The Tower of London - 15 October 2009

The Tower of London seems like a great place for Glenn and I to tour; he, the teacher of history, and I, the buff of history. I had found out about the Ceremony of The Keys through my reading of Rick Steves’ book on London. Rick has been traveling throughout Europe for the past 20+ years and his books are updated yearly to keep current on sights, tours, activities, prices and shortcuts.

The Ceremony of the Keys has been going on for the last 700 years. It has evolved over time to a locking of the doors of the Tower of London every night at 22:00 hours - 10:00 p.m. for us colonials. Just getting tickets to be admitted was no small effort.

According to the web site, the tickets are free. But this is a monarchy that puts a lot of stock in tradition, so even though there is a Tower of London website, don’t think they have been swept up into the 19th Century! The tickets must be requested in writing. The request must list two dates in order of preference. The request must include a self-addressed envelope with postage on it to pay for mail from London to one’s home town. In Royal Mail stamps. (Yes, she also has her own Postal Service!) So how does a nice Jewish girl living in Baltimore, Maryland buy British stamps? On E-Bay?

Ah, the glories of technology - and Facebook! I put out an all points bulletin on the Internet and before I can sneeze, a Girl Scout comes to the rescue. Lorraine, my good friend, sister Girl Scout and PhD. meteorologist with NASA, has friends in all places. An e-mail from her to Tamara in the U.K. gets the wire buzzing and BINGO! Tamara sends the request to the Tower, the Tower sends the ticket to me and here I am with Brother Glenn at the appointed hour to enter.

The Yeoman Warder in charge of us is named Allen. He has spent some 23 years on active duty, a requirement for application to be a yeoman warder. He is delightful, funny, informative and considerate. The entire ceremony is scheduled to last a mere six minutes. The active duty personnel are charged with accepting the Queen’s keys from the yeoman. Our part is answering to “G-d save the Queen” to which we all loudly reply “Ah-men” as instructed. We are not about to flub our one and only line! Allen escorts us back out the small door in the gate and I am able to present him with our special tokens - the two lapel pins of the flags of Maryland and California. Our adventure ends on a high note - then downhill the evening goes.

15 October 2009

We slept in until 10 a.m. Boy, did we need our beauty sleep! By 11:30 we woke up and my scooter battery charger had two pretty green lights glowing and we were off. We followed Rick Steves’ travel advice and packed our lunch.

Off to the Tube and Golder’s Green. The two station attendants came over to warn us about “minding the Gap.” We replied that we were professional Gap Masters - we actually could try this at home. We jumped on the first train that was sitting on the track - only to realize that we were on the Waterloo train when we wanted the London Bridge train. My bad. we had to change trains at Camden. Once we were on the right train we arrived at London Bridge station, negotiated the cliff face, I mean the Gap, and found ourselves on the sidewalk along with 10 or 20 million of our nearest and dearest friends. I mean it. The sidewalk was actually officially teeming with people. I’ve walked on many a crowded street, but this was a serious bunch of very busy people! I had to wait for an opening to enter the stream of Londoners all busily doing whatever it is they do. It was a portent of things to come.

We managed to get to the Thames river. Does everybody know that only in Baltimore is it pronounced “thaymes” and not the British pronunciation of “tems?” We found a bridge We crossed the bridge. We got to the other side, just like the chicken who crossed the road.

The day was so beautiful we decided to walk along the Thames to Westminster Abbey. At the ticket booths for the river cruises, we stopped on a bench and ate our lunch, feeling positively smug. Here we were, sitting on the Thames riverbank, as if we had no worries, noshing away on kosher chicken paté on Ryvita crackers, drinking tap water.

I found the Cabinet War Rooms, having ended up at the non-accessible entrance. We scootered around to the accessible entrance, which is where I found out that my London Pass had to be picked up from the Tourist Information center. The lively young man directed me to Victoria Station. Nice young man, wrong station. It turns out that I need to go to Lower Regent Street near Piccadilly Circus. Up until now Glenn had avoided the busses like like a kid with H1N1. I, the intrepid, if not impetuous one, decided to take a bus. It pulled up, I got on and had a great time. Got there, got the passes from Sabina the greatest receptionist in England, and back to Churchill's War-time digs. Glenn stayed so long inside, that Paul the manager issued him a pass to return the following day for free. The staff there were just “loverly” as Eliza Doolittle would say.

The rest of the evening was a run up to our one appointment - The Tower of London at 21:30 sharp. As the invitation stated: “Latecomers will not be admitted.” So stay sharp for the next update - DON’T BE LATE!”

A trip to Windsor Castle, 14 October 2009

Windsor. A beautiful picturesque town. No wonder Windsor Castle is Queen Elizabeth’s favorite castle. Glenn and I are duly impressed. But we are mostly impressed with Galahad, the trusty scooter. It seems to have good power, great handling, and Glenn can’t get over how easily it disassembles. We putter down High Street, which leads directly to a statue of Queen Victoria and the visitor’s entrance to Windsor.

Breakfast is the fist item on the agenda. This army definitely travels on its stomach. I sit at the café table on the sidewalk and Glenn orders breakfast. The price is a little high - but we chalk it up to eating within hailing distance of the castle moat. Little do we know that this is just the first salvo.

We reach Queen Victoria and it’s Mom’s big moment. “Wait a minute, Glenn, there’s one more person for the photo.” And he’s tickled pink as Mom arrives, straight out of 1954 and looking great!

Standing outside Windsor’s entrance, We hesitate at the price - $15.50 each. We’re both wavering. At our artificially agreed-upon exchange rate, that’s $62 to look at the British version of the Vanderbilt house in Newport, Rhode Island. You know, the one with a $10,000 bathtub in 1920’s dollars, with hot and cold running fresh water and sea water! Then emotion takes over - or maybe it’s Mom who got taken out of the box for her first photo opportunity. We decide to take the plunge.

At the ticket window I utilize the Rick Steves “Always Ask” philosophy. I say, “And my companion” meaning Glenn as my travel assistant, bootman, valet and all-around Sancho Panza. And it works! Glenn gets in for free! We enter and we walk up “the long and winding road” to the castle gate. You marvel at the sense of a massive 13th century edifice that is occupied by 120 people. It’s not just the Queen and Philip in the empty nest. They have ladies-in-waiting and valets and bootmen and Sancho Panzas stacked up like cordwood. What do they all do all day? Not half as much as my dear brother, who makes this all worth while and possible.

Still, they do a whole lot, let me tell you. This place is just huge with every kind of specialty room you can imagine. There’s the China room. As in place settings. Entire walls of floor-to-ceiling cabinets with lighted shelves of every place service they have received or commissioned since the 16th century. Every service beautifully displayed and not a speck of dust, not a fingerprint in sight! I particularly liked a dessert service that was a gift to the Prince of Wales and his wife, Princess Alexandra on the occasion of their marriage. In 1863.

This was a magical experience for someone who has always read about the lives of the Royal Family since the time of Queen Victoria. Just to see their dishes was to bring them to life as flesh-and-blood people, not as characters in a multi-volume fiction. And every room of the tour is like that. If you can ever go there, don’t miss it!

14 October 2009

At last, my passport gets a stamp in it! I am officially an international traveler, having landed at Heathrow airport. The wonderful service on British Airways has made me a passenger for life. I’ve spent enough time on cattle-car airlines to qualify for a herd discount. From now on, if I can afford a better airline, I’m spending the money.

The BA attendant is Pakistani by background and British by birth, so while he is wheeling me around, he constantly refers to me at “Luv.” Makes me feel like Ringo Starr is channelling Mohandes Gandhi. We get to the area outside customs, Glenn’s and my pre-arranged meeting place. I’m worried that he is frantically looking for me, not yet realizing that Glenn operates on International Surfer cosmic mode. His flight from Los Angeles arrived at 8:51 a.m., some three minutes after my flight from Baltimore did. I take my 2 foot by 2 foot by half-inch “Mom” poster box and on the back in marker I write “Glenn Robert” just like the limo drivers do for all the business travelers coming in. And I sit and wait. And wait. And wait.

I panic. He’s lost. We missed each other. There are two entrances to the post-customs area, and I’m sitting outside the wrong one. He’s going to get mad and it won’t be pleasant. The whole trip is shot - I might as well go home. 90 minutes go by and every employee I meet assures me that he’s probably still in customs and will be coming out soon. What do they know.

Another 10 minutes go by and suddenly, here he is, cool as a cucumber and thrilled to see me. It took the plane an hour and 40 minutes before Glenn could disembark. I breathe deeply, trying to keep my heart beating as I calm down. We organize our gear and we’re off.

Tickets are bought, the bus is found and boarded, our driver Martin is cheerful and a great tour guide, and for half the journey to Windsor we are the only passengers. Martin jokes, “There are 57 seats to choose from. Get comfortable.”

As we come to the stop where Martin leaves work for the day, I hand him my little stab at international relations. (Get ready for the pun.) I have lapel pin of the state flag of Maryland and another pin for the state flag of California. Martin is surprised, and genuinely touched. Glenn views all this and smiles broadly - he thinks it’s a great move on my part. He gets Brownie points for the California pin and he didn’t have to do anything to get it! What a deal! What a county! What a sister!!

October 13-14, 2009

The adventure begins!

For those of you who have been the unwilling victims of domestic air travel, I want to assure you that courtesy, comfort and service are alive and well in the friendly skies over the Atlantic ocean, where British Airways is truly the queen’s airline.

I arrived at BWI chauffeured by Prince Moshe Shaul a.k.a. Michael Grossman in his faithful red chariot. My travel scooter got into the trunk easily. As I approached the check-in counter, a BA customer representative walked up to me and welcomed me. She had been waiting for Galahad the scooter and I, Gueniviere the fair maiden, to arrive. In that lovely British accent they are famous for she asked if I would mind checking Galahad in at the counter. She would provide a wheelchair for me to get to the plane.

This was my first test and I hadn’t even checked in yet! I remembered what Rick Steves’ co-author said, “Be assertive! The Accessibility for the Disabled Act is on your side. Demand that you be allowed to take your wheelchair or scooter directly to the door of the plane.” But didn’t they know how nicely Priscilla of BA was going to be? It would make things so much easier for everyone! How could I say no? I smiled my best smile - and caved. “Certainly, I don’t mind. Of course I won’t be able to get around while I wait to board. . . “

“Oh, ma’am, you’re being so kind, we’ll let you wait in the lounge.”

And that, folks is where heaven awaits. Luxurious seating. Attendants to bring you a coffee, soda or perhaps a glass of wine. Pastries, cheese and crackers, little peppeidge Farm packets of Milano cookies. And all, of course, on the house. Gratis. Free. And my own personal BA chauffeur comes to collect me in my wheelchair and escort me to the door of the plane. And the flight makes me want to come back next month. Wait - I’ll be coming back on British Airways! G-d save the Queen!!

T minus 20 hours and counting!

It's one in the morning and I am completely worn out, stressed out and excited!

I log in to check in online. What should have only taken two minutes goes on for almost a half hour. First, I have to provide my passport number. Remember all those nightmares about not having a passport? Well, I do indeed have a valid passport made out to Karen Janey Hening-Speedone. They ask for the name exactly as it appears. I type it in and hit "continue." British Airways immediately drops the hyphen. The British don't believe in hyphenated names? Puhleeze!! They invented the hyphen, for goodness sake! I try putting it back in, and the web site keeps taking it back out! This goes on for several minutes, during which all the already logged-in hyphenated-last-name passengers get all the decent seats!

Next is the disabilities option. Mine says I need a wheelchair at departure and arrival. Wrong, I have my own electric scooter to ride to the door of the plane, which they will subsequently stow in the cargo hold, to be returned to the airplane door when I disembark. I try to fix that, only to finally give up. I hope you're ready, British Airways, but you're not known for flexibility!

Finally I get to pick my seat. 23D looks most promising - it is at the end of the row, where there appears to be an aisle behind it as well as next to it. The seat directly in front of it is empty so there's a prayer of a chance I survive.

Michael is taking me to the airport at 5:00 in the afternoon. I am leaving plenty of time to get through security. Between the carry-on bag full of electronic gear, the electric scooter, the foot brace and the cane, I will set off alarms that will register in the Pentagon!

Tomorrow morning I go to the bank to move money around, head to Towson to get my iPod resynched, and then wait for the FedEx guy to deliver. More on that tomorrow!

The Schizophrenic Tourist

She sits at her computer, looking over the itinerary for the hundredth time. The room reservation with the elderly German lady in picturesque Bacharach on the Rhein; did she make it for one room or for two? The site for the website for Eilat, Israel, keeps crashing and won't let her sign on. What was it Glenn said when she mentioned staying at a youth hostel? "We're not youths, Karen." This from her brother, the eternal surfer? He's not a youth? Peter Pan has grown up? What will Wendy say?

It's T minus 13 days, and Eisenhower got the US Army to Normandy with less fuss. I am alternately calm and panic stricken. I am going to the airport four hours early so when I suddenly remember what I forgot, I can send my dear friend Michael back to my house to retrieve: my passport, my medicine, my camera, my airline ticket or whatever other item I have left out on the breakfast nook table.

Back to how we got here. Mom passed away very unexpectedly on October 1st in 2007. All of us were stunned - she was in perfect health despite her minor complaints. (Once, after gall bladder "band-aid" surgery, Mom moaned to me on the phone, "Karen, you CANNOT imagine the pain!" I replied, "Well, let me think, Mom. One band-aid for you, five C-Sections for me." "Oh," Mom muttered, "That's right. I forgot.") Glenn and I almost instantly became bonded together-just as Mom had always hoped and prayed. One year later, as we were commiserating on the phone, I said, "Let's do something really special. Mom always promised us that one day she'd take us to Europe. Let's use the last of the inheritance and go see the sights she always wanted to show us."

And as quick as you could say "Bob's your uncle" I had mapped out four weeks in Europe and two weeks in Israel. At first, I kept pestering Glenn with my ideas, asking for his opinion. After a while he finally said to me, "Karen, you're the tour guide and you're in charge. All I care about is the Churchill Room, the cathedral in Chartres and the Sistine Chapel."

Should I tell him I've already booked all three on our trip?