A Week in English
Apr 30th, 2019, 12:18 AM
#1
A Week in English
No, not across the pond. Across the Channel. Roughly 36 hours in Dublin for a campus tour; DD has decided upon Trinity College (School of Physics). On the way home to Vienna we dropped in on Londontown for a few days so DD could visit friends at ASL and ICL, and DH and I could find new things to explore in one of our favorite favourite cities.
There is a Vienna ex-pat on social media who has as his tagline, Vienna is like an IKEA sofa. You know you should upgrade but it’s just too comfortable.
After a week spent in the British Isles, where English (even if it’s not “proper” American English
) prevails; the people are remarkably cheery; and the stores, particularly the groceries are open at night and on the weekends, we were feeling the upgrade excitement from Hoch Deutsch Vienna, with its staid citizens and archaic hours.* Perhaps The World’s Most Livable City is not feeling so livable to us anymore?
*A half-Viennese acquaintance once commented to me that his father, “hoped to be in Vienna when the world ends, because Vienna is about six months behind the rest of the world” and therefore he would have more time on the planet. Humorous, and also rather accurate.
On this journey we also discovered that we are not conditioned for flights at reasonable times. The Oh-Dark-Thirty departure for America? We’ve got that drill down. The middle-of-the-night return from Asia and the Middle East? A no-brainer. But a 1700 departure with just an hour time change? We were awake at 0600 and packed by 0900. DDog spied the cases and spent the remainder of our time at home making us feel guilty for leaving him with his sad and watchful Hound eyes.
The departure lunch was at the Johann Strauss Café at VIE. Just couldn’t do the Schnitzel; shared a half-decent burger with DD instead. Maybe should have done the Schnitzel, for the burger was enhanced with something like a salsa, emphasis on the something like.
Aer Lingus to Dublin. Built by and for Leprechauns, but we knew that from our city break to Ireland’s capital in 2017. Muggles must pay extra for legroom. And food. And water. Might as well beIrish Ryan Air. Considering this will be 2-meter tall DD’s airline of choice for the next four years, we’re digging deep into the sofa cushions for the “Exit Row” seat charges ahead of us. #NoPenaltyFeesForTallPeople
Our flat was in the Grand Canal Dock area. Google HQ was across the street; lots of hipster-ification underway. The grocery near the apartment building had the all important prepared meals from their “Bombay Pantry” collection: “Handmade with Love in Ireland” Indian cuisine, just what we needed after what seemed like a long travel day in what turned out to be possibly the worst-stocked kitchen we have ever encountered.
Our AirBnB kitchen was as ill-equipped as our check-in host was friendly. That there was a kitchen at all was the flat’s saving grace. No cutting board. No cooking utensils (DH turned the Rashers over for breakfast the following morn with a cake fork. Yes, there were cake forks but no cooking utensils). No kitchen towel and no dishwasher tabs, either. Worst of all, no water kettle! This last offence has to violate some section of the Magna Carta.
DD walked into the kitchen just as breakfast was being plated. She took one look at the Rashers and remarked, “No thanks, I don’t do bacon that looks like ham.” “Too bad,” we countered, for over the next four years we expected that she would likely not find anything resembling real American bacon. (The grocery in our ex-pat district in Vienna sells Bacon nach Amerikanisher Art so we have not had to suffer* over these seven years.)
*There is a product in Austrian grocers called Frühstück Speck, which resembles American bacon but is so thin that it sublimates in the pan faster than a year one Chem titration lab gone awry. Not the best analogy but you get the idea. (The arrival of American-style bacon a couple of years ago brought collective weeping of joy in these ex-pat parts, in the event you wondered.)
Back to the story. With the campus tour not until 1100, we took the occasion to wander about on our own after breakfast, stopping in at the book shop to purchase DD TCD clothing. We had visited Dublin on a city break in 2017, walking about the campus and touring the Book of Kells as well, but now we wanted a more thorough look at her soon-to-be new home. After the tour, celebratory pints of Guinness and three orders of quite good fish and chips at a pub near campus.
DD returned to the flat to study (IB exams await!) and DH and I decided to take the train to Dún Laoghaire. On our previous visit the three of us spent a glorious day in Howth, beachcombing at low tide and walking along the cliffs, so we thought Dún Laoghaire might be worth a quick peek this time. Dull. And. Boring. We should have returned to Howth. Next time, because now there will be quite a few next times.
More prepared food for dinner (See, Kitchen Lacking above), and a couple episodes of The Great British Bakeoff to pair with. We are woefully (or perhaps not) behind in television viewing; two decades of child-raising will do that to you. Don’t spoil the finale of Season 4 if you comment, please.
With a partial day remaining before crossing the Irish sea, DD returned to her studies while DH and I took in the EPIC Irish Immigration Museum. Did you know that nearly 25% of felons sent to colonize Australia were Irish? Or that there are more persons of Irish descent worldwide than there are Irishmen in Ireland? We left after almost two hours with an enhanced appreciation for DH’s people.
DD heroically dragged our two cases from the flat and met as at the train station from where we would catch the bus to the airport. Lunch was the recommended Cod Bites (a great choice) and a second-to-final round of Guinness for everyone. A short hop of 55 minutes, and we were landing at Heathrow.
There is a Vienna ex-pat on social media who has as his tagline, Vienna is like an IKEA sofa. You know you should upgrade but it’s just too comfortable.
After a week spent in the British Isles, where English (even if it’s not “proper” American English
) prevails; the people are remarkably cheery; and the stores, particularly the groceries are open at night and on the weekends, we were feeling the upgrade excitement from Hoch Deutsch Vienna, with its staid citizens and archaic hours.* Perhaps The World’s Most Livable City is not feeling so livable to us anymore?*A half-Viennese acquaintance once commented to me that his father, “hoped to be in Vienna when the world ends, because Vienna is about six months behind the rest of the world” and therefore he would have more time on the planet. Humorous, and also rather accurate.
On this journey we also discovered that we are not conditioned for flights at reasonable times. The Oh-Dark-Thirty departure for America? We’ve got that drill down. The middle-of-the-night return from Asia and the Middle East? A no-brainer. But a 1700 departure with just an hour time change? We were awake at 0600 and packed by 0900. DDog spied the cases and spent the remainder of our time at home making us feel guilty for leaving him with his sad and watchful Hound eyes.
The departure lunch was at the Johann Strauss Café at VIE. Just couldn’t do the Schnitzel; shared a half-decent burger with DD instead. Maybe should have done the Schnitzel, for the burger was enhanced with something like a salsa, emphasis on the something like.
Aer Lingus to Dublin. Built by and for Leprechauns, but we knew that from our city break to Ireland’s capital in 2017. Muggles must pay extra for legroom. And food. And water. Might as well be
Our flat was in the Grand Canal Dock area. Google HQ was across the street; lots of hipster-ification underway. The grocery near the apartment building had the all important prepared meals from their “Bombay Pantry” collection: “Handmade with Love in Ireland” Indian cuisine, just what we needed after what seemed like a long travel day in what turned out to be possibly the worst-stocked kitchen we have ever encountered.
Our AirBnB kitchen was as ill-equipped as our check-in host was friendly. That there was a kitchen at all was the flat’s saving grace. No cutting board. No cooking utensils (DH turned the Rashers over for breakfast the following morn with a cake fork. Yes, there were cake forks but no cooking utensils). No kitchen towel and no dishwasher tabs, either. Worst of all, no water kettle! This last offence has to violate some section of the Magna Carta.
DD walked into the kitchen just as breakfast was being plated. She took one look at the Rashers and remarked, “No thanks, I don’t do bacon that looks like ham.” “Too bad,” we countered, for over the next four years we expected that she would likely not find anything resembling real American bacon. (The grocery in our ex-pat district in Vienna sells Bacon nach Amerikanisher Art so we have not had to suffer* over these seven years.)
*There is a product in Austrian grocers called Frühstück Speck, which resembles American bacon but is so thin that it sublimates in the pan faster than a year one Chem titration lab gone awry. Not the best analogy but you get the idea. (The arrival of American-style bacon a couple of years ago brought collective weeping of joy in these ex-pat parts, in the event you wondered.)
Back to the story. With the campus tour not until 1100, we took the occasion to wander about on our own after breakfast, stopping in at the book shop to purchase DD TCD clothing. We had visited Dublin on a city break in 2017, walking about the campus and touring the Book of Kells as well, but now we wanted a more thorough look at her soon-to-be new home. After the tour, celebratory pints of Guinness and three orders of quite good fish and chips at a pub near campus.
DD returned to the flat to study (IB exams await!) and DH and I decided to take the train to Dún Laoghaire. On our previous visit the three of us spent a glorious day in Howth, beachcombing at low tide and walking along the cliffs, so we thought Dún Laoghaire might be worth a quick peek this time. Dull. And. Boring. We should have returned to Howth. Next time, because now there will be quite a few next times.
More prepared food for dinner (See, Kitchen Lacking above), and a couple episodes of The Great British Bakeoff to pair with. We are woefully (or perhaps not) behind in television viewing; two decades of child-raising will do that to you. Don’t spoil the finale of Season 4 if you comment, please.
With a partial day remaining before crossing the Irish sea, DD returned to her studies while DH and I took in the EPIC Irish Immigration Museum. Did you know that nearly 25% of felons sent to colonize Australia were Irish? Or that there are more persons of Irish descent worldwide than there are Irishmen in Ireland? We left after almost two hours with an enhanced appreciation for DH’s people.
DD heroically dragged our two cases from the flat and met as at the train station from where we would catch the bus to the airport. Lunch was the recommended Cod Bites (a great choice) and a second-to-final round of Guinness for everyone. A short hop of 55 minutes, and we were landing at Heathrow.
Apr 30th, 2019, 01:14 AM
#2
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Always a pleasure to read your delightful tales!
We share your DD's concerns about bacon, which doesn't exist in any recognizably American form here, though God knows they've got enough pigs to cut them up almost any way imaginable. The nearest thing we can find is Speck, which is so salty you have to give it a 24-hour soaking, after which it disintegrates in the pan. The worst thing about it is we can't make a decent BLT.
We share your DD's concerns about bacon, which doesn't exist in any recognizably American form here, though God knows they've got enough pigs to cut them up almost any way imaginable. The nearest thing we can find is Speck, which is so salty you have to give it a 24-hour soaking, after which it disintegrates in the pan. The worst thing about it is we can't make a decent BLT.
May 1st, 2019, 12:14 PM
#8
Signing on. It's been quite a while since I lived in England, but I believe your DD should look for streaky bacon. https://www.tesco.com/groceries/en-G.../streaky-baconFor some reason this does not show up in B&B breakfasts.
May 2nd, 2019, 01:07 AM
#9
Like Paris, London is always a good idea. The city is home to around as many people as there are in the whole of Austria, and visiting felt like the urban equivalent of forest bathing. English spoken EVERYWHERE! Look Right! Diversity! Shops open on Sunday! Great Indian Food! Free Museums!*
Our West Kensington flat was a known-ish commodity, the flat of a friend of a friend who was away on work travel. And a lovely flat it was. Calm colors from floor to 12-foot ceilings; and a fully stocked kitchen! It was under a 5 minute walk from the West Kensington Tube station; our bedroom was thusly blessed with the romantic click-clack of the train in the early morning, but since DH and I are morning people this was a non-issue. DD’s bedroom faced the street and was quiet; just the space a studious senior needed.
A Co-Op grocery and a Tesco Express were steps away, so on the first arrival evening we plated a heap big salad to counter all of the Fish ‘n Chips (and Guinness) we’d consumed in Ireland.
The following morning began early, for DD was heading to ASL to study for the day; friends had arranged a study room for her in the school's library. The forecast rain had disappeared, leaving DH and I with an entire day and little prospect of having to pop open the brelly. To Greenwich we headed.
Our inner STEM nerds were thrilled with the museum; the annoying tour groupers who insisted on 35 selfie takes each at the Prime Meridian, not so much. We tried, but failed to find the meridian line in the garden below the museum and observatory; though perhaps we did not try so hard because we were hungry. The Greenwich Market food trucks did not speak to us, so back into London proper we went.
A detour in the story. Whilst rummaging through DS’s wardrobe a couple of weeks ago (don’t ask) I came across a plastic baggie filled with Pounds and Pence. The tally came to €82 equivalent. Woohoo! Except, not. All of the notes and coins were from DS’s school trips to London for sports and otherwise from 2012-2014 and were now outdated, as I discovered when I attempted to purchase some items at the Greenwich gift shop with said outdated notes.
The gift shop clerk suggested we exchange our outdated notes at the Bank of England. Good idea! we thought. Back on the DLR to the London Bridge Tube station we hopped. Except, “something” happened to my Oyster Card and ￡10 was sucked from my balance when I tapped the machine. Once at the London Bridge station I sought the assistance from an almost-too-friendly-and-helpful station agent who expeditiously resolved the matter.
By this time we were both too hungry to care about exchanging our outdated currency (Dr. Google had informed DH we could mail our notes to the Bank of England and they will in turn transfer the exchange to our account. Good enough for us.) But where to eat at peak lunch time? If your London geography knowledge is tip-top, you’ll note that Borough Market is but steps away. Of course, finding a place to eat would be easy at lunchtime in a fiendishly popular market (insert sarcasm).
The luck of the Irish was with us! On a fingers-crossed lark we walked into Bedales, and were ushered to the table of a no-show reservation. On the top level, overlooking the market! We ordered the shared charcuterie/cheese platter and a couple of Lagers. Goodness prevailed.
The sun (!) shining brilliantly after lunch, we walked a bit of the market to ooh and ogle over luxuries like the￡102/kg Morels. The fresh seafood caught our attention for dinner, but we decided against both the detour back to the flat with said sea catch and perhaps leaving the sea aroma in the flat so graciously offered by the friend of a friend.
From here we decided to stroll along the Bankside path to the Tate Modern, about a kilometer or so. A pleasant enough walk, though one I might avoid during high tourist season for when I envision shoulder-bumping to be peak.
*Ugh, the Tate Modern. The either sadistic or directionally-challenged curator who played hide-and-seek with the art of interest (for me that would be Kandinsky) needs to be fired. Honestly, I would rather have paid an entrance fee and be provided with a gallery map than to have spent time wandering about in search of art that I wanted to look at, rather than wandering through weird stuff (except for the surprise of a Calder mobile) and frustrating ourselves. After an hour we declared the end game and thought to scurry to The Museum of Water and Steam, but discovered we would not make it before closing. In the face of this double disappointment we sought comfort in two cones of gelato and some people-watching.
DD messaged to confirm the evening outing with ASL friends to see Avengers: Endgame. DH looked sad that he could not join them; and then went all Dad-like when DD mentioned that not only would a (BOY) friend escort her to the flat afterward, but, BOY offered to take her sightseeing the following afternoon. And by the way, “Could BOY join us for lunch tomorrow?”
A Rotisserie chicken and Potatoes Dauphinois from the Tesco (plus more salad) was the dinner, along with a pleasant New Zealand white. I instructed DH to figure out how we could watch The Sopranos (we really are behind on television viewing) while dinner was warming, mostly to keep his mind offDD BOY. Over dinner with DH and Tony Soprano I fessed up that I had known of the existence of BOY for a couple of months. He and DD met four years ago in honor orchestra; and both had successfully auditioned every year since. Almost the entirety of their "relationship" has taken place on WhatsApp. BOY is attending university in the U.S. in the fall to major in a STEM field. DH was calmed. (BOY escorted DD home before curfew, in case you wondered.)
Now it is Meet-the-BOY day, blustery and wet. DD remained in the flat to study in the morning while we went happily to The Museum of Water and Steam. So much fun at the most important sight of water pumping! No, I am not being sarcastic. It is way fun for us to learn about processes and things we all now take for granted, and we soaked ourselves (pun intended) with the museum until it was time to head across Londontown to Gunpowder at Spitalfields.
We are partial to Indian and similarly-influenced foods; DD’s nanny was Bangladeshi and weaned her on Biryanis and gloriously silky, spicy curries. I don’t recall how I came across Gunpowder but was glad I had. The casual setting—dishes are small and arrive when they are prepared—made it a laid-back-grill-the-BOY kind of lunch. The menu is small so it is possible to sample everything, though we did not. The rasam ke bomb, a “shot” of a potato pani puri set atop a spicy tamarind and mustard “chaser” was a tastebud-tingler to begin. (DD ordered a second “shot,” that is how delish they were.) From there the okra fries; the "doughnut" of venison wrapped in fried vermicelli; the Chettinand pulled duck; crispy pork ribs; Saag Paneer and Kerala pepper beef arrived at our table and we eagerly divided the dishes between us. BOY survived DH’s gentle grilling; whether he survived the curries is another matter, though.
Bidding farewell to the youth, who were heading to Greenwich (DD wants to focus on astrophysics in Uni, so we encouraged her to take in the observatory), we took a chance on the now only cloudy skies for a long wander through Hampstead and its Heath. My, oh, my. There are some mighty fancy homes in this part, though the presence of the American “Gap Kids;” the Spanish “Zara Home;” and the French “Paul” had us scratching our heads at the conformity of globalization.
The Heath was restorative. Green and fragrant and breezy, we clocked almost 8km before realizing we were tired. Thank goodness the Wells Tavern had a table for us so we could regroup over a couple of pints. We paused at the bookstore in the village so I could swoon over the many English-language books (even in the ex-pat ‘hood in Vienna, the best we get is a table of “popular” books (depending on your political leaning) and a couple of shelves mostly filled with murder mysteries.) I picked up 3 kilograms in book weight to savor at home. Just a lovely, lovely afternoon.
DD messaged to ask if she could enjoy dinner at BOY’s house, adding that she would return well before curfew. DH rolled his eyes. At the Victoria Station M&S we cobbled together a salad supper (and another New Zealand white) to enjoy with Tony Soprano. (BOY escorted DD home before curfew.)
Our final full day. Once again DD was studying, breaking to lunch with friends from ICL. DH and I were awake with the first trains of the District Line, sipping our coffee and plotting the day. The weather seemed to be holding for a day outing to Dover and so to St. Pancras we went to catch the train. We were hoping to avoid the London Marathon crowds and Mother Nature stepped in with the assist.
From the Dover station it was a taxi to the National Trust and park entrance. Our driver remarked, “You’ve picked a good day. Any more spots of sun and you wouldn’t see the cliffs for the people.” Indeed, the sky was just clear enough to make out the French coastline, and just cloudy enough to keep the people count down for a weekend day. The day was incredibly breezy but like London itself, was restorative. When we lived in the U.S. we annually spent a summer week on Cape Cod, an experience that has been difficult to recreate in our adopted landlocked home, so any time we can expose ourselves (figuratively) to the sea we are in a happy place.
Though Dover Castle looked appealing on its hilltop perch and with the brooding background, we took a pass. It is not that we are castle snobs; however, if you’ve seen one medieval castle, you’ve seen them all was how we were feeling. Or perhaps it was our rumbling tummies that we were feeling.
The glorious cliff wandering having ended (plus a quick skim through the second-hand book shop in the Visitor Center (to benefit the park). Alas, we were approaching capacity with the cases so I could not drag home another 3kg in books, so I just left a donation), a second taxi driver took us to the market square in Dover and suggested places for lunch. (There are but a couple.) We took a quiet corner table at the driver-recommended place and order two plates of fresh caught Cod and Chips. Delish.
On our return to London DD messaged to ask once again if she, BOY, and friends could eat dinner in the city. Is anyone surprised at this point? DH and I pulled together dinner from the St. Pancras M&S and rang up Tony Soprano to join us. (BOY escorted DD home before curfew. But we knew that by now.) During supper DDog’s sitter messaged with a snap of him looking like he didn’t miss us at all. Hounds.
The final morning was the usual push to pack and tidy up, then catch the choo-choo to Heathrow. British Airways has joined the ranks of carriers who now charge passengers for everything, including a whopping €36 for an Exit Row seat reservation. But what can we do? DH and DD are both 2-meter plus in height. Neither is overweight; just tall and physically do not “fit” in the cattle class seats.
Another quick flight into VIE. The Immigration Officer was a little salty when he took my U.S. Passport:
Officer: “Why are you here?” (with gruffness)
Me: “Ich lebe in Wien“ So there.
I thought I would be clever and hurry along to the airport grocery for dinner provisions, to avoid making a special outing once at home whilst DH and DD collected the cases. We had decided on grilled pizza for dinner. The airport grocery had the pizza crust dough; the fresh mozzarella; and even a basil plant. But no pizza sauce. Not even a space on the shelf for sauce.
Welcome Home! from the “World’s Most Livable City.”
DDog lifted his head from his bed when we walked in, giving us the, “Oh, it’s you.” look.
Thank you for reading.
Our West Kensington flat was a known-ish commodity, the flat of a friend of a friend who was away on work travel. And a lovely flat it was. Calm colors from floor to 12-foot ceilings; and a fully stocked kitchen! It was under a 5 minute walk from the West Kensington Tube station; our bedroom was thusly blessed with the romantic click-clack of the train in the early morning, but since DH and I are morning people this was a non-issue. DD’s bedroom faced the street and was quiet; just the space a studious senior needed.
A Co-Op grocery and a Tesco Express were steps away, so on the first arrival evening we plated a heap big salad to counter all of the Fish ‘n Chips (and Guinness) we’d consumed in Ireland.
The following morning began early, for DD was heading to ASL to study for the day; friends had arranged a study room for her in the school's library. The forecast rain had disappeared, leaving DH and I with an entire day and little prospect of having to pop open the brelly. To Greenwich we headed.
Our inner STEM nerds were thrilled with the museum; the annoying tour groupers who insisted on 35 selfie takes each at the Prime Meridian, not so much. We tried, but failed to find the meridian line in the garden below the museum and observatory; though perhaps we did not try so hard because we were hungry. The Greenwich Market food trucks did not speak to us, so back into London proper we went.
A detour in the story. Whilst rummaging through DS’s wardrobe a couple of weeks ago (don’t ask) I came across a plastic baggie filled with Pounds and Pence. The tally came to €82 equivalent. Woohoo! Except, not. All of the notes and coins were from DS’s school trips to London for sports and otherwise from 2012-2014 and were now outdated, as I discovered when I attempted to purchase some items at the Greenwich gift shop with said outdated notes.
The gift shop clerk suggested we exchange our outdated notes at the Bank of England. Good idea! we thought. Back on the DLR to the London Bridge Tube station we hopped. Except, “something” happened to my Oyster Card and ￡10 was sucked from my balance when I tapped the machine. Once at the London Bridge station I sought the assistance from an almost-too-friendly-and-helpful station agent who expeditiously resolved the matter.
By this time we were both too hungry to care about exchanging our outdated currency (Dr. Google had informed DH we could mail our notes to the Bank of England and they will in turn transfer the exchange to our account. Good enough for us.) But where to eat at peak lunch time? If your London geography knowledge is tip-top, you’ll note that Borough Market is but steps away. Of course, finding a place to eat would be easy at lunchtime in a fiendishly popular market (insert sarcasm).
The luck of the Irish was with us! On a fingers-crossed lark we walked into Bedales, and were ushered to the table of a no-show reservation. On the top level, overlooking the market! We ordered the shared charcuterie/cheese platter and a couple of Lagers. Goodness prevailed.
The sun (!) shining brilliantly after lunch, we walked a bit of the market to ooh and ogle over luxuries like the￡102/kg Morels. The fresh seafood caught our attention for dinner, but we decided against both the detour back to the flat with said sea catch and perhaps leaving the sea aroma in the flat so graciously offered by the friend of a friend.
From here we decided to stroll along the Bankside path to the Tate Modern, about a kilometer or so. A pleasant enough walk, though one I might avoid during high tourist season for when I envision shoulder-bumping to be peak.
*Ugh, the Tate Modern. The either sadistic or directionally-challenged curator who played hide-and-seek with the art of interest (for me that would be Kandinsky) needs to be fired. Honestly, I would rather have paid an entrance fee and be provided with a gallery map than to have spent time wandering about in search of art that I wanted to look at, rather than wandering through weird stuff (except for the surprise of a Calder mobile) and frustrating ourselves. After an hour we declared the end game and thought to scurry to The Museum of Water and Steam, but discovered we would not make it before closing. In the face of this double disappointment we sought comfort in two cones of gelato and some people-watching.
DD messaged to confirm the evening outing with ASL friends to see Avengers: Endgame. DH looked sad that he could not join them; and then went all Dad-like when DD mentioned that not only would a (BOY) friend escort her to the flat afterward, but, BOY offered to take her sightseeing the following afternoon. And by the way, “Could BOY join us for lunch tomorrow?”
A Rotisserie chicken and Potatoes Dauphinois from the Tesco (plus more salad) was the dinner, along with a pleasant New Zealand white. I instructed DH to figure out how we could watch The Sopranos (we really are behind on television viewing) while dinner was warming, mostly to keep his mind off
Now it is Meet-the-BOY day, blustery and wet. DD remained in the flat to study in the morning while we went happily to The Museum of Water and Steam. So much fun at the most important sight of water pumping! No, I am not being sarcastic. It is way fun for us to learn about processes and things we all now take for granted, and we soaked ourselves (pun intended) with the museum until it was time to head across Londontown to Gunpowder at Spitalfields.
We are partial to Indian and similarly-influenced foods; DD’s nanny was Bangladeshi and weaned her on Biryanis and gloriously silky, spicy curries. I don’t recall how I came across Gunpowder but was glad I had. The casual setting—dishes are small and arrive when they are prepared—made it a laid-back-grill-the-BOY kind of lunch. The menu is small so it is possible to sample everything, though we did not. The rasam ke bomb, a “shot” of a potato pani puri set atop a spicy tamarind and mustard “chaser” was a tastebud-tingler to begin. (DD ordered a second “shot,” that is how delish they were.) From there the okra fries; the "doughnut" of venison wrapped in fried vermicelli; the Chettinand pulled duck; crispy pork ribs; Saag Paneer and Kerala pepper beef arrived at our table and we eagerly divided the dishes between us. BOY survived DH’s gentle grilling; whether he survived the curries is another matter, though.
Bidding farewell to the youth, who were heading to Greenwich (DD wants to focus on astrophysics in Uni, so we encouraged her to take in the observatory), we took a chance on the now only cloudy skies for a long wander through Hampstead and its Heath. My, oh, my. There are some mighty fancy homes in this part, though the presence of the American “Gap Kids;” the Spanish “Zara Home;” and the French “Paul” had us scratching our heads at the conformity of globalization.
The Heath was restorative. Green and fragrant and breezy, we clocked almost 8km before realizing we were tired. Thank goodness the Wells Tavern had a table for us so we could regroup over a couple of pints. We paused at the bookstore in the village so I could swoon over the many English-language books (even in the ex-pat ‘hood in Vienna, the best we get is a table of “popular” books (depending on your political leaning) and a couple of shelves mostly filled with murder mysteries.) I picked up 3 kilograms in book weight to savor at home. Just a lovely, lovely afternoon.
DD messaged to ask if she could enjoy dinner at BOY’s house, adding that she would return well before curfew. DH rolled his eyes. At the Victoria Station M&S we cobbled together a salad supper (and another New Zealand white) to enjoy with Tony Soprano. (BOY escorted DD home before curfew.)
Our final full day. Once again DD was studying, breaking to lunch with friends from ICL. DH and I were awake with the first trains of the District Line, sipping our coffee and plotting the day. The weather seemed to be holding for a day outing to Dover and so to St. Pancras we went to catch the train. We were hoping to avoid the London Marathon crowds and Mother Nature stepped in with the assist.
From the Dover station it was a taxi to the National Trust and park entrance. Our driver remarked, “You’ve picked a good day. Any more spots of sun and you wouldn’t see the cliffs for the people.” Indeed, the sky was just clear enough to make out the French coastline, and just cloudy enough to keep the people count down for a weekend day. The day was incredibly breezy but like London itself, was restorative. When we lived in the U.S. we annually spent a summer week on Cape Cod, an experience that has been difficult to recreate in our adopted landlocked home, so any time we can expose ourselves (figuratively) to the sea we are in a happy place.
Though Dover Castle looked appealing on its hilltop perch and with the brooding background, we took a pass. It is not that we are castle snobs; however, if you’ve seen one medieval castle, you’ve seen them all was how we were feeling. Or perhaps it was our rumbling tummies that we were feeling.
The glorious cliff wandering having ended (plus a quick skim through the second-hand book shop in the Visitor Center (to benefit the park). Alas, we were approaching capacity with the cases so I could not drag home another 3kg in books, so I just left a donation), a second taxi driver took us to the market square in Dover and suggested places for lunch. (There are but a couple.) We took a quiet corner table at the driver-recommended place and order two plates of fresh caught Cod and Chips. Delish.
On our return to London DD messaged to ask once again if she, BOY, and friends could eat dinner in the city. Is anyone surprised at this point? DH and I pulled together dinner from the St. Pancras M&S and rang up Tony Soprano to join us. (BOY escorted DD home before curfew. But we knew that by now.) During supper DDog’s sitter messaged with a snap of him looking like he didn’t miss us at all. Hounds.
The final morning was the usual push to pack and tidy up, then catch the choo-choo to Heathrow. British Airways has joined the ranks of carriers who now charge passengers for everything, including a whopping €36 for an Exit Row seat reservation. But what can we do? DH and DD are both 2-meter plus in height. Neither is overweight; just tall and physically do not “fit” in the cattle class seats.
Another quick flight into VIE. The Immigration Officer was a little salty when he took my U.S. Passport:
Officer: “Why are you here?” (with gruffness)
Me: “Ich lebe in Wien“ So there.
I thought I would be clever and hurry along to the airport grocery for dinner provisions, to avoid making a special outing once at home whilst DH and DD collected the cases. We had decided on grilled pizza for dinner. The airport grocery had the pizza crust dough; the fresh mozzarella; and even a basil plant. But no pizza sauce. Not even a space on the shelf for sauce.
Welcome Home! from the “World’s Most Livable City.”
DDog lifted his head from his bed when we walked in, giving us the, “Oh, it’s you.” look.
Thank you for reading.
Last edited by fourfortravel; May 2nd, 2019 at 01:21 AM.
May 2nd, 2019, 02:06 AM
#10
Thank you, everyone, for your kind words and for following along.
StCirq, I feel your pain. We survived five long years before American-style bacon reached Vienna's groceries.
Thursdaysd, thank you. DD has noted the route to "real" bacon at Tesco.
Adelaidean, thank you! DD is excited to geek-out in the School of Physics, uncovering the mysteries of the universe.
Kathie, we adore Dublin. Perhaps it is because DH is half-Irish; DD looks entirely Irish; and I just love coastal regions. I suspect over the next four years we will have numerous occasions to adjust and refine our opinion of Dublin, but for now it is all hearts on deck.
StCirq, I feel your pain. We survived five long years before American-style bacon reached Vienna's groceries.
Thursdaysd, thank you. DD has noted the route to "real" bacon at Tesco.
Adelaidean, thank you! DD is excited to geek-out in the School of Physics, uncovering the mysteries of the universe.
Kathie, we adore Dublin. Perhaps it is because DH is half-Irish; DD looks entirely Irish; and I just love coastal regions. I suspect over the next four years we will have numerous occasions to adjust and refine our opinion of Dublin, but for now it is all hearts on deck.
May 2nd, 2019, 05:36 AM
#13
Thanks for the report, sounds like a great trip. BOY sounds like a keeper, too.
I was able to change my outdated notes at a regular "high street" bank last year, maybe the regs have changed. (I have lived in North Carolina for decades but not lost my English accent. It is still good enough the clerk asked me where I had found the notes!)
As best I remember Dover is a pretty impressive castle, more intact than most. But it also has the Wartime Tunnels, the retreat from Dunkirk was directed from them.
I was able to change my outdated notes at a regular "high street" bank last year, maybe the regs have changed. (I have lived in North Carolina for decades but not lost my English accent. It is still good enough the clerk asked me where I had found the notes!)
As best I remember Dover is a pretty impressive castle, more intact than most. But it also has the Wartime Tunnels, the retreat from Dunkirk was directed from them.
May 2nd, 2019, 06:02 AM
#14
bilboburgler, I know, I know, we missed touring Dover Castle. DH has watched every color, and every grainy black-and-white WWII movie out there, yet even he wasn't feeling the hike to the castle. That's just how it goes; that we skipped it doesn't mean we have no appreciation for its significance.
Thursdaysd, we tried to exchange our notes at a bank in Greenwich but the clerk would not permit the transaction because we did not have an account with the bank, so perhaps the regulations have changed. (We think BOY is a keeper, too. )
Thursdaysd, we tried to exchange our notes at a bank in Greenwich but the clerk would not permit the transaction because we did not have an account with the bank, so perhaps the regulations have changed. (We think BOY is a keeper, too.
)
May 2nd, 2019, 09:37 AM
#18
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4for, if you aren't a published author, you should be. Loved the TR and your notes about Vienna had me laughing out loud. Best of luck to your DD and this next part of her life. I hope your DH will be able to withstand even more BOYS! 
May 3rd, 2019, 12:07 AM
#20
Treesa, haha. DDog is a master of expressing disregard; Foxhounds just have that way about them.
TDudette, I am a published author, though the articles are all in scientific journals from my "Once upon a time..." days before I became a Trailing Spouse. I have seriously considered writing the story of how we became ex-pats, as it was an unusual path, but then I might have to name names for the story to be believable.
TDudette, I am a published author, though the articles are all in scientific journals from my "Once upon a time..." days before I became a Trailing Spouse. I have seriously considered writing the story of how we became ex-pats, as it was an unusual path, but then I might have to name names for the story to be believable.
