A Bag Goes to Brighton

Well, Dave and I survived our trans-Atlantic adventure and are now ensconced in my stepmother’s guesthouse outside Tampa. I’m writing this at 4:09 a.m., because of course to me, it’s 9:09 a.m. and way past when I would normally be waking up. The photo is a cross-stitch (I think?) that my stepmother made of one of Henri Matisse's goldfish paintings, hanging in the bathroom of the guesthouse. I haven’t had a chance to take a picture of anything else yet.

I’m just happy we got here, after our adventures yesterday morning! I thought our big obstacle would be getting the dog launched — but as it turned out, that was no problem at all. Simone’s partner showed up bright and early and collected Olga, who went uncomplainingly. Dave and I finished packing and set out ourselves around 8:45 a.m. Our flight wasn’t until 12:30, but we figured it would take an hour to get to Gatwick, and why not build in a little extra time?

We are so lucky we did, because things went awry at the airport.

Dave and I got off the train from London and were walking into the terminal when Dave suddenly realized he’d left his shoulder bag — containing his school laptop — on the train. He ran back but it was already gone, headed for Brighton.

An old photo of the house where we're staying

We went to an information desk where an attendant called ahead, and a half-hour later, after the train had arrived in Brighton and been perfunctorily searched, word came that Dave’s bag could not be found. Fortunately that same train was due to turn right around and come back to London via Gatwick, so we waited some more and while I stood in the terminal with our luggage, Dave met it on the platform, determined to search it himself.

Humming the theme music from “Mission: Impossible,” Dave popped in and out of the train carriages during the two minutes it was at the airport station, and just as the doors were about to close, he saw his bag through a window, sitting on an overhead shelf. He leaped in, grabbed it and leaped out again. Job done!

Of course, this whole adventure killed more than an hour of time, and we weren’t even checked in for the flight. But fortunately we flew through check-in and security and we even wound up waiting (briefly) at the gate before boarding, so we didn’t even cut it that close.

And this, people, is why you always give yourself lots of extra time when you go to the airport!

The rest of the flight went smoothly. I read three New Yorkers and a YA novel called “Incident at Hawk’s Hill,” about a boy on the Canadian prairie who befriends a badger in 1870. It was a Newbery medal finalist when it was published back in the early ‘70s, and it was good, but parts of it seemed pretty unlikely and of course (spoiler alert) it doesn’t end well for the badger. Bet you couldn’t see that coming!

I’m not sure what we’ll get up to today, but it needs to involve some photography.

A Final London Potpourri

On Saturday I wanted to play around with the photographic possibilities of our bathroom window, which is made of this funky, ripply glass. So I sent Dave outside, which was admittedly a lot to ask of a guy who hates to have his photo taken, on a day when the temperature was something like 40º F. As a consolation prize I asked him to take a houseplant so he could conceal the lower part of his face. He went, and I took a few shots, and then he came back inside and said in a mock-annoyed voice, "No more projects."

I'm sure it's a pain to live with an amateur photographer. Almost as much of a pain as living with a writer.

Yesterday, Olga and I went to Wormwood Scrubs for a long walk. We found that the woody, brambly copses in the center of the Scrubs, normally impenetrable, are much more accessible now that the leaves are gone and the summer plant life has died back. Olga went exploring in one and blended in quite well. The squirrels, however, weren't fooled.

I found someone's intriguing painted rock. I left it there -- maybe it was marking a place of significance.

On the way home, we passed this anonymous little business (I think?) with no signage except a reindeer in the window. It used to be a cafe. Maybe it's under renovation?

Back home, I bathed Olga, watered all our houseplants and noticed that a goldfinch was once again on the teasels in the garden -- Dave saw some early yesterday morning, too. I'm glad they're hanging around, and I'm so glad we left these teasels standing.

Dave and I had our own little Christmas celebration last night. We exchanged gifts -- I got a couple of nice shirts from, you guessed it, Selfridge's! (Dave knows me well.) Then we watched Dave's favorite movie, "Auntie Mame," in which Christmas figures prominently, and I packed for our trip. This morning Simone will pick up poor, unsuspecting Olga and we will depart.

Coming to you tomorrow from the other side of the Atlantic!

Ye Olde Blackbirde

This is a pub in Swiss Cottage, a neighborhood to the south of us. It's called, appropriately, Ye Olde Swiss Cottage. It's just about the only thing in Swiss Cottage that looks even vaguely Swiss. Otherwise, the area is a snarl of traffic and bus lines and major roadways. The pub, in fact, is on what's essentially a big traffic island, along with a cinema, a block of flats and some other small businesses. I've never been inside, but the exterior looks especially nice in the spring and summer, when there's outdoor seating and the place is festooned with flowers.

Simone did come to take Olga yesterday, but we had some confusion over the time. She eventually showed up about 10 a.m., long after I thought she'd be here, and I had trouble calling or texting her, which was strange. But once she arrived everything was fine and Olga happily went on her walk, and we're supposedly on for Simone to collect Olga for dog-sitting tomorrow morning, early. I'm a little apprehensive because we need to get out of here to catch a plane. Fingers crossed!

I got some more Christmas shopping done yesterday. I took a walk along our high street and popped into the bookshop, the cookware store, the chocolate shop (yes, there is one!) and even one of the thrift stores, and I got everyone taken care of. And I supported our local merchants, which I really wanted to do.

I also made reservations at a high street restaurant that Dave and I have been wanting to try, called HAM. There's a horizontal line above the A -- a character I can't seem to create on this keyboard -- and we've always wondered how to pronounce it. Is it "ham" like the meat, or "hame," or something in between? So we asked last night, when we went for dinner, and it's apparently "hom," more or less. Anyway, it was an enjoyable evening and although we thought the food was consistently under-seasoned it was otherwise very good. Just bring your own salt and pepper.



This morning when I got up a blackbird was singing away on the street outside our flat. I stepped outside to record it. It was still dark and I was reminded of the Beatles song, even though it was the cusp of dawn and thus not quite the "dead of night." Still, I suspect Sir Paul must have been inspired by hearing a similar bird on his street, back in the days of Swinging London.

The Smile Coat

Yesterday was a half-day at work, spent mostly shelving books and checking them out to a few last-minute students. I left about 12:30 and went to a pub for lunch with some of Dave's coworkers. And now -- woo hoo! Vacation!

Here's another selection of iPhone photos, taken over the last few days. First, an interesting street in St. John's Wood. The post office near work has moved, and now I walk this alley each time I go to mail something. (Admittedly, not that often.)

This woman showed up in the library and I asked her if I could photograph her coat. She was French. It seems like the sort of stylish thing a French woman would wear.

This also showed up in the library. Graffiti at our school is virtually unheard of, but we had a group of students from other schools visiting one weekend and I suspect they were the source. It says "Purple. Yas queen slay." I thought they were just meaningless tags until I Googled the phrase, and it turns out to be the equivalent of "You go, girl" or "Work it, girl," originating in drag culture. The things you learn! Still, we removed it.

Balls in a cage!

Olga going after yet another cat on one of our walks. Yes, you've basically seen this picture before. Some things never change.

Shadows in the staff lounge at work. On the rare winter days when the sun is shining, we do get some dramatic lighting!

Olga's dog-sitter, Simone, is showing up this morning to take her for a walk. We thought this might help prepare Olga for her longer stay beginning on Monday. I think it's supposed to be rainy out there today, so she may not be all that enthused about going!

Grappling With the Holiday Beast

We've had a bit of a cold snap. It's supposed to reach a low of 32º F out there, and the high is only 39º F. It's days like this I'm glad I work indoors -- though those morning dog walks are an endurance test. (Nothing like people in Chicago or Bismarck or Moscow endure, admittedly.)

I mustered the strength and courage to go down to Oxford Street last night after work and do some Christmas shopping. I vowed that if I went I'd treat myself to a glass of wine in the Selfridge's wine bar. Motivation! I didn't buy much -- just a few crucial things for Dave and something for his parents -- and I actually wound up skipping the wine. It was a nice idea but the bars were full and ultimately I didn't want to sit there by myself.

Selfridge's is a bit crazy, but it's definitely my favorite among London department stores. The disco balls were twirling over the escalators, just like last year, accompanied by a grunge rock version of "The First Noel." (Momentarily -- obviously the music kept changing.)

I walked through several levels and when I stepped outside I realized I didn't have my hat. I thought I'd dropped it somewhere and I was super-annoyed, but I walked back through the store to revisit the sales counters where I'd been, and sure enough, there it was in the sock department, waiting for me. (I'm sure the high-fashion Selfridge's crowd wondered what was up with that grubby green beanie from the University of South Florida. Or maybe they thought it was stylishly distressed?)

Anyway, my holiday rage is better now. I even had a bit of fun, lack of wine notwithstanding.

(Top photo: Cones, big and small, in West Hampstead.)

Holiday Rage

The contractor came yesterday and removed all the scaffolding from around the house -- finally. So I guess the roof is done. Honestly, it seems like they only worked on it for about three days, with long periods of quiet in between. Our upstairs neighbor, the Russian guy, crawled around on it some, scraping the eaves and doing God-knows-what. (I'm pretty sure he wasn't supposed to, but he did.) Remember how our managing agent told us in early November it would only be up for a week?

Anyway, I'm glad to have it gone -- now I can look out the windows without seeing bars and pipes. It was a little like being in Shawshank.

The best part is being able to move my cyclamens back out to the front porch. I had to bring them in to protect them from the scaffolding and roof workers, but cyclamens seem to prefer cool temperatures and they looked a bit wilty inside. I think they'll be better off outdoors.

I have been so cranky the past few days. Suddenly I'm feeling all this holiday pressure. I've bought no Christmas presents, and the library has been busier than I have ever seen it, honestly. We've had a couple of classes doing research projects every period, plus masses of middle schoolers checking out reading material for the holiday break. I've been coming home so tired that I can't imagine going to a store in the evening to buy anything for Dave or anyone else. I'm not sure what I'm going to do, aside from summoning superhuman strength and going tonight, which is kind of my plan. We'll see.

A few nights ago I made our annual donations to the ACLU, Planned Parenthood and the Southern Poverty Law Center using my credit card -- and then discovered that they'd all vanished by the next morning. I called my bank and they told me the charges never went through -- which isn't true, because I saw them as "pending" on my online statement the previous night. So I made the donations again, at the advice of the bank representative, and he watched as they appeared. Now, this morning, two of them are gone again, and I show a double donation to the SPLC. (As much as I love the SPLC I don't want to donate twice my usual amount!) I think the bank's anti-fraud machinery somehow flags the charges, which mucks everything up. This will probably take forever to sort out.

Fa la la la la, etc...

(Photo: A blurry Santa in a shop window in West Hampstead.)

Another Stack of Postcards

Here are a few of the postcards I rescued on Monday. I was thinking as I scanned these that if I saw them in a store, I would never blog them. What makes them interesting is the finding -- the serendipity involved in my almost literally stumbling across them after someone else had discarded them as rubbish. Hopefully that serendipity is interesting to you, too!

First, some "shire horses harvesting hay," at the Acton Scott Working Farm Museum in Shropshire.

This is supposedly southern England, 124 million years ago. And look -- alligators! I am home, after all! The card is from the British Museum (Natural History), now the Natural History Museum, dated 1987.

A very sunny postcard for Bridlington, a town on the Yorkshire coast. Definitely makes you want to visit, doesn't it? A veritable Riviera! Someone wins points for graphic design and marketing.

And now for something completely different, as Monty Python would say. This is the only postcard in the bunch that has been mailed -- it was sent from Larache, Morocco, in August 1993. Coincidentally, I was living in Morocco at that time, and I went to Larache almost exactly a year later, in August 1994. In my journals I called it "a dump," but I was very enthusiastic about the hotel where we stayed, which "had 3 soft beds, a hot shower, was scrupulously clean and had a great toilet deodorizer that made the water foamy and the bathroom smell like lilacs."  The hotel, I wrote, was "the best part of the trip."

Anyway, that was my adventure in Larache. What did the postcard writer have to say? Not much: "I'm having a great time in Morocco. It's very hot. I hope you got my message on the phone. Goodbye, see you soon."

Clearly he stayed in the wrong hotel. If he'd encountered my spectacular toilet deodorizer, he would have had more to write home about!

Continuing the African theme while simultaneously circling back to Britain, this is a pair of elephants from the Welsh Mountain Zoo. Although the zoo still exists, apparently it no longer has elephants -- the last one reportedly moved to another location in 1995.

Finally, this looks like a picture I might take on the Grand Union Canal -- but it's actually the Leeds and Liverpool Canal at Skipton, in North Yorkshire. (With what looks like a clump of pink valerian growing in the foreground.)

I saved a few more, but I can't blog 'em all!