Thanksgiving Thursday started off with a mammoth trek, a journey that I canÂ’t stand, a huge chunk of my life spent just trying to get to the place that I call Upper Buttfuck, a village far, far away from where I life but where the company has offices. I hate going there-itÂ’s a dog to get to and from, and the meetings I have there are never rewarding (perhaps because I need an attitude adjustment about going there, I dunno.) It takes me four hours to get there, and thatÂ’s if the connections are good-IÂ’ve had a few episodes where failed trains and shoddy tube service made for a much longer travel time.

For me it was especially bitter as it was Thanksgiving Day-a day like any other in my adopted home country, a day that no one thinks of or thinks about. Thanksgiving is the anniversary of when I left the States for Europe 7 years ago, and it is the one day of the year when I am racked with homesickness so severe that all I can do is build myself up in a cocoon on the couch, armed with “Home For the Holidays”, wine, pajamas, and homemade macaroni and cheese. I tend to cry on Thanksgiving. I read and refresh American news websites with the religious fervor of a child revising a Christmas list to Santa.

But no. Thanksgiving would (as per the norm) be celebrated on Saturday with friends. On Thanksgiving Thursday I packed up and went to Upper Buttfuck. It was a first meeting for me on the project IÂ’m taking on in a few more weeks (my boss wonÂ’t let me switch jobs just yet). I would at least get to meet some of the team in a two-day workshop.

Two days in Upper ButtfuckÂ…ergo my Thanksgiving included a stay overnight in a hotel.

The journey there was unremarkable although it took forever. I snagged my tights (as I usually do, tights have a short shelf-life in my home). I made it there in time. I managed to steal one of the LAN ports for a connection (but this is only to my work email (whose number of unread mails now tops somewhere around 6,000), as my work, they have blocked damn near every site imaginable to man.) The meeting commenced.

And I could see-already-that the project was going to be just as much a battle as the previous one was.

That night I went to my hotel room-the hotel was actually really nice, and all I wanted was to lock myself in it for the night. The group was going out for a curry and I didnÂ’t mean to be anti-social, I just knew I couldnÂ’t do it. I needed solitude and quiet. I was tired, having gotten up at 5:30 am just to get to the meeting on time. I wanted to get some macaroni and cheese, take a bath, and be alone. Angus helped me ring around to find somewhere that would serve it up, and I walked in the cold and wintery darkness towards an Italian place that could do something similar. On the way there I passed a place that served Cajun/Mexican food, and I knew that had to be a done deal, so I had a margarita and polished off some fajitas alone.

Then I walked back to the hotel, ordered a bottle of wine at the bar, and the pinot grigio, the bathtub, and the Milan Kundera I had brought along and I all got acquainted. I watched some TV (while texting Angus) and then I turned in early. I padded a flank of pillows around me and opened the window to the sea air. I went to sleep.

Somewhere around two am a screaming frightening alarm went off. It startled me so badly I sat up and flew right out of myself, which I have to be honest-even though I battle to be so fucking mentally well, it felt great to be outside for a little while. In my foggy haze I realize itÂ’s the fire alarm going off, and a fire alarm at 2 am is likely no joke. I grab my purse and throw a coat on over the T-shirt and the pair of AngusÂ’ boxers that IÂ’d grabbed at last minute. Completely forgetting about shoes, I made my way out of my room and bumped into a man who looked like he was similarly dozy, wearing jeans with the fly open and a shirt buttoned wrong. We make our way down the stairs, meeting others like ourselves-some in clothes, some in pajamas, one smart chick whoÂ’d brought a robe, and all of us looking like weÂ’d been woken out of a sound sleep.

Once in the lobby, the desk clerk has us wait there while he confirms that the fire alarm is unfounded. The alarm is getting louder and more panicked in sound, and I continue to reign supremely outside of myself. When the clerk finally turns off the alarm, itÂ’s revealed it was a door that was wrongly wired to the fire alarm that had set it all off. We troop back upstairs to our rooms.

I vow to bring pajama pants with me to all hotels in the future.

I also am unable to go back to sleep.

I twist and turn and divvy about in the bed for some time before finally drifting off.

Time to wake up comes in no time, and I shower and head down for a fantastic breakfast in the hotel breakfast room. I pack up, catch a cab, and get back to the office-I have conference calls before the meeting starts, and I need to check to see if the balloons got to fly at the MacyÂ’s Day Parade or not (apparently they did, just lower altitudes).

The meeting is contentious in many ways. I can't really get into it, but suffice to say it appears I have gone from one of those kind of projects to one of those kind of projects.

I am so de-motivated, fucked-off, and dreading the journey home that I leave at noon.

I get on step 1 of the journey (a train) and settle in-the train is running late, and running slow to boot. I buy a bottle of Diet Coke and get out my Blackberry. At the next station a man gets in and sits next to me. He is drinking from a beer can and holding his sweatpants on with his hand. His shoes are falling off. He smiles at me, and I see he’s missing the majority of his teeth. I smile back and keep typing on my Blackberry, which is the international sign for “seriously, I don’t want to talk, I’m busy and anyway Brick Breaker is more fun than anything you might have for me” but he turns to me anyway.

“Nice weather, huh?” he asks me.

And oh my God sweet Jesus munchkinsÂ…it smells like something has crawled into his mouth and died.

I literally gag back bile. I nod and go back to my Blackberry, dreaming of air freshener.

“Do you have kids?” the Death Eater breathes. “I don’t have kids, which is strange, as in my family children are hereditary.”

I smile. IÂ’m pretty sure the man has no idea what heÂ’s talking about, but I donÂ’t care, I just want the world to stop. He keeps talking. I get out lavender body lotion and rub it all over my face and hands to try to block out his smell. It doesnÂ’t work.

Luckily he gets off at the next stop. I see that the Diet Coke I had been drinking was actually sat under him, and I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that I would rather die of dehydration than touch that thing. Once again I look at where he was and think: They're going to have to burn the seats.

I get to London, take the tube, then get on another train. I am heading home, free and clear, trying to get through this nightmare called ThanksgivingÂ…and when I get home, Angus and I have an argument.

So really. Thanksgiving Thursday was stellar. Fucking great holiday of 2006.

-H.

More on Thanksgiving Day (observed) tomorrow.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 06:12 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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