June 19, 2013

It was a busy day, visiting 3 major sites and walking a few miles around the city. First a word about the Henrietta House, where we are spending 3 nights. Built in the 1700s, the B&B is a historic landmark, filled with antiques and lovingly restored rooms. Our small, quiet room looks out on a terrace of sorts and features a double sash window with the original indoor shutters. I’ve noticed that small hotel rooms are typical in Europe, probably a reflection of limited space. Walls have been painted in historic colors, tapestries and paintings adorn the walls and worn carpets cover wide planked, original wood floors. The bright and well appointed breakfast room is on our floor and we enjoyed the best breakfast I’ve ever had in a B&B.

We entered a room with tables for two and four covered in white tablecloths and place settings. Fresh orange and apple juices in pitchers had their own table while a longer table was filled with breads and toasters, including two hot, homemade baguettes, which were covered with napkins and placed on a cutting board. Cereal and granola (in individual jars) stood by bowls of fresh and dried fruits. A plate of croissants and pastries took up the remaining space. On each table was a menu with the exhortation to order more than one breakfast as “we don’t want anyone to leave our tables hungry.” Two college age girls took care of the dining room, bringing us coffee and the fresh squeezed juice of the day, carrot and cucumber. Mike ordered buttermilk pancakes with bananas, maple syrup and streaky (crisp) bacon. I had the omelet I with smoked salmon, sour cream and chives. Also on the menu was the full English breakfast, a soft boiled egg with bacon soldiers (strips of toasted wrapped with bacon), a mature cheddar cheese omelet, kippers and scrambled eggs, and another choice I can’t remember. Oh yeah, it was porridge with maple syrup and brown sugar. I should mention that the chef also provides each room with an assortment of homemade biscuits and fresh fruits each day to enjoy with an assortment of teas, instant coffee packets and an electric pot for heating water (typically found in UK). None of this begins to convey the commitment to comfort and service that characterizes Henrietta House. And everyone is so nice and seemingly happy to be here taking care of tourists. Refreshing.

After our early breakfast we walked the the Roman Bath exhibit. Fascinating. As an American it’s hard to fathom history that begins before the first century, when the Romans were already well established and beginning to develop the natural hot springs of this area into a spa and temple. Because the waters were naturally heated the Romans took this to mean they were sacred and built a temple to the goddess Minerva; they surrounded it with a vast system of baths, saunas, private rooms and altars (for animal sacrifice–apparently the gods enjoyed the aroma of a good barbecue). What remains today are artifacts from the temple and spa and the actual waters themselves. When the Romans left, the buildings were not maintained and eventually the pagan temple was destroyed. In the early 19th century the baths were rediscovered and somewhat restored so that the wealthy of Regency England (generally considered to be 1811 to 1837) could vacation here and drink the spa waters, considered salubrious and often prescribed by the medical community. The men and women of that era bathed separately and pretty much fully clothed; the Romans bathed together and naked. Unlike the Romans, the English aristocracy didn’t partake in the saunas and massages that followed bathing. Both cultures used the spa as a forum to socialize and do business. It might have been a bit awkward but the Roman version sounds like it was more fun.

After the baths, we toured the Abbey, a colossal monument to fortitude and faith. One glance into the ceiling of flying buttresses and decorative shields and you’ll understand why construction took over 100 years. Under the floors and on the walls are memorial plaques, which in some cases function as tombstones. In the “Beautiful Bath” gallery are pictures of three typical plaques. The earlier ones say that the body is interred or “lieth” here; later stones say the body is near the memorial plaque (a bit vague about location). I think the money from erecting these monuments probably supported the Abbey for many years. Believe me, there’s no room for any more bodies or memorial plaques. I’ve included a memorial from 1674 because the deceased had a long and busy life–3 marriages, 8 sons. The memorials for women seemed to focus on whom they were married to or the daughter of, these being important ways to convey status. I guess the women didn’t have much status in and of themselves. The other one I included is because the sentiment is so nice–clearly his son loved his ” Best of Fathers.” Many of the plaques have long descriptions and give a strong sense of the deceased.

We finished the sight-seeing marathon with the Jane Austen Centre, which one of us loved and one of us was a good sport about. Hint: the one who loved it dressed up in a Regency hat for a photo. Jane Austen is my favorite pre-twentieth century author. Spending time in the city where she lived and visiting the baths, Pump and Assembly rooms as she would have is a lifelong dream of mine and an experience I can’t compare to anything that would be commensurate for my husband. Visiting the Baseball Hall of Fame and throwing a pitch from the mound of the old Yankee Stadium? Maybe…. Even though I’ve read Austen for decades and taught Pride and Prejudice to high school students, with varying degrees of success, I learned a great deal about her and the era which both constrained and supported her. Luckily for Jane, first her father and later her brothers recognized her talent and promoted the publication of her work. No doubt her sister Cassandra and her mother also supported her, but as mere women any contributions they made were not recorded…. No formal portrait was ever painted of her so everything we know about how Jane looked comes from a sketch by her sister that her niece felt was a poor likeness and “hideous.” Written descriptions of her indicate she was very pretty. And she was quite independent, refusing an offer of marriage that would have kept her from the poverty she experienced after her father’s death. Jane Austen was 41 when she died, of what no one knows. It doesn’t sound like influenza or scarlet fever as she was treated for a few months for the illness before she died. We will never know what she died from just as we will never know if she loved and lost. Her eloquent, ironic descriptions of lovers and fools must’ve had some basis in experience….

June 18, 2013
I spent far too much time trying to upload the Scotland gallery below this post so I won’t go into any detail tonight about the beauty of Bath, our exquisite dinner, or bursting into tears when I realized we were near the Jane Austen Museum.

We left Edinburgh this morning and caught the 4 hour train, which turned out to be the 7 hour train, to Bath. No, it wasn’t a train delay; it was me listening to MIke (ever the optimist) when he said he thought it was about 4 hours… Still it was better than driving, which I don’t think we would’ve survived. There’s something so wrong about the left side of the road thing although I’m sure it’s the same for Brits traveling in the states.

As we rode south, the sounds of Scottish voices gradually dropped away so that by Sheffield I could understand most of what I was hearing, usually when people were on their mobiles. Raising the voice while on a phone appears to be a universal phenomenon. I think it’s easier to understand British and US accents because they are so common on television and in movies. Think James Bond and Harry Potter, not to mention Downton Abbey. The French waiter in the Spanish restaurant in Edinburgh (it’s a global society we live in) commented last night that while he could understand Americans and the English, he couldn’t understand the Scottish or Irish very well. He may have an attitude problem because he acted like he couldn’t understand my high school French either….

I was thinking about words today and trying to come up with synonyms for UK colloquialisms. I think that “brilliant” is equivalent to “awesome” and that “cheers” is kind of an aloha word. It seems to mean “here” in the sense of “here’s your food so enjoy it” and “drink up” in the universal sense, and “thanks” in other instances. “Ta” is a one-syllable way to say good-bye and thanks. I think. Reading 17th and 18th century British literature hasn’t prepared me to integrate seamlessly into the culture, not that I haven’t tried.

Other observations about rail travel in the UK: No one offered to help me any of the times I struggled to drag my duffle from a train to the platform. I can’t imagine anywhere In the US where that would happen (not being helped I mean). Everyone was perfectly pleasant and readily answered questions. Maybe it’s impolite to offer physical assistance–as if there would be implied criticism if one helped. Or maybe I just looked scary with my tense expression and scary hair (both frizzy and limp). At Bristol-Temple-Mead, we had 3 minutes to tear down the stairs from one platform and up another set to a different platform to make a connection. (I kind of regret how many gifts we bought in Scotland, now that I’m schlepping them through Europe.) During that transfer I twisted my ankle while vaulting on to the platform with my bag a few seconds ahead of me (hence the jarring and the sprain). Several men who looked like Colin Firth smiled politely. I managed not to moan or swear and kept the stiff upper lip that must be a legacy of my genetic past.

And finally, a message to the elegantly dressed gentleman on the train into Bath Spa. He apparently had (I’m being charitable here) an itch deeply inside one nostril. You’re not invisible, Mate!

Off to bed–I’m knackered.

June 17, 2013

Spectacular Day visiting St. Andrew–the town, the castle, the cathedral (or more accurately the remains of the castle and cathedral). The weather was perfect, low 70s with a lovely ocean breeze to keep things cool. By 7:00, Mike and I were at the bus stop for the 2 hour and 15 minute trip to St. Andrews. At 6:30 we were questioning whether it was worth getting up early and venturing forth unfortified by the Starbucks coffee that was supposed to be available. The ride into the Kingdom of Fife along the Dalgety Bay and north to the site of the oldest university in Scotland, arguably the most famous golf course in the world, and the site of another turbulent and bloody episode in Scottish history was definitely worth the time and effort.

On the way through various towns, we saw hordes of school kids (probably 14 to 18 year olds) dressed in black or navy pants or skirts and tights, white shirts, ties (just the boys) and blazers. Later we would see students walking through the streets after school and it seemed that all of them had individualized their uniforms. Ties were loosened or gone, shoes had been replaced with trainers (athletic shoes), and various jackets and sweaters had replaced blazers. The few students maintaining the original uniform stood out as unique. Ironic.

The pictures that may accompany this entry (if I can figure out how to upload them) are of the ruins of the cathedral and castle that once stood on the coast. St. Andrew’s Cathedral was a magnificent 12th century homage to the Roman Catholic Church, taking over 100 years to build and situated on a site that was a spiritual center at least by the 700s when it was the home of a monastic community. In the mid 1500s Protestant reformers, led by John Knox, attacked the cathedral and basically kicked out the Catholics. Without the power of the Catholic Church to protect the castle of the bishop, it too was abandoned. Over time both the castle and the cathedral were vandalized and stones from both were used in local construction. In its day, the cathedral was an enormous and imposing church Andean considered the center of the Roman Catholic Church in Scotland.

The bus back to Edinburgh didn’t stop at every little town, so we made it back to our hotel an hour and 45 minutes after reluctantly leaving St. Andrews. We decided to check out the train station in preparation for our journey to Bath. Thank goodness Mike made sure our tickets were printed as the Internet voucher was a it confusing. The station at Waverly is huge;since the platforms aren’t determined until the morning of the trip, it’s lucky we don’t have to figure out tickets as well. I noticed a pasty (not pastry) stand so I get one of those for breakfast.

My addiction to English literature began over 40 years ago with Jane Austen, continued with the Brontes, Dickens, and Hardy, and culminated in my taking multiple university courses on Shakespeare (on purpose). More recently I’ve also enjoyed Irish and Scottish writers, particularly the mysteries of Tana French, Kate Atkinson, Denise Mina, and Ian Rankin. All of this reading has provided me with a certain arcane knowledge of these cultures, not all of it current. For example no one in this century uses the monetary terms quid and shilling (unless the guy at the pub was “having me on”). I was happy to learn that certain foods–pasties (meat or vegetable turnovers–think empanadas), toasties, filled rolls, and fry ups -are still popular. Haven’t tried beans on toast yet. Of course, being a fan of butter, cream, wine, and sugar, I’m also looking forward to the croissants, fromage, champagne, and macaroons of France. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I can order wine in four languages and none of them is sign language! As lovely as Edinburgh is, it’s not a Mecca for wine, beer is a better choice. Stick with the beer and just say no to the haggis.

June 15, 2013

Today we rode the double decker, hop-on, hop-off bus around Edinburgh and developed a pretty good sense of the city’s layout. We like to do this when we travel as it gives us a chance to get the big picture and then decide where we want to devote our time. Later we went to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, where Elizabeth II spends summers and where Mary, Queen of Scots watched her second husband Lord Darnley murder her male secretary David Rizzio. Darnley was allegedly jealous of Rizzio’s influence (uh, huh) so he and his companions stabbed Rizzio 50+ times. About a year later Darnley’s home in Edinburgh mysteriously exploded and he was found strangled in the courtyard. The suspect? Mary’s soon-to-be third husband whose name I’ve forgotten.

It’s one thing to know about the Scottish queen’s tragic life (widowed at 17, separated from her infant son, imprisoned by the English queen for 17 years, executed for treason); it’s quite another to stand in the very room where she lived (unhappily apparently). I think she was beheaded in the Tower of London, which we will visit in about a week. I could be wrong; it was somewhere in England because Mary fled there to seek the protection of her cousin Elizabeth I. That didn’t work out.

Before heading out to sightsee and brave the forecasted rain, we had the full Scottish breakfast at the hotel. This is similar to the full English and the full Irish breakfast with the notable addition of haggis. More on that later. First I need to explain how Mike approaches a buffet in a foreign country. I have observed this behavior in Spain and Morocco so I’m speaking as an expert. When we entered the dining room, the hostess explained the set up in rapid fire English. I could tell Mike got about every 6th word. Sidebar: as soon as we leave Northern California, I become Mike’s interpreter. I’ve never been able to decide if he can’t hear or if he doesn’t listen…

Anyway, we ventured into the restaurant and were brought coffee and slices of hot toast in a cute little rack. Then Mike headed to the hot buffet while I selected marmalade and lemon curd for the toast from the cold table. He soon returned with a plate of fried eggs,sausage and something he thought was hash. It wasn’t. It was haggis. Considered the national food of Scotland thanks to Robert Burns’ poem “Address to a Haggis,” this delicacy is a “savory pudding” containing a “sheepskin pluck” which is heart, liver and lungs mixed with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt. The onion and spices don’t help. Traditionally it is encased in the animal’s stomach and simmered for three hours. I don’t even want to know how that’s possible.

Now I have always known about haggis the same way you know about poi, blood pudding, and escargot and other things you never want to eat. Mike didn’t know about haggis and since he indiscriminately chooses food from all buffets, this kind of thing happens to him (there was a blood pudding incident in Ireland. 18 years ago. How quickly we forget.) When I came back from my trip to the hot buffet (with eggs, potatoes, grilled tomatoes) Mike was staring straight ahead, not moving and not eating. Yes, he had eaten a bite of the haggis. Just so you don’t think I’m exaggerating: Mike also drank mint tea (even though we had been warned repeatedly about the water) at a carpet market in Marrakech. I will draw the veil of good taste over the results of imbibing the tea. Let’s just say that adding mint doesn’t make the water potable.

I don’t know what we will have for dinner tonight–it will be hard to top breakfast.

Mike found out that the George was constructed out of 5 consecutive row houses. That’s the extent of our historical knowledge thus far…

June 15, 2013

12:26 AM

So exhausted that we broke down and took a nap (with a wake up call at 9 PM Greenwich time-I think that’s our time zone). We started looking for a place to eat after a drink in the lovely hotel bar. Good vodka tonic (Mike), interesting Italian Chardonnay (me)… And by interesting I mean watery and not really Chardonnay.

Even on Friday night in happening Edinburgh, it’s hard to find food after 10 PM. This is reminiscent of trying to find food between 2 and 5 PM in Spain. Mike and I haven’t traveled extensively but we have managed to establish a few traditions, one of which is always being hungry and seeking sustenance when it’s not available. We began this practice 18 years ago in Ireland by trying to eat between 3 and 5 when pub grub is no longer available and no one is open for dinner…

Tonight we ended up at (wait for it)… The Hard Rock Edinburgh. Uh, huh. Very few people eating–some stragglers in the bar. Next door was a major club with a long line of 20 somethings queuing to get in. We could tell we weren’t going to meet the age/cool requirement just by looking at the line. So Hard Rock it was and the burgers and sandwich were fine, not exactly Scottish fare but we’d shared a Ploughman’s earlier. For those of you not addicted to Brit lit, that’s a traditional pub lunch of bread, cheese, meats, and pickled things, served on a bread board. Very good actually.

Before we left the hotel we noticed several high school age girls wandering around the lobby in what Americans would recognize as prom attire. It was the Ross High School Prom and much like ours with a DJ and light show. The big differences? The boys were in kilts (very handsome) and many of the tables had glasses of wine and beer. Yup, the drinking age here is 18 so students who have reached majority can drink, even at the prom. I’m sure they never buy a drink or offer a sip to underage friends…

Tomorrow is the bus tour and I’m hoping for sun as it’s a double decker with an open air top level.

Arrived to overcast skies, an easily navigable airport/customs system and the requisite taxi ride with a dour Scot. I believe he said 5 words. “What’re you after?” and “We’re here.”

And we are here at The George in downtown Edinburgh. I’m already charmed by the dialect, the stone edifices, and the tiny room in this classic hotel. The Wi-Fi is desperately slow, so no switching between sites, therefore I haven’t discovered anything about the hotel’s history. On a more practical note, we’ve learned from the kilt wearing porter how to get electricity (put the key card in the slot by the door) and that we can access the hotel server in 30 minute increments for free. I now understand Trip Advisor’s comment: use the Wi-Fi at the Starbucks across the street…. Speaking of the ubiquitous Starbucks…the downtown has some American representation but I was happy to note the businesses and signs dear to the heart of an Anglophile. There are places to let (rent) and walk-in surgeries (clinics); of course we took the lift to our room, enjoyed a biscuit, and inspected the WC. That’s elevator, cookie and bathroom to the folks at home.

Before we head out to explore I want to add to the Travel 101 lesson. It turns out that the middle seat in our airplane did not recline. Apparently this is universal and everyone but me knows this. Why is this? Isn’t it bad enough that you’re stuck between two people with no undisputed rights to either arm rest and a mandate to keep your elbows to your sides and never go to the bathroom? To say I was not happy with this reality is an understatement. When I realized that I was going to spend a 7 hour flight upright, I pretty much lost it. Mike decided to switch seats with me and thereby protect himself and others from the person I become when sleep deprived. Three hours of unconsciousness and I’m better. Much better.

So one more thing: I set up this blog, if that’s what it is, in 15 minutes in Newark when I could safely use the cellular data on my iPad. So as I write this travelogue I will hopefully figure out how to use the site and include pictures and maybe some better graphics on my home page.

June 12, 2013

Travel 101: A Remedial Course…

When using a “budget” travel site- in this case-Orbitz-it seems like a good idea. Even after you pay over $3000 for two sets of tickets. Even after you get your head around flying on Brussels Airlines to get back to the US. Even after you change your seats for the Nice to Brussels to Dulles, Washington DC leg.

It’s all good and then the day before the flight, you naturally check in to get boarding passes-not possible by the way on international flights. You have to check in in person so your passport can be verified. And therein lies the rub.

When I checked our confirmation, my last name was gone and my husband’s middle name was missing. We called United (our carrier for San Francisco to Edinburgh) and, after holding for a few minutes, were told we had to work through Orbitz. Okay. We contacted Orbitz who then called United and we were put on hold. An hour and 15 minutes into the Brandenburg Concerto, the friendly, frequently unintelligible young woman from Orbitz had United on the line and they changed out names. Whew!

Not so fast.

The United rep said that the return trip would have to be changed by Brussels Airlines. Another round of the Brandenburg and 42 minutes later we were speaking to the Brussels rep. Yes she could add Mike’s middle name. No, she couldn’t add my last name (the same as my husband’s). Her suggestion? Rebook the flight from Nice. Great idea except it was $3700 one way. I’ll spare you the fruitless attempts to get refunds–a waste of breath, 30 more minutes, and the development of a distinct loathing for the Brandenburg concerto.

A call to the helpful and sympathetic folks at my travel insurance company netted a bargain $2100 fair from Nice to Dulles. (Full disclosure: there was-is- an $809 fair through Istanbul, takes 39 hours and requires a 19 hour layover in a city where citizens are currently rioting against the government. No thanks.) The customer care lady also suggested calling the airlines directly and asking for a supervisor, which we promptly did. This time the man at Brussels Airlines looked at our itinerary and said that the tickets had been issued on United stock (whatever that means) and that United could change the names. Of course it was after business hours by then so my husband decided to call Orbitz first thing in the morning: 4:30 AM our time; 6:30 Central where the office is located.

So we left Redding at 7:08 PM a mere eight and a half hours after our planned departure. We arrived at our park and ride motel around midnight and lay in bed vibrating with anxiety until exhaustion overtook us and we finally slept. For four hours.

Round Two: simultaneous calls to Orbitz and United, both put us on hold. After about 20 minutes of dueling Brandenburg and Muzak, Orbitz picked up. On hearing our sad tale, the representative called United (ah, Brandenburg Concerto, I missed your dulcet tones for those few moments and then you were baaaack). What followed was an absurd conversation between the articulate Orbitz rep and two different United representatives. The second one stated unequivocally that United could not change our names and PS my husband’s name was still missing the middle. This rep couldn’t hear us so everything had to be said to the Orbitz lady and then repeated to the United rep. Mike then asked for a supervisor and got a phone number.

You guessed it. On hold with the BC…. I decided to take a shower and not just because I didn’t want Mike to hear whimpering and swearing. The latest United employee looked up our tickets and said our names (all six of them) were on all our tickets. Mike claims he asked him 3 times about the Nice to Dulles tickets (I would’ve probably asked ten times).

So what happened? Was there a magic interface between two different systems or just an update/correction? I was skeptical; Mike was hungry. He went to breakfast and I logged onto to Orbitz where Mike’s password didn’t work and Brussels Airlines which was down. Got through to Orbitz and they sent me an itinerary which looked exactly like yesterday’s-the one that started this quest. Simultaneously hyperventilating and logging onto to United’s site, I saw For the First Time all of our flights and with the RIGHT NAMES. I also noticed that we have a different confirmation number for our Brussels flights. Ah ha! Maybe.

I still don’t know if everything is okay and whether we will be able to board the plane in Nice on July 5th. Mike, who is more optimistic under stress than I am on my best day, is sanguine. I will keep checking various sites and may relax if I see consistently the right names. In the meantime I’m keeping score.

First there’s the fact that the flight I’m currently on left SFO 29 minutes late, cutting into our time in Newark. Not that I want to be in Newark but I would like to make the flight to Edinburgh. Second, the woman waiting next to me in the terminal engaged in stress eating, polishing off a personal pizza, what looked like a delicious homemade hoagie, a bag of mixed nuts, a bag of trail mix, and a Gatorade. When she started eying my red vines I prepared to body block her. Luckily we were finally allowed to board. Third my sojourn to the lavatory coincided with a duck and roll by the plane and let’s just say it’s hard to relax when gripping the side bar next to the toilet while the captain urges us all to put on our seat-belts. Finally, there’s the matter of the family/chick flick/slightly suspenseful film that folks flying East in United economy will be subjected to until June 15. When the inevitable end inevitably happened I sniffled and then cried. Not because it was good but because I was exhausted and perched on the edge of reason from…everything.

So I’m keeping score. If the tickets are really okay, I’m prepared to let go of plane delays, scary eating exhibits, manipulative movies, and bathroom challenges. If….

Fiona is the little dog in my life and she is a poor traveler. First of all she gets carsick so winding road trips are out as a ten pound dog can’t really be drugged safely. And it’s kind of wrong…. Also the one time we took her on an overnight trip in a fifth wheel, she growled at every footfall, door opening, or leaf drop. All night. Really. So my travels will be sans Fiona unfortunately as she has a great personality (think retriever-poodle cross in a Yorkie-Pomeranian body).