My trip to London was scheduled to begin in Newark and stop in Chicago before arriving at Heathrow. The bus I was taking to the airport made good, steady time until, while navigating into a toll lane, it collided with the mirror of a truck, or the truck's mirror collided with the bus; it's debatable. The passenger on the truck told the bus driver to pull over, and when he didn't, the truck pulled in front of the bus and forced it to the side of the road. One of the passengers, a mannish looking woman, strode confidently to the front of the bus, out the door and spoke to the bus driver: "We all have flights to catch let's just go." She was echoed by other passengers, along with warnings of the dire consequences to the bus company if their pleas were not heeded. The m. woman also advised the truck driver that everybody on the bus would bear witness against him if it came to court. He ignored her. What struck me was that the bus passengers believed that because it was important for them to arrive at the airport on time, it was also important to the two people who had the power, viz. the drivers, that they arrive on time. A doubtful premise at best.

While we waited for a police officer, I gazed out upon the refineries and swamps of Northern New Jersey and thought how wise the authorities of New Jersey were to put their highways through the ugliest part of their state, rather than running them through, and thus destroying, the most scenic parts of the state, as was done in New York under the aegis of Parks Commissioner Robert Moses. Still, many from New Jersey are sensitive about the Garden State's reputation, and you risk seeming facetious when you praise this aspect of their state. When the officer finally came, he allowed us to move on after the drivers had exchanged information.

As it turned out, it was fortunate that I was late checking in. Weather problems in Chicago forced delays that would have made it impossible for me to catch the connecting flight to London, so American Airlines put me on a direct flight to London.

I only stayed in London for a week, and now, two weeks later, it seems as if I never left New York. There's not much to tell: during the days I went to museums or parks and every night I went to a pub and drank with friends; little of interest happened, but I had a great time. This is the best sort of vacation, as it is from negative experiences or contact with evil that the best stories spring.

But there is one thing that sticks in my head: my visit to an exhibit in the Serpentine Gallery in Hyde Park. Inside the gallery, a translucent, circular aviary, about five feet in diameter is displayed in the middle of one room; imagine a tube of gauze about five feet in diameter, inside of which sit perhaps half a dozen whistling and oddly squawking parrots on as many branches of what could be a small tree. The parrots can not be seen directly; only their shadows make silhouettes against the gauze. A sign next to the aviary warns "do not speak or whistle to the parrots," the reason for which is apparent on the legend on the wall. In the late 18th century a German naturalist visited an Indian village in Brazil, the inhabitants of which had just completely wiped out a neighboring village and took their pet parrots. The naturalist realized that the parrots now the soul speakers of their former masters' language. He transcribed all the sounds the parrots made phonetically and thus preserved a record of the lost tribe's language. The 21st century artist used the naturalist's phonetic transcriptions to teach the dead language, so that it could once again live in the beaks of these modern parrots. A fascinating story, whether true or not.

For my next trip, I might just go to Brazil and see if I can find any other records of that lost tribe.