WEDNESDAY, JULY 26
Time's running out on our holiday journey. I'll miss so much, like: the English wit, hearing proper English spoken in the Queen's tongue, the ease of public transit, the friendly people and the overwhelming sense of history.
Of course I won't miss: London traffic that is so congested due to daytime construction; the new allergies I discovered; having fewer than 10 television channels and only one hotel had CNN International; none of the hotels had a business center with Internet access; and no air-conditioning for two weeks.
There is so much to see around London that I have much more to visit upon my next jaunt across the Atlantic. The Jack the Ripper walk at dusk sounds like a hoot, and the British Museum contains many invaluable pieces that the English plundered over the centuries (the Rosetta Stone, artifacts from The Parthenon). St. Paul's Cathedral would be worth a walk-through, and I wish we could have walked across the Thames and seen Big Ben and Parliament at sunset. What a great picture that would make!
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| All aboard! |
Then again, I wouldn't mind going back to some places, especially The Mall area around Buckingham Palace, St. James's Park and Trafalgar Square.
By staying at the Holiday Inn near Gatwick we had to take the shuttle from the hotel to the airport and then board the train for the half-hour ride into central London. From there we could grab a taxi or take the Tube to the sites.
While riding the train, I happened to catch The Independent's review of The Patriot: "An otiose and dishonest account of the American War of Independence starring Mel Gibson. Arrogant, pathological trash."
Go ahead, guys, tell us what you really think! And thanks for sending me to the dictionary to look up "otiose."
I couldn't imagine a visit to London without checking out the Bard's stomping grounds, and pretty much insisted that we cross over the Thames to Bankside in Southwark (pronounced suth-ick) to visit Shakespeare's Globe Theatre.
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| To be, or not to be, the Bard. |
The current Globe isn't the actual theater, but it is a few hundred yards from the original spot. The original Globe Playhouse was built in 1599 and rebuilt after a fire in 1613, only to be permanently pulled down in 1844 after the Puritans closed all theatres.
The replica currently standing was built in 1997 and feels like English theater should: a thatched roof overlooking an artistic stage and open-air setting (the play goes on, even in the rain). Plays are put on for the 1,000 people on wooden benches circling the stage, and 500 "groundlings", viewers standing in a pit in front of the stage, just as the poorer Londoners did nearly four centuries ago. Standing three hours straight during "MacBeth"? I don't think so.
While we toured we were able to catch a bit of rehearsal for the next play at The Globe, Shakespeare and John Fletcher's "The Two Noble Kinsmen." We didn't get to see much, though, as after ten minutes or so the performers took a tea break.
| Quotes about the U.K.:
Groucho Marx: "I'm leaving because the weather is too good. I hate London when it's not raining."
Bette Midler: "When it's three o'clock in New York, it's still 1938 in London."
V.S. Pritchett: "The very name London has tonnage to it."
Nicholas Monsarrat: "The marvelous maturity of London! I would rather be dead in this town than preening my feathers in heaven."
David Quammen: "Stonehenge nowadays is a zoo animal, an imposing but humbled beast, captive behind a wire fence and a turnstile, embarrassed by the near presence of a visitors' car park."
John Hillaby, on cross-country walking in England: "Few things are more pleasant than a village graced with a good church, a good priest and a good pub."
George Bernard Shaw: "England and America are two countries separated by the same language."
John Florio: "England is the paradise of women, the purgatory of men, and the hell of horses."
Virginia Woolf, from Mrs. Dalloway (1925): "In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment in June."
Felicia Dorothea Hemans, The Homes of England:
The stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land!
William Dunbar: "London, thou art the flower of Cities all."
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet (1887): "London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers of the Empire are irresistibly drained."
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Copper Beeches, "The lowest and vilest alleys of London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."
Samuel Johnson: "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford."
Robert Browning, Home Thoughts, from Abroad (1845):
Oh, to be in England now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England, sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England -- now!
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There's also an exhibit at the Globe, including the making of some of the costumes and props used by Shakespeare, with the most disturbing being how urine was used to clean garments, especially from pregnant women because the estrogen levels were supposedly higher. More interesting for me, however, were the documents, models and interactive screens that portrayed life in Elizabethan London.
Lastly, the Globe isn't afraid to touch the debate of the real Shakespeare, that's the theory that the Bard wasn't a person at all, but a pseudonym for another writer. The exhibit had a piece on how strange it is that we know so little of the writer, and made a convincing argument that one of three writers (Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe or Edward de Vere) was writing under the name of William Shakespeare.
After the Globe we took the Tube over to Knightsbridge station and made a second run through Harrods. Called a "must-do" by my hometown paper, in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution's Travel section, it has 300 departments and "a food hall dripping with gourmet products. The exquisite service and wide range of products make it one of the world's liveliest shopping venues."
I had never even heard of the store until the death of Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed, son to Harrods owner Mohamed Al Fayed. I quickly discovered that this is sacrilegious to professional shoppers, by the look on Danielle's face, who was shocked and appalled at this admission. Now, should we check out this store that's all the rave in New York? What's it called, Pacy's? Lucy's? Marcy's?
I'm easy to please and no slave to fashion (not even an indentured servant), so I'm fine and dandy buying my $10 T-shirt at Wal-Mart. However, after three years in Brazil where even apparently Kathie Lee is considered the Ralph Nader of bosses to sweatshop kids, Dad and Danielle were very excited to check out the high-quality items at Harrods.
I, however, only see uppity goods that I don't feel comfortable touching, let alone buying. While writing in my journal about Harrods I was sitting on a fur-covered daybed that would cost over $2,000 in the States. It was comfortable, but for that price it better come with "magic fingers."
The electronics department was impressive, most impressive, with many of Gene Roddenberry's dreams come true. There were dozens of widescreen televisions and HDTV sets, and for only $6,000 one could be yours! The Matrix was playing on most, which is already an incredibly hip flick, but the quality of the sets was so great even Flubber could be a classic if you saw it on HDTV first.
Lunch was served on the fourth floor at Caf� Harrods, where my unsatisfying ham sandwich was �11! This wouldn't have had me so dismayed had I not just returned from the "luxury" toilets, where I paid a �1 tariff for the privilege of use, complete with a security checkpoint to make sure you weren't hiding a daybed in your bag.
For those thinking I was on the verge of dying at the end of my Scotland section, the last three days in London were perhaps the best days sickness-wise, being that I wasn't. The misery index was finally on the bottom of the scale.
I felt good, the sunburn wasn't painful, only peeling, and even though I looked like Lyle Lovett on a bender my spirits were high. I spoke a little too optimistically, though, since some wicked smell at Harrods set off my sinuses for three days. Oh, well, at least a stuffy nose is something that I'm used to.
By 8 p.m. we were done with dinner and said our good-byes, because Dad and Danielle's flight was three hours earlier. They were leaving the hotel at 8, and I didn't have to catch the shuttle until 10 for my 1 p.m. flight.
Essentially that's all for the actual tourist part of my U.K. holiday. My final night I did have to get my last fix of the dart tournament, "Big Brother" and "Eurotrash," then it was time to drift into sleepyland and dread the next two days of travel.
THURSDAY, JULY 27
At 8:15 I was awakened by a maid who knocked on my door and opened it without listening for an answer, only to be stopped by THE CHAIN! Politely (and groggily) I ask her what's up. Only then does she happen to notice an alleged note that let her know that while Dad checked us out, I was not leaving for a couple of hours.
All clear now, the maid will share notes with others, right? Wrong! While I'm in the shower another maid knocks and opens the door, only to be stopped again by THE CHAIN! Foiled again, vile maid! THE CHAIN takes no crap from intruders!
Who are the idiots who don't know that you're supposed to check in two hours before an international flight? Probably the same ones who walk in late and interrupt my viewing of a movie five minutes after it begins.
| Danielle's thoughts:
Good:
1. The people... Everyone I talked to were so friendly, helpful, gracious
hosts. I had some of the most pleasurable chats with the locals in London
(cabbies, yeomen from the Tower); Bath (shopkeeper at the Bear store,
waitress at Brown's restaurant); Scotland (everyone in Ballater, guy on
the train, older ladies sitting with us on the Swilken Bern). It was so
nice to see such friendly people.
2. The countryside... taken right out of story books; complete with
English wildflowers, wheat fields, stone cottages, and huge castles.
Perfect! Cannot beat the views of the Highlands from our room.
Breathtaking!
3. Our bunny rabbit on Sunday morning. That is the way Rann and I need to
spend every Sunday morning.
4. Bath... Such a charming town. Clean and pretty.
5. The Swilken Bern... Need I say more?
6. Soft serve ice-cream... yummy!
7. Fish and Chips... yummy, too!
8. Warwick Castle... so cool!
9. The radio talk shows... they were so good. Great hosts, topics,
guests... so much better than ours!
10. Finding the "trapped wind" package. I know it is immature to laugh
about such matters, but I still cannot help myself from laughing my butt
off.
BAD:
1. The bathrooms... their good bathrooms would be considered so-so in the
States. There were some that put Brazil's in good shape. And even with
how bad they were... I still had to wait in line to get in.
2. Jeff and his mysterious illnesses, allergies, burns, blisters, etc...
Next time, we are bringing a first-aid kit.
3. Rann and his burn... ugh!
4. Traffic jams on the M3/M4... Next time, we take the train or fly...
5. Fire drills in pjs... Everyone in Ballater did not need to see my
pajama bottoms.
6. The hotel room that was really a closet... Need I say more?
7. All of the smoke... it was everywhere! I am so glad that I do not
smoke!
8. Leaving... I was so sad to leave Scotland, and then England. I felt
like I had been there for ages, and that I was leaving a home-like place.
It was so weird to have a place affect you that much.
9. Indy on the plane home... that little brat! What a monster!
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It took me 40 minutes to get to the front of the line because Delta was allowing last-minute passengers to check in ahead of those of us on later flights, because these bumlookers showed up with less than an hour before their flight. Tough cookies, I say, get there like the rest of us, early.
One thing that I love about Dad is that he consistently tries to give my single heart a lift by saying that some of the young women on the trip were my type and were flirting with me: the waitress in Bath, the girl from San Diego on the hotel shuttle and the cute English girl on business that we sat next to at the restaurant at the Holiday Inn, for example.
I'm not a social tiger like Dad so I don't recognize anything of the sort. I find it difficult to meet people like that, to strike up a conversation with strangers. All of my close friends and former girlfriends were through church, school and work, with relationships that developed over time.
Danielle, like me, is ever the realist, and was all too ready to shoot Dad's optimism down by saying that they were just as I thought, cute and kind. But, hey, Danielle, do you want me to be a social leper? How 'bout a little female encouragement here, just butter me up by saying, "Yeah, she fancied you all right. Too bad you didn't pursue it or you could have snogged (made out) all night." No shagging, of course, until marriage.
I thought about this the night before leaving England, only to be proven wrong about my social skills less than 12 hours later. On the flight home I sat next to Catlin, an incredibly cute and nice girl from Albuquerque, New Mexico. Don't get your hopes up, though, she's only 15, but might as well be 25 with her maturity and conversational abilities. And yes, her name is spelled like that, and pronounced Cat-Lynn, not Kate-Lynn.
Catlin was returning to the States from Paris, where she went with her mother (sitting in First Class) and god-siblings (sitting in front of us). The first couple of hours of the flight and the last couple of hours of the flight we engaged in very quaint conversation, so apparently my social skills are still up to par.
Just to catch you up, Cat is very well traveled in Europe, with family in St. Petersburg, Russia, England and France. She wants to spend a year traveling before college (she's going to be a junior this year), hopefully graduating from high school early, and wants to work in Advertising and Marketing.
Completing the description, Cat had very reflective blue eyes that paired perfectly with her curly brown hair that draped just below her shoulders. Her hobbies include a hip-hop dancing class that she's fond of, as she loves to dance.
She thought it was very cool that I worked at CNN, and I have to admit that I revel in this because it's an automatic entry into conversation. I love when I tell someone this because their eyes light up in recognition, because despite the fact that asking "what do you do" is a required question when talking to strangers, normally you expect someone to say that they work somewhere you've never heard of, or they're in a dead-end job as a clerk at Home Depot. No offense to those behind the register at such a fine retail store.
After the snack at 3, Cat and her god-siblings took sleeping pills and dozed off (she and her god-siblings stayed at a club until 3 a.m. the night before in Paris), so I turned on my CD player and took a shot at completing the crossword puzzle in Delta's Sky Magazine. I did not finish it, and am less of a person because of it.
Bloody hell and sufferin' succotash, her godbrother is an airplane slob. As soon as he could (without a reprimand by a flight attendant) he leaned his chair back to my chest -- not even raising it when food was served. He even took his shoes off and had his legs spread out on the armrest of the guy in front of him, with his other foot up by the guy's head. This gentleman was very patient, as I would have cut off the godbrother's feet and shoved them in the overhead compartment.
Catlin slept for a long time, a good four hours, not even waking up when I poked her for dinner, which was nothing compared to the flight attendant who physically shook her. Still, Catlin slept. Wow, that's a deep sleep, and with taking only half of a sleeping pill!
It's not like she missed anything, as the barbecue beef and salad wasn't anything to write home about. Well, I guess I'm writing about it for my site, but I didn't write y'all as soon as I landed to say how great the food was on the plane. On the other hand, snack service included ice cream, which was a welcomed first for me.
We landed at 5:30 EST and I swept through customs and hopped on MARTA to get home. By the time I get to MARTA I'm already sweating to the 95 degree high and 100% humidity, as opposed to the under-70 temperatures we experienced the previous two weeks. I later found out that July was the coldest summer period in England of the last 50 years. They were upset. I was ecstatic.
I also knew I was back in the States when I got off the plane and saw a sign pointing to an elevator. What is this strange contraption? Is it anything like a lift? And where are the toilets? I see signs for restrooms, but I don't wish to rest, only use the toilet. Why should I line up? Can't I queue? Why doesn't everyone pronounce "leisure" like "treasure"?
I got home at 7:15, which for me was still on England time, was after midnight. However, there was to be no rest for the weary. I had to wash all of my clothes, catch up on the last two weeks of "Survivor," check email, sleep a few hours and re-pack in order to meet at the CNN Center at 7:45 the next morning to fly to Philadelphia for the Republican National Convention.
I also had little time to catch up on the news of the States the previous two weeks. I didn't know any of the Major League Baseball standings, and found out 10 days after the fact that one of my Senators, Republican Paul Coverdell, died of a stroke. Bummer.
In the end, the vacation provided just what I needed; a soothing of the soul. For instance, I no longer feel the need to participate in the NASCAR race on the superspeedway commonly known as I-85. However, I have a strong craving for fish & chips and Monty Python. Ni!
NO BLUE LINK HERE, FOLKS. THAT'S IT FOR THE TRAVELOGUE. YOU CAN CONTINUE BY CHECKING OUT THE PICTURES, AND THE WRITE-UP OF MY NEXT WEEK OF FUN, THE GOP CONVENTION IN PHILADELPHIA.
