English Lesson #11: The french (lower case 'F')

Ah, Paris. What can I say about Paris that I haven’t already said…that’s suitable to print? Veteran Road Scholar fans will remember, but let’s take a quick look at what I did say about Paris back in 2003:

When you enter France, all bets on communication are off. Signage is poor, the language is pure, and the French just don’t seem to be very warm and fuzzy to tourists.

Yup, that’s about it. I probably would not have chosen Paris as one of my weekend destinations if left to my own devices, but the girls just had to see the Eiffel Tower. Whatever. So for their second and final weekend in Europe, it was off to Paris. I will admit that I had a bit of a bad attitude about Paris from the beginning, so much so that the girls called me on it. “Give it another chance” they pleaded. I decided to do my best. I’ve always wanted to experience the Chunnel and I never did get to visit the Louvre, at least not during operating hours. Having read the DaVinci Code and seen the movie, I was even more interested in visiting the famous museum.

On this go around, the girls consolidated their luggage a little, proving they are educable. By now all four of us thought we were old hands at navigating the British rail system, but when we arrived at Portchester station, the education continued. On all my previous visits to this station I was traveling on a weekend and the only source of tickets was the automated ticket machine. This time was no different in my mind and I went straight for it. Before you could say Bob’s your uncle I swiped my card and had ticket in hand. At the same time, Kristin wandered into an open door and discovered there was a ticket office—and there was someone sitting in it. It turns out this was Friday, and the office is open during the week. I joined her at the window. Here’s the conversation that took place:

Man: “Where are you going?”

Kristin: “Seanie where are we going?”

Me: “Waterloo”

Man: “How many are you?”

Kristin: “Four”

Me: “I already have a ticket.”

Man: “Where did you get it?”

Me: “At the machine.”

The man scowled and began shaking his head.

Man (raising his voice just a little): “Those machines are out there to make money for the railroad. Always come inside to the window to get a ticket. You get a discount when traveling in groups of four or more.”

Me (silently): “I want my mommy”

Man: “How did you pay for the ticket?”

Me: “Credit card.”

Again with the head shaking. By now I feared any more questions. The topic of this conversation seemed to be ‘things to say to piss off the train ticket man’. Still shaking his head and rolling his eyes he punched a bunch of buttons and asked me for my ticket.

Man: (handing me a receipt) “This has been refunded to your card.”

Krissy: “Thank you so much.”

Man: “You’re going to London?”

Me: “Paris.”

Man: “So you’re coming back then?”

Me: “On Monday.”

At this point I fully expected a spanking. The man was actually chuckling a little to himself—and of course still shaking his head and mumbling. He punched a bunch of keys on his computer, took my card one more time, and presto, four round trip tickets to London. I can’t really complain about the experience, the guy saved us like $100. I’m sure he’s still telling his friends about the ham shanks he helped that day.

Once in Waterloo we boarded the Eurostar for the two hour ride to Paris. We could have flown to Paris for about the same price, but then there’s the issue of getting to the airport, parking the car, etc. Besides the logistics, I’ve wanted to take the Chunnel ever since it was built over ten year sago. The experience was actually a bit anticlimactic.

The Eurostar trains are like the TGV, they have that sleek bullet nose look and they’re really long. They also haul ass, cruising at about 150 MPH. You don’t think much about traveling that fast until you’re actually doing it. First of all, how often do you actually travel over 100 mph on the ground (unless Chris is driving)? I actually found it disorienting to look out the window. Things are moving by so fast that I was getting a little queasy. It really messes with your cerebellum when you can't discern what objects are or even where one ends and another begins. I felt like I was part of an M.C. Escher drawing. The train itself was a little run down on the inside. The upholstery looked like it belonged in the 70s and the seating was like being on a low-budget airline, my knees were practically in my chest. One thing is for certain though, it sure beat driving.

As luck would have it, my friend Mark chose the same weekend to visit Paris. This was fortuitous, not just because we had a good time with him in London, but it was also a chance to even out the hormone levels in my little quartet. The five of us took a bus tour of the city and stopped off at places like Notre Dame Cathedral and the Louvre, where I finally saw the Mona Lisa and Mark and I took a really cool DaVinci Code audio tour. I think most would agree the most interesting part of the trip was our trek to the Moulin Rouge.

It was actually the girls’ idea to go to the Moulin Rouge, they had been talking about it since before we left England as something they wanted to do. In fairness I didn’t know too much about it except that it was a cabaret and they made a movie of the same name. It turns out the girls didn’t know too much about it either. The Moulin Rouge is not exactly in central Paris, and based on the map I had, it was going to take a little while on the metro to get there. As we ate dinner Saturday night we discussed the game plan. Knowing how the girls are, I told them I didn’t mind going to the Moulin Rouge, but I didn’t want to go all the way up there and then decide tickets were too expensive and turn right back around. We decided to try and get some more details.

I called my wife in California and asked her to look up the Moulin Rouge on Google, I wanted to know if there was a show that night, what time, and how much. We were in luck, there are two shows on Saturday, one at 9 and one at 11. Tickets were about $100. A little steep, but hell, we can say we’ve ‘been there’. Out of curiosity, I asked if it said what the show was. What I heard was “yada yada yada, featuring topless dancers”. A hundred bucks? That sounds very reasonable. Mark, does that—yes, you think it’s reasonable too? Whoa buddy, sit down, we gotta finish our dinner first big guy! OK then, we think that’s very reasonable.

As you might imagine, the girls decided to pass. I decided to take out the “I never got to have a bachelor party” card I’ve been carrying around in my pocket and threw it down on the table. We paid our bill and Mark and I were off to find the metro. It actually didn’t take as long as I thought it would to get up to the theatre and once we surfaced from the metro it was apparent that the Moulin Rouge was not in the best part of town. There in front of us on the other side of the street, practically smacking us in the face, was the signature windmill and sign in dazzling flashy lights. And on our side of the street, a prostitute. Lovely. We walked across the street to investigate the ticket situation. We couldn’t seem to find a box office but there were tons of 3D movie-style posters advertising the show, if you know what I’m saying. One of the posters had some English wording on it: “Elegant attire required”. I looked at Mark, then glanced at my own duds. We were both wearing jeans, collared shirts, and tennis shoes. “Dude, I don’t think we’re elegant.”

It was only about half nine so we decided to walk to the Irish Pub on the corner, have a pint, then hopefully come back after ten and find someone to talk to about tickets. That turned out to be the most expensive pint of Guinness I think I've ever had. At a quarter after ten we walked out of the pub and now there was a flurry of activity in front of the Moulin Rouge. Limousines were dropping people off at the curb and there was a queue forming down the street. We were fairly confident that our attire alone was going to exclude us from the show, but we decided to look into tickets anyway. There was a man who looked like a bouncer standing off to the side doing nothing. I walked up to him and, in French, asked him if he spoke English. His response to me, in French, was ‘good evening’. What the hell does that mean? It was a yes or no question and he answers with ‘good evening’. I asked him—this time in English—how to get tickets. In the true French way he put his nose in the air (they really do that you know) and pointed another man adjusting a rope barricade. OK, I guess that means we should go talk to him. This guy was a lot friendlier, but unfortunately his response wasn’t any more promising. The show was sold out for the evening. From his tone I gathered that it sells out every evening and that getting tickets requires a bit of foresight. The Moulin Rouge is apparently not a last minute excursion.

So thus ended our trip to the Moulin Rouge, and for me and my posse, our trip to France. The girls and I left the next day. After two hours on the Eurostar, another two hours on the suburban rail, a bus ride due to rail line maintenance, and a cab ride back to the flat, the girls were done traveling. If they weren’t anxious to get home to their boy toys I might not have gotten them on a plane the next day. But I did.

English Lesson #10: Nothing To See Here Folks

$8 ice cream, princeless palaces, festival shootings—by Monday there was only one last thing to do in London: we needed to recreate a photo. We checked out of the Thistle, gave our bags to the concierge, got our Starbucks, and hopped aboard the Tube. I’m sure many of you are familiar with the original photo, and what the it doesn’t show is the fact that it was taken at a busy stretch of roadway. Busy or not, standing in the middle of the street is always dangerous. Further complicating things, although we were off the beaten tourist path, we were not the only ones trying recreate this picture. What the girls didn’t understand is that life doesn’t stop just because crazy ham shanks want a photo.

I tried to explain something about English crosswalks to the girls. When there are crosswalks with flashing yellow globe lights on poles on either side of the street and pedestrians are present, motorists are obligated to yield to the pedestrians. I don’t think anyone was listening because suddenly everything got chaotic. Before I could finish my explanation, the girls had stopped some passing tourists and given them about fifty cameras to take our picture with before jetting across the street to the other side. Once on the other side, I remember a lot of clucking and a lot of confusion as we all stood at the edge of the curb. Per the vehicle code, the passing traffic stopped to let us cross. Not wanting anything else in the photo, the girls motioned for the cars to continue. Already we were gaining popularity with passing motorists because, as a motorist myself, I know how much I love stopping for no good reason. Why would these crazy motorists think we wanted to cross the street anyway?

Once the coast was clear, we began crossing. When I say it was clear, I mean there was no traffic for at least 100 feet in either direction, but there was more traffic coming. So now we’re in the middle of the street with cars approaching the crosswalk on a fairly busy street and the girls shout “STOP”.

WHAT!? You can’t stop! This is a crosswalk not a movie set!

Meanwhile, another tourist began crossing. “Nooo! You’re ruining our picture!” one of my posse shouted. I’ll admit now that she was with my party, but at the time I think I just kept walking and pretended not to know her. When we got to the other side (the chicken had it way easier) I got yelled at. Not by the motorists and not by other tourists, but by my party. When I refused to stop in the middle of the street, I broke formation and crossed the street too quickly, effectively ruining the picture. How silly of me. Variations of this went on for the next half hour. When all was said and done, one of the girls commented, “the Beatles must have had someone stop traffic for them”. I’d say that’s a definite possibility.

English Lesson #9: Pizza...the New Spice of Life

We finished up our first night in London with pizza and wine along the Thames. The next day it was off to Buckingham Palace. With all those perfect date clothes we packed we were going to do our best to meet a prince. Lucky for us August & September are the two months of the year Buckingham Palace opens up the state rooms to the public, Prince William here we come. The palace was only about a five minute walk from our hotel and we planned our arrival to coincide with the changing of the guard. Talk about pomp and circumstance, it took nearly an hour for the band to march in, the soldiers to pace back and forth, and the guard to finally change. In the meantime, there were people everywhere, the pushing and shoving type of people. By the time the guard finally did change I was ready to get the hell out of Dodge.

Like many tourist destinations these days, the tour of Buckingham Palace was self-guided using a pre-recorded audio guide. I enjoyed it, and I think the girls did too. It was pretty neat walking down the same corridors official Royal guests use. I especially enjoyed the ballroom and hearing how the crystal chandeliers are on a pulley system so they can be lowered to ground level once a year and meticulously cleaned. I’m just glad it’s not my job.

Buckingham Palace left us rather hungry—hell I was starving—and we immediately began our search for lunch. After three days in England, the girls were already showing fatigue for English food. I was also learning that, even though they didn’t always say they were hungry, it was best to keep them fed and watered at regular intervals to keep morale high. We walked back towards our hotel and, wanting to avoid a long drawn out decision making process and general crabbiness (myself included), I ducked into the first pub we came to—much like the one we ate at the day before. In fact, it was so much like the one from the day before that the menu was exactly the same. The girls made it clear they did not want the EXACT same food as yesterday. That’s almost a direct quote. We walked half a block back the way we came and settled into a nice little Italian restaurant—where the girls ordered pizza. At least it wasn’t the EXACT same food as the previous day…this time I ordered beer instead of wine.

We had tickets for the presentation of Wicked that evening at the Apollo Theatre, conveniently located across the street from our glorious hotel (as was the bus station, if I didn’t already mention that). After lunch the girls went back to the hotel to rest up and get ready for the evening out. I took the opportunity to do some unencumbered sightseeing and went to Trafalgar Square, the Portrait Museum, and Big Ben. When I got back to the hotel I had just enough time to freshen up and hit the pub for a pint before meeting the girls at the theater.

It turned out to be a lovely evening out at the theater. Wicked is the untold story of the two witches from the Wizard of Oz, Glinda and Elphaba. The story is superb and the performances that evening were spot on, even though I was a bit disappointed with the music. It didn’t have that flowing musical euphoria that has you humming the tunes the next day. There was also no euphoria—or anything else—in the $8 ice cream we bought at intermission. Just the Big Smoke whispering more sweet nothings in my ear.

English Lesson #8: Traveling With A Harem

There are two types of travelers in this world. There are those that go places for the experience of being there, immersed in the culture and one with the surroundings. Then there are those that bring their surroundings and culture with them in a defiant “I am here, make way” approach. I consider myself the latter, which is one of the reasons why I love not just visiting places as a passing tourist, but actually living there or at the very least, seeing a place with a local. My visitors for the past two weekends are more of the former: they arrived triumphantly and, by God, England would hear them roar.

Maybe triumphant isn’t the right word for their arrival. On their nearly twelve hour flight from Los Angeles, my sisters-in-law and their friend (hereafter referred to as ‘the girls’) were without power to their seats: no light, no flight attendant call button, no radio, and, that’s right, no in-flight entertainment. What is it with this family and televisions not working? On top of that, they didn’t sleep on the plane, although all three insisted they were not affected by any kind of jet lag. At one point during the first couple of days I remember hearing the phrase “we’re not jet-lagged, it’s just that our feet are tired”. Who knew a year ago that “until death do us part” really meant “you will deal with three jet-lagged, disgruntled women with lots of suitcases—and they’ll be in denial”.

Our first adventure was to Stonehenge. Actually, our first adventure was to the store to buy a hair dryer that worked on 220 volts, THEN we went to Stonehenge. I essentially repeated my driving excursion from the previous weekend with a visit to Stonehenge for photos then on to Salisbury for dinner at a pub and some aimless wandering through the town. This time I did not have to dine alone and the weather was actually decent. Cheers to the girls for that. It turns out I shouldn’t have blown the pub wad so early. We’ll get to that in a moment. The next day it was off to London, the Big Smoke. This was a day full of lessons.

Before we left, I advised the girls that it might be a good idea to consolidate their luggage as much as possible since whatever they brought would have to be transported downstairs to the taxi, from the taxi to the train, from the train to the tube, and from the tube to the hotel. Citing the possibility of a date with a prince, in their own very polite way they told me to shove it, after all, their suitcases all have wheels. I packed my backpack and called the cab.

The first thing we did after the taxi dropped us off at the train station was climb about two dozen stairs to the platform. Good thing all three of their suitcases have wheels. After we bought our overpriced tickets to London (more on that later), I checked the train schedule and discovered we needed to be on the opposite platform. We climbed another two dozen stairs, crossed over the tracks, then walked down two dozen more. Somewhere around the first step I heard someone say “could there be any more stairs?” The sight of the three girls lugging their heavy suitcases up the stairs was enough to move me. I took out my video camera to capture the moment. I’m surely their favorite brother-in-law now.

On the train we had our first lesson in “blending in” and all the students failed miserably. The four of us—and their luggage—were strewn out across several rows of seats. The conversation, somewhat above a whisper, sometimes involved phrases to the effect of “these places are so run down”. I tried to make a quiet speech about keeping a low profile, that we (Americans) are not loved by all the world and we were not currently in America. They weren’t scared, and didn’t care that I was. It was going to be a long week.

Our hotel was conveniently located right in Victoria station where we arrived. That’s about the only good thing I can say about the hotel (a Thistle in case anyone wants to know where NOT to stay). We dined that afternoon at the Shakespeare pub across the street, our second visit to an English pub together. We took the Tube to Covent Garden, a tourist mecca replete with bars, restaurants, street performers, and more than a few shops. We did some window shopping and met up with my coworker Mark who had also journeyed to London for the weekend. The girls wanted to see the famous blue door in Notting Hill from the movie with the same name, so after we rendezvoused with Mark, the five of us took the tube to Notting Hill.

If I didn’t mention it before, this was a holiday weekend, equivalent to our Labor Day holiday in the states, essentially celebrating the end of summer. To commemorate the occasion, Notting Hill throws an annual Summer Bank Holiday festival. The first thing that greeted us as we got off the tube was an army of police officers closing down the station in preparation for the parade—and the millions of people that were beginning the celebration. Days later I found out that going to Notting Hill during festival is like going to the Bronx. I also found out about the shooting that occurred, thankfully the day after our visit. We never did find THE blue door, although we heard from someone that it’s not even blue anymore. Makes me feel kind of silly about all the pictures I took of random blue doors just in case.

We rounded out our evening by walking a million miles to the nearest open tube station and taking the train to the Embankment where we had a lovely stroll along the Thames River before ordering some pizza at an Italian restaurant. Embankment is where the majority of the stereotypical London sights are: Parliament, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and the one I was most looking forward to, the London Eye…which closed just as we arrived. I could feel a slight tingle as the Big Smoke reached out to the Road Scholar in me and whispered “thanks for coming”.

English Lesson #7: Dining Alone

I hate dining alone. Movies I can handle, they’re not really a social experience. If you’ve visited my home in San Antonio you know I much prefer to watch a movie in my own media room with the comfort of my wet bar rather than brave a crowded theater full of sneezing people, thirty minutes of commercials and overpriced food (and pay $15 for the privilege). Even in college I had surround sound and in the dorms my roommate Chris and I pioneered the concept of the BYOC event—that’s Bring Your Own Chair for those of you that didn’t go to college (or attended before we made our mark). So with the cinema I have no problem, but I do hate dining alone.

Unless you are a food critic or married to someone who doesn’t cook, dining out is supposed to be a treat, a social event. When you dine alone you are reduced to either people watching or talking to yourself, and both of those can make you seem a little creepy in a restaurant. Today I found myself dining alone in a pub in Salisbury after a drive-by of Stonehenge. All that free time sitting at the table by myself got me thinking. How lucky for you all.

The only travel disaster this Road Scholar faced this weekend was the weather. This place is worse than Seattle, I don’t even remember the last time I saw the sun. Even the rainbow I snapped a photo of a couple weeks ago seemed to be an immaculate conception with no sun in sight. It wouldn’t be quite so bad if it actually rained occasionally instead of this pansy-ass misty wet-all-the-time crap—you know, some honest to God manly-man rain. Instead there’s just the annoying mist that floats around you making an umbrella as useless as a chocolate tea pot.

Although Jen is gone, there are a few people at work that are usually good for some sightseeing. Unfortunately they all flew home this weekend to the U.S. Since they are here “unaccompanied” they get home trips every few weeks. Since I’m accompanied I don’t, even though I’m no longer—accompanied that is. What that all boils down to is crappy weather and no traveling companions, which means it was very hard to get motivated to go do anything this weekend but watch reruns of Friends.

Next weekend my sisters-in-law will be in town and we have plans to visit London and Paris. It should be fun, I'm looking forward to the company--and the sightseeing. In the meantime, I'm dining alone and pondering the great mysteries of Britain.

British Television

Could they BE any less entertaining? I mean seriously, I woke up yesterday, popped the television on and the riveting programming that was playing: Big Brother Live. These people are obsessed with Big Brother, you can usually find some form of it airing 24 hours a day. There are many forms, by the way. There’s Big Brother, Big Brother’s Little Brother, Big Brother Diary Room, and who can forget, Big Brother Live. I can, or at least I’d like to. It sounds like a fun concept, and it works for Saturday Night Live. The only problem is live TV Big Brother style takes place about 9AM on Sunday morning and the entire house is asleep. That’s right, this channel was airing a dark room with a single camera angle showing the Big Brother house mates in bed…fully clothed…actually sleeping. That’s exciting television. I never watched the show in the U.S. (is it even still on?) but the British version is boring—even when they’re not all asleep. And maybe this was the intent of the casting director, but all the house mates seem like they’re perpetually high. Either that or they picked the dumbest group of people they could find and put them on TV.

While we’re on the topic of television, here’s a few other things I’ve noted:

- When Big Brother isn’t on, Friends is. The British are crazy about Friends.

- And The Simpsons. I’m not sure what the reception to the movie was in the States, but here it was a big deal. Homer Simpson does endorsements for everything over here. And the Homer Simpson ringtones…forget about it.

- When the Brits are not watching Friends, The Simpson’s, or Big Brother, they’re showing commercials for reducing carbon footprints or wintricity farms.

- Remember Sally Struthers and those “save the poor kids in Zimbabwe” commercials? They showed touching pictures of kids with swollen bellies and flies buzzing about, then asked for a modest donation with pleas like “only fifty cents a day can feed a child in Mozambique”.

I haven’t seen any of those here.

I am however considering a donation to save a donkeys life. It’s a toss-up though between the donkey and the camel. The camel’s first person account of how his master makes him haul goods until he collapses was a tear jerker. Of course, if I save the donkey (or the camel), I won’t be able to afford my carbon offsets.

- How about the game shows? Before you come on down, the UK versions of Deal or No Deal and Who Wants To Be a Millionaire have nothing on their U.S. counterparts. Like Big Brother, they’re BOR-ING.

The Beckhams

I’m not sure what’s more ridiculous, hiring David Beckham to play soccer in Los Angeles or David Beckham thinking that soccer will become an instant success now that he plays in Los Angeles. Over here the Beckham’s think they are a pretty big deal. I haven’t figured out yet whether they’re legends in their own time or in their own minds. I’m sure everyone caught Victoria Beckham’s special on “Coming to America”. I watched it (at the time I only got four channels and it was on three of them). It was actually kind of funny for an absurd parody. It was supposed to be absurd, right? I mean, she doesn’t actually want us to believe her biggest stress in a day is hiring a personal assistant to help her sip drinks by the pool, does she? You know that Victoria Beckham is formerly known as Posh Spice...of the Spice Girls.

Nineties band…had that one song…

Nevermind. Did you hear LA has a soccer team?

English Lesson #6: The Rail Story

After Jen left on her big old jet airliner, I did what any rational person would do—I called my friend in London and told him my weekend had just opened up. I haven’t seen Travis in…quite a few years. We used to work together at El Corral bookstore at Cal Poly. Aside from visiting Travis and wanting to see more of London than just the airport, I was anxious to get a feel for the modes of transportation into the Big Smoke. Jen’s sisters are coming to visit in a couple of weeks and I thought it might be prudent to be familiar with how to actually get to London before they arrive.

Driving within the London city limits is generally considered to be a bad idea, and it was certainly not something I wanted to deal with. Although not the cheapest, the best method for getting to London is the train. The train station nearest me is Portchester, which is almost exactly two miles away—about a thirty minute walk. It took almost exactly 30 minutes to get to the train station Saturday morning, and as I walked up the steps I noticed a train sitting on the tracks. I looked up at the station marquee: London – Waterloo. Waterloo was my destination.

There’s been a bit of a donnybrook here lately over boarding trains without having a ticket. The train companies have come under fire in the media for imposing fines (in addition to the fares) to people who board without tickets, even when they board from stations with no attendants and no working ticket machines. There was no way I was jumping on any train until I was triple sure I had the right ticket for my destination. Unfortunately Portchester is a small station with no attendant and only one ticket machine and there was already a woman using the machine when I arrived at the top of the stairs. The train left. I was not on board. I wasn’t really concerned, I did some homework prior to embarking on this adventure and knew that departures to London were fairly regular and frequent. I bought my ticket a few minutes later without incident, but The Road Scholar in me was thinking “this is not a good start”.

I do love traveling by train. And it’s not just the "woo-woo" sound the horn makes because none of the trains I rode over the weekend honked at all. As rail transportation goes, I thoroughly enjoyed the British experience. Scheduling was spot on, every train departed right on time. Most of the time the conductor would stand on the platform staring at the digital clock on the marquee, waiting literally for the exact second to give the go ahead to the train’s engineer. The trains traveled smoother and were cleaner than any I’ve ever ridden, and they haul ass. The underground is a different story, but we’ll get to that.

I knew I could count on Travis to provide the mental and physical getaway I needed. After four weeks of touring emergency rooms and buying parking lots I was ready for a skinful, and a skinful is what I got. Upon arriving at Travis’ flat I met his friend “The Monsignor” (no religious affiliation) and realized I had some catching up to do—they were already a bottle and a half ahead of me. I’ll spare you all the gritty details, mostly because I don’t remember them. I know there was a pub involved, a girl named Rebecca (who I think is Travis’ next girlfriend), and a guy named Simon who is making a movie in Thailand about ill-tempered mutated rats that turn into beautiful women. I think I might have been invited to the premier in Thailand, but again—gritty details. Somehow we ended up at a French restaurant (not my idea)—Chez Gerard or something to that effect. We ordered our food, including a carafe of wine and an escargot appetizer. I know I was blooded because when Travis complained to us that this was not how escargot is to be prepared, I willingly sampled the offensive bastards to confirm (as if I would know the difference). Sacre bleu, these were NOT the snails we were looking for! Travis sent them back. This was just the tip of the iceberg.

Our meal arrived. I ordered a steak medium well. I couldn’t tell you what Travis and the Monsignor ordered, but I can tell you it was unacceptable, as was my steak. We ended up sending the whole meal back and leaving, but not before my companions lectured the maitre d' and he tore up our bill. Great, now I was drunk, starving, and had French all over me. It gets better.

We walked across the street to the liquor store and got a few supplies, after all, the night was young. Once back at Travis’ flat, we settled in, put on a movie, ordered a pizza, and realized Travis left his phone at Chez Gerard. Oh yeah, it’s that good. Obviously we were in no condition to be traipsing back into enemy territory. The phone would have to wait until morning, much to Rebecca’s dismay I’m sure.

The next morning, Travis and I picked up his phone at Chez Gerard and took what seemed like a thirty mile hike through Hampstead Heath, which is essentially like Central Park on steroids. The place is huge and offers hilltop views of London, lots of trees and foliage, athletic fields, open spaces, ponds, trails, and a ‘women only’ swimming hole. No, I didn’t take any pictures. I forgot the camera back at Travis’ flat.

It was fun having nothing to do, watching the people and reminiscing about all the grief we used to cause Preston at the bookstore. Preston, by the way, is sitting at his desk right now at El Corral reading this—or more accurately skimming this for the small words or his name—and he just laughed out loud. Presto, go take a tea break, right now, in honor of us. Just get up, tell the guys behind the counter “boys, personal time” and walk out. Job done.

Alas it was time to go. Now you’re thinking, wait, we haven’t heard what Sean thought of the infamous London Underground. What about the tube!? I’m glad you asked, let me tell you where you can shove the tube. Maybe my expectations were set too high. Not once did I hear the famed female voice tell me to mind the gap (although I did see it painted on the ground at one station), not that there really was much of a gap to mind. As a means of transportation, the Tube does get you where you need to go. That’s really about all I can say for it. As a result of my travels, I do consider myself to be somewhat of a mass transit connoisseur. The tube, while it’s not dingy, does not boast the cleanest trains or stations I’ve ever seen. It’s easy to navigate but it’s pricey and it uses a zone system. I hate zone systems. That assessment was made even before I started my journey from Hampstead back to Portsmouth.

I had no problem buying my ticket and getting to the right track, although once again I arrived to find the train I needed was now departing. No problem though, according to the marquee, another train would be along in two minutes. Two minutes became four minutes. Then, an announcement: the only words I heard from the booming voice were “communication failure”, “northern line”, and “evacuate”.

Just my luck, the entire Northern line was now shut down indefinitely. I got a refund on my ticket, made a quick call to Travis, and began a two mile walk to the Jubilee line to catch a ride back to Waterloo station. I never did find out the details surrounding the “communication failure”, but it’s no matter, the nail has already been pounded into the coffin. Final verdict: British trains—randy; London Underground—I’ve had better.

English Lesson #5: The English Patient

So it turns out that Jen just missed the dog. All the nausea, sickness, misery—she missed the dog.

OK, maybe it was a little more than that.

The roundabouts were making her dizzy. She felt that staying here any longer would get her nowhere. It would be like going in circles, as it were.

It also might have had something to do with the lack of ice. It wasn’t just the hospitals, getting ice in restaurants and hotels was equally as challenging, and when you did manage to get something “ice cold”, it contained exactly three cubes. Every time, exactly three. It was uncanny.

In fairness, there was also the street signage. There is none. I think she was tired of not knowing where she was.

Maybe it was the police. You know they STILL don’t carry guns? I saw a female officer at Tesco, the local supermarket, who was built like Calista Flockhart and walked like a Barbie doll in her Kevlar vest and utility belt. If she responded to my call for distress, I would not be at ease. I think Jen just didn’t feel safe.

Although, that couldn’t have been it either, it’s hard not to feel safe with all the cameras in this country. Of course, if you’re not into that Big Brother thing— I read an article that said the average British citizen is captured on camera over a hundred times a day. They can electronically track a car traveling through the country using special computer software that automatically reads license plate numbers from traffic cameras (but they can’t make ice, go figure). I guess maybe Jen was tired of smiling for the camera.

Of course, watching people smiling on camera isn’t bad. Who doesn’t like television? I bet the people that only get five channels and have to pay an annual license fee of $300 to watch them probably don’t.

Wait, I’ve got it. I figured it out. For those of you that aren’t aware, Jen is somewhat obsessive compulsive when it comes to laundry. If she doesn’t do a load every day she just doesn’t feel the day is complete. At home I popped for the fancy front-load model washer because I knew I’d save more money in water over the long run. It must be the laundry machines here, they’re super tiny, located in the kitchen, and double as dryers. As if that weren’t bad enough, they don’t even work that well. Even with only a couple items it takes hours to wash and dry. I think clotheslines were probably invented here.

Despite all those lovely reasons to love this country, it was most likely the two nights she spent this week in the hospital that sent her packing. After the ultrasound last week, she did OK for a few days, not great, but OK. As the weekend approached things began deteriorating. We actually made it out to see a sight on Saturday, Arundel Castle (it came highly recommended from our newfound hospital friends). We hoped it would be the bout of fresh air and distraction that Jen needed to turn this thing around.

Outside, the castle’s edifice is very impressive looking. It’s not much aesthetically, but it is massive. The castle was originally built in the 11^th century, although was renovated about 100 years ago to look the way it does today. It continues to be the primary seat for the Duke of Norfolk and his family.

We made it through the main castle and were about to visit the Keep when Jen began to nose dive. It was time to leave. We high-tailed it back to the flat but the black spin had already begun. By Monday morning she was throwing up every fifteen minutes and actually asked to be taken back to the hospital. That’s never good.

This time her condition was much worse. They ran fluids through her all day long and she still wasn’t responding. When Tuesday morning rolled around she was finally starting to feel better but the doctor (who I swear was only 15) was already planning to keep her another day. Jen, missing the dog and tired of roundabouts, no ice, poor signage, wimpy police, excessive cameras and crappy laundry, asked me to book her on the next flight home. Thursday morning she left for the land of big washing machines, which means I will no longer be making payments on the parking lot I put a down-payment on, conveniently located across the street from the hospital. I’ll never understand why in what is invariably a time of pain and suffering hospitals feel that it’s appropriate to stick it to you one more time by charging you to park.

I know what you all are thinking. You want to know if the whole parking lot thing is turning out to be a good investment. Well let me tell you, it worked out so well at the hospitals, I decide to branch out and dabble a little in airports. Although I’ve been to Heathrow airport twice now, Thursday morning was my first time actually driving through the airport terminals. I thought I remembered being one of the first stops on the rental car shuttle last time, so as we approached terminal one I turned into the first parking lot I saw. I took the ticket, drove through the gate arm, and had no problem finding a parking space. It was too good to be true.

It might be worth mentioning at this point that Jen didn’t quite make it all the way to the airport “without incident”. Thankfully we snagged a few disposable sick containers from the hospital on our last visit. With that in mind, finding a parking spot was easy. Finding a trash can proved to be a challenge. There were no trash cans to be seen on the level we were on, but there were restrooms one level below. We rode the lift down and disposed of our waste. We also discovered that United flies out of terminal three. Great. Finding the pay station for my parking fee was harder than finding the restroom. The sign said it was on level two but I couldn’t find it. Did I mention the poor state of signage in this country? Growing increasingly frustrated, I asked someone who was heading back to their car where the pay station was located. The damn thing was inside the terminal. This was insult to injury. I now had to walk 50 yards across the pedestrian bridge to pay $5 to park in a parking lot I didn’t even want to be in.

It was an excruciating (and expensive) experience, but I finally got to the right terminal. Jen checked in for her flight just fine and arrived safely Thursday afternoon in sunny California and will spend the next two months with her parents—and the dog.

English Lesson #4 (Continued): It Has To Get Worse Before It Can Get Better

"Worse!? How could they get any worse?! Take a look around you Ellen, we’re at the threshold of hell!” -Clark W. Griswold (Chevy Chase), National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation

The news of the pregnancy had us pretty concerned at first. The fact we were having a baby had us pretty excited but the fact we would be out of the country for the first trimester did not. Our doctor, who conveniently lives across the street, assured us that women have been having babies since long before there were doctors. Just to be on the safe side, after we’d been in the UK about a week and had a chance to settle in, we found a general practitioner—a GP as they call them—and made an appointment. The earliest she could see us was a week and a half out, which put us to Friday, the 27^th of July. We already had that appointment when we went to the ER on Tuesday, the 24^th. From our perspective at the time of the emergency room fiasco, that would be just perfect. We had a three day supply of cyclozine, so if it was working, we’d need a refill right about the time we went to see the doctor. Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

By the time Friday rolled around and we got in to see the doctor, Jen was back in a black spin. She was throwing up every thirty minutes and was once again dehydrated and malnourished. The appointment with the doctor—or consultant as she was called—was scheduled for 10 minutes. Since we were being seen as a “private patient”, the charge was 30 pounds. I wish I made $360 an hour. Ten minutes was about how long it took for her to test Jen’s urine and send us off to the hospital. This time it was St. Mary’s where there was no “accident & emergency” department, but there was a gynecology ward. This time they admitted her.

We arrived at St. Mary’s at roughly 6PM. It was almost ten by the time they got Jen started on a drip and moved into a bed. I went back to the flat for a nap and returned about half eight (or eight thirty for those of you in America). The doctor’s started their rounds at 8:30, but on this morning they started at the other end of the wing. It was half ten by the time they got to Jen. This time the doctor looked about 15. According to Jen he was totally cute and would have been perfect for her sisters (obviously she was feeling a little better). Too bad they aren’t coming out for a few more weeks.

He switched Jen to a drug called Maxolon and set us up for an ultrasound on Monday morning—to rule out the possibility of twins. Then he told her she’d have to stay in the hospital as long as it took to get her hydrated and eating. That was a popular decision with the patient. To ease her suffering, I went to go find her some ice, something that so far in this country has proven challenging.

I went through this exercise at Queen Alexandra to no avail. This time we were in an obstetrics and gynecology wing. What better place to find ice than a bunch of rooms where pregnant women hang out. I went to the nurse’s station and asked her if they had any ice. She looked at me as if she’d never heard of ice before. I was about to explain how it’s that cold, hard, slippery stuff you get when you freeze water when suddenly the light bulb went on and I could see now she understood my request.

No, they didn’t have any.

Is there a cafeteria in the hospital? Again with the deer in the headlights.

I decided to find out for myself. I went downstairs to the main reception desk and asked if there was a cafeteria in the hospital. So far my exposure to the hospital was limited to the parking lot, the main foyer, and the single flight of stairs that took you from the foyer to the gyn ward. I guess I was under the impression that was more or less all there was to the place. Hell, they didn’t even have an ice machine, how big could it be? How big indeed.

To get to the cafeteria I was to walk past the reception desk to the end of the hallway (which I could easily see was about 50 feet in front of me), turn right and the cafeteria would be about halfway down that hallway on the right. Talk about going down the rabbit hole. I made the right turn and found myself walking down a hallway that I’m pretty sure eventually led right back to our flat. This hospital was massive. It was about a five minute walk down this hallway to the cafeteria. They didn’t have ice. What the hell do they do in this hospital if someone bumps their damn head?

Jen was released from St. Mary’s Saturday night, which was a relief for me because I’m pretty sure I was a dead man if she had to spend another night there. The previous night she shared a room with three other women, one of whom was an overflow patient from the psych ward. I kid you not, this lady was in her 70s and she was loopy. Several times during the night she got out of her bed and starting poking around. She tried to disconnect one of the women from her I.V.’s. The nursing staff was afraid to make her do anything so when they were able to coax her back to bed she would just be up again in a few minutes. She kept everyone in the room awake most of the night. For those of you keeping score, that’s another mark in the “con” column for socialized medicine.

Monday Jen had an ultrasound. I’m still not sure why it was necessary to wait until Monday, the gal who did the ultrasound didn’t seem any more qualified than the rest of the nursing staff. We’re not complaining though, one of the women rooming with Jen has been waiting for an ultrasound for weeks. She waited for her operation for 18 months. Imagine if she’d bumped her head while in the hospital.

The ultrasound showed everything to be fine. They say there is only one baby in there but—and I admit I took medical school pass/fail—I swear there are two. It’s just as well, I was beginning to worry about having to decide on two names. We’re having enough trouble generating an agreeable list for one.

So where does all that leave us? Besides miserable, it leaves us with a handful of drugs that are moderately effective at subduing Jen’s nausea while we wait for my company to get us an appointment with an honest to God private gynecologist. That’s the good news (at least she isn’t getting dehydrated). The bad news is she still feels like crap all day, which means there won’t be any visits to London (I still can’t wait to ride the Tube), tours of castles, drives to Stonehenge, or hovercraft rides to the Isle of Wight in the foreseeable future, weather permitting or not.

As for the dishwasher…well let’s just say that, man or woman, God must be British, because I certainly don’t get the sense of humor.

English Lesson #4: It Has To Get Worse Before It Can Get Better

“Clark, it’s over...I think it’s best if everyone just goes home, before things get any worse.”
-Ellen Griswold (Beverly D’Angelo), National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation

I know the feeling. Lately I’m a man on the edge myself. Things were looking up with our trek two weekends ago to Portchester castle, but they’ve been going downhill ever since—not just the bunny slope either, this is like the Olympic luge or speed skating. And to top things off, now the dishwasher doesn’t work. I needed that like I needed a bloody hole in my head. At least we already know where the hospitals are. I’m getting ahead of myself though, so let me start at the beginning, there’s a few things I haven’t been telling you.

Sunday, July 8^th, 2007, a seemingly normal post-Fourth of July Sunday afternoon. I was in the garage making sure the sprinklers were all set for our three month hiatus. I was about an hour away from discovering the construction workers at the house next door severed one of my pipes in two places. Naturally this discovery would be made literally hours before I was to depart the country. Jen came out of the house into the garage in tears and blurted out “I’m pregnant”. With one hand still on the timer dial, I turned around, said “no you’re not”, and went back to programming zone four. She squealed out “that went well” between sniffles and headed back into the house. So that’s how this trip really started. I’m still not sure why she was crying.

The certified smart people estimate she was already about four weeks pregnant when I was reprogramming the sprinklers. Amazingly enough, those first four weeks passed without incident, but as soon as she knew she was pregnant chemistry kicked in and she’s been sick as a dog ever since. The weekend we moved into the apartment things kicked up a notch and Jen went from Saturday night until Tuesday morning without keeping anything down. She was dehydrated, hallucinating, and going into shock. By the time we got to the emergency room at Queen Alexandra hospital she was seeing things crawling on the ceiling.

The first doctor to see us couldn’t have been more than twelve. She looked Indian and was very soft spoken. She read through the symptoms on the chart and without even really looking at Jen, she asked us if we knew that “morning sickness” was a part of early pregnancy. Next please. This time we’d like someone who didn’t just read about pregnancy in a book, in fact, someone actually old enough to have a baby would be nice. Enter Ewan: early to mid-forties, good bedside manner, actually looked at Jen and assessed her condition before speaking. Our assessment of socialized medicine was improving.

Because we are visitors to the UK and Jen was not “registered” with a GP here, Ewan was slightly puzzled as to what to do. Additionally, being an ER doctor, he was not too sure which drugs would be safe to give a pregnant woman. He told us he needed to “go for a think”. When he came back he had a plan: cyclozine intravenously for the nausea followed by a bag of fluid for the dehydration and then “you should be feeling a bit more human again”. The nurse came to put in the IV and, in her words, “blew the vein”. Medically we weren’t too sure what that meant, but physically it hurt like hell and our estimation of socialized medicine went back down a few pegs.

The nurse had to use a child’s needle and, having blown the vein in the arm, went for the wrist instead. Unfortunately that meant the bag would take about eight hours to empty, and they wouldn’t let us leave until Jen finished the whole thing and could hold down some food without throwing up. We arrived at the hospital about 4:30AM and, finally, about three in the afternoon, they were ready to discharge us. Jen was never formally admitted to the hospital, just held for observation. One of the nurses gave us a prescription for cyclozine tablets and asked us if we usually pay for prescriptions. I laughed. Since 4:30 in the morning I had nothing to do but sit next to Jen and assign dollar values to all the things they had done to her since we arrived. “I’m sure we’ll have to pay” I told the nurse, a jolly Irishman who had been giving us advice on things to see and do. He gave us directions to the pharmacy and sent us on our way, which prompted Jen to ask “what about the visit”?

The Irishman, completely serious, returned “where are you going?”

God love him, they’re so helpful here.

“No”, I said, “what about the bill for the emergency room treatment”?

“It’s free”, he said, a little confused.

“But we’re not UK citizens”, I shot back, reaching for my wallet.

He explained that it didn’t matter. His hard earned tax dollars paid for not only his health care, but emergency health care for ham shanks like us on holiday. It happens all the time he said.

“Let’s go dear”, I told Jen and we shagged ass out of there, waving good bye. Off to the pharmacy, I’m sure they’ll catch up with us there. Back home even with insurance they stick you at the pharmacy. Six pounds and eighty-six pence, or roughly $13 for a three day supply of cyclozine. It almost cost me more to park the car for 12 hours. Maybe Hillary’s onto something, this socialized medicine thing wasn’t looking half bad.

English Lesson #3: Summer Is A Relative Term

Note: This TRS Update was written Sunday, July 22nd and not immediately posted due to lack of an Internet connection in the flat. While we're on the topic, there's a lack of phone service too.

It figures that we would be in England during the first summer in years that is, as one local described it to me, “absolute shit”. When I first came to Europe during the summer of 2003 to work at the camp in Switzerland, I remember distinctly my uncle laughing at me when I packed my heavy trench coat. When I arrived in Lugano that summer, it was by local accounts one of the more sweltering, steamy summers. I suppose it was God’s way of foreshadowing my move to San Antonio where our summers are nothing if not sweltering and steamy. Last year our Mediterranean cruise was quite similar, although the humidity was not nearly as oppressive as in 2003 and by San Antonio standards it was downright ‘lovely’. I brought this range of summer European experiences with me to England on my first visit just over a month ago and nearly froze my ass off. Coming back, my heavy Newport trench coat was the first item in the suitcase, followed immediately by my $30 umbrella (which I suppose is another story). On Friday, parts of England received more rain in a few minutes than they typically receive in an entire month. Anyone from Texas knows that those kinds of statistics are the makings of flash floods, closed roads, helicopter rescues, and catch-phrases for the media (i.e., “Flood Watch 2007”). Anyone from California knows they are jealous, where it seems just taking a hot shower these days is enough to start a forest fire. I suppose it’s all in the name of global warming, something the folks over here have told me they are looking forward to, especially as we start the “silly season” when the kids are out of school and the work force drops off the face of the earth.

Between jet lag, the weather, and the transient nature of our living arrangement, it has been tough to really do much in the way of sightseeing. Last Saturday the travel gods smiled down upon us briefly and the stormy weather let up just long enough for us to get out of the hotel and do a little exploring. Portchester Castle is one of the closest points of interest and since it is visible from our flat we thought it would be prudent to go check it out. The castle, which is now in ruins, was once a pivotal defensive post for England in the fight against the French during the Hundred Years War. Hearing the story of the castle through our audio guide, it reminded me how little I really know about British history, and I won’t showcase my ignorance by trying to recount for you what we heard, you’ll have to take the tour for yourself or at the very least Google it. After our castle adventure, I took Jen down to Portsmouth Harbor and showed her where the Historic Dockyards are, Spinnaker Tower, and Gunwharf Quays (the giant outdoor mall). I also pointed out the infamous car park that closes at 6PM. We did not park there.

Hopefully over the next couple of weekends we’ll be able to go back and properly tour the area, weather permitting, though this weekend was certainly not permitting. As I mentioned, Friday was a big day for rain, floods, and staying put. Saturday was a big day for us because we finally moved into our flat. That was more or less the weekend highlights. Due to circumstance, the past two weeks have been more a study in cultural immersion than tourism. We are dying to get to London (I can’t wait to ride the Tube), find some more castles, see Stonehenge, visit the Isle of Wight…there is no shortage of things to see and do in England during the summer, weather permitting.