Wheeling on the Wonder
An actor, an imp, and a tiny sprite
Waited for the Wonder with such delight.
When the time came, their Granddaddy was broke;
He’d sail by wheelchair pushed by little folk.
“Oh my,” said the imp, sizing up the boat,
“Granddaddy weighs a ton more than a goat.”
The sprite giggled and responded with glee,
“I’ll be riding on Granddaddy’s good knee.”
The ashen-faced actor blurted at last,
“I have to give the old guy a sponge bath!!”
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
A Meadow of Orange Sheep and Other Oddities
Three weeks ago I flew to London by myself to meet someone I barely knew for a two week British sampler vacation. I should have suspected that this trip would be different. I had never flown to Europe alone before.
Actually, things started off rather well. The Delta gods moved me to business class with those seats that completely recline. Between the better-than-average airplane food and the comfy lodgings, I arrived in London rested and full. Then I had to find Julie, the person I met on a cruise last year and could barely remember what she looked like. I squinted at all the strange faces at the Hertz desk and finally just hollered out “Julie!” A tall blonde turned around, and I felt relieved. I wouldn’t be confused again—she was 6’1’.
Our itinerary began with a drive to Windsor Castle. According to Rick Steves, Windsor Castle is located at the end of a runway at Heathrow Airport and is impossible to miss. Well, the castle might be somewhere near Heathrow but it is quite possible to miss. As Julie struggled to keep the car on the wrong side of the road while practically driving from the back seat, I tried not to hyperventilate as she drove on sidewalks and through pot holes. Don’t even get me started on how long it took her to learn the art of negotiating the roundabouts. A time or two or maybe three, I accidentally told her to turn in the wrong direction and had to confess to directionality issues. Eventually, we found Windsor Castle and later stopped by Stonehenge long enough to take a few pictures of gigantic rocks in the middle of a pasture.
Bath proved to be something of a challenge. We drove in circles through the old part of town until we finally figured out the one way street system and exited the loop. Then there was the pole located smack dab in the middle of the parking lot access. Since Julie was driving, the pole became my responsibility. Let’s just say, l discovered, quite by accident, that the pole would disappear into the street as the car approached not as I whacked it. Next we couldn’t find our room. That was really embarrassing.
Some of the hotel desk clerks weren’t exactly sure how to approach two women travelling together. One young guy asked if we wanted one bed or twin beds. I had never travelled as a lesbian before, so I quickly replied “twin.” Later I tried to convince some guy that we were mother and daughter. After that, I just gave up.
In a day or two, Julie and I became well enough acquainted that we could carry on a reasonable conversation. However, by this time we were at Ruthin Castle in Wales where everyone whispered. Peacocks roamed the grounds, and John, a ginger, gave us a private tour of the creepiest parts of the old castle ruins. I was fascinated by the drowning pit but was glad to learn that the escape tunnels were closed to the public. A couple of years ago, my daughter, Rachel, and I bravely toured the catacombs in Paris, and since then, I’ve tried to stay above ground.
In the Lake District, we stayed at the Orchard House, a B & B near Keswick, and took in the play What the Butler Saw. The idea was to mingle with the locals, but David, our B & B host, was convinced that we just wanted to see a “raunchy” play. It wasn’t all that raunchy. I didn’t see anything I hadn’t seen before.
On the way to Edinburgh, we came upon a meadow of orange sheep. At first I thought they were pumpkins. Then I noticed that they were moving. We were still a little rattled when we got to Edinburgh which probably explains why we found ourselves going the wrong way down a one way street. I didn’t have time to explain the orange sheep to the frantic bus driver, but I must say that I was quite impressed that Julie’s driving skills had suddenly improved and that she could do a 180° right there in the middle of a four lane street full of cars.
After all the excitement, we were hungry. We found a nice pub and ordered haggis, neeps, and tatties. For those of you whose travels have never taken you to Scotland, haggis is a local delicacy made from sheep’s pluck, onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, salt, and stock. It is then simmered in the sheep’s stomach for 3 hours. Neeps are turnips, and tatties are potatoes. Yummy!
Feeling gastronomically satisfied, we were off to watch The Citadel from South Carolina perform at the Military Tattoo. The guy sitting behind us was from Austria and thought he was at a sing along. A really old guy hobbled up the steps to our row in the nose bleed section behind his rather buxom, much, much younger wife. I decided that since the sex hadn’t killed him she must be resorting to dragging him up a hundred steps to finish him off. But, of course, I didn’t know for sure.
Our few days in Edinburgh flew by, and we were on the train to London. When we arrived at platform 9 and ¾, I saw no reason to take a taxi to the hotel when the tube was so convenient. Unfortunately, the line to Victoria Station was under repair in preparation for the 2012 Olympics which meant I would have to study the tube map for a different direction. Julie didn’t smile much after I yelled “Get off now. We’re going the wrong way.” In fairness, I had disclosed my directionality problem on the first day. She had been duly warned. Anyway, she was a little stressed hauling both her suitcases up and down all those stairs.
We finally made it to the hotel in time to throw our luggage at the concierge and power walk to Parliament. I had already paid for our timed tickets, and the fine print clearly stated their “you snooze-you lose” policy. The guard said the tour started on our left, graciously pointed left (he must have been psychic), and said, “God bless America, madam.” I replied, “God save the Queen” and was off.
The next morning, Peter, the Irish maître d, spent at least five minutes explaining the breakfast buffet. He began to sound a little bit like the guy in Forrest Gump discussing shrimp. Anyway, Peter ended his litany with the suggestion that we try the beaver juice. We were speechless.
“I tried it. It wasn’t great but it was ok,” he said.
How in the name of all that was holy could anyone drink beaver juice and live to tell about it!
“I’m still breathing,” he went on cheerily.
I had to know.
“Exactly what part of the beaver do they squeeze to get the juice?”
“All but the core,” he said seriously and moved on to explain the hot bar to someone else.
Just when I had gotten used to the idea of baked beans for breakfast, the English throw in beaver juice. Oh, my.
I scooped some granola into a bowl and picked up a yogurt. I glanced at the juice choices and saw everything imaginable but no beaver juice. Just as well. We weren’t going to try it anyway.
As Julie and I finished our coffee, Peter returned and inquired about the beaver juice.I told him that there were several different juices, and I didn’t know which one was the beaver juice.
“Is it a vegetable or a fruit?” asked Julie, desperate for clarification.
“I think it is a vegetable.”
“Where we come from beavers are animals that make dams,” explained Julie and then she did the unthinkable—a beaver imitation, complete with beaver teeth and little paws—right there in the middle of the restaurant. Heads turned.
Peter looked a little shocked by the whole thing and then started laughing.
“I said beetroot juice—not beaver juice.”
Oh. Well, then, thank goodness. I was afraid the English had gone completely bonkers.
Cheerio!
September 8, 2010
Three weeks ago I flew to London by myself to meet someone I barely knew for a two week British sampler vacation. I should have suspected that this trip would be different. I had never flown to Europe alone before.
Actually, things started off rather well. The Delta gods moved me to business class with those seats that completely recline. Between the better-than-average airplane food and the comfy lodgings, I arrived in London rested and full. Then I had to find Julie, the person I met on a cruise last year and could barely remember what she looked like. I squinted at all the strange faces at the Hertz desk and finally just hollered out “Julie!” A tall blonde turned around, and I felt relieved. I wouldn’t be confused again—she was 6’1’.
Our itinerary began with a drive to Windsor Castle. According to Rick Steves, Windsor Castle is located at the end of a runway at Heathrow Airport and is impossible to miss. Well, the castle might be somewhere near Heathrow but it is quite possible to miss. As Julie struggled to keep the car on the wrong side of the road while practically driving from the back seat, I tried not to hyperventilate as she drove on sidewalks and through pot holes. Don’t even get me started on how long it took her to learn the art of negotiating the roundabouts. A time or two or maybe three, I accidentally told her to turn in the wrong direction and had to confess to directionality issues. Eventually, we found Windsor Castle and later stopped by Stonehenge long enough to take a few pictures of gigantic rocks in the middle of a pasture.
Bath proved to be something of a challenge. We drove in circles through the old part of town until we finally figured out the one way street system and exited the loop. Then there was the pole located smack dab in the middle of the parking lot access. Since Julie was driving, the pole became my responsibility. Let’s just say, l discovered, quite by accident, that the pole would disappear into the street as the car approached not as I whacked it. Next we couldn’t find our room. That was really embarrassing.
Some of the hotel desk clerks weren’t exactly sure how to approach two women travelling together. One young guy asked if we wanted one bed or twin beds. I had never travelled as a lesbian before, so I quickly replied “twin.” Later I tried to convince some guy that we were mother and daughter. After that, I just gave up.
In a day or two, Julie and I became well enough acquainted that we could carry on a reasonable conversation. However, by this time we were at Ruthin Castle in Wales where everyone whispered. Peacocks roamed the grounds, and John, a ginger, gave us a private tour of the creepiest parts of the old castle ruins. I was fascinated by the drowning pit but was glad to learn that the escape tunnels were closed to the public. A couple of years ago, my daughter, Rachel, and I bravely toured the catacombs in Paris, and since then, I’ve tried to stay above ground.
In the Lake District, we stayed at the Orchard House, a B & B near Keswick, and took in the play What the Butler Saw. The idea was to mingle with the locals, but David, our B & B host, was convinced that we just wanted to see a “raunchy” play. It wasn’t all that raunchy. I didn’t see anything I hadn’t seen before.
On the way to Edinburgh, we came upon a meadow of orange sheep. At first I thought they were pumpkins. Then I noticed that they were moving. We were still a little rattled when we got to Edinburgh which probably explains why we found ourselves going the wrong way down a one way street. I didn’t have time to explain the orange sheep to the frantic bus driver, but I must say that I was quite impressed that Julie’s driving skills had suddenly improved and that she could do a 180° right there in the middle of a four lane street full of cars.
After all the excitement, we were hungry. We found a nice pub and ordered haggis, neeps, and tatties. For those of you whose travels have never taken you to Scotland, haggis is a local delicacy made from sheep’s pluck, onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, salt, and stock. It is then simmered in the sheep’s stomach for 3 hours. Neeps are turnips, and tatties are potatoes. Yummy!
Feeling gastronomically satisfied, we were off to watch The Citadel from South Carolina perform at the Military Tattoo. The guy sitting behind us was from Austria and thought he was at a sing along. A really old guy hobbled up the steps to our row in the nose bleed section behind his rather buxom, much, much younger wife. I decided that since the sex hadn’t killed him she must be resorting to dragging him up a hundred steps to finish him off. But, of course, I didn’t know for sure.
Our few days in Edinburgh flew by, and we were on the train to London. When we arrived at platform 9 and ¾, I saw no reason to take a taxi to the hotel when the tube was so convenient. Unfortunately, the line to Victoria Station was under repair in preparation for the 2012 Olympics which meant I would have to study the tube map for a different direction. Julie didn’t smile much after I yelled “Get off now. We’re going the wrong way.” In fairness, I had disclosed my directionality problem on the first day. She had been duly warned. Anyway, she was a little stressed hauling both her suitcases up and down all those stairs.
We finally made it to the hotel in time to throw our luggage at the concierge and power walk to Parliament. I had already paid for our timed tickets, and the fine print clearly stated their “you snooze-you lose” policy. The guard said the tour started on our left, graciously pointed left (he must have been psychic), and said, “God bless America, madam.” I replied, “God save the Queen” and was off.
The next morning, Peter, the Irish maître d, spent at least five minutes explaining the breakfast buffet. He began to sound a little bit like the guy in Forrest Gump discussing shrimp. Anyway, Peter ended his litany with the suggestion that we try the beaver juice. We were speechless.
“I tried it. It wasn’t great but it was ok,” he said.
How in the name of all that was holy could anyone drink beaver juice and live to tell about it!
“I’m still breathing,” he went on cheerily.
I had to know.
“Exactly what part of the beaver do they squeeze to get the juice?”
“All but the core,” he said seriously and moved on to explain the hot bar to someone else.
Just when I had gotten used to the idea of baked beans for breakfast, the English throw in beaver juice. Oh, my.
I scooped some granola into a bowl and picked up a yogurt. I glanced at the juice choices and saw everything imaginable but no beaver juice. Just as well. We weren’t going to try it anyway.
As Julie and I finished our coffee, Peter returned and inquired about the beaver juice.I told him that there were several different juices, and I didn’t know which one was the beaver juice.
“Is it a vegetable or a fruit?” asked Julie, desperate for clarification.
“I think it is a vegetable.”
“Where we come from beavers are animals that make dams,” explained Julie and then she did the unthinkable—a beaver imitation, complete with beaver teeth and little paws—right there in the middle of the restaurant. Heads turned.
Peter looked a little shocked by the whole thing and then started laughing.
“I said beetroot juice—not beaver juice.”
Oh. Well, then, thank goodness. I was afraid the English had gone completely bonkers.
Cheerio!
September 8, 2010
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