so Charles had to drive him into the city. He is pogoing up and down frenetic time-signature. He is crazy.  He is from Utah. When you meet him he identifies himself as Spencer. The first thing he tells you is that he is from Utah and that he is Mormon and that in his high school there is only one kid who is not a virgin.

            “My high school, in Utah and there is only one kid who is not a virgin.” Spencer says.

I try making a joke to which no one in Group Three laughs asking what do the kids do in the hotel room post prom? Pray?

 No one laughs. Spencer looks at me and says yeah, we pray and then adds a yeah, he’s being serious.

            I learn that several of the recipients from the west coast had to fly in the night before to reach New York. Apparently there was some sort of problem with Spencer’s passport so he has just spent the entire day in the city, getting legalities straighten out. One lad in our group, Bryan, is from Alaska and has been in New York since Sunday night. We are requested to keep our suitcases together and then place them on the charter bus that will ferry us back to Newark International airport and then not worry about our luggage until identified oscillating in showcased carousel fashion in the chrome luggage trough at Heathrow. Spencer is going crazy. He is running around. Trevor looks at the group as a whole and states at the end of this trip I think we all are going to remember Spencer’s name.

 A counselor named Dylan comes in and shakes my hand.

I’ve met some of you but I can meet you as well.” I smile. His hair seems to prance down the back of his neck, almost as if the ends themselves are trying to play his back as some sort of instrument. He looks he should be carrying a boogie board and a Sex Wax puck.

Chris turns to me, “Dude, that kid from your hometown. He’s freaking nuts. All he ever talks about is wrestling and when Justin got confused and mention Hulk Hogan he picked up his tray and left.”

“Yeah,” I say, still unsure why Nat has chosen to blow me over.

“He’s not from my home town. People from where I come from aren’t that rude.”

We take our seats at a table with leftover plates piled in the center.

A chicly dressed middle-aged lady steps up to the microphone and says that if we could, we should try to take a seat because the orientation will begin shortly. There is clattering sound of dishes mingled with voices, chairs scudded against carpet into the clamped hems of table cloths, bodies clustering, bobbing, lost. I am next to Justin and Chris when I see the lad with the golden hair walking in my direction. Because I am seated under the one chandelier in the room with the flickering light bulb it appears as  if he is walking in slow motion. For a moment I think he is going to sit at our table until I realize that every seat is taken. He comes up to me and stops and smile.

“I’m sorry I don’t think I ever told you my name,” He says. There is a benevolence glued to his perfect speech.

“It’s Mark,” he says. Holding out his hand.

“I’m David,” I acknowledge, shaking his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you.” He says, turning around. The middle-aged lady is taping the top of the microphone as if she is trying to make it  erect addressing us as a group, as one, informing us to take our places, telling us that we are about ready to begin.

                                                                        ***

The lady identifies herself as Liz Madigan. In the same fashion of Kelli Rude she formally welcomes each of us, the 35^th annual Young Columbus almost accordingly with accolades stating that what bottoms out of the hundreds of thousands of youth who were eligible for this contest and out of the tens of thousands that were finalists the 150-something twelve-to-eighteen year old present today represent the apex of what this country has to offer in terms of youth and intellectual stewardship. She reminds us again that we should all be extremely proud of our accomplishments.

She states how we are all world ambassadors.  She calls us little world travelers.

 We are then invited to give ourselves a hand.


 

 Liz Madigan then begins talking about the pending sojourn as if she is talking about an LSD trip.

 “This is a trip that will expand your mind. It is a trip that will alter your global perspective of reality and make you little world ambassadors,”

 She pauses.

 “You will come back changed. This trip will change your life.”

There is clapping again.

 Liz holds up a copy of the itinerary referring to it as the itinerary we all received in the mail. Liz states that we are privileged to have several escorts escorting us on our trip over seas. She introduces each of the escorts by pointing at the table they are seated at with her palm up. She tells us that first off she’d like to introduce Mr. Frank and Audrey McNulty. There are rote claps for no apparent reason.

“Mr. McNulty is the CEO of Parade magazine. He is our boss. It is a privilege to have him along as one of our escorts.”

 More claps are heard. Liz also acknowledges several other escorts all of whom seem to have ties with PARADE. She then introduces what she defines as GUESTS of PARADE, the bulk of whom seem to inexplicably hail from Utah.

All for the Guests and escorts stand and offer a perfunctory wave when Liz introduces them. She then introduces Steve Gunn, a talented photographer from New York.

“Steve will be chronicling our journey. He will also be spending time with each individual group. He will spend each day on a different bus so please, when you see him make him welcome.”

 The pattering of palms quickly slapped together in staccato fashion is again heard. Liz lifts up her ITINERARY up in the air as if making a bid at an auction. Liz has been referring to the group in the plural. All of a sudden every young Columbus is a we.

“Also, there’s one more special guest’s that we are truly honored to have accompany us. Many of you who deliver PARADE in your Sunday newspapers and read it will probably recognize her,.

She points to a table with a bad perm early fifties lady with thick cat-woman glasses. The lady is wearing the Parade fanny back as if she is trying to look hip and she rises before her name is announced.

“This is Lynn Minton, columnist for Parade’s popular FRESH VOICES column, a column that deals with young people and the contemporary issues they are dealing with  in this day and age.”

There is applause, golf claps splattered in the tempo of a meditated spring rain.

“Lynn is a guest on our trip and several of you she will ask to meet with to discuss ideas for her award winning column.”

Liz tells us that we are more than welcome to talk with Miss Minton if she initiates the conversation but that we should not try to show off when Miss Minton is around just so we could see our name and face featured in a magazine column.

 After plenary palaver she begins to get serious, asking if everybody received an itinerary for the incumbent sojourn.  We are informed that on our nametag in a number and a different color sticker and that we will be broken down into different groups according to age.

Liz states that after we are done here we are to locate our individual group and meet with them.

"We will meet as a group as a whole usually once or twice a at dinner but for the most part you will hang out with your individualized group and the groups on your buses."

Liz looks around. She tells the girls out there that Young Columbus is not a goodtime to diet. She tells them that Young Columbus is a time to experience new foods and a new culture. She encourages us to not be afraid to try new things especially when it comes to gustatory pleasures.

We are informed that there are a few rules for the trip and that we are not, under any circumstances, allowed to leave the group or the hotel on our own.

 “Once we leave US soil you are no longer under U.S. law so if you get in trouble over seas you will be tried and possibly convicted differently.”

 There is a discipline bus where if any of these rules are violated.

 Liz makes a note that there’s only been one time in the entire thirty-seven history of the Young Columbus program that anyone has ever had to use the discipline bus or go back home.

 “If you are placed on the bus you will not also miss the trip or perhaps be sent back home but both your parents’ and your newspapers will be notified.”

 Liz Madigan notes that this trip caters to the creme-de la creme of young adults so that normally we don’t have any problems.

Liz tells us welcome again. She tells us that our lives will be forever changed by the trip we are about to embark on.

Liz tells us that its time now for all the individual groups to meet.

                                                                     ***

                    

I find Trevor and Chris and Justin. We go around introducing ourselves and where we are from. Everyone is aloof.  There are two kids from Colorado. One from Montana. Spencer is from Utah. Brian is from Alaska and tells the group that he actually had to get in two days ago because of his flight accommodations and that he has been staying at the hotel and got to meet several of the counselors. Kenny and Kevin are both from the East coast.We sit in a circle as if attending a creative writing conference ready to critique the hell out of each others efforts.  Trevor says that the reason we have two counselors is because if anyone in the trip has to go home one of the counselors will have to go with them.

“Yeah, so just don’t get in trouble or else we will have to leave as well.”

There seems to be a lot of nodding in the group. Kenny from Connecticut adjusts his hat. Trevor holds up the piece of paper with the Rules and says that Liz Madigan wants us to go over the rules once again. He says that you kids are young so we don’t have to worry about alcoholic consumption or drugs. Trevor also says that in addition to alcohol Liz also once to amend that smoking be put on the list. He then makes a gross contortion sound with his lips when he says the word tobacco.  Spencer pantomime’s rolling a cigarette and then getting his thumb on fire when he pantomimes trying to light it. Trevor continues to assay the paper in front of him like he is reading little league stats. He says that there doesn’t look like there are any Dungeon and Dragons renaissance fair nerds in our group so we don’t have to worry about any of you buying swords or Gauntlets or anything like that.

Charles is behind us again now. He is nothing but smiles. Trevor makes it a point to reiterate to Charles the importance of following the rules not just for our group but even if we are mingling with other groups because they are the first two counselors to escort a representative home and that’s the last place they want to be.

 

Trevor then asks us, you guys are like what high school freshman. There is all nods cept the kid from Montana who remains silent.

“And I don’t know if you guys know anything about the college life or not but we had spring break way back in the beginning of March so now everything is crunch time for finals."

Charles nods and if to second what Trevor just said. Trevor adds so follow the rules cause if we get back home all we are going to be doing is pulling all righters and getting ready for finals.

Trevor again steps in the center of our group. He is talking very fast like he is a sports agent working on a big-time deal.

 "Basically the two most important rules are just to act mature and not get crazy when we are on the bus or especially with the dignitaries and not wander away form the group on your own or leave the hotel room after hours because we are responsible for you."

“Act mature but still have a good time,” Charles interjects, sounding like a cool politician you would vote for.

 

“Yeah, you guys are going to have the time of your life. No question.” Trevor says again rather matter-of-factly.

As if in periscopic fashion my vision vacillates across the room. The youngest group of boys circled around Dan seem to be scared as he goes over the importance of following the rules and for some reason tries to ordain a lecture about responsibility Several of the group with girls seem to have question about outlet adapters in regards to hair dryers. From the mirrored periphery of the ceiling we all form eleven individual planets huddled together.

There is a jerk on my twin shoulders followed by a light squeeze. It is Charles, he is giving me a little backrub as if he is pumping me up for the next play. Trevor asks us if we have any questions and then immediately says no, good before any of us have a chance to nod our heads and proceed. Spencer raises his hand and asks will there be a quiz rendering snickers from the boy with the pasty skin from Colorado and Justin. Charles has just set down several large boxes in the center of the group.

“You guys have several gifts, each one should have your name on it.”

There are a dozen tautly clad plastic squares the look like shields, the first one is a white t-shirt with the Parade YC  93 insignia  just above right-nipple caliber. Trevor asks us each to open it up and make sure they will fit by looking at the white tag behind the collar. Trevor then says we should put the shirt in either our suitcase or our standard carry-on bag.

                                         

Guttural scrunching sounds permeates across the room as 150 plus young ambassadors unwrap their gear.

“Once we get overseas they would like you to wear these  when we tour so that everyone is easily accounted for.”

Trevor tells us that we don’t necessarily have to put the jacket on now just have it on when we arrive oversea so that, in the event that we get lost, we can recognize one of the 125 fellow representatives by sight of jacket alone.

We are given stickers to place on our name tags affixed to our official PARADE back identifying that we are GROUP #3. Charles passes out a translucent package containing the Parade emblem on the area of the shirt that would presumably conceal the left nipple. The jackets are red and nylon and we are instructed to wear them so that we can easily be identified in case we get lost.

“You already gave me one.” I reply.

“You have a map of London, you need a guide.”

Charles again places both of his palms on the back of his shoulder as if he is preparing me for a boxing round.

We know you guys are going to stay with the group and that  you won’t g et lost but just in case you do keep this card on you in your wallet or your bag at all times. Go to a phone and dial the number of the hotel and we will come get you.

Trevor points to Charles and notes that, after we go through customs, we are to hand our passports over to Charles and he will collect them and hold them all en masse for the bulk of the trip until we leave so we don’t have to worry about losing them. He then begins to pass out a brochure that looks like a church bulletin that, once unfolded will reveal a map of London and all of the keen places of interest.

“Put these maps in your carry on also just in case you get lost.”

Charles then begins to pass out what looks like the same thing. When I hold my hand up like a traffic officer and  politely inform him that I already have one he points to the front cover.

“This is a Britain map. You have a London Guide but you need a  map of the country.”

“In case I get lost meandering across the moors?”

Charles nods and says yes.

Trevor asks us again if we have any questions. He is addressing us as we are troops.

He says okay then.

He says that it is time to go.