17 October 2015

Observations from the Mothership: The Wrap-Up

Final Impressions

Sometimes it's funny how things work out.  I always intended to write up a list of final observations about my trip when all the other posts were finished and I was back home.  Instead I fell behind on posting during the trip because I was either too busy or too tired at the time, then after returning home I was simply too preoccupied by other things.  Thus, while I was actively procrastinating and/or goofing off, someone got the jump on me.  An American tourist named Scott Waters decided to detail the differences he observed between American and English culture while on his 4th visit overseas.  His extremely accurate list has since gone viral; you can (and should) read it here.  I'd like to say Mr. Waters' post will teach me to rest on my laurels and to finish my writing when I should, but you and I both know that's not likely to happen any time soon.  My expertise is in smartassery, not punctuality.

So what are some of my final impressions of the United Kingdom, then?  First of all, I agree with many of Mr. Waters' observations:  shops do close entirely too early, dogs are everywhere (something I loved seeing) and are well-behaved, and the staircases are indeed exceptionally narrow--as in too narrow to navigate with a suitcase beside you; you have to drag it behind or walk sideways to allow adequate room.  Either way it's a hassle.  I also agree with Mr. Waters that facecloths/washcloths seem to be non-existent for some inexplicable reason and that the shower controls are often illogical or confusing (and not standard from hotel to hotel).

I do have some observations of my own, however.  For example, I don't entirely understand the death-defying step-down tubs everywhere.  You climb in and are showering essentially two feet off the ground.  That's a little weird and disconcerting at first, but you get used to it.  The real problem occurs when you then have to climb back out of these raised tubs while still wet and slippery.  I don't understand how there aren't elderly hips breaking all across the country every few minutes as older people attempt to navigate these hygienic death traps and arrive safely on the ground.  Are the British just way the hell more coordinated than I am??  (Those of you who know me well can stop laughing at any time.)

Foreign Tall Bathtub of Death

Continuing with the bathroom theme, I was likewise fascinated by the apparent preponderance of removable sprayers in lieu of fixed shower heads.  This seemed infinitely practical and I wish this were as standard practice here in the states.  The only problem is that when holstered they then tend to spray straight down rather than outwards, so you don't always get very good coverage when standing under them.  Still, this seems a small price to pay for their added flexibility.

Meanwhile, I'm convinced the only reason the British try to keep a "stiff upper lip" is because that's the only way they can cope with the stiff lower ends which must surely result from using loo (toilet) rolls with the overall softness of 36 grit sandpaper.  You'd think this rather indelicate tissue would turn everyone there into (literal) hard asses, though if anything the opposite is true.  But then I suppose even sandpapery loo rolls are preferable to the minuscule squares of paper one gets in a public restroom, which are about as effective as trying to wipe with Post-Its (and only slightly less comfortable).

On the other hand, while British toilet tissue leaves much to be desired, their bath towels are a vast improvement over ours--at least in hotels.  It's not that the towels are appreciably softer, necessarily, but rather that they are simply larger.  I find it ironic that the British people, who are on average notably smaller than the typical American, have bath towels more than ample enough to swathe even the largest person while we usually have to settle for hotel towels the size of Barbie's dish rags.  Go figure.  The abundance of oversized towels was wonderful.  Plus how can you not love a country with a towel-warming rack in nearly every bathroom??  Pure decadence right there.

While we're in the vicinity, another thing I really loved on my trip was the bedding--not to be all lurid, or anything.  Most beds I encountered had nothing but a bottom sheet and a big, fluffy comforter or duvet.  There were no top sheets to mess about with or get tangled up in while you slept.  I actually slept the best I have in months while there.  I'm sure part of that was due to the simple exhaustion of constantly walking everywhere, but just the same there was something truly glorious about sliding in under a thick, cozy coverlet every night and burrowing in for a nice, deep sleep.  Small wonder I found it so difficult to pry myself out of such a warm, pleasant nest every morning.

Another thing I really enjoyed in Britain was using the railway system for all my travels.  The trains rocked.  Even with the assorted stops on each trip, I could get almost anywhere in the country in 2-5 hours by train, with the added bonus of being able to enjoy the scenery instead of stressing out over whether or not I was on the correct road.  Most of the time I was able to snag a table and spread out with my laptop or my puzzle books and whatever snack I'd grabbed along the way.  Even when I couldn't get a table, the regular seats had pull-down trays like on airplanes which served almost as well.  The seats were comfortable and often had nearby outlets I could use for recharging my phone.  Each carriage had a luggage rack for larger bags and an overhead rack for backpacks and such.  Several even had storage for the bicycles people use to travel in town.  Most trains also had random signs exhorting passengers to "always carry water when traveling" as though Britrail thought everyone was going to suddenly disintegrate into a puff of dust if not sufficiently hydrated.  Needless to say, I found those signs pretty humorous.

I thoroughly enjoyed riding the trains during my trip.  Admittedly, I originally thought paying nearly $600 for a 2-week rail pass was a bit steep (never mind my largest expenditure by far), but it was worth every penny.  I'm pretty sure I came out around $100 ahead when all was said and done, but even if I hadn't it would still have been totally worth it just for the convenience and travel flexibility alone, something which came in handy more than once.  I highly recommend rail passes when traveling in Europe.

In addition to the rail pass, I also managed the paper money and £1 coins reasonably well, though I found the other coins to be pretty much pointless unless I needed to use a public bathroom where "spending a penny" now costs more like 30p-50p.  I'm not sure when peeing became such an expensive proposition, but there you go (or not, as the case may be).  I will confess that the newest-minted coins are pretty cool, though, because they can be assembled to show the royal heraldry displayed on the back of the £1 coins.

Thanks for showing me this, Dean!

By the time I headed back to Heathrow, I felt like I could almost pass for a native...in my imaginary world, at any rate.  Aside from the dead giveaway accent, I had my little black rucksack and was able to pack away tea and English breakfasts with the best of them.  Heck, I even mastered the coinage, even if it was just before I had to leave.  The only thing I figured I had left to do to become native would be to invest in a gross of black leggings because I saw those freaking things everywhere.  Skirts, boots, and black leggings:  the British woman's uniform, apparently.

I'm sure I could think of other interesting differences between England and the US, but why bother, really?  Intriguing as many of those differences are, they won't be what sticks with me.  What I'll remember most isn't the differences or even the big touristy sites I saw like Stonehenge or the Globe or the assorted castles I visited--amazing though each was in its own right--but rather getting to know the heartbeat of every town by wandering through the streets and the everyday places one doesn't normally see on tours.

I'll remember how much I loved Aberystwyth; I'll remember the gorgeous flowers everywhere, the sound of the waves lapping the shore of the bay, and the melodious lilt of native Welsh speakers.  I'll remember how even though I enjoyed the bustling streets of London and Edinburgh and all those cities had to offer, it was the peaceful serenity of Wales that made me feel as if I'd finally come home at last, as if I truly belonged there.

Welsh beauty.

I'll remember all the people I met, whether Crrrrrrrrrrraig from the Hard Rock Cafe or Stacey with an E or the lovely couple making their first trip to Edinburgh for an anniversary holiday or Sari the Australian from Perth.  Docents and tour guides can be very informative, but you learn far more about a country by listening to its people and learning from their experiences.

Lastly, I'll remember how the best part of my whole trip was the time I got to spend hanging out with new friends, whether I was being escorted to an event or whether we were simply chatting and laughing together.  No matter how epic or breathtaking a given building is, the human connections we make are far more important and enduring than any structure could ever be.  Besides, memories are always better when you have someone with whom to share them, and so I am especially grateful for every moment I was able to enjoy with friends.

As for final impressions, the only thing really left to say is:  Best. Birthday. Trip. EVER!!!

Observations from the Mothership: The Wrap-Up

Final Impressions

Sometimes it's funny how things work out.  I always intended to write up a list of final observations about my trip when all the other posts were finished and I was back home.  Instead I fell behind on posting during the trip because I was either too busy or too tired at the time, then after returning home I was simply too preoccupied by other things.  Thus, while I was actively procrastinating and/or goofing off, someone got the jump on me.  An American tourist named Scott Waters decided to detail the differences he observed between American and English culture while on his 4th visit overseas.  His extremely accurate list has since gone viral; you can (and should) read it here.  I'd like to say Mr. Waters' post will teach me to rest on my laurels and to finish my writing when I should, but you and I both know that's not likely to happen any time soon.  My expertise is in smartassery, not punctuality.

So what are some of my final impressions of the United Kingdom, then?  First of all, I agree with many of Mr. Waters' observations:  shops do close entirely too early, dogs are everywhere (something I loved seeing) and are well-behaved, and the staircases are indeed exceptionally narrow--as in too narrow to navigate with a suitcase beside you; you have to drag it behind or walk sideways to allow adequate room.  Either way it's a hassle.  I also agree with Mr. Waters that facecloths/washcloths seem to be non-existent for some inexplicable reason and that the shower controls are often illogical or confusing (and not standard from hotel to hotel).

I do have some observations of my own, however.  For example, I don't entirely understand the death-defying step-down tubs everywhere.  You climb in and are showering essentially two feet off the ground.  That's a little weird and disconcerting at first, but you get used to it.  The real problem occurs when you then have to climb back out of these raised tubs while still wet and slippery.  I don't understand how there aren't elderly hips breaking all across the country every few minutes as older people attempt to navigate these hygienic death traps and arrive safely on the ground.  Are the British just way the hell more coordinated than I am??  (Those of you who know me well can stop laughing at any time.)

Foreign Tall Bathtub of Death

Continuing with the bathroom theme, I was likewise fascinated by the apparent preponderance of removable sprayers in lieu of fixed shower heads.  This seemed infinitely practical and I wish this were as standard practice here in the states.  The only problem is that when holstered they then tend to spray straight down rather than outwards, so you don't always get very good coverage when standing under them.  Still, this seems a small price to pay for their added flexibility.

Meanwhile, I'm convinced the only reason the British try to keep a "stiff upper lip" is because that's the only way they can cope with the stiff lower ends which must surely result from using loo (toilet) rolls with the overall softness of 36 grit sandpaper.  You'd think this rather indelicate tissue would turn everyone there into (literal) hard asses, though if anything the opposite is true.  But then I suppose even sandpapery loo rolls are preferable to the minuscule squares of paper one gets in a public restroom, which are about as effective as trying to wipe with Post-Its (and only slightly less comfortable).

On the other hand, while British toilet tissue leaves much to be desired, their bath towels are a vast improvement over ours--at least in hotels.  It's not that the towels are appreciably softer, necessarily, but rather that they are simply larger.  I find it ironic that the British people, who are on average notably smaller than the typical American, have bath towels more than ample enough to swathe even the largest person while we usually have to settle for hotel towels the size of Barbie's dish rags.  Go figure.  The abundance of oversized towels was wonderful.  Plus how can you not love a country with a towel-warming rack in nearly every bathroom??  Pure decadence right there.

While we're in the vicinity, another thing I really loved on my trip was the bedding--not to be all lurid, or anything.  Most beds I encountered had nothing but a bottom sheet and a big, fluffy comforter or duvet.  There were no top sheets to mess about with or get tangled up in while you slept.  I actually slept the best I have in months while there.  I'm sure part of that was due to the simple exhaustion of constantly walking everywhere, but just the same there was something truly glorious about sliding in under a thick, cozy coverlet every night and burrowing in for a nice, deep sleep.  Small wonder I found it so difficult to pry myself out of such a warm, pleasant nest every morning.

Another thing I really enjoyed in Britain was using the railway system for all my travels.  The trains rocked.  Even with the assorted stops on each trip, I could get almost anywhere in the country in 2-5 hours by train, with the added bonus of being able to enjoy the scenery instead of stressing out over whether or not I was on the correct road.  Most of the time I was able to snag a table and spread out with my laptop or my puzzle books and whatever snack I'd grabbed along the way.  Even when I couldn't get a table, the regular seats had pull-down trays like on airplanes which served almost as well.  The seats were comfortable and often had nearby outlets I could use for recharging my phone.  Each carriage had a luggage rack for larger bags and an overhead rack for backpacks and such.  Several even had storage for the bicycles people use to travel in town.  Most trains also had random signs exhorting passengers to "always carry water when traveling" as though Britrail thought everyone was going to suddenly disintegrate into a puff of dust if not sufficiently hydrated.  Needless to say, I found those signs pretty humorous.

I thoroughly enjoyed riding the trains during my trip.  Admittedly, I originally thought paying nearly $600 for a 2-week rail pass was a bit steep (never mind my largest expenditure by far), but it was worth every penny.  I'm pretty sure I came out around $100 ahead when all was said and done, but even if I hadn't it would still have been totally worth it just for the convenience and travel flexibility alone, something which came in handy more than once.  I highly recommend rail passes when traveling in Europe.

In addition to the rail pass, I also managed the paper money and £1 coins reasonably well, though I found the other coins to be pretty much pointless unless I needed to use a public bathroom where "spending a penny" now costs more like 30p-50p.  I'm not sure when peeing became such an expensive proposition, but there you go (or not, as the case may be).  I will confess that the newest-minted coins are pretty cool, though, because they can be assembled to show the royal heraldry displayed on the back of the £1 coins.

Thanks for showing me this, Dean!

By the time I headed back to Heathrow, I felt like I could almost pass for a native...in my imaginary world, at any rate.  Aside from the dead giveaway accent, I had my little black rucksack and was able to pack away tea and English breakfasts with the best of them.  Heck, I even mastered the coinage, even if it was just before I had to leave.  The only thing I figured I had left to do to become native would be to invest in a gross of black leggings because I saw those freaking things everywhere.  Skirts, boots, and black leggings:  the British woman's uniform, apparently.

I'm sure I could think of other interesting differences between England and the US, but why bother, really?  Intriguing as many of those differences are, they won't be what sticks with me.  What I'll remember most isn't the differences or even the big touristy sites I saw like Stonehenge or the Globe or the assorted castles I visited--amazing though each was in its own right--but rather getting to know the heartbeat of every town by wandering through the streets and the everyday places one doesn't normally see on tours.

I'll remember how much I loved Aberystwyth; I'll remember the gorgeous flowers everywhere, the sound of the waves lapping the shore of the bay, and the melodious lilt of native Welsh speakers.  I'll remember how even though I enjoyed the bustling streets of London and Edinburgh and all those cities had to offer, it was the peaceful serenity of Wales that made me feel as if I'd finally come home at last, as if I truly belonged there.

Welsh beauty.

I'll remember all the people I met, whether Crrrrrrrrrrraig from the Hard Rock Cafe or Stacey with an E or the lovely couple making their first trip to Edinburgh for an anniversary holiday or Sari the Australian from Perth.  Docents and tour guides can be very informative, but you learn far more about a country by listening to its people and learning from their experiences.

Lastly, I'll remember how the best part of my whole trip was the time I got to spend hanging out with new friends, whether I was being escorted to an event or whether we were simply chatting and laughing together.  No matter how epic or breathtaking a given building is, the human connections we make are far more important and enduring than any structure could ever be.  Besides, memories are always better when you have someone with whom to share them, and so I am especially grateful for every moment I was able to enjoy with friends.

As for final impressions, the only thing really left to say is:  Best. Birthday. Trip. EVER!!!

29 September 2015

Observations from the Mothership: Days 12 & 13

The Days I Lounged in London and Flew Home

"Buzzzzzzzzzt!  Buzzzzzzt!!

I'm pretty sure it's not every day that one gets awakened by a text message buzzing under one's ass, or at least it's not an everyday occurrence for me.  But that's pretty much what seems to happen when one climbs into bed after a very long, very busy day and promptly face plants into one's phone.  Turns out traveling is exhausting--at least the way I do it is.  Clearly I need to write a bestseller that gets optioned for a movie and thus become independently wealthy so I can afford to have drivers escorting me from destination to destination the next time I travel overseas.  On the plus side, I'm now positive that I've lost some weight because none of my pants want to stay up. I'm currently maybe a pound or two away from causing an international incident.

My buzzing phone dealt with, I dragged myself out of my cozy, warm bed just in time to make it downstairs to the complimentary breakfast buffet.  Even though I was awake under extreme protest, I had to appreciate the variety of items on offer at the buffet (look at me, speaking all Britishly!).  There were several fruits on one cart, an omelet station, assorted breads and pastries, yogurts, juices, and of course all the makings of a full English breakfast on the hot bar.  I sampled a modest variety of items and then drug myself back upstairs and attempt to accomplish some writing under the possibly unrealistic assumption that I could keep myself upright and conscious for a change instead of slamming face-first into my electronic devices yet again.  As it happens I did not get much writing done, but I did thoroughly enjoy decadently lolling around in bed all afternoon after a hectic two weeks.  Sometimes the simplest things are the most pleasurable.

My cozy "Exectutive" room.

In the evening I forced myself to go downstairs for dinner at the hotel restaurant rather than copping out by ordering room service and continuing to hide out upstairs.  The restaurant was called Oscar's and looked more like a bar than a restaurant. After my quiet day in I opted for soup and salad instead of something heavier. The French onion soup arrived in a giant bread bowl and was teeming with so many onions that I could hardly get to the broth; it looked rather like an explosion of translucent worms trying to climb out and infest the restaurant.  Mmmmm, tasty! My efforts to consume the soup were not aided by it soaking almost immediately into the dense bread bowl, but I spooned up as much as I could before tearing off bits of bowl to eat. Edible dishware is always a novelty.  Meanwhile, the chicken Caesar salad was absolutely delicious and I scarfed  down every single bite.  I hadn't really planned to order dessert after the meal, but it seemed a shame not to enjoy one last sugary hurrah before leaving the country in the morning so I requested a simple ice cream sundae.  The small, overpriced sundae I anticipated arrived in a 12" tall parfait glass and had two different flavors of ice cream, chocolate sauce, whipped cream (the good kind), assorted sprinkles, and a large cookie/waffle wedge perched on top.  My jaw dropped at the immensity of the creamy vision before me.  Rather than stay there sucking down a mound of ice cream alone like some jilted lover, I paid my check and took my delectable plunder upstairs where I could savor it in private and not while I was surfing the internet like a sad, pathetic woman at all.

I spent the rest of my evening packing, which involved redistributing clothing and gifts/souvenirs between my original carry-on bag and the new cheap one I was able to purchase in the hotel gift shop.  I put most of the gifts in the crappy new suitcase to take on the plane with me, choosing instead to stow all my toiletries and dirty clothes in the sturdier bag with which I'd started and which would likely survive molestation by baggage handlers.  Besides, I figured if some clothes went missing on the way home it would be no great loss, but I wanted to make sure I personally kept track of all the good and/or irreplaceable stuff.  Once everything was stowed to my satisfaction, I selected clothes for the trip home, washed up, and climbed into bed.

The next morning my alarm went off first at 5:30 am, then again at 6 am.  (I always set a back-up alarm to give myself a little extra time to become coherent as I wake up.)  Then I promptly fell back asleep for an additional 20 minutes.  I woke up, saw the time, employed some of the new British swear words I'd learned, and then quickly dressed and shoved the last few things in my suitcase.  I grabbed a light breakfast at the Executive Customers Only buffet, bags in tow, then checked out and plowed down the hotel walkway like a steam roller to Heathrow's Terminal 4 where I checked my bag and collected my boarding pass.

Staying near the terminal proved a canny choice because, in spite of my slight oversleeping, I arrived with plenty of time to stand in line in the bowels of the airport with my VAT receipts and wait to process them for refunds.  The line moved quite quickly and efficiently though I was slightly annoyed to discover that I'd been misled about the refunds when I saw people standing in line with stacks of receipts 2 inches tall.  I'd been told you could only request up to 6 refunds and I didn't find out that each receipt required a specially-printed form from the original vendor in order to be processed.  So my most expensive purchases were not eligible.  Sigh.  When I reached the front of the queue I submitted what I had, was told I'd get the refund in around 3 weeks (which I still haven't gotten), and was sent blithely on my way.

Back upstairs I walked past a currency exchange which did not appear busy and so decided to go ahead and change my money there before heading through security rather than have to make an extra trip to the bank at home even though I knew I'd take a little bit of a hit on the exchange there.  Just as I was walking up to the counter, however, some Middle Eastern dude walked up in front of me with his entire family and a 4" stack of VAT forms.  I assumed he'd get shipped downstairs to the processing center like everyone else, but he didn't.  So I waited patiently in the queue like a good faux Brit while he was processed, fully expecting the other girl at the counter to call me up at any moment.  Which she didn't.  So I waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  As I stood, I watched the man's children wander about, clearly as bored and impatient as I was.  His daughter, who was maybe 10, was wearing a baseball cap with the brim pulled over to the side in the gangsta hip-hop style, making it look wildly incongruous next to her pink Hello, Kitty! sweatshirt.

Twenty minutes later the queue was some 8 people deep and the second girl still wasn't serving anyone.  I was becoming antsier by the second, wanting to get through security and off to my gate.  I know I probably should have just left and changed the money at home, but eventually I got to the point where I want to WIN rather than having waited so long in vain.  Silly, I know.  Sometimes it's just about the principle of the thing.

Finally another woman came to the desk and changed out places with the one not waiting on anybody.  Just as she did, some woman jumped the line and walked directly up to her to be served.  My first thought while glaring at her was "Dammit, woman, we're British!!  We QUEUE!!!!"  Two weeks here and apparently I've already gone native.  The line-jumper did her exchange, then I jumped the queue and went over as well.  I guess the staff had assumed that everyone in line had VAT slips (which, to be fair, several did) and so neither employee had asked the rest of us forward as a result.  I got my £70 exchanged into $50 or so, taking a far bigger hit than expected.  Or maybe I have the amounts backwards; at this point the morning is a bit of a blur.

My business completed, I headed over to queue up for the scanners, where I sailed through security.  I did not have to take off my shoes, I did not need 15 bins to hold my belongings, I did not have to stand in the cancer chamber, and I did not get over-enthusiastically frisked by overzealous and self-important security staff.  I couldn't believe it--me, simpatico with airport security.  Who knew miracles were performed at Heathrow? As far as I'm concerned, this is yet more proof that I belong in Great Britain; clearly London loves me far more than the US, where TSA mocks and torments me at every possible turn.  I retrieved my things from the bin on the belt and headed off to my gate, which I found surprisingly devoid of passengers.  I just figured I'd gotten there early in spite of the financial queues and that people would continue to arrive in due course.  They didn't.

While I waited, a lovely British woman in a Delta uniform sat next to me and asked if I would be willing to do a survey.  I figured it was as good a way to pass the time as any, so agreed and ended up subjected to a good 15 minutes of fairly personal questions about my travel habits and my opinions on the airport/airline/etc.  I couldn't really be irritated by the lengthy survey questions, though, because everything sounds better in a British accent; even swear words like "Fook!!" or "Slutty bitch!" which I'm supposed to find offensive just make me giggle maniacally instead.  Shortly after the lady finished with me my flight began boarding.  I walked on early and stowed my suitcase, then sat in my aisle seat to await the inevitable line of people smacking their bags into my head as they passed.  They never came.  By the time the door the attendants closed the door there were maybe all of 60 passengers on the plane.  It was absolutely glorious.  Everyone spread out all over the plane.  I had a row all to myself, as did a guy next to me who spent most of the flight stretched out across all three seats and fast asleep.  Easily the most comfortable and most quiet flight I've ever been on, this unexpected boon was made all the more priceless given the several-hour length of the transatlantic journey.  Every flight should be even half so peaceful...I highly recommend traveling like this whenever possible; it's infinitely preferable to being crammed into the cabin like drunken college students into a Volkswagen.

Taxiing down the runway proved unexpectedly emotional for me; when the wheels left the tarmac and London began to shrink in my window I choked up, my eyes welling with tears.  The funny thing is it's not like I've never been to England before--I was there with my family 15 years ago and although I enjoyed my visit back then, this trip was somehow very different. Certainly I reveled in my British adventures this time around, but I was still surprised to be overcome at liftoff...surprised to find just exactly how much I truly love this amazing country and how much it means to me. Perhaps this was merely the result of being in Great Britain on my own or perhaps it had something to do with my newly-discovered genetic ties to the country. All I know is that the history, the architecture, the food, the atmosphere, the people, the language--everything, really--has now become a deeply-imbedded part of my soul and I felt a physical pain at leaving.

I didn't sleep much on the trip back; I wanted to remain awake so I could recalibrate my internal clock more quickly once home (not that it worked, mind you).  Instead, I plugged my earphones into the seat-back console, cranked up some tunes, and spent half the flight writing and the other half surfing the internet.  You've got to love technology--ten years ago it never would have occurred to me that I would one day be able to access the internet from some 30,000 miles above the earth.  Pretty neat trick, really.  Even better was being able to use my would-be neighbor's tray table for food so I didn't have to move my laptop from my own tray table.  Life is all about the little things.

Several hours later, we began our descent towards Philadelphia.  As the city grew larger in my window I turned off and stowed my laptop, thinking how surreal I felt to be back in the States as though I were just starting my holiday rather than finishing it.  It seemed like I should be heading home to Europe at any moment.  Two weeks later I was only just beginning to feel "back to normal," or at least as "normal" as one can feel after leaving a big chunk of one's heart with the cobblestones and grey skies of Edinburgh, with new friends in the Doctor Who podcasting community, with the ancient stones on Salisbury plain, with the calligraphic kiss of Magna Carta and the heraldry of her staunch protectors in Salisbury Cathedral, with the pubs and theaters and bustling streets of London, with the sea lapping at the shores of Aberystwyth while gulls keen overhead, with archives full of books and the heady, musty perfume of age and knowledge leaking out from between their pages, and with the silky slate and ancestral castle walls of Cardiff.

"On final approach to Philadelphia..."

All things considered, I could not have asked for a more meaningful or fulfilling birthday trip. In truth, if governments these days weren't so anal about immigration I'd be on a plane tomorrow, work visa in hand, bursting to become an American expatriate.  Seriously. America may be far more familiar to me, but the United Kingdom feels far more like where I belong.  Must be the genes of all those British ancestors flowing through my veins and calling me home.

Observations from the Mothership: Days 12 & 13

The Days I Lounged in London and Flew Home

"Buzzzzzzzzzt!  Buzzzzzzt!!

I'm pretty sure it's not every day that one gets awakened by a text message buzzing under one's ass, or at least it's not an everyday occurrence for me.  But that's pretty much what seems to happen when one climbs into bed after a very long, very busy day and promptly face plants into one's phone.  Turns out traveling is exhausting--at least the way I do it is.  Clearly I need to write a bestseller that gets optioned for a movie and thus become independently wealthy so I can afford to have drivers escorting me from destination to destination the next time I travel overseas.  On the plus side, I'm now positive that I've lost some weight because none of my pants want to stay up. I'm currently maybe a pound or two away from causing an international incident.

My buzzing phone dealt with, I dragged myself out of my cozy, warm bed just in time to make it downstairs to the complimentary breakfast buffet.  Even though I was awake under extreme protest, I had to appreciate the variety of items on offer at the buffet (look at me, speaking all Britishly!).  There were several fruits on one cart, an omelet station, assorted breads and pastries, yogurts, juices, and of course all the makings of a full English breakfast on the hot bar.  I sampled a modest variety of items and then drug myself back upstairs and attempt to accomplish some writing under the possibly unrealistic assumption that I could keep myself upright and conscious for a change instead of slamming face-first into my electronic devices yet again.  As it happens I did not get much writing done, but I did thoroughly enjoy decadently lolling around in bed all afternoon after a hectic two weeks.  Sometimes the simplest things are the most pleasurable.

My cozy "Exectutive" room.

In the evening I forced myself to go downstairs for dinner at the hotel restaurant rather than copping out by ordering room service and continuing to hide out upstairs.  The restaurant was called Oscar's and looked more like a bar than a restaurant. After my quiet day in I opted for soup and salad instead of something heavier. The French onion soup arrived in a giant bread bowl and was teeming with so many onions that I could hardly get to the broth; it looked rather like an explosion of translucent worms trying to climb out and infest the restaurant.  Mmmmm, tasty! My efforts to consume the soup were not aided by it soaking almost immediately into the dense bread bowl, but I spooned up as much as I could before tearing off bits of bowl to eat. Edible dishware is always a novelty.  Meanwhile, the chicken Caesar salad was absolutely delicious and I scarfed  down every single bite.  I hadn't really planned to order dessert after the meal, but it seemed a shame not to enjoy one last sugary hurrah before leaving the country in the morning so I requested a simple ice cream sundae.  The small, overpriced sundae I anticipated arrived in a 12" tall parfait glass and had two different flavors of ice cream, chocolate sauce, whipped cream (the good kind), assorted sprinkles, and a large cookie/waffle wedge perched on top.  My jaw dropped at the immensity of the creamy vision before me.  Rather than stay there sucking down a mound of ice cream alone like some jilted lover, I paid my check and took my delectable plunder upstairs where I could savor it in private and not while I was surfing the internet like a sad, pathetic woman at all.

I spent the rest of my evening packing, which involved redistributing clothing and gifts/souvenirs between my original carry-on bag and the new cheap one I was able to purchase in the hotel gift shop.  I put most of the gifts in the crappy new suitcase to take on the plane with me, choosing instead to stow all my toiletries and dirty clothes in the sturdier bag with which I'd started and which would likely survive molestation by baggage handlers.  Besides, I figured if some clothes went missing on the way home it would be no great loss, but I wanted to make sure I personally kept track of all the good and/or irreplaceable stuff.  Once everything was stowed to my satisfaction, I selected clothes for the trip home, washed up, and climbed into bed.

The next morning my alarm went off first at 5:30 am, then again at 6 am.  (I always set a back-up alarm to give myself a little extra time to become coherent as I wake up.)  Then I promptly fell back asleep for an additional 20 minutes.  I woke up, saw the time, employed some of the new British swear words I'd learned, and then quickly dressed and shoved the last few things in my suitcase.  I grabbed a light breakfast at the Executive Customers Only buffet, bags in tow, then checked out and plowed down the hotel walkway like a steam roller to Heathrow's Terminal 4 where I checked my bag and collected my boarding pass.

Staying near the terminal proved a canny choice because, in spite of my slight oversleeping, I arrived with plenty of time to stand in line in the bowels of the airport with my VAT receipts and wait to process them for refunds.  The line moved quite quickly and efficiently though I was slightly annoyed to discover that I'd been misled about the refunds when I saw people standing in line with stacks of receipts 2 inches tall.  I'd been told you could only request up to 6 refunds and I didn't find out that each receipt required a specially-printed form from the original vendor in order to be processed.  So my most expensive purchases were not eligible.  Sigh.  When I reached the front of the queue I submitted what I had, was told I'd get the refund in around 3 weeks (which I still haven't gotten), and was sent blithely on my way.

Back upstairs I walked past a currency exchange which did not appear busy and so decided to go ahead and change my money there before heading through security rather than have to make an extra trip to the bank at home even though I knew I'd take a little bit of a hit on the exchange there.  Just as I was walking up to the counter, however, some Middle Eastern dude walked up in front of me with his entire family and a 4" stack of VAT forms.  I assumed he'd get shipped downstairs to the processing center like everyone else, but he didn't.  So I waited patiently in the queue like a good faux Brit while he was processed, fully expecting the other girl at the counter to call me up at any moment.  Which she didn't.  So I waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  As I stood, I watched the man's children wander about, clearly as bored and impatient as I was.  His daughter, who was maybe 10, was wearing a baseball cap with the brim pulled over to the side in the gangsta hip-hop style, making it look wildly incongruous next to her pink Hello, Kitty! sweatshirt.

Twenty minutes later the queue was some 8 people deep and the second girl still wasn't serving anyone.  I was becoming antsier by the second, wanting to get through security and off to my gate.  I know I probably should have just left and changed the money at home, but eventually I got to the point where I want to WIN rather than having waited so long in vain.  Silly, I know.  Sometimes it's just about the principle of the thing.

Finally another woman came to the desk and changed out places with the one not waiting on anybody.  Just as she did, some woman jumped the line and walked directly up to her to be served.  My first thought while glaring at her was "Dammit, woman, we're British!!  We QUEUE!!!!"  Two weeks here and apparently I've already gone native.  The line-jumper did her exchange, then I jumped the queue and went over as well.  I guess the staff had assumed that everyone in line had VAT slips (which, to be fair, several did) and so neither employee had asked the rest of us forward as a result.  I got my £70 exchanged into $50 or so, taking a far bigger hit than expected.  Or maybe I have the amounts backwards; at this point the morning is a bit of a blur.

My business completed, I headed over to queue up for the scanners, where I sailed through security.  I did not have to take off my shoes, I did not need 15 bins to hold my belongings, I did not have to stand in the cancer chamber, and I did not get over-enthusiastically frisked by overzealous and self-important security staff.  I couldn't believe it--me, simpatico with airport security.  Who knew miracles were performed at Heathrow? As far as I'm concerned, this is yet more proof that I belong in Great Britain; clearly London loves me far more than the US, where TSA mocks and torments me at every possible turn.  I retrieved my things from the bin on the belt and headed off to my gate, which I found surprisingly devoid of passengers.  I just figured I'd gotten there early in spite of the financial queues and that people would continue to arrive in due course.  They didn't.

While I waited, a lovely British woman in a Delta uniform sat next to me and asked if I would be willing to do a survey.  I figured it was as good a way to pass the time as any, so agreed and ended up subjected to a good 15 minutes of fairly personal questions about my travel habits and my opinions on the airport/airline/etc.  I couldn't really be irritated by the lengthy survey questions, though, because everything sounds better in a British accent; even swear words like "Fook!!" or "Slutty bitch!" which I'm supposed to find offensive just make me giggle maniacally instead.  Shortly after the lady finished with me my flight began boarding.  I walked on early and stowed my suitcase, then sat in my aisle seat to await the inevitable line of people smacking their bags into my head as they passed.  They never came.  By the time the door the attendants closed the door there were maybe all of 60 passengers on the plane.  It was absolutely glorious.  Everyone spread out all over the plane.  I had a row all to myself, as did a guy next to me who spent most of the flight stretched out across all three seats and fast asleep.  Easily the most comfortable and most quiet flight I've ever been on, this unexpected boon was made all the more priceless given the several-hour length of the transatlantic journey.  Every flight should be even half so peaceful...I highly recommend traveling like this whenever possible; it's infinitely preferable to being crammed into the cabin like drunken college students into a Volkswagen.

Taxiing down the runway proved unexpectedly emotional for me; when the wheels left the tarmac and London began to shrink in my window I choked up, my eyes welling with tears.  The funny thing is it's not like I've never been to England before--I was there with my family 15 years ago and although I enjoyed my visit back then, this trip was somehow very different. Certainly I reveled in my British adventures this time around, but I was still surprised to be overcome at liftoff...surprised to find just exactly how much I truly love this amazing country and how much it means to me. Perhaps this was merely the result of being in Great Britain on my own or perhaps it had something to do with my newly-discovered genetic ties to the country. All I know is that the history, the architecture, the food, the atmosphere, the people, the language--everything, really--has now become a deeply-imbedded part of my soul and I felt a physical pain at leaving.

I didn't sleep much on the trip back; I wanted to remain awake so I could recalibrate my internal clock more quickly once home (not that it worked, mind you).  Instead, I plugged my earphones into the seat-back console, cranked up some tunes, and spent half the flight writing and the other half surfing the internet.  You've got to love technology--ten years ago it never would have occurred to me that I would one day be able to access the internet from some 30,000 miles above the earth.  Pretty neat trick, really.  Even better was being able to use my would-be neighbor's tray table for food so I didn't have to move my laptop from my own tray table.  Life is all about the little things.

Several hours later, we began our descent towards Philadelphia.  As the city grew larger in my window I turned off and stowed my laptop, thinking how surreal I felt to be back in the States as though I were just starting my holiday rather than finishing it.  It seemed like I should be heading home to Europe at any moment.  Two weeks later I was only just beginning to feel "back to normal," or at least as "normal" as one can feel after leaving a big chunk of one's heart with the cobblestones and grey skies of Edinburgh, with new friends in the Doctor Who podcasting community, with the ancient stones on Salisbury plain, with the calligraphic kiss of Magna Carta and the heraldry of her staunch protectors in Salisbury Cathedral, with the pubs and theaters and bustling streets of London, with the sea lapping at the shores of Aberystwyth while gulls keen overhead, with archives full of books and the heady, musty perfume of age and knowledge leaking out from between their pages, and with the silky slate and ancestral castle walls of Cardiff.

"On final approach to Philadelphia..."

All things considered, I could not have asked for a more meaningful or fulfilling birthday trip. In truth, if governments these days weren't so anal about immigration I'd be on a plane tomorrow, work visa in hand, bursting to become an American expatriate.  Seriously. America may be far more familiar to me, but the United Kingdom feels far more like where I belong.  Must be the genes of all those British ancestors flowing through my veins and calling me home.

13 September 2015

Observations from the Mothership: Day 11

The Day I Explored Cardiff

This morning before wandering the streets of Cardiff, I took the time to consume another delicious "full English" breakfast in the hotel restaurant while sitting at a table overlooking the drizzly, rainy city streets.  I figured going out in the gloom today was only fair considering that Great Britain is supposed to be notorious for rainy weather and yet in the ten days I've been here, I've encountered rain only once when I was in Edinburgh and for only an hour and even that wasn't much more than a misty drizzle.  I've been supremely fortunate with the weather thus far, enjoying temperate and frequently sunny days in the upper 50s and low 60s.  What more could a pale girl ask?

Minus the fried tomatoes and mushrooms.  Yum!

After breakfast I once again checked out and stowed my belongings in the luggage lockup like the travel boss I've become.  The desk clerks were very helpful, both with my bags and with giving me a map and directions for how to access most of Cardiff on foot.  They also didn't laugh at me last night when I accidentally locked myself out of my room while putting my dinner tray in the hallway and had to come down to the lobby in my pajama pants and bare feet for a replacement key card.  Yay for consummate professionals!

I was interested in touring the city on one of the local "hop on, hop off" sightseeing buses because I've found them to be a quick and efficient way to get around as well as a good way to learn a lot about the city I'm visiting,   However, I also wanted to see the Doctor Who Experience (yes, I know, I'm a giant geek...it's been mentioned)  but the tickets already appeared to be sold out online and I hadn't pre-booked because I was trying to leave my time in Wales flexible in case I found some genealogy trail I needed to run to ground.  I knew I ran the risk of screwing myself over by not prebooking, but I figured since there's never enough time to see everything I want anyway I could just pick and choose activities as time and availability allowed.  As a result, I eschewed the bus for the moment and instead walked down to the bay in an attempt to get Doctor Who tickets at the door before they were all gone.

The walk was supposed to take 10 minutes but probably took more like 30 by the time I actually reached the Doctor Who Experience on the other side of Cardiff Bay; no doubt it would have been shorter had I not ended up going the long way around after getting faulty directions from some construction workers on the street.  Still, the rain had stopped before I left the hotel and it was turning into a beautiful day so the walk, while long, was pleasant.  En route I passed the dramatic Millennium Centre for arts and music, sheathed in the slate for which Wales is renowned.  Near the Centre I watched as a parade of festively-dressed people marched down a distant sidewalk for some inexplicable reason. I also walked by a very amusing street sign for the Doctor Who Experience which featured no words but which sported a Dalek and and arrow pointing the way to the site.  I strolled by the Pierhead Building on Cardiff Bay; it boasts its own clock tower affectionately known as "Baby Big Ben" or "Big Ben of Wales."  Standing next to this building were two entertainers (or so I assumed) on stilts who looked a bit like Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy, or possibly like some of Tolkien's Ents.  As they were largely just hanging around doing nothing, I've no idea why they were there but they were certainly unique.  Clearly it's all go in Cardiff on a Saturday.

"This way to the Long John Silver's salt shakers..."

Pierhead Building

Your guess is as good as mine.

Getting tickets to the Doctor Who Experience proved no problem after all; I purchased my ticket and was able to walk pretty much straight into the next viewing.  I smirked at a girl in front of me as the line moved because her shirt was emblazoned with a pseudo-Disney logo reading "Dismal and Bemusement Park."  All throughout the lobby were several props from the television show; we passed additional props and costumes displayed just outside the entrance to the exhibition as we threaded through the line barriers.  In order to avoid spoilers for future visitors we were not allowed to take photos during the "experience" part of the exhibition, which proved to be a terribly cheesy and trumped-up "action-adventure" clearly geared towards children.  Once through our dubious adventure we were funneled into a far more interesting museum of props and costumes and such from the many years Doctor Who has been on television.  My favorites were the oldest items from when the show started over 50 years ago, including a model of the original TARDIS set and the mock-up of the first TARDIS interior which was used in the movie "An Adventure in Time and Space" about how Doctor Who came into existence.  They even had the soundboard of the grand piano used to create the original theme song. Meanwhile, some of the early monster/alien costumes just made me laugh; they looked so ineptly constructed when examined in person.

Mockup of the original sets.

Original TARDIS console replica

Other notable displays included Jon Pertwee's yellow roadster "Bessie," a mockup of Tom Baker's Tardis interior, complete with a coat rack draped in one of his later, more purpley giant scarves, and several TARDISes, including one used in the filming of the 50th anniversary special "The Day of the Doctor."  I also got to see K-9, who is perhaps one of my favorite characters of the entire show and who was significantly larger than I expected.  After examining the mostly older set pieces downstairs, I moved upstairs to explore the remaining displays, most of which consisted of assorted costumes--including the clothing of each and every Doctor incarnation to date.  While I wish there had been less emphasis on items from the current Doctor's and previous Doctor's eras (understandable given the relative accessibility of such items) as opposed to a more equitable representation of all the Doctor's incarnations, I really appreciated the ability to look at all the costumes up close and with a seamstress' eye.  As with most theater costuming for the stage, the assorted clothing I viewed looked much better on film and in motion than it did on stationary stands.  In addition to thinking that the current companion Jenna Coleman must be impossibly tiny based on the size of her costumes ("Impossible Girl" indeed), my overwhelming opinion as I strolled through all the displays (especially the women's clothing) was that I could have easily made any of them myself (and probably done better). Clearly the BBC needs to put me on staff immediately.  Are you there, BBC?  It's me, Ginger...

Man's best electronic friend

Clara Oswald's and Robin Hood's costumes from "Robot of Sherwood"

As is often the case with tourist sites, I could only exit the main exhibition hall after being funneled through a gift shop, presumably in the hope that I would spend a bucket of money on souvenirs.  Much of the stuff on offer was typical touristy schlock, but there were a few good things including some collectibles I either couldn't justify expense-wise or couldn't risk damaging in my overstuffed suitcase on the way home.  So I settled for a couple of less breakable shirts, including a royal blue zip-up hoodie printed with "I.M. Foreman, Scrap Yard" in an homage to the very first episode.  I also sprung for the rather disappointing "Merchandise Pack," which included a certificate identifying me as an "official companion," a fancy souvenir ticket, a booklet about the exhibition (which was decent), and a t-shirt--though they were out of the sizes I wanted and so took my address to mail me one when they were back in stock.  I was most excited about the souvenir Tardis key included in the pack, thinking it would look like the ones used in the show.  It didn't.  Instead it was a perfectly normal and boring key stamped with "Doctor Who Experience."  Sigh...so lame.

Is that really the best you can do, Doctor Who Experience?  Really??

In spite of the kitschiness here and there, I really enjoyed the exhibition.  It's good to let one's inner geek out for fresh air every once in a while...keeps them from getting cranky (or too pasty).  Upon exiting the gift shop I came out in the main lobby next to a life-sized Dalek made of over 157,000 Cobi bricks (a Lego lookalike).  There was also a little cafe in the lobby whose menu, not surprisingly, had appropriately-themed item names (as did the wifi password); they even had small packages of Jelly Babies for sale (4th Doctor not included!).  I purchased a banana for a snack and a couple bottles of water to stash in my backpack. In an unusual stroke of luck for me, one of the sightseeing buses pulled to a stop nearby just as I was leaving the exhibition hall.  I was able to purchase a ticket directly from the driver and hop aboard, climbing to the top of the double-decker bus where I took a seat and plugged in my earphones.  The audio commentary on these buses always makes me smile; I'm convinced the narrators smirk their way through the entire script; they are my people.  The bus drove past the Millenium Centre, but this time the audio track explained the history and gave me a clue what was written on the front.  For those interested, it's two lines of poetry by Welsh poet Gwyneth Lewis: Creu Gwir fel gwydr o ffwrnais awen ("Creating truth like glass from the furnace of inspiration") in Welsh and "In These Stones Horizons Sing" in English.  The words are made up of windows and are apparently lit up at night.  I'd like to have seen that.  I also learned from the audio that Lloyd George, Welshman and former British Prime Minister, was supposedly quite the womanizer.  As we made our way through town I saw several lovely old buildings, including a historic Norwegian (Lutheran) church and the Millennium Stadium, home to the Wales National Rugby Union team.  I gather that Rugby is big in Wales.

Millennium Centre

Millennium Stadium

One of the stops was at Cardiff Castle and rather than finishing the bus tour just then I jumped off to make sure I had adequate time to see the castle and its environs. What's cool about Cardiff Castle is that it has building elements spanning centuries.  A Roman fort was built on the site around the 3rd century; some of the original wall was recently excavated and is now on display.  Then, in the late 11th century at the probable behest of William the Conquerer, the Norman invaders built a bailey castle over the ruins of the Roman fort.  Additional repairs and buildings were added over subsequent centuries, making Cardiff Castle an unusual conglomeration of building styles.  Cooler still (at least to me), the castle was held by the de Clare family for a century or two; in fact, the Black Tower still standing there was commissioned by one Gilbert de Clare, who was one of the 25 Magna Carta barons and, coincidentally, one of my ancestors.  This closed the circle on a weird serendipity for me...first I saw Magna Carta in Salisbury Cathedral during its 800th anniversary year and then I was able to go touch a tower built by one of its protectors who came from my own family line.  Funny how seemingly unrelated events end up tying together like that.  I'm not gonna lie; it left me a little breathless.  Even without that little connection the castle has quite an interesting history, having featured prominently in the War of the Roses and been held at different times by both the Nevilles and the Tudors.

11th Century Keep at Cardiff Castle.

The Black Tower, built by Gilbert de Clare, aka Grandpa

On my way up to the keep I saw a small gate house with a stockade nearby.  Across the grounds stood a medieval trebuchet all silent and poised as though performing active sentry duty.  I walked past the remains of another defensive wall which once connected the Keep to the Black Tower.  I hiked up myriad stairs to reach the top of the medieval keep, where I was treated to some stunning views of Cardiff.  I wish I'd thought to take a selfie of myself up there or asked another visitor to snap a photo for me, but I was so entranced by the landscape that I completely forgot.  The castle keep was built very similarly to the one I saw in Arundel with Alan, the memory of which made me smile.  I didn't run into any scary toddlers jumping out of niches at this keep, though. As I looked down from the 77 foot high parapet and across the moat, I could see a wedding party leaving the Georgian house on the grounds to line up so the newlywed couple could run the traditional rice-throwing gauntlet.

View of Cardiff from the castle keep.

Because why wouldn't you get married at a castle if you could?

Once back down on solid ground I returned my audio guide to the gift shop and purchased a couple small souvenirs, then left the castle grounds and went across the street to do some proper shopping at a place recommended by Phil, one of the guys I'd met at Whooverville.  I almost bought one of the beautifully-carved Welsh love spoons (they're a big deal in Wales), but they were incredibly expensive so I regretfully passed them by.  I did finally get my Welsh dragon necklace, though, and even purchased earrings to match.  Afterwards I headed back across the street to the bus stop where I discovered to my chagrin that I had missed the last pickup of the day--just as I had in Edinburgh.  Darn those fall hours!!  So I only got half my bus tour.  But that's okay; I was more than happy to exchange the reduced off-season running hours for the beautiful weather and fewer tourists in town.  With bus transport no longer an option, I started hoofing it to a nearby mall to see about purchasing a second small suitcase so I could get all my swag home on the plane.  Unfortunately, all the shops were either closed or closing by the time I got there.  Still, I got to do some serious people-watching as I walked along the busy arcade, observing first a small child dribbling melted ice cream while eating a cone, then several buskers playing drums, and finally some Asian girls wearing what looked like some anime cosplay outfits.

I had just stopped near the end of a street off the arcade and to figure out where to go next when a young girl stopped me to ask for directions to the train station.  I found this supremely amusing and ironic since I likewise had no clue where I was going, but apparently I looked safe and/or reliable and she stood looking up at me with wide-eyed innocence and trust. I sighed and pulled out my map from the hotel, pointing out the way for her as best I could.  Then I found a taxi parked on the street and gave the name of my hotel.  Once again the driver grumbled and muttered that I should just walk.  What is the deal with Cardiff taxis anyway?  I realize I'm not providing large fares, but surely making some money is better than sitting there making none?   I climbed into the cab and, because my feet were hurting again, I insisted he drive me anyway.  The driver grimaced but put the car in gear, hurtling down the road at high speed as if in a hurry to get rid of me.  He probably was, wanting to go off in search of more lucrative plunder. After retrieving my luggage from lockup, I sat for a while in the lobby till my feet felt better, then got up and walked the five minutes to the train station.

Originally I'd planned to spend two nights in Cardiff, but ultimately decided I was over schlepping all my crap to a different hotel every night and thought that a nice, quiet afternoon in London before getting up early to fly home sounded delightful.  The train ride back to London proved to be a colorful one; first we were delayed while the train in front of us had mechanical problems.  Then the door to my carriage, which was immediately behind me, decided it didn't want to stay closed when anyone walked through it, so for over an hour I was treated to the loud bangs and rattles of the carriage junction slamming into the tracks while a cool wind kept whooshing in through the door.  I tried fixing it once or twice to no avail.  Eventually the door sorted itself out, but it took over an hour to do so.  Next a guy on his phone walked through the carriage and out into the junction to talk loudly about sports to whomever was on the other end.  He said he'd given up on football (or maybe it was rugby) and was doing handball now...I think that's what he said, anyway.  His conversation then became extremely animated and heavily peppered with the word "fuck."  You would have sworn he had just stepped out of a British sports movie...it was that comical.  He finally disembarked right before we arrived at Paddington station. The couple sitting next to me, who were probably in their late 50s and who were very nattily dressed, muttered to each other that you could still hear the guy even after he'd gotten off the train...which you could.  And for probably another 300 yards before he finally went out of earshot.  The couple looked at each other and I started smirking, so they looked at me and we all exchanged knowing glances.  You've got to love the British...they are so understated and yet so much meaning can be conveyed in just one such eloquent glance.  I couldn't help asking myself "Why do I not live here yet???"  You know, because I'm so understated myself and all.

A couple of stops later the train arrived at Paddington. I purchased a ticket for the Heathrow Express, having cannily reserved a hotel room within walking distance of the airport so I could avoid any rush hour transportation delays before my plane's very early departure Monday morning.  As I was walking to the platform I was accosted by some man looking for money to get home "because his bank card was empty," etc., etc.  It sounded like the same old scam as at home; someone asks for money and if you offer to call someone or offer some other form of tangible aid and it's all "No, no, I just need X amount of money!"  I felt bad about turning him down but he was quite persistent which made it a little easier.  I had to wait a while for the train to show up and then to get moving, presumably because it was quite late at night, but finally the train zipped along towards Heathrow.  A transfer and a 10-minute walk later, I checked into the Heathrow Hilton where I was given a free upgrade to a "King Executive Room" with complimentary breakfast and internet.  Who knew keeping hotel loyalty cards you rarely use could come in so handy?  Plus the room came with "amenities," by which I mean "mini bar with exorbitantly overpriced snacks and sodas."  Personally I was far more excited by the free internet since most hotels over here charge for that unless you are a loyalty member.  I made myself comfortable and then climbed into the bed where I promptly fell asleep halfway through posting on Facebook, phone still in hand.  I found it under me the next morning.  Yup...that's how I roll.

Welsh Kilt Count:  8

Observations from the Mothership: Day 11

The Day I Explored Cardiff

This morning before wandering the streets of Cardiff, I took the time to consume another delicious "full English" breakfast in the hotel restaurant while sitting at a table overlooking the drizzly, rainy city streets.  I figured going out in the gloom today was only fair considering that Great Britain is supposed to be notorious for rainy weather and yet in the ten days I've been here, I've encountered rain only once when I was in Edinburgh and for only an hour and even that wasn't much more than a misty drizzle.  I've been supremely fortunate with the weather thus far, enjoying temperate and frequently sunny days in the upper 50s and low 60s.  What more could a pale girl ask?

Minus the fried tomatoes and mushrooms.  Yum!

After breakfast I once again checked out and stowed my belongings in the luggage lockup like the travel boss I've become.  The desk clerks were very helpful, both with my bags and with giving me a map and directions for how to access most of Cardiff on foot.  They also didn't laugh at me last night when I accidentally locked myself out of my room while putting my dinner tray in the hallway and had to come down to the lobby in my pajama pants and bare feet for a replacement key card.  Yay for consummate professionals!

I was interested in touring the city on one of the local "hop on, hop off" sightseeing buses because I've found them to be a quick and efficient way to get around as well as a good way to learn a lot about the city I'm visiting,   However, I also wanted to see the Doctor Who Experience (yes, I know, I'm a giant geek...it's been mentioned)  but the tickets already appeared to be sold out online and I hadn't pre-booked because I was trying to leave my time in Wales flexible in case I found some genealogy trail I needed to run to ground.  I knew I ran the risk of screwing myself over by not prebooking, but I figured since there's never enough time to see everything I want anyway I could just pick and choose activities as time and availability allowed.  As a result, I eschewed the bus for the moment and instead walked down to the bay in an attempt to get Doctor Who tickets at the door before they were all gone.

The walk was supposed to take 10 minutes but probably took more like 30 by the time I actually reached the Doctor Who Experience on the other side of Cardiff Bay; no doubt it would have been shorter had I not ended up going the long way around after getting faulty directions from some construction workers on the street.  Still, the rain had stopped before I left the hotel and it was turning into a beautiful day so the walk, while long, was pleasant.  En route I passed the dramatic Millennium Centre for arts and music, sheathed in the slate for which Wales is renowned.  Near the Centre I watched as a parade of festively-dressed people marched down a distant sidewalk for some inexplicable reason. I also walked by a very amusing street sign for the Doctor Who Experience which featured no words but which sported a Dalek and and arrow pointing the way to the site.  I strolled by the Pierhead Building on Cardiff Bay; it boasts its own clock tower affectionately known as "Baby Big Ben" or "Big Ben of Wales."  Standing next to this building were two entertainers (or so I assumed) on stilts who looked a bit like Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy, or possibly like some of Tolkien's Ents.  As they were largely just hanging around doing nothing, I've no idea why they were there but they were certainly unique.  Clearly it's all go in Cardiff on a Saturday.

"This way to the Long John Silver's salt shakers..."

Pierhead Building

Your guess is as good as mine.

Getting tickets to the Doctor Who Experience proved no problem after all; I purchased my ticket and was able to walk pretty much straight into the next viewing.  I smirked at a girl in front of me as the line moved because her shirt was emblazoned with a pseudo-Disney logo reading "Dismal and Bemusement Park."  All throughout the lobby were several props from the television show; we passed additional props and costumes displayed just outside the entrance to the exhibition as we threaded through the line barriers.  In order to avoid spoilers for future visitors we were not allowed to take photos during the "experience" part of the exhibition, which proved to be a terribly cheesy and trumped-up "action-adventure" clearly geared towards children.  Once through our dubious adventure we were funneled into a far more interesting museum of props and costumes and such from the many years Doctor Who has been on television.  My favorites were the oldest items from when the show started over 50 years ago, including a model of the original TARDIS set and the mock-up of the first TARDIS interior which was used in the movie "An Adventure in Time and Space" about how Doctor Who came into existence.  They even had the soundboard of the grand piano used to create the original theme song. Meanwhile, some of the early monster/alien costumes just made me laugh; they looked so ineptly constructed when examined in person.

Mockup of the original sets.

Original TARDIS console replica

Other notable displays included Jon Pertwee's yellow roadster "Bessie," a mockup of Tom Baker's Tardis interior, complete with a coat rack draped in one of his later, more purpley giant scarves, and several TARDISes, including one used in the filming of the 50th anniversary special "The Day of the Doctor."  I also got to see K-9, who is perhaps one of my favorite characters of the entire show and who was significantly larger than I expected.  After examining the mostly older set pieces downstairs, I moved upstairs to explore the remaining displays, most of which consisted of assorted costumes--including the clothing of each and every Doctor incarnation to date.  While I wish there had been less emphasis on items from the current Doctor's and previous Doctor's eras (understandable given the relative accessibility of such items) as opposed to a more equitable representation of all the Doctor's incarnations, I really appreciated the ability to look at all the costumes up close and with a seamstress' eye.  As with most theater costuming for the stage, the assorted clothing I viewed looked much better on film and in motion than it did on stationary stands.  In addition to thinking that the current companion Jenna Coleman must be impossibly tiny based on the size of her costumes ("Impossible Girl" indeed), my overwhelming opinion as I strolled through all the displays (especially the women's clothing) was that I could have easily made any of them myself (and probably done better). Clearly the BBC needs to put me on staff immediately.  Are you there, BBC?  It's me, Ginger...

Man's best electronic friend

Clara Oswald's and Robin Hood's costumes from "Robot of Sherwood"

As is often the case with tourist sites, I could only exit the main exhibition hall after being funneled through a gift shop, presumably in the hope that I would spend a bucket of money on souvenirs.  Much of the stuff on offer was typical touristy schlock, but there were a few good things including some collectibles I either couldn't justify expense-wise or couldn't risk damaging in my overstuffed suitcase on the way home.  So I settled for a couple of less breakable shirts, including a royal blue zip-up hoodie printed with "I.M. Foreman, Scrap Yard" in an homage to the very first episode.  I also sprung for the rather disappointing "Merchandise Pack," which included a certificate identifying me as an "official companion," a fancy souvenir ticket, a booklet about the exhibition (which was decent), and a t-shirt--though they were out of the sizes I wanted and so took my address to mail me one when they were back in stock.  I was most excited about the souvenir Tardis key included in the pack, thinking it would look like the ones used in the show.  It didn't.  Instead it was a perfectly normal and boring key stamped with "Doctor Who Experience."  Sigh...so lame.

Is that really the best you can do, Doctor Who Experience?  Really??

In spite of the kitschiness here and there, I really enjoyed the exhibition.  It's good to let one's inner geek out for fresh air every once in a while...keeps them from getting cranky (or too pasty).  Upon exiting the gift shop I came out in the main lobby next to a life-sized Dalek made of over 157,000 Cobi bricks (a Lego lookalike).  There was also a little cafe in the lobby whose menu, not surprisingly, had appropriately-themed item names (as did the wifi password); they even had small packages of Jelly Babies for sale (4th Doctor not included!).  I purchased a banana for a snack and a couple bottles of water to stash in my backpack. In an unusual stroke of luck for me, one of the sightseeing buses pulled to a stop nearby just as I was leaving the exhibition hall.  I was able to purchase a ticket directly from the driver and hop aboard, climbing to the top of the double-decker bus where I took a seat and plugged in my earphones.  The audio commentary on these buses always makes me smile; I'm convinced the narrators smirk their way through the entire script; they are my people.  The bus drove past the Millenium Centre, but this time the audio track explained the history and gave me a clue what was written on the front.  For those interested, it's two lines of poetry by Welsh poet Gwyneth Lewis: Creu Gwir fel gwydr o ffwrnais awen ("Creating truth like glass from the furnace of inspiration") in Welsh and "In These Stones Horizons Sing" in English.  The words are made up of windows and are apparently lit up at night.  I'd like to have seen that.  I also learned from the audio that Lloyd George, Welshman and former British Prime Minister, was supposedly quite the womanizer.  As we made our way through town I saw several lovely old buildings, including a historic Norwegian (Lutheran) church and the Millennium Stadium, home to the Wales National Rugby Union team.  I gather that Rugby is big in Wales.

Millennium Centre

Millennium Stadium

One of the stops was at Cardiff Castle and rather than finishing the bus tour just then I jumped off to make sure I had adequate time to see the castle and its environs. What's cool about Cardiff Castle is that it has building elements spanning centuries.  A Roman fort was built on the site around the 3rd century; some of the original wall was recently excavated and is now on display.  Then, in the late 11th century at the probable behest of William the Conquerer, the Norman invaders built a bailey castle over the ruins of the Roman fort.  Additional repairs and buildings were added over subsequent centuries, making Cardiff Castle an unusual conglomeration of building styles.  Cooler still (at least to me), the castle was held by the de Clare family for a century or two; in fact, the Black Tower still standing there was commissioned by one Gilbert de Clare, who was one of the 25 Magna Carta barons and, coincidentally, one of my ancestors.  This closed the circle on a weird serendipity for me...first I saw Magna Carta in Salisbury Cathedral during its 800th anniversary year and then I was able to go touch a tower built by one of its protectors who came from my own family line.  Funny how seemingly unrelated events end up tying together like that.  I'm not gonna lie; it left me a little breathless.  Even without that little connection the castle has quite an interesting history, having featured prominently in the War of the Roses and been held at different times by both the Nevilles and the Tudors.

11th Century Keep at Cardiff Castle.

The Black Tower, built by Gilbert de Clare, aka Grandpa

On my way up to the keep I saw a small gate house with a stockade nearby.  Across the grounds stood a medieval trebuchet all silent and poised as though performing active sentry duty.  I walked past the remains of another defensive wall which once connected the Keep to the Black Tower.  I hiked up myriad stairs to reach the top of the medieval keep, where I was treated to some stunning views of Cardiff.  I wish I'd thought to take a selfie of myself up there or asked another visitor to snap a photo for me, but I was so entranced by the landscape that I completely forgot.  The castle keep was built very similarly to the one I saw in Arundel with Alan, the memory of which made me smile.  I didn't run into any scary toddlers jumping out of niches at this keep, though. As I looked down from the 77 foot high parapet and across the moat, I could see a wedding party leaving the Georgian house on the grounds to line up so the newlywed couple could run the traditional rice-throwing gauntlet.

View of Cardiff from the castle keep.

Because why wouldn't you get married at a castle if you could?

Once back down on solid ground I returned my audio guide to the gift shop and purchased a couple small souvenirs, then left the castle grounds and went across the street to do some proper shopping at a place recommended by Phil, one of the guys I'd met at Whooverville.  I almost bought one of the beautifully-carved Welsh love spoons (they're a big deal in Wales), but they were incredibly expensive so I regretfully passed them by.  I did finally get my Welsh dragon necklace, though, and even purchased earrings to match.  Afterwards I headed back across the street to the bus stop where I discovered to my chagrin that I had missed the last pickup of the day--just as I had in Edinburgh.  Darn those fall hours!!  So I only got half my bus tour.  But that's okay; I was more than happy to exchange the reduced off-season running hours for the beautiful weather and fewer tourists in town.  With bus transport no longer an option, I started hoofing it to a nearby mall to see about purchasing a second small suitcase so I could get all my swag home on the plane.  Unfortunately, all the shops were either closed or closing by the time I got there.  Still, I got to do some serious people-watching as I walked along the busy arcade, observing first a small child dribbling melted ice cream while eating a cone, then several buskers playing drums, and finally some Asian girls wearing what looked like some anime cosplay outfits.

I had just stopped near the end of a street off the arcade and to figure out where to go next when a young girl stopped me to ask for directions to the train station.  I found this supremely amusing and ironic since I likewise had no clue where I was going, but apparently I looked safe and/or reliable and she stood looking up at me with wide-eyed innocence and trust. I sighed and pulled out my map from the hotel, pointing out the way for her as best I could.  Then I found a taxi parked on the street and gave the name of my hotel.  Once again the driver grumbled and muttered that I should just walk.  What is the deal with Cardiff taxis anyway?  I realize I'm not providing large fares, but surely making some money is better than sitting there making none?   I climbed into the cab and, because my feet were hurting again, I insisted he drive me anyway.  The driver grimaced but put the car in gear, hurtling down the road at high speed as if in a hurry to get rid of me.  He probably was, wanting to go off in search of more lucrative plunder. After retrieving my luggage from lockup, I sat for a while in the lobby till my feet felt better, then got up and walked the five minutes to the train station.

Originally I'd planned to spend two nights in Cardiff, but ultimately decided I was over schlepping all my crap to a different hotel every night and thought that a nice, quiet afternoon in London before getting up early to fly home sounded delightful.  The train ride back to London proved to be a colorful one; first we were delayed while the train in front of us had mechanical problems.  Then the door to my carriage, which was immediately behind me, decided it didn't want to stay closed when anyone walked through it, so for over an hour I was treated to the loud bangs and rattles of the carriage junction slamming into the tracks while a cool wind kept whooshing in through the door.  I tried fixing it once or twice to no avail.  Eventually the door sorted itself out, but it took over an hour to do so.  Next a guy on his phone walked through the carriage and out into the junction to talk loudly about sports to whomever was on the other end.  He said he'd given up on football (or maybe it was rugby) and was doing handball now...I think that's what he said, anyway.  His conversation then became extremely animated and heavily peppered with the word "fuck."  You would have sworn he had just stepped out of a British sports movie...it was that comical.  He finally disembarked right before we arrived at Paddington station. The couple sitting next to me, who were probably in their late 50s and who were very nattily dressed, muttered to each other that you could still hear the guy even after he'd gotten off the train...which you could.  And for probably another 300 yards before he finally went out of earshot.  The couple looked at each other and I started smirking, so they looked at me and we all exchanged knowing glances.  You've got to love the British...they are so understated and yet so much meaning can be conveyed in just one such eloquent glance.  I couldn't help asking myself "Why do I not live here yet???"  You know, because I'm so understated myself and all.

A couple of stops later the train arrived at Paddington. I purchased a ticket for the Heathrow Express, having cannily reserved a hotel room within walking distance of the airport so I could avoid any rush hour transportation delays before my plane's very early departure Monday morning.  As I was walking to the platform I was accosted by some man looking for money to get home "because his bank card was empty," etc., etc.  It sounded like the same old scam as at home; someone asks for money and if you offer to call someone or offer some other form of tangible aid and it's all "No, no, I just need X amount of money!"  I felt bad about turning him down but he was quite persistent which made it a little easier.  I had to wait a while for the train to show up and then to get moving, presumably because it was quite late at night, but finally the train zipped along towards Heathrow.  A transfer and a 10-minute walk later, I checked into the Heathrow Hilton where I was given a free upgrade to a "King Executive Room" with complimentary breakfast and internet.  Who knew keeping hotel loyalty cards you rarely use could come in so handy?  Plus the room came with "amenities," by which I mean "mini bar with exorbitantly overpriced snacks and sodas."  Personally I was far more excited by the free internet since most hotels over here charge for that unless you are a loyalty member.  I made myself comfortable and then climbed into the bed where I promptly fell asleep halfway through posting on Facebook, phone still in hand.  I found it under me the next morning.  Yup...that's how I roll.

Welsh Kilt Count:  8