Biking in Versailles

Benny and I in front of the Grand Canal.

Big day today, for today we go to Versailles. I woke up pretty jazzed at 5:30 a.m. and couldn’t go back to sleep. I was excited about leaving Paris for the day, excited about touring a sight I hadn’t seen before, and this wasn’t just a sight, it was Versailles, the extravagant palace of Louis XIV, the Sun King. Marie Antoinette and Louis VI lived there too, and were dragged from Versailles back to Paris by a mob during the French Revolution where they were later executed.

Versailles holds a vital place in French history. It was the center of political power, not Paris, from 1682 to 1789. Louis XIV transformed it from a hunting lodge to an opulent palace. It remains the symbol of the ancien regime. where Marie Antoinette played at being a milkmaid with porcelain pails embossed with her crest.

So I just couldn’t wait to see it for the first time, and prowled our tiny studio until it was time to wake Benny and wheedle him into dressing and eating breakfast. “No,” I repeated. “Versailles isn’t just a museum. We’ll get to ride bikes.” 

Well, those were the magic words, because Benny perked right up and agreed to walk through the Tuilleries Gardens to the Seine, then cross the Pont Royal to the Museum d’Orsay. (“No Benny, we’re not going into this museum.”) The train station to Versailles, actually a suburban rail line — rather like BART for Paris — was in front of the Orsay. 

The train was feeling kind of Muni that morning, though. A small crowd of tourists gathered, milling around, looking at the departure boards and trying to buy tickets. The station attendant at the one open ticket window announced there were computer problems, pulled the window shade down, walked away, and didn’t return. But I didn’t even consider giving up — our museum passes were only good for Friday and there was no way I was going to Versailles on a Saturday. Finally, after multiple tries, I managed to buy three tickets and we ran for the 8:34 train. 

One of Italian artist Giuseppe Penone's tree sculptures in the
Versailles gardens, created to blur the boundaries between nature and art. 

We were dismayed to find a middling-long line, maybe 70 people, waiting in the courtyard. This was the ticket holders line, there was no escape, so we patiently shuffled along as Benny repeated, “Where are the bikes?” I had to break it to him that we were seeing the chateau first, before the tour groups arrived. (My pathological horror of tour groups really came through on this trip. You’d never guess that I’d traveled in one of those groups myself, with my own dorky red “Globus” bag.) Anyway, only a few giant buses were disgorging passengers, and I wanted to get through the chateau before the 10:22 senior group from Chantilly showed up.

We were just in time — soon after we arrived, the line just exploded from a lazy little winding worm to a giant python, growing fatter by the minute, stretching out past the front gate. The only amusement was watching people come up the harried French museum guy at the head of the line. The scene was repeated endlessly: 

Vistor: Where is the line for ticket holders?

Museum Guy: Zis iz the line.

V: No, for ticket holders.

MG: Zis! Zis iz the line!

V: (horrified) This line?

MG: Oui! This line!

Then the visitor would linger a bit, perhaps hoping the Museum Guy would change his mind, (“Mon Dieu! But of course, you can enter by this secret ticket-holder line!”) then trudge halfway to Paris to join the back of the line.

We entered the chateau before this scene had time to pall, shuffling through a series of rooms that brought to mind Prague’s Baroque cathedrals (and I thought those places had a lot of cherubs). Every square inch was covered with either crystal, gold gilt, Roman gods or Louis himself. Sometimes all four at once, with Louis as the God of War, wearing a gold helmet and a crystal spear. 

Benny had fun for a while identifying the various rooms: Ares, Hermes, Athena, Apollo, etc., but bikes were never far from his mind. We had audioguides this time and shuffled from treasure room to treasure room, simultaneously impressed and appalled. No wonder the French revolted.


Finally we took pity on Benny and headed outside. Ron and Benny sat in the sunshine while I bought souvenirs, then we walked through the gardens, eating lunch at a little outdoor cafe. We were a good half-hour ahead of the hordes, who were still gaping at Louie's bedroom, and the day was warm and sunny. We strolled over to the Neptune Gate to rent a bike, but alas! the bike rental booth was only open on weekends. Benny was devastated. "Let's go north," I suggested, thinking of the central square with a gift shop, restaurant and electric vehicle. "Maybe that bike booth is open."

Well, I felt like a hero when we got there, because the bike rental booth was doing brisk business, with waves of tourists wobbling off on their bikes, barely avoiding pedestrians. Benny's face when he saw the row of children's bikes was priceless.

Apollo Fountain.

I hadn't been on a bike in six years, so I did a little wobbling myself, but Ron wiped out first, hitting the dirt to avoid a car. For a time it looked like we'd have to leave the bikes and the garden and find a pharmacy. (The scrape was quite deep and bloody, and there were no first aid facilities at Versailles.) But Ron cleaned up the wound in the men's room and I wheedled a few bandages out of the nearby restaurant.

Then we headed off once more, taking two hours to circle the gardens and the Grand Canal. Benny was in heaven; the bike ride ranked right up there with the ferry trip, the Roman museum and the London Eye.

Sneaking into the Louvre

Benny and The Wedding Feast at Cana in the Louvre.

I woke up in Paris to the sounds of a garbage truck coming through our apartment’s tall, open windows. Ah, just like home. Ron was out on an early morning run, so I made a cup of tea, moving around quietly so as not to wake Benny.

We were going to the Louvre today, and Ron and I were placing bets on how long we could keep our 9-year-old son in the building. Benny is pretty game for cathedrals and outdoor sights, but museums have been a slog. He liked the Tower of London, Dover Castle and Roman Canterbury museums, but big institutions like the British Museum have left him cold and I had no illusions about the Louvre.

My only hope was to gain admittance as early as possible and ply Benny with French treats to keep him moving. To this end, I planned to avoid the long line outside the Louvre’s glass pyramid by sneaking in through an underground tunnel. Apparently if we entered the Carousel mall, went down a couple of escalators and turned left at the Apple store, we’d find the Louvre's secret entrance. It was worth a shot.

Benny with Winged Victory.

Ron returned all glowing from his run to the Arc de Triumphe, and I hustled the whole family out of the apartment and on the Rue de Rivoli by 9 a.m. We entered the mall and by gum, it was just as I’d read: down the escalators, past the handbag stores and Apple outlet and there was the Louvre entrance, with a short line of other savvy patrons. 

Within minutes we were in the glass Pyramid, debating which wing to enter first. We headed for the Mona Lisa before the tour buses showed up, but the path to Mona was paved with Winged Victory and long galleries packed with Renaissance art. Nearly every painting depicted one of four scenes:

1. Madonna and Child.

2. The Crucifixion.

3. David and Goliath.

4. St. Sebastien.

I didn’t quite understand the obsession with St. Sebastien. I could answer Benny’s questions about the other scenes; I even could talk about how David was sometimes portrayed as a little wimpy guy with a slingshot, or a godlike warrior with a sword. But St. Seb had me beat, at least until I could get Ron’s iPhone and look him up on Wikepedia. A Roman emperor had orded Seb killed with arrows, so they tied him to a tree, but no matter how many arrows the soldiers shot, he could not be killed. For some reason, Renaissance artists loved to paint this. Sometimes Seb had arrows sticking out all over like a porcupine and sometimes just the wounds. Sometimes he was dressed and sometimes naked, but there was always the rope and the tree.

I couldn't find The Raft of the Medusa, but I did find one of Gericault's preliminary sketches.

I know you’re thinking: How could Benny not be enthralled by such scenes? I know, it baffled me too, although he did like the statue of a boy riding a turtle.

After a morning of classical sculpture and Renaissance art, we took him to the cafe for crackers and water (all we could afford, at those appalling prices). Then we managed to coax him into Napolean III’s apartments, which were nothing compared to those of Versailles, according to a nearby tour guide. But that was it. It was 1 p.m. and Ron left with Benny to find some real food.

Which left me alone and at large in the Louvre. I walked through the medieval galleries, then toured the Dutch and Flemish paintings. I couldn’t find the Giotto picture of St. Francis, which first introduced early Renaissance features like facial expressions and natural movement, as well as a flying Jesus that looked like a giant bat. But I did find the The Dying Slave and Venus de Milo and the Rembrandt self portrait. 

Anne of Cleves

I even found a nice surprise -- the Holbein painting of Anne of Cleves, the painting that so dazzled the English King Henry VIII that he agreed to marry her sight unseen. (Boy was he disappointed when he saw Anne in person. He gave her a quick divorce and Hever Castle and she considered herself lucky.) 

I saw one of my favorite paintings, The Cheat Holding the Ace of Diamonds, and too many more to count. I spent nearly four more hours there, limping near the end from a fruitless search for the Raft of the Medusa, and returned the apartment exhausted but happy.

The Cheat Holding the Ace of Diamonds. The servant, courtesan and card player are conspiring to cheat the young nobleman on the right.

The Top 20 Things Christine Figured Out Today

Walking along the Seine.

You find me on the field of victory tonight as I gorge on French pastries after dinner.  Today in Paris I learned how to ...

1. Turn on the shower.
2. Turn off the shower.
3. Open my apartment door. (There's a little knob on the side you pull out.)
4. Turn on a hallway light so we don't keep bumping into walls.
5. Open my building door. (There's a little button you push.)
6. Find a Paris laundromat in the Latin Quarter.
7. Run the clothes washer. You pick a washer, pile your clothes in, add soap, then go over to a machine across the room to pay and start the

Paris from the Arc de Triomphe.

washer. Don't just hit washer buttons randomly and curse under your breath. (Another lesson learned: when the pay machine won't accept your euro note after you enter your washer number, don't keep entering it feverishly. Reread the little screen and consider that "validate #" might mean "enter #.")

Benny eats a hot-dog-in-a-baguette at a Latin Quarter cafe while we wait for our laundry.

8. Order lunch.
9. Read the restaurant receipt (tip is included).

I also figured out ...

A French lawn mower in the Tuileries Garden.

10. Which Greek goddess is guarding the Tuileries Garden with a handful of wheat (Demeter).
11.Which bus line gives the best tour of Paris.
12. How to pay for a bus ticket.

A Paris mailbox. I thought it was for paper recycling.

13. How to validate your ticket.
14. What a message beginning with "nouvelle destination" means and whether you have to leave the bus.
15. Whether the stuff at the market in a little yellow tub is actually butter.
16. How to call the U.S. from France.
17. How to find the secret underground entrance to the Louvre.


18. Where the closest post office is and what a Paris mailbox looks like.
19. How to open the drain in my apartment's bathroom sink so I can swish out some clothes. (There's a tiny lever in the back of the sink.)

... and finally ...

20. How many euros I can get out of the ATM without hitting my daily withdrawl limit.

Dover to Calais

View of the Channel from Dover Castle.

On the train to Dover.

Our trip to Dover was quick and easy, although I tried to enliven things by lingering by the vending machine as our train pulled into Canterbury East Station. (That Coke machine had my 2 pounds!)  Ron and Benny stood on the platform yelling and waving my backpack and we hopped on the train with seconds to spare. They probably would have left me there, but I had the tickets.

Benny at the Churchill House.

We pulled into Dover Priory station and marched up the hill to Churchill House, a B&B just below Dover Castle. All the rooms were named after Churchill's family or favorite homes: Clementine, Patricia, Blenheim. We stayed in the Winston Room, which turned out to be our favorite B&B room in England — it was a shame we were only staying for one night. We wanted to catch an early ferry to Calais the next morning so we ordered the earliest breakfast possible R 7 a.m. which the B&B owner reluctantly accepted. ("We were hoping for a bit of a lie-in," he said mournfully.)

View from Dover Castle.

We had two orders of business that day: buy tickets for the Tuesday ferry and tour Dover Castle. Ron and I had given the castle only a cursory look when we drove around Britain in 1997, but it deserved more. But first we went to the city's tourist center, which was housed in a tall, ugly public-housing-looking building on the edge of town. This building reminded me of Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass, where Alice keeps walking toward a hill, but never gets any closer. I never saw such a town for getting in the way of such an ugly building, which was playing peek-a-boo around all the historic buildings. Finally we cut through an alley and found ourselves there and bought tickets for the 9:25 a.m. ferry and entry to Dover Castle.

St. Mary in Castro and Roman lighthouse.

Dover isn't a single castle, but an extensive complex, from a Roman lighthouse to the medieval towers. Underneath lies a network of chalk-cut tunnels originating from medieval times and extended during the threat of a Napoleanic invasion. Military personnel worked in the Secret Wartime Tunnels during World War II, especially during the evacuation from Dunkirk and the Battle of Britain. The exhibit on Operation Dynamo, where the British evacuated a total of 338,326 allied soldiers from Dunkirk almost exactly 73 years ago (May 27-June 4, 1940) after France fell, was especially vivid. Scenes were projected on the tunnel walls as narrators described the evacuation. We also toured the medieval walls and keep, built by King Henry II, and admired the views, then we checked out St. Mary in Castro, a 1,000-year-old Saxon church next to a Roman lighthouse.

So close, and yet so far.

The following morning started with a great breakfast, where we met an American military contractor who just arrived from Germany and debated internet privacy with the B&B owner. He said the ferry terminal was just a short way around the castle and Dover Harbor, but he must’ve been used to directing car drivers, not pedestrians with big backpacks. We trudged and trudged, looking in vain for signs, until we stood on the wrong side of a spaghetti bowl of roads, looking hopelessly at our ferryboat on the dock. We tried to walk along the harbor to it, but were stopped by fences, so we circled around and went under an overpass until we saw the small station for foot passengers.

The ferry itself was wonderful ... we sat on the deck and ate crackers and apples since we were too cheap to stand in line for overpriced ferry food. From the port we took a bus to the train station, where I haltingly bought three tickets for Calais to Boulogne, then to Paris. We arrived at Paris' Gare du Nord at 5 p.m. — rush hour — but fortunately all everyone was going the opposite way. We took the subway to the Tulieries station and found the apartment on Rue St. Roch with no trouble. The apartment owner Mario introduced us to our tiny studio, I handed over a big pile of euros for the week, and we collapsed on the sofa. Then we dumped all the contents out of our big backpacks and stuffed them in the closet. No more traveling -- we had a week in Paris ahead and wouldn't need those big bags until we headed to the airport on June. 18.

Calais from the ferry deck.

Our Canterbury Tales

Canterbury Cathedral

Canterbury was windy, cool and overcast this morning, which was fine with me, because all this warm, sunny  English weather was starting to weird me out. I mean, I went out the weekend before this trip and bought the only hooded windbreakers I could find, paid a ridiculous amount for them at that sports store that has replaced bookstores across the U.S., and not one drop of rain since we arrived in London. Very un-English. So I was pleased to dig out our dorky, matching windbreakers in fashion colors. We pulled up our hoods and marched into town.

I wanted to look at the Cathedral right away, but since we'd gotten such a late start (we'd gotten a late start every morning since that first one with Westminster Abbey) we already wanted our lunch. We found some odd European bistro-looking place with skinny tables and plastic highchairs for everyone. I didn't know whether to expect a martini or a bib. (The best places offer both, of course.)

Here we followed our usual M.O. with restaurant food, where I order some expensive dish I'd never get in the States (fish and chips, steak and kidney pie, bangers and mash, etc.) and Ron and Benny would split a hamburger or some plain chicken breast. I expected this routine to continue into France, with Ron and Benny eating breadsticks while I tucked into coq au vin. After two weeks, I'd most likely roll into America 10 pounds heavier while my family trailed after me, too weak to carry their bags.

I'm a big one for chronological sightseeing; I like seeing the Romanesque church before the Gothic cathedral and the Norman castles before the Baroque chateaux — you get the drift. So I herded us into Canterbury's Roman Museum, where we stood behind a lovely Indian family who spent half-an-hour mulling whether to get a city museum pass before declining. This gave Ron plenty of time to pick out historically themed school supplies, including a Caesar pencil sharpener and a Roman Ruler (ha ha).

Benny the Roman Gladiator

The museum cost 6 pounds a head, but believe me, it was worth every pence. We practically had the whole place to ourselves, and it was quite informative and tastefully high-tech. Britain has obviously invested some money in their museum exhibits, because the new techie touch-screen presentations have been first rate. The Crown Jewels at the Tower, Roman Canterbury and later Dover Castle were all presented in that interactive, 4th-grade-reading-level strategy that was too easy for the 9-year-olds but perfect for their tired, middle-aged parents.

We had to tear ourselves out of there though, because Canterbury Cathedral beckoned. I was fully prepared to pay serious money to see the place and was all psyched up not to say "You're shitting me!" when presented with the 25-pound admission price, but it turned out the Cathedral was free because it was Sunday. Or we just snuck in accidentally. Either way, we saved some money and it partially made up for the 6 Pound chicken Benny wouldn't touch at lunch.

The cathedral nave.

We'd barely had 10 minutes there — hardly enough to gawk at the rose windows — when people started gathering for Evensong in the quire, with the King's School Boy's Choir. This was not to be missed, so we lined up and found ourselves sitting on the ancient, red-cushioned benches. I let Benny read his book until the procession began, with a dozen boys Benny's age pacing by in robes with Elizabethan ruffs. Ron and I were hardly able to follow the service; instead we sat agog, mouths open, at the pure voices soaring up to stained glass windows. By the time we left though, Benny had had enough, so Ron took him outside while I toured the rest of the Cathedral.

The "Adam Delving" stained glass window. What's he digging, a well?

There are few things I like better than wandering around some historic place alone with some dorky guidebook, and Canterbury Cathedral was no exception. But I kept getting lost, ending up at the Adam Delving stained glass window when I wanted to see the spot where was Thomas Becket was murdered, or stepping into St. Anselm's Chapel when I hadn't seen the Black Prince's tomb yet. This makes chronologically obsessed tourists like me crazy.

The modern Altar of the Sword's Point where Becket was murdered, so named because a knight's sword point broke with the ferocity of the blows.

The figure made of iron nails hanging above the original spot of Becket's tomb, cryptically named "Transport."

I lingered as long as I could, admiring the chapels and crypts. Another thing Europeans do well is integrate modern art into the most ancient of sites. The dramatic modern cross above Becket's murder site and the human figure made of nails hanging above the original location of Becket's tomb are two great examples of this. (I noticed some distinctive modern art in the Louvre gardens as well.)

We tried to have dinner at the King's Head again, so Benny could pet the cat, but Sunday hours are pretty strange in Britain. We arrived and settled ourselves at 6 p.m., when dinner service usually begins, but a quick look at the menu revealed that on Sunday, the pub doesn't start dinner until 7. So we ended up at a fish and chips place across the street that apparently didn't care about the Sabbath, and once again went to bed ridiculously early, since we were catching a morning train to Dover the next day.

London to Canterbury

Canterbury Cathedral peeking over the trees.

We loved London, but I was rather keen to push on to Canterbury. We repacked our backpacks and strapped them on, staggering around our room to adjust to the weight. Our plan was to check out of the B&B, stash our bags in the residents' lounge and walk over to the British Museum. Then we'd have lunch and take an afternoon train to Canterbury.

We were still a little worn out, though. Ron was especially surly because he hadn't been able to take the morning bike ride in London he'd mapped out. A group of students had taken over the lounge next door to our room and carried on until Ron told them to get lost. Then he was too cranky to go back to sleep and had to skip the bike ride.

I missed the whole thing (love those earplugs!), but I mentioned the issue to the B&B owner and he credited us a whole night's stay! Ron was mollified when I told him and we went to Museum in a better mood.

I just want to give a big shout out here to San Francisco Public Schools. They're trying to do a lot with reduced funding and increased funding, but Benny's class still went through an extensive unit on Greek myths. Add in some amazing graphic novels of the "Odyssey" and "Illiad," and Benny has a good working knowledge of classical mythology. Just in time, too, because the British Museum is all about ancient culture. Benny pointed out griffins, centaurs, satyrs and monsters (Cyclop, Hydra, Minotaur) with no trouble. He could identify various gods and goddess by their props. (Poseidon had is trident; Artemis had her crescent moon.) Entire rooms were covered with friezes displaying battles that Benny could follow like a graphic novel.

Benny at the British Museum, admiring ancient carvings of the Assyrian war against Babylon.

We walked out of the museum a few hours later, blinking in the sunshine, and ate foot-long hotdogs wrapped in long baguettes on the steps. Then we picked up our bags and chatted with the B&B owner's wife. (She looked and sounded just like Mrs. Doubtfire; Ron and I could not even look at each other during the conversation.) Then we took a bus to Pancras Station.

On the train to Canterbury.

Pancras was modern and cheery, looking more like a small airport than a railway station. I rather regretted not going to Victoria, though, buying tickets to the Continent while humanity swirled around me a la Sherlock Holmes. Ron and Benny waited on Platform 12 while I popped into a nearby store and bought enough provisions for a trans-continent ride to Calcutta. The train journey to Canterbury was a bit of letdown — I've had morning commutes to work that lasted longer. In London we looked out at concrete barriers; out on the countryside we saw hedges. There were teasing little gaps in the shrubbery, however, revealing fetching little glimpses of the landscape. "Look, look!" I'd cry repeatedly to Benny, who would glance up from his little plastic knights just as the hedges closed ranks once more. After the third time, he refused to respond.

We arrived at Canterbury West Station and were just congratulating ourselves on a job well done when I realized our B&B was a short walk from Canterbury EAST. We were too cheap to take a taxi and there was no bus in sight, so Ron and I consulted a map and said, "Well, it doesn't look too far." The journey turned out to be more than a mile, tramping along busy roads, bent under backpacks until we reached Wincheap Road and staggered past the long row of tall, skinny houses. We arrived red-faced and footsore, hardly able to listen to owner Debbie explain our room's 50 rules ("Open the window this way ... don't open the bathroom door during your shower or you'll set off the fire alarm ...") We just nodded and tried not to pant.

We had dinner at a pub called the "King's Head," where I had a steak, ale and mushroom pie and Benny ate a burger while talking to the pub's cat. Then we returned to our cute, fussy, blessedly quiet room on the top floor and went to sleep. One night on this trip, I thought, we'll make it past an 8 p.m. bedtime.

London: The Tide Waits for No Family

In front of Tower Bridge.

Me: Are you excited to go the Tower, Benny?
Benny: I'm especially excited I'm not going there to be executed.

We were beginning to adjust to London time, which meant no more 4 a.m. risings. Instead, we slept in until 8, barely getting to the dining room in time to get breakfast, and not leaving the B&B until almost 10. Benny was lethargic until we boarded the boat for the trip to the Tower of London, one of the crown jewels of this European Trip for me.

Outside our London Bed and Breakfast.

Benny loved the boat ride. We admired the new glassy skyscrapers on the opposite bank, most topped with construction cranes, including "the Shard" and one building that looked like a crystal pineapple.

We disembarked beside the Traitor's Gate, the historic water entrance for Tower prisoners. Queen Elizabeth (then Princess) was sent to the Tower by her sister Queen Mary and arrived there by the Traitor's Gate.

Traitors Gate at morning low tide, seen from the Thames.

Traitor's Gate at afternoon high tide. Too late to enter now! 

Elizabeth's arrival was delayed by the famous "Tide Letter" (which I saw on a previous trip to London). She had asked the lords escorting her for time to write a final letter to her sister and by the time she finished, the water level of the Thames was too high for her to go to the water that day. When she finally did arrive at the Tower, she sat on the water steps and refused to move until one of her male servants started crying. Elizabeth scolded him, and her spirits restored, agreed to be conducted to her prison. I wanted to see those water steps. It was all I could do not to jump onto the pier and run for the Tower walls.

A few pretty girls were walking the Tower grounds in Elizabethan costume; it must be hard to smile and smile while tourists swarm around you. One guy stepped all over one girl's trailing skirts, pinning her to the spot, and he just laughed and didn't even apologize. Benny liked the crown jewels and the knights' armor. We were less impressed by the monument on the scaffold site: a glass pillow surrounded by the Tower's most famous victims: Anne Boleyn, Katharine Howard, the Earl of Essex, Lady Jane Grey. It was an odd memorial, kind of a Cinderella slipper story gone bad.

The Bell Tower, where Elizabeth was kept.

I tried to get Benny to go to the Torture Chamber but he would have none of it. I went, but it was pretty tame anyway — What happened to the stuffed guy stretched out on the rack? Why is the chopping block jumbled in with a bunch of other items instead of standing out in its grisly glory with a nice ax next to it?

William the Conqueror's White Tower.

Tragedy always makes you hungry, so we had fish and chips on the waterfront, then climbed back into the boat. We walked along the waterfront, admiring the Battle of Britain memorial, on the way to the Churchill War Rooms. In hindsight, we really should have skipped the Churchill War Rooms. Our asses were dragging, and I for one had slept poorly the night before. But I'd already paid a fortune for the tickets, so we headed inside. It was fascinating, but to our tired eyes, it was also a warren of hot, dark and crowded passageways. Ron and Benny vanished, and I wandered the rooms searching for them before finally thinking to go outside where I found them drooping in the sunshine like unwatered roses.

Wiped out after a long day.

Obviously jet lag was kicking our butts, so all we could do is go to bed early again and hope the next day would be better. We were leaving London for Canterbury the following afternoon and would need our wits about us.

I Spy with my London Eye

Our second day in London began at 4 a.m., just Benny and I sitting on his bed at the Bed & Breakfast trying not to wake Ron. I spent the time reading my Lonely Planet "England" guidebook and dithering over the day's plans. Since we were up at such an ungodly hour (only 8 p.m. in California, though), I decided to take us to Westminster Abbey and get in line before it opened and the tour buses arrived. 

Benny loved the English breakfast, with hot chocolate presented to him in a little pot. Ron and I attacked our plates piled with fried eggs and slabs of hamlike bacon, with a fried tomato on the side. I knew what the last was, because I'd read Bill Bryson's book on England. ("I thought it was a blood clot!") It was such a civilized way to start the day, especially for a woman who usually began her mornings with a Snapple and a Special K bar.

So anyway, there we were at Westminster Abbey, 45 minutes before it opened, so we walked along the Thames and admired Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Benny stared in amazement at the London Eye, the city's enormous ferris wheel, and only solemn promises that we would ride it that very day would convince him to leave the riverfront.







Westminster Abbey was a little overwhelming. I mean, here's this medieval building — small, dark, elaborately carved — built by King Henry III in 1245. Chapel after chapel, tomb after tomb, statue after statue, the three of us patiently shuffled along with the crowd, and this is at 9 a.m. on a Thursday before summer begins for most families. Most of the sightseers had audioguides clamped to their right ears, squinting at the carvings in the colored light reflected by stained-glass windows. I'm of two minds about audioguides. Obviously they're better than huddled groups following a tour guides, but these audio devices are kind of like cell phones -- they distance you from their surroundings. I personally only used them in surroundings I didn't know, like the Churchill War Rooms or Versailles. Most of the time, I followed my little printed guides.


Benny started asking to leave at Edward the Confessor's tomb, and by the time we got to the Tudors, he was ready to revolt and wondering if he liked England so much after all. But the Tudors were non-negotiable, of course, and he did let me lift him to look at Queen Elizabeth I's tomb, where she rested with her sister Mary, who almost executed her.





We bade a regretful farewell to Westminster Abbey (well, I did) and
hopped a double-decker bus to St. Paul's Cathedral. "Do we have to go in there?" Benny asked nervously, but I was more interested in the tourist office across the street. I bought Fast Track tickets for the Tower of London, The London Eye and the Churchill War Rooms and then we started looking for a lunch. We ate take-out burgers on the steps of St. Paul ("The li-i-ittle old bi-i-i-rd woman comes ...")

Speaking of birds, where the heck had all the pigeons gone? Ron and I had visited Britain in 1997, and we remember flocks of pigeons practically darkening the skies at Trafalgar Square, St. Paul's steps and other public squares. What had they done with the pigeons? I imagined some grim bird elimination campaign by the London Olympic Committee, some kind of Birdbrain Orange thing or pigeon contraceptions in the fountain water. Arsenic-laced bread crumbs, perhaps? One wonders.

View from the London Eye

I found another bus that took us to the London Eye, an elegant circle ringed with bubble-like cars that would take us more than 400 feet into the air. We stood in our bubble, noses pressed against the glass to take in the incredible views. Benny was enthralled, but once the excitement died down, he slumped against the bus stop, exhausted and convinced that nothing would ever please him again. Ron and I took him back to the B&B and we picnicked in our room and went to bed early again.

Europe: Packing Our Bags

Destination London

So we went to Europe this week. It wasn’t a whim, but the product of months of planning, almost overplanning, if one can actually overplan a trip to Europe. If so, I may have come close.

I had definite ideas about what kind of trip Ron, Benny and I would take, and it wasn’t about dinners, shopping or theater. We had a 9-year-old and a tight budget, and tickets for “War Horse” in London or a fricassee of snails and wild garlic at Le Meurice in Paris wasn’t in the plan.

Instead, this trip was about seeing the sights and enjoying European history and culture without spending a fortune. So the Europeans were treated to the sight of a dazzled, badly dressed American trio staggering along the cobblestones, bags on their backs and under their eyes. (We really underestimated the jet-lag from a 10-hour, San Francisco-to-London flight. It took days to recover.)

I was resigned to the dorks-on-parade quality of this trip, so to help me plan, I turned to the Head Dork of European Travel, Rick Steves. I was no fan of his TV shows: the constant shopping, the staged local encounters, his soothing put-down-the-knife voice.  “See?” he seemed to say cheerfully. “Europe isn’t scary. Europe is fun. I know you haven’t been off the couch in 15 years, but that’s okay.  So go, go to Copenhagen.”

How will we fit it all?

But I did remember liking his “Europe Through the Back Door” book 15 years ago, so I ordered it through Amazon, and after 10 pages was ready to do almost everything it said. Pack Light, Rick said, so I stuffed everything for a two-week trip into two backpacks (just under the carry-on limit) and four smaller bags. Clothes, toiletries, vitamins, journals, earplugs, travel alarm and a small roll of duct tape, and we were ready to go.

Our luggage for the trip - cat not included.

Rick said to use money belts, so I spent an hour rifling through our closets for the belts Ron and I used when we lived in Prague. We stuffed them with passports, credit cards and about $1000 in U.S. dollars between the two of us. We’re drawing the rest of our funds from ATMs overseas, per Rick’s instructions, which is working out beautifully. We’re only using our cards for big-ticket purchases, like hotel bills or ferry tickets. Benny’s been getting a daily allowance to buy himself treats and souvenirs.

So each of us boarded our British Airways with one big bag and one little bag and we didn’t check a thing. Our flight to London was uneventful, but I’d forgotten how long it took to escape Heathrow. The “Other Passports” line was miles long, packed with cranky people. Then we trudged through passageways and doorways and up and down escalators and through tunnels until we popped out into the main terminal and it was time to spring into action. I’d decided to take the Tube into London for 5 pounds apiece because the shuttle was 20 pounds and a taxi at least 65 pounds. But the Tube ride would take an hour and Benny was starving. So I bought chicken and apples at an airport market for him and Ron to eat while I figured out how to buy Tube tickets.

The Tube ride went well – I flipped through a magazine while Ron and Benny fell asleep in their seats — and we found our B&B near the British Museum with no trouble. We had dinner at a Mexican restaurant, of all things, on a busy, interesting corner swirling with black cabs and red double-decker buses. Returning to the B&B, we went to bed at 8 p.m., exhausted but thrilled to be here at last. Thanks, Rick.

Mom Glasses

So my Mom left town recently, hopping the train back East to the Land of Free Parking and Affordable Housing. The nice thing -- well, I should say one of the many nice things -- about having your Mom visit is that she looks at the whole life through Mom Glasses, which are closely related to Rose-Colored Glasses but without peppy, positive vibe that can get a little grating.

Anyway, so my Mom and her Glasses came to visit and suddenly every aspect of my life took on a pinky sheen. Living in San Francisco means living a little smaller, because every square foot of the damn city is worth upwards of $300,000. So you've got the wee apartment with the wee kitchen and the microscopic bathroom and the squeezy garage space with the post on the side. We drive a teeny Honda Fit, which I spent the whole weekend squeezing into ridiculously small parking spaces because I couldn't ask Mom to hike up hill and down dale just to get a pastry.

Of course, that meant a couple days of driving Mom around and watching my language as yet another bleepin' idiot stops dead in the middle of a small, twisted street and wants to back up to the parking space he saw half a mile back. Or the other bleepin' bicyclist who courts death by breezing through a stop sign and nearly gets plastered on my front bumper and then gives me a sneering look of Judgment. And I can't even swear, because Mom's in the car, not because she'd object to my language, but because she's obviously having a good time, snapping pictures of the corner drugstore or something and listening to her eldest child shrieking streams of expletives at bleepin' drivers who just stand outside their car door, in the street, blocking every body as they talk on their phone isn't exactly a fun vacation experience.

So I did a lot of mumbling as I drove and tried to keep the Scowl of Death off my face and everything was pretty OK, because again, we've got the Mom Glasses on here, and a funny thing happened ... I started to look at San Francisco through Mom's eyes too and appreciated again why we live in this city. (Not Muni though. Not even Mom Glasses can make Muni look good. The only thing that would make Muni look good is psychedelic drugs, which is a strategy some San Franciscans understandably adopt.)

So thank you Mom, for visiting and bringing your Glasses along to remind me why we live in San Francisco.

Picky Picky Picky Contest Guidelines

So this morning I mailed off my entry to a literary writing contest and I’m still reeling.

Contests like those sponsored by the Pretty Nervous Writing Aardvarks, or PNWA, are a valuable way for unpublished writers to get noticed, but I must say that the submission guidelines give a whole new meaning to the phrase “barriers to entry.”

First of all, I’m convinced that the guidelines are a product of years, if not decades, of pet peeves developed by literary writing contest judges, because let me tell you, they are not written with the writer in mind. And yes, I realize that these august personages are donating their time and expertise and any little thing we can do to smooth the path is in our own best interests.

And actually, I suspect that literary writing contests like convoluted rules and submission processes. First of all, they provide a wonderful excuse to reject obviously scrabbled-together, last-minute entries rife with spelling and grammar mistakes. (“Ah, I note this writer did NOT put his category number on the outside of the envelope! Out of the pool!”) Secondly, such guidelines weed out the mediocrities and through natural selection produce the most astute and sophisticated of contestants, those freaky brainiacs who never consider submitting a 5.24-inch by 8-inch SASE envelope when obviously only a 4.125-inch by 9.5-inch envelope is called for. Finally, such guidelines only increase the prestige of the writing contest, implying that due to the enormous volume of submissions, requiring tiny little boxes packed with information on each upper right-hand corner is the only way to preserve the honored judges’ sanity.

It is in this spirit that I offer my own Literary Writing Contest Guidelines. I myself am not sponsoring a literary writing contest (oh heavens no), but it’s fun to assemble those hoops. So I offer this template for any individuals or organizations eager to discover desperate, unpublished writers while garnering a little prestige for themselves, but unsure how to go about it.

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CONGRATULATIONS for choosing to participate in the Picky Picky Picky Literary Writing Contest. We are thrilled to offer this opportunity for fabulous prizes to American authors. Unfortunately due to shipping schedules, we are unable to accept submissions from states that begin and end with the same letter, but we look forward to seeing our Ohioan friends’ work in next months Less Picky Picky Picky contest.

Participants may submit in one of 47 categories. Unproperly categorized submissions will be discarded. Once you choose your category number, put it on everything: your pages, your big envelope, your postcard, your SAS #10 envelope, your check, tattoo it on your forehead. Own your category.

Your submission must be 4 pages, no more, no less. Double-spaced. Writers submitting single-spaced copy will be shot. The Synopsis is page one. The outline is page two. The author’s bio is page three. The table of contents should take up at least half of page four. Of course that means only a half-page is left for your story, but for our expert judges, 125 words is more than enough.

All submissions must be received by Feb. 29, 2013. Submissions mailed after that date will only be accepted through the Space-Time Continuum and received on Feb. 29, 2013. We will not sign for submissions. REPEAT, we will not sign for submission. We are busy people and have no time to sign for submissions. Teach your envelopes to be self-reliant.

Questions? Comments? We do not welcome them. Sink or swim — that’s the literary world today.

Sincerely,

Picky Picky Picky Literary Writing Contest Luminaries