Recap of the weekend in London

Our 25^th anniversary weekend in London was a lot like our marriage— a mix of "for better, for worse, in sickness, and in health."

For better:

We traveled first class by train and stayed in a five-star hotel with doormen in tails and a very sleek and sophisticated modern interior décor. As Mary Engelbreit would say, “It’s nice being Queen.”

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When we booked this weekend back in January, I expected cold, damp March weather and planned to spend lots of time in the city museums. Instead, we got blue skies, mild temps, and acres of daffodils in all the parks. We didn’t open our umbrellas once, we got to wear sunglasses, and we were free to explore the city on foot. No wet shoes! This is no small achievement in London (or Belgium, for that matter).

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It was lovely to be in the city without the children because we didn’t have to stop at every souvenir shop and food concession stand and endure endless questions about when we were going to eat next and what we were going to have.

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Since this was our second time in London, we kept a slower pace and didn’t feel compelled to cover a lot of ground sightseeing. We strolled past famous landmarks, window-shopped, admired the architecture, and took a long walk along the Thames.

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When you deal with language barriers every single day, being in an English-speaking country is so liberating and luxurious. I felt unshackeled. It was good to leave my expat ball and chain in Brussels.

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There were Starbucks everywhere, and E was able to indulge his love of large, takeaway coffees. Carry-out coffee is almost non-existent in Belgium, a place where gas stations sell ONLY gas, there’s no such thing as a convenience store, and fast food restaurants are severely limited. To add insult to injury, coffee is nearly always served in a 6 oz. cup without free refills. This is torture for Americans abroad and makes finding a Starbucks like waking up Christmas morning and discovering Santa Claus has brought you exactly what you hoped for.

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As a tea drinker, I adored being served steaming tea from a proper teapot. No lukewarm water and messy teabags in a tiny cup. Ah! I went to Whittard's and bought some tea to bring home.

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I got to have a steak dinner, something I’ve been craving for months. Finally a baked potato!

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We visited The National Gallery and I lingered over the Impressionist exhibits—Monet, Seurat, Gauguin, Cezanne, Degas, Van Gogh, Sisely. It was an explosion of color and energy. I saw some paintings I’ve been longing to see since I was a kid and first saw them on postcards at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, plus I saw a favorite Picasso.

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On Saturday night, we saw the show Chicago, and the music, choreography, and performances were fun and full of sassy style. The theatre was small and we had great seats, and the entire theatre district was pulsing with people and bicycle rickshaws (!).

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On Sunday, we attended a church service at St. Paul’s Cathedral, a London landmark that is best known in America as the church where Princess Di and Prince Charles were married. When you’re an American member of the Anglican church, there is something special about worshipping in a “real” Anglican church in Britain. It's like going back to your roots. We used a 17^th century liturgy, and I adored hearing the traditional boys choir.

For worse:

The Friday night before we left, we’d planned to go out to dinner and a movie after dropping the kids off for the weekend. Unfortunately, we hit heavy traffic and backups, and it took us an hour and fifteen minutes to get our son dropped off in Waterloo, which is less than 20 miles away from our house. Every restaurant was jammed and parking was non-existent. We finally gave up and drove all the back to our commune and finally found a restaurant and a parking spot. When we got out of the car, E realized he had forgotten to give A the envelope that had A's medical power of attorney, his Belgian ID (required to receive medical care), spending money, and all our contact info in it. We had already been in the car for TWO hours, but now we had to drive ALL the way back to Waterloo to drop the envelope off. By then I was so hungry and exhausted and frustrated by the traffic that I felt sick. Our romantic Friday night dinner for two? Lukewarm food at an overcrowded McDonald’s—the only “restaurant” with parking. By the time we finished, it was too late to see a movie.

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When we arrived in London Saturday morning, we discovered the Underground stop next to our hotel had suffered a power outage and was closed. We had to get off the Tube early and walk at least a mile carrying our shoulder bags and pulling our suitcases across the bumpy sidewalks in the city. At least it wasn't raining.

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We should have done a bit of research on the storyline for Chicago before booking tickets for an anniversary weekend. Adultery! Murder! Manipulation! This was not the time or place for a musical that revolves around the lives of women who have murdered the men in their lives because “They had it comin!” And while E may have enjoyed watching scantily clad women dancing in black lingerie and body stockings for two hours, the perfectly chiseled male dancers were clearly all gay. Life’s not fair.

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E had been on a business trip all week in the Netherlands and spent long periods of time trapped in close quarters with heavy smokers. On Friday, he was attributing his mild cough and post-nasal drip to secondhand smoke. On Saturday, he felt unusually tired and by Saturday night, he was running a fever, had aches, chills, a headache, and a deeper cough. The worst part—we didn’t have any ibuprofen or meds on hand, the hotel was out, and we couldn’t find an open store until Sunday afternoon. E became steadily more congested all day and his coughing worsened. Today he's off to the doctor. I think he may have bronchitis or flu.

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On the way home, our train was delayed for an hour somewhere in France. We were already going to be getting home kind of late, a source of concern because the kids have standardized tests all this week and really need to be well rested. When the train finally pulled into the main international station in the heart of Brussels, dozens and dozens of people disembarked, all looking for taxis. In the U.S., there would have been a long queue of taxis all competing for passengers. In Belgium, capitalism and competitive drive, are, um, lacking. There were a handful of taxis there when we arrived and more didn’t’show up until we’d been waiting at least 30 minutes. And what was the station taxi steward doing to alleviate this problem? Absolutely nothing. I never saw him pick up a cell phone to call for additional taxis, help people with luggage, or assist anyone in any way shape or form. I’ve seen sidewalk beggars with more drive.

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When we finally did get a taxi and it took off through the city, I was convinced E and I would not live to see Monday morning. Our African driver was careening through the tunnels at high speeds and I thought I was going to suffer a fate like Princess Di’s. I actually had to close my eyes and practice slow, rhythmic breathing to relax my white-knuckled grip on the seat and keep from feeling faint.

Inhale. Exhale. Definitely a memorable beginning to year 26 at Chez V.

March 12, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved.

Trip to England Part Two: London

We were dragging a bit on the train ride from Portsmouth to London, tired from the weekend’s adventures and the hour time change which was just enough to throw us off balance and cause the children to get up absurdly early.

We had to drag our suitcases about three blocks to the small hotel we’d booked with our train tickets through Eurostar. Our room was on the third floor and the hotel didn’t have a lift. So breathless and overheated from getting our suitcase off the Underground and to the hotel, we faced the narrow stair with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Our “family room” was small but sunny and painted a cheerful shade of yellow. Bumping our luggage into the small space, we collapsed on the four twin beds and caught our breath.

On Friday in Portsmouth, 45 mph winds and rain had buffeted the coast before our arrival, but happily Saturday’s weather had been cool, sunny, and breezy when we toured the dockyard. Sunday’s weather in London was perfect: crystal clear and crisp. Despite our longing for a nap, we hit the street to take advantage of the fabulous weather.

We were staying in Westminister and headed off toward Kensington Gardens. A Sunday afternoon art show was set up along the perimeter and we thoroughly enjoyed viewing all the exhibits, which were hung on the wrought-iron fence circling the park. We bought a small painting of a robin in a snowstorm and the children bought miniature framed tiles for their rooms: Mr. A chose a hedgehog, E-Grrrl a bunny.

We walked through the park to Kensington Gardens and checked out Kensington Palace, best known as Princess Diana’s home after her divorce. I was never a big fan of Diana—she seemed a bit pathetic and unstable, and her attempts to demonize Charles for his affair knowing she’d also been unfaithful were particularly unsavory. She certainly used the media to her advantage, and in that light her death fleeing from paparazzi was an ironic end to her story.

The one thing I admired about Diana was her great short hair and slightly prominent nose, which gave me hope and inspired some of my own style choices. Diana always found a way to make short hair fun and sexy. I bought a post card featuring a black and white image of Diana shot by Mario Testino at Kensington Palace.

We headed toward Hyde Park, taking photos of the amazing architecture along the way. The kids were hungry so we stopped at a street vendor’s for a very late lunch. Three hotdogs, four drinks, close to $30. Ouch. London is one of the world’s most expensive cities.

As the afternoon wore on, the light became even more spectacular. We saw Royal Albert Hall and the separate monument to Albert, an amazing piece of gilded Victorian splendor. We passed through an area of the park that had earlier been used to stage a road race, and soon heard horses approaching behind us. Under police escort, a unit of the Royal Guard, dressed in sharp red jackets with shining silver helmets was riding black horses in formation to Buckingham Palace. We couldn’t believe we’d stumbled upon this mini-parade of sorts.

After snapping photos we followed the Guards on foot, knowing they were heading to Buckingham Palace. Naturally we fell behind walking, but E-Grrrl broke out in a run, her Stride Ride mary janes and purple Adidas track suit carrying her behind the horses all the way to the palace gate.

When we caught up, I took it all in: Buckingham Palace. The Victoria Monument. Big Ben’s elegant face and golden spire rising in the distance in a perfect blue sky. I had one of those moments where I couldn’t believe this was my life, even for a day, amazed once again I had come to this place, this moment.

We basked in all the royal glory with other camera-toting tourists before pushing our weary feet on toward Westminister Abbey, the coronation and burial place of most of England’s monarchs. Once there we admired the architecture, and then I ducked into the Westminister Abbey gift shop while E went around the corner to photograph Big Ben and Parliament before the light faded. I figured if I was going to drop a wad of money in London, I wanted it to benefit the Abbey, which is home to the Anglican Communion.

I loved this gift shop. An avid tea drinker, I’ve been collecting tea bag caddies from all over Europe, simple and small souvenirs that I use daily. I bought Christmas ornaments of miniature Royal Guards, and E and A picked out stained glass sun catchers representing scenes from the Abbey’s windows. A pile of postcards to scrapbook and a refrigerator magnet were added on to make the purchase really sing. Ka-ching!

After a quick walkabout around Big Ben, we opted to take the Underground back to our neighborhood for dinner. We were beyond tired. Later when E calculated how far we’d walked that day, the figure he came up with was close to six miles. The ultimate of our European Death Marches. I slipped my boots off under the table in the restaurant and surreptitiously massaged my feet. I was amazed at how far we’d gone and how much we’d seen.

In the morning we were all sore. The weather was gray and unpleasantly humid. I had packed for cooler weather and felt uncomfortably warm, but at least it wasn’t raining. We opted to ride the Underground out to London Tower and Tower Bridge, the site of so much misery, so much history, so much mystery. I never fail to be surprised by the ancient ruins surrounded by modern development in European cities. Here a wall the Romans built to protect their empire stands in proximity with the fortress built by the British to protect theirs and all around it is modern London, bustling with traffic and activity.

Despite our vow to avoid all unnecessary walking, we couldn’t resist following a path along the Thames for as long as possible before grabbing the Underground to get to the London Eye. We needed to pick up the tickets we’d purchased online for a noonday ride. The London Eye is the world’s largest Ferris wheel, reaching a height of 443 feet above the Thames, higher even, than Big Ben. A single revolution takes a half hour, and visitors are esconced in small groups in large glass capsules that afford an unprecedented view of London. This was the part of the trip the kids had been waiting for.

We arrived just in time to get our tickets and join the queue getting on board. While E was wishing for Sunday’s blue skies, I was admiring the moodiness and drama of the grey clouds overhead. In the last 10 years or so, I’ve developed a fear of heights—but it’s a selective fear. I’m not afraid of flying and the London Eye’s slow ascent and descent were fine, but a real Ferris wheel with swinging benches makes my stomach clench.

We had a bit of time after our ride to tour but by this point I was beyond wanting to see another thing. I’m embarrassed to say we slipped into McDonald’s for a late lunch. My heart was out of rhythm, and I was feeling seriously overheated and overtired as we made the trip back to the hotel. So many stairs, in and out of the Underground, then a three block walk to the hotel where we picked up our luggage and prepared to carry it three blocks back to the station. E, seeing my distress, hoisted my bags and doubled his burden. By the time we got to the station, I thought one more flight of stairs would surely send me to the ER. I plopped in a café, E bought me water, and I popped an extra dose of heart meds and tried to cool off and catch my breath.

Exhausting, yes. Worth it? You bet. E and I are heading back to London without the kids in March and plan to hit the Salvador Dali museum, the National Gallery of Art, and take in some of the West End sights. I think I should join a gym now to get ready!

October 11, 2006

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Trip to England Part One: Portsmouth

As I came down the stairs this morning, my legs and feet still ached from our weekend in England. My scuffed black boots in the foyer are a reminder of the miles and miles of city pavement we crossed during a fast-paced weekend of sight seeing. Who knew being a tourist could be can extreme sport?

E’s colleague Bernie lives in Portsmouth, England, and he and his wife, Janet, graciously invited us to visit their home and tour their town. Bernie has a flat in Brussels and travels to Portsmouth on weekends. I had not clue how long his weekly commute was until we joined him on it.

With luggage stringing behind us and Bernie at the front of our queue, we grabbed a bus to Gare du Midi, filled out the appropriate paperwork to enter England, and took Eurostar through the Channel Tunnel to London, a trip that took slightly more than two hours.

In London, we arrived at Paddington Station which was buzzing with Friday-night travelers and snaked through the crowds and lines to catch a second train to take us to Portsmouth, on England’s south coast. After a little more than an hour on the train, Janet and her dad met us at the station and soon we were unloading our bags at Bernie and Janet’s cozy home. My children, A and E-Grrrl, were instantly besotted with Molly, a Jack Russell terrier and spent the time before dinner entertaining her by tossing and squeaking every item in her toy box.

Janet served a wonderful dinner of beef tips in gravy, carrots, green beans, Yorkshire puddings, and baked potatoes. I thought the children would swoon when she brought out a fresh baked pie made with apples from her garden and asked the children if they’d like custard, cream, or ice cream on top.

Saturday morning Bernie whipped together a traditional English breakfast—eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, fried potatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, and tomatoes. Fat and happy, we waddled off for a day of sightseeing in Portsmouth.

Portsmouth offers historic ships, castles, forts and museums, but we focused on Portsmouth's Royal Dockyard –the traditional home of the Royal Navy for centuries and home to Henry VIII's Mary Rose, Admiral Lord Nelson's flagship HMS Victory, and the Victorian iron clad HMS Warrior1860.

E has read Patrick O’Brian’s series of historical maritime novels over and over again and was thrilled to have a chance to see some fighting ships from that period and visit the related museums. We checked out some of the ships in the dockyard and then bought tickets to tour the HMS Victory, which Admiral Lord Nelson commanded in the Battle of Trafalagar, a pivotal victory against the French during the Napoleonic Wars. Nelson, a beloved historical figure, died on the Victory after being wounded by a French sniper in the heat of the battle. How much did E enjoy the tour of the Victory? He took more than 60 photos of the ship!

It was interesting to see the interior of the ship, the gun decks, sleeping quarters, galley, and storage areas and the complex mechanics of the deck’s many sails, but I was most interested in the story of Lord Nelson himself, the United Kingdom’s most famous naval hero. He was known not just as a military strategist but as a charismatic and well-loved leader who inspired those above him and below him in rank and exhibited great personal courage during battles.

Lord Nelson was the son of an Anglican minister and the museum we visited devoted exhibit space to evidence of the depth of his faith and involvement in the church. And yet years into his marriage, he fell in love with the young wife of one of his best friends and had a torrid affair with her, abandoning his own wife and living openly with his mistress and her husband in a ménage a trois. Emma Hamilton had lived in a brothel as a teenager and been the mistress of several prominent men before marrying one and then becoming Nelson’s mistress. She bore him three children, only one of which survived.

As a writer, I’m fascinated by his personal story. How did one who apparently kept the faith and was known for outstanding professional character reconcile this affair with his beliefs? How did his wife bear the humiliation and pain of his divorce during a time when such things just were not done? What was it like for him to have the devotion of his sailors, officers and countrymen but be unable to marry or legally provide for the woman he loved? She ended up in debtor’s prison after his death. Their daughter went on to marry a minister and while claiming Nelson as her father she refused to acknowledge her mother as Emma Hamilton.

After our tour of the Royal Dockyard, we took a quick look at the city’s castles and fortresses, some dating to Roman times, and made our way back to the house where Janet served a roast chicken and gravy, bread stuffing, sausage, roast potatoes and parsnips, carrots and broccoli, and Yorkshire pudding. It was like Thanksgiving! We had a delicious baked meringue covered with strawberries, raspberries, and cream to end the day.

The following morning Bernie fortified us with another of his English breakfasts and we headed by train back to London.

(Coming soon--the ultimate urban death march around London.)

October 10, 2006

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

The wobbly bits--reflections on scenery, driving and the English experience

If Belgium is built of brick, Britain is built of stone. Just as nearly every manmade structure in Belgium is a shade of red, every thing in Britain appears to be a shade of gray or tan. The area we visited is renowned for its cream colored limestone and classic architecture and its featured in new as well as old buildings.

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Jane Austen lived in Bath for several years and recent movies based on her novels were filmed here. We saw some some of the homes and manors used in the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice. We also an Elizabethan manor house whose history inspired Charles Dickens to write Bleak House. We caught a glimpse of Prince Charles’ estate, High Grove. There’s a Jane Austen museum in Bath, but we didn’t visit.

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I loved the wide open skies and rolling plains of the English countryside near Bath and in the Cotswolds. On sunny days the shadows of clouds scuttling over hills and dales animated the landscape. On cloudy days I appreciated the stark beauty of craggy limbed trees against the pearl gray sky. Everywhere we turned, the deep green hills were dotted with sheep. I told E-Man that it was only natural a cold, damp country like England would be known for wool production. Later, my conjectures were confirmed by a guide, who told us the wool industry was launched by the Romans when they occupied Britain. Military men hated to posted to the chilly hinterlands of the Empire and began cultivating sheep to meet their own needs for warm clothing.

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The English seem to be unfailingly polite. Not only were they courteous in their personal interactions, but even their traffic signs, posts, and warnings had a pleasant tone. They are not as quiet and reserved as Belgians. Unfortunately, the loud car stereos that are prevalent in America are also popular in the UK. (Kudos to the Belgians for not blasting their bass notes into the stratosphere.)

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The E-Man bravely embraced the “backwards” UK traffic pattern and drove confidently on the left side of the road and barreled around traffic circles in a clockwise direction with the savoir faire of a native. The first day as a passenger in the car, I was skittish and sometimes had to close my eyes because all my reflexes revolted against E driving on the left. However, I was surprised how quickly I got used to it and was able to relax and enjoy the scenery. E did a fabulous job of driving and navigating.

Even after living in Belgium for more than a year, I’m uncomfortable in the car, as a driver or a passenger. Belgian law gives priority to cars entering roads from the right so as you’re driving along cars come shooting out of perpendicular roads right in front of you. Except at certain intersections, they are not required to stop, yield, or even slow down. I will never get used to having vehicles popping out of side streets at high rates of speed. I’m forever terrified by anything moving in my peripheral vision—and that includes the abundance of pedestrians and cyclists who are EVERYWHERE.

E and I both admired how well marked roads were in the area of England we were in. Lots of signs, well placed, and best of all, lots of pavement markings indicating which lane to stay in to catch a particular highway. Yes the roads meander and are seldom straight and there are loads of traffic circles, but it’s much harder to get lost than in America or in Belgium. There seemed to be less aggressive driving and road rage. We’re forever amazed that the otherwise quiet and self-contained Belgians can get so bent out of shape when they get behind the wheel of a car (not that Americans are calm behind the wheel--they're driven in every sense of the word!). One thing I will say for Belgian drivers, as compared to U.S. drivers, is that they nearly ALWAYS use their turn signals. Of course, this is almost comical when they’re signaling to pass you on the right by DRIVING ON THE SIDEWALK! Or edging around and in front of you while you are in a marked turn lane preparing to turn left. Ah yes, I love the way Belgians seize the day by creating lanes and right-of-way rules at will. Who says they’re not a dynamic and creative people? ; )

April 21, 2006

Sacred Places

Our second day in Bath, the weather was nicer. E finally got to do his walking tour (while the kids and I explored on our own), and then after lunch we headed off by car to see one of the world’s most recognized wonders.

Stonehenge rises up out of the broad face of the Salisbury plain, its lichen-covered stones in the midst of a sheep pasture. The sun is bright but the wind sweeps the sky and threatens to blow us away as our scarves flap and our hair whips around our eyes. The spring chill barrels through our jackets, and Stonehenge sits unmoved and unmovable as it as has for at least 4,000 years.

The monolithic stone circle we see on this sight isn’t the first monument that was built here. Archeologists say there were others before it, dating back 5,000 years. The windswept plain spreading for miles under endless sky was once wooded, and perhaps Stonehenge was surrounded by forests.

The stones that tower above the ground were quarried in Marlborough Downs which is 19 miles away, and the bluestones below came from the mystical Preseli Mountains in Wales, 240 miles away. Exactly how the stone was transported is unknown. Why bluestone was chosen is also unknown. How the builders erected single slabs of stone that weigh more than 40 tons each is a secret buried with the builders. The lintels that crown the stone slabs aren’t just set on top, but are fitted using joint and tenon construction. Each pillar is positioned with precision and special stones mark the position of the sun at the various equinoxes of the year. There is an altar in the center and a tall stone that acts like the spike on a sundial.  There are round burial mounds within sight of the circle.

Its exact origins and purpose remain a mystery, but it’s clear this spot has been tended as a sacred place since 3050 B.C. Like the hot spring in Bath, which has been the site of pagan, Roman, and Christian places of worship, Stonehenge represents human effort to get in touch with the Divine, to connect with something greater than a visible reality, to make sense of both the order and the chaos of the natural world.

In Bath, there is a beautiful Abbey, built in the 15^th century on a site that first had a Christian church that was built by the Saxons in the ninth century and later a Norman cathedral. The Abbey was site of the coronation of the very first king of England, Edgar. On Good Friday, we visited Wells Cathedral, the oldest surviving English Gothic Church, dating to the 12^th century. When we toured the Cotswolds on Thursday, we visited several stone churches, built by the Saxons and the Normans, each one intertwined so intimately with English history and politics. In the dim light of one ancient church, I placed my hand on the cold stone of a baptismal font that dated back to the 13^th century. It is still in use today, tying together generation after generation of Christians in this place.

It was amazing to visit these sacred places that have served believers of various religions and origins for thousands of year. How fitting to be there during Holy Week, the week Christians commemorate Jesus’ final days, his death and his resurrection.

My parents had me baptized and set me on my own spiritual path as an infant, and I’ve followed it first as a child and now as an adult. At times I’ve done so with confidence and “blessed assurance.” Other times I’ve plodded along, uncertain exactly where I was going or what my beliefs meant, but committed to accepting my doubts and questions as an important part of my journey.

I’ve seen how religion divides and unites, how it is a vehicle of love and can be hijacked for hate, how it creates clarity and confusion, peace and distress. Even as I embrace Christianity, my faith expands to consider the mystery of the Divine, the relationship mankind has sought with God from the days before recorded history, the truth we still seek to this day.

While rigid, dogmatic interpretations of Christianity grab the headlines and try to explain every aspect of life in detail, I confess I like the mystery of faith. I don’t grip my faith in my fist. Instead I like to hold my beliefs loosely in my hand and consider all I don’t know and understand. I like to ponder what has come before me and all that coexists with my faith and wonder how each of us has arrived at our place as Seekers, as Believers.

Sometimes I envision all of us as holding pieces to a puzzle, each piece a perfect but incomplete glimpse of the Divine. Some believers have many pieces, some have just a few. We gather them all our lives, we inherit them, we share them with others. Maybe on the last day we’ll bring what we have forward and see how they all fit together, all reflect something so much bigger than we ever imagined. We’ll see the Big Picture, see the Divine, appreciate our gifts, and recognize the sacred in every face, every faith, every place.

© Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Visit to Bath, UK

On our first full day in Bath, we walk into the center of the city, our first Urban Death March, a term I coined with the kids to describe E’s city explorations. For E, everything is within walking distance. He’s marched us all over Baltimore, Washingtion, D.C., Brussels, and Paris. Why take the bus or Metro when our destination is so “close”?

In general, this isn’t an altogether bad policy. Exploring a city or destination on foot provides a far more authentic experience than sitting in a car in traffic, circling endlessly looking for a parking place, or zipping from attraction to attraction underground. And hey, it assures you get plenty of exercise on days filled with restaurant food.

The downside of this approach is that 1) we’re often victims of crappy weather, 2) we all have different stamina levels, and 3) we end our days in the city so thoroughly exhausted that we have to resist the urge to burrow under the bedcovers and never leave the hotel room again.

It should come as no surprise then that when we arrive in the center of the city of Bath after a 25 minute walk from our hotel, E wants to take a two-hour guided walking tour of the city which promises to deliver boatloads of history, architectural information, and gossipy tidbits. Can you hear V-Grrrl going “Aack” and trying to swallow a hairball of discontent?

Unfortunately, the lovely weather we’d had the day before in Windsor is history now. This is England in April. It’s cold and damp—a raw spring day. I’m wearing a thermal ski shirt under a turtleneck sweater under a fleece vest under a wool-lined parka and I’m still cold. I’m patting myself on the back for having packed hats and gloves for myself and the kids despite weather forecasts predicting temps in the 50s, but still, all the layers aren’t a perfect match for the chill trying to seep into our bones.

E really, really, really wants to do this tour. For him, it’s key to understanding the city. Me, I’ve read the guidebooks and Web pages on Bath’s history and that was plenty. I’m sure the guide knows “more, much more” but I really don’t want to know “more, much more.” Plus I think 2 hours of narrative history and neck craning is going to leave the kids bored and restless—not to mention hungry. GAH. The tour would delay lunch and my gosh, we all know you can’t delay lunch.

Still, I’m committed to the tour for E’s sake. It doesn’t start until 10:30 a.m. We kill time drifting in and out of shops around the main square and buy E a cashmere scarf to battle the cold. By tour time however, my resolve has faded. I can't stand the thought of standing out in the raw, damp weather for a minute longer, let alone two hours. My back already hurts. I’ve been on my feet an hour.

Since the weather is bad, I suggest we visit the downtown museums. E has his heart set on the tour and tries to talk us all into it. The kids chime in that they don’t want to do the walking tour either. Outnumbered and outgunned, with rain threatening, the beleaguered E caves in to family pressure and reluctantly agrees to save the tour for another day. Can you hear his teeth grinding?

And so we go to see the Roman Baths instead, the site of Britain’s only hot springs. There’s a museum built around the ruins of the Roman baths and medieval structures there. The Romans had built a temple to the goddess Minerva there. The temple was later destroyed (though remnants remain). During medieval times, Queen Mary, struggling with infertility, bathed in the hot springs’ waters and gave birth to an heir 10 months later. Bath’s reputation expanded and it once again became a destination for royals and those seeking cures.

The baths steam in the cold air of the museum courtyard and include a stone chair where the king used to sit when he came to Bath. The museum itself features artifacts from the Roman period, including carvings from the frieze of the temple, pilasters, memorials, Roman coins, sacred temple vessels, and my favorite—curses that Roman visitors etched into sheets of pewter or lead and tossed into the spring waters, hoping that the goddess Minerva would grant them revenge against those who had offended them.

Shortly after we entered the museum, a group of 50 French teenagers arrived. This changed the whole experience. We were soon overrun with chatty students, all sporting bulky backpacks and clogging every exhibit and hallway. The big problem was that they planted themselves in a given spot and didn’t move. No one loiters like a teenager. They had absolutely no sense of personal space and were oblivious to the other visitors to the museum.

The shoulder-to-shoulder, step-on-my-toes atmosphere was claustrophobic and I didn’t linger over the exhibits. By the end of our visit, my back was aching. I’d been on my feet and/or walking for about 3 hours and couldn’t bear another moment. I didn’t think I could do another museum, so we planned to pick up sandwiches and head back to the hotel. When we stumbled upon a Starbucks and I saw E’s naked longing for a cup of coffee, plans changed. I was cold, cramping, and tired. We decided to stop right there rather than Death Marching to the Holiday Inn. We found a table upstairs, and E grabbed us hot drinks and sandwiches. I swallowed some ibuprofen to take the edge off my back pain. What a relief to sit down, drop my purse, and warm my hands around a mug of steaming tea.

Once we’d rested a bit, my back unknotted and the ibuprofen kicked in, we decided to hit the road again, and windowshop on our way to the Costume Museum.

The costume museum is considered one of the best in all of Britain. It traces the history of fashion for more than 400 years. Here one can find impeccably preserved, genuine garments from the 17^th century on. I can’t believe any clothes survived from so long ago. It’s remarkable and fascinating to see what people wore and why, examine how clothes expressed the culture of the time and to see pieces that demonstrate the lavish artistry and craftsmanship of haute couture through the ages.

Looking at the hand-sewn suits and dresses of previous centuries, I could only imagine the cost in terms of currency and hours invested in each piece. It was amazing. A man’s shirt demonstrated the technique of black thread embroidery, with stitches so thin and fine that the pattern on the shirt appeared to be drawn, not stitched, onto the fabric. Lavish court dresses with elaborate hoops were marvels of engineering and imagination—as well as ostentation. Day dresses with split skirts conjured traditional feminine images. I was surprised to see silk dressing gowns on display that were worn by 18^th century men at home.

There was a special display that traced the history of the corsets. I was shocked to learn girls wore them before the age of three. It explored corsets role in fashion, their changing construction, and their eventual abandonment. Looking at them, I knew no corset, no matter how tightly laced, could give me an hour glass figure.

The shoes on display were tiny and delicate, made of fabric with leather soles. My own feet seemed gigantic and ugly in their practical leather walking shoes.

Seeing the 20^th century fashion pieces was more personal. I could show E-Grrrl a replica of a sailor suit her grandfather wore as a child, point out the types of dresses and shoes her grandmother would have worn while dating her grandfather, shown her the sort of maternity dress my mom wore while pregnant with me and the types of dresses I wore as a little girl. At the end of the exhibit was the notorious Versace dress worn by Jennifer Lopez during her skanky period. The sheer green and blue floral fabric had been attached to her boobs with double-sided tape because the dress featured a wide V-neckline plunging to the waist and a slit rising nearly up to the crotch.

My favorite part of the museum was a display of costumes, clothes, and textiles that had belonged to Rudolf Nureyev. What can I say? He was perhaps the most beautiful man ever, and I was mesmerized by the costumes he wore as a dancer and the videos highlighting some of his most amazing performances. On and off stage, he had a sense of style and a passion for fashion that was every bit as enormous as his talent. It was interesting to see selections from his personal wardrobe, his hat collection, his favorite coats as well as historic textiles he’d collected.

E-Man and Mr. A found the museum interesting but less than fascinating. They kindly didn’t rush me and E-Grrrl through—I appreciated that.

After I bought my obligatory postcards, we headed out into the cold drizzle, popping into shops from time to time and walking along the river. It didn’t take long to get cold and miserable. We finally made it back to the hotel around 4:30 p.m. First order of business: putting the kettle on for tea and popping a heat pad onto my back. Second order of business:  having a pizza and order of chicken fingers and fries delivered to the hotel from Dominoes.  There was no way I was taking another step outdoors that day--and the kids were thrilled to be indulging their native cuisine.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

April 18, 2006

Vacations and the Art of Compromise

After visiting Canterbury in January and getting a taste of England, we decided to spend spring break in the U.K. We followed Brooke’s MIL’s advice and based ourselves in Bath. From there we traveled into the surrounding countryside and toured the Cotswolds.  I'll do some travel writing this week, but first let me set the stage.

The initial day of vacation is always a bit difficult. Our expectations are high, we’re all a bit anxious, and it’s easy to be pulled in a dozen directions. Add to that the fact that E and I are now in close quarters with our children 24/7, sharing a bedroom, a bathroom, and every minute of our daily schedule, and it can be stressful. The first order of business on vacation is to accept we're all going to have to work to get along and accept a lot of compromise.

For example, E and I chafe against the kids’ obsession with food. They hound us constantly about eating, they're always "hungry," they quiz us about where and when we're going to eat,  but are reluctant to try new foods. Choosing a restaurant is always a source of conflict. E-Grrrl wants pizza or macaroni and cheese, Mr. A will be begging for chicken fingers or hamburgers and French fries, and E and I want to try native cuisine. Whatever we choose, someone ends up sulky or disappointed. And E and I get more than a little annoyed when the kids who claim to be “starving” don’t eat their meals and a short time later are begging for us to stop at a bakery, ice cream stand, or frites shack for a snack. While it can make us crazy, the upside of E-Grrrl's and Mr. A's food fixation is that we can make them really happy by allowing them to eat Cocoa Puffs and Frosted Flakes for breakfast, order hot chocolate,  and have fries every day.

Likewise, it’s a challenge to balance everyone’s vacation expectations. For the kids, vacations revolve around finding playgrounds, exploring new parks, visiting zoos or animal parks, and eating junk food. They like to watch cartoons and get up early. E and I like to read in bed, sleep until 7 a.m. or later, and take in the sights, but our stamina levels and interests are often quite different.

I’m not a good tourist. I hate crowds. I’m not a fan of the carefully packaged tourist experience. I don’t like to be “scheduled” on a vacation.  Sure I’ll research an area and make a list of things that interest me, but I don’t feel bound by a list or a guidebook. For me everything depends on the weather, my mood, how much energy I have on any given day. Vacations for me are all about flexibility, about interacting with a place and not following a script, about relaxing and not feeling compelled to "see it all, do it all."

I’m not a particular fan of guided tours. I’m the one in the group who thinks there’s such a thing as too much information. I often don’t turn on the audio devices they hand out at the museum entry because I can’t stand to have someone talking in my ear. To me, it’s distracting. I prefer to get my information by reading  or just looking. I like to experience things in my own way and at my own pace. Back pain limits how long I can stand on my feet, carry a camera, and trot around town. I need a lot of sleep. I have to ration my energy and my “healthy” moments.

E, on the other hand, has endless energy and boundless curiosity. He can stand in long queues, walk for miles, and carry a loaded backpack all day. His attitude is “As long as we’re here, why not see it?” For E, there’s no such thing as too many sights, much information, too much detail. He soaks it all up.

Family vacations then, are all about the art of compromise, about learning to strike a balance between everyone’s needs. The good news is that while the first day or two can be a bit bumpy, the longer we’re together, the better we get at respecting and accommodating each other.

Canterbury Tales Part II—The Cathedral, The Romans, The Shops

In Canterbury, the bus parked on the edge of the town’s center in an area that was cluttered with litter and seedy-looking buildings. This was the official “coach” (bus) parking lot and I was surprised that the area wasn’t more attractive, seeing as it was a major point of entry for tourists visiting the area. No matter. A paved path followed an attractive canal into the city’s heart and in minutes we’d left the ugly urban scenery behind us and were surrounded by city cottages with lace curtains, lovely little shops, and winding sidewalks and alleys.

No matter where you are in Canterbury, Canterbury Cathedral is visible, its ancient spires rising above the town and blessing it. Established in 597 A.D. by St. Augustine, the first bishop of Canterbury, the cathedral was built on what had been a Roman place of worship before the birth of Christ. Most of the current building dates to the 12^th and 13^th centuries.

The architecture is stunning and ancient—the cathedral and its grounds telling the complex story of the rise and fall of the Catholic and Anglican churches and the political turmoil and wars that framed their histories. That the cathedral has stood firm as the sociopolitical climate has churned around it for thousands of years encourages me. Faith can stand as the world falls apart. Faith can rise from the ashes of destruction. Faith can change your view.

The Cathedral at Canterbury is associated with eight saints—Augustine, Theodore, Odo, Dunstan, Alphelge, Anselm, Thomas, and Edmund, all former Archbishops of Canterbury. The current archbishop, Rowan Williams, is 104^th in the line of succession—and the world leader of the Anglican church that I belong to as an Episcopalian.

Those who have studied English history and literature know that Canterbury’s most famous saint is the martyr Thomas Becket, who was slain on the cathedral floor for asserting the right of the church to be independent of the wishes of the monarchy. Geoffrey Chaucer’s famous “Canterbury Tales” are told by pilgrims, traveling to Canterbury to visit the shrine of Thomas à Becket. Today, a large candle burns at the site of his slaying on the stone floor.

Kings, saints, and knights are interred in the crypt, military heroes from hundreds of years of British history remembered with plaques and memorials, ancient tattered battle flags flown, and portions of the armor of Edward the Black Prince displayed—surviving from the 11^th century.

In the town itself, you can see large portions of the original city walls and gatehouses and just as you’re reeling with the medieval history of this place, you can enter a museum under the city and see Roman artifacts (tools, pottery, swords, nails, fasteners, hairclips, jewelry) that were unearthed in the Canterbury area and predate the birth of Christ. The museum includes a preserved archeological dig that reveals the foundation and floors of a Roman home, including the original ornate mosaics that show the wealth of the home’s owner. Displays describe Roman heating and plumbing systems, markets, diet, clothing, and the history of the cities that rose and fell on the site before Canterbury became established. Amazing. I’m not into history, but even I was seduced by all the history that was under my feet.

Upstairs from the Roman museum the modern streets of Canterbury pulsed with shoppers. The weather was fine—slightly overcast, not too cold and not rainy—which constitutes a good day in England in January! The stores were full of bargains and we wandered into shop after shop but didn’t bring much home. I bought tea, a porcelain cup, and a tea tidy. I searched in vain for impressive English woolens. I swooned in the Crabtree and Evelyn store but resisted the temptation to buy Jojoba oil soaps since I received a collection of other high-end soaps for Christmas. I poked about in pottery and gift shops and lingered in English-language bookstores, a real treat. We had fish and chips for lunch and stopped for tea and cake in the afternoon.

It was the first time in almost a year I was operating in a place where I could speak the language, read the signs and menus, and approach interactions with the natives with full confidence. The rolling hills reminded me of the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia and though I was exhausted and eager for home by day’s end, I was enthralled with England and eager to go back. Spring break. I’ll be there. The travel guides have already been checked out the library.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 18, 2006

Canterbury Tales Part I: Getting There

Last Saturday, the alarm went off before 5 a.m. so we could drag ourselves out the door, catch a bus at 5:40 a.m. and grab an early ferry leaving from Calais, France, taking us to Dover, England. We were on our way to Canterbury.

Books, water bottles, snacks. We had it all packed up the night before. I slept most of the way to Calais, waking in time to join the other travelers queued up at immigration to fill out forms and present passports and Belgian ID cards before boarding the ferry and being allowed into the UK.

The guy checking our passports and paperwork asked us casually what we were planning to see in Canterbury. The perky E-Man says, “Everything!” and I can’t resist adding, “Actually, we heard there’s a Starbucks in Canterbury and we’re going to England for the coffee!” (Ha, ha, ha! Aren’t we a witty bunch!)

The immigration guy didn’t laugh. He didn’t really smile. So I said in a more serious tone, “We’ll visit the cathedral, of course....”

“Won’t take all day to do that. Canterbury is a small place…” His voice trails off. I thought his response was strange but didn’t have a chance to reply as he declared, “Next!”

It wasn’t until I was back on the bus that I realized what an ass I’d been. When he asked what we were going to do in Canterbury, he wasn’t making friendly conversation, he was asking an official “immigration” question. Good grief, no wonder he gave us a cold eye and long look when popped off with flippant answers!

It was still dark when we got onto the ferry, the newest member of the fleet from SeaFrance. Modern and colorful, it had seven levels and was decorated in bright colors. Nearly everything was lime green, tomato red, purple or white. The eye-popping interior eliminated the need for caffeine—well almost.

We went upstairs to the cafeteria to grab some breakfast and were standing in line when the engines were started. The floor, the walls, everything around us started vibrating. The stacks of dishes, glasses, and bottled drinks all rattled and shook as if we were caught in an earthquake. It was quite unnerving—I could feel the vibrations resonating in my bones.

The cafeteria offered a traditional French breakfast of yogurt, croissant, and coffee as well as a traditional English breakfast of what appeared to American eyes to be nearly raw sunny side up eggs, undercooked bacon, and grayish sausage. Altogether now: Yum! We sided with the French on this one. Bon appetit!

As we ate breakfast, seated in lime green upholstered chairs in a room with red walls, we saw the sun rising over the water, always a memorable scene no matter where you are in the world. I moved to the outside decks briefly, watching the quality of light on the water change as the sun peeked above the horizon and then floated slowly into full view.

Adjacent to the cafeteria was a Kid’s Play Zone, a big play room with padded walls and equipment as well as a TV. Ah, to have one of these at home. I think we’d enjoy the padded walls as much as A and E-Grrrl did. They parked themselves there for most of the trip. What can I say, you can take your kids across the water but you can’t make them look at it!

On the floor below us was a collection of stores, selling duty-free chocolates, fragrances, designer makeup, and typical drugstore-type items. The ferry was so large, it was easy to forget I was on a boat. When the floor would pitch suddenly beneath my feet, my stomach would lurch and I’d be embarrassed to be staggering around like a drunk.

About an hour after we boarded, the famed white cliffs of Dover came into view on the horizon of the English Channel. Once again I stepped out onto the deck to enjoy the view. The cliffs, which seemed bright white at a distance, became beige and then tan as we moved closer to Dover and then finally docked, with Dover castle high above us.

As the bus rolled through the countryside for the 30-minute ride to Canterbury, I drank in the scenery—rolling green hills, brick and stone farmhouses, and sheep everywhere. It looked remarkably like Virginia, and I felt a tug at my heartstrings, a deep desire to get out of the bus and hike the hills and inhale the earthy smell of the fields. Not today. Today belonged to the city. The countryside would have to wait for another trip.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 17, 2006