Exile

Nottingham again. This time for a week. I'm sitting at a sidewalk cafe across the street from my hotel on something I like to call 'Tart Watch.'

Just the word Nottingham conjures up images for both Americans and Brits; for the Americans, it brings to mind the exploits of Errol Flynn (or for you younger folks, Kevin Costner) as Robin Hood, for the Brits, it evokes images of gang war, random shootings and particularly nasty muggings (the sort that features a relaxing fortnight in an ICU followed by a varying number of years in a support facility where your daily activities involve drooling, being fascinated by shiny objects and taking your meals through a straw). I'm happy to report, I have seen neither of these extremes.

True, there are a lot of hints at Robin Hood about: the statue near the castle, Maid Marion Way, Friar Tuck Lane and a lot of things named after a 'Victoria' who must have been Robin's lesser known mistress, or something. The town as a whole reminds me of a guy I used to work with years ago who was just a bit past it but still thought he could party as if he were 30-something and merely ended up looking a bit sad and disheveled despite his new suit. That, however, can be forgiven (and rectified, if someone has the ambition to give the place a good once-over with a wire brush and some Fairy liquid), especially seeing as how the people here are so friendly and effusive. Every evening at least half a dozen people wander up to me for a spontaneous and surprisingly revealing chat concerning their penchant for missing busses or to tell me about their sick girlfriend who needs an expensive operation and who has also missed her bus, before offering the opportunity of helping them out. It's terribly heartwarming, really.

I have made it my habit to sit here every night after work, having a beer and a cigar, to watch the town grow seedy. Early on, there are a lot of people in suits walking purposefully to or from some important meeting, but as the hour grows later, the dress turns--how shall I put this--decidedly casual, with the overall trend favoring piercings, tattoos and a remarkable absence of modesty.

Across from me, I can see a rather large building with a sign designating it as 'Dimt.' It used to be a popular club but is now unattractively boarded up, lending an air of desperation and urban decay to the surroundings. Just on the other side of the street is my hotel, The George, recently taken over, but not much improved, by Comfort Inn. I booked the hotel because it was central and seemed a nice place, though the photos and claims about its amenities I found on its web site tested the line between 'exaggeration' and 'pure fabrication.'  It's one of those once-grand hotels full of wandering corridors, creaking floors and a vague underlay of mustiness. My double room is only slightly smaller than your average garden shed and when I expressed my need of an iron and accompanying board to the delightful young lady at the front desk (the one wearing a stud in her lip, not the one with the fetching tattoo on the side of her neck) I was informed they had all been stolen.

Still, it's a congenial enough town and I expect, if I had ample free time, I might find some interesting places to eat and enjoy a convivial pint. As it is, being at work for ten hours a day and having only enough ambition to cross the road after work, I haven't really seen much. Whatever you might have heard, traveling for business is not very glamorous. While I could, if I wanted, have a sumptuous dinner at a posh restaurant every night, I find dining alone too depressing and generally end up visiting a Subway and eating in my room. It's also tiresome being known as the guy who can be relied upon to let you take the extra chairs away from his table because it's obvious he doesn't have any friends.

Even so, I have managed the odd chat that wasn't a prelude to a supplication. Just last night I made the acquaintance of Glenn from the NHS who, although surrounded by a baker's dozen of attractive ladies, took the time to provide me with some helpful tips about the locality and where I might find some interesting pubs.*  After that, I was joined by a group of lads from Birmingham here for a stag weekend. They had high spirits and blue drinks and moved on as soon as they finished their round. Apparently that's how people drink here--one beer per bar. Clearly there are enough pubs and clubs to accommodate this habit, and the moving on seems never to stop. On my first night here--a Tuesday--the hooting and hollering when on outside my hotel room window until midnight, then one, then two and finally seemed to ease off at three only to start up again just as raucously at three-thirty (that must have been the shift change).

How is it that people can drink so late? Don't they have jobs? One would think, if they did have jobs, they would be at home sleeping like a responsible person. And if they don't have jobs, where are they getting the money to drink all night long?

It remains a mystery, and my window, since then, remains closed.

Oh my, here comes a bevy of birds in black dresses with their hemlines where their belts should be. Time to refresh my beverage, light up another cigar and settle down for another episode of Tart Watch.

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*Thanks, Glenn. That's only the second time I've drank in a church sanctuary and only the first time it was expected of me.