Across The Atlantic

Yesterday I had the sense that the blogging well might be running dry, but then I went over to MadPriest's site, where I found a comment thread on whether the English like Americans or not. As usual the thread had strayed off topic, which seemed to annoy Bill a bit, but, of course, I put in my two cents, and then got an idea for a post. I have joked that MadPriest is my muse, but I'm afraid that, much as I don't like it, it's true. Who will rid me of this meddlesome priest?

In the 1980s, my husband and I took our first trip across the Atlantic. I wanted to go to France first, but friends of ours were in London at the time while the husband of the pair was researching an obscure English poet. We decided to go while they were there thinking they could set us on our way to being good visitors and because it would be nice to know someone there.

We stayed at a small hotel off Sloane Square, which consisted of three Victorian houses, whose walls had been hacked through to make a hotel. It put me in mind of Fawlty Towers, although the proprietors were saner. The hotel would not accept credit cards nor checks. They could not tell us the exact amount we would owe either, because our travelers checks were in US money, whose value with the pound fluctuated every day, so for two weeks, we had to watch our money carefully to be sure that we had enough to pay our bill at the end of the stay, even though we did not know what the bill would be.

I have mentioned I wanted to go to France first, but I fell in love with England, which totally surprised me. I should have known; I had read deeply in classic English novels, which should have prepared me for the love affair. I felt at home. 18th or 19th century London would have been more familiar, but not necessarily better, as the 1980s were good too. I've been back several times and, in my humble opinion, it's been downhill since then - in London, anyway.

We quickly learned to avoid English food, especially hotel food, except for the breakfasts, which they do well - just don't eat the black pudding - and the ploughman's lunches in the pubs, which were usually tasty. We took to the ethnic restaurants, and found excellent food. However, our English professor friend insisted that we have a meal at Samuel Johnson's pub, Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, where we saw his regular table and were served authentic - soi disant - food from his time, which included some awful hot potato salad and some sort of well-forgotten meat dish.

Our hotel was proper in the way that only the English can be proper. One morning, halfway through our stay, while I was taking my bath, my husband decided he needed laundry done, so he filled up the hotel laundry bag with mostly dirty underwear and socks, and a few shirts. After I was dressed, I went down to the lobby to meet him and, to my horror, I found his dirty laundry spread around the lobby. He had not filled out the list that went with the laundry bag, and there he was in the lobby of this proper English hotel counting, sorting, and filling out his list. Underwear, socks, and shirts were on the chairs and even on the check-in counter. I was humiliated, but my husband was not concerned in the least. How on earth did they permit him to do this?

We learned to make our way around on foot and on the Underground as taxis were expensive. One evening we went to a Greek restaurant on the Tube, where we had a lovely meal. The restaurants in London cram the tables-for-two together so closely that you're only about 5 inches away from the next table, and there's no such thing as a private conversation. The wall of the restaurant was a mirror, and I was seated with my back to the mirror. My husband was seated facing the mirror, and he could see a man a couple of tables down looking at us and paying close attention to our conversation, but he didn't mention this to me. As we finished the meal and were paying our bill, the man and his female companion were leaving too. The man turned to us and said that he had heard us say that we were staying near Sloane Square and that they lived near there and would we like a ride to the hotel. I thought this was kind of him, and I wasn't looking forward to the Tube ride, so I said, "Yes, that would be nice."

As we left the restaurant, and were a little distance from the couple, my husband said to me, "Are you crazy? We don't know who these people are. They could be kidnappers. The guy was watching us and listening to our conversation through the whole meal." Now he tells me. I said, "Well, tell them we won't be riding with them." He didn't, and I didn't, and we ended up in their car, and by then I was thinking of being kidnapped and/or robbed too.

All's well that ends well. They were perfectly nice people and delivered us safely to our hotel, but I can't think why the man would want to spend his dining period eavesdropping on the conversations of other diners.

It was an exciting time to be in little England, since there was a war on. They were fighting the ferocious Falkland Islanders. We took the train to Portsmouth, which was the port of embarkation for troops and supplies for the war. We toured the port in a small boat that was used at Dunkirk to rescue British troops during WWII, or so we were told. It did have a brass plaque attesting to that, so I suppose it was true. My husband was amazed that there was so little security at the port. We went wherever we liked. We could have been up to no good. We saw The Victory, Nelson's ship, and the Gypsy Moth, and had a lovely day there.

We were fortunate to be in London during the Queen's official birthday celebration, which included a parade with military marchers in their colorful uniforms, and, back then, the Queen was still riding her horse in the parade. Just before the parade, a light rain began to fall. We asked a woman standing near us if the parade would be cancelled. She said, "Indeed not. We would be very upset if the parade were to be cancelled." In a short, time here comes the Queen on her horse in the drizzle, riding side-saddle in her plaids. Aside from seeing the Queen up close, I was amazed to see a military band on horseback playing their instruments. The English people around us made way for us to get up front to have a good view of the parade once they heard our American accents. Now, that was a kind gesture, wasn't it?

We had planned to travel to other areas of England, but we found that there was so much to do in London, the museums, the old churches, the plays, and much more, that we ended up sleeping in London every night, although we took lovely day trips out from London several times. One of the best was a trip to Oxford. To see that ancient seat of learning was, to me, awesome, indeed.

That's enough of the play-by-play of my first trip across the ocean. We did learn one lesson that was not soon forgotten. We had carried six bags between the two of - yes six. We were insane. It was not too bad until we arrived at Victoria Station and found that we had to go down some stairs to get to the ground floor. I believe there was an escalator, but it was not working. We had to carry down what we could and leave the rest - which you could not do today, because of safety concerns. Then I stayed downstairs with the luggage while my poor husband went up and down to get the rest.

I've been fortunate to be able to travel in Europe a number of times since then, but that first trip to England was the best, and I'll never forget it.