A Week In Manchester – Pt. One
In mid October my company sent me to lead a class for a week in Manchester, England. I’d never been there before (and being on the other side of the planet by myself) I decided to keep a journal in a shared note on my phone so family and friends could follow along. I sent them a link to it with “I don’t have anyone to talk to so I’m talking to this. You’re welcome to read along if you’d like. Sorry for all of the swearing.” The last part was primarily for my In-Laws.
FRIDAY
When my son was two years old I went on my first work trip. He wanted me to take something with me so he gave me a little Sully from Monsters Inc stuffed animal. I get anxiety when I fly so he has become my traveling totem. I once made an entire group of adults go back to a restaurant after dinner because it had fallen out of my backpack at some point during dinner.
Before our first big trip post covid I realized, once we got to the In Law’s house to drop off the kids, that I had left him behind. My mother in law went into protective overdrive and her, my wife and kids, made hand made ones to make sure that I could still have my sigil. One now lives at their house, and I have additional spares at home.
SATURDAY – AMSTERDAM AIRPORT
Amsterdam airport. Hearing seven different languages and none of them are mine.
There is a middle eastern (by look and complexion) man in front of me carrying on a very intense conversation in I think Farsi. I cannot see his right ear but there is no ear bud in his left. He might be having a psychotic delusion.
I might be as well.
I’m way out of my depth here. This is the farthest I’ve ever been from home. I love it and I am so confused.
80 minutes in the Amsterdam airport feels like I’m being cheated. No wandering. No exploring. No people watching.
Everyone is carrying these dainty cups of coffee. This does not bode well for my American largess. WHO can survive on a reasonable and well measured amount of caffeine? Put it in a bucket and put it into my veins.
I did not sleep well on the 9.5 hour flight; but I slept enough that I should be able to deal with going to bed at 9 or 10 tonight.
Mid 20s to 30s man. What looks like an Alaskan bear claw / native shirt and a half sleeve tattoo of bears in the woods. At least he found a theme to stick to.
Saturday night in Manchester city center is a fucking DJ, bass fest of a fuckable meat market. I am an old and I should not be out here amongst the youthful and vigorous. Someone needs to find me a little hole in the wall and put me there so that I don’t embarrass the youngs.
Door to door travel time – House to Hotel – 20 Hours
Total miles traveled – 5838
SUNDAY
There is a man in a tuxedo casually waiting for the bus.
The people at the front desk are French, by design I think. I’ve never felt more international than being hastily and rudely dismissed by a French accent.
Manchester appears to be a late night, late start kind of place. I leisurely slept in until 9 and didn’t leave the room until ten. Lady in the elevator on the way back up was amazed that she was up before eleven and was going to have “a bit of a lie down”. Good for her I guess but I’m bored and nothing is open yet.
I see now why the coffee’s are small. It’s all espresso, no coffee and no decaf. It’s okay nervous system, you’ll be fine.
Woke up this morning thinking I was in Canada. Good job brain, you piece of shit.
Sitting on the patio of the hotel waiting to do “something” while house keeping is in my room. Almost every woman I’ve seen here has been gorgeous and the men they’re with look like every bad stereotype of barely giving a shit? She spent three hours getting ready before she left the house – on a fucking Sunday morning of all days – and you look like you rolled out of bed and grabbed the nearest pile of “it doesn’t smell that bad” and threw it on.
Been doing a shit ton of walking. I told myself that I wasn’t going to put headphones in as i walked around the city because I pretentiously wanted to absorb the sound – but I am so hopelessly under prepared to navigate this place on my own. So find a destination before I leave my current location – don’t want to look like an oblivious tourist – put in headphones and let Apple Maps tell me what the fuck to do. If the headphones are on I might as well listen to some music. Here’s today’s soundtrack if you’re interested .
Everyone is speaking English and I have no idea what most of them are saying. A crowded pub patio and I feel like I’m in this tiny bubble all by myself. I can catch bits and pieces, an occasional snippet that sounds like the language that I understand, but other than that there is a cacophony of noise that isolates me.
For posterity – and so I can remember when this fever dream is over – I am at a pub called The Wharf. It sits on some of Britain’s famous canals. Lots of longboats parked on the side of the canal. I started today heading to the Northern Quarter, made my way down here to head back towards the hotel. After this I think I’ll find a place to take in the Manchester United game.
Made it back to the hotel after wandering for the day. Having a beer on the hotel patio. There’s piano music coming from somewhere. No clue where. But it’s a nice touch of ambience.
The Oast House for dinner.
My friends asked for me to be an annoying foodie and take pictures of my food. Breakfast is my least favorite meal of the day so no pictures of that. Lunch is going to be whatever the sales guys order in for the class so … meh. So pictures of dinner it is.
Sunday Roast is a BIG deal here. It’s advertised everywhere.
They’re filming something here.
Security just asked me if I was part of what they were filming. So…day made I guess.
Hotel honkshoomimimi time.
MONDAY
First day of class. Bad sleep. Bad dreams. Up in the middle of the night. Auspicious start to the day.
Sitting on the patio having coffee. An alarm has been blaring down the street for 30 minutes and no one seems to give a shit. If it’s that unimportant maybe it shouldn’t have an alarm?
One of the options for lunch is a “Cajun chicken wrap”. Apparently the Brits think “Cajun” means spicy mayo. I would like to report this crime.
Told a joke about American Holidays all being based around not being British … it was not appreciated.
It was a lot like doing educational stand up for 7 hours. I’m exhausted but have an obligation to go out to dinner. This is literally everyone I know in England … feels rude not to.
Post work drinks at the hotel bar (paid for by one of the sales guys) lead to an extremely good Italian prix fixe meal and more drinks (handled by a sales guy) lead to a pub crawl (instigated by a sales guy).
I need to learn to say no to beers that I’m not paying for
Went to bed at 1am.
God Damn you type a personality sales guys.
End part one.
Travis
but with like a british accent
