Hard Boiled Eggs and English Women

Waking up in London: March 31, 2009

There is a nice feeling in waking up to strangeness, in a different bed and room. After contorting myself into and out of the shower, I plod down 3 flights of stairs to the basement for breakfast. I have a few minutes at a table by myself, and I try to learn the lie of the land: white toast, Cornflakes, hot tea, and a single hard boiled egg served in an egg cup. I peel and eat the egg. I eat half a bowl of Cornflakes and a slice of toast. Then, I am joined by 2 elderly women, and I realize that I will, indeed, be forced to converse with strangers. I'm not sure which bothers me more: rattlesnakes or having to talk to strangers in such close quarters. But, the conversation turns out to be bearable, and I learn that the women are in London for a couple of days, that they live in northern England and often travel together. One has an ex-husband, and I never learn about the other. We speak of many things: the music they listened to in the '60s; American soldiers in WWII wooing English girls with nylons and chocolate (the British soldiers were at such a disadvantage); visiting Canadian soldiers because they had eggs, which were uncommon; of Radio Luxemburg, which apparently played music of the '60s before any other station.... We also speak about traveling, of how important it is to get off the beaten path and away from typical tourist attractions, to get lost.... I notice that they do not simply peel and eat their hard boiled egg, but instead use their butter knife to crack a circle around the tip. They then remove that tip and use a spoon to eat the egg, leaving the remainder of the shell unbroken in the cup. Strange habits, these Brits.

The rest of the day seemed very long, no doubt due to my body's confusion about just where and when it was. I wandered and, as prescribed by my breakfast companions, got lost. I also made my way to Westminster Abbey, which was nice but less impressive than the cathedral in Canterbury. Perhaps that Westminster was full of tourists (like me, admittedly), many wandering in large groups, made the experience less than fulfilling. Seeing where such authors as Dickens and Chaucer are entombed, however, was an interesting highlight--Dickens because he is one of my favorite authors, Chaucer because he is, well Chaucer. Many royals and writers are entombed in the Abbey, and in Poets' Corner I finally figure out that not all of the authors with names carved into concrete blocks are actually resting in the area beneath. Rather, only their names and something like "Born in London, buried in India" indicates that because the deceased were British, they deserved a marker in the Abbey. Go figure.
After Westminster I walked through St. James Park, around Buckingham Palace, and up to Soho where I discover that there is indeed a seedy side of London. I had walked through Soho on my previous trip, but on these wanderings I found an area of town similar to nothing I have seen since my days in the navy. This was not the "theater district" that London is known for. But, it is city-spice nonetheless, and I make sure that I take a taste. I also stop again in Covent Garden, and area of shops, street performers, and bustling crowds. And, at some point during the day, I came across an establishment that sells nice cars, like this one:
I discover, also, that after about 8 hours of being on my feet, I am frustrated by being lost most of the time. Try as I might, I cannot seem to navigate well using my map and compass (no, I do not let anyone see me using the compass). Exhausted, I return to my room via foot and underground, picking up for dinner a sandwich at the local Marks & Spencer grocery store.

A dull day, really, but exhausting.

Next time: Doing Battle

Diving Into London

Full immersion: March 30, 2009

Though the bed seems to quite literally invite me in for a visit, I leave the room without even sending an RSVP and proceed to get quite lost in a search for Hyde Park, where I hoped to walk for awhile, or perhaps sit and contemplate whatever there is to contemplate. Realizing, though, that the long day and long travel have left me without the energy to either walk or contemplate, I head back toward Earl's Court and find a small bakery that sells hot tea and wonderfully fresh apple turnovers. An hour or so later, with my legs feeling refreshed and my ability to contemplate apparently returning, I walk some more to get my bearings, stop in a Boots pharmacy to purchase the smallest bottle of shampoo I can find, visit my room to clean up, then go out in search of pub grub. I end up at Earl's Court Tavern, where I order my first Guiness and ask the waitress what the "pie of the day" is. Her English is not good, and she answers, I do not understand her. I order it anyway, and when I eventually dig into it I think it has beef and assorted vegetables, and it is served with green peas and a cylinder-shaped portion of mashed potatoes--and everything is hot

The day has been good, and I am glad to have successfully navigated my way from airport to hotel, to and from Hyde Park; I am happy to have found a bakery and a pub. Simple things.

Next time: Hard-boiled eggs and English women

London Calling

The journey begins: March 29, 2009.

Close to 2 years after my first trip to England, I packed my carry-on bag, gathered maps and travel documents, outline a very loose itinerary, and boarded a Boeing 767 from Dallas, Texas, to London. On my first journey I also traveled to Edinburgh, Scotland, and in the course of the trip packed and unpacked my clothing too many times in 2 weeks. This trip would also include Brussels, Belgium, and Chicago, Illinois, though the number of hotels and bed & breakfast would be reduced in number from 6 to 4. A reduction of one-third may not seem like much, but when it comes to unstuffing and stuffing a small backpack, that one-third is significant....

The 50-minute layover in Dallas had me more worried than anything else. The airport there is huge--a person must take an automated choo-choo from one terminal to another for many flights. But, the American Airlines gods were happy that day, and I managed to get to my departure gate with 20 minutes to spare. At the gate, though, was a large gathering of intrepid travelers watching a fairly constant stream of men in overalls boarding and de-boarding the plane. These men turned out to be mechanics of some worth, or at least men as smart and important as mechanics. Minutes later a woman with a microphone announced that our shiny 767 was broken and would not be flying, and that someone who knows how to do such things was looking for a different one. Good, I thought. I like airplanes that are not broken.... And 90 minutes or so later we were airborne, heading north by northeast across a dark United States, a darker Atlantic Ocean, and about 7 hours later, on what is now March 30, descending into a London late-morning sunshine and light overcast. On my previous trip I landed at Gatwick, but this trip took me to Heathrow, and that included a descent over London itself at an altitude from which I could see Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Hyde Park. Quite a sight.

From Heathrow to London I rode the Picadilly Line, one of the million underground/subway /tube trains that go into and out of London, to Earls Court station, from where I successfully navigated my way to the Windsor House Hotel, the my first hotel of the trip. I am not especially familiar with London, but I felt quite comfortable emerging from the tube station and walking to my hotel--you visit a place once, and if you're lucky bits and pieces of it stick with you so on the next visit you don't feel so alien, so outcast. It's like meeting up with a lover you haven't been with in a long time: a bit of familiarity goes a long way.

I was, at the Windsor House, glad to see that I indeed had a room reserved just for me. All of my communication with the manager had been through e-mail messages, one of which had included my credit card number. As he shuffled through a stack of hand-written receipts and notes about reservations, I was was happy when he came to my name and said he was glad to meet me, and that I owed him about $250. Welcome to London, Buddy--hand over the cash. And, though I was never a Boy Scout (was a Cub Scout for awhile, a period in my life when I was in love with my den mother, who had one leg shorter than the other, and whom I once asked, "Sandy, do you have a boyfriend?" To which she replied, "No, why?"), I was prepared: I had just the money he needed. "You have a sink and shower in your room," he said, "but the bathroom is across the hall. But I am going up there now to put a note on the door saying that the bathroom is for your use only."

The room was small but big enough, and, from the doorway, it looked like this:



This was, apparently, a double room, only because the bed was what I took to be double-size. The room's shower was about the size of a skinny person's coffin, not constructed for a person of my girth. The shower's doors opened inward, which made getting inside the thing somewhat problematic. But, the shower will appear later, so I won't say much about it here. The sink (to the left of the doorway, but invisible here) came up to about mid-thigh, and each time I used it I had to genuflect much deeper than I thought humanly possible.

I did, however, get settled, and I even put some of my shirts up on hangars. There was also a small table attached to the wall, and I suppose it was some sort of dressing table. If I wore makeup, maybe I would sit there as I painted my face. Instead, I used the table to hold spare change and other essentials, like this, with those essentials: map and compass; passport; Moleskine and pen:


Next time: diving into London

Soaped Up

Though I have many items and travels to write on, I must first address the passing of Marilyn Chambers, that former Ivory Soap girl who went on to become a major league star in a minor league industry. If you are young, of course, or if you have lived an appropriately good life, Ms. Chambers' passing might be either inconsequential or overdue.

But, if you are a man my age and have not lived an appropriately good life, you know of whom I write. Maybe you even know why.

Ms. Chambers and I first became acquainted decades ago. Though I do not remember where we first met, I can guess that it was a large, dark theater of some sort, probably at or around midnight in a part of town that I should not have been in. I was, more than likely, accompanied by young men of similar circumstance and like mind: youthful, lustful, easily amused. Over the years Ms. Chambers and I would cross paths again, both of us less youthful, not quite as lustful, yet perhaps more easily amused. One of those celluloid heroes, she never seemed to age--just became a bit more grainy in than she was in 16mm.

I reckon, now, that Ms. Chambers' popularity will rise just as it might were she a famous author or even Heath Ledger. I don't, however, think that I will revisit her oeuvre, for I believe I have reached a point where I understand how fantasy and heroes alike can move through time as we would like them to. Rather, I see how it is better to leave her alone, to leave her as she was presented to us (which might not be as she wanted to be presented, for that matter).

Visited Brussels....

...and am glad to be back in London. I am not yet sure if Brussels was a good place or not, though that's certainly too subjective of a choice. Every place I visit has been good in one way or another. One of the high points was visiting the Museum of Fine Arts, where I found non-modern art that I could understand. Saw some paintings that I actually recognized, which surprised me. There were Breughels/Breugels Older and Younger, and I do not remember which one I remember--I'm not very smart in the arts of fine arts.

Learned that I need to learn much more French if I am ever to visit anyplace close to France: I sheepishly voiced my ignorance of anything not English, which was humiliating.

Sunshine

Less jet-lagged, less ill. A a couple more days left in London, and then I'm to Brussels for a couple of days. I still know neither Dutch nor French, and I think my English is only marginal.

I went to the Tate Museum of Modern Art today, and I must confess I don't understand a lot of modern art. Maybe it was because my visit was at the end of a very long day and I wasn't thinking straight. Or, maybe I'm just less refined than even I thought myself to be.

Shawn, you're going to have to help me with this, I think...