It's Our First Day ...

Mixer Taps, Water Pressure, and Other Exotic Technological Advances That By-Passed the British Isles.

January 7, 2012

8AM, GMT: Our room is cold; then stiflingly hot; then cold again. We receive our first lesson in American expectation versus British reality: "centralized" heating as we know it doesn't appear to exist on this side of the Atlantic. Jay and I attempt to figure out what's worse: sweating to death while trying to sleep or watching goosebumps form on our goosebumps. We opt for goosebumps and huddle under the comforter, debating who will brave the chill in order to test the water pressure in the bathroom.

8:15AM, GMT: "Hold still while I gas you."

Jay deploys the Dutch Oven to great effect and I find myself standing on the opposite side of the room facing a posted sign from hotel management that essentially implies if I take a bath I'm single-handedly responsible for prolonged drought conditions on at least four continents. I may also be to blame for the further depletion of the Arctic Ice Shelf if I request fresh towels. And let's not contemplate the global horrors unleashed by my failure to turn off a light.

I appreciate environmentally responsible actions as much as the next person, but no one likes a Preachy McPreach. I weigh the destruction of the earth as we know it against smelling like a sour sock for the duration of our visit ... personal hygiene wins and I head for the bath.

8:20AM, GMT: This is a bathing situation unlike any I have ever encountered. There are two faucets ... one spitting cold water and the other spitting hot ... and it's a delicate game of half-turns and rapid spins to avoid being boiled alive or turned into a human ice cube. The lack of water pressure means that after 20 minutes there is barely enough water in the tub for bathing. I tell Jay he'd better order room service for breakfast because it looks like it's going to be a long morning.

The bathtub itself is long, deep, and narrow ... like an upside down porcelain Twinkie. Thank goodness all the weight I've gained has distributed itself evenly around my body - if my hips were any more padded Jay would have to use the jaws of life to extract me from the tub.

9AM, GMT: Pthttttt. Pthttttt. Pthttttt. Thhhhhp. Thhhhhp. Thhhhhp. Expletives deleted for your protection.

The shower head is dribbling and spitting at Jay. Apparently the pressure is non-existent, or I used up our daily hotel room allocation of water by both taking a bath and flushing the toilet. I offer to rinse him down with some of the Evian we purchased the day before at Tesco ... he is not amused.

10AM, GMT: Breakfast and the trauma of British plumbing are left behind as we embark on a quest to find the Hard Rock Cafe. If we've interpreted the map correctly we have only to take the tube to Hyde Park Corner. There's just one problem ... the park has more than one corner.

When we emerge from the vast underground tunnels that comprise the tube, Jay and I are completely turned around and have no idea in which direction our destination lies. The map we brought is useless and in a stunning display of cluelessness I somehow managed to leave the street address in the hotel safe along with the addresses of 13 different friends and family I was supposed to send foreign postcards to. Note to everyone: don't blame the post office; for once it's not their fault.

Jay shrugs, picks a direction, and starts walking. He ends up being correct ... eventually ... but we make a mistake by turning left at a corner and find ourselves in Hyde Park. It's actually quite lovely and we find much to admire and gawk at ... like this random gate that no one else seemed to find remotely interesting. We marvel, not only at the delicate craftsmanship, but at the fact the gate is still there at all. In Stinktown disreputable people would dismantle this baby and sell it for scrap metal faster than you could say "uncivilized."

Elizabeth Gate - Hyde Park


There are many statues and memorials scattered around the park but a number of inscriptions have been worn away by time and weather so we don't know what we're really looking at. The 10-year old in me is a little shocked and very amused that male statues are permitted to expose their credentials to the world at large. In America we would make this guy don the Fruit of the Loom or face the wrath of the Decency Brigade.

I ask Jay to remind me again ... which country is supposed to be the bastion of free speech and expression?

Random park statue with junk on full display


Also located on Hyde Park Corner is Apsley House, or Number One London. This is where the Duke of Beef Wellington lived after crushing Napoleon Pastry at Waterloo. Our London Passes would have allowed us entry to the house but it closes in the month of January because no sane person visits London in the winter. The history geek that lives in both Jason and me is disappointed since the house has reportedly changed little since the Duke resided there. It also showcases one of the best art collections in the city, including a massive nude statue of Napoleon; now the immature history geek that lives in me is really disappointed - you certainly don't get to ogle nude statues of supposed Antichrists in the US. Not that I think Nappy was an Antichrist, because I don't; he was brilliant ... and short ... and was immortalized in cartoon form with Bugs Bunny.

Don't go to Russia, Doc.


Apsley House


The entire area has a real Wellington vibe to it. There's the obligatory Wellington statue, of course; but there's also the Wellington Gate, which is quite impressive. And the tile walls of the underpass beneath the traffic intersection have a host of Wellington-inspired murals for people to admire. Seems like a bit of overkill, but then again, the Iron Duke was a pretty accomplished guy. And how often does an Irish native find himself heaped with honors from the British Empire? It's a shame that the horses being ridden by Park Security drop massive loads of dung right in the middle of the Duke's arch. Jay and I decide to pass on a closer inspection of the memorial but end up having to pause nearby while recovering from fits of laughter at the sight of a small boy running from his parents right into the middle of a steaming pile of horse poop.

Where's the Beef?


Too bad Jay was feeling unwellington on this trip


The Wellington Gate


Horses like to poop here


A Quadriga


11:30AM, GMT: After wondering how the heck we are supposed to leave Green Park, which has been fenced in for massive improvements, we find a break in the barricades and cross over to Park Lane where we finally reach our goal. This is the original Hard Rock Cafe founded in 1971 and a number of the original staff are still working the floor. Since we have a wedding to attend, Jay and I skip the food and drinks and head straight for the Rock Shop where we purchase a London pin and get a swipe for Jay's pin collector card.

We are a little surprised by the dearth of pins - there are only a few to choose from. I suppose we've been spoiled by all the North American locations that offer eighty-seven different pins in all shapes and sizes. Jay and I also peruse the clothing selection, being careful to choose items that are roomy. We were informed by more than one group of friends that Europeans like their clothes form-fitting ... even their t-shirts.

I find a really cute HRC couture shirt on sale but they don't seem to have it in my size. A very attractive and very helpful young man asks if he can assist me and I ask him if they carry the shirt in "Fat American."

He looks puzzled for a moment and then smiles, "Oh, you want a large size. You don't look big enough for that."

I offer to adopt him on the spot.

The Hard Rock Cafe ... number 1


The Rock Shop


The sun came out for five minutes


On our way back to our hotel to spruce up for Lauren's wedding we pass The Athenaeum, which has a posted sign for their pudding parlour. Every evening between 8PM and 11PM they offer a delectable selection of desserts including macaroons, fruit tarts, sundaes, champagne jellies and of course, pudding. The cost is only fifteen pounds per person and includes a glass of dessert wine ... it's a steal for London. And after leaving the area we promptly forget all about it until I write this entry. Being middle-aged, jet-lagged, and mentally fogged really sucks.

If you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding

England and America ... Separated by a Common Language

We May be Incoherent with Travel Fatigue but Your Directions Make as Much Sense as a Rubber Crutch

January 6, 2012

11:30AM, GMT: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!! This is a fire emergency; please evacuate the building! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!

Jason, who throughout the years of our relationship has slept through tornadoes, minor earthquakes, and what is referred to in hushed terms as the great cat puke incident, bolts straight from bed asking, "What the hell is that?"

I'm still floating hazily somewhere in the US Eastern time zone and mumble in reply, "Someone left the cake out in the rain."

Sleep is apparently not in the cards, so we decide the best course of action is to go have lunch, neither one of us being particularly interested in becoming the great American human torch in Kensington. To get from our room to the elevator or main staircase we must walk through six "fire doors" which we suspect are anything but. For one thing, they are made primarily of wood and for another, they are swinging doors without any kind of apparent automatic locking device. Jay and I speculate that perhaps they mean that these are doors best used in a fire, rather than to prevent the spread of one.

We take pictures of our temporary domicile on the way out, just in case.

No Irish Cream? Blatant False Advertising!


The Grand Staircase that no one used


The hotel's lone wi-fi hot zone


12PM, GMT: We find a pub, The Stanhope Arms, across the street from our hotel and pull up a window seat in order to watch it burn, if in fact there is a true fire emergency as opposed to an ill-timed fire drill.

Jay and I get our first lesson in British pub ordering: go to the bar, you lazy sots, and tell the barkeep what you want. We also hear, for the first but not the last time, that our credit cards don't have embedded security chips and this is a very bad thing; very bad indeed.

Jay starts the visit off with a pint of Guinness and a Steak and Ale Pie; the menu indicates that this dish comes with a jug of gravy, which may be the most disgusting thing I've heard of all day until the term mushy peas comes to my attention. I wonder aloud about the English fascination with peas, in my opinion only one square removed from the mouth-coating vileness that is the lima bean.

I order a pint of Strongbow Cider and a Croque Monsieur. While ham and cheese may seem like a boring start, at least this one includes welsh rarebit; I also have to make sure the gutworm has adjusted to the time zone change before I can start introducing weird and scary food items. Too much grease or heavy food on day one could result in an international colon blow of epic proportions, and from what I've read, British plumbing might not be able to withstand that kind of intestinal onslaught.

The food is good and we enjoy watching the locals wander in for a lunchtime pint ... these include a gentleman in a three-piece suit who is apparently a regular and a public works employee who just needs one more drink to "get through the bloody afternoon."

We find this charming since it would never fly in the US; at least not in Stinktown. But then again, since no one in London really needs to drive a car, what's the harm? A broken water main here, or a misapplied loan payment there ... these are easily corrected problems that can then be re-hashed over another pint at the pub after work.

Jay and I decide right then and there that we love London.

Less than 100 feet from the hotel's front door


Guinness ... the beer that eats like a meal


Steak and Ale Pie


Croque Monsieur with Welsh Rarebit


1PM, GMT: In my over-planning compulsion I have purchased hop-on hop-off bus tickets with the Original London Sightseeing Tour; they were offering two consecutive days for the price of one and it seemed like a great way to acclimate ourselves to the city without expending much effort.

Once on board the bus, with nowhere to sit but the unprotected-from-the-elements-open-air seats, we realize that we are expending a lot of effort just staving off hypothermia. It doesn't help that our bus keeps getting stuck in traffic and that the "live" commentary is neither live nor working. At one prolonged bus stop Jay actually falls asleep, which tells me that he is really tired or this London tour is really dull.

Cold, cold, cold but still happy to be here!


2:30PM, GMT: The bus finally makes it to Leicester Square and we decide to exit before losing all feeling in our extremities. We have an ulterior motive in that the place we're supposed to pick up our London Passes from is also located in this area. They have supplied idiot-proof directions ... unless you're American.

11A Charing Cross Road; walk past the Wyndham's Theatre and just to the right is the ticket information and redemption booth.

We walk past the theater three times looking for 11A until it dawns on us that we may be on the wrong side of the street. Jay and I weave through traffic, swearing under our breath, and arrive at 11 Charing Cross Road. Surely 11A must be inside!

Nope.

We do however, find a single page print-out taped to an interior door that reads "11A Charing Cross Road is not in this building. It is in the small ticket kiosk in the middle of the square. Redeem your London Passes there."

Really? There is nothing on that kiosk other than signs for discounted theater tickets. How in the name of all that is English would anyone in their right mind know to go there to redeem pre-paid London passes???

Jay and I enter the wee ticket kiosk only to find another sign, this one directing us downstairs into what bears a creepy resemblance to a doomsday bunker. It's almost as if they don't really want tourists to find them and redeem their vouchers. I'm tempted to say something to the the lady behind the counter while we're getting our actual passes, but she barely speaks English (or American) as it is, and I realize that it would be wrong to unload on her.

Hey sellers of the London Pass; here's a re-write of those directions for you free of charge:

Take Exit 1 from the Leicester Square Tube Station to Charing Cross Road. Turn left and walk down to Wyndham's Theatre. Directly across the street from the theatre will be a small kiosk selling discounted tickets; redeem your vouchers at the desk located in the lower level of this kiosk.

There.

Was that so hard?

If you don't like my directional edit you could just hang up a sign. That would solve a lot of problems and confusion; and judging by that sign we found at 11 Charing Cross Road, you have a lot of problems with confuzzled clientele.

4PM, GMT: The hotel did not burn down in our absence and it's time for a real nap. If we wake up in time for dinner we'll eat downstairs; if we wake up in time for breakfast we'll order room service. If we wake up in time for Lauren's wedding we'll be sure to shower and change clothes!

7PM, GMT: Jay and I land a table at Olives, an Italian restaurant located in the hotel, when it becomes obvious that there is no room at the bar. We find ourselves in capable, if clumsy hands, with our server who informs us of the half-off drink specials at the bar before dumping an entire bowl of olives all over the table. Normally I would be horrified by a table covered with roly-poly olives and the juice of their departed brethren but I'm so tired all I can do is laugh and ask for another drink.

We order the Antipasto Misto to share and throw in the seafood option for good measure. The amount of food that ends up at our table surprises even us. There is a full platter of Italian meats, along with chunks of Parmigiano Reggiano, and the most delicious buffalo mozzarella we've ever eaten. We also receive Scottish salmon carpaccio, lightly fried cod chunks, prawns, and wee fried whole fishes. Jay and I are initially surprised by how fresh everything tastes, but then we realize that much of the food must be imported on a daily basis from warm-weather regions of Europe. What a treat this is compared with the tired, landlocked produce we typically see in Stinktown this time of year!

Antipasto


Salmon Carpaccio with Apple Salad and Pomegranate Seeds


Fritto Misto


1AM, GMT: Jason is snoring in bed beside me, oblivious to the world. Unable to sleep, I have watched a two-hour Agatha Christie movie on BBC and am now deeply engrossed in Sophie's Choice, which I have never before seen; it only took 30 years and more than 4,000 miles for me to finally get with the program. I am reminded once more why I love Meryl Streep - she is amazing. Eventually I fall asleep while watching darts ... it's either that or Al Jazeera and neither one is particularly appealing but with a few Tylenol PM I find darts to be a quieter option as long as no one in the audience is the victim of an errant throw.

I Ain't Getting in No Damn Time Machine ...

4,000 Miles, 15 Hours of Travel, and Not a Hint of Sleep

The long awaited day had finally arrived and we were headed to London for our cousin Lauren's wedding. It's embarrassing that two self-professed history geeks haven't made it across the pond before now, but international travel is weird and scary and expensive and requires much effort; Jay and I do not have a reputation for doing things that smack of effort. But this was different - if we couldn't motivate ourselves to make the journey for such a special occasion then we feared we never would. And so we flipped on our internet searchlights, enlisted the help of a friend who happens to be a travel agent (Second Star Travels ... check 'em out!), and proceeded to set our credit cards on fiyah.

January 5th, 2012

10:30 AM, CST: checked in with friendliest Delta employee we've ever encountered and now have nearly three hours to kill before the flight to Atlanta. US Bank employees were also chronically cheerful but we suspect this is because they took in $300 US and only had to return 180 GBP.

These pounds are heavy but our account is surprisingly light


11AM, CST: table secured at the Budweiser Beers of the World eatery; we decide on second breakfast / early lunch since we are supposed to receive dinner on the flight to London. Imagine our horror when we realize that Boddingtons is an InBev / AB product! Feeling contrary, we order bloody marys rather than beer to accompany our burgers and fries.

Et Tu, Boddingtns?


Take that, British beer not produced or sold by a British brewery!


4PM, EST: a short, uneventful flight finds us in Atlanta with nearly two hours to spare before the next leg of our journey. We hop the train all the way down to terminal E to find our gate and buy some water. Turns out that we are in isolation at a gate completely removed from every other gate in the terminal; Jay has to take a hike just to find a vendor selling bottled water. Later we amuse ourselves by playing a game we made up called "Pick the Brit." The rules are simple: without overhearing a conversation select those passengers on the flight that are of British descent. After ten minutes we realize it's too easy - our fellow passengers who happen to be British are so pale they practically glow in the artificial light. Jay and I declare a draw and decide to refrain from obnoxious stereotyping for at least one hour.

4:30 PM, EST: in between announcements that the flight is overbooked and calls for passengers to check in at the gate, we catch a name: Mr. Baggins. The name is paged again; this time as Mr. Bill Baggins. Jay and I snicker, suspecting that this must be a joke along the lines of our Hugh Jass prank in Vegas. But then the call comes again and he is once more directed to check in at our gate. We speculate that his given name may be William Beauregard Baggins or Bill Beau Baggins and completely crack up. Billbo Baggins does exist!!

5PM, EST: we have boarded along with the other Economy Select passengers and are settled in for the long haul. This upgrade gives us extra leg-room and as much free booze as we can drink, but not much else. Still, it's money well spent considering that Jay is 6 feet tall and I am the most fidgety, squirmy flier known to the airline industry.

Ready for our happy flight!


7PM, EST: enjoying the flight up the eastern seaboard of the United States - there is minimal cloud cover so we can see all the lights twinkling below us and they are lovely. We have never flown over Washington DC, Philadelphia, New York, Boston or any of the other major cities along the East Coast who all think their baseball teams are better than ours. I stick my tongue out at them and throw in a nanner nanner boo boo for good measure. The flight plan has us flying over Canada, past Iceland, and then out over the cold North Atlantic to England - I fervently hope we don't crash because the only thing I hate more than the idea of breaking into hundreds of pieces is the thought of drowning in freezing cold water in the middle of nowhere.

Jay and I joke that the in-flight movies should be Airport, Airport 75, and Airport 79 followed by a healthy dose of Airplane and Airplane II, but we know better. A flight attendant arrives in the midst of this discussion to deliver our "delicious, gourmet meal".

Her words; not mine.

She offered us a choice of chicken or pasta and we are on record right now as stating that they were neither gourmet nor particularly delicious. The free Woodford Reserve Bourbon, however, was quite tasty.

Airline food ... still just as bad as I remembered!


Night, time zone unknown: the first movie, Moneyball, is just wrapping up. Jay and I saw it in the theater, but it's good enough to bear multiple viewings. Watching it reminded me to tell him that Grimace went to see it at the dollar show with a friend a few weeks ago. I had warned her that she probably wouldn't like it because it's very much a baseball movie rather than the comedy she seemed to expect.

"But Brenda, Brad Pitt is in this movie; I'm sure we'll like it just fine."

Three hours later she called me at work to let me know that she and her friend walked out of the movie, which she claimed was even worse than Shakespeare in Love. Not that it matters, but we adored Shakespeare in Love; Grimace remains convinced that Jay and I have awful taste in movies.

Still Night; no idea where we are or what time it really is: waiting somewhat impatiently for the Tylenol PM to kick in so that I can catch a few zzzzzzzs. I asked my doctor for something to help me sleep on this trip and he told me take Benadryl. Are you kidding me? I take that during the day when I have allergy trouble at work and it doesn't even make me yawn.

As the minutes drag by and the second movie starts I find myself becoming irrationally angry with all of the other passengers who have managed to drop off to sleep. I also vow to find a new primary care physician upon our return to Stinktown.

By the time the third movie begins I'm so tired that I have to restrain myself from running up and down the aisles like this:



The only thing that stops me is the realization that I would likely end up in an English holding cell once we touched down, and that would interfere with all of our plans. Still, at this point I would give anything for an hour of sleep. But it doesn't happen ... not even close; I am doomed to airplane and time zone related insomnia.

6AM, GMT: flight attendants are handing out bananas and stinky breakfast sandwiches. The smell of the hot sandwich makes me want to hurl all over the passengers seated in front of us. I opt for the banana only to find it's frozen solid and sporting a beard. Thank goodness we are nearing the airport and we can get the hell out of this cabin, through immigration, and then on to the hotel. Even though everyone has warned against it, there is a nap out there with my name on it and I plan to dive in with the hubba, a couple of pillows, and a down comforter.

7AM, GMT: we land a few minutes early and deplane fairly quickly; prior to landing, all non-GB and non-EU passengers were required to fill out a landing card, which is the equivalent of our US Customs form. I am mildly amused that they want an address where we can be reached during our visit and direct them to hotel concierge because I don't know our hotel's address, I only know which tube line and station exit we need to take in order to get to the hotel. That's probably a pretty stupid way to operate but at this point I don't really care.

We are lucky enough to hit the immigration queue just in time to join a massive group of Asian exchange students, nearly all of whom are hacking, snorking, coughing, sneezing, and in the case of one standing right behind us, gargling his own phlegm. We jokingly comment that we are in the Bird Flu Queue, but when Jay turns up sick the next morning I decide to blame Asia for any problems we encounter for the duration of our visit just on principal.

It takes more than an hour to just to reach an immigration officer and more than once I am on the verge of passing out and / or puking from fatigue. Jay tells me later that I should have just gone ahead and dropped right there in line because we might have made it through the process a little more quickly.

Note to self: practice fainting in a convincing manner for future travel use.

Our immigration officer appears to have a raging cold judging by her bright red nose and the box of tissues on her counter. She asks why we are visiting the country and when we tell her it's because of a wedding she snorts and shakes her head before stamping our passports and waving us through.

WE ARE IN!

Jay collects the luggage and we stroll through British Customs without speaking to anyone; within ten minutes we have purchased round trip tickets on the Gatwick Express to and from Victoria Station and we are on our way to the Millennium Baileys in Kensington ... or so we think.

Smile ... you're in London even if you can't think clearly


9AM, GMT: It's Friday morning, both here in London and at home. The Gatwick Express is a fast, but rather depressing ride through some sad looking industrial areas of London. I notice that no one has screens on their windows and file that away to ask about later. We dump out at Victoria Station which is huge, packed with people, and freezing cold. Don't the British heat their public transportation venues?

No; they do not! They also don't provide elevators in easily accessible areas (if at all) so we dragged our luggage all over the station until we found the right Tube line to get us to our hotel. On a happy note, our Oyster cards worked like a charm and the Tube itself is easy to navigate ... until you hear an announcement that your westbound line has been shut down due to flooding.

Flooding?

Did someone flush a toilet?

Our only option is to drag ourselves and our luggage over to the Eastbound tracks and then switch to a different line and head west from there. Thank Gawd Jason has a mental grip on what we're doing because at this point I'm ready to set up housekeeping in Victoria Station with the pigeons and call it a day.

Luckily the rest of our Tube experience is a smooth one and we make it to the Hotel by 10AM. Within 15 minutes we are checked in and have a room; Heaven, thy name is sleep!

Second Star Travels: http://www.secondstartravels.com/