Standing at the bottom of the stairs in the Green Park Underground exit made my current situation absolutely clear. There was no way I was going to pull my bag up those stairs. My daughter’s advice on which stop to take for my Piccadilly hotel was spot on. Too bad I hadn’t listened to her.

It took me two weeks to pack for my trip. My possessions are scattered from Utah to Idaho to California. The only reason I didn’t leave something (like my car, for instance) in Oregon was that I went to California first and needed only a carry-on for my visit to Portland. Two hours before I drove to SFO for my Heathrow flight, I continued to waiver on the bags I would take for my six months in Europe. It occurred to me, as the commuters rushed past, that my final decision was a miserable failure. And possibly not just the suitcase. Maybe my whole trip was a mistake.

But then he appeared –- my suitcase savior, a good-natured man in a tuxedo who asked if I had my husband in the bag. He carried it up the stairs, dropped it, exclaimed to his friends about the weight, and disappeared into the crowd. So… damsel in distress meeting her knight in shining armor? Probably not.

At least the hotel was downhill and just a few blocks from the Underground. I mean literally down the street. All I had to do was walk until I ran into it. The problem, of course, was that to get in through the front entrance, I would have to climb more stairs, manage a revolving door, and drag my suitcase through the lobby/café/bar and up more stairs to the concierge. So I remembered the back way to the hotel reception and proceeded to do what I do best – get lost. I carried several maps, a mobile phone App with a map, and a GPS device. All of them nestled comfortably in my bag.

Whoever tagged the British as cold and reserved did not experience their kindness like I did that evening. These people see dumb tourists every day and must deal with stupidity often. Yet those men came out of their buildings, jumped out of their cars, and tried to direct me the best they could. Each time I got it wrong, someone was there to help me. Finally, the last person walked me to the door.
If I learn nothing else from this trip, I hope to remember that I’m never alone in this world.

Except, maybe all the nights I must face the humiliating, pathetic ritual of eating alone in a restaurant. We’ll talk about that one later.