Day One: A Series of Most Fortunate Events

A simple journey begins

Welcome all to my oft-promised and until now never fulfilled promise to publish a blog. To those who I've spoken to about this in the past, you may be disappointed to see not poetry or short stories below but rather a benign travel blog. To those who couldn’t give a damn and just want me to get on with it: welcome and bravo, I feel the same way.

The name of the blog is ‘Where’s Waylen’ a call back to my youth, when I was so desperate for a nickname (and attention) that I made one up for myself. ‘Waylen’ was supposed to embody the me that I wanted to show to the world and for better or for worse, the persona grew. Even ten years since the name went out of style with those closest to me, when I return home there are those who greet me by ‘Waylen’.

The reason I finally write this blog is because I’ve always wanted to share how I see the world with others. In this instance, I usher in the persona of Waylen to revel in the spotlight and allow me to get the cat firmly off my back.

Now that’s all out of the way I can tell you what you’ll be reading these next few weeks. The blog will follow me on each day of my summer trip this year. I hope to post an update at the end of each day. For day one, we follow me as I leave the safety of New York City and jet across the seas to… well you’re going to have to just read on to find out.

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It was just like any other Sunday in New York City, the sun was bright, the clouds were beckoning, and I was preparing to jet off that evening. Sadly, I woke up quite late and was behind the proverbial eight-ball. As such, I had to quickly drive to Boro Park to exchange my currency, take a bite of the obligatory slice from Amnon’s Pizza and then, when all these important things were done, only then did I think of packing. We were cutting it close, but I was only planning on bringing a backpack anyways, so sacrifices would’ve been made regardless.

I somehow succeeded in getting three weeks’ worth of essential items squeezed into my trusty backpack (and fanny pack for good measure, all good men travel with a purse after all) and I made my way to the airport together with a friend who would be joining me just for this leg of the trip. After a rejection from three lounges and a two-hour delay, we were finally airborne.

But just when things were finally going smoothly, my friend and I turned to me and said, “we ordered kosher meals, right?”

I looked at him a little oddly about to reply that of course we did, but then I realized that we most definitely did not. Damn, strike one. Luckily, I had thought to bring a couple of noodle soups in case this very situation arose and when I went to ask the steward for some hot water, his English accent awoke my dormant Australian one so that within a few minutes we were schmoozing like old chums. The big British brother and his annoying Australian one who needs a bail out from the big boy.

The schmooze did wonders. He dispatched his trusty sidekick to scour the plane for spare kosher meals and lo and behold he rustled one up for me. That must’ve been the best veal meatballs accompanied by an orzo mixed with peas, carrots and weirdly corn that I ever had. Thanks Jeremy!

After a hearty meal and some help from what I like to call the “poor man’s business class experience”, I was sound asleep and woke to the final approach into… London Heathrow Airport.

But this was only step one of my grand plans. I had a tight connection to my next flight. So I rushed to terminal 2, was helped by a very friendly lady—let’s call her Lexie, she’s important later on—who marveled at my Magsafe wireless charger and complimented me on my backwards Chabad.org cap, then took my place in the line at boarding. I made it. I sent a prayer up to the one above for getting me to the gate on time and waited for my turn at the front of the queue.

When that time did finally come, I scanned by boarding pass but instead of the positive buzz that the machine emits when it’s in contact with a kosher boarding pass, I got quite an aggressive and negative sounding buzz.

At this point, I was already playing out what the rest of my day would look like in my mind. I would be in a few short hours in Berlin, listening to a symphony of some of my favorite neo-classical artists: Andrea Vanzo, Gibran Alcocer, and Yehezkel Raz. My seats were fantastic, right at the front of the Berliner Philharmonie. I had memorized all of the performing artists’ compositions and I was already planning on what pithy comment in Hebrew I would shout to the Israeli Raz from my front row perch.

But then the gate agent pulled me aside, swiped my passport once, twice, three times and told me the news I couldn’t even fathom: we can’t let you on this plane. I was gob smacked. They couldn’t let me on the plane. For what reason?

He calmly told me than since my passport was expiring within 90 days (yes, yes, rookie mistake) I was unable to enter the Schengen area, a zone that encompasses 29 European countries. So in short, not only was I not going to Berlin, but the rest of my Europe trip was now in tatters. The itinerary that I spent weeks perfecting, utilizing each day to perfection was now a pipedream.

I walked away dejected. I walked away lost. And then I tried to leave the building. Turns out, it’s not an easy task to leave Terminal 2 at Heathrow airport. It seems I wasn’t in much company in needing to leave dejectedly. But that’s when Lexie reappeared like a ray of sunshine, commiserating with me and even going as far as to leave her post checking the passports for those entering the terminal to personally accompany outside of the terminal and escort me into the relative safety of London air.

But the adventure never stops. I made some quick calculations and realized I still may be able to make it in time to the 20:00 concert in Berlin if I move quick. I jumped into the London Underground and made my journey to the U.S. embassy to try to get an emergency passport quickly. Along the way I met a nice Dutch couple who had no idea where they were going and with the confidence of a London local, I pointed them in the right direction.

I arrived to the stop outside of the embassy and made a quick stop at the local Sainsburys to buy a red bull and some other essentials and when I went to check out I saw quite the scene. There was a full-on shouting match happening between a woman who I presumed to be the Sainsbury store manager judging by her impressive name badge and earpiece. She was shouting at two Uber eats drivers who were asking about the status of the orders they were picking up. She showed then who was boss and when she turned to me to ring up my items she muttered: “immigrants”

“Tell me about it!” I replied.

She positively beamed at that comment and told me they were the downfall of this country. I must say, I had heard a lot about the Immigration situation in Europe but hearing it from a local made it all the more real.

I then made my way to the embassy where I was promptly turned away and told they couldn’t help me today. Gosh, I was in a bind. I ached for adventure more than ever, but I was hamstrung by my poor planning and the damn Schengen establishment.

But then a series of fortunate events cascaded into being. I found out that Yehezkel Raz was performing in London the next evening. Booked. Then I cast my eye to an adventure within the U.K. Fueled by a 5/10 falafel from the unfortunately named “Pita” and a bowl of French Fries that were too terrible for even a rating, I made my next move.

I called my brother in New York to send my trusty Australian passport with someone travelling the next day. Thankfully this passport doesn’t expire too soon so the rest of my European adventure should still be possible. Then I made my way to the Elizabeth Line to Piccadilly Station and caught a train to… Cardiff, Wales. I thus completed the intended goal of visiting three countries in 24 hours. Not the original three, but close enough.

It was a beautiful train ride through the English countryside. A woman next to me was sketching; the man behind her was peeking over her shoulder; there was a priest who eyed me then smiled and a young mother with her two children who couldn’t shut up the whole journey there.

When I alighted in Cardiff, I dropped off my belongings at my hotel and proceeded to check out the night scene. It was 22:00 at this point and I heard the sound of broken bottles and drunken rancor coming from St Mary St, so that’s where I went.

I was immediately accosted by a homeless man draped in a filthy blanket who asked me for a cigarette. I obliged. Then I went to the loudest bar I could see and took a seat. I won’t say it was like a pin dropped in the room, but every eye sure as heck turned to me when I walked in. I ordered a pint and tried for some light conversation with the woman next to me. She was cold. Then I spoke to a group of three men who looked my age but let's just say they had no interest in speaking to me. So I returned to my hotel and turned in for the night,

And that’s where I leave you off this fine evening gentlemen. From my hotel room in Cardiff. Stay tuned for Day 2!