Marjorie looked up from the Danielle Steele love story and said rather quickly, "Why don't you go?
"Her tone sounded sincere. I couldn't believe my ears, but my mouth responded hastily, "Are you serious?"
"Go! You only live once," Marjorie urged.
"And when you die you're out of here for a long time," I responded matter-of-factly, but it's as true as life.

Putting wishes and dreams aside, I finished reading the article by a travel editor, who had enjoyed fabulous Wimbledon action in 1988 while spending a measly $653.54, excluding the cost of an airline ticket. His Wimbledon tour de force sparkled with amazement and excitement.

Could it be true? The story was feasible and the promise was irresistible. Wide-eyed and hopeful, I sprang to my feet and went searching for my passport. Finding it, I was disappointed discovering it had expired. If Wimbledon was to be mine in 1989, I had to renew it by Friday. Only one week of Wimbledon remained. This necessitated a hurried trip to Miami's U.S. Custom Office. I could not go Thursday. I had an important meeting to attend. Well, some thought it was important. During my thirty-seven-year career with the likes of General Electric and United Technology, I lerned that meetings were often a waste of time.Anyway, the trip boiled down to Friday, or forget about Wimbledon in 1989.

I assessed my chances for success, knowing I would be dealing with government bureaucrats. Answers popping up in my mind were dispiriting. A child's wonder intervened, and I realized there was too much to gain not to try. The lure of Wimbledon was inescapable. Friday morning I'd head south and give it my best stroke. I prayed.

Early trips to Miami, by-way-of I-95, are terrifying. You are confronted with five lanes of late commuters jockeying for position every inch of the way. Absolute chaos! The experience is comparable to playing chicken for 90 miles. Of course, frequent stretches of construction heighten the dread. At several points, I wondered if a trip to Wimbledon was worth dying for.

Cops are everywhere, but what are they to do when everyone is driving twenty miles over the speed limit? Invariably, they stop the cars with the gorgeous chicks or handsome, young studs, depending on the gender of the cops. Yes, my risks for a speeding ticket was zero. I'm not a young stud, and I'm definitely not gorgeous, but I am an older coward.

Surprise! Surprise! I arrived in one piece. The office perked with organization and the process flowed smoothly. All this efficiency offered promise, but I remained pessimistic. After completing the paperwork, I moped around most of the day worrying. Sixty other applicants shared my concern. Going to Wimbledon had become an obsession.

I had nearly given up when I heard my name called at three in the afternoon. The feminine voice echoed from the section that issued passports. My heart rate quickened. After subduing the shock, I rose and sauntered over. Pure joy embraced me when an attractive bureaucrat, wearing a radiant smile, handed me a new passport valid for ten years and ten trips to Wimbledon. Amazingly, she appeared pleased to have been of service. This lucky break was a good omen. Wimbledon, beware, here I come! Yes! My prayer had been answered.

I had two serious concerns now. How much was the airline going to stiff me for a ticket and getting home safely in the afternoon rush hour traffic. The fine line of yellow running down my spine surfaced, and I decided to pay the toll for the Florida Turnpike home. It's less congested and much safer. Incidentally, it's been paid off for over thirty years. Florida simply knows how to milk a cash cow.

The unusual chain of events, leading to Gatwick, slipped into my subconscious mind. The medium-sized bag weighed a ton now and was as awkward as a bale of cotton. My body was weary. Sleep had been difficult on the flight over although three seats were available for me to stretch out on. In retrospect, the availability of three seats helped justify the $1120 I'd paid for the ticket. The pampering proffered by the flight attendants, due to the light load, was an additional justification and a real kick. The frequent flyer miles I earned added substantially to the miles I'd already saved. A happy thought occurred. My 1990 Wimbledon flight might be gratis if my business travel continued strongly.

Ahead, a small currency exchange beckoned. I strolled over and exchanged $100 U.S. for £60 of British pound sterling. I calculated the exchange rate to be $1.667 per £ counting costs. The rate information is trivial. More significant, little money-holes located in airports and train stations are expensive to do business with. You are forced to buy some currency unless you are content on staying at the airport. But don't get carried away. Deal with banks and exchange large amounts to minimize transaction charges. Also, the rate of exchange is better at banks. Holding legal tender, I moved to a breakfast bar and spent 33 pence (1/3 of a £) for a cup of hot tea with milk and sugar. I wanted to feel like a native.

Time! The English say Americans are crazy when it comes to the way we take our tea. We heat the water to make it hot. Then we put ice in it to make it cold. Then we put sugar in it to make it sweet. Then we put lemon in it to make it sour. Then we hold it up and say, "Here's to you!" Then we drink it ourselves.

I selected a table, dumped the bag, stretched my long legs, sighed loudly, waking an older gent three tables over. The tea burned my mouth so I blew and sipped and observed. Across the nearly empty terminal, I spied a sign reading British Rail Service, where I thought and hoped I might obtain an answer to a pressing question. How do I get from Gatwick to the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club (AELTC) and all that tennis? I finished the tea and headed for the Information Booth, stopping briefly at the Water Closet (toilet) as it's called in 'Jolly Olde'. I would have coffee, after obtaining directions to Wimbledon, and get my 'bloody' eyes opened.

I reached the booth and popped the question. The petite lady, with a Cockney accent, politely explained: "Luv, take the Rail to Victoria Station. At Victoria, take the Underground Line to Earl's Court where you change to the Wimbledon Line. At Southfields Station, just follow the crowd."

"Ta! Luv!" I said, forcing a Cockney accent. I did a left face and headed for the rail service not sure I'd understood her directions completely

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as I wheeled away. My Cockney had been laced with a thick southern drawl. I'd traveled a short distance when the reason why the terminal was nearly empty became apparent. Half of London stood ahead, queuing for rail tickets home.

I had visited England decades earlier. Uncle Sam sent me over in '50 for two years of air force duty. I was twenty then. The world was an adventure…all fun and games…memorable. During the visit, I cultivated a fondness for the English. And I reflected on their customs and colloquialisms. Warm feelings ensued. So, I looked forward to reacquainting myself with the people and their ways.

After lugging the bag a short distance farther, I stumbled upon the Church Road queue. It appeared to stretch halfway around the world. I stopped to talk with a young English couple queuing for tickets. "Why are you standing here?" I asked.

"We are queueing for tickets. The ticket gate is two miles ahead."
"Queuing?" I asked, expressing confusion.
"Lining up, guv."
"Yes! Of course."

This revelation raised doubts concerning the availability of tickets, but I didn't dwell on it very long. Mostly, I wondered why this young couple appeared so cheerful and happy while waiting hours and hours in a line to get tickets. Love might be one explanation and another might be the splendor and enchantment of Wimbledon.

My thoughts, stirred by weariness, turned to finding lodging. The author of the article said he'd stayed at a bed and breakfast (B&B) in Wimbledon Village. I had decided to copy. I did an about-face and headed back to Southfields bent on catching the train to Wimbledon Village, two stops farther. There, I'd seek a bed upon which my thoroughly exhausted six-foot frame could be spread prone.

After walking twenty yards, I spied a sign offering B&B. "Check it out!" I stepped up to the door of this small, two-story house and knocked. An Indian lady answered, invited me in, and showed me a small room on the second floor. She asked £25 a day for the room. I declined, hoping something better and more reasonable might be available. I thanked her and left. To take the first thing that comes along clashes with my principles of shopping and saving, even if I was half dead on my feet. The Scottish heritage you know…tightwad.

A short distance father another B&B sign appeared and my hopes soared a second time. I rang the doorbell. An elderly lady with calm, kind eyes appeared at the front door. "Yes?" She asked, with a pleasant visage.

"Have you an available room to let?"
"I'm sorry, Sir, my rooms are taken." Her sorry seemed genuine. "I have a friend who might have an available room."

She invited me into the living room, whereupon she fetched a map and showed me the location. The B&B was within walking distance of Wimbledon in the village of Wimbledon Park and the price was £20. I mused, rubbing my hands together, yes I've saved £5 (quid) already. The lady's name was Mrs. Demery, she said, but she wouldn't be available until around four. The proposition was interesting, I told her, and asked to leave my bag until I returned. She was pleased to oblige. At the front door, she smiled and politely asked me to return around four.

Relieved of the burdensome travel bag, I headed to the village circle where Marshall's Bakery stood. I'd noticed it earlier leaving Southfields. Hunger quickened my steps and shortly the inviting smell of bakery products filled my nostrils, as I neared and entered. Business was slack. I counted six people sitting around nibbling sweet biscuits, sipping tea and gossiping. Three patrons sat at tables on the sidewalk. Three more sat on stools at a bar, across from the serving counter, where I stood trying to decide between a roast beef and an egg salad sandwich. I ordered the roast beef, cola, and moved to a sidewalk table, the better spot to enjoy the beautiful, crisp, sunny day, and watch people and things on the busy streets.