Walkabout

Let’s travel, shall we, back to the beginning of the summer, for another installment of what I did for my summer vacation.

When we left off, my family and I had arrived and spent our first partial day in London. We managed to take in a good bit of the airport, a wee bit of the natural history museum, and a flaky bit of Harrods’ pastries.

Our first full day in London became a quest to fulfill my husband’s desire of recreating a walk from our Lonely Planet guide. It promised to be a meandering sightseeing stroll that would take us from one side of the Thames to the other. No one in my family is very skilled in the art of map reading, although only one of us is woman enough to admit it, so we weren’t entirely sure how long the walk would be, especially since there were many sights to see along the way.

We began our morning at the Tower of London. The Tower is where the crown jewels are housed, guarded by a few of the Queen’s own guards, with their festive red coats and tall furry hats. The rest of the staff are Yeoman Warders, but we know them as Beefeaters. They too wore fabulous uniforms, but my family disappointed me by refusing to pose with any of them.  I kept pointed out that we were tourists and therefore it was not only acceptable to do touristy things, it was expected of us, but they were having none of that.

The tour book recommended taking a tour led by a beefeater, which began just behind the main gate, in what at one time was probably some moat or reservoir of blood and disembodied heads. What they don’t tell you is you wait with three hundred of your closest strangers to begin the tour. All those people with their selfie sticks and annoying children kicked up my autism, so we skipped the informative portion of the tourist attraction and opted for the more confused and less organized system of going the wrong way and trying to avoid the crowds.

Spoiler alert: the Tower doesn’t have as much torture as you might hope for, unless you count that tour at the beginning.  It is perfectly fascinating in other ways. Medieval graffiti carved on the stone walls. A collection of body armor for both man and horse.  Ravens, which are big AF and not crows at all, so suck it, you dumb Yanks.  What the Tower doesn’t have is good feng shui, air conditioning, or gin.  Keep that in mind when you plan your visit.

After we had exhausted ourselves and grabbed a snack at the Tower café, we, along with a million other out of towners, crossed the Tower Bridge to get to the other side. The Bridge is an engineering marvel and really cool in a Disney sort of way. It’s also not that old, and also not that bridge. London Bridge is actually in Arizona, in case you forgot. The Tower Bridge is probably the one you thought was London Bridge, so that’s good news, I suppose.

When we crossed over the Thames, we started to sort of lose our way, because none of us can read a map, whether it’s in a book, on a giant piece of folded glossy paper, or Google maps on an iPhone. We worked our way up and down some streets, passing fish and chips shops which all boasted the best, but really, is that possible? Afternoon fatigue and jet lag settled down on us, a fishing net of bitch and moan.  

 

 

Finally, under a portion of a railway bridge, we found the perfect oasis: the Borough Market. If you like to eat food, look at food, smell food, shop for food, or just be anywhere near food, Borough Market is the place for you. It’s loosely divided into categories, the breads and pastries, meats and game and fish, dairy and cheeses, teas and flours and spices. We wandered, overwhelmed by the freshness and the plenty.  Everything, even the things we don’t like, looked amazing and fascinating. Paella pans bigger than my kitchen table. Indian street food that met food safety standards. Chocolates made by magical elven hands. I wanted to sing and dance with a large umbrella and pick up Scotch eggs and mushroom logs to show someone, anyone, and then I wanted to eat until I exploded.

If you go to London, you should check it out. It’s pretty cool.

We found a small spot in a church courtyard next door and ate the few snacks we purchased with the money we could figure out. Around us Londoners did the same, all the while smoking their fancy European cigarettes and kicking at their annoying pigeons like people do in any big city. We took a quick detour through the church, which turned out to be Southwark Cathedral, to see an ancient Greek artifact that had just been discovered during some renovation work. We also needed to use the bathroom. Thanks, Church of England!

The walk, much like this blog, wasn’t yet over. We strolled down garbage scented alleys and back up to the water’s edge, stopping to marvel at the patch of modern buildings, an interesting juxtaposition to the older and more iconic landmarks of the London skyline.  Our feet hurt. We paused to rest in front of the historic Globe theatre. Check! Seen it!

 

 

I secretly delighted that no one wanted to see any ‘Speare in its natural habitat.

Finally, we reached the end of the walk and my husband’s main goal for the day, the Tate Modern Gallery. Located in the South Bank area in what used to be a power station, the Tate appeals to his aesthetic. He’s really into old power stations and modern art. It was perfect for him.

If you want to experience a modern art gallery to its fullest, I recommend taking two teenage girls who have been walking all day.

It’s good to know that my daughters are not into neither power stations nor modern art. We made the best of it, which isn’t true. What we made is fun, fun of all of it. Of the hexagon paper cutouts taped to the wall, the weird ropey dreadlock thing hanging from the ceiling, of the endless nipples and penises and vaginas and different combinations thereof. Most artworks elicited one of two responses from my girls: “I made that in preschool” or “How many more naked people do we have to look at?” It was, in a word, delightful. 

My husband opted to appreciate the art on his own. My children found every available seat and took selfies of their pissy faces or pictures of detritus on the floor. Art, they said.

 

I want to thank the person who created that walk for the Lonely Planet guide. Anyone who thinks one day should be spent going from early English monarchy to awesome food under a bridge to modern art in a power house has a real spirit of adventure.

It was another perfect day in London.

A Jolly Good First Day

Have you ever taken a red eye flight? It seems like a good idea, traveling during your sleeping hours, very efficient really, unless you want to function the next day when you arrive at your destination. Shitty sleep upright in a tiny seat in a tube traveling through the air really isn’t the best way to get rest. But who cares, because you are going on a trip, or something like that.

We flew the red eye to London, which in addition to being a seven hour flight, is also five time zones ahead of us. I don’t much care for flying, which meant that in addition to a seven hour flight and a five time zone adjustment, I also was floating on a nice cloud of Xanax washed down with a bottle of cheap red wine. If you asked me what happened between our landing after eleven in the morning and dinner that night, I would have some significant difficulty piecing it all together. Let’s just see how much I can remember.

Here’s something that’s a little different: European time is a twenty-four hour clock. While we count to twelve and then repeat, those clever Europeans go from one to twenty-four. And yes, midnight is actually 00:00. For vacationing Americans, it adds a level of math to an otherwise fun vacation. I wonder if they have numbers on their watches with faces or if they went military digital.

If telling time wasn’t enough of a challenge, then why not throw in the whole money thing. We are fond of our dollars and cents here at home. In England, it’s pounds and pence, and the queen is on all of it. And coins, Lord, the coins. We never could figure out how much anything was worth, and my husband has a doctorate. Luckily, most everyone takes credit cards (with microchips, so plan accordingly) but there are times when cash was a necessity, and those times made us all feel like ignorant kindergarteners. I wanted a worksheet to color in or a play register or something just to practice.

We spent a crazy amount of time at the airport, just trying to orient ourselves.  We stood for what felt like an hour in the customs line and then stood in another line to exchange money at what had to be a pretty shitty rate. After that, we stopped at what looked like an independent coffee house, only to find out that it was a chain, before we lamented how much better the chains are anywhere but home.

My husband got in line to buy tube tickets and ask out how to get to Kensington while the girls and I protected our pile of luggage from potential pickpockets and thieves. All that took another hour before we figured out what the hell we were doing. Seriously, we spent almost as much time at the airport as we did flying there across the ocean.

We emerged from the tube station with our rolling suitcases in tow, orienting ourselves not only to the direction of our hotel but also the driving. You don’t look to the left before crossing, you look to the right. If you can’t remember, just look down, as it is written on every crosswalk. Is that just for non-British visitors, or do even the Londoners have trouble remembering which way to look before crossing the road?

While walking to our hotel, we passed the most amazing assortment of high end cars along the way. Bentleys, Maseratis, Lamborghinis, Ferrari, Aston Martins. I might see one of those every now and again at home, but this was literally every car on the street. BMWs and Mercedes in London are like Hondas and Toyotas at home, practical and affordable. Is everyone in London this rich, or is it a Kensington thing? The parallel parking spaces lined both sides of the street and even had handicapped spaces, labeled clearly on the road as “disabled.” Those Brits don’t need some cute little blue wheelchair symbol; the word disabled is bloody fine for them.

After checking in and dragging our luggage upstairs, we freshened up and headed to the Museum of Natural History. Every step reminded me we weren’t in the US anymore. The sidewalks were old. The buildings were old, each older than the one next to it. Even the signature red phone booths were old. When was the last time you saw a pay phone in America? I didn’t step inside to see if they actually had functioning phones because I didn’t want also want to find out if the booth smelled like urine.

The Museum of Natural History was not like the Smithsonian. The Smithsonian is like it, really like every museum we went to in London and Paris, only with a much smaller collection. These buildings and their contents reek of history. They are positively infested with it.

We and a few other lollygaggers were forced from the museum promptly at 17:50. You do the math, and then stop trying to make sense of it. We staggered out to the street, trying to decide what to do next. The museums were closed, we weren’t hungry, and we didn’t know where to go, so we started walking over the uneven stones of the sidewalk. We had a few moments of feeling unsafe, but that was more due to our American paranoia than any actual threat. We walked and walked, and then we looked up at nirvana, only it’s called Harrods.

Have you ever been to Harrods? It’s a department store that dates back to the 1800’s and a must-see for anyone who likes shopping and eating and people watching and creating generalizations about other ethnic groups. I only say that because the only people there besides other American tourists were Saudi Arabian shoppers, and the Saudis were ready to throw down some serious poundage. We minced from department to department, trying to not touch anything worth more than our plane tickets or stumble and God forbid break something that would cost our daughters a year in college, while all around us, wealthy, swarthy Arabic men and their insanely gorgeous and overly covered ladies who walked several steps behind them were catered to in the watch and shoe and other designer sections. Both my feet and my overactive imagination just wanted to sit down and take it all in.

We took a detour to the Diana and Dodi Memorial on the lower level. I wanted to get a picture, but the pilgrimage line was too long for me to snap a quick one. Instead, I stood behind more Saudi shoppers and tried to explain to my teenage daughters who Diana and Dodi were and why they are remembered in a department store with a cheesy statue and glamour shots. It took just enough time before it was my time to capture the moment.

My children wanted to stop by the toy department, ogling over toys they would have wanted if they were younger or those like the ones they had, only with cooler, British names. We all were a little sad that we had no reason to buy anything, no more tank engines or woodland creature families dressed in gingham.

We consoled ourselves in the great food hall. We were too late for the true Harrods ice cream experience, but we improved our moods by walking past the displays of fruits and vegetables, pungent cheeses and smoky charcuterie, seafood and sushi and meat pies and oh, the pastries and breads. It was overwhelming, really, and we hadn’t had dinner, and in our heads it was either mid-afternoon or a day later. We were trying to make a decision about what to eat, which as a family is not our strong suit, when the bakers began condensing their display before closing time. We decided to get not quite but close to one of each, over twenty pounds’ worth of flaky pastry creations.

We limped back to our hotel room and ate them all standing over our bed, flakes raining down on the covers. Our first day of London was everything travel should be, confusing and delightful and informative and overwhelming and amusing and just, just amazing.

What I Did for My Summer Vacation

I travelled.

This wasn’t my usual trip to Atlanta to see my sisters or five hour drive to the beach or even the more rare flight to Orlando to see the Mouse.

My family and I, much like the Griswolds, took a European vacation. We spent four nights in London and five, with an unplanned sixth night, in Paris. We flew from our town to Washington to Ottawa to London. According to our passports, Ottawa counts as having been in Canada, which means we had our first practice run on going through customs and changing flights in another country. In between London and Paris, we took the Eurostar through the Chunnel. We had an extra night in Paris, well, a hotel near the airport, which in itself was an additional adventure. Then we came home and our lives are forever changed.

You know a vacation is good when you take days not just to recover, but to process. To think about all the things you did and saw and ate. To consider how life is different but the same. To be glad to have the things you missed but to lament the things you don’t have that you experienced.  

My main regret is that I forgot to pack a notebook or journal. I know I am going to forget something, some thought or opinion or observation that thanks to my forty five year old brain will be lost in there forever.  As I continue to reflect on my trip, I have been increasingly unsure how to write about it. Do I write a chronological detail of every day, of every museum and meal, hoping that by retracing my steps mentally, I will recall all the thoughts and feelings I had at the time? Do I concentrate on anecdotes, telling a snippet of here and there, in no particular order other than how I remember them? Do I ponder the ways in which the little bit of life abroad I experienced compares and contrasts to my own typical days here in the Southern United States? So many options, so many possibilities, so many ways to tell my two week story that may have possibly changed my life and the lives of my children.

I am asking you to weigh in. I don’t tell my stories in a vacuum. I share them with you, when you stop by for a little visit. The truth is I have a lot to tell, and in my head, it’s all fucking fantastic and interesting. At the end of the day, however, isn’t this the modern version of having you all over for dinner and then forcing you to sit through the slide show of my vacation? I already did that on Facebook, by the way. I attempted a daily post or two of the things that captured my attention, sharing small observations along the way. It’s not the same thing as painting those pictures with words.

So, if you care to comment, tell me what you would find more interesting. Do you mind sitting through the “we did this Monday and we saw that Wednesday?” Or would you prefer a more all over the place approach, like what makes our toilets so different or who knew that was what yogurt could taste like? Granted, you are going to get a whole lot of B with your A, so keep that in mind.

And please stick around, because I am pretty sure in the story telling, I will have something for everyone, even if all of it is really for me.