where the reception committee washed us to come down.
Once on the water, the launch drew alongside and took the three of us ashore. That was the last I saw of the Friendship, and unfortunately the last any of us saw of the charts and other paraphernalia used on the flights. We might have cherished some articles, had they not disappeared, for our respective grandchildren. The malady of collecting souvenirs seems to be universal in its scope—but one grandchild’s loss is another one’s gain.
For instance, when we landed at Burry Port my entire baggage consisted of two scarfs, a toothbrush and a comb. One scarf was quickly snatched by some enthusiast, I don’t know just when. The other stayed with me because it happened to be tied on. The toothbrush and comb also survived, probably because they were hidden in the community duffle bag, shared by Stultz, Gordon and me.
By the way, the absence of baggage—even a change of clothes—seemed to provoke much interest, especially among women. I had no intention whatever of trying to set a fashion in transatlantic air attire. My traveling wardrobe was due entirely to the necessity of economizing in weight and space. I had landed in exactly what I wore and nothing more, and knowing this, my English friends kindly saw to it that I was generously outfitted. So much publicity was given to my lack of wardrobe that some weeks later when I reached New York with three trunks it was impossible to
