Hmmm

My parents -- and I say this with all respect and the knowledge that they read this blog -- are getting older.  This, truly, happens as a matter of course to all of us.  (Certainly throwing my back out while doing nothing at all isn't a sign of the second hand spinning backwards.)

But what's interesting about my parents getting older is that I haven't quite noticed it.  I mean, yeah, sure, they're moving a bit slower and I'm trying to be cognizant of it while leading them all over the London underground.  But I think what's tipped me off to their aging is that every time we get on a train, someone gets up and offers their seat to my mom.  Which gets marks for politeness, surely, but that's not the point.  To me, she doesn't look like someone of the age deserving the offering of one's seat.  (To me she looks right around "Do I take her word for it that she's eligible for the senior discount?")  I reckon it's hard to see one's parents purely objectively.

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Today, I dragged my parents (not unwillingly) out to the HMS Belfast, one WWII warship (Dad loves war history stuff).  Impressive.  They had audio guides and a few exhibits set up, focussing on what life was like onboard the ship as well as the accomplishments of her crew during the war.  My folks were into the war stuff; I was a bit more into the decades-old tech.  (Dad wanted to see the really big shells; I wanted to see the targeting system.)  I continue to be amazed by what people accomplished with what is, by today's standards, pretty effin' rudimentary.  ("We got to the moon with this shit?")  But the earlier technology seems just a lot more clever.  I mean, obviously, today's tech is much, much smarter than yesterday's -- but it seems like yesterday's solutions relied more on the user's own brainpower because you didn't have a smart computer in your pocket.

(We're planning to go to Bletchley Park tomorrow, to see some seriously smart solutions from the same era.)

After the HMS Belfast, we went for a very nice snooty tea at a hotel near the Thames.  I'd booked us a table out on the terrace, hoping we'd get some nice views, but the terrace was all walled off (so the proles don't see what the snooty are up to).  It was still lovely -- the weather today was just about 80 degrees, and it was nice to enjoy such (rare) warm weather in London.

Then I did a bit of shopping with my mom, while my dad went back to the hotel for a nap.  Then we met at the theatre to see a revival of Pinter's The Hothouse.  Odd little play (not as odd as the crazy Punchdrunk thing I saw on Saturday) but not entirely straightforward either.  Didn't entirely matter -- it starred Simon Russell Beale and John Simm, either one of whom I would travel many miles to see.  (I have, actually.  I flew to Phoenix to see Beale's Hamlet, and, actually, I took a train from London to Sheffield to see Simm's.  Don't ask me to compare them -- such wildly different interpretations, you wouldn't think it was the same play.)  So, I mean, two of them sharing a stage was a real treat.  They're both such good actors, I could never decide which one to watch -- as the reactions were just as fun to watch as the actions.  Just a delicious little acting treat.  (Interesting, though, that I thought one of the supporting players couldn't keep up.  I, personally, am not an amazing performer -- but when I did some acting in school, my performances were always elevated by working with good actors.  Which does make me wonder if this guy was normally even weaker than what I saw.)

We didn't have dinner.  The snooty tea -- although, on paper, a bit on the pricey side -- involved an insane amount of food, so I had no interest in another meal.  Just munched on some baby carrots back at the flat, and I'm good.

Tomorrow is our last day in London.  Let's see what kind of trouble we can get into.

There are some things you just shouldn't mess with

I am here talking about my memories of the original film of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory.  Because I was really annoyed by the musical adaptation of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for being totally untrue to the whole point of the original novel.  And then I looked it up on wikipedia, and, apparently, the musical was pretty true to the book, and it's the 1971 movie that screwed it all up -- and honestly, I don't care.  The movie had it right, as far as I'm concerned, because that's what I grew up with.  (I'd read the book, too, but, apparently, didn't remember it.)  And the musical, even if (as appears to be true) it was more true to the book, is still wrong, because it missed the whole damn point.  

Because in this musical, you've got five kids going on a chocolate factory tour.  Four of them are bratty kids, who break the rules and get what's coming to them.  The fifth kid, Charlie, is your standard cheerful optimistic poor kid -- who always has a sunny disposition and never complains about having less than everyone else.  He doesn't break the rules and he wins everything.  The end.

And what's missing is everything that was wonderful about the movie, from my point of view as a kid.  And no, I don't mean Charlie and his grandpa burping for their lives.  I mean the fact that Charlie broke the rules too, but managed to redeem himself by refusing the opportunity to destroy Wonka (by giving his competitor the secret everlasting gobstopper).  That's a message a kid wants to hear -- you can break a rule or two, but still win as long as you don't go too far.  Man, that's what you need to hear -- not that you have to be Polly Perfect all the time.

(And, after having seen Matilda, I was certain that this had been in the original Dahl story -- because Matilda is all about sometimes being a little bit naughty.)

But, no, the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory musical goes with the easy plot, the morality play.  Bad kids get punished for their sins (and, when you think about it, those of their parents); the good little boy wins the best reward ever.  (Yeah, that's what we need to teach our kids -- if you behave well, you'll get chocolate.)

The musical itself--  well, the musical itself made me really ask why they'd ever thought making a musical out of this would be a good idea.  I mean, really, why?  They scare up one song from the original movie, "Pure Imagination," although they move it to a more spotlighted position in the show, and all that it does is point out how effin' perfect that song is compared to what was written for this adaptation.  (And I found myself wanting to hear little Veruca sing "I Want It Now!")  Douglas Hodge is stuck playing a rather undefined Wonka -- he doesn't go out and try to create anything as memorable as Gene Wilder did (or Johnny Depp, for that matter).  Instead, he tries to be a little charming and a little distant and a little weird and a little magical, and when you add it all up, he's just a guy in green trousers and a velvet tailcoat.

(The green of his trousers, by the way, was pretty much the exact green of the grass in the chocolate room.  I kept hoping they'd do something where he disappeared into the background -- like the dude playing Timon in the musical of The Lion King -- but no such creativity.)

Also, we all agreed that they should have given us all free chocolate on the way out.

There's more to report on the day -- I saw an exhibition on propaganda at the British Library, went to my own bank (so as not to get screwed on the exchange rate again), met my folks (whose flight was 2 1/2 hours late), and various other things.  (Oh.  I think I littered.  I'm feeling guilty about it.  I looked all over for a trash bin, and all I could find was one of them big ol' solar powered jobs which had smoke coming out of it -- I guess it was burning or compacting or composting or doing whatever the hell it did.  Anyway, I couldn't open it, so I did what everyone else was doing -- I left my garbage next to it and walked away.  I kept looking over my shoulder expecting someone to yell at me for leaving my garbage on the ground.  Seriously, man, no chocolate factory for me.)  But it's late and I have an early start tomorrow, and apparently I'm still grumpy about the play, so I'll sign off for now.

Plans?

So, yeah, I'd cancelled kayaking for today.  Yesterday, when I was visiting my friend, she asked me what I was planning to do instead of kayaking and I realized I had no damn idea.  Probably should have planned something.

When I got back from Banbury, I started searching the web for fun day trips.  There were a few stately homes to see (which seemed vaguely interesting) and a possible steam train out to York (which seemed interesting until I'd read their recent reviews).  I was certain, though, certain that I'd go on a day trip.

This changed a bit when I got back from the weird-ass play.  (I didn't have dinner -- I just went straight back to the flat and had some fruit and veggies I'd put in the fridge.  I think I may have mentioned -- in my last trip out here -- how weird it is that, when on vacation, I stock my fridge with healthy snacks rather than stocking my pantry with pretzels and microwave popcorn.)  While munching on grapes and baby carrots, I reconsidered the whole day trip thing.  I was totally wiped from the play; none of the day trips seemed that good; and, hell, hadn't I just been to a stately home anyway?

(This morning, I actually discovered a day trip I would have been up for had I discovered it last night.  Would have gone to Bristol to see all the Gromits.  Yes, I am admitting here that I totally missed something while trying to be my own internet travel agent.  Grumble.)

Anyway, when I gave up googling for a day trip, it was after 2:00 a.m., and I reckoned I'd sleep past any of those early morning trains I would have had to take anyway.  So I instead made a reservation for tea at a restaurant in Covent Garden (chosen because it wasn't 50 dollars and I figured if I was going to have cheap tea I might as well people watch).

My cheap tea was pretty damn cheap -- quality-wise.  The price was about 15 pounds, but once they charged me for a refill on my tea and added the standard gratuity, it was over 20, so we're talking about upwards of $30 with fairly surly service, itty bitty finger sandwiches which bordered on the inedible, and tea that wasn't even loose-leaf.  (The scone was good, although pre-sliced -- wth?)  The nice thing about my reservation, though, is that I had a table in the courtyard at Covent Garden which was mine all mine for an hour and a half, and (bonus) free wi-fi.  So I enjoyed my scone and my overpriced tea while my phone was giving me game-by-game updates on the Wimbledon Men's Final.  (When in London, cheer for Murray!)

Thereafter, I did a bit of shopping -- some retro clothes, a cheapo British flat iron (did I mention the problem with my flat iron?  I have a perfectly good dual-voltage flat iron, but the flat iron has one of those little test/reset buttons, which tripped about a minute in, and the damn thing won't reset when I'm using it with an adapter between the plug and the outlet -- anyway, my hair looks like shit, and I travel enough to justify blowing $20 on a working British flat iron), some ibuprofen rub for my back (I'm loving the ThermaCare wraps but not when it's over 80 degrees and there's limited A/C) and a few other supplies for the flat.

I had a late dinner at a favorite dim sum place (which was annoyingly out of one of my favorite pieces -- that's what I get for going late -- so I'll have to go back later this week with my folks) and came back to the flat.

Which, after finding a restaurant for tomorrow night pre-theatre dinner with my parents, has left me in a rather similar position as last night.  It's 2:00 a.m., and I don't yet have plans for tomorrow.  (My folks are coming in too early for me to try the Gromit day trip.)  Tomorrow, thus, is Mystery Day. 

Trains and Friends and What the Hell Was That?

Oh wait, before all that, there's last night's theatre.  Yet again, I found myself at the half-price ticket booth a bit after 5:00, but this time my brain and my mouth were in total agreement on what I'd be seeing.  So was the ticket booth, although the weasels were actually out of half-price tickets for the show in question, so I had to pay, y'know, real ticket prices.  I saw a revival of Private Lives, which was getting fairly smashing reviews.  Indeed, while on the train in from the airport, I read a review which compared it pretty favorably to a production I'd seen, like, a decade ago starring Alan Rickman.  And, y'know, I'd really enjoyed the Rickman one, so figured I'd take in Toby Stephens's take on it.  It was quite good, so yay.

Now, this morning, I took a train out to Banbury, to meet a friend of mine who lives ... somewhere the other side of Banbury.  She met me at the train station and we went out to Upton House, a stately home in ... wherever the hell it is.  We didn't even get into the home itself, we just spent time wandering in the gardens and getting caught up.  I only see her maybe once or twice a year, so it was really good to be able to meet up.

(And then we spent half the time talking about various aches, pains, and ailments which have stricken us of late.  Yeah, your 40s are a blast.)

OK, now I'm going to get into Theatre Critic on Vacation Mode.  The show is The Drowned Man:  A Hollywood Fable, a "promenade" theatre experience brought to us by the Punchdrunk Theatre Company, which is apparently known for this sort of thing.  I've not seen any of their shows before (as they've been in London and New York only), but I have had two experiences with shows where you follow actors around the theatre (catching, as you might expect, bits and pieces of the overall story), so the experience wasn't wholly new to me.  Still, Punchdrunk ups the ante on this sort of thing.  And there were plusses and minuses to the experience....

Minus:  You have to wear a mask.  I'd read a review which referred to them as "Donald Duck" masks, which isn't entirely correct, but not entirely incorrect, either.  Your mask is white; it covers your eyes and nose; and, where it would cover your mouth, it juts out into what (now that you mention it) looks a bit like a beak.  I came to partially appreciate the whole mask thing throughout my evening of chasing actors (the few people in the building who weren't wearing masks).  They had the advantage of keeping audience members from whispering to each other.  Hell, you can't whisper in these things, or even mouth snarky comments -- nobody can see your lips.  (And at one point I suspected -- although I couldn't prove it -- that actors could slip the masks on and disappear into the crowd.)  But there was something that sucked big time about the masks:  If you wear glasses under them, they clamp your nose shut.  I shit you not.  Punchdrunk suggests you wear contacts instead of glasses, if you have them, and it's pretty clear why.  Wearing glasses under the Donald Duck mask means that the entire mask construct is pushed a bit further away from your face than intended, and the part that's supposed to be resting on the top of our nose lands on the end of your nose, pinching it.  As Punchdrunk was pretty anal about never removing the mask, I spent (over) two hours with a hand on my "beak," holding it up, to allow breathing.  During some of the boring parts of the show (more on that in a bit) I spotted a few women in the audience holding up their masks as I was -- and, upon a closer examination, saw that they were wearing glasses too.  (I tried a knowing smile in their direction, but, obviously, the mask prevented it.)

Minus:  It's dark in there.  This sets a scene like nobody's business, but also makes it very likely that you'll walk into things -- in my case, a couple other audience members, one actor, and a post.  Oh, also, they say to wear comfortable shoes.  Do that.  Also, wear flat shoes.  Some of the walking surfaces are uneven, and I can see a real tripping hazard if heels start to slip in the darkness.

Minus:  It's hot in there.  Holy crap, it's hot in there.  OK, sure, we're in a (London) heatwave, and maybe they didn't anticipate this kind of weather when they converted the warehouse, but you're  hot and sweaty, behind a hot and sweaty mask, running up and down stairs, and generally packed beak to beak with other equally hot and sweaty people.  At a few brief moments, I was close enough to the actors to see how much they were sweating, and I wouldn't be surprised if one of them passed out on the job.

To vary things up a bit, I'll give you....

Plus:  I'd give every award in the world to the set designer.  You're on a few levels of a converted warehouse, but you're also in a movie studio, in a trailer park outside it, and a wide variety of other places.  (The wooden post I backed into was doubling as a tree.)  Kudos to the lighting designer too.  I mean, yeah, dark, but there's smoke and fog and lights coming through the woods and the damn setting is absolutely jaw-droppingly good.  When I was first let in (they let you in the building in a steady trickle of small groups), I didn't see an actor for a good 20 minutes -- I just spent the time exploring the set.  The details were extraordinary, and we were invited to touch everything.  I mean, I pawed through some papers stacked on a table, and it wasn't just the one on top that had stuff on it -- it was stuff all the way down (just in case someone happened to look, I imagine).  I liked the set enough that I'm actually trying to avoid spoilers for it.

Minus:  Not so for the plot.  Well, there's no sense in hiding spoilers from the audience on this one as, when you walk in, they hand you a little piece of paper outlining the plot.  (Flip it over.  Seriously.)  This didn't stop me from spending about an hour feeling like I was missing stuff.  After the first 20 minutes of not seeing an actor, I (metaphorically) latched on to the first one I saw, and followed him as much as I could.  But I lost him (the rest of the audience got in the way and they were moving too slow).  Eventually I found another one; this one was a woman, she was a secretary at the movie studio.  I followed her for quite some time -- and she didn't do much.  In her office (a brilliant set -- I didn't really get it until I saw the clocks), she sat at her desk typing stuff.  And tidying stuff.  And reading stuff.  There were about 20 of us standing there around watching her work and let me say the excitement was lacking.  I looked at my watch and decided that if her storyline didn't pick up in 10 minutes, I was going to wander away and seek out some plot.  (And then I realized that I just looked at my watch while standing, like, 6 feet away from an actor.)  

Plus:  OK, but once I figured out how to play the game (you could wander off at will, but I generally stayed with an actor until they had a scene with someone who seemed more promising, and then I'd follow that one -- with the understanding that I damn near always lost them in the stairwell, which became a free opportunity to wander around a new floor, looking for something interesting) -- anyway, once I figured that out, I actually caught a surprising amount of the story.  Don't get me wrong, I'm sure I missed a lot, too.  But when, at the end of the show, I saw how many people had actually been in the building with me, and compared that to the number of people who had been with me in any particular scene, I came away feeling pretty lucky.  I hope that the rest of the audience felt the same way, with respect to whatever they saw.

Minus:  There's no dialogue.  No, no, I take that back -- there was some dialogue, but, given the scenes that I saw, there wasn't much of it, and most of it was drowned out by the ever-present music, anyway.  There were some tidbits of plot (and/or character) which I only got by reading folded up pieces of paper -- I wonder how many of them I missed (and what the other masked people in the room with me must have been thinking -- as, usually, it was only me and one or two others who read the papers).

Plus:  In exchange for the dialogue, you get dance.  Interpretive dance.  Some of it genuinely, awesomely good.  My two take-aways from the show are one completely unexpected piece of set design, and a stunning solo dance piece from a character I'd never seen before (but turned out to have been pretty important).

By the time the whole experience was over, I was drained and spent.  I felt like I'd sweated off a pound or two (I'd put a few papers, like my ticket and the plot summary, in my pocket -- they were soggy when I got out; one of them was stained blue from my jeans).  I felt annoyed at how much time I'd spent not following actors and how much story I'd missed.  I'd seen a great piece of dance and some bravura set design; but I hated my mask with a passion, and I had the fairly certain feeling that I would have no desire to see any future Punchdrunk productions.

Poop

I have, indeed, injured my back.  This likely means that I'll be moving slower than my parents, who are in their 70s.  Not to mention the whole embarrassment of having to admit "er, I hurt it by plugging something in."

I cancelled the kayak trip this morning.  I honestly can't imagine myself getting into a kayak right now.  Seriously.  Forget paddling it -- just stepping into the kayak, while it's happily unstable in the water -- is beyond my abilities just now.  (Of course, paddling it is out, as rowing uses your lower back quite a bit.)

On the truly truly plus side, my journeys this morning have established I am still capable of walking -- up and down stairs as well as on streets -- which means that, unless I go and make myself worse, this shouldn't interfere with most of my other plans.  (Admittedly, though, I am rethinking my decision to leave my folding walky stick at home.)

This morning was, as anticipated, shopping time.  I ran some errands and acquired some necessary stuff (although I haven't managed a back support yet).  I'm particularly proud of myself for picking up a UK-compatible cord for my Chromebook.  (This was necessary because, although I'd brought a bunch of US-UK adapter plugs, none of them took a grounded cord.)  Some years ago, I'd gone for a random walk, and learned that one particular street was home to all the cheap-o electronics stores.  I'd filed that information away for later, and (amazingly) retrieved said information this morning, when I genuinely needed it.  Walked into one of those shops with my current cord, showed it the nice man, and ten pounds later walked out with the UK-equivalent cord in my bag.

In addition, I've acquired an autographed Simon's Cat book, lunch, and various and sundry other supplies.  I'm a bit challenged on the back brace front -- one store had a really nice one in "One Size" which, according to the package, is too big for me (perhaps it's "One Size" for men) while another store had one which would fit, which was kind of crap.  I'll do a bit more scouting on this front, but sooner or later, I'll need to just buy one.

I just came back to the flat to drop off my purchases, grab some fruit, and check the internet.  Now that's done, I'm off again!

Running on Fumes ... and Pork

Although the flight was late, we still had our scheduled meals.  Which meant that I had breakfast at about 1:00.  It consisted largely of a product called a "bacon roll."  Sweet roll with a slice of "bacon" (halfway between what Americans would call bacon and what we'd call ham) in it.  Not the most healthy thing on earth, but, y'know, any port in a storm.

Getting to the flat I'm renting in London was a bit of a challenge, as there was traffic everywhere, so a ten pound cab ride turned into a 20 pound cab ride.  And the cabbie had to stop about a block away from the place, because my block was blocked off from the direction we eventually came.  So, hey, 20 pounds and I walked a block.  No biggie.

The nice people who manage the flat carried my bags up the two flights of stairs, and I got settled in.  After having been travelling for, um, let's say (wait, wait, I can do the math on this) 21 hours, I took a very necessary shower.  Did some unpacking and headed out to the half price ticket booth to get a ticket for a show tonight.

Normally, on my first night, I buy a ticket for the "loudest, most obnoxious" musical I can find -- I need something that will enable me to stay up late and overcome jet lag.  On this theory, I've seen shows like We Will Rock You; Priscilla, Queen of the Desert; and Mamma Mia.  As I checked availability at the ticket booth (and it was now about 5:50), I couldn't decide between Let It Be and Thriller, Live!  (The latter was probably the louder and more obnoxious, but I assumed the former might be, y'know, better.)  Unable to decide, I figured I'd get in line and figure it out.

There was nobody in line.  The woman in the booth looked at me expectantly.  I walked up to the window, and something in my brain made my mouth say, "I'd like one ticket for Merrily... please."

I'm not sure why exactly.  (Indeed, during the intermission, when discussing the production with the couple next to me, I actually uttered the sentence, "I've seen two productions of this show, and it isn't really my favorite."  Which does raise the question why I decided to see a third one.) But, I mean, I'd read some good reviews of this one; it was bound to be better than a Beatles or Michael Jackson tribute; and, well, I think that, as a theatre critic -- even though I was someplace nobody would know me -- wasting a London theatre slot on one of those other shows would have been just wrong, and I couldn't bring myself to say the words.

On a possibly negative note, I appear to be falling apart.  My knee started acting up already -- too many stairs (although I think my shoes might have had something to do with it).  And then, tonight, when leaning over to plug in my white noise machine, something went off in my lower back.  No idea what that is exactly, but I'm hoping it's one of those random things that goes away quickly on its own.  Come to think of it, maybe I'll go for another shower.  Couldn't hurt.

On the Road Again

Greetings, random people who read my blog.  I'm heading off again.  This one has a little bit of private holiday at the front end (in London) and then a lengthier bit with my parents.  I'll try to keep up the blogging as wi-fi allows, as I'm going to some new places so there should be interesting bits.  Also, you know, the standard philosophical meaderings I go off on when I'm away from home and, paradoxically, somewhat more myself.

As usual, I took off the day before the trip in order to pack and get my life in order; and, as usual, I procrastinated and was up later than I thought I'd be.  (In part, I blame the termite inspector.  I figured that, since I was home anyway, I might as well have the termite guy come out, inspect my termite damage, and give me an estimate for killing my termites.  This happened many times, when I lived in the condo, and the process usually took about five minutes.  (He'd say "Yes, those are termite droppings.  It'll be $300.")  This termite guy, however, wanted to inspect my whole house, take depressing photos of all of my dry rot, go back into his car for 20 minutes, and return with a powerpoint presentation on his ipad including stock close-up photos of termites, all culminating in "there's termites outside your garage and outside one of your windows -- so you should tent your house for $2500."  Um, "no."  So "no."  But you're not hear to read about termites.  I just mention this because the whole inspection/sales pitch process took about an hour and a half out of my day of packing.  Two hours, if you include seething time.)

So, yeah, packed late, went to sleep late, didn't get a ton of it. 

Now, I'm travelling on airline points, so I had to take the flights they'd give me on points -- as opposed to, say, the direct flight or the more logical connection.  This is why I flew to Denver -- arriving at 3:20 in the afternoon -- when the onward flight to London isn't leaving until 8:45.  No, no, scratch that.  It leaves at 8:45 if it's on time.  I woke up this morning to the cheerful news (Google Now already knew) that my connecting flight was delayed an hour and a half.  Yeah, so I'm cooling my heels in the Denver International Airport for seven hours.

Last time I spent a whole damn day in an airport, it was the airport in Vegas, which was half-empty.  Literally.  Like, the terminal had several wings and a couple of them were just barricaded off because they weren't using that part of the airport.  I was bored to tears.  That's not a metaphor -- I was yawning so much, tears came to my eyes.  Thank goodness I'd had the good sense to put the entire first season of Copper on a USB drive, so I was mainlining civil war era cop drama, trying to drown out the ever-present slot machine sounds.

Denver airport ranks a bit higher (and, bonus, my points get me into the lounge), although it loses points for an utter lack of ready maps.  Like, there were several signs telling me the lounge was at the North end of A Gates, but was there anything telling me which way North was?  My flawless sense of direction being what it is, I had a lovely walk down to the South end of the terminal . . . .  I'd be ticked about it if I was in a hurry, but, really, once I'd found the lounge and sat in it for a few hours, I actually left to go explore the terminal.  It's a long damn wait, is what I'm saying.

Not complaining, though:  VACATION!!

If everything goes according to plan, tomorrow is a shopping day, Saturday is a go-visit-a-stately-home-with-a-friend" day, and Sunday is a kayaking day (read:  see-how-out-of-shape-I-really-am day).  I'm fairly excited about kayaking -- although I am a bit concerned as I haven't been exercising.  I mean, last time I went kayaking, I was at a place where I was doing 45 minutes on the elliptical every day.  This time, I managed 15 minutes on the elliptical once last week.  My endurance is, er, shit, is what I'm saying.  So I was glad when the 90-minute and 2-hour kayak tours were sold out, so all I could book was a 1-hour trip.  Hopefully, we'll take the slow, scenic route.  (All of it downstream?)