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