Travels in London II

Travels in London II
(or, Britain, Continued)

6/29

6/30

7/1

June 29, 2002 (Saturday)

Woke up this morning at around 7:30 a.m. We're packed and ready for England. And, of course, as I'm writing, the taxi to take us to O'Hare pulls up outside. More later.

At 12:51 CDT, we're sitting at Terminal 2/Gate E2A. The Air Canada jet just pulled into the gate; Helene has gone to make a bathroom run. We ate at Chili's Too around 11:10 once we had checked in and made it through security. O'Hare did not appear to be overly crowded today. After lunch, we picked up new sunglasses at the Sunglass Hut, then found a couple of books at the W.H. Smith for the journey. I got On Writing by Stephen King and Submarine by Tom Clancy.

It is now 1:00; we should be boarding in about 10 minutes according to the ground crew. The itinerary says we arrive in Montreal at Dorval International at approximately 4:30 p.m. EDT and leave at approximately 8:00 p.m. for Heathrow in London (arriving at 7:30 a.m. Sunday, local time). Helene has been talking nearly nonstop since we arrived at the airport, betraying a great deal of anxiety. While I've been writing, she's been conversing/playing Palm solitaire with a kid that seems nice enough.

We arrived at Dorval International on time at 4:30 p.m., although everyone thought it was odd that we were clearing customs in Canada coming from the States only to be boarding a plane bound for London Heathrow. After guessing where to make it through boarding security, we made it to gate 5B for flight 864, which is set to depart at 8:00 p.m. (so we'll probably board at around 7:40, which at the time of this writing means at least another two hours of waiting for something to happen).

Yes, we saved money on this fare; yes, we got a chance to hang out on Canadian soil, which neither of us has ever done; no, I am never again doing a stopover that entails clearing customs. Actually, I'm thinking that a direct flight is pretty much worth the price regardless. I may try to find a postcard for Sherred (my boss) while I'm here just to confuse her....

By 6:00, we had wandered the terminal for a bit, bought a "Montreal" postcard for Sherred, and had stopped by Moe's Deli and Bar, where I had a beer and some chicken tenders. I realized later that I was in Canada drinking a Coor's Light on draft. Should have ordered a Molson or something on principle. At least there was smoking available to me in Moe's, which meant I wouldn't have to go more than 10 hours in a stretch without. I really miss that in O'Hare. We had an attractive Gallic serving wench by the name of Melanie. I'm having my fun by saying bonjour and merci, which is pretty much the extent of my French, to nearly everyone I meet.

We stopped by a leather goods/souvenir shop after eating, at which point we found the funniest Canada shot glass you could ever want—it's frosted glass with "Montreal" on it, with a ceramic moose coming out in bas relief around the side.

We departed the gate at 8:00 p.m., again on schedule. According to the pilots, we are due for a decent tailwind that should put us in Heathrow about a half-hour earlier than expected (so around 7:00 a.m. London time, whoopee!). Will continue writing later.

June 30, 2002 (Sunday)

Heathrow is absolute hell on Sunday morning, we discovered.

After a pretty decent flight from Montreal, things went south in a hurry. Aside from a kid we affectionately nicknamed "Damien" on account of his demonically guttural, piercing cries, the flight was mercifully uneventful. We caught one hell of a tailwind, because our 7:30 a.m. flight was not only on the ground but in the gate by 6:50 a.m. We proceeded to British customs, unaware of the horrors that lurked there.

First, there was the crowd itself, something I hadn't expected on a Sunday morning. Second, there was the helpful lady that steered us and a succession of others into the "group" line—whereupon we were told by another helpful employee that we weren't supposed to be in that line. After the first lady agreed wholeheartedly (after having said repeatedly, "It doesn't matter which line."), we finally got into the right line and cleared customs by 7:55. Found our luggage with no problem, at least. Things were looking up; then we hit the exit and realized three things at once:

We were one couple amidst the throng of people also entering the UK.
There were even more people waiting outside customs at the meeting point, giving the scene a quality not unlike the U.S. embassy in Saigon circa 1975 when the last Huey was taking off.
Ethan and Nicole weren't among either throng present.

Thus began a quest to call Ethan's cell phone, which took three operators, a clerk in a nearby store, two telephones and two credit cards to accomplish by 8:20. We actually reached Nicole's cell; the long and short was that they weren't at Heathrow, they weren't going to be, and we needed to find some transportation. We caught a black cab in due course and arrived at Mile End Road by 9:10, which I am assured is some new record for Heathrow to Whitechapel. Nicole met us at the gate with Chase and Amy (the doggies) and led us inside, where we talked with her and Ethan for a bit. We then went down the road to a J.D. Weatherspoon's for some lunch, during which I realized that I needed a nap before I passed out on my feet.

Helene and I napped hard from 1:30-4:30. A little more refreshed, I took a shower and then the four of us hit the tube to get to a pub called Bartok's for some pre-dinner drinkage. We're also supposed to be meeting Mark and Susan—more friends from Chicago—there.

Chalk Road, where Bartok's is situated, is an interesting hodgepodge of humanity on Sunday. It reminded me of Belmont and Sheffield in Chicago mixed with the old Maxwell Street fair. We met Mark and Susan at 6:45 while Nicole and Helene were wandering about the neighborhood (Ethan and Nicole are thinking of living there). They returned shortly thereafter, and by 7:25 p.m., we left Bartok's for our dinner reservations at Vegia Zena.

Vegia Zena was an interesting place—the staff was nice but somewhat limited in their English, which led to some hilarity in ordering wine and food. I wound up with a very nice bean and ricotta ravioli and panna cotta, a really good flan-like dessert. We left the restaurant around 10:00 p.m. or so in the rain, a theme which was to be continued throughout our stay (which, of course, we didn't know at the time). At least the weather to this point has been dank but pleasant compared to last year.

We stopped by a nearby pub called the Hogshead for a nightcap before being turned out nearly immediately following an early last call. We bade Mark and Susan a good night at that point. Got on the tube an returned to the Whitechapel flat by 11:35. Ethan and I broke in the moosehead shot glasses, and then Helene and I went to bed.

Tomorrow—we venture to Windsor Castle.

July 1, 2002 (Monday)

We woke up after a good night's sleep at around 8:20 in the morning. Ethan and Nicole's pull-out couch is pleasantly comfortable. Helene and I got our showers and left the flat by 9:25 or so; Nicole had gone to work already, and Ethan was asleep. We took the District line by mistake and had to backtrack from Tower Hill to Aldgate East to pick up the Hammersmith-City line that we actually needed to get to Paddington Station. At Paddington, we made the switch to British Rail for the trip to Windsor.

We caught the Thames/Reading to Slough at 10:58. We'll transfer to the Windsor shuttle train at Slough (pronounced like "plow," not "tough" or "slow"). We should be arriving at Slough station around 11:30; not a bad trip at all. More when we arrive in Windsor.

The shuttle was easy. We arrived at Windsor at 11:40, picking up the shuttle from Slough in no time. The Windsor shuttle drops you right off at Royal Station in the heart of the downtown shop district. We made our way to the castle entrance and grabbed tickets at £11.50 apiece. The queen herself was in that day, we were told. The way to tell easily? The queen's standard was flying from the round tower in the heart of the castle. When she's there, that flag flies. When she's not in, the Union Jack flies.

Windsor itself is huge, and there is certainly a grand sense of history here, as one might expect. We saw most of the staterooms that had been damaged by fire in 1992 and subsequently restored. This included "closets" bigger than our house. Unfortunately we couldn't get a great deal of shots of the interiors as interior photography is pretty much forbidden throughout Windsor. I still have a greater fondness for Warwick Castle as an example of the defensive architecture, but Windsor exudes royalty like it seeps from the stones. We toured the castle until about 1:45.

After Windsor, we stopped by the Edinburgh Woollen Mill, where we got a nice clan Alexander document with the history and tartan colors printed for Mom. Helene stopped by a couple of other shops along the way, including the Chinacraft Reject China Shop. Then we stopped by The Carpenters Arms for lunch while we were waiting for the Alexander clan history document to be prepared. Three large cats seems to have their run of the place—a black, a black-and-white mottled, and an orange tabby. We did a bit more walking and shopping (I picked up an Oxford University hooded sweatshirt myself), picked up the Alexander history, and got back on the Windsor-Eton shuttle at 4:24, none too soon as the rain began to come down.

No real problems getting back; we hit Paddington Station at 5:00, found an eastbound Hammersmith-City, and were back at Mile End Road by 6:00 p.m. We had a brief losing battle with the code for the complex's gate, but a quick phone call to Ethan cleared that up. Upon arrival, I also discovered to my dismay that my "Oxford" sweatshirt did not, in fact, say "Oxford University." It says "London England" instead. So much for wearing it in London—or in country, for that matter. Bloody tourists.

We made our drinking engagement at Clyde of Spitalfield's at around 7:00 p.m. We met Mark and Susan at Clyde's, and the womenfolk met an interesting trio of English gents who were evidently on the make. Ethan, Mark, and I enjoyed the show, then retrieved the gals to get to our 8:00 dinner reservation at Lahore Kebab House, an Indian restaurant. We had some pretty spicy lamb and chicken kebab dishes that were quite good. We left there at 9:25 to go back to Ethan's for drinks. Mark and Susan left the flat a bit later, and Ethan and I wound up gabbing and smoking cigars until 2:15 a.m. before going to bed.

July 2, 2002 (Tuesday)

Ethan will be nuts today, between meeting parents and in-laws at both Heathrow and Gatwick. We, on the other hand, were set to meet Mark Francis at Churchill's statue (which we believed to be near St. James's Park) at 10:00 for a trip to the Cabinet War Rooms. We were to be mostly wrong.

We woke up and showered around 8:00 a.m., and left the house by 9:00. Despite reported delays, the tube seemingly was running in good order. We stepped off the tube at St. James's Park stop—should have gotten off one stop earlier at Westminster, as we discovered—at 9:50. That was the last time we were on schedule for the rest of the morning.

By 10:25 a.m., we had reached Churchill's statue in Parliament Square with no sign of Mark Francis anywhere. It only took a street worker, a bobby, and two civilian passerby along the way to get us there. Helene was simmering a little; I convinced her that we had little choice but to wait it out there until 11:00 , as Susan was supposed to meet us back there at that time. In lieu of any better ideas, we waited until Mark showed at about 10:55, having visited the Cabinet War Rooms on his own. At least it wasn't a total loss; Mark saw the exhibit, and we got some decent snaps of Churchill and the Parliament Building. We then waited on Susan, who was also running late, and wound up spending over an hour hanging in Parliament Square. Susan made it a little after 11:30.

Once we were all together, we crossed the street and entered Westminster Abbey. We toured Westminster for about an hour. It is a magnificent building, one in which you can't look anywhere without seeing either a burial marker or memorial stone. Some of the monarchial tombs are exquisite; Elizabeth I and Henry VII stand out particularly. The only strange thing was that we seem to have missed Henry VIII's resting place entirely. Could be that he isn't buried there, but I sure thought he was. And I can't imagine him not having a nave all to himself. We left the Abbey around 12:40, then hopped in and out of three pubs before hopping a cab for Southwark/Bankside. Had lunch at the Globe Cafe at 1:15 p.m. or so.

We left Mark and Susan at 2:00 to find Stephanie, our fundraising contact at the theatre. Helene found her, in fact, almost by accident when she went to the information desk. What a treat! We found our signatures right at the top of Plate XXXIII, Column 2, and took pictures immediately. We are in such illustrious company as Judi Dench, Maggie Smith, Stephen Sondheim, Elizabeth Taylor, and other notables. Stephanie is a genuine hoot with a steel-trap memory; I mean to discuss with her at some point how I can tie the Shakespeare Resource Center in with the Globe a little better.

We took a walk after that, following the south bank of the Thames, where we passed The Clink and the Golden Hind again. We debated briefly whether to take a tour of the Hind or H.M.S. Belfast while we were there, but eventually settled against it based on our experience of running through the British Museum last year. We also weren't going to get a chance to visit the Imperial War Museum; there are two of them, and the one in London is not the one with the good stuff (like the miniature submarine on display). The other is south of London—I believe near Cambridge—and there wouldn't be the time for it during that week.

Helene and I got back to the flat at Mile End Road by 3:15 p.m. or thereabouts. Nicole was already home, having left work at 11:00 that morning, and is sick as a dog—an ironic turn of phrase given that Amy the terrier threw up three times on the patio when we let her and Chase out upon our return. We expect Ethan's return at around 4:00; we'll see what happens when he gets home. We're supposed to be seeing Twelfth Night tonight at the Globe....

Nicole had a really high fever—around 104 degrees—so she stayed home. Ethan, Helene, and I went to the Market Porter at 5:20 for drinks, where we met Tom and Cathy Goliash. We then made the Bankside Restaurant and Bar at 6:00, where we met Mark and Susan for our dinner reservation. I did like the mushroom soup appetizer, but that was about it. The steak was less than palatable, and the food wasn't delivered to our table until 7:12—and we needed to leave by 7:20 to make the Globe in time for the show. Ethan told us there that he'd take care of the restaurant and that he was going to return home to be with Nicole. The remaining group departed quickly for the Globe and made it just in time for the "If music be the food of love..." speech.

What a great production! In a light drizzle that lasted throughout the evening, both the audience and cast were having a ball. To see Shakespeare unencumbered by large set pieces or stage lighting was absolutely incredible. Also, two things happened that I'd never before seen in a production of Twelfth Night: actual twins playing the roles of Viola and Sebastian, and an all-male cast. Talk about some traditional casting. Also, interestingly enough, it seems that the audience was allowed to take pictures at curtain call (so we caught a couple of severely underexposed snapshots at the end). The only thing I disagreed with artistically was a bit of none-too-subtly attraction between "Cesario" and Orlando while Orlando is still professing undying love for Olivia. Don't get me wrong; you can still introduce a subtle attraction on Orlando's part, but Orlando can't be that conscious of it. It was a bit over the top for the moment, that was all. Still, this one beat last year's Stratford production hands down—and that production was certainly no slouch.

The play ended with a flourish around 10:40, and thus began a hunt for transportation. It looked like we weren't going to just luck into a cab there at the Globe entrance. I suggested we hoof it to Cannon Street station. But Mark Francis had arranged for a mini-cab, so we decided to wait; then they said it would be 20 minutes before the cab would arrive, so we decided to hoof it anyway (Mark and Susan waited for the cab). The rain was at least fairly light, so the rest of us made it after 10 minutes to Cannon Street—only to discover that the Cannon Street station was closed. As we turned, however, Tom managed to flag a black cab. Finally, we reached the Mile End Road flat sometime after 11:00, which wasn't bad timing after all. We all hung out there for a bit with the Goliashes and Ethan and Nicole, then went to bed. Nicole's fever had broken, and she was feeling quite a bit better by that time. Tomorrow, we celebrate Ethan's graduation.

July 3, 2002 (Wednesday)

Woke up leisurely at 10:00 a.m. We helped Ethan and Nicole prep the house for the after-graduation party until about 12:30. Ethan left about then to collect the multiple graduation tickets and do whatever he needed to do prior to taking the walk. We'll be leaving in about a half hour (2:00 p.m.) to get to the graduation.

This is the longest stretch that we've spent awake in the flat, which I suppose is a tribute to our travels—we're not just sitting around the house watching BBC in England. More after the graduation.

We made it to the Baker Street stop after taking the tube from Whitechapel, then arrived at the London Business School by 3:00 p.m., where we met Bernie and Pat Magdovitz. The graduates began filing in at 3:30, and the dean of the school began her speech at approximately 4:00. As there were around 300 graduates of all types (PhDs, MBAs, etc.) there to take the walk—in addition to numerous awards and guest speakers—the process played out until right at 6:00 p.m. We heard an extended opening address from the dean, a halting acceptance speech from Professor John C. Little of MIT (hey, he's a number cruncher, not an orator), and a quite brilliant speech from Benjamin Zander, who is the conductor of the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra. We got a couple of blurry, underexposed snapshots of Ethan getting the handshake, and when the ceremony was finally over, all headed inside to:

avoid going out in the downpour that erupted as soon as things had finished, and
to score on the drinks and canapes that were going around.

We ate, drank, and took snapshots until 7:00. Hard to refuse when Susan, Helene, and I found a corner unhampered by other bodies and right in the flight path of the servers. That done, we headed back to Baker Street station to go home, pausing briefly at a Starbuck's so some of us could get coffee. I scored a white chocolate and strawberry streusel muffin that was really good; have to find that one in the states, if possible. We got back to the flat and changed, then awaited the arrival of Ethan's LBS invitees.

All in all, the party was a success. We met many MBA graduates, all of whom seemed like genuinely nice people (in addition to being brilliant). Some of the more memorable folks were Martin, Marco, Ethan's good friend Rainer, and Janice and Josh. We didn't lose the last of the partygoers until well after midnight, at which point Ethan was taunting me about blackjack (he was in his cups by that time, so to speak). Fifteen decks later, I was ahead roughly £16.00. We played cards, smoked, and drank beer (i.e., guys having fun) until 3:20 a.m., then went inside and chatted with the gals until 4:15 a.m. Went to bed thinking that waking up to get to the Westminster area and to Covent Gardens the next day was going to be a royal bitch.

July 4, 2002 (Thursday)

Woke up at 8:30 in a state of gastric hangover due to the aggregate effect of the Thai Garlic Beef dish and the bitch's brew of alcohol I put into my system the previous evening/not that long ago. It wasn't the quantity of liquor at all; it was the sheer variety. At least it was intestinal. A couple of well-timed Tums did the trick right away. Woke up again to my wife trying to physically pry my ass out of bed, which might have been more amusing if I'd been an onlooker rather than a participant. That took from 10:50 to 11:15 that morning. We got ready and eventually meandered out of the flat by 12:00.

We hit the Westminster stop, got out, and immediately realized our mistake of Tuesday as we were staring right at the Churchill statue in Parliament Square. We stopped by a deli run by very intense Italians, ate some lunch, and went to visit the Cabinet War Rooms down the street. The War Rooms are a product of great restoration and attention to detail. Frankly, it reassured me that I didn't want to be living in London during the Blitz years, and especially in that bunker. The sheer technological achievement was outstanding, especially the hotline to Washington D.C. We finished the War Rooms by 2:00, gathered our bearings, and departed on foot for Covent Garden after some consultation with the London A-Z. Time will tell if the foot journey is a wise choice....

Made it to Covent Garden in due course. Saw a few street performers; Covent seems like a gyrating, packed, moving street carnival. I am going to have to remember the experience when it comes time to write more about Delport, because it's the atmosphere I had in mind. Helene bought a few various gifts while I wandered about the market marvelling at things such as the Jump Zone thing set up in one of the plazas. It's a four-station set of bungie harnesses into which people are strapped and then, well, they catapult themselves via the bungie straps and the trampoline that serves as the base of the whole thing. Actually, this wouldn't have been that entertaining had it not been for the 20-something strapped into one of the harnesses—about a 40-42 D-cup by the look of it, and she should have, um, been wearing a sports bra. 'Nuff said.

We left the Gardens at 4:00 via the Picadilly line and picked up the Hammersmith-City line at King's Cross-St. Pancras to get back to Whitechapel. We arrived at Mile End Road about 4:40 p.m.; met both sets of parents back at the flat to prepare for a 7:30 reservation at Nikita's, the Russian restaurant at which we ate last year. I am very much looking forward to another round of Starka. We left at nearly 6:40; it was looking like we were going to be late for the second year in a row. We made good time, though, to Earl's Court station, arriving at the stop by 7:25. Walking from there to Nikita's, we arrived at the restaurant by 7:35, no more than five minutes behind schedule.

Ordered a carafe of Starka at the onset. It was every bit as delicious as I remembered from last year. Pat also got me to try a round of Estragannova, which is a vodka mulled with tarragon. Didn't like it as much. Also discovered for the second straight year that Starka on an empty/bread-filled stomach before dinner can be a little problematic. All in all, though, we had a good time (despite the service being a little less robust than it seemed last year). The sausage appetizer and the perogzhi were great, and I had a Chicken Kiev this time that was good—although I left thinking I should have gone back to the Beef Stroganoff instead. Of course, half the table ordered Steak Tartar, which I'm just thinking, "No thanks." We left Nikita's at around 10:30 and headed back to the flat with all in tow.

On the way back on the tube, Ethan tells me I need to get him and Nicole 10 or so Macintosh caramel candy bars while we're in Canada. Journal-worthy? Not really, but we're on the tube, and if I don't write it down, I'm not going to remember it. Both sets of parents left us at the Tower Hill stop to return to their hotels—Ethan and Nicole were neither one feeling very well, as it appeared that Ethan had caught Nicole's bug. We returned to the flat at about 11:20. We didn't stay up terribly long before going to bed, probably nodding off about 12:30 or so. Chase is keeping us company tonight.

Going to be a long day tomorrow.

July 5, 2002 (Friday)

Woke up at 8:00, turned off the alarm, and laid back down to snuggle. It was nice to have the wife and a doggie curled up nearby. I dragged out of bed at 8:30, spent a little quality time in the bathroom, and was shaved and showered by 9:00. I woke up Helene, who promptly panicked that she had overslept our departure time. She can be a barrel of fun when she's just coming to.

Nicole was up and about by this time, but Ethan was still quite asleep from a dose of "Night Nurse." We called for the cab and were out the door (Nicole saw us off) by 9:55. The cab arrived a few minutes late, but we crammed our bags into the trunk and off we went. Traffic wasn't good at all—as Helene pointed out, I believe we indeed hit every red light between Whitechapel and Heathrow—and we pulled into the terminal a 11:15 (a little later than I would have preferred).

Checking in took relatively little time; we had our boarding passes by 11:30, and security took even less time. We did burn 15 minutes waiting for a coffee and bagel for Helene. I'm convinced that customer service has never been nor never will be a concept grasped by the Brits. Essentially, we made it to Gate 31 without incident, where we sat for less than 10 minutes before being called for boarding. The only hitch was again waiting out on the tarmac, this time only taking off 40 minutes past our scheduled departure time.

Oh, and joy awaits us in Toronto, we're told, where we have to clear both Canadian and U.S. customs in the hour and a half scheduled between flights. I suppose being able to walk off the plane in Chicago, collect our luggage, and walk out the doors holds at least a little appeal, although I'm not looking forward to two ques with a baggage pickup sandwiched in between.

In the meantime, we experienced the joy on the plane, where a kid of about five or six years became a fountain of sound effects. This was evidently his first experience with headphones due to the sheer volume of his voice; compounding the infraction, the little shit was literally talking to hear himself talk. His father must be fucking deaf. At least the in-flight meal was decent.

We were supposed to be arriving in Toronto at 3:55 according to the pilots. At 6:00, we were in for even more joy. We realized that the check-in guy we had at Heathrow booked us hedge reservations on flight 823 to Chicago at 6:15 p.m.; we were originally booked on flight 821 at 5:15. Apparently the counter man figured we had a good shot at missing 821 and made the reservations as a CYA just in case. At least that's the working theory at the moment.

We touched down down at 4:05 and deplaned at 4:15. No way we were making boarding call on 821 at 5:15, so we didn't rush it too heavily. We hit the first baggage pickup, whereupon we checked into Canadian customs. We then had to put our bags on another carousel and catch the shuttle bus to Terminal 2. There, we picked up our bags again and hit U.S. customs. Then we put our bags on the connecting flights carousel and went to find Podium P (interesting airport terminology), where flight 823 would board.

We hit the gate at 5:15, ironically; at first, all seemed well. At 5:30, the counter lady paged us—we'd been booked on an oversold flight. Even better, Air Canada didn't have any later flights, although she thought she could book us on a later American Airlines flight. Then, our luck finally turned. They guy at Heathrow had booked while there were still seats available, first come, first served. So we were on flight 823 after all. Not only that, the gal told us that the particular 737 we're flying is normally a sports charter reserved for the Raptors, Maple Leafs, and Blue Jays. That sounded promising.

We boarded soon thereafter, and promising wasn't the word for this plane. Picture if you will a 737 with only 12 rows, two seats per side. It's like flying in a plane with nothing but business/first class seating. That rocks! Well, it turned out that Helene and I weren't supposed to be sitting together, but a lady was kind enough to swap with her. We had a great flight attendant as well. They're saying an hour-ten for the flight; this is so comfortable I wish it was actually longer.

We touched down at 6:45 sharp, only 45 minutes later than we were originally supposed to arrive. Evidently we made great time in the air. Not so much good time on the tarmac due to congestion. From that point, however, it was smooth sailing. Our gate was right at the neck of the terminal, and baggage claim was right there off the escalator. I had time for a smoke, and the baggage came right out. And, to top it off, the cab stand was right outside the door with a long que of cabs, all available. Best experience leaving O'Hare I've had in long time. We made it home by 7:50, happy to be back home in the U.S.A. and finally sleep in our own bed for the first time in a week.

EPILOGUE—July 14, 2002 (Sunday)

The dog was happy to see us again when we picked him up, although he was exhausted from playing nonstop during the week we were gone. The General Board and its website survived my absence without too much incident. I've drawn a few more conclusions about the British Isles following our second visit in two years:

London is an expensive city in which to live.
Service in restaurants leaves something to be desired, and we've eaten in enough of them that I believe that to be a logical deduction.
Vacations can be more exhausting than a regular week of work by a long shot, especially when the vacation involves the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
We are definitely going off-season next time around.

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