Close your eyes and think of England('s spas)

The Lush Spa country kitchen.

There were a few factors that tempted me back to the United Kingdom again during this year's trip to Europe, but one of the strongest was English spas.

I'm guessing that when most people think of spas, they think of Moroccan spas, or Turkish baths, or at least an outdoor massage table in some sort of tropical location where gauzy curtains billow in the breeze. But me, I think of English spas. Mostly because of my fantastic Synaesthesia massage there last year, an experience I was eager to repeat.

I didn't want to get the same treatment over again, though (fabulous as it was), since Lush had come out with some new treatments since my last visit. I was especially drawn to "The Good Hour," which is a deeper tissue massage, and is set to sea shanties. Yes, in the strange and fantastic world that is the Lush Spa, they've gotten about as far away from whale songs and Enya as they possibly can and set a massage to sea shanties.

Then the most I started thinking about it, the more I thought I should try TWO treatments. I mean, how often am I in the UK and able to go to the Lush Spa? Not very. And "The Spell" foot treatment seemed to be just the thing for someone with a bum foot. So I booked The Spell for the very beginning of my trip, and The Good Hour for the very end, a nice little set of spa bookends.

I had The Spell the day I landed, which maybe wasn't my best idea ever. My migraine was really throbbing from the lack of sleep, and I was seriously jet-lagged. Before the treatment, I followed my therapist, Sophie, around the shop floor as she picked up all of the items we'd be using. Then we went down to the delightful little country cottage kitchen of the spa, where she gave me an ink pen and paper, to write down something that was worrying me, while she went to prepare the room. I folded up my paper as instructed, and dropped it into a copper kettle, and when Sophia returned, she lit a fireplace match and placed it in the kettle. My "worry" went up in a flash — a bit of theatrics before we went into the treatment room.

The treatment starts with a foot soak and then a scrub, all, of course, with Lush products. Then you get a slathering of Volcano all over your feet. Sophie described Volcano as almost an underdog product for Lush, not the most popular one in the store by far. But I've been using it since it came out and love it — the warming effect feels great on your feet and it really does make them softer. While the Volcano was setting, Sophie did a fantastic head, neck, and shoulders massage with hot stones that had been coated in Dream Time temple balm, so that it not only felt great, it also smelled of relaxing lavender. It didn't exactly get rid of my migraine, but it did help.

Then it was on to the bulk of the treatment, a reflexology foot massage. I've only had one other reflexology foot massage, and this one used a lighter touch (and Pied de Pepper foot lotion). It felt very nice, so nice that combined with the jet lag I found myself fighting to stay awake. The music was certainly a contributing factor — more vocal than that used in Synaesthesia, it's another custom-scored set of English folk centered around a theme of walking.

So even though I was in a sleepy trance for much of it, I really enjoyed The Spell. And with the combo of relaxing spa treatment, a very nice hotel bed, and the jet lag, I slept like the dead that night. Did it warrant the name of The Spell? Well, all I'll say is that my worry did indeed go away.

This post isn't meant to be ALL about the Lush Spa, however, as I did also have an additional spa visit while I was in Bath. The first time I went to Bath, with Eileen and Jeff, we spent some time in Thermae Bath Spa's Cross Bath, which was just the thing after touring the Roman Baths. When I decided I wanted to go back to Bath, I knew I wanted to check out the full Thermae complex.

In the main building, they have two major pools — one on the top of the building with a spectacular view out over Bath, and another slightly larger one on the ground level. Both pools are filled with the same mineral water that the Romans and the Regency gentry bathed in, pleasantly warm and slightly sweet-smelling. There's also a set of four steam rooms, each with a different scent, and a set of bubbling foot baths. I decided to pay for a four-hour session, but wasn't sure if I would end up using all of the time.

Well, I did. Both of the pools were lovely to float in, and they had pool noodles out to make for easier floating. I went in the early evening, and the pools were crowded at first but thinned out as the evening went on. Each pool had water features, like bubbles coming up from the floor, and a high-pressure waterfall that gave a great shoulder massage. My favorite, though, was a lazy river in the ground floor Minerva Bath, made with a series of jets that propelled you and your pool noodle along. I could have done that alone for hours.

I did manage to tear myself away from the lazy river, though, and also alternate among the steam rooms and rooftop pool. It was a bit cold getting out of the water and the steam, particularly on the roof, but that was quickly forgotten as soon as I got into the next warm attraction. It really was a delightful and relaxing way to spend an evening, and I felt fantastically relaxed when I left.

I saved the other end of my Lush Spa bookend, my Good Hour massage, for the day I flew out. I had a late afternoon flight out, which left me just enough time for a 10 a.m. massage (the treatment portions of both of my treatments clocked in at one hour, but I was there about two hours both times).

So the worst thing about The Good Hour is knowing I can't go back immediately and get the treatment again. Synaesthesia might be more of an experience, but The Good Hour really worked. It uses trigger point therapy, which Sophie (again my therapist for this treatment), explained as pressing down on a knot in your muscles and then releasing it so that blood rushes in and it's like restarting your muscle in the same way you'd restart a computer. And it really works. This was the most effective massage I've ever had — my muscles felt like jello when I left.

And there were still some of the signature Lush theatrics. For this one, Sophie dropped a Big Blue bath bomb into water and then poured it over dry ice, creating "sea mist" that rolled across the floor before the treatment began. As for the sea shanties, I can see where they wouldn't be everyone's cup of tea, but I thought they were great, and they really fit with the motion of a deep tissue massage. Speaking of a cup of tea, that was what Sophie had prepared for me when I left the treatment room, complete with an optional splash of rum (which I opted for, because hey, I was on vacation). It was a contrast to the detoxifying post-Spell drink of hot water infused with lemon and ginger slices, but perfectly fitting.

So while Thermae was a wonderfully relaxing way to spend an evening, the three treatments I've had at the Lush Spa are hands-down the most unique, memorable, and surprisingly also the most effective I've ever had. They are delightfully and unabashedly English, from the country cottage decor, to the folk music, to the cup of tea at the end. When you think of spas, you might not think of England, but you should.

Candlelight in the treatment room.

Cluster France

Requisite Eiffel Tower shot.

This will be taking things a bit out of chronological order, but I don't think I can write about my trip for very long without getting this out of the way: I didn't really like France that much.

It's not that the people were rude, which seems to be an unfair stereotype that Americans have about French people. Now, I might have stacked the deck in my favor by at least learning polite phrases and greetings in French (as well as "I don't understand" and "Do you speak English"), which I think people appreciated. But I found everyone I interacted with, whether they spoke English or not, to be quite polite. Polite, but not necessarily nice. There was none of that enthusiastic friendliness of the people in Greece, or even the kindly-under-a-reserved-shell demeanor of people in England, but they certainly weren't rude.

It wasn't that I had a difficult time getting around or communicating, either. Once I got enough change in euros to use in the machines, which were often only coins or cards (and I assumed the card readers were chip-and-pin only), I had no trouble switching the language to English and buying what I needed for the RER (a cross between suburban rail and D.C.'s Metro) and the Metro (subway). In fact, I'd been in Paris about three hours when I was at a ticket machine and the woman at the machine next to me started asking me questions in French. All I could say was "juh nuh com pruhn pah." What I really wanted to say is "I've been here for less than three hours and you speak French, therefore you should be better at this than me." But that was well beyond my French skills.

Paris Metro.

As for communicating, the longer I was there, the more comfortable I felt using my limited French, and I even picked up a few new words and phrases. The waitress at the cafe I ate at switched to flawless English when I asked her if she spoke it, but I think even if she hadn't, we could have muddled through. I do wish I had learned to count to 10 — I could remember a few numbers from the wee little middle school language class they did for us, but not all of them. Still, by holding up a number of fingers and saying the English word if I didn't know the French, I got what I needed across.

I saw some remarkable things there, so it wasn't that it was boring. I already blogged about the creepy but fantastic experience of walking the catacombs. I also saw Versailles, Notre Dame, and the Louvre, did a boat tour on the Seine, and saw an exhibit on the SS France in the maritime museum. And I also drank some fantastic wine (not exactly surprising), ate some brilliant baked goods, and had a piece of goat cheese that might be the best cheese I've ever eaten.

So where did France go wrong for me? Mostly, it was all of the tourists. When I played my favorite France game — tourist, or Parisian? — on the RER or Metro, I generally felt like the ratio was about half and half. Granted, I was visiting in May, but the ratio was not nearly the same when I played tourist, or Londoner? on the Tube. Somehow, London seemed better able to absorb its tourists.

Part of the problem was simply the number of tourists, combined with a healthy share of laissez-faire attitude from anyone working at any sort of tourist attraction. Take Versailles. Having heard that the ticket lines were ridiculous, I ordered my ticket online in advance. You were supposed to be able to print the ticket from a link in the confirmation email they sent. Except there was no link in the confirmation email. I emailed them asking what I was supposed to do, and they said to go to their Internet desk when I got to Versailles and they would print it for me.

So I get to Versailles, and go to the Internet desk, and there is no one there. Fuming, I got into the ticket line, and also on the phone to their Internet tickets number. Fortunately I did the latter, because the woman I talked to on the phone told me just to go to the entrance, and they would print the ticket for me there. Except you don't just go to the entrance at Versailles. You wait, in a line that snakes up and down the giant courtyard several times. After an hour of waiting in line, I got in to the entrance building and handed a man my Internet confirmation, and he did indeed print my ticket. I also saw that the line was pointlessly long — if they had more than two people taking tickets, and more than one x-ray machine for everyone's things, there would be no line.

Line at Versailles.

I waited in a pointless line at the catacombs, as well, this time for more like an hour and a half. There were signs posted that they could only allow 200 people down in the catacombs at one time, so they were letting very small groups in at a time. But simple math says that if it takes 45 minutes to go through the catacombs, and there are 200 people allowed down there at once, they should have put about 400 people through in the time I was waiting. Uh, not even close. And when I finally got down there, I can definitely tell you there were not 200 other people down there with me. I don't even think I saw ten other people. Live people, that is.

It wasn't just the lines, though. Any time you have that many tourists in one place, a certain number of them are going to be idiots, and when you combine that with a lack of enforcement of any sort of rules, you get people taking flash photography all over Versailles and the Louvre. Now, the signs at Versailles were not the most clear about what you could and couldn't take pictures of. But the signs at the Louvre were exceedingly clear, and done with images, so there should have been no language barrier. Yet there were people taking flash photos all over the place, especially of the Mona Lisa, and I never heard anyone tell them to stop. I can't even imagine the amount of damage all of those paintings get over the course of a year. A guard did tell me to put my camera away at the SS France exhibit at the marine museum, and while I really would have liked pictures of the France artifacts, I respected that at least somebody was enforcing something (albeit something terribly sign-posted). They need to transfer that guy to the Louvre.

Mona Lisa paparazzi.

And that was my other issue with France, especially Paris — it seems like a caricature of itself. All of those tourists, dutifully shuffling along with their flashes turned on, crowding in front of the Mona Lisa (a painting that just doesn't really do it for me), looking at a painting because it's the thing to do. The buskers that get on the Metro and RER trains and play "romantic" accordion music. It seems like a city that exists for tourists, a string of cliches and cafes. That might be why the people in Paris are polite, but not necessarily deep down kind. They seemed to have a sort of big city weariness, to be tired of dealing with too many tourists. I live near Washington D.C., and I get that.

Not my video. I feel obligated to give a busker money if I take a picture or video, and I did not want to give any of these guys money. But this gives an idea of what I'm talking about.

But I don't get that sense in London. Sure, it's a city with plenty of cliches, with its Routemaster buses and Big Ben and all that pomp and circumstance. But it's also a city where you see building cranes on the horizon, progress happening amongst the historical sites. It's a city where you can step out of a Tube station and hear three buskers who've taken the trouble to lug out amplifiers and a drum kit covering Cream. It's a diverse city, and a city where normal people take the Tube to work and to the pub after, spilling out into the street with their pints. It's rock and roll and pubs with real ale.

This is my video. Now THIS is busking.

In short, it's still my favorite city in the world. Sorry, Paris, you were no competition.

Some might say that I should go back, and give it more time to grow on me. But on my last morning there, with a late-morning Eurostar train back to London, I still hadn't seen Notre Dame, and I was debating whether to drop my luggage at the train station and squeeze it in. It would have been less stressful just to stay at the train station and stuff my face with croissant and pan au chocolat, but I realized that if I saw Notre Dame, I wouldn't ever feel like there was something I really wanted to see that I'd missed, like I had to go back someday.

So I dropped my stuff in a locker at the Gare du Nord and went to Notre Dame, and now I'm not sure if I'll ever be back to Paris. Not with the lure of London just two and a half hours away.

• All of my Paris pictures
• All of my Versailles pictures

In which I become a total Lush fangirl

Tracking convoys in the Cabinet War Rooms.

A few weeks before my trip, I was browsing the site for Lush, my favorite cosmetics company, when I noticed a link for spas in its navigation. I clicked on it, saw the page, and then emitted a shrill squeak: "LUSH HAS A SPA?!?!"

Turns out Lush has started up a handful of spas attached to some of their UK stores, including one in London. I watched the videos on their signature treatment, the Synaesthesia massage, and their other treatment, the Validation facial (yes, there are two, count 'em two, treatments). The Synaesthesia massage was pretty pricey at 125 pounds, so I thought about it for awhile. A few hours later, I was on the phone to Lush's King Street store in London, booking a massage.

The massage was for late in the afternoon on Friday, the last full day of my trip, so when I woke up Friday, I had some pretty serious mixed feelings. I only had one more full day of my wonderful trip, but I was capping it off with my long-anticipated Lush massage. I think I may need to end more trips in this manner.

In the morning, I headed out to the Cabinet War Rooms, the bunkers used by Winston Churchill and his staff during World War II. They'd been on my radar during my previous two trips to London, but I'd never quite managed to make it there, and I was glad I did this time. The war rooms are preserved in their 1940s state, and you can almost hear the telephones ringing and typewriters clacking away as the Blitz rages on above you.

The Map Room in the Cabinet War Rooms.

For staffers working in the war rooms, though, the living spaces were so uncomfortable that many of them took their chances sleeping at street level. The staff was convinced that one room, used exclusively by Churchill, contained the only flushing toilet in the place. In reality, it had a hot line to Presidents Roosevelt and, later, Truman, at the White House — the first of its kind. All in all, the war rooms are both a slightly unnerving subterranean space and a unique glimpse into a WWII nerve center. I'm glad I visited this time around.

Horse Guards.

I took a bit of a walk after emerging from the dim war rooms, towards the Horse Guards Parade, and, noticing a large crowd, I was lucky enough to slip up and witness the changing of the Horse Guards. I snapped some pictures, but I can't say it's enormously exciting, and it made me glad I've never attempted to brave the crowds and watch the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, no doubt more crowded. I'd planned to walk via Trafalgar Square to St. James's Street to do some shopping, but when I got to St. James's Street, I learned that Good Friday in England is a lot more significant than it is in the US — all of the shops were closed.

Apsley House (unfortunately, no photography inside).

Fortunately, I was near Apsley House, the former home of the Duke of Wellington. The enormous house is on the borders of both Green Park and Hyde Park, too large for a family — even a Duke's family — to maintain in modern times. The family gave the house to the UK in the 20th century, but maintains some apartments there. The portion you can tour is extremely lavish, with its high ceilings and brilliant fabric-covered walls. Much of the Duke's extensive art collection — some won during battle — is on display. The portion you can tour doesn't take a huge amount of time unless you really work over the art on your audioguide (I didn't), but it's a fascinating little sojourn into a different era.

I killed some more time with a yummy, inexpensive lunch at the Belgian basement eatery Belgo, a favorite from my first trip to London, and then, with more time-killing necessary, took the Tube over to the Victoria & Albert Museum, which was fairly close to the Lush shop. By the time I got to the V&A, I only had about half an hour, but I figured I could just poke my head in and see a few things. Wrong. It didn't take me long in that enormous museum to realize that half an hour was just long enough to be completely overwhelmed. I vowed to come back the next morning, and left to walk over to Lush.

Like all Lush shops, you could smell this one long before entering a fairly large, airy store. I headed up to the counter and told them I was there for a spa appointment, still wondering just where the spa even was, standing there waiting as they called the spa and told them I was there. A few minutes later, my therapist, Jennifer, appeared, and led me around to a set of stairs at the back of the store. We descended and came through the door, and it was a bit like we'd emerged in some country cottage, a worn table in the middle of a quaint little kitchen, with teacups and glass jars full of cream-colored massage bars lining the wall beside the sink.

The Lush Spa kitchen.

Jennifer and I sat down at the table and I filled out one of those standard spa if-you-have-a-medical-condition-let-us-know forms. From there on out, things took a huge departure from standard. Jennifer gave me a laminated paper with a series of words and phrases on it — things like "Humour," "Perspective," and "Enlightenment." After two weeks of traveling, Perspective sounded like just the thing, and Jennifer explained that my choice meant that I'd start my treatment lying on my stomach, and it would end with extra massage on my face. Up until this point, I'd been assuming that the Lush Spa's two-treatment menu basically meant that you could have any massage you'd like, as long as it was black (err, Synaesthesia), but this indicated that there's actually some variation built in — just not the normal menu-o-massages type.

Jennifer had me smell the Perspective massage bar to make sure that I liked it, and it smelled like no other Lush product I'd encountered — a mysterious combination of vanilla, citrus, and other things I couldn't place — but I liked it. Then she had me write Perspective down on a small chalkboard, and invited me to write or draw anything else about my treatment I wanted to include. I drew a sun, thinking about the perspective the sun has, looking out over the earth and other planets. Also, I am terrible at drawing, but a sun is within my capabilities.

My chalkboard.

Then Jennifer went in to prepare the treatment room, and invited me to select from an array of colored bottles sitting on a cabinet. They were a variety of sizes, and different jewel tones, but each had hand-lettered labels. There were quite a few bottles, and it took awhile to scan through them before I decided on Curious but Quiet. When we went into the treatment room, it was this bottle that she used to dropper a bit of essential oil into two sconces on the wall. The sconces were filled with dry ice, and began smoking out a scent even more indescribable than the massage bar once the essential oil hit. The rest of the room was dim, and carried on the country cottage theme as much as possible, although the big silver containers on one side, for hot and cold stones, made it look a bit as if a mad scientist had taken up residence in said country cottage.

The cabinet of essential oils.

At the back of the room was a giant shower stocked with Lush products, and Jennifer invited me to take my time getting undressed, and have a shower if I wanted, then to lie down on the table and ring a bell when I was ready. I took a quick shower and rang the bell. Then I had the best massage, ever.

The treatment room.

Synaesthesia is the art/science of crossing the senses, so that, for example, a particular smell makes you think of a color. To really do a massage that lives up to the name Synaesthesia, Lush had to go beyond the obvious sense — touch — and ace some of the other senses. Scent came in the form of the Curious but Quiet essential oil, and Jennifer began the massage by wafting more dry-iced oil beneath my towel. Sound was a combination of birdsong and slightly folky orchestral score, specially recorded by Lush for this massage, the massage motions choreographed to the music. It all came together, perfectly — this was far beyond just a utilitarian working out of knots. And I actually did experience synaesthesia, seeing green, purple, yellow, and light blue at different times during my massage. I also felt myself being mentally transported to different places — the foot of a large tree in a forest, on the banks of a deep-cut, winding stream, and beside the rough-planked side of a country house.

I was still in my own personal wonderland when the massage ended, but thankfully Jennifer invited me to take my time getting up, and to use the Lush products or shower as needed. I was not about to wash off the amazing scent of the massage bar, but I did partake liberally of the dusting powder on the shelf, which meant that I spent the rest of my day slightly greasy but smelling brilliant. I headed out of the treatment room to find Jennifer sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of special Perspective tea for me, and a massage bar and bubble bar in the Perspective scent for me to take home, included in the price of my massage. A lot of spas try to hard-sell you on their products following a treatment, but there was none of that here. Ironically, I was so blissed out and enamored of the experience, I would have bought pretty much anything — the massage bar, the tea, the music, you name it.

My Perspective massage bar. The bubble bar is underneath.

We sat at the table and chatted while I finished my tea, and by chatted, I mean I waxed effusive about how great the Lush Spa was and asked when it was coming to the United States, and she told me they are indeed planning one in New York. We also talked about various Lush products, and she showed me the serum bars they use in the facials, which had come out so well they were starting to sell them in the stores. And once I'd finished up my tea, she led me back upstairs to the serum bars (I bought one, "Saving Face," and it is actually made of magic and rainbows. Seriously.) and other products that were out in the UK but hadn't yet made it to North America. It was an amazing amount of personal attention from a therapist.

I can't wait for the Lush Spa to come to New York. I'll totally take a train three and a half hours for another massage, or to try the intriguing facial — in fact, occasionally I'm seized by the temptation to book another flight to London for some Ship Anson fish and chips and more Lush Spa goodness. The Lush Spa experience is completely different from any other spa I've gone to or read about. It's almost like a concept album for spas. Yes, this just might be the "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" of spas. But it's also not for everyone. If you want a therapist who's going to work on a specific problem spot or deep-crackle your sore bits, this is not the spa for you. But for me, this is now the spa against which I'm going to compare all others.

But the spa was only one of the factors contributing to my dive into total Lush fangirl status. That Saving Face serum was the other — it is hands-down the best facial product I've ever bought, and I've been switching over to a more-Lush, less-chemical skincare regimen that has worked wonders. I'm kind of disgusted at myself for using products with things like Cocamidopropyl Betaine and Polyquaternium-11 in them ON MY FACE for so long. What is that stuff, even?

And yes, I did order the Synaesthesia CD from the UK site, which gave me the lovely relaxing music to listen to whenever I want, and the side benefit of learning that UK orders actually arrive faster than ones from the US site, which are shipped from Vancouver. More Lush goodness, faster! Now where is that New York spa?

Highs and lows in London

Tudor gate at St. Bartholomew the Great.

Not surprisingly, it rained for much of my time in London, and when I went to open my umbrella, I discovered that the high winds in Portsmouth had not just blown it out, they'd pretty much completely killed it. Once my umbrella went in the trash can, it quickly became clear that I wouldn't be able to get by with just my raincoat, but fortunately, on a rainy day in London, you're never far from a place selling umbrellas.

I surveyed the rack outside a tourist shop, scanning the tourist-geared umbrellas with their twee patterns. I did not want a umbrella with a twee pattern. I hate being outside in rain enough as it is; I don't need my umbrella to make some lame attempt to cheer me up. I scanned a bit further, and found a nice black umbrella, wrapped tight in a case. I paid, exited the shop, removed the plastic, and encountered one of the lowest points of my travels, right up there with the food poisoning. When I unwrapped the umbrella, I discovered that it was not, in fact, plain black, but instead boldly emblazoned with "I Y London."

Gaaaaah. It felt like a moment in some sort of London-based sitcom. Except now I was either stuck with this touron umbrella for the rest of my trip, or I would have to buy a new umbrella. I couldn't quite stomach buying a new umbrella when I had a perfectly functional one, but I found myself using it only in the absolute worst rain for the rest of the trip, starting with the Shakespeare and Dickens London walk I went on.

The walk felt long and slow to develop to me, partially because I was not about to bust out old "I Y London" in front of all those other tourists, so I spent much of it trying to burrow deeper into my raincoat, but mostly because the presence of actual old buildings at the beginning of the walk were few and far between. After the easy history of Portsmouth, I wanted to see some semblance of history, not just leave everything to the imagination. Fortunately, the buildings got older as we got near Farringdon tube station, most notably the Tudor gate at St. Bartholomew the Great, a very cool church I wanted to come back and explore later but didn't quite make it to.

Main entrance to the Old Operating Theatre Museum. Yes. Really.

After the chilly walk, I worked my over to Bankside, first heading to the Old Operating Theatre Museum, perhaps the oddest and creepiest museum I've ever been to. You reach it by climbing a ridiculously narrow spiral staircase, sure the whole time that there is no way this is the main entrance. Through a door into a shop that looks like a dollar store has vomited all of its slightly science-related objects along the wall, and it is clear there is indeed no other entrance. Hand the woman at the counter your 5 pounds 80, and walk up a little ramp to a dark, wood-beamed garret, filled with hanging herbs, apothecary's tools, and display cases crammed with all manner of medical obsolescence.

Herb Garret.

In the 18th century, this space was indeed used an apothecary's shop. Beyond it, after you pass a few more display cases detailing important advances in surgery, simple things we take for granted like anesthetic and sterile instruments, is the main attraction, a 19th century operating theatre that lay forgotten in the roof of a church for many years — the cause of the unorthodox entrance. I'm not sure what was creepier, realizing that medical students would crowd into the theatre to watch surgeons perform grisly surgeries without anesthetic, or the fact that such a large space could sit entirely forgotten and undiscovered for so long.

Old Operating Theatre. Yes, the operating table is made of wood.
Got germs?

After the operating theatre, I still wasn't quite done for the day with crawling around in strange places — I had one more ship to check out on the trip, the replica of the Golden Hind, the ship Sir Francis Drake used to circumnavigate the world during Elizabethan times. After HMS Victory, the Golden Hind was shockingly small, and didn't have nearly as much to offer by way of exploration or explanation.

Replica of the Golden Hind.

Still, it was interesting to think of Drake and his men circling the globe in such a tiny ship, though, and downright preposterous on the gun deck, which couldn't have been more than four feet high. I crab-shuffled my way along, wondering how the men could have possibly fought the guns or slept down there without succumbing to claustrophobia.

After the Golden Hind, I went to the nearby Anchor Bankside for an early-dinner pint and steak and ale pie that ranged somewhere between mediocre (filling) and downright bad (crust). It was quite a letdown after the pubs of Portsmouth, but at least it did kill some time before I went over to St. Paul's Cathedral for Evensong. I'd seen a lot of cathedrals during my first two times in England, including St. Paul's, and didn't really feel like yet another cathedral tour. At the same time, I remembered the soaring space of St. Paul's from my first trip and wanted to revisit it in some way, so I decided to attend an Evensong service — open and free to tourists.

It actually ended up being one of the highlights of my trip. The other tourists were restless at first, whispering, letting kids run wild, clomping around in heavy shoes, and even, in one case, wheeling a suitcase across the black-and-white checkerboard floor. But eventually those who decided Evensong wasn't really their scene wandered out, and not long after that the choir got to the featured song, "Lamentations of Jeremiah," by Thomas Tallis. It might sound like I'm exaggerating when I say it was the most singularly beautiful thing I've ever heard, but I can't remember ever being moved to tears by a song before. Certainly, it wasn't just about the music. Sitting there, I felt little in that cavernous space, the gild-detailed detailed ceiling far above and the mammoth chandelier providing much of the light as the gloom outside got even darker into evening, the prayer candles flickering out in front of me, the faint scent of smoke in the air, and that beautiful music all around. I realized there's something to be said for tradition in church, for a little pomp and circumstance, for Tallis in a magnificent church instead of Christian rock in a bland megachurch amphitheater.

Although I'd been dropping my bag in any number of left luggage locations to sightsee more freely, on this Wednesday night, I was completely homeless, due to take the Caledonian Sleeper to Edinburgh later in the evening. Fortunately, though, I wasn't without a relaxing space to retreat to — my first-class ticket on the sleeper train, necessary for a guaranteed private berth, entitled me to use of the Virgin Trains first class lounge at Euston station. This was the first time I'd traveled first class, anywhere, so it was fun to see what the lounge offered: ridiculously inexpensive drinks, mod chairs, a gigantic shower with L'Occitane products, and extra-flaky wireless internet access.

Virgin Trains first class lounge at Euston Station.

When they announced my train was boarding, I headed down, only to find out about the previously blogged Glasgow/Edinburgh switcheroo. I tried not to let it bother me while I was on the train, though — there wasn't really anything I could do about it until we were dumped out in Glasgow the next day. So I headed to the lounge car for a little whisky and a snack. As part of the train disruptions, they didn't have any hot food, so I went for an egg and watercress sandwich, which might be my favorite British food not involving fried cod, and a scotch whisky that one of my fellow lounge car-goers recommended. Interestingly, although as a tourist in Scotland I was always drawn to whisky with complex, authentic-sounding names I couldn't pronounce or get in the U.S., all of the actual Scottish people in the lounge car seemed to be drinking Johnnie Walker Black.

I sipped my whisky and chatted with two people who were originally from Aberdeen. As is, apparently, Annie Lennox. One of them asked me if Annie Lennox had made it "across the pond". I was like, really, Annie Lennox? The Eurythmics? Really? And yet, the British tabloids were filled with mystery celebrities, obviously important there, who had definitely not made it across the pond.

I left the lounge car fairly early —at best, even if I dropped right off to sleep, I'd be lucky to get seven hours. It would be worth it for the extra time I'd gain in Edinburgh (even with the Glasgow detour I still arrived before 9 a.m.), and the cost savings of my sleeper ticket versus a night in a hotel plus a day train. My sleeper compartment was tiny, but novel to me, a narrow bed on one side of the long wall, and a counter on the short wall opposite the door, part of which flipped up to reveal the sink. Unlike Amtrak's roomettes and bedrooms, these compartments are permanently configured for sleeping only. And although it took me awhile to drop off, lying perpendicular to the train's motion, I did get a decent night's sleep.

I can't help but think now, if some of the solution to the old, "the train takes longer," problem could be solved by well-timed sleeper trains. I realize that the Acela from Washington to Boston, at six hours and 45 minutes, isn't an option that's going to beat flying for everyone. But if they could take a normal-speed train, and maybe even slow it down some more, so that you had a nice nightcap at Union Station, walked on to your train, got eight hours of sleep, and woke up in Boston, well, you tell me how that wouldn't beat flying.

London pics are all part of the bigger London set. Caledonian sleeper pics are part of my trains and stations set.

Surprising Portsmouth

Portsmouth's signature Spinnaker Tower, and the masts of HMS Warrior.

When I left Dublin, I was feeling pretty travel-weary, and I was starting to get concerned. This was the first time I'd taken a whole two weeks off for travel. Prior to this trip, my longest vacation had been a 9-day cruise, and there's a big difference between being shuttled around on a cruise ship and an itinerary that totaled out at six airports and 15 train stations in those two weeks. I wasn't really homesick — just cranky, tired of transit and other tourists — but I was starting to wonder if the second week was such a good idea.

London, so well sign-posted.

Getting back in to London, with its easy-to-understand Tube map and plethora of sign posts, helped a lot. I dropped my luggage at mammoth Waterloo station, and headed over to the Tate Britain, one of the museums I still hadn't seen in London. I was there, mostly, for the museum's large collection of J.M.W. Turner's work. Turner's paintings originally interested me because of the subject matter (he painted a lot of naval scenes from the Napoleonic Wars), but that's not what I've come to love best about his work. Turner's work is never quite concrete enough for you to feel like you're there, when you look at a painting. But occasionally, looking at the best of them, you feel instead like your soul was there. It was soothing, shuffling from painting to painting, and it was a great way to recharge.

After retrieving my bag at Waterloo, I took a crowded train out to Portsmouth. I won't go back into my previously documented obsession with sailing warships; suffice to say I'd run out to Portsmouth on a day trip during my last time in London to see HMS Victory, and wanted to go again and have a more leisurely trip. It's not a common destination for American tourists, the sort of place that merits a page or two in a UK guidebook, a place I wasn't entirely sure how I was going to fill my two days and three nights.

As it turned out, Portsmouth surprised me, charmed me, fed me amazingly well, and wiped out any remaining traces of travel weariness in some of my favorite travel days ever. Tourists, especially Americans, were few and far between, and for all the talk of the friendliness of Irish people, it was the people of Portsmouth I found most willing to strike up a conversation, curious about a rare American. It's a city where the past is everywhere, waiting for you to discover — the old fortifications along the water you can wander along and through, the fort built by Henry VIII, the tunnel Admiral Lord Nelson went through en route to HMS Victory before the battle of Trafalgar, the cobblestone streets and warm old pubs. It's still the home of the British fleet, but in places it's easy enough to imagine it as it was when Britannia ruled the waves, drunken sailors and officers in their best uniforms walking the cobblestone streets, the masts of dozens of ships filling the sky.

The beach, and some of the old fortifications.

By the time I got to Portsmouth, I was feeling back up to eating full pub meals, and I'm so glad I recovered in time, because Portsmouth has a ridiculous collection of beautiful historic pubs. Many offered bed and breakfast accommodations, and it was above one of these, The Duke of Buckingham, that I stayed, in a tiny little room. It was in another, The Ship Anson, that I confirmed the best fish and chips ever are to be found in Portsmouth. I'd eaten there for lunch on my previous trip to Portsmouth, and remembered the fish and chips as having been completely mind-blowing. Two years later, and many other plates of fish and chips at many other establishments later, I couldn't help but wonder — The Ship Anson's still stood out, but was I artificially inflating the meal in my mind?

Fish and chips at The Ship Anson.

So I ate there again, and ordered the fish and chips. Unlike other pubs, The Ship Anson is quiet about its fish and chips. There are no signs outside claiming their fish and chips superiority, nothing about them being "famous" in the menu. They're listed there among everything else, and it was by sheer chance that I'd ordered them the first time. My fish and chips came, looking pretty magnificent on the plate. Then I took my first bite, and confirmed that there had been absolutely no artificial inflation — the batter is perfectly crispy, just slightly sweet, and coating a mammoth piece of perfect cod. The chips were as good as chips get, but believe me, this is all about the fish, the fish so gigantic I thought I'd never eat the whole thing, and so good I actually did. I took a picture midway through, to try to capture how good the fish itself was, and a concerned waitress asked me if something was wrong. No, I told her, these were the best fish and chips I'd ever had. She looked totally surprised. Ship Anson, don't be so surprised — you do indeed have the best fish and chips ever. You should toot your own horn a little more. And open an outpost in Silver Spring.

HMS Victory.

Not surprisingly, when I wasn't wandering along the water or consuming fish and chips and hand-pulled cask ale, I was usually at the Portsmouth Historic Dockyard. Much of it I'd already seen (and thoroughly photographed), but that didn't stop me from working my way through HMS Victory at a snail's pace, taking more pictures and video, and breathing in that unique scent of a historic ship, some combination of tar, wood, and maybe a trace of old spiced rum. I've visited both the USS Constitution and HMS Victory, and while I greatly appreciate that Constitution is still kept in floating shape (Victory is permanently dry-docked), I've felt rushed on the ship's tours. Victory, if you visit during busier times, is on a free-flow system, where you can go through the ship — all the way down into the hold — at your own pace. Unfortunately, busier times also meant that the ship was overrun with obnoxious French students, which I didn't quite understand — Victory pretty much represents the downfall of the French empire, and doesn't seem like the greatest choice for a French field trip. But they weren't enough to ruin my enjoyment of the ship and dockyard.

I also saw the D-Day Museum, after a long walk through the heaviest wind I've ever encountered in my life. There were times where I struggled to just to stay standing, and yet, instead of being frustrated, I was grinning, amused by it all, completely refreshed. The D-Day Museum itself felt a little small, but it did give more context on the history of Portsmouth; I realized that many historic buildings that might otherwise have been preserved, and could have fleshed out the Old Portsmouth area, were flattened by bombs during World War II.

Spice Island Inn and Still & West in Old Portsmouth.

There's still more than enough history to go around, though, more than enough brilliant pubs, more than enough museum exhibits to look at and old ships to climb through, more than enough lovely walkways along the water. Part of me wants to trumpet the charms of Portsmouth to anyone willing to listen. Another part of me wants to keep it secret, to never let American tourists know about it, to remain a place I can go back to again in the future, when I once again feel the desire to take a break from all things American. But then, in this age when undiscovered places have been discovered, overrun, and abused, perhaps the simple truth is that Americans aren't interested in going to Portsmouth. They should be, and yet I'm glad they're not.

My Portsmouth city and Historic Dockyard photos and video are in two different sets, because I took a whole lot of pictures.

Okay, so I took a cab this time

Paddington Station in London. More train and station pictures.

Although you wouldn't expect it from this oft-neglected blog, I just got back from two weeks in Ireland and the United Kingdom. Over the course of my last big trip, I turned Channel Six into a travel blog and managed a post most days. This time, I knew my internet access was going to be spotty and, well, I wanted to maximize my precious Europe time and save the posts for back at home. So NOW it's time for some trip blogging.

As the title of this post would indicate, after last year's public-transit-all-the-way New England trip, this time I ended up having to take a cab. Two cabs, actually. On my New England trip, I felt like everything came together perfectly, like I was just executing my travel plans, one leg of the trip after another. I might have been lucky. I mean, I planned an entire trip around Amtrak and didn't have any problems.

This time, things did not go according to plan. A lot.

I should have known when I had an entire middle row to myself on my redeye British Airways flight over. As I stretched out for some true jet-lag-preventing sleep, in retrospect I can see that I was sucking up all of my logistical karma. But I didn't think about such things.

Roman ampitheatre ruins

I landed in London, saw a quick sight (the Roman ampitheatre ruins in the basement of Guildhall Art Gallery), and then headed to St. Pancras train station for a train up to London Luton airport, for my flight to Ireland. I was on the train when they announced that they were at a stand; there'd been a person killed by a train on the route we were supposed to take. I had just read "Waiting on a Train," and I should have known we were screwed. Instead of figuring out an alternate plan, though, I listened to the employees at the station when they said it would be another half hour, another 40 minutes.

I'd given myself a ton of time to get to Luton, but eventually it was starting to run out. A cab from St. Pancras would have been hugely expensive — and might not have made it in time with traffic, since Luton is so far from the city it probably shouldn't have "London" in its name. I asked at the information desk if there was another way to get there. Go over to King's Cross, and take the train to Hitchin, they said, there's a bus that goes from there. And how much longer was the train from St. Pancras going to be? They didn't know, but it could be another couple hours.

Hitchin it was, then. Fortunately King's Cross station is right next to St. Pancras. I should mention at this point that I was wearing an air cast, the result of a mysteriously swollen foot that my podiatrist never quite came up with a diagnosis for. But I still managed to book it over to King's Cross, inquire there about the train to Hitchin, and get on. At this point, I figured I had about a 50/50 chance of making my flight. I sat through about a 45-minute train ride, tense, staring out the window and willing the stops to go by faster, not sure what this mystery bus situation was going to be like when I got there.

But when I got out at Hitchin, there was a cab stand. For once in my travels, I said screw the bus, and asked the first driver in line how much and how far. 24 pounds and 20 minutes. I made my flight to Ireland's Kerry Airport, and in fact took another cab (this one planned) to the house in Killarney my friends and I were renting for the week.

That didn't end up being the only logistical problem I had during the trip. I used London as my transportation base, and I was supposed to take the Caledonian Sleeper train from there to Edinburgh. Except when the train car attendant asked me when I wanted my breakfast, we had a conversation that went a bit like this:

Me: Well, let's see, we get in to Edinburgh at...

Attendant (in heavy Scottish accent): Yuuuur nawt gowin to Edinburrrahhh. Yuuuur gowin ta Glaaasgoow.

Me: !!!!!

Turns out the terrible weather that had hit Edinburgh the in the days before my trip up there had prevented the Edinburgh sleeper train from making it back. So they were putting everyone on the Glasgow train instead. All we had to do was take a train to Edinburgh from Glasgow. From a different train station. With no maps or human guidance.

The fact that I'm back here to write this blog post would indicate that I did manage to get from Glasgow to Edinburgh. I did so using a combination of following people with luggage, using Glasgow's well-placed maps, and The Force. I should note that The Force is pretty strong in me. I use it every time I need to find my way out of Baltimore.

There were other problems, too, aside from occasionally needing to wear the air cast when my foot got bad. There was the sinus infection I started the trip with (the best thing I've ever done to prepare for a trip was ask my doctor for a just-in-case Z pack prescription). There was the two-hour delay on my flight home to BWI airport that pushed me onto a midnight train home (by the time I stepped into my condo I had been up almost 24 hours straight and my eyelids were about ready to stick to my eyeballs, but I had managed to avoid a third cab and the ensuing environmental guilt).

And there was the food poisoning. Yes, food poisoning. A friend and I both came down with it after (we think) some bad fish at a pub on the Dingle peninsula. I ended up missing our group's day trip to Cork, and learning that nothing is worse when it comes up than black pudding. Nothing. After a night of throwing up, and a day of lying in bed feeling miserable, I felt well enough to keep going and seeing things. And after a few days, I was back to gargantuan pub meals, including the best fish and chips in the history of fish and chips. But more on that later.

It might seem like a real downer to make my first post about all of the things that went wrong on this trip. But there was a positive that came out of everything — I learned that it can feel far more empowering when you find your way out of a jam than when you execute a perfect plan. Many of the times things went wrong, I was by myself, and I had to figure out what to do myself, and I did it.

As it turns out, that's a pretty exhilarating feeling. Plus, it's a lot more exciting to use The Force to get to Edinburgh than out of Baltimore.

London Tube train coming in.

Breaking news: London still awesome

Tower Bridge, from our Thames cruise

It's been like 50 years since I posted here, so, uh, first off, I went to London. I know I just went to London in November, 2006, but when some friends here in DC sent out word about a trip, my initial reaction was: "I just went to London. I can't go back so soon." Then I thought about it, for all of about 30 seconds, and I decided: "Oh, I can so go back!"

So I got to take another outstanding trip to London. This time I wanted to catch the one thing I'd wanted to see last time, but had been closed — the London Transport Museum. It was closed for renovations last time, although the gift shop was open in a place in Covent Garden, so I at least wasn't deprived of Mind the Gap merchandise. The museum itself was really cool, and I'm glad I got to go and see the development of the world's first subway, from the early steam locomotives to the development of tube tunneling (and an early tube train). But there were so many out of control kids there, it was like a Lord of the Flies type situation — they were running totally wild — so that sort of took away from it.

I also wanted to see some things that I hadn't really been interested in the last time we went — a side trip to Portsmouth to see, well, everything, but namely the HMS Victory, and to Greenwich for the National Maritime Museum. Not surprisingly, none of the rest of our group had much interest in going to look at old ships, so I went to Portsmouth on the day they all went to the Tower of London, which I'd just seen. I found I felt really comfortable with moving around the UK by myself — the train system is so great and the signage everywhere is so good, it's easy to find your way.

Portsmouth didn't disappoint in the least — the Victory was worth the trip in itself. I have a ton of pictures on Flickr, so I won't go into huge amounts of detail, but I will just say that the Victory, in permanent drydock, was done up much more as a museum (albeit one where you had to duck your head on all of the decks, and that smelled of old wood) than the USS Constitution was. Which makes sense — the Constitution could sail tomorrow, if it needed to. I like that both of these ships, which each have huge historical significance, serve two different roles. But this meant that on the Victory, you got to go down to the Orlop deck and the hold — they really had much of the ship open to explore, and since it was February, they weren't running guided tours, so I got to take my time and see the whole ship at my own pace.

I wasn't quite as impressed by the National Maritime Museum — although it was good in its own right, it paled after the ships and museums of the Historic Dockyard at Portsmouth. We were actually in Greenwich briefly earlier in the trip — on Wednesday, we did a tour to Leeds Castle, Dover, Canterbury, and Greenwich. At Greenwich, we had time only to walk the grounds of the old Royal Naval College a bit, and walk into the Painted Hall, before we took a boat cruise down the Thames back to London. Leeds Castle was impressive, particularly since it was a mix of the period furniture you'd expect, and of 1920s-era French decor. Some of it was a bit over-the-top, but still pretty cool. We stopped at Dover only long enough for photos of the white cliffs, and then on to Canterbury, where I was surprised at the size of the cathedral after others I'd seen (Westminster Abbey, Bath Abbey, Salisbury Cathedral) of similar structure.

But rather than rambling on and on, as I usually do, I thought I'd just post a link to tons and tons of pictures. Take your pick between the whole set of 500-and-some, or the highlights, which are closer to 80:

• All of my England photos
• Just the highlights

And yes, it was cold. Somehow, 45 degrees in London is not the same as 45 degrees here — it's a much damper, bone-chilling cold. Luckily, I took a fleece jacket in addition to my wool pea coat, and the two of them together generally kept me warm enough to be happy. Lots of ale in nice warm pubs also helped.

HMS Victory, oldest commissioned naval ship in the world

Day 8 (November 18)

This day, our last full day here, became catch-up day.

We decided to make another run at English breakfast, and this time we had more luck. We ate at a pub in Covent Garden. I had the vegetarian breakfast, which was like the regular but with carrot and parsnips sausage instead of meat sausage and ham. The rest? Fried eggs, hash browns, a grilled tomato and baked beans. It was quite good. Carrot and parsnips sausage? Surprisingly tasty.

After breakfast, we hopped on the tube to St. Paul's Cathedral. After seeing so many churches all week I was still really glad we found the time for this one. It was spectacular — so much detail everywhere it was impossible to take it all in: the glittering mosaics on the ceiling, the black-and-white checkered floor, the dark, intricate woodworking, the paintings, the gilding, the enormous dome.

We walked around awhile, and then Eileen and I (Jeff had just seen it last year, so he opted to explore the area around the cathedral) hiked up the long, partly spiral staircase to the whispering gallery in the dome. I enjoyed this as much as the cathedral interior. It felt like a hidden space that you weren't really supposed to be in, even though there were plenty of people walking up with us. We were between the outer walls of the church, with a few small windows providing much of the light. In the straightaways, the space was barely wide enough for one person. In one area, we could see the smaller lower ceiling domes from the straight wings of the church. A sign pointed out damage from the Blitz. It's amazing to me that the church stayed standing throughout World War II.

When we finally got to the top, it was higher up than I had expected, and my fear of heights kicked in. The seats and people below looked so tiny from up there. There wasn't a lot of room in the ledge around the dome, either. There was a metal railing all around, and a wooden row of seats. I felt more comfortable sitting, so I did that for awhile. As I was sitting, I could hear people whispering — some near me and some across the dome. They all said something like "if you can hear me, wave your arms." And then sometimes I'd see someone across the dome waving their hands.

We didn't climb any further up, although the view from the top of the dome is supposed to be spectacular. I could see the balcony rail for it and it was really high up, plus we would have had to climb another 300 or so stairs. Uh, pass on that. We made our way down, walked around the main level a bit more, and then went down into the crypt. Unlike Westminster Abbey and the other churches we visited, most people at St. Paul's a buried in the crypt, including Lord Nelson.

One thing that really struck me at St. Paul's, and I suppose I had started to realize it at the previous churches, was the strong connection between religion, war and art in England. There were a number of war memorials, and some of the tombs featured very elaborate sculptures. One I really remember was a wounded soldier being pulled from his horse by another soldier. Coming from the United States, where though sometimes separation of church and state isn't quite what it should be, it's still pretty commonly recognized as being one of the founding principles of the country, it was kind of hard to wrap my head around.

We walked from St. Paul's to the Millennium Bridge. It was a brisk but sunny day, which made for a great walk. Lots of people out, and a street vendor selling roasted nuts (there were a lot of those throughout the trip). We only walked halfway across since we didn't actually need to go across. I took a lot of pictures.

We left the bridge and walked back past St. Paul's to the Tube. We wanted to catch a 2 p.m. London Walks tour of the British Museum. Like Westminster Abbey, we figured a guide to help us hit the highlights would be much better than wandering aimlessly ourselves.

We got to the Tube station where the walk met early and there was a Sainsburys across the street. We went in and wandered amidst the British food. The saddest thing — the giant spread of instant coffee. I seriously think it was more instant coffee than I have seen in the last 10 years. Maybe more than that. I had some very good espresso while I was in London, so I know there's a crop of people who appreciate good coffee. But then there's all that instant coffee...

The tour took us through Bloomsbury on our way to the museum. This is a big literary area in London (Virginia Woolf and others lived there) and it was absolutely lovely. I wouldn't have minded spending more time there.

The museum itself is in this huge neoclassical building, great big pillars. We went inside to its covered courtyard, which is immense and has this beautiful ceiling. That space used to house the British library, but all that's left of it now is the circular reading room in the center. We got to take a peek inside and it was a totally cool space — all those beautiful old books up on the shelves.

We didn't have much time before it was on to Egypt and the Rosetta Stone. There were a lot of people looking at the stone when we first came in, so we looked at some hieroglyphics and statues. I did get a good full look at it before we moved on, though.

We spent a long time in the Greek area, looking at ruins from the Parthenon, both the carved frieze from the building and statues. The carving was amazing.

Before walking to more Egypt, we saw the ruins from one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World — the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus. I have to be honest, I don't have them all memorized and I didn't remember this being one of them, but it was pretty impressive. You could tell how massive the thing must have been, from the ruins.

And then it was on to the mummies. They creeped me out a bit — the idea that these people were buried so ceremoniously and now they're on display in front of millions of people.

That's kind of a theme for the whole musuem, the way it was filled. The English show up at some place of antiquity, say, "You lousy slackers, how can you let your priceless ancient ruins fall into such disrepair!?! We will save them for you!!!" And then the ruins get carted off to the British Museum. And then some period of time later the place the ruins came from decides it wants them back, so there's controversy.

The final exhibit we saw had no such controversy — it was a series of artifacts found in a field with a series of burial mounds, much like the ones we'd seen in the fields around Stonehenge. They determined the artifacts belonged to a king during the Dark Ages, and the richness and intricacy of their work meant that historians had to rethink how backwards things were during the Dark Ages.

That exhibit concluded the tour. The museum is definitely expansive and impressive — we probably could have spent a whole week there.

After we left the museum, we made plans to go on another pub walk in Hampstead, after a trip back to the hotel to pack a bit. We never made it there, though, because they suspended Tube service on the line we were on for a person on the tracks. We were in Camden, so we opted to just find a pub there; I enjoyed walking through the area — it was another place I would have liked to spend more time. We ended up at a bar Eileen had read about in her guidebook — Monkey Chews. We had some very tasty drinks and then walked back to the hotel, where we ordered a pizza from the future, which will make me giggle every time I think about it, ever.

Day 7 (November 17)

We woke late in the morning and walked over to Abbey Road, whcih was reasonably near the hotel. We took pictures of the Beatles' studio and held up traffic walking back and forth across the zebra crossing to attempt to take each others' pictures.

We took the Tube over to the London Eye, where it was fairly clear, so we got tickets. I was a little nervous, as I'm so afraid of heights, but it actually wasn't that bad (okay, I stayed away from the edge). It moved so slowly that there was plenty of time to adjust. The view was outstanding — I took lots of pictures.

After the Eye, we walked across Westminster Brige to a phone booth with Big Ben in the backrground (Eileen's mom had requested she take a picture there to match one she had of her brother). We ended up all taking each others' pictures there. Here's me.

We walked over to Eileen's favorite sandwich shop for a quick bite, then boarded the #3 bus to Oxford Circus — my first double-decker bus ride. The view was great (of course, we went to the top). The driver was pretty wild — I'm sure that was amplified by being so high up. It started raining when we got to Oxford Circus, which put a bit of a damper on walking around and shopping. I could see it was a lovely area, with great (largely high-end) shopping.

We walked from there to Picadilly Circus to get our tickets for Avenue Q. That show was great — really sharp, witty and hilarious. The description we'd heard was "Sesame Street for 20-somethings" and it totally lived up to it.

After the show, we walked over to Chinatown and picked a restaurant (out of like 5 billion) to eat at. We ate down in the basement again. They were playing karaoke on the television there, but no one was singing. Weird.

Day 5 (November 15)

We went to Bath via train in the morning. Once we got there, we first went to the Roman baths. Much of the ruins are very well-preserved — the main pool still looked like you could have gone in for a nice relaxing soak. The whole process of bathing must have been so relaxing and restorative for the Romans. At the baths, we drank some of the water (it had been purified), which was very warm and minerally (kind of rotten eggy...not the tastiest of stuff).

After the ancient baths, we took a bit of a walk around town. It really built up during the 17th century, when people came there from the city for the restorative properties of the hot baths (built amongst the Roman ruins). AS a result, all of the buildings were old and charming. We went to the Circle, where Jane Austen lived, and the Crescent.

Eileen and Jeff had wanted to go to this thermal outdoor pool even before we got to the city, and after walking through the Roman bath I was glad they did, as I came out really wanting a nice swim in some warm minerally water. So we went to a spa where you could buy time at an outdoor thermal pool. We swam for more than an hour in the nice warm water, although later into our time a cold rain started to sprinkle on us, which made it really tough to get out. One thing I really liked about the water was the scent — I'm not quite sure how to describe it, but it reminded me of something Aveda would put out.

After the bath, we were relaxed, refreshed and super-hungry. We headed to a nearby pub for a pint and dinner, and I had a super-good steak-and-ale pie. When we left the pub, most of the shops seemed to be closed, so we started the cold, rainy walk back to the train station.

I slept during much of the train ride back (how is it I can sleep on the train, and the van from the tour, but not the plane over, when I really needed to?). After we got back and took the Tube to Swiss Cottage, we opted to go to the actual Swiss Cottage, a restaurant/bar in a very Swiss Cottage looking building. Inside, which was warm, homey and not very Swiss, we planned our next day over a pint.

Day 4 (November 14)

This was the day we did our tour in the countryside. We started in Salisbury, at the Salisbury Cathedral. It was smaller and simpler than Westminster Abbey, but in many ways that made it more beautiful.

Then it was on to the ruins at Old Sarum, the remains of a castle on teh top of a hill — just the foundation remained. During most of our time in England the weather was cold and often misty, but manageable. On the top of the hill here, though, it was freezing.

We had lunch — fish and chips — at a quiet little pub. Everything we saw was so picturesque — all these little places with thatched roofs!

After lunch it was on to the real highlight — Stonehenge. It's amazing, and I'm not sure that I can adequately describe it. But I really like that a mystery like Stonehenge exists, and I was very glad I got to see it while we were over there.

We went on to another small town, Avebury, enclosed in a stone circle. The stones were interesting, but not nearly on the scale of Stonehenge (Note to self: next time think about the extra time it takes to clear customs coming back to the United States when you walk through a sheep pasture looking at old stones in England).

After a ride back to the city, we got sandwiches and soda at Caffe Nero (it's more fun when you call it Caffe Nerd, but it was probably my favorite cafe/sandwich shop type place there, primarily because they made a wicked espresso). Then we went to see Mary Poppins, which was a quite British way to finish off the evening.