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.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 7

The Day I Went to the Globe and Traipsed Around London

Nothing is more likely to make the average English major squee like a demented fan girl than a chance to go see a Shakespearian play at the reconstructed Globe Theatre in London, and I'm no different.  I mean, c'mon--it's Shakespeare.  Aside from being classic literature, I just like the guy.  He was a witty wise-ass well before his time, and I have mad respect for that.  Besides, his manipulations of the English language help me to justify making up words whenever I want because if it was good enough for Billy Shakes, then it's good enough for me.  Or so I tell myself, at any rate.    

Shakespeare's Globe

After a long, refreshing sleep to make up for the previous day's all-nighter, I threw on some slacks and a blouse, grabbed muffin and a banana on my way out of the hotel, and headed off to the British Library to meet my friend Alan who had graciously taken off work to squire me to the Globe for the matinee so I wouldn't have to go see the show alone.  I suppose it didn't hurt that Alan himself had never yet been to the Globe, and I took a perverse glee in being the American Yank who got to introduce a native Brit to the iconic theatre.

Once at the British Library, I sat in the open courtyard to enjoy the morning, indulging in some people watching while waiting for Alan.  Halfway through my banana he showed up and we set off towards the nearest Tube station.  This turned out to be a bit of a comedy of errors (see what I did there?) considering neither of us really knew entirely where we were going.  We both knew the Globe was on the south bank of the Thames, but I hadn't really bothered looking up the best route for us because I naively assumed that any Englishman would know how to get there, in spite of the fact that the Englishman in question didn't actually live in London and had never been there.  I know, I know...stupid American, right?  Anyway, after a few quality minutes with the magic of GPS, Alan figured it out and we took the Tube to the Blackfriar's stop.  So naturally I had to grill him as to what made one set of friars "black" as opposed to Benedictine or whatever, thinking perhaps they were originally Jesuits.

We unintentionally ended up taking the long way around to the theatre but eventually arrived at the Globe complex and picked up our tickets at the box office, after which we went next door to the very Elizabethan-sounding Black Swan restaurant and pub for lunch.   Once upstairs, an amusing man from with a vaguely Slavic accent came over to take our orders.  I love listening to the varying dialects in this country; they do diversity so much better than we do at home.  But I digress.  Alan and I ordered the same meal on the show menu, except for the starters; he got soup and I tried a terrine, mostly out of sheer curiosity.  I've never had terrine before, and was only vaguely familiar with the term because of a BBC comedy starring Lenny Henry called Chef.  But, I figured, "when in Rome..." so I tried it.

The terrine turned out to be a sort of pulled and then pressed pork with the general consistency and texture of a chicken or tuna salad, except obviously tasting of pork.  It was better than I expected, and I ate the whole thing while joking with Alan that I'd basically just come over to England and ordered Spam.  We them spent the next several minutes giggling over the requisite "spam, spam, spam" jokes, these aided by the micro-greens on my plate which clearly constituted a small shrubbery.  I'm pretty sure Billy Shakes would also have appreciated the silliness of Monty Python had they been around in his time.

We finished the rest of the delicious meal with gusto, enjoying conversation and the lovely view of the Thames and St. Paul's...as well as several giant construction cranes spanning the river.  Alan and I paid our bill and headed next door to the Globe, getting there with just enough time to grab our seats before the play started, much to the understated annoyance of other patrons seated on our row over whom we had to climb.  Americans would have been cussing us out, but the two nice older British ladies we dislodged just grimaced and dealt with it, making me wonder for perhaps the thousandth time this week why I don't live here already.  Alan and I settled in on our hard wooden bench in the middle gallery and listened to the usual admonitions to turn off cell phones and refrain from photography during the show, then the performance of Much Ado About Nothing began.

The Globe's stage.

The production was excellent; well-acted by the cast, particularly the acrobatic Benedick, it was also significantly enhanced by music both sung and performed by the cast members at several appropriately-placed intervals during the show.  The interaction between the cast and the groundlings was also very amusing, not the least when several became doused with water meant for Beatrice.  Because the Globe is essentially an open-air theatre, however, there were occasional distractions such as airplanes flying anachronistically overhead.  For the most part such distractions were quick and largely ignorable by both cast and audience, but at one point a couple of Blackhawk helicopters flew directly (and loudly) overhead; I confess to being very impressed by how smoothly the actors currently on stage were able to incorporate the disruption seamlessly into their performance--no mean feat with iambic pentameter, which tends to defy ad-libbing.

At intermission the stalls emptied as everyone rushed off to use the facilities; upon returning both Alan and I noticed and commented on the uneven distribution of pigeons perched across the roof covering the stage. Clearly British pigeons have no appreciation for symmetry; I can only assume this is why so many of them got eaten during the Elizabethan period.  We continued chatting about the action thus far until the interval was over and the performance begain again.

By the last act of the play the sun had dropped to just above the roof of the upper gallery, glaring viciously into everyone's eyes on our side of the theater and causing some 50 hands to shoot up in the air and shade eyes in sun-drenched and weirdly military-looking salutes.  When it became clear that the sun was not going to disappear behind the clouds for any length of time, the ushers took pity on us and began passing out paper visors to everyone in our section; they were surprisingly effective, but we all looked like we were wearing little white turbine fans on our heads.  Très chic.

"Heyyyyyy, sexy laaaaadyyyyyy..."

Alan really seemed to enjoy the show (as did I), and I had almost as much fun watching him as I did watching the show itself, for he spent most of the play leaning forward, eyes alight with the magic of the performance.  Afterwards we perused the gift shop, where we both purchased facsimile copies of one of Shakespeare's first folios like the good little book nerds we are.  Alan then walked me to St. Paul's so I could ogle the architecture up close; we took a selfie there for our friend Katie since the area by the Globe was far too packed with people to get a good one there.  Alan pointed out the Tower Bridge and the Shard as we walked, as well as several other things; I think he secretly delighted in watching me ooh and ah over everything and answering all my questions about the history of the buildings and other things along the way.  For my part, I very much enjoyed the beautiful day and my witty companion, never mind geeking out over all the art and architecture and history surrounding me and filling my soul.

The Shard in London.

The dome of St. Paul's.

After St. Paul's, Alan walked me down to Parliament and Big Ben, which I believe has now been renamed for Queen Elizabeth II.  Not that it will ever be anything but Big Ben to me, mind you.  Parliament turned out to be much farther down than originally anticipated but was well worth the hike; the walk alongside the Thames alone was lovely, in spite of my nearly being assaulted by an errant skateboard at one point.  Personally, I found the near-miss amusing because it was the most threatened I'd felt the entire trip, in spite of all my friends back home freaking the hell out because I had gone overseas alone (which isn't exactly a flattering endorsement of my abilities), as though that somehow guaranteed I'd be mugged or molested on every street corner.  Perhaps it was foolish of me to go alone; I don't know.  I just think it's more important to take chances and actually go out and live on occasion...at least it is for me.  Better to die doing something you love than live holed up in your house and alone and afraid.

Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament

After making it to Parliament, we next walked around to the front of Westminster Abbey which was sadly closed.  I didn't feel too badly, though, since I had been able to go inside it on my previous visit to London.  I was fascinated to see a giant statue of Abraham Lincoln in the square opposite the Abbey (at least I think that's where it was); I could have understood it being Benjamin Franklin, European playboy extraordinaire, but Lincoln??  I found the statue very unexpected.  Turns out there's another monument to Lincoln somewhere in Edinburgh; who knew Honest Abe was so popular over here?

Honest Abe, just chillin' in the middle of London.

Alan was very patient with my constant stopping for photos and indulgent of my endless (and frequently non-sequiturish) questions about the city, the buildings, etc.--basically whatever happened to pop into my mind at any given moment--answering each and every one to the best of his ability.  By this point my feet were starting to feel as if they were on fire, so I suggested stopping somewhere for some tea.  We found a nearby Starbucks and ordered, my "medium tea" arriving moments later in a bucket-sized mug.  We stayed in Starbucks chatting till they kicked us out for closing time.

A big teddy bear of a man and very professorial, Alan is both kindly-natured and clever, with a sneaky sly wit that frequently had me bursting out with laughter throughout the day.  I spent several very enjoyable hours with him both before and after the play at the Globe, during which we covered an astonishingly wide variety of topics.  After tea we both walked to Victoria station for our respective trips home.  I saw Alan off on his train before heading over to take the Tube back to my hotel.  Just before he left Alan told me that I was "exactly like he thought I'd be."  I pointed out this could either be really good or really bad depending exactly what he'd previously thought of me, but Alan just giggled in response.  I'm choosing to take that as a compliment regardless.

"I said, 'MIND THE GAP!!!'"

When I arrived back in my hotel room, my feet felt as though I'd been standing in hot coals for hours.  I suppose that's not surprising considering the 8-some miles I'd just walked, never mind the literal marathon I've walked over here thus far.  As a result, the blisters on my toes have now begun forming blisters of their own, forming a colony of subcutaneous contagion spreading across the top of my feet.  Pretty soon they'll start looking like the feet of a prima ballerina who's been dancing en pointe for 20 years.  Not that I would change a thing, though--this trip has easily been worth every searing step and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 7

The Day I Went to the Globe and Traipsed Around London

Nothing is more likely to make the average English major squee like a demented fan girl than a chance to go see a Shakespearian play at the reconstructed Globe Theatre in London, and I'm no different.  I mean, c'mon--it's Shakespeare.  Aside from being classic literature, I just like the guy.  He was a witty wise-ass well before his time, and I have mad respect for that.  Besides, his manipulations of the English language help me to justify making up words whenever I want because if it was good enough for Billy Shakes, then it's good enough for me.  Or so I tell myself, at any rate.    

Shakespeare's Globe

After a long, refreshing sleep to make up for the previous day's all-nighter, I threw on some slacks and a blouse, grabbed muffin and a banana on my way out of the hotel, and headed off to the British Library to meet my friend Alan who had graciously taken off work to squire me to the Globe for the matinee so I wouldn't have to go see the show alone.  I suppose it didn't hurt that Alan himself had never yet been to the Globe, and I took a perverse glee in being the American Yank who got to introduce a native Brit to the iconic theatre.

Once at the British Library, I sat in the open courtyard to enjoy the morning, indulging in some people watching while waiting for Alan.  Halfway through my banana he showed up and we set off towards the nearest Tube station.  This turned out to be a bit of a comedy of errors (see what I did there?) considering neither of us really knew entirely where we were going.  We both knew the Globe was on the south bank of the Thames, but I hadn't really bothered looking up the best route for us because I naively assumed that any Englishman would know how to get there, in spite of the fact that the Englishman in question didn't actually live in London and had never been there.  I know, I know...stupid American, right?  Anyway, after a few quality minutes with the magic of GPS, Alan figured it out and we took the Tube to the Blackfriar's stop.  So naturally I had to grill him as to what made one set of friars "black" as opposed to Benedictine or whatever, thinking perhaps they were originally Jesuits.

We unintentionally ended up taking the long way around to the theatre but eventually arrived at the Globe complex and picked up our tickets at the box office, after which we went next door to the very Elizabethan-sounding Black Swan restaurant and pub for lunch.   Once upstairs, an amusing man from with a vaguely Slavic accent came over to take our orders.  I love listening to the varying dialects in this country; they do diversity so much better than we do at home.  But I digress.  Alan and I ordered the same meal on the show menu, except for the starters; he got soup and I tried a terrine, mostly out of sheer curiosity.  I've never had terrine before, and was only vaguely familiar with the term because of a BBC comedy starring Lenny Henry called Chef.  But, I figured, "when in Rome..." so I tried it.

The terrine turned out to be a sort of pulled and then pressed pork with the general consistency and texture of a chicken or tuna salad, except obviously tasting of pork.  It was better than I expected, and I ate the whole thing while joking with Alan that I'd basically just come over to England and ordered Spam.  We them spent the next several minutes giggling over the requisite "spam, spam, spam" jokes, these aided by the micro-greens on my plate which clearly constituted a small shrubbery.  I'm pretty sure Billy Shakes would also have appreciated the silliness of Monty Python had they been around in his time.

We finished the rest of the delicious meal with gusto, enjoying conversation and the lovely view of the Thames and St. Paul's...as well as several giant construction cranes spanning the river.  Alan and I paid our bill and headed next door to the Globe, getting there with just enough time to grab our seats before the play started, much to the understated annoyance of other patrons seated on our row over whom we had to climb.  Americans would have been cussing us out, but the two nice older British ladies we dislodged just grimaced and dealt with it, making me wonder for perhaps the thousandth time this week why I don't live here already.  Alan and I settled in on our hard wooden bench in the middle gallery and listened to the usual admonitions to turn off cell phones and refrain from photography during the show, then the performance of Much Ado About Nothing began.

The Globe's stage.

The production was excellent; well-acted by the cast, particularly the acrobatic Benedick, it was also significantly enhanced by music both sung and performed by the cast members at several appropriately-placed intervals during the show.  The interaction between the cast and the groundlings was also very amusing, not the least when several became doused with water meant for Beatrice.  Because the Globe is essentially an open-air theatre, however, there were occasional distractions such as airplanes flying anachronistically overhead.  For the most part such distractions were quick and largely ignorable by both cast and audience, but at one point a couple of Blackhawk helicopters flew directly (and loudly) overhead; I confess to being very impressed by how smoothly the actors currently on stage were able to incorporate the disruption seamlessly into their performance--no mean feat with iambic pentameter, which tends to defy ad-libbing.

At intermission the stalls emptied as everyone rushed off to use the facilities; upon returning both Alan and I noticed and commented on the uneven distribution of pigeons perched across the roof covering the stage. Clearly British pigeons have no appreciation for symmetry; I can only assume this is why so many of them got eaten during the Elizabethan period.  We continued chatting about the action thus far until the interval was over and the performance begain again.

By the last act of the play the sun had dropped to just above the roof of the upper gallery, glaring viciously into everyone's eyes on our side of the theater and causing some 50 hands to shoot up in the air and shade eyes in sun-drenched and weirdly military-looking salutes.  When it became clear that the sun was not going to disappear behind the clouds for any length of time, the ushers took pity on us and began passing out paper visors to everyone in our section; they were surprisingly effective, but we all looked like we were wearing little white turbine fans on our heads.  Très chic.

"Heyyyyyy, sexy laaaaadyyyyyy..."

Alan really seemed to enjoy the show (as did I), and I had almost as much fun watching him as I did watching the show itself, for he spent most of the play leaning forward, eyes alight with the magic of the performance.  Afterwards we perused the gift shop, where we both purchased facsimile copies of one of Shakespeare's first folios like the good little book nerds we are.  Alan then walked me to St. Paul's so I could ogle the architecture up close; we took a selfie there for our friend Katie since the area by the Globe was far too packed with people to get a good one there.  Alan pointed out the Tower Bridge and the Shard as we walked, as well as several other things; I think he secretly delighted in watching me ooh and ah over everything and answering all my questions about the history of the buildings and other things along the way.  For my part, I very much enjoyed the beautiful day and my witty companion, never mind geeking out over all the art and architecture and history surrounding me and filling my soul.

The Shard in London.

The dome of St. Paul's.

After St. Paul's, Alan walked me down to Parliament and Big Ben, which I believe has now been renamed for Queen Elizabeth II.  Not that it will ever be anything but Big Ben to me, mind you.  Parliament turned out to be much farther down than originally anticipated but was well worth the hike; the walk alongside the Thames alone was lovely, in spite of my nearly being assaulted by an errant skateboard at one point.  Personally, I found the near-miss amusing because it was the most threatened I'd felt the entire trip, in spite of all my friends back home freaking the hell out because I had gone overseas alone (which isn't exactly a flattering endorsement of my abilities), as though that somehow guaranteed I'd be mugged or molested on every street corner.  Perhaps it was foolish of me to go alone; I don't know.  I just think it's more important to take chances and actually go out and live on occasion...at least it is for me.  Better to die doing something you love than live holed up in your house and alone and afraid.

Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament

After making it to Parliament, we next walked around to the front of Westminster Abbey which was sadly closed.  I didn't feel too badly, though, since I had been able to go inside it on my previous visit to London.  I was fascinated to see a giant statue of Abraham Lincoln in the square opposite the Abbey (at least I think that's where it was); I could have understood it being Benjamin Franklin, European playboy extraordinaire, but Lincoln??  I found the statue very unexpected.  Turns out there's another monument to Lincoln somewhere in Edinburgh; who knew Honest Abe was so popular over here?

Honest Abe, just chillin' in the middle of London.

Alan was very patient with my constant stopping for photos and indulgent of my endless (and frequently non-sequiturish) questions about the city, the buildings, etc.--basically whatever happened to pop into my mind at any given moment--answering each and every one to the best of his ability.  By this point my feet were starting to feel as if they were on fire, so I suggested stopping somewhere for some tea.  We found a nearby Starbucks and ordered, my "medium tea" arriving moments later in a bucket-sized mug.  We stayed in Starbucks chatting till they kicked us out for closing time.

A big teddy bear of a man and very professorial, Alan is both kindly-natured and clever, with a sneaky sly wit that frequently had me bursting out with laughter throughout the day.  I spent several very enjoyable hours with him both before and after the play at the Globe, during which we covered an astonishingly wide variety of topics.  After tea we both walked to Victoria station for our respective trips home.  I saw Alan off on his train before heading over to take the Tube back to my hotel.  Just before he left Alan told me that I was "exactly like he thought I'd be."  I pointed out this could either be really good or really bad depending exactly what he'd previously thought of me, but Alan just giggled in response.  I'm choosing to take that as a compliment regardless.

"I said, 'MIND THE GAP!!!'"

When I arrived back in my hotel room, my feet felt as though I'd been standing in hot coals for hours.  I suppose that's not surprising considering the 8-some miles I'd just walked, never mind the literal marathon I've walked over here thus far.  As a result, the blisters on my toes have now begun forming blisters of their own, forming a colony of subcutaneous contagion spreading across the top of my feet.  Pretty soon they'll start looking like the feet of a prima ballerina who's been dancing en pointe for 20 years.  Not that I would change a thing, though--this trip has easily been worth every searing step and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.