FamousUncleArt's a 78yr old's take on LONDON
Jun 25th, 2005, 07:04 AM
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FAMOUSUNCLEART - Hello, I am enjoying your thread very much.
When I spoke to my 85 year old mum who lives in Suffolk yesterday she also said it was unbearably hot but thought perhaps the forecast thunder storms would cool things off.
Keep posting.
Sandy
When I spoke to my 85 year old mum who lives in Suffolk yesterday she also said it was unbearably hot but thought perhaps the forecast thunder storms would cool things off.
Keep posting.
Sandy
Jun 28th, 2005, 04:16 PM
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FAMOUSUNCLEART - Hello, I understand that you are back home.
I for one would like you to post the rest of your trip report. Don't forget to tell us about the journey home and where you plan to go next.
Sandy
I for one would like you to post the rest of your trip report. Don't forget to tell us about the journey home and where you plan to go next.
Sandy
Jun 29th, 2005, 12:49 AM
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Art was not wrong to call his Chinese driver an Oriental, that is what the people from Far East Asia called themselves here. In UK, the word 'Asians' is usually referred to East Asians i.e. Indians, Pakistanis and Bangadeshi.
Jun 29th, 2005, 01:58 PM
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Hiya Gang:
Sorry for the long pause between posts (although I think for some it is the pause that refreshes)
Our home exchanger, an actor plus pastry chef, took her laptop and said ours would work easily. She was wrong. We had difficulty in logging on and once we did we waited a long time to get on line, especially hotmail. So,here are fragments from my tired synapses creeping towards the travel side of my brain.
As a solo traveler, I was the tour guide, but when Connie got here, she was the tour guide and I preferred it. She was excellent and thorough. She got here and quickly found short cuts, which was a blessing since my knees wanted to go on strike.
(Memo to self: Not more home exchanges when you have climb more steps than to the top of Eiffel Tower.)
She is a “Let’s see what’s down this street.” Which always leads to discovering an interesting site like some mansions of the Foreign embassies plus an excellent security man who filled us in all the details, pointing out the only private home on the street (owned by the Royal Family) which costs millions of pounds.
I had been to Kew Gardens and went again with Connie who found a shorter route to get there than I had used.
She had been there before but many years ago, so she strolled solo the well kept gardens. I sat under a sheltering ancient oak tree, with my Prêt a Manger plastic packed sandwich, my Diet Coke (bottle not can) and began to read an Elmore Leonard novel,
Three fat geese that watched me as I ate soon visited me. I shared some crumbs, finished the book and Connie soon returned and we headed back to London but not by the Underground.
She researched and found a ferryboat which left Kew Gardens to Westminster down the Thames on a bright cheery but hot afternoon. We got to the dock and with about twenty people we boarded the ship. I never got its name.
The boat was not much bigger than the African Queen, aged darkly stained wood, two steps down were a row of benches on each side, with smugged windows and un secured banquet chairs in the middle, some faux lamps on the over head structure.
Finally, a small highly polished wooden bar was squeezed into the stern of the boat with a most congenial thin faced bartender who couldn’t understand me and I couldn’t understand him.
We chugged down the Thames and the passengers chugged down dark bottles of ale and beer. Happy tourists!
We were about forty minutes from Westminster, and I don’t know how many bridges we went under but there were a lot and each one was different in design and character and names like Kingston,Putney, and Lambeth (have you ever done the Lambeth walk?)
It was high tide, and the skipper studied a monitor of its trip, he sat sweating in a small cabin, smaller than a phone booth (I was going to say ‘smaller than a bread box’ but it didn’t fit).
When we got to one of the bridges the Hammersmith, the boat couldn't pass under it. He ordered that a deck cover be lowered so we could pass under the bridge. It got jammed and we floated there until they worked it out.
None of the passengers seemed to mind. Hell, they had their coolish drinks, I had my diet coke (bottle not a can) and it was cool, friendly with a mixture of Australians, Orientals, Asians and the rest were Brits.
We made it to Westminster in short time. I told Connie that I had never seen #10 Downing Street which is nearby the underground. She, the guide that she is, took me there.
I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the Prime Minister give short press conferences right outside the door of number ten, but he seemed so…accessible.opened,friendly.
I thought, gee, it’s not gonna be like the White house that sandbagged mansion. Once again, the Solo Traveler was wrong. We never got close to it. Three or four security people who were well armed protected it. It was sandbagged and just as impersonal as the one on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Sometimes you find out things about your own country when you are in another country.
More Later
Sorry for the long pause between posts (although I think for some it is the pause that refreshes)
Our home exchanger, an actor plus pastry chef, took her laptop and said ours would work easily. She was wrong. We had difficulty in logging on and once we did we waited a long time to get on line, especially hotmail. So,here are fragments from my tired synapses creeping towards the travel side of my brain.
As a solo traveler, I was the tour guide, but when Connie got here, she was the tour guide and I preferred it. She was excellent and thorough. She got here and quickly found short cuts, which was a blessing since my knees wanted to go on strike.
(Memo to self: Not more home exchanges when you have climb more steps than to the top of Eiffel Tower.)
She is a “Let’s see what’s down this street.” Which always leads to discovering an interesting site like some mansions of the Foreign embassies plus an excellent security man who filled us in all the details, pointing out the only private home on the street (owned by the Royal Family) which costs millions of pounds.
I had been to Kew Gardens and went again with Connie who found a shorter route to get there than I had used.
She had been there before but many years ago, so she strolled solo the well kept gardens. I sat under a sheltering ancient oak tree, with my Prêt a Manger plastic packed sandwich, my Diet Coke (bottle not can) and began to read an Elmore Leonard novel,
Three fat geese that watched me as I ate soon visited me. I shared some crumbs, finished the book and Connie soon returned and we headed back to London but not by the Underground.
She researched and found a ferryboat which left Kew Gardens to Westminster down the Thames on a bright cheery but hot afternoon. We got to the dock and with about twenty people we boarded the ship. I never got its name.
The boat was not much bigger than the African Queen, aged darkly stained wood, two steps down were a row of benches on each side, with smugged windows and un secured banquet chairs in the middle, some faux lamps on the over head structure.
Finally, a small highly polished wooden bar was squeezed into the stern of the boat with a most congenial thin faced bartender who couldn’t understand me and I couldn’t understand him.
We chugged down the Thames and the passengers chugged down dark bottles of ale and beer. Happy tourists!
We were about forty minutes from Westminster, and I don’t know how many bridges we went under but there were a lot and each one was different in design and character and names like Kingston,Putney, and Lambeth (have you ever done the Lambeth walk?)
It was high tide, and the skipper studied a monitor of its trip, he sat sweating in a small cabin, smaller than a phone booth (I was going to say ‘smaller than a bread box’ but it didn’t fit).
When we got to one of the bridges the Hammersmith, the boat couldn't pass under it. He ordered that a deck cover be lowered so we could pass under the bridge. It got jammed and we floated there until they worked it out.
None of the passengers seemed to mind. Hell, they had their coolish drinks, I had my diet coke (bottle not a can) and it was cool, friendly with a mixture of Australians, Orientals, Asians and the rest were Brits.
We made it to Westminster in short time. I told Connie that I had never seen #10 Downing Street which is nearby the underground. She, the guide that she is, took me there.
I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the Prime Minister give short press conferences right outside the door of number ten, but he seemed so…accessible.opened,friendly.
I thought, gee, it’s not gonna be like the White house that sandbagged mansion. Once again, the Solo Traveler was wrong. We never got close to it. Three or four security people who were well armed protected it. It was sandbagged and just as impersonal as the one on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Sometimes you find out things about your own country when you are in another country.
More Later
Jun 29th, 2005, 02:27 PM
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Hi Unc,
>Sometimes you find out things about your own country when you are in another country.<
You are in good company.
"He who only England knows, knows England least" - R. Kipling
Do you like Kipling?
I don't know. I've never kippled.
>Sometimes you find out things about your own country when you are in another country.<
You are in good company.
"He who only England knows, knows England least" - R. Kipling
Do you like Kipling?
I don't know. I've never kippled.
Jul 1st, 2005, 02:34 PM
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Hiya Gang:
HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY.
It’s great to celebrate a holiday in my own country.
Now what all of you have been waiting for….
My final posting of our London trip.
Connie wanted to have a “High British Tea” for years, it was important to her, I never asked why but I thought it would be fun. Besides, why leave London without something, which screams British!!
We arranged to go to a restaurant which she had picked out of a tourists pamphlets and some friends had heard of it, so we planned for a pleasant tea with finger sandwiches (doesn’t sound like something out of a George Romero film?)
. On the “ High tea day”, she was gone shopping and I was in the apartment, finishing up some details before we left for New York. The finishing up was trying to repair the skylights, cleaning up the different food items spilled on beautiful coaches and watching Countdown on BBC 1, 2, or 4 I have forgotten which one.
. The night before “high tea day” I had gotten the number of the restaurant called “The Orange ire (I know it must have misspelled it but they deserve it)
I called them to find when was tea-time and was told by a young French lady that it was at ‘tre’ oclock. I asked what the nearest underground and she told me Noting Hill Gate and/or High Street Kensington. She said they were off of High Street.
I settled on High Street underground stop and I asked what was building number ? She said that there is no number, and after I said there had to be a number, she asked somebody what the number was and she again answered that there was no number!!!
Hearing the clatter of dishes in the background, I, the polite Solo Traveler, didn’t explore it since I would figure it out when I got to High Street. Hell, I traveled all over the world with lest information than that.
Connie called back and I told her what transpired. We planned to meet at three p.m to get a seat since the place was popular.
However, I said to myself “ Why there was no number?” but I couldn’t answer the question. But if the restaurant was so popular, people would know what number on High Street.
I left the house at 2:30, which gave me more enough time, I got off at High Street, looked around and could not see the place. (I was told it had a large Orange sign—what else could it be -eggplant-colored?) It was a cool but sunny day…perfect for tea.
Whenever I am searching for a restaurant I ask other similar restaurants where it might be. A good point to remember when looking for a restaurant. I went into three upscale restaurants for directions. They never heard of it.
I began to worry. Popular!. No Maitre D’ of high class joints heard of it.
Luckily, I had brought my fancy blue jacket, I wore a egg blue turtle neck, and no cap. I looked marvelous.. But during all the walking, I began to get hot.
I wandered up and down High Street asking intelligent looking, well dressed people, a newspaper stand guy who shrugged every time I asked him a question, and a young lady at a flower shop who sent me in the wrong direction. I began to sweat!
I was smart, I brought enough money to use the public phones, but the three our four I found were not working and the other two only took credit cards (I lost mine—but that’s another story) Finally found one, and got another young French lady who I couldn’t understand at all.
I was rude. I said, as I would have said in Paris, “Please find me someone who speaks English” By this time, I was hot, angry and as I waited all I saw were photos of busty women plastered all over the booth.
. The other person gave me that they were at the entrance to Kensington Park, and I couldn’t miss it, since they had an orange sign. I had walked past the Park about five times. NOBODY MENTIONED THE PARK! I was getting testy!
Kensington Park is large with a dozen or so entrances!
You knew that, huh?
I ended up asking a doorman , the police sitting in a aircontioned car, they eyed me suspiciously probably because I was red-faced, sweating, and my beautiful coat was over my shoulder, and my turtle neck was splotched with sweat.
I finally asked a chap in a casino, which, by the way, I was, a member but gambling didn’t appeal to me.. It was about three thirty, four oclock and I was furious, the restaurant was in the Park and, yes, it did not have a number and it did not have an orange sign. We had a stressed high tea, walked through the park looking for the memorial for Diana.
By this time, I was happy to leave London.
HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY.
It’s great to celebrate a holiday in my own country.
Now what all of you have been waiting for….
My final posting of our London trip.
Connie wanted to have a “High British Tea” for years, it was important to her, I never asked why but I thought it would be fun. Besides, why leave London without something, which screams British!!
We arranged to go to a restaurant which she had picked out of a tourists pamphlets and some friends had heard of it, so we planned for a pleasant tea with finger sandwiches (doesn’t sound like something out of a George Romero film?)
. On the “ High tea day”, she was gone shopping and I was in the apartment, finishing up some details before we left for New York. The finishing up was trying to repair the skylights, cleaning up the different food items spilled on beautiful coaches and watching Countdown on BBC 1, 2, or 4 I have forgotten which one.
. The night before “high tea day” I had gotten the number of the restaurant called “The Orange ire (I know it must have misspelled it but they deserve it)
I called them to find when was tea-time and was told by a young French lady that it was at ‘tre’ oclock. I asked what the nearest underground and she told me Noting Hill Gate and/or High Street Kensington. She said they were off of High Street.
I settled on High Street underground stop and I asked what was building number ? She said that there is no number, and after I said there had to be a number, she asked somebody what the number was and she again answered that there was no number!!!
Hearing the clatter of dishes in the background, I, the polite Solo Traveler, didn’t explore it since I would figure it out when I got to High Street. Hell, I traveled all over the world with lest information than that.
Connie called back and I told her what transpired. We planned to meet at three p.m to get a seat since the place was popular.
However, I said to myself “ Why there was no number?” but I couldn’t answer the question. But if the restaurant was so popular, people would know what number on High Street.
I left the house at 2:30, which gave me more enough time, I got off at High Street, looked around and could not see the place. (I was told it had a large Orange sign—what else could it be -eggplant-colored?) It was a cool but sunny day…perfect for tea.
Whenever I am searching for a restaurant I ask other similar restaurants where it might be. A good point to remember when looking for a restaurant. I went into three upscale restaurants for directions. They never heard of it.
I began to worry. Popular!. No Maitre D’ of high class joints heard of it.
Luckily, I had brought my fancy blue jacket, I wore a egg blue turtle neck, and no cap. I looked marvelous.. But during all the walking, I began to get hot.
I wandered up and down High Street asking intelligent looking, well dressed people, a newspaper stand guy who shrugged every time I asked him a question, and a young lady at a flower shop who sent me in the wrong direction. I began to sweat!
I was smart, I brought enough money to use the public phones, but the three our four I found were not working and the other two only took credit cards (I lost mine—but that’s another story) Finally found one, and got another young French lady who I couldn’t understand at all.
I was rude. I said, as I would have said in Paris, “Please find me someone who speaks English” By this time, I was hot, angry and as I waited all I saw were photos of busty women plastered all over the booth.
. The other person gave me that they were at the entrance to Kensington Park, and I couldn’t miss it, since they had an orange sign. I had walked past the Park about five times. NOBODY MENTIONED THE PARK! I was getting testy!
Kensington Park is large with a dozen or so entrances!
You knew that, huh?
I ended up asking a doorman , the police sitting in a aircontioned car, they eyed me suspiciously probably because I was red-faced, sweating, and my beautiful coat was over my shoulder, and my turtle neck was splotched with sweat.
I finally asked a chap in a casino, which, by the way, I was, a member but gambling didn’t appeal to me.. It was about three thirty, four oclock and I was furious, the restaurant was in the Park and, yes, it did not have a number and it did not have an orange sign. We had a stressed high tea, walked through the park looking for the memorial for Diana.
By this time, I was happy to leave London.
Jul 7th, 2005, 04:35 PM
#72
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The month we spent in London was like visiting a distant relative who becomes a surrogate aunt or uncle. You accepted their idiosyncrasies, and short- comings, but you basically love them. Then a tragedy strikes, a brutal attack, which maims them irretrievably.
Our trip to London was not the first time for both of us, but this time it had a special value for us, especially me. We were out of the bustling city surrounded, basically, with a pristine park, and a short walk to the underground.
We either walked or rode a subway and especially busses were our only way of traveling in the city. Like a summer romance, London became our city.
I couldn’t sleep early this morning and was listening to what was NPR but BBC took over and I heard the account, slowly, much like 9/11. At first it was an explosion or an accident and finally it was the terrorists!
Who were they? Why London? The pundits are working on it. But for me it was as if that distant relative of mine was brutalized and, obviously it made me furious.
And sad.
I told Connie during the last weeks that I and or we would probably not come back to London for another five or six years. But now, I would like to return in a way to give succor to that lovable sweet Uncle or Aunt.
And as Connie said, we pray for them.
Our trip to London was not the first time for both of us, but this time it had a special value for us, especially me. We were out of the bustling city surrounded, basically, with a pristine park, and a short walk to the underground.
We either walked or rode a subway and especially busses were our only way of traveling in the city. Like a summer romance, London became our city.
I couldn’t sleep early this morning and was listening to what was NPR but BBC took over and I heard the account, slowly, much like 9/11. At first it was an explosion or an accident and finally it was the terrorists!
Who were they? Why London? The pundits are working on it. But for me it was as if that distant relative of mine was brutalized and, obviously it made me furious.
And sad.
I told Connie during the last weeks that I and or we would probably not come back to London for another five or six years. But now, I would like to return in a way to give succor to that lovable sweet Uncle or Aunt.
And as Connie said, we pray for them.
