October 2014
The Airbus A340-600 kisses the tarmac at precisely 11:33 a.m. local time, only three minutes later than billed, and I hike the usual half-mile through Heathrow to Immigration (now called UK BORDER), discovering to my dismay that the IRIS program no longer exists.
Which means I must speak with a real human being to gain entry instead of flashing my eyes at a scanner.
“What happened to the IRIS entry?” I ask a uniformed guardian of the border.
“Oh, we did away with that ages ago,” she says of the innovation thought to be The Future.
“Here’s the problem,” I say. “I don’t have my old passport that shows I am a resident. I expected IRIS to recognize me.” I proffer the IRIS registration form that I’d prudently kept to demonstrate the authenticity of my claim.
This threshold guardian does not know quite what to do, so she calls a supervisor, who takes my passport, says he needs to “check records,” and disappears, returning ten minutes later to say, “There aren’t any records, but I believe you.”
(Without a doubt, I am back in England.)
The Langham processes me into the bar for a complimentary cappuccino while housekeeping readies my Mark Twain Suite.
Problem: When I get there, a plaque states Chester Suite.
I phone reception: “I’m supposed to be in the Mark Twain Suite.”
She places me on hold, returns two minutes later.
“We did away with Mark Twain. It’s now called Chester.”
I ask, “How can you re-name Mark Twain?”
But she is already gone.
A cursory unpacking, and I’m gone, too, a walkabout down Regent Street, New Bond Street, Old Bond Street, Burlington Arcade, and St. James’s.
When I was a kid, the most comfortable shoes I ever owned was a pair of Chelsea Boots purchased for me by my mother during a summer vacation to London in 1964.
I want another. Hence my mission this trip: find the perfect pair of Chelsea Boots, the sort first popularized in the early 1960s by The Beatles.
The task this day is to scout and reconnoiter: Crockett & Jones, Harry’s of London, Foster & Son, and finally Paul Smith.
The other item on my scavenger list is a tweedy jacket with elbow patches.

Later, to Marylebone, my old stomping ground and now London’s trendiest neighborhood, home to a chic new restaurant called Chiltern Firehouse.
It is currently the hottest meal ticket in town, with a two-month wait, but my dine-at-the-bar trick gets me in, a glass of Sancerre and Deviled Eggs with Spicy Tuna—the best I ever ate.
Thereafter, Grilled Iberico Pork, their signature dish, with roasted turnips and sautéed watercress—plus a side of Smoked Cream Corn, with a glass of J. Christopher pinot noir from Willamette Valley, Oregon, capped by their chocolate tart with toasted hazelnut ice cream, and a glass of Tokaji dessert wine.
St. Christopher Place beckons afterward for a much-needed long walk (as my newly trimmed waist begins to bulge...)
My first novel about a road trip has been acquired by Skyhorse Publishing in New York City.
It will be published in Fall 2016.