Observations from the Mothership: Day 1

The Day of Endless Travel

A couple of weeks ago, as I was trying to get my trip all planned out around the chaos at home, my friend Leslie commented that she "couldn't wait to read all my observations from the mothership." Now I don't know about you, but to me this comment was clearly screaming to be the title of a blog series about my adventures overseas...so thanks, Leslie!  And thus the blogging begins...

Once my plane took off from Philadelphia, the 7-hour flight itself went fairly smoothly, sketchy mechanical issues notwithstanding.  I did spend a rather uncomfortable beginning of the flight learning that Delta Comfort Plus seats aren't particularly comfortable and freezing my ass off (if only), which convinced me that we were flying to London via the polar ice cap.  To stave off the frigid cabin, virtually every passenger broke out their complimentary little red blankets, which were hardly more substantial than fuzzy red toilet paper of the thinnest possible variety (you know, like the kind used in airports--ironically appropriate, no?)  After two hours of trying to type with ice blocks for fingers, the captain finally found the heater switch and the cabin slowly returned to a less glacial temperature. I tried doing a little writing during the flight, but had issues with my laptop throwing up obnoxious pop-up ads every time I tried to access Google and with keeping the in-flight wifi signal, so I gave up and instead did some crossword puzzles and watched a movie about Queen Elizabeth I staring Cate Blanchett.  Considering the first leg of my journey will take me to the home of Elizabeth's chief rival and my namesake, the choice seemed oddly apropos. 

Once disembarked at the airport I eventually managed to navigate my way to the Heathrow Express, an overpriced direct train from the airport to Paddington Station in central London.  Sadly, I saw no cute teddy bears in blue coats while wandering around Paddington pretending to know where I was going and not looking at all clueless.  From there I grabbed a taxi to King's Cross, figuring it would just be less hassle since I didn't want to get Tube passes till I was actually going to be in London for more than 20 minutes.  Once at King's cross I went to find a bathroom, unexpectedly passing Platform 9 3/4 along the way.  Somehow I had foolishly thought that the mockup of Harry Potter's trolley would be at a wall legitimately placed next to Platforms 9 and 10, but I suppose that would be a logistical nightmare given the number of travelers--never mind tourists--on any given day at King's Cross.  I was amused that one staff member was snapping photos for people while another arrayed each patron with the house scarf of their choice, flipping it in the air at the crucial moment to make it look like you were really being sucked through to the hidden platform.  I wandered about trying to snap a photo just of the cutoff trolley, but the photographer lady just looked at me and said "Come on, you know you want to..."  So I did.

Real Ravenclaws don't fall for tourist schlock like this.

After my photo op I grabbed a quick to-go breakfast from a shop called Pret-A-Manger (French for "ready to eat").  The sandwich was pretty tasty, but the chocolate chip cookie had the texture of a steamrolled hockey puck.  Anyway, I grabbed the bag of food, went to the ticket office to get my rail pass validated, and had 15 minutes to spare before the express train to Edinburgh departed.  I was lucky enough to get a seat by a table so I could do some writing before my laptop battery died and ended up sitting across the aisle from a lovely older British couple on their way to visit Scotland for the first time.

I remember liking the trains from my previous trip to the UK 15 years ago.  All told, they are surprisingly comfortable and efficient, something Americans could desperately stand to emulate.  Other than a brief bit of rain through Newcastle, it was a beautiful and sunny morning and I quite enjoyed the trip north.  The large windows in each carriage made it much easier to enjoy the countryside speeding by, which didn't look so terribly different from home what with all the farmlands and giant windmill turbines, especially if you pretended not to notice the gothic churches and castles and country cottages dotting the countryside...as if one ever could.  I particularly enjoyed seeing a few neighborhoods that perfectly evoked the #4 Privet Drive of the Harry Potter books, as well as the North Sea lapping the shores of Berwick-Upon-Tweed. At one point along the route I saw what appeared to be an apartment building with brightly colored boxes installed over random windows that I found fun--very Mondrian. I even appreciated the little hand grips on the back of each aisle seat provided to give passengers a place to pull up or to hold on when the train lurches about without actually having to fondle the seat and/or a passenger's shoulder by accident the way we would have to do. It struck me as terribly British--polite to a fault.  Either that or just a concerted effort to avoid contact with strangers...either way.  I did discover to my chagrin that I fail at working the toilets on the train, though.  First you have to stagger like a drunken badger to the bathroom, working against the rhythm of the train, then you have to work out which button works the door and push it firmly after the first couple efforts fail to yield any results other than people in the next carriage smirking at your ignorance.  I eventually figured it all out, though you almost need seat belts to keep from careening headfirst into the wall opposite during some of the more enthusiastic train lurches.  The doors slid open and shut in such a way that I deeply wanted them to make the whooshy sounds of the doors in Star Trek and was terribly disappointed when they didn't.

Absolutely beautiful countryside.

So far I have found the people I've talked with perfectly friendly and helpful, if perhaps a bit cautious (stranger danger!)  There were even some train staff singing and jamming to music in the cafe car behind me, pretty much negating the many American stereotypes that all British people are stuffy, very proper graduates of Oxford who have nothing but tweed in their closets, including their undergarments (though frankly, if I had to wear tweed skivvies, I'd probably be a bit tense and reserved  too).

As we went along I listened to the various train stops being announced and thought the practice was likely helpful in more ways than one, such as in keeping idiot foreigners from mistakenly pronouncing  things like "Derby" instead of "Darby" or  "Worechester" instead of "Wooster."  I hope this will aide me in Wales, because otherwise I'm screwed.  Pronouncing English city names is one thing--I've mostly got that down--but the Welsh deliberately steal all the vowels from their language and ship them overseas (I'm guessing) to languages consisting mostly of vowels in some sort of devilish linguistical exchange designed to torture residents and foreigners alike.  At l.east I know how to pronounce "Aberystwyth" and "Llewellyn" properly...that's a start.

After I departed the train station in Edinburgh, I schlepped my stuff down Princes Street to my hotel, passing the Walter Scott Memorial along the way (Hi, 'Cuz!  Did you miss me?).  I eventually found the hotel tucked away between a New Look (not that I know what we're supposed to be looking at) and a Starbucks (manna from heaven!).  Upon reaching my room I discovered that I have to leave my card in a little slot in the wall to keep the electricity turned on.  I can only assume that electricity thieves run rampant throughout Edinburgh otherwise.  Either that or they knew I was coming from Philly, home of Benjamin Franklin, the original electrical thief.  I seem to recall his efforts involving a questionably-deployed key as well.  I'd also forgotten that British tubs are frequently so tall one needs a stepladder or stilts to get in and out of the basin.  On the plus side, there will always be enough bath water to completely cover a person wider deeper than 3", unlike with American tubs.

Now, with convenient handrails to keep you from falling to your death on the way out.

After spending a few minutes exploring the room amenities, I sat down, took off my shoes, and checked all my messages.  And, since I'd not really slept on either the plane or the train, I nearly passed out on the bed but forced myself to stay awake till a normal (or slightly early) bedtime in order to recalibrate my internal clock.  I also took the time to change out of my sweaty and gross clothes; nearly 24 hours of nonstop traveling of one sort or another can make a person just that little bit ripe.  The funny thing is that a friend suggested before my departure that I should only take old underwear and socks and just ditch them as I go, freeing up more room for souvenirs and such in my bag.  Ironically, I had already been considering this, though I confess to wondering how this will go over with the hotel maids.  Can you imagine?  One of two things is likely to happen:  either they'll think someone is making random sacrifices to the trash and knickers gods or else they'll try to solve the mystery by following the trail of underpants left behind in my wake all over Great Britain, which can only lead to all sorts of awkward questions such as "What exactly were you doing in all those British hotel rooms again???" or "Is that how you were paying for your trip???" Ah, well...that might be embarrassing, but it's not like some random American can damage our international reputation much more than it already has been. Besides, think of the story the maids would have to tell their families that night...almost better than a tip, right?

After a couple hours of rest, I ventured out to find some dinner.  I'd seen a steakhouse online that had gotten pretty good reviews and set out to find it.  All I can say is that I don't have to worry about being considered an 'Ugly American' after my expedition, because all the locals were likely too busy smirking over my Keystone Kops antics.  I must have spent an hour walking around in ever-expanding circles while trying unsuccessfully to find this place, which included an eloquent and graceful faceplant (think the dancing hippos from Fantasia) onto the pavement after I tripped over one of the ubiquitously uneven flagstones in the sidewalk and skinned my knees.  A couple minutes later I looked up and saw a pub called 'Shakespeare' and thought to myself, "Screw it--I'm tired and sore.  Also?  BILLY SHAKES--duh."  So I crossed the street and went into the pub, only to learn that their kitchen was untimely ripped, erm, closed for the day.  Sigh.  Exhausted as I was after the long traveling, this only served to make me more determined to find the steakhouse.  I ended up going into a small cafe with wifi, thinking to look it up on my phone, but was assisted by a young man at the counter with a beautiful Scots accent (I can't help it...it's a thing.  I have an inexplicable weakness for a good Scottish brogue. Genetics, bitches.)  Fifteen additional minutes of walking later, I finally arrived at my destination:  McKirdy's.  I found it disconcerting that a place with such good reviews seemed to be a complete and utter mystery to the locals I'd asked for directions. Turns out McKirdy's is a steakhouse run by a family of butchers for that fresh-to-table-hunk-of-bloody-meat sort of thing.

After consulting with the owner, I opted for a classic burger over the more expensive rib-eye or filet.  The nice thing about talking to the butcher himself is that you get the inside track, like that the burger is basically just chopped-up rib-eye and,  I have to say, that burger was arguably the best burger I have ever put in my mouth...it was freaking DELICIOUS.  Those Lothian cows are damn tasty. The burger came with some perfectly serviceable curly fries and a pepper sauce which I found surprisingly subtle and tasty when dipping both fries and burger into it.  I also learned that "Rocket" is a type of lettuce described as "peppery."  Between the peppery mustard and pepper sauce and peppery lettuce, I'm beginning to sense a theme here in the Isle of the Mighty.  Could it be that the British are secretly spicy?  I couldn't remember the name of that type of lettuce back home, so had to look it up later in my hotel room.  Seems that 'rocket' = 'arugula.'  Who knew?  For desert I ordered the cheesecake of the day, a sticky-toffee cheesecake which looked uncomfortably like cat food paté with a couple of piroulines stuck in the top and a scoop of ice cream beside.  Looks notwithstanding, the cheesecake was tasty enough, though nowhere near the caliber of the burger.

For when you need utensils long enough to feed your neighbor.

After dinner I meandered back to my hotel, stopping first at Boots for some chapstick, water and to look for a particular cough syrup for a friend.  I couldn't help noticing as I walked that with the majority of shops closed the streets had mostly cleared of everyone but young people and young couples.  Seems even in Edinburgh teens and college-age kids go cruising, just on foot or by bus instead of cars.  And I don't think I saw a woman of any age not wearing some variety of tights or hose with her skirt or pants, though I imagine in this climate that is nothing more than sheer (ahem) practicality.

All in all, it was a very pleasant evening, in spite of my Coca-Cola and jet-lag kicking in.  On a side note, how is it that Coke tastes lovely and refreshing when poured over ice but once the ice has melted it burns in much the same way I imagine paint stripper might.  What's up with that?  How are ice cubes the magic ingredient?

Likewise, how is it that it takes approximately 12 hours of excruciating pain to trudge towards one's hotel but the same distance is traversed later in a pleasant 10 minutes?  Stupid perspective and adaptive walking.

Hopefully you've all had as pleasant an afternoon as I have.  Next up, Archives and Edinburgh castle!

So what are your favorite trips/sights?

Kilt Count:  Sadly only one, and that was on a girl piper near the Scott memorial.  I did see a guy wearing plaid trews, though, and another dude with a Stewart tartan tam, so there's that.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 1

The Day of Endless Travel

A couple of weeks ago, as I was trying to get my trip all planned out around the chaos at home, my friend Leslie commented that she "couldn't wait to read all my observations from the mothership." Now I don't know about you, but to me this comment was clearly screaming to be the title of a blog series about my adventures overseas...so thanks, Leslie!  And thus the blogging begins...

Once my plane took off from Philadelphia, the 7-hour flight itself went fairly smoothly, sketchy mechanical issues notwithstanding.  I did spend a rather uncomfortable beginning of the flight learning that Delta Comfort Plus seats aren't particularly comfortable and freezing my ass off (if only), which convinced me that we were flying to London via the polar ice cap.  To stave off the frigid cabin, virtually every passenger broke out their complimentary little red blankets, which were hardly more substantial than fuzzy red toilet paper of the thinnest possible variety (you know, like the kind used in airports--ironically appropriate, no?)  After two hours of trying to type with ice blocks for fingers, the captain finally found the heater switch and the cabin slowly returned to a less glacial temperature. I tried doing a little writing during the flight, but had issues with my laptop throwing up obnoxious pop-up ads every time I tried to access Google and with keeping the in-flight wifi signal, so I gave up and instead did some crossword puzzles and watched a movie about Queen Elizabeth I staring Cate Blanchett.  Considering the first leg of my journey will take me to the home of Elizabeth's chief rival and my namesake, the choice seemed oddly apropos. 

Once disembarked at the airport I eventually managed to navigate my way to the Heathrow Express, an overpriced direct train from the airport to Paddington Station in central London.  Sadly, I saw no cute teddy bears in blue coats while wandering around Paddington pretending to know where I was going and not looking at all clueless.  From there I grabbed a taxi to King's Cross, figuring it would just be less hassle since I didn't want to get Tube passes till I was actually going to be in London for more than 20 minutes.  Once at King's cross I went to find a bathroom, unexpectedly passing Platform 9 3/4 along the way.  Somehow I had foolishly thought that the mockup of Harry Potter's trolley would be at a wall legitimately placed next to Platforms 9 and 10, but I suppose that would be a logistical nightmare given the number of travelers--never mind tourists--on any given day at King's Cross.  I was amused that one staff member was snapping photos for people while another arrayed each patron with the house scarf of their choice, flipping it in the air at the crucial moment to make it look like you were really being sucked through to the hidden platform.  I wandered about trying to snap a photo just of the cutoff trolley, but the photographer lady just looked at me and said "Come on, you know you want to..."  So I did.

Real Ravenclaws don't fall for tourist schlock like this.

After my photo op I grabbed a quick to-go breakfast from a shop called Pret-A-Manger (French for "ready to eat").  The sandwich was pretty tasty, but the chocolate chip cookie had the texture of a steamrolled hockey puck.  Anyway, I grabbed the bag of food, went to the ticket office to get my rail pass validated, and had 15 minutes to spare before the express train to Edinburgh departed.  I was lucky enough to get a seat by a table so I could do some writing before my laptop battery died and ended up sitting across the aisle from a lovely older British couple on their way to visit Scotland for the first time.

I remember liking the trains from my previous trip to the UK 15 years ago.  All told, they are surprisingly comfortable and efficient, something Americans could desperately stand to emulate.  Other than a brief bit of rain through Newcastle, it was a beautiful and sunny morning and I quite enjoyed the trip north.  The large windows in each carriage made it much easier to enjoy the countryside speeding by, which didn't look so terribly different from home what with all the farmlands and giant windmill turbines, especially if you pretended not to notice the gothic churches and castles and country cottages dotting the countryside...as if one ever could.  I particularly enjoyed seeing a few neighborhoods that perfectly evoked the #4 Privet Drive of the Harry Potter books, as well as the North Sea lapping the shores of Berwick-Upon-Tweed. At one point along the route I saw what appeared to be an apartment building with brightly colored boxes installed over random windows that I found fun--very Mondrian. I even appreciated the little hand grips on the back of each aisle seat provided to give passengers a place to pull up or to hold on when the train lurches about without actually having to fondle the seat and/or a passenger's shoulder by accident the way we would have to do. It struck me as terribly British--polite to a fault.  Either that or just a concerted effort to avoid contact with strangers...either way.  I did discover to my chagrin that I fail at working the toilets on the train, though.  First you have to stagger like a drunken badger to the bathroom, working against the rhythm of the train, then you have to work out which button works the door and push it firmly after the first couple efforts fail to yield any results other than people in the next carriage smirking at your ignorance.  I eventually figured it all out, though you almost need seat belts to keep from careening headfirst into the wall opposite during some of the more enthusiastic train lurches.  The doors slid open and shut in such a way that I deeply wanted them to make the whooshy sounds of the doors in Star Trek and was terribly disappointed when they didn't.

Absolutely beautiful countryside.

So far I have found the people I've talked with perfectly friendly and helpful, if perhaps a bit cautious (stranger danger!)  There were even some train staff singing and jamming to music in the cafe car behind me, pretty much negating the many American stereotypes that all British people are stuffy, very proper graduates of Oxford who have nothing but tweed in their closets, including their undergarments (though frankly, if I had to wear tweed skivvies, I'd probably be a bit tense and reserved  too).

As we went along I listened to the various train stops being announced and thought the practice was likely helpful in more ways than one, such as in keeping idiot foreigners from mistakenly pronouncing  things like "Derby" instead of "Darby" or  "Worechester" instead of "Wooster."  I hope this will aide me in Wales, because otherwise I'm screwed.  Pronouncing English city names is one thing--I've mostly got that down--but the Welsh deliberately steal all the vowels from their language and ship them overseas (I'm guessing) to languages consisting mostly of vowels in some sort of devilish linguistical exchange designed to torture residents and foreigners alike.  At l.east I know how to pronounce "Aberystwyth" and "Llewellyn" properly...that's a start.

After I departed the train station in Edinburgh, I schlepped my stuff down Princes Street to my hotel, passing the Walter Scott Memorial along the way (Hi, 'Cuz!  Did you miss me?).  I eventually found the hotel tucked away between a New Look (not that I know what we're supposed to be looking at) and a Starbucks (manna from heaven!).  Upon reaching my room I discovered that I have to leave my card in a little slot in the wall to keep the electricity turned on.  I can only assume that electricity thieves run rampant throughout Edinburgh otherwise.  Either that or they knew I was coming from Philly, home of Benjamin Franklin, the original electrical thief.  I seem to recall his efforts involving a questionably-deployed key as well.  I'd also forgotten that British tubs are frequently so tall one needs a stepladder or stilts to get in and out of the basin.  On the plus side, there will always be enough bath water to completely cover a person wider deeper than 3", unlike with American tubs.

Now, with convenient handrails to keep you from falling to your death on the way out.

After spending a few minutes exploring the room amenities, I sat down, took off my shoes, and checked all my messages.  And, since I'd not really slept on either the plane or the train, I nearly passed out on the bed but forced myself to stay awake till a normal (or slightly early) bedtime in order to recalibrate my internal clock.  I also took the time to change out of my sweaty and gross clothes; nearly 24 hours of nonstop traveling of one sort or another can make a person just that little bit ripe.  The funny thing is that a friend suggested before my departure that I should only take old underwear and socks and just ditch them as I go, freeing up more room for souvenirs and such in my bag.  Ironically, I had already been considering this, though I confess to wondering how this will go over with the hotel maids.  Can you imagine?  One of two things is likely to happen:  either they'll think someone is making random sacrifices to the trash and knickers gods or else they'll try to solve the mystery by following the trail of underpants left behind in my wake all over Great Britain, which can only lead to all sorts of awkward questions such as "What exactly were you doing in all those British hotel rooms again???" or "Is that how you were paying for your trip???" Ah, well...that might be embarrassing, but it's not like some random American can damage our international reputation much more than it already has been. Besides, think of the story the maids would have to tell their families that night...almost better than a tip, right?

After a couple hours of rest, I ventured out to find some dinner.  I'd seen a steakhouse online that had gotten pretty good reviews and set out to find it.  All I can say is that I don't have to worry about being considered an 'Ugly American' after my expedition, because all the locals were likely too busy smirking over my Keystone Kops antics.  I must have spent an hour walking around in ever-expanding circles while trying unsuccessfully to find this place, which included an eloquent and graceful faceplant (think the dancing hippos from Fantasia) onto the pavement after I tripped over one of the ubiquitously uneven flagstones in the sidewalk and skinned my knees.  A couple minutes later I looked up and saw a pub called 'Shakespeare' and thought to myself, "Screw it--I'm tired and sore.  Also?  BILLY SHAKES--duh."  So I crossed the street and went into the pub, only to learn that their kitchen was untimely ripped, erm, closed for the day.  Sigh.  Exhausted as I was after the long traveling, this only served to make me more determined to find the steakhouse.  I ended up going into a small cafe with wifi, thinking to look it up on my phone, but was assisted by a young man at the counter with a beautiful Scots accent (I can't help it...it's a thing.  I have an inexplicable weakness for a good Scottish brogue. Genetics, bitches.)  Fifteen additional minutes of walking later, I finally arrived at my destination:  McKirdy's.  I found it disconcerting that a place with such good reviews seemed to be a complete and utter mystery to the locals I'd asked for directions. Turns out McKirdy's is a steakhouse run by a family of butchers for that fresh-to-table-hunk-of-bloody-meat sort of thing.

After consulting with the owner, I opted for a classic burger over the more expensive rib-eye or filet.  The nice thing about talking to the butcher himself is that you get the inside track, like that the burger is basically just chopped-up rib-eye and,  I have to say, that burger was arguably the best burger I have ever put in my mouth...it was freaking DELICIOUS.  Those Lothian cows are damn tasty. The burger came with some perfectly serviceable curly fries and a pepper sauce which I found surprisingly subtle and tasty when dipping both fries and burger into it.  I also learned that "Rocket" is a type of lettuce described as "peppery."  Between the peppery mustard and pepper sauce and peppery lettuce, I'm beginning to sense a theme here in the Isle of the Mighty.  Could it be that the British are secretly spicy?  I couldn't remember the name of that type of lettuce back home, so had to look it up later in my hotel room.  Seems that 'rocket' = 'arugula.'  Who knew?  For desert I ordered the cheesecake of the day, a sticky-toffee cheesecake which looked uncomfortably like cat food paté with a couple of piroulines stuck in the top and a scoop of ice cream beside.  Looks notwithstanding, the cheesecake was tasty enough, though nowhere near the caliber of the burger.

For when you need utensils long enough to feed your neighbor.

After dinner I meandered back to my hotel, stopping first at Boots for some chapstick, water and to look for a particular cough syrup for a friend.  I couldn't help noticing as I walked that with the majority of shops closed the streets had mostly cleared of everyone but young people and young couples.  Seems even in Edinburgh teens and college-age kids go cruising, just on foot or by bus instead of cars.  And I don't think I saw a woman of any age not wearing some variety of tights or hose with her skirt or pants, though I imagine in this climate that is nothing more than sheer (ahem) practicality.

All in all, it was a very pleasant evening, in spite of my Coca-Cola and jet-lag kicking in.  On a side note, how is it that Coke tastes lovely and refreshing when poured over ice but once the ice has melted it burns in much the same way I imagine paint stripper might.  What's up with that?  How are ice cubes the magic ingredient?

Likewise, how is it that it takes approximately 12 hours of excruciating pain to trudge towards one's hotel but the same distance is traversed later in a pleasant 10 minutes?  Stupid perspective and adaptive walking.

Hopefully you've all had as pleasant an afternoon as I have.  Next up, Archives and Edinburgh castle!

So what are your favorite trips/sights?

Kilt Count:  Sadly only one, and that was on a girl piper near the Scott memorial.  I did see a guy wearing plaid trews, though, and another dude with a Stewart tartan tam, so there's that.

Philadelphia Frolic

Sometimes the world moves a little faster than I can keep up.  For example, it's difficult to believe that it's already been a week since I was several states away and traipsing around Philadelphia.  In that short time, the Spousal Unit has been to Boston and back for yet another job interview (which didn't pan out, so no Amazon.com discounts for me. ::sadness::), and I have accomplished pretty much nothing other than to contract a very inconveniently-timed head cold and sore throat which may well impact my ability to sing in my choral society's concert some 11 days from now.  Ah, well...Murphy's Law, I suppose.

In spite of the ups and downs of the intervening week, I still managed to have a wonderful time in Philadelphia, at least the little bit of it which I saw.  My day started with a shower in the swish bathroom of the Ritz, during which I partook of the lovely-smelling "designer" toiletries, the aromas of which were somewhat mitigated by an overly-bleached towel that smelled vaguely of burnt biscuits.

Mmmmm...burnt-smelling towels.  Tasty!

While the Unit was leaving to head out for a breakfast meeting, my breakfast arrived via room service.  I love the idea of room service, though I'm usually far too cheap to splurge on it.  Still, when someone else is footing one's travel and lodging bills, it's a little easier to justify--at least till one sees the 20% forced gratuity and $5 delivery charge (because it's such an arduous journey up the elevator from the kitchen) and is reminded precisely why one rarely orders room service.  At any rate, the food was decent and I enjoyed it for the most part; in fact I was largely full by the time room service sent up the basket of pastries they'd forgotten.  Room Service thoughtfully packaged them in a to-go box, however, and placed them in a blue Ritz-Carlton shopping bag complete with plastic utensils and napkins.  Spiffy.

On my way out of the hotel, I stopped at the business center to print a voucher for a double-decker bus tour around town, one of those "hop on and off" jobs that gives you more flexibility for sight-seeing.  For the privilege, I was charged $6.99 for 15 minutes of computer time, of which I used approximately 2.  It's one thing to charge for internet in the room, but in the lobby/business center?  Seriously??  Why is it that the more expensive a hotel is, the more they charge you for the little things?  That seems counter-intuitive to me, but then I suppose most of the people who can afford such hotels just expense-account everything and so rarely feel the pinch.  Meanwhile, I feel the pinch...great lobster claws of pinch.  Either that or I've just lived with a tightwad for far too long.  On the plus side, guests are allowed to print off boarding passes for free...how generous.

I started my tour of the city by heading first to Christ Church, figuring since it was the farthest out I could start there and work my way back into the middle of town.  So naturally I got a cabbie who didn't know where Christ Church was.  Not that this deficit stopped him from heading out onto the streets and leaving me to look up the address en route, at which point he realized he was heading in the opposite direction and had to turn around; I was charged for the privilege.  Whoops.

Christ Church was lovely, I have to say.  Not in the sense of the architecturally astounding gothic churches all over Europe, perhaps, but it still had an elegant simplicity all its own.  Originally I'd just intended to visit the church, but because I'd gotten a later start than planned my visit occurred not long before the Good Friday service was to begin.  So I decided to attend. After all, it's not every day that one gets to observe Good Friday in an edifice so fraught with history.  Not only did several of the Founding Fathers (including Franklin and Washington) regularly worship there, but it essentially became the first Episcopal church in the United States after breaking with the Church of England during the Revolutionary War.  Not that I'm Episcopal, mind you, but the girlie did attend an Episcopal school for 14 years, so there was a certain degree of continuity in spending part of my day at this particular church.

Christ Church, Philadelphia

I had just enough time between my initial visit and the start of service to walk down to Christ Church's burial ground in which Benjamin Franklin, the ubiquitous Philadelphian, is interred.  The cemetery itself isn't terribly big, but houses several signers of the Declaration of Independence as well as a few other notable Philadelphians from the Revolutionary War era.  I was intrigued that Franklin's grave was covered with pennies (and a few other coins), It seems people throw pennies because of his famous saying, "A penny saved is a penny earned."  Though most of the burial ground is enclosed by a brick wall, there is an open iron fence panel right next to Franklin's grave through which passers-by can also lob their monetary projectiles.  Ben's grave garners around $4,000 in pennies annually which are contributed to the Preservation Trust.  It amuses me to think that somewhere Franklin is laughing his bifocals off because people are not actually saving their pennies by flinging them at his grave, yet he still is earning them. As I overhead one person say, "A penny tossed is a penny lost."  Something tells me good old Ben was the sort of man to appreciate the irony.

Franklin's grave has freckles.

Benjamin and Deborah...still earning interest.

After walking the burial ground, I headed back towards Christ Church for the service, stopping along the way to purchase $5 souvenir shirts.  I made my way back into the sanctuary and found a seat.  Later I learned that there are small bronze plaques marking where the more famous congregants sat; had I noticed them earlier I would have made a point of sitting in Betsy Ross' seat because there would be something delightfully transcendent about two seamstresses attending service in the same church, separated only by 220 years or so.  Ah, well...another time perhaps.

After the first hour (!), the minister took a break to inform us that the next part of the service would entail carrying a large wooden cross around the neighborhood to the locations of some particularly violent battles/incidents as a reminder to bring peace to the world and to carry it with you.  While I appreciated the sentiment and while I could probably stand to have a lot of my natural irreverence pounded out of me by attending a lengthier service, I didn't want to spare that much time in an already-limited day of sight-seeing so instead I hopped on one of the tour buses passing by and rode it to the Independence Visitor's center to see if I could get in to see the big attractions--Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell.

Independence Hall

As it turns out, both attractions are free, though you have to get a timed ticket to tour Independence Hall and they generally run out early.  They had already gone by the time I got to the visitor's center, but I figured I'd still ask about the Liberty Bell.  The park ranger looked around furtively, then asked me how many people were with me; when I said it "just me," he handed me a ticket for the 2:00 tour starting in half an hour and told me to "go now."  I thanked him and headed across the mall to get my bag groped by security staff who apparently had to make sure I wasn't bringing any napalm or sticky jam or leaky pens into the historical site.  Once suitably secure, I sat on a bench outside the Hall and munched on my hotel pastries while waiting for my tour to start.

After polishing off a last bite of croissant in line, we were taken to a holding tank lecture room and were introduced to our park ranger/tour guide.  We chatted for a bit about historical things, and then he showed us an original painting of the signing of the Constitution, dated 1785.  The ranger informed us that he "knew we were serious about history" because we signed up for the 2:00 tour and because the "4:30 (last) tour group is just a bunch of shoppers."  Tour guides with a good sense of humor are always a plus.

Signing of the Constitution

First we were shown the Supreme Court Room and told how King George III's coat of arms had been ripped off the wall at the outset of war and later replaced by the Pennsylvania coat of arms.  While there, I met a lovely couple from Brighton, England who were visiting friends in the city.  After chatting a bit, I couldn't help asking them if it was weird hearing and seeing about their history from the other side.  They agreed it was rather surreal; I imagine it would be.

The Supreme Court Room

Next, we went across the hall to the Assembly Room, where both the Declaration of Independence and the US Constitution were signed and ratified.  In front was a table on which sat the silver inkwell used to sign both documents; on another table was an original copy of Thomas Paine's Common Sense.  On the one hand, you could feel the weight of history in the room; on the other, it still secretly felt like you were in part of a movie set as though the surroundings were not entirely real.  We were shown out the back of the building past stairs leading up to the other rooms and offices we were not permitted to see, including the bell/clock tower which once housed the Liberty Bell.  The tour took all of around 15-20 minutes; the Hall was much smaller than I expected, as so many Colonial buildings are.

The Assembly Room

When I left Independence Hall and went to get in line for the Liberty Bell, I saw a large group of people across the mall, one of whom was playing guitar and singing over a loudspeaker, "Raise our wages to 15, to 15...we cannot survive on 7.25, raise our wages to 15!"  Overhearing a political demonstration on the day one visits the American birthplace of political demonstrations seems rather apropos, don't you think?

Philadelphia Protestors

The line to see the Liberty Bell took longer than the entire tour of Independence Hall, which still wasn't all that bad as lines go, though that didn't stop a teen behind me from complaining to his mother about the long line and how it was "just a bell" and how he didn't see what the "big deal" was.  I couldn't resist turning to him and asking, "So you're saying the bell is not all it's cracked up to be?"  His mom sniggered and told him "she got you!"  Even the boy had to smirk sheepishly.  Mission accomplished.

One queue, two queue, red queue, blue queue...

Eventually I got through the line and saw the official Liberty Bell; again, I was both intrigued and not entirely convinced it was real.  When you go to places in Europe, you can feel the age and sense of history imbued in places and things; it surrounds you like an aura and is almost absorbed into your very skin.  That's not always true here.  Perhaps it's because we are so young yet as a country, or perhaps it's because we live and breathe sky-rises and iPhones and All-You-Can-Eat platters and so somehow have lost the sense of gravitas and awe we should still have for our own history.  I don't know.  But seeing a giant bell, however famous, cordoned off with little more than a seatbelt takes away some of that due reverence and makes it look a little more like a paper-maché movie prop than it probably should.  Don't get me wrong--it was still cool, just not perhaps in the way I expected.  Those pesky expectations...so hard to manage against reality.

Your crack is showing.

After seeing the Liberty Bell, I realized I had just enough time to hop on one of the buses and do the last full tour of the city before they shut down for the day, so rather than waste my ticket I blew off the Constitution Center and headed toward the buses.  The bus tour turned out to be perhaps my favorite part of the day because it enabled me to see more of the city than I would otherwise have been able and because the guide told us all sorts of stories that made the city come alive.  One of my favorites was about the "Busybody," yet another creation of Benjamin Franklin's.  As we drove through Society Hill, the guide pointed out several odd contraptions on the sides of the old row houses which she called "busybodies."  Though they looked a little like weird antennae, they are actually a set of mirrors constructed to face towards a window so that when someone downstairs was knocking on the door, you could look at the busybody like a periscope and have it reflect who was at the door to your upstairs window.  That way, you could tell if it was the tax man or your mother-in-law or whomever, and so knew when to avoid answering the door.  Leave it to Franklin to invent the world's first peephole to get out of paying taxes.

The world's only useful busybody.

We drove past the Chinese Friendship Gate in Chinatown, the "Rocky Steps" at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the Love sculpture in Love Park, Elfreth's Alley (the country's oldest residential street), a statue of Joan of Arc nicknamed "Joanie on the Pony" (which still makes me giggle), sculptures of a giant clothespin and a three-way plug, and a street lined with international flags representing growing populations from those countries in the city, plus many other things.  It was a great way to see a lot of the city fairly quickly, and I learned many interesting things in my 90-minute tour.

Elfreth's Alley

"Joanie on the Pony"

The "Rocky" steps in front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Robert Indiana's famous LOVE sculpture.

When the tour ended I walked back to the hotel for a quick shower and tidy up before we went out to dinner with one of Drexel's professors and his wife. Constantine and his wife Amelie proved to be a very charming Greek couple who regaled us with stories about her work in Morocco, how nobody's moussaka is as good as Mama's, and of life in Philadelphia.  The Unit smirked at my animated discussion with Constantine over whether or not the Blues should have lyrics or just be instrumental (he was for solely instrumental; I posited that part of what makes music the Blues is the oral tradition from which it originates...so yes, vocals).  We spent a lively and highly enjoyable three hours with them before they walked us back to our hotel.

Estia Greek Restaurant

Upon arriving at our room, I discovered that during our absence someone had come in to perform a "turn down" service.  Rather than just leaving chocolates and turning down the bedding, however, our curtains had also been drawn, my towel had been straightened out on the shower door to dry better, and clothes/items I had strewn on the bed in my pre-dinner rush to get ready had been relocated to a chair, presumably so as not to detract from the whole turn-down effect.  Meanwhile, the hangers from the Unit's suit were missing completely.  I find it a bit disconcerting that such a swish hotel would take anyone's belongings, even something so mundane as hangers, and dispose of them entirely.  If I'm honest, that made me twitch a bit; the thoroughness of our turn-down service bordered on the creepy. Then again, we also found out at dinner that University guests are normally housed in a nearby Sheraton, but it happened to be booked for our trip...hence the Ritz.  Is slightly creepy okay if opulence is involved?  Hmmmm...

Saturday morning we packed up and checked out.  While waiting for the private car the University had arranged to take us to the airport, we saw a parade of some sort going down the street in front of our hotel.  One of the staff said it was an Indian wedding, but we missed most of the parade except for some guy dressed in bright and festive clothing and riding a horse around the corner.  Clearly it's all go at the Ritz.  We had a quick drive back to the airport with a very nice and chatty driver named Wayne, then an uneventful flight home.

I have to say, I really enjoyed visiting the city.  No matter what ultimately happens on the job front, at least I got to do the touristy thing and see historical sites I'd probably never bother with as a resident, because you tend to figure they're always there, so there's no rush to visit.  That's what happened when we lived in Memphis, anyway.  I lived there around 20 years and never once saw Graceland or the Lorraine Motel.  History is always there, regardless...and Philadelphia is a vibrant city alive with arts and culture and festivals galore.

Fingers crossed.

Philadelphia Frolic

Sometimes the world moves a little faster than I can keep up.  For example, it's difficult to believe that it's already been a week since I was several states away and traipsing around Philadelphia.  In that short time, the Spousal Unit has been to Boston and back for yet another job interview (which didn't pan out, so no Amazon.com discounts for me. ::sadness::), and I have accomplished pretty much nothing other than to contract a very inconveniently-timed head cold and sore throat which may well impact my ability to sing in my choral society's concert some 11 days from now.  Ah, well...Murphy's Law, I suppose.

In spite of the ups and downs of the intervening week, I still managed to have a wonderful time in Philadelphia, at least the little bit of it which I saw.  My day started with a shower in the swish bathroom of the Ritz, during which I partook of the lovely-smelling "designer" toiletries, the aromas of which were somewhat mitigated by an overly-bleached towel that smelled vaguely of burnt biscuits.

Mmmmm...burnt-smelling towels.  Tasty!

While the Unit was leaving to head out for a breakfast meeting, my breakfast arrived via room service.  I love the idea of room service, though I'm usually far too cheap to splurge on it.  Still, when someone else is footing one's travel and lodging bills, it's a little easier to justify--at least till one sees the 20% forced gratuity and $5 delivery charge (because it's such an arduous journey up the elevator from the kitchen) and is reminded precisely why one rarely orders room service.  At any rate, the food was decent and I enjoyed it for the most part; in fact I was largely full by the time room service sent up the basket of pastries they'd forgotten.  Room Service thoughtfully packaged them in a to-go box, however, and placed them in a blue Ritz-Carlton shopping bag complete with plastic utensils and napkins.  Spiffy.

On my way out of the hotel, I stopped at the business center to print a voucher for a double-decker bus tour around town, one of those "hop on and off" jobs that gives you more flexibility for sight-seeing.  For the privilege, I was charged $6.99 for 15 minutes of computer time, of which I used approximately 2.  It's one thing to charge for internet in the room, but in the lobby/business center?  Seriously??  Why is it that the more expensive a hotel is, the more they charge you for the little things?  That seems counter-intuitive to me, but then I suppose most of the people who can afford such hotels just expense-account everything and so rarely feel the pinch.  Meanwhile, I feel the pinch...great lobster claws of pinch.  Either that or I've just lived with a tightwad for far too long.  On the plus side, guests are allowed to print off boarding passes for free...how generous.

I started my tour of the city by heading first to Christ Church, figuring since it was the farthest out I could start there and work my way back into the middle of town.  So naturally I got a cabbie who didn't know where Christ Church was.  Not that this deficit stopped him from heading out onto the streets and leaving me to look up the address en route, at which point he realized he was heading in the opposite direction and had to turn around; I was charged for the privilege.  Whoops.

Christ Church was lovely, I have to say.  Not in the sense of the architecturally astounding gothic churches all over Europe, perhaps, but it still had an elegant simplicity all its own.  Originally I'd just intended to visit the church, but because I'd gotten a later start than planned my visit occurred not long before the Good Friday service was to begin.  So I decided to attend. After all, it's not every day that one gets to observe Good Friday in an edifice so fraught with history.  Not only did several of the Founding Fathers (including Franklin and Washington) regularly worship there, but it essentially became the first Episcopal church in the United States after breaking with the Church of England during the Revolutionary War.  Not that I'm Episcopal, mind you, but the girlie did attend an Episcopal school for 14 years, so there was a certain degree of continuity in spending part of my day at this particular church.

Christ Church, Philadelphia

I had just enough time between my initial visit and the start of service to walk down to Christ Church's burial ground in which Benjamin Franklin, the ubiquitous Philadelphian, is interred.  The cemetery itself isn't terribly big, but houses several signers of the Declaration of Independence as well as a few other notable Philadelphians from the Revolutionary War era.  I was intrigued that Franklin's grave was covered with pennies (and a few other coins), It seems people throw pennies because of his famous saying, "A penny saved is a penny earned."  Though most of the burial ground is enclosed by a brick wall, there is an open iron fence panel right next to Franklin's grave through which passers-by can also lob their monetary projectiles.  Ben's grave garners around $4,000 in pennies annually which are contributed to the Preservation Trust.  It amuses me to think that somewhere Franklin is laughing his bifocals off because people are not actually saving their pennies by flinging them at his grave, yet he still is earning them. As I overhead one person say, "A penny tossed is a penny lost."  Something tells me good old Ben was the sort of man to appreciate the irony.

Franklin's grave has freckles.

Benjamin and Deborah...still earning interest.

After walking the burial ground, I headed back towards Christ Church for the service, stopping along the way to purchase $5 souvenir shirts.  I made my way back into the sanctuary and found a seat.  Later I learned that there are small bronze plaques marking where the more famous congregants sat; had I noticed them earlier I would have made a point of sitting in Betsy Ross' seat because there would be something delightfully transcendent about two seamstresses attending service in the same church, separated only by 220 years or so.  Ah, well...another time perhaps.

After the first hour (!), the minister took a break to inform us that the next part of the service would entail carrying a large wooden cross around the neighborhood to the locations of some particularly violent battles/incidents as a reminder to bring peace to the world and to carry it with you.  While I appreciated the sentiment and while I could probably stand to have a lot of my natural irreverence pounded out of me by attending a lengthier service, I didn't want to spare that much time in an already-limited day of sight-seeing so instead I hopped on one of the tour buses passing by and rode it to the Independence Visitor's center to see if I could get in to see the big attractions--Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell.

Independence Hall

As it turns out, both attractions are free, though you have to get a timed ticket to tour Independence Hall and they generally run out early.  They had already gone by the time I got to the visitor's center, but I figured I'd still ask about the Liberty Bell.  The park ranger looked around furtively, then asked me how many people were with me; when I said it "just me," he handed me a ticket for the 2:00 tour starting in half an hour and told me to "go now."  I thanked him and headed across the mall to get my bag groped by security staff who apparently had to make sure I wasn't bringing any napalm or sticky jam or leaky pens into the historical site.  Once suitably secure, I sat on a bench outside the Hall and munched on my hotel pastries while waiting for my tour to start.

After polishing off a last bite of croissant in line, we were taken to a holding tank lecture room and were introduced to our park ranger/tour guide.  We chatted for a bit about historical things, and then he showed us an original painting of the signing of the Constitution, dated 1785.  The ranger informed us that he "knew we were serious about history" because we signed up for the 2:00 tour and because the "4:30 (last) tour group is just a bunch of shoppers."  Tour guides with a good sense of humor are always a plus.

Signing of the Constitution

First we were shown the Supreme Court Room and told how King George III's coat of arms had been ripped off the wall at the outset of war and later replaced by the Pennsylvania coat of arms.  While there, I met a lovely couple from Brighton, England who were visiting friends in the city.  After chatting a bit, I couldn't help asking them if it was weird hearing and seeing about their history from the other side.  They agreed it was rather surreal; I imagine it would be.

The Supreme Court Room

Next, we went across the hall to the Assembly Room, where both the Declaration of Independence and the US Constitution were signed and ratified.  In front was a table on which sat the silver inkwell used to sign both documents; on another table was an original copy of Thomas Paine's Common Sense.  On the one hand, you could feel the weight of history in the room; on the other, it still secretly felt like you were in part of a movie set as though the surroundings were not entirely real.  We were shown out the back of the building past stairs leading up to the other rooms and offices we were not permitted to see, including the bell/clock tower which once housed the Liberty Bell.  The tour took all of around 15-20 minutes; the Hall was much smaller than I expected, as so many Colonial buildings are.

The Assembly Room

When I left Independence Hall and went to get in line for the Liberty Bell, I saw a large group of people across the mall, one of whom was playing guitar and singing over a loudspeaker, "Raise our wages to 15, to 15...we cannot survive on 7.25, raise our wages to 15!"  Overhearing a political demonstration on the day one visits the American birthplace of political demonstrations seems rather apropos, don't you think?

Philadelphia Protestors

The line to see the Liberty Bell took longer than the entire tour of Independence Hall, which still wasn't all that bad as lines go, though that didn't stop a teen behind me from complaining to his mother about the long line and how it was "just a bell" and how he didn't see what the "big deal" was.  I couldn't resist turning to him and asking, "So you're saying the bell is not all it's cracked up to be?"  His mom sniggered and told him "she got you!"  Even the boy had to smirk sheepishly.  Mission accomplished.

One queue, two queue, red queue, blue queue...

Eventually I got through the line and saw the official Liberty Bell; again, I was both intrigued and not entirely convinced it was real.  When you go to places in Europe, you can feel the age and sense of history imbued in places and things; it surrounds you like an aura and is almost absorbed into your very skin.  That's not always true here.  Perhaps it's because we are so young yet as a country, or perhaps it's because we live and breathe sky-rises and iPhones and All-You-Can-Eat platters and so somehow have lost the sense of gravitas and awe we should still have for our own history.  I don't know.  But seeing a giant bell, however famous, cordoned off with little more than a seatbelt takes away some of that due reverence and makes it look a little more like a paper-maché movie prop than it probably should.  Don't get me wrong--it was still cool, just not perhaps in the way I expected.  Those pesky expectations...so hard to manage against reality.

Your crack is showing.

After seeing the Liberty Bell, I realized I had just enough time to hop on one of the buses and do the last full tour of the city before they shut down for the day, so rather than waste my ticket I blew off the Constitution Center and headed toward the buses.  The bus tour turned out to be perhaps my favorite part of the day because it enabled me to see more of the city than I would otherwise have been able and because the guide told us all sorts of stories that made the city come alive.  One of my favorites was about the "Busybody," yet another creation of Benjamin Franklin's.  As we drove through Society Hill, the guide pointed out several odd contraptions on the sides of the old row houses which she called "busybodies."  Though they looked a little like weird antennae, they are actually a set of mirrors constructed to face towards a window so that when someone downstairs was knocking on the door, you could look at the busybody like a periscope and have it reflect who was at the door to your upstairs window.  That way, you could tell if it was the tax man or your mother-in-law or whomever, and so knew when to avoid answering the door.  Leave it to Franklin to invent the world's first peephole to get out of paying taxes.

The world's only useful busybody.

We drove past the Chinese Friendship Gate in Chinatown, the "Rocky Steps" at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the Love sculpture in Love Park, Elfreth's Alley (the country's oldest residential street), a statue of Joan of Arc nicknamed "Joanie on the Pony" (which still makes me giggle), sculptures of a giant clothespin and a three-way plug, and a street lined with international flags representing growing populations from those countries in the city, plus many other things.  It was a great way to see a lot of the city fairly quickly, and I learned many interesting things in my 90-minute tour.

Elfreth's Alley

"Joanie on the Pony"

The "Rocky" steps in front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Robert Indiana's famous LOVE sculpture.

When the tour ended I walked back to the hotel for a quick shower and tidy up before we went out to dinner with one of Drexel's professors and his wife. Constantine and his wife Amelie proved to be a very charming Greek couple who regaled us with stories about her work in Morocco, how nobody's moussaka is as good as Mama's, and of life in Philadelphia.  The Unit smirked at my animated discussion with Constantine over whether or not the Blues should have lyrics or just be instrumental (he was for solely instrumental; I posited that part of what makes music the Blues is the oral tradition from which it originates...so yes, vocals).  We spent a lively and highly enjoyable three hours with them before they walked us back to our hotel.

Estia Greek Restaurant

Upon arriving at our room, I discovered that during our absence someone had come in to perform a "turn down" service.  Rather than just leaving chocolates and turning down the bedding, however, our curtains had also been drawn, my towel had been straightened out on the shower door to dry better, and clothes/items I had strewn on the bed in my pre-dinner rush to get ready had been relocated to a chair, presumably so as not to detract from the whole turn-down effect.  Meanwhile, the hangers from the Unit's suit were missing completely.  I find it a bit disconcerting that such a swish hotel would take anyone's belongings, even something so mundane as hangers, and dispose of them entirely.  If I'm honest, that made me twitch a bit; the thoroughness of our turn-down service bordered on the creepy. Then again, we also found out at dinner that University guests are normally housed in a nearby Sheraton, but it happened to be booked for our trip...hence the Ritz.  Is slightly creepy okay if opulence is involved?  Hmmmm...

Saturday morning we packed up and checked out.  While waiting for the private car the University had arranged to take us to the airport, we saw a parade of some sort going down the street in front of our hotel.  One of the staff said it was an Indian wedding, but we missed most of the parade except for some guy dressed in bright and festive clothing and riding a horse around the corner.  Clearly it's all go at the Ritz.  We had a quick drive back to the airport with a very nice and chatty driver named Wayne, then an uneventful flight home.

I have to say, I really enjoyed visiting the city.  No matter what ultimately happens on the job front, at least I got to do the touristy thing and see historical sites I'd probably never bother with as a resident, because you tend to figure they're always there, so there's no rush to visit.  That's what happened when we lived in Memphis, anyway.  I lived there around 20 years and never once saw Graceland or the Lorraine Motel.  History is always there, regardless...and Philadelphia is a vibrant city alive with arts and culture and festivals galore.

Fingers crossed.