Alright, so, I promised a blog post. This is a rather daunting, I hope you understand. (That might be why I’ve put it off!) There are simply too many things I could say, and too many ways in which I could say them. In any case, I’m going to make an attempt, and hopefully you won’t mind reading it too much.
Monday morning, I woke up extra early without any outside prompting (meaning, I woke up earlier than my alarm clock did), just like a five year old on Christmas morning. I arrived at the train station a little early just in case I ran into any trouble picking up the pre-booked tickets, and I discovered that certain lines were not running normally because the workers who had been on strike over the weekend evidently weren’t tired of striking yet. (I’m telling you, they make it a hobby here.) Fortunately, there wouldn’t be any problem getting to Paris or taking the Eurostar to London. Kendra and I climbed on board and settled in, even though I was still super-nervous about making our connection in Paris. The Eurostar was leaving from a station on the opposite side of Paris from the train station where we would be arriving, so we would have about an hour to make the connection - and our train was already running 15 minutes behind schedule. Not good for someone with my personality. :P When we arrived in Paris, we rushed through the terminal, got stuck in a long line waiting to buy Metro tickets, rushed to the Metro line, rode the Metro for at least 10 minutes, and then arrived in the right station, only to be required to go through a series of check-ins: ticket check-in, French passport check, British passport check (with an extra paper to fill out for non-EU citizens), and a luggage security checkpoint.
Here I have to pause and say that it’s odd how certain border officials can make me feel like I should be deported to Gitmo, even when I haven’t done a thing wrong.
“Are you travelling alone?”
“Well, with my friend over there.”
“Then no, you’re not.”
“Oh, uh...right. No.” (I feel stupid now.)
“Where are you from?”
“The United States.”
“Mmhmm. Where are you staying in the UK?”
“Uhhh, Palmer’s Lodge.”
“Well, do you have the address?”
“Uhhhhh (fumbling for papers) -- 40 College Crescent?”
“And when did you arrive in France?”
“January 17.”
“And when are you leaving?”
“June 17, at least that’s the plan.”
“Uh-huh. Well, what have you been doing there all this time?”
“Studying...at the University, uh, the Catholic University of the West.” (No, I obviously look like I’ve been living on the streets like a hobo selling drugs...)
He gives me another suspicious glance before slamming his stamp down on my passport. None of the questions are difficult, and I have nothing to hide, but they always make me so nervous that I feel like I’m guilty of drug trafficking and arms smuggling by the time they’re done. Ugh. Anyway, by the time all of that was done and we finally found the platform and boarded the train, we had about seven minutes left. Honestly, with all that we had to go through to get on that train, it felt like we should have had less! It was like God slowed down the hands of time so we could make it. (I wouldn’t put it past Him.)
I have to say, taking the Eurostar to London was a good choice for one of two reasons. First of all, it meant that we got to go through the Chunnel. Second of all, halfway through our trip, all of the airports in the British Isles were shut down and all planes grounded because of the volcanic ash cloud produced by the eruptions in Iceland. There are still students stuck in Scotland, England, and the U.S. who haven’t been able to get a flight back after their vacation. Fortunately, we were blessed to not have to deal with that hassle.
At the train station, we remembered that we would need pounds to buy our Underground passes, so we wandered back to the opposite end of the terminal to find the ATMs before we took the Underground for the first time. I still remember changing trains for the first time. Our first stop was the Baker Street station, and the staircases and walls were wood-paneled, like a parlor straight out of a Sherlock Holmes novel. Of course, not all of the stations are like that, but I thought it was a nice touch for Baker Street. I absolutely loved the character of the Underground, with the lovely English woman telling us to “Mind the gap, please,” every time a train arrived or departed, and the recorded voices letting us know that “The good service is operating on all London Underground lines.” I couldn’t help but wonder when some joker would come on the intercom one day to tell us that “The sucky service is operating on all London Underground lines.” Even better was when they told us that “The good service is operating on all existing Underground lines.” What about the imaginary and non-existing lines? :P
Anyway, our hostel in London was probably one of the best hostels I’ve stayed in: charming old English house with plenty of character, beds with privacy curtains, free continental breakfast, TV/reading lounge, free internet access, and helpful and friendly staff (even the one that kept trying to hit on me). It was in a safe part of town, just a short walk from the Underground station and plenty of restaurants, and the clientele were generally nice and trustworthy. The only drawback was the bathroom. Sure, you can only expect so much from shared toilets and showers, and they really weren’t bad, but sharing a bathroom with guys was a bit awkward. No, let me take that back. A *lot* awkward. Imagine standing there brushing your teeth with a man old enough to be your father washing his face at the sink beside you. And then imagine him turning to you to comment on how cold the water is. Not only do you have to mumble through your mouthful of minty foam that yes, indeed, it sure is cold, but you have to mumble this friendly banter to a complete stranger of the opposite sex. In your bathroom. Of course, the showers and toilets were equipped with locks, but it was still quite an experience.
The first night, we decided to try out a nearby Indian restaurant, since we’d been told that Indian food in London is really quite good. We discovered that Indian food is in fact one of the most delicious culinary inventions on the planet. Chicken and lamb and spiced sauces and coconut rice and naan bread...mmm. The second night, I think we ate peanut butter sandwiches and leftover fruit, but we had fish and chips at a local pub for lunch. It’s nothing incredibly spectacular, but the fried fish definitely reminded me of home, which made it taste even better. We also tried some Thai food at Jimmy’s Thai, and my green chicken curry was delicious, if a little on the spicy side. Before going to the theatre Friday night, we visited a local diner-type restaurant that had been around for about 50 years - a very good choice, I must say. I ordered more fish and chips to see if there was any difference (I mean, why not?), and we split an apple crumble for dessert. It was like being in the South again. Our last day, we tried out a little café that a Londoner living in the hostel recommended to us, and I really enjoyed sitting out on the patio in the sunshine, savoring my salad with fresh mozzarella cheese and avocado. Needless to say, I’m going to have a brain chock full of new meal ideas when I come home. Everybody get ready! ;) Overall, I would say that the French eat better than the British do. There is a lot more fast food, fried food, and generally food of lower quality in typical restaurants. (Try comparing a French meal of an aperatif, an endive, cucumber, and gouda cheese salad with a dijon vinaigrette, buttery pasta and a spiced chicken dish, French bread, French cheese, and dessert (just take your pick) -- all enjoyed over about three hours -- to a plate of unseasoned fried fish and thick, unsalted fried potatoes with a glob of mushy, puréed green peas, or maybe a plate of sausages and more potatoes. It doesn't quite stack up.) All that to say: the French really are foodies, and that I can appreciate.
That first evening, I think it finally hit us that we were totally free: we had nowhere to be, no one to tell us what to do, and a Metro pass that would take us nearly anywhere we could want to go, whenever we wanted to go there. In London. At first, just walking down the street was fascinating: the accents, the new expressions, the strange road signs, the people driving on the wrong side of the road. I never quite got used to seeing a empty “driver’s seat” or a woman reading a newspaper when she was “supposed” to be driving. And I can’t say I’ve ever seen exit signs that say “Way Out” instead of “Exit” or yield signs that say “Give Way.” Even funnier, I’ve never seen orange juice cartons that say “Extra Juicy Bits” instead of pulp, or chocolate bars like Yorkie that say “Extra Chunks.” :P Believe it or not, I actually had trouble understanding some of the English I heard, especially at first when my brain was trying to make the switch back to English from French. British English is just different enough from American English that I think my brain was trying to decode it as a new language, like French, and it wasn’t making sense! After a while it got easier, and I love their accent, but I was actually really, really happy to come back to France and hear this lovely language in my ears again.
The first thing we did Tuesday morning when we woke up was eat breakfast and head to the Underground to find Big Ben like good little tourists. When we popped up in the middle of London and actually caught our first glimpse of it, we both start giggling -- we just couldn’t believe we were actually there! After taking our cheesy pictures, we just started rounding corners. The Parliament building is HUGE and absolutely magnificent. In my opinion, its architecture rivals that of all the cathedrals I’ve seen. We marvelled at it from all angles before wandering into St. James Park to take a peek at the Thames and the beautiful spring flowers blooming under, yes, the sun -- in London! It didn’t rain all week long, not one bit, and nearly every day was warm and sunny. Perfect springtime weather for a vacation, and in London, no less! What a gift from God.
We also found Trafalgar Square (which I’ve always wanted to see) and climbed up on the lion statues to take pictures. I couldn’t help but think of Aslan, and then of Christ as I curled up next to the giant, warm, solid lion.
By then, lunch sounded like a good idea, so we found a sandwich shop and took our lunches over to another royal park and basked in the sunshine next to the daffodils, watching toddlers giggle and trip their way through the flowers. We also happened across some of the Mounted Royal Cavalry and watched as they stood guard with flocks of tourists around them trying their hardest to be obnoxious. What a rough job. I wonder how those guards feel about being in countless photo albums of complete strangers. I guess it could be kind of flattering. Or then again, maybe it’s just annoying.
Our next stop was Westminster Abbey, where we decided to take the guided tour for just a little extra. There was a French woman at the register who was lost and didn’t really speak English well, so I was able to help her find her way in French. I felt quite useful. :) Kendra and I were the only ones who signed up for the tour, so it was just us and the verger for our own private tour of the Abbey! In the choir, he explained to us how the royal officials were seated when they came to services or meetings. Since it was just the two of us, he let us each take a seat in the chair reserved for the Queen! (I knew there was a reason I’ve practiced that royal wave.) Anyway, there are over 3000 people buried in the Abbey (and probably even more memorial stones), and they are still allowed to bury ashes in it, so you still have a chance of being buried there if you do something special enough that the Dean decides you deserve to be. St. Edward the Confessor is buried in the only complete shrine in all of England in the middle of the Abbey, and some of it’s pretty darn old -- about 800 years old. Henry III, Edward I, Eleanor of Castile, Edward III, Philippa of Hainault, and Richard II and Queen Anne of Bohemia are all buried in their coffins surrounding him, because they thought being close to the saint would get them to heaven faster. Henry V had to one-up everyone, though, by building himself a bigger and better chapel in front of the shrine: one shaped like an H so no one would forget who he was. :P Kings and their egos. Then there was the Lady Chapel of Henry VII, which was even more extravagant, complete with a carved stone ceiling. It only took 16 years to build it. Yeah, no big deal. Elizabeth I and her half-sister, Mary I, are kept nearby in their own chapel, where Mary’s son made sure his mother’s grave looked every bit as regal as Elizabeth’s (even though Mary was the traitor). Gotta love that family pride. Poet’s Corner contains the coffin of Geoffrey Chaucer (yes, he was super short), and Dryden, Tennyson, Robert Browning, Dr. Samuel Johnson, Kipling, Hardy, and Dickens are buried there as well. One of my favorite sights was George Frederick Handel’s grave, and his sculpture which displays a piece of music that you could actually play. Darwin, Livingstone, and Isaac Newton are buried in the nave in Scientists’ Corner. The Unknown Warrior from the Great War was buried close to the front door in 1920, and his grave is always surrounded by red poppies so that no one can walk over it. Even the Queen walks around it when she enters the Abbey. The brass lettering on the black Belgian marble gravestone was made from melted ammunition found on the battlefield. One of the other amazing, and less sobering, sights in the Abbey was the Coronation Chair. It is the original chair ordered by Edward I in 1296 to house the Stone of Scone captured from Scotland (and not given back until the 1990s), and it is the chair on which all but two of England’s monarch’s have been crowned. Yep, it was just right there. Hard to believe! Anyway, Kendra and I decided to stay for the Evensong service, and our tour guide was kind enough to save us two special seats: the Commissioner’s chairs in the Choir for South Africa and Canada. The service was actually very meaningful; I felt like there was at least some sincere prayer and worship happening.
And now...I must stop, first of all because you probably don’t feel like reading any more, and second of all, because I’m so tired I don’t feel like writing any more. Good reasons, I think. I’ll pick it up again soon, though, just in case you’re interested. :)
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