Two weeks ago, I had the privilege to visit Istanbul. TeenE’s high school music group was doing their spring “music tour” there, and some of the parents decided to tag along.
I made my own air and hotel arrangements. I wound up paying more for the air fare on BA, rather than Turkish Air. TA had just had an “incident” with a plane down, and I felt more comfortable flying BA. My hotel room wound up costing considerably less than the ones that the kids and chaperones were in, so I more than made up for the difference in air fare. I stayed at the Hotel Ibrahim Pasha, and although my room was small, it was just me in it so it really didn’t matter (see photos).
The location of the hotel was about as good as it gets: on a hill overlooking the Blue Mosque and the Hippodrome. The hotel’s roof deck was a great place to sit in the sun and take photos of the Blue Mosque. A huge “Turkish breakfast” buffet was served every morning. The choices included fantastic coffee, a baked spinach pastry, a potato pastry, plain yoghurt, several flavors of preserves, white and brown “French” bread, four kinds of cheese, some kind of pinkish cold cut, probably “head cheese”, olives, dried apricots and dates, muesli, fresh squeezed orange juice,
Highlights of my trip were visiting the 6th century AD Roman underground “cistern” or reservoir, having dinner with the other parents at the Restaurant Beyti (thank you, Hassan and Farrah), and having a Turkish Bath at the Cemberlitas Hamam, a 16th century bathhouse. This was in addition to visiting the Big 3 Historic sites of the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, and Topkapi palace.
You can find photos of these sites here and in many other places on the web. What you cannot find anywhere else is a description of my two hours in the Turkish bath.
WARNING: The following passage contains descriptions of female nudity and should be avoided by anyone who might be easily offended or who knows the writer personally and who cannot stand the thought of nudity happening, such as the writer’s children or brothers-in-law.
My guidebook mentioned the Cemberlitas Hamam as one of the Top 10 things to do in Istanbul. I would concur.
The bathhouse was constructed in the 16th century by the wife of a Sultan as an investment vehicle. Of course, she got a wonderful place to bathe, as well, in the days when no one had indoor plumbing.
The facilities for men and women were separate, but equal. I bought a token for the bath part, and another for the oil massage. I figured I may only be in Istanbul once, so I’d better get the real deal.
After paying and buying a chilled bottle of water, I was ushered upstairs to a modern spa-like locker and changing facility. The guidebook had said that after renovations, the women’s area lost space so that women now changed in a corridor. I did not find this to be the case. There were small private areas of lockers where one could change out of street clothes and into the flimsy cotton sarong that was issued. The biggest decision I had to make that day was whether to go commando or not. What is the point, I thought, of going to a Turkish bath to get all steamy and scrubbed clean if you’re going to wear your underwear? In a very un-American move, I chose to go with just the sarong. (I note that American women, for all their obsessing about their bodies, are not as comfortable with their own nudity as European and especially Scandinavian women. I learned this in the Blue Lagoon changing room in Reykjavik, Iceland. )
“Crocs” were also issued, and were mandatory, although they created a hazard for those of us with narrow feet. Half of my feet stuck out of the toe area of the Croc sandal. It made going down the spiral staircase quite difficult. One passed through the “Cool Room”, where a cool marble slab was surrounded by seating areas. Women sat in small groups, sipping their freshly-squeezed pomegranate juice out of clear glass tumblers.
I couldn’t wait to get into the steamy part, so I skipped the “Cool Room” entirely. I made my way boldly into the “Hot Room”, which was octagonal in shape, vaguely steamy, and contained a large raised octagonal slab of marble in the center. Arrayed around this slab like the petals of a flower were women of all ages, shapes and sizes, in various phases of undress and in various “trim types”. The ones that had been there for a while upon my arrival looked well and truly sweaty. One could tell, because in order to lay on the hot hot marble slab, one had to remove the flimsy cotton sarong and spread it out underneath. The stone would have been too hot without that thin layer of cloth between it and skin, and so modesty was sacrificed for safety’s sake.
Most women would rather reveal their backside to total strangers than their front side, so new arrivals would eventually peel off the sarong, and depending on how brave or oblivious they were feeling, spread it out and lay face down upon it, without revealing so much as a glimpse of anything below the bustline. Surreptitious peeks around revealed that most of the women who were there when I arrived were either American or Scandanavian. Some women, like me, had come alone, but most were in pairs and their chit-chat revealed their nationality. Later on in the proceedings small knots of Turkish women arrived, and would be addressed in Turkish by the Bath Attendants.
Around the rim of the room there were marble “sinks” on pedestals that were fed by spigots. There were also several more private gated “niches” where one had a choice of three sinks, containing cold, warm or hot water. Each sink held a silver bowl. You could pick up the bowl and pour its contents over you to adjust your body temperature.
After a while of laying on the stomach-side, I got just too hot. Even sitting up and sipping my cool water in a modest pose would not allow sufficient cooling, so eventually each of us had to come to grips with the idea of turning over and laying there frontally exposed on the slab. And you know what? It was so much more comfortable than propping your head on your hand while laying face-down. I wondered why I had thought it would be so psychologically uncomfortable. At some point you just get so hot that you forget you don’t have anything covering you, or if you do remember, you are glad of it. You also cease to care who may or may not notice your six-inch scar from gall-bladder surgery.
Being an observant person, I could tell who had come into the Hot Room before me, and who had arrived after me. There was the opportunity to check out the other bods and do a few comparisons. This one is older, that one weighs more, this one weighs less, that one is hairier, that one surely needs to eat more, and why the heck does she still have her bra on? Surely most of us are never going to see each other again. I’m also a bit of Type-A, and started to become indignant when the Washer Women would take someone ahead of me who had CLEARLY come into the room after me. I decided that it was just time to “Chill” and let them do the choosing.
When it was my turn to be washed by an attendant, one beckoned me over and showed me how to lay out my sarong along one of the edges of the octagon. Good, I got the one who was wearing a bra in addition to her panties. I had been taking mental notes during their previous washings, so knew that if I had been assigned to the other one, her pendulous Earth Mother breasts would be swinging about me as I was washed. One less distraction to have to attend to. First, my Lingerie Lady poured a bowl of cold water over me. Waaah! Then she unwrapped my personal bath mitt and proceeded to scrub the living daylights out of my skin with the rough side. I could feel streamers of dead skin being exfoliated off of my upper arms and legs and, well, you get the picture.
I was led to a side niche and rinsed with several bowls of warmish-hot water, my sarong was rinsed, and the slab where I had been so thoroughly exfoliated was rinsed off, too. I was then led back to the same spot and spread out on my sarong face down while the bather used the mitt to work up a huge ball of lather. I don’t know how she did it, but within about a minute she had formed a foamy lemon-scented mass twice the size of a basketball, and then distributed the lather over my entire back side. I was completely engulfed in bubbles, and had to clear a space near my nostrils in order to breathe comfortably. The heavenly-scented lather was then massaged into my skin. Normally I can take a foot massage without feeling tickled, but somehow the addition of slippery bubbles made it unbearable. The poor woman had to skip my feet as I was writhing with tickles. A few bowlfuls of really hot water rinsed the suds off the back side and got me ready for the front. Boy, did that front get really clean. That’s all I’ll say in that regard.
My washer then asked “Shampoo”? Yes, of course. So, she stood in front of me and pulled my head forward until my forehead was resting on her ample bosom, thankfully encased in white polyester, and I received a shampoo and rinse. One more trip over to the niche for more bowlfuls of hot water, and I was released back to the slab. My washer pointed out the deep baths for soaking: one warm, and one hot. I read the sign which proclaimed “Bathing nude is prohibited”, and guessed that was why some of the women still had on their panties, so they could take a dip in the deep bath. Without the use of any English on her part or Turkish on mine, my washer and I had the following conversation:
“Do you have your panties with you?” “No, I left them upstairs in the locker”. “Well, you can just wrap your sarong around you and go in anyway.” “No, thank you, I’d rather not if stuff is going to be floating around in there…”
So I laid back down on the slab (face up, in case you were wondering) and waited my turn to be called for my…. oil massage. The masseuse eventually arrived and beckoned me into a separate room. There were four massage tables lined up assembly-line style. Three of them held glistening women with towels draped strategically over them. I was invited up on the fourth massage table, and was soon in the capable hands of “Anna”, who worked every last kink out of my tourist-weary frame. Pure bliss.
Getting back into the Hot Room in oily Crocs was a feat in itself. By now two thirds of my feet were sticking out the front of the plastic sandal, the toe area of which was eating into my arches. But is was forbidden to remove them!!
I had to soap up three times and re-shampoo once to remove even a tiny portion of the oil slick that I had now become. I repaired to a private niche and took my time, as I knew I wouldn’t have time before the parent-group dinner to go back to the hotel and shower. Who would want to shower off a Turkish Bath, anyway? So I slithered my way back up the spiral staircase in the wide Crocs, laughing at almost certain death. I was relieved of my damp and clingy sarong and issued a towel. The changing facility even had hair dryers, so I attempted to fluff and buff the hair, although the roots still had a bit of oil there. A quick stop in the gift shop (of course, there had to be one, right?) allowed me to score a couple of bars of scented olive oil soap, and I drifted back up to the street level in cloud of lemon fragrance.
That night on the bus to dinner, I described my experience to the other mothers who were riding near me. The cry was universal: “Oh honey, did you hear that? We have to do that tomorrow!!!” I’ll never know whether the husbands were embarrassed by, or grateful for their wives visitation to the Cemberlitas Hamam the next day.
Love and Light
- BlogMama
- London, NW8, United Kingdom
- A "recovering academic", I have left the world of research and teaching Psychology. My current focus is on offering hypnotherapy, Reiki, and spiritual support for clients and hospice residents. I like to express myself through the arts, especially drama (the quirky-comic relief part),stand-up comedy, painting, and the fiber arts.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
In memory of Bob Harrison, 1931-2009
To my loyal readers: I have had to fly from London to the US to be with my husband and his family following the death of my dear father-in-law.
I am posting this in remembrance of Robert J. Harrison, whom I knew for two years as "Bob", two as "Dad", and twenty-one as "Grandad".
He was born in St. Charles, Missouri on June 21, 1931. He grew up in Muskogee, Oklahoma, and earned a bachelor's degree from the University of Oklahoma in 1957, after serving in the US Air Force from 1951 to 1955. He lived in Manchester, New Hampshire for over 50 years with his wife Monique (Gilbert) Harrison, to whom he was married for 54 years.
He retired in 1988 as Chief Executive Officer of Public Service Company of New Hampshire, the state's largest electrical utility. Previous to that he had served PSNH as assistant to the president, vice president, treasurer, financial vice president, and, penultimately, as Chief Operating Officer and President.
Bob served as member of the board of directors for PSHN, Maine Yankee Atomic Power Company, Vermont Yankee Nuclear Power Corp and Yankee Atomic Electric Company. He also served as a director of Numerica Financial Corp, Numerica Savings Bank, American Heart Association, Easter Seals Foundation of New Hampshire and Vermont, and Federated Art of Manchester, as well as the United Way of Greater Manchester.
He was a communicant at St. Catherine of Siena Roman Catholic Church in Manchester, NH.
In addition to his wife Monique, he leaves his four children, David Harrison and his wife Marjorie of London, England; Gregory Harrison and his wife Kathleen of Okemos, Michigan; Elizabeth Cutliffe and her husband Laurence of Bedford, New Hampshire; and Thomas Harrison and his wife Christen of Andover, Massachusetts, as well as six grandchildren, Douglas and Elizabeth Harrison, William and Noel Harrison, and Jessica and Jennifer Cutliffe, as well as many dear friends.
I will remember "Grandad" as a loving patriarch who was devoted to his family and who was beloved by all. He had a quick wit and an exquisite sense of comedic timing. Many family occasions were punctuated by the laughter and banter of all present. He developed a love of travel during his business years, and especially enjoyed travelling with his wife Monique then, and during his two decades of retirement.
The family spent many happy summer days with Grandad and Nana at their second home in Rye Beach, New Hampshire. Beach outings, family dinners, visits with cousins and out-of-town relatives and friends were a big part of these happy days. When his oldest grandchild was working at a summer camp in New Hampshire, he would sometimes arrive with a group of young adults who were all enjoying their day off by travelling to the beach. Grandad was always there to welcome the crowd and engage them in lively banter.
A quick study on any topic, his statistical training and memory for detail came into play when he memorized the probability table for a 5-deck Blackjack shoe, enabling him to beat the house on a regular basis. This resulted in a level of profits that more than paid for his visits to casinos in Las Vegas and Foxwoods, Connecticut with his wife and friends.
Although he had many professional achievements during his many years in business, in my opinion his Lifetime Achievement Award would be granted in the category of Loving Family Man. His wife, children, children-in-law, and grandchildren would testify that the blessings of love that they received from him will be carried forward into the generations. We love you, Grandad. Thanks for all the love and wonderful memories.
I am posting this in remembrance of Robert J. Harrison, whom I knew for two years as "Bob", two as "Dad", and twenty-one as "Grandad".
He was born in St. Charles, Missouri on June 21, 1931. He grew up in Muskogee, Oklahoma, and earned a bachelor's degree from the University of Oklahoma in 1957, after serving in the US Air Force from 1951 to 1955. He lived in Manchester, New Hampshire for over 50 years with his wife Monique (Gilbert) Harrison, to whom he was married for 54 years.
He retired in 1988 as Chief Executive Officer of Public Service Company of New Hampshire, the state's largest electrical utility. Previous to that he had served PSNH as assistant to the president, vice president, treasurer, financial vice president, and, penultimately, as Chief Operating Officer and President.
Bob served as member of the board of directors for PSHN, Maine Yankee Atomic Power Company, Vermont Yankee Nuclear Power Corp and Yankee Atomic Electric Company. He also served as a director of Numerica Financial Corp, Numerica Savings Bank, American Heart Association, Easter Seals Foundation of New Hampshire and Vermont, and Federated Art of Manchester, as well as the United Way of Greater Manchester.
He was a communicant at St. Catherine of Siena Roman Catholic Church in Manchester, NH.
In addition to his wife Monique, he leaves his four children, David Harrison and his wife Marjorie of London, England; Gregory Harrison and his wife Kathleen of Okemos, Michigan; Elizabeth Cutliffe and her husband Laurence of Bedford, New Hampshire; and Thomas Harrison and his wife Christen of Andover, Massachusetts, as well as six grandchildren, Douglas and Elizabeth Harrison, William and Noel Harrison, and Jessica and Jennifer Cutliffe, as well as many dear friends.
I will remember "Grandad" as a loving patriarch who was devoted to his family and who was beloved by all. He had a quick wit and an exquisite sense of comedic timing. Many family occasions were punctuated by the laughter and banter of all present. He developed a love of travel during his business years, and especially enjoyed travelling with his wife Monique then, and during his two decades of retirement.
The family spent many happy summer days with Grandad and Nana at their second home in Rye Beach, New Hampshire. Beach outings, family dinners, visits with cousins and out-of-town relatives and friends were a big part of these happy days. When his oldest grandchild was working at a summer camp in New Hampshire, he would sometimes arrive with a group of young adults who were all enjoying their day off by travelling to the beach. Grandad was always there to welcome the crowd and engage them in lively banter.
A quick study on any topic, his statistical training and memory for detail came into play when he memorized the probability table for a 5-deck Blackjack shoe, enabling him to beat the house on a regular basis. This resulted in a level of profits that more than paid for his visits to casinos in Las Vegas and Foxwoods, Connecticut with his wife and friends.
Although he had many professional achievements during his many years in business, in my opinion his Lifetime Achievement Award would be granted in the category of Loving Family Man. His wife, children, children-in-law, and grandchildren would testify that the blessings of love that they received from him will be carried forward into the generations. We love you, Grandad. Thanks for all the love and wonderful memories.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
I help welcome Obama to London
Scooping the London Times by Marjorie B. Harrison
St. John’s Wood, London 31 March, 2009
Hundreds of ex-pat Americans lined Grove End Road this evening to welcome their president to London for the G20 Summit. They were joined by curious passers-by and other members of the American School in London community in a throng of happy well-wishers who cheered and waved at the presidential motorcade.
A well-kept secret around the school was that Obama would be making an appearance there on the night of his arrival in London for the economic summit with other world leaders. Staff and students who knew of the visit several days in advance kept the news from leaking, even to their own parents.
I first became aware that something unusual was going on at the school when I arrived for a 3 pm meeting with my 15 year old daughter’s dean. I went to the school a bit early, and as I walked up the road I noticed signs that nearby resident parking had been suspended for “an event”. A silver minivan whooshed by, parked near the school, and many dark-suited, serious-looking men emerged as if from an overcrowded circus car. I noticed that some of the vehicles parked nearby had signs indicating they were canine police units. Clumps of metropolitan police offers milled near their vehicles, and as I glanced through the fence toward the playground, I noticed officers and bomb-sniffing dogs there, as well. I searched through my handbag for my school ID, and found that I did not have it with me. I phoned my daughter, who had not yet left our flat for the meeting, and asked her if she could dig it out of my other handbag. “There is something going on at school today” I reported. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get into school without my ID. There are an awful lot of security people around.” Although we had been away on a school trip all weekend, she had checked her email upon arriving home and knew what was afoot. “Oh yeah, it’s the Obama thing” she casually mentioned. I was stunned. It made perfect sense.
She couldn’t find my other handbag, so I decided to run home and get the ID myself. I also decided to change out of my exercise clothes into something a little more appropriate for a presidential visit. I returned with my daughter to the school, which was now crawling with security people on the inside. We had our meeting with the dean and left. There were a lot more people in the vicinity of the school.
Eventually the knots of onlookers coalesced into a queue. By half past six there must have been hundreds of people waiting patiently. The queue stretched up one side of the playground, around the corner, and around another corner and down that street. I recognized some of the parents who were walking in the vicinity. Everybody knew somebody who knew somebody who knew what was happening. The report was that Obama wouldn’t be arriving until 9 pm. I waited around for a while in front of the Hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth, near St. John’s Hospice where I volunteer on Friday mornings. There were hospital and hospital visitors milling about, but the only crowd was in the queue for ticket-holders to the Obama event. I decided to go home for supper .
Around 8:40 I headed out again. As I crossed the famous pedestrian crossing on Abbey Road to get to the school, I could hear the choppers overhead. In the darkness it was still clear that they were military helicopters and not TV news or traffic choppers. I had heard that there are always multiple helicopters that act as decoys, so knew that Mr. Obama was on his way to the US Ambassador’s residence in Regent’s Park.
Upon arriving back in front of the hospital, I noticed that the queue of ticket-holders had all been processed through security and had entered the school. The police presence appeared to be much smaller. There were now several hundred people lining both sides of Grove End Road. People talked excitedly to perfect strangers. Families had brought their children. The accents were predominantly American, but there were also Canadians and many other nationalities in evidence, as is usual in the American School community and in St. John’s Wood as a whole. There was much discussion as to the route the motorcade would take, or whether Mr. Obama would arrive by helicopter and touch down in the playground, as Med-Evac helicopters have been known to do in the past.
The police presence became more visible. Bobbies began moving people back behind the rows of parked cars. Our nearest policeman was chatty and friendly, saying he wouldn’t be told exactly when the motorcade would be coming. One of the other policemen asked members of the crowd “if it would be possible” for us to move back a little further. I decided not to get snarky with him and say that it would be possible, but not probable. Our nearest policeman asked us to move back “so that we would not get hurt” by the cars that were trying to make their way down Grove End Road, as they had not yet cut off the flow of traffic.
Several cars went by with people headed toward the nearby synagogue for evening services. One car stopped and a man asked me where to park. “For what event?” I asked. He seemed as confused by my question as I was by his. I finally guessed that he was looking for synagogue parking, and directed him further down. Other drivers slowed and wanted to know what was happening. A middle-aged, graying man in a gray, middle-aged man’s open-topped convertible drove past slowly, looking confused. “We are waiting for Obama, not for you!” I chided.
Finally, we heard the tweet-tweet of multiple police whistles. “Here he comes now” our Bobby informed us “you can tell by the whistles”. Within two seconds, a succession of motorcycles with blinding blue strobe lights whizzed past at an enormous rate of speed. Our Bobby was right; we would have gotten hurt if he hadn’t be there to block our access to the road. They appeared out of nowhere. Next, several large black vehicles appeared. The crowd began to cheer. There must have been five or six cars, also travelling very very fast, and just on the other side of our nice police officer. We were only three or four feet from the motorcade. It was travelling so fast, and our policeman was so near, that it was hard to see much. I held out my American flag with peace symbol in the blue field. I shipped here in August as part of my 21 boxes of personal effects that I could not live in London without. I never dreamed I would wave it at the Presidential motorcade.
It was all over in a flash, perhaps twenty seconds. One of the cars, I’m not sure which, contained my President. It is probably the closest I will ever get to him or any other world leader. The dark glass combined with the flashing strobes and the night arrival meant that I could not see any of the occupants of the vehicles except for the men sitting facing rearward in the opened back hatch of a vehicle. They must have been in the car immediately preceding the President’s. They all turned the corner and disappeared from view as a large police van blocked that road off again.
It took longer for the excited onlookers to discuss and dissect the experience than it did for the motorcade to drive up from Regent’s Park. Finally we all began to drift off, but not after discussing with each other which route the motorcade was likely to take when it left the school in about twenty minutes. I chatted with a family who had been standing next to me, and made some new friends. It turned out that their daughter knows mine, and that their lockers are directly adjacent.
As I passed the hospital driveway, I noticed another couple chatting with a woman. She was asking a lot of questions about why Obama was coming to the school, and without realizing who she was I began chat with her and answer some of her questions. After a few minutes, I noticed she was writing on a steno pad in shorthand. “Are you from the media?” I asked. Yes, she was a writer with the London Times. She kept asking questions phrased in a way that made me realize that she thought that Obama was still on his way. I told her that the motorcade had already come and gone and that she had missed the whole thing.
So, if you read an article in tomorrow’s London Times that makes it seem like Laura Dixon was there when Obama's motorcade went by, it’s not really true. And if she recounts “eyewitness reports”, you’ll know where some of that information came from. I fervently hope that I am not mis-quoted!
I am proud to be an American abroad as my president strives to reach concensus with the 19 other summit members to rebuild our economic infrastructure. As someone who is married to an experienced auditor and risk manager who deals with these issues on a daily basis, I hope that proper regulation of the existing market system AND a restructuring where necessary will be the solutions that help us rebuild our economies and provide economic security and political stability for all the citizens of the world. Welcome to London and your first G-20 summit, Mr. President!
St. John’s Wood, London 31 March, 2009
Hundreds of ex-pat Americans lined Grove End Road this evening to welcome their president to London for the G20 Summit. They were joined by curious passers-by and other members of the American School in London community in a throng of happy well-wishers who cheered and waved at the presidential motorcade.
A well-kept secret around the school was that Obama would be making an appearance there on the night of his arrival in London for the economic summit with other world leaders. Staff and students who knew of the visit several days in advance kept the news from leaking, even to their own parents.
I first became aware that something unusual was going on at the school when I arrived for a 3 pm meeting with my 15 year old daughter’s dean. I went to the school a bit early, and as I walked up the road I noticed signs that nearby resident parking had been suspended for “an event”. A silver minivan whooshed by, parked near the school, and many dark-suited, serious-looking men emerged as if from an overcrowded circus car. I noticed that some of the vehicles parked nearby had signs indicating they were canine police units. Clumps of metropolitan police offers milled near their vehicles, and as I glanced through the fence toward the playground, I noticed officers and bomb-sniffing dogs there, as well. I searched through my handbag for my school ID, and found that I did not have it with me. I phoned my daughter, who had not yet left our flat for the meeting, and asked her if she could dig it out of my other handbag. “There is something going on at school today” I reported. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get into school without my ID. There are an awful lot of security people around.” Although we had been away on a school trip all weekend, she had checked her email upon arriving home and knew what was afoot. “Oh yeah, it’s the Obama thing” she casually mentioned. I was stunned. It made perfect sense.
She couldn’t find my other handbag, so I decided to run home and get the ID myself. I also decided to change out of my exercise clothes into something a little more appropriate for a presidential visit. I returned with my daughter to the school, which was now crawling with security people on the inside. We had our meeting with the dean and left. There were a lot more people in the vicinity of the school.
Eventually the knots of onlookers coalesced into a queue. By half past six there must have been hundreds of people waiting patiently. The queue stretched up one side of the playground, around the corner, and around another corner and down that street. I recognized some of the parents who were walking in the vicinity. Everybody knew somebody who knew somebody who knew what was happening. The report was that Obama wouldn’t be arriving until 9 pm. I waited around for a while in front of the Hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth, near St. John’s Hospice where I volunteer on Friday mornings. There were hospital and hospital visitors milling about, but the only crowd was in the queue for ticket-holders to the Obama event. I decided to go home for supper .
Around 8:40 I headed out again. As I crossed the famous pedestrian crossing on Abbey Road to get to the school, I could hear the choppers overhead. In the darkness it was still clear that they were military helicopters and not TV news or traffic choppers. I had heard that there are always multiple helicopters that act as decoys, so knew that Mr. Obama was on his way to the US Ambassador’s residence in Regent’s Park.
Upon arriving back in front of the hospital, I noticed that the queue of ticket-holders had all been processed through security and had entered the school. The police presence appeared to be much smaller. There were now several hundred people lining both sides of Grove End Road. People talked excitedly to perfect strangers. Families had brought their children. The accents were predominantly American, but there were also Canadians and many other nationalities in evidence, as is usual in the American School community and in St. John’s Wood as a whole. There was much discussion as to the route the motorcade would take, or whether Mr. Obama would arrive by helicopter and touch down in the playground, as Med-Evac helicopters have been known to do in the past.
The police presence became more visible. Bobbies began moving people back behind the rows of parked cars. Our nearest policeman was chatty and friendly, saying he wouldn’t be told exactly when the motorcade would be coming. One of the other policemen asked members of the crowd “if it would be possible” for us to move back a little further. I decided not to get snarky with him and say that it would be possible, but not probable. Our nearest policeman asked us to move back “so that we would not get hurt” by the cars that were trying to make their way down Grove End Road, as they had not yet cut off the flow of traffic.
Several cars went by with people headed toward the nearby synagogue for evening services. One car stopped and a man asked me where to park. “For what event?” I asked. He seemed as confused by my question as I was by his. I finally guessed that he was looking for synagogue parking, and directed him further down. Other drivers slowed and wanted to know what was happening. A middle-aged, graying man in a gray, middle-aged man’s open-topped convertible drove past slowly, looking confused. “We are waiting for Obama, not for you!” I chided.
Finally, we heard the tweet-tweet of multiple police whistles. “Here he comes now” our Bobby informed us “you can tell by the whistles”. Within two seconds, a succession of motorcycles with blinding blue strobe lights whizzed past at an enormous rate of speed. Our Bobby was right; we would have gotten hurt if he hadn’t be there to block our access to the road. They appeared out of nowhere. Next, several large black vehicles appeared. The crowd began to cheer. There must have been five or six cars, also travelling very very fast, and just on the other side of our nice police officer. We were only three or four feet from the motorcade. It was travelling so fast, and our policeman was so near, that it was hard to see much. I held out my American flag with peace symbol in the blue field. I shipped here in August as part of my 21 boxes of personal effects that I could not live in London without. I never dreamed I would wave it at the Presidential motorcade.
It was all over in a flash, perhaps twenty seconds. One of the cars, I’m not sure which, contained my President. It is probably the closest I will ever get to him or any other world leader. The dark glass combined with the flashing strobes and the night arrival meant that I could not see any of the occupants of the vehicles except for the men sitting facing rearward in the opened back hatch of a vehicle. They must have been in the car immediately preceding the President’s. They all turned the corner and disappeared from view as a large police van blocked that road off again.
It took longer for the excited onlookers to discuss and dissect the experience than it did for the motorcade to drive up from Regent’s Park. Finally we all began to drift off, but not after discussing with each other which route the motorcade was likely to take when it left the school in about twenty minutes. I chatted with a family who had been standing next to me, and made some new friends. It turned out that their daughter knows mine, and that their lockers are directly adjacent.
As I passed the hospital driveway, I noticed another couple chatting with a woman. She was asking a lot of questions about why Obama was coming to the school, and without realizing who she was I began chat with her and answer some of her questions. After a few minutes, I noticed she was writing on a steno pad in shorthand. “Are you from the media?” I asked. Yes, she was a writer with the London Times. She kept asking questions phrased in a way that made me realize that she thought that Obama was still on his way. I told her that the motorcade had already come and gone and that she had missed the whole thing.
So, if you read an article in tomorrow’s London Times that makes it seem like Laura Dixon was there when Obama's motorcade went by, it’s not really true. And if she recounts “eyewitness reports”, you’ll know where some of that information came from. I fervently hope that I am not mis-quoted!
I am proud to be an American abroad as my president strives to reach concensus with the 19 other summit members to rebuild our economic infrastructure. As someone who is married to an experienced auditor and risk manager who deals with these issues on a daily basis, I hope that proper regulation of the existing market system AND a restructuring where necessary will be the solutions that help us rebuild our economies and provide economic security and political stability for all the citizens of the world. Welcome to London and your first G-20 summit, Mr. President!
Top Ten signs you're in Istanbul
Having learned to take pictures of unique signs from the master Mary Ann on our knitter's trip with Barbara, I thought I'd post a few that I took while in Istanbul.
The top ten signs you're in Istanbul:
Number 10: Pizza Hut is delivered by a Turkish guy on a motorcycle
Number 9: There is a Presidency of Religious Affairs to tell you how to behave in the mosque.
Sign reads:
TO THE VISITORS ATTENTION:
1. Please remove your shoes and place them in the shelf or put them in a bag.
2. The ladies should wear a scarf and a long skirt.
3. The gentlemen should be in trousers not in shorts
4. Should not speak aloud inside the mosque
5. Photograph should not be taken diring the prayers
6. Should wait at the rear until the prayers end
7. Should not go beyond the area allocated for visitors
8. For any information contact to the mosque personel
Thank you
The Presidency of Religious Affairs
Number 8: The underground reservoir was built in the 6th century AD and is considered a "vitalized example of universal cultural heritage".
Number 7: Domino's will deliver your pizza in a mailbox driven by a Turkish guy on a motorcycle.
Number 6: Bras are displayed in bags on the street, no on mannequins in the store.
Number 5: Restaurant specialties include "Ottoman Roasting" and "Shepherd Roasting"
Number 4: Street vendors sell roasted chestnuts and corn on the cob
Number 3: The only people in the El Torito on the main street are Turkish guys.
Number 2: The graffiti is unintelligible in two languages. Cartoon donkey says " I carry books since years but could not stop to be a donkey."
Number 1: Obama's image is used to sell guaranteed-interest-rate financial products. Oh, wait...
The top ten signs you're in Istanbul:
Number 10: Pizza Hut is delivered by a Turkish guy on a motorcycle
Number 9: There is a Presidency of Religious Affairs to tell you how to behave in the mosque.
Sign reads:
TO THE VISITORS ATTENTION:
1. Please remove your shoes and place them in the shelf or put them in a bag.
2. The ladies should wear a scarf and a long skirt.
3. The gentlemen should be in trousers not in shorts
4. Should not speak aloud inside the mosque
5. Photograph should not be taken diring the prayers
6. Should wait at the rear until the prayers end
7. Should not go beyond the area allocated for visitors
8. For any information contact to the mosque personel
Thank you
The Presidency of Religious Affairs
Number 8: The underground reservoir was built in the 6th century AD and is considered a "vitalized example of universal cultural heritage".
Number 7: Domino's will deliver your pizza in a mailbox driven by a Turkish guy on a motorcycle.
Number 6: Bras are displayed in bags on the street, no on mannequins in the store.
Number 5: Restaurant specialties include "Ottoman Roasting" and "Shepherd Roasting"
Number 4: Street vendors sell roasted chestnuts and corn on the cob
Number 3: The only people in the El Torito on the main street are Turkish guys.
Number 2: The graffiti is unintelligible in two languages. Cartoon donkey says " I carry books since years but could not stop to be a donkey."
Number 1: Obama's image is used to sell guaranteed-interest-rate financial products. Oh, wait...
Sunday, March 8, 2009
After Midnight
Our full day in Bradford was a Friday. We figured out via map that we were only about a mile from the Texere warehouse, and it was all downhill. Despite this, it took us about two hours to get there.
We did not count on Barbara's being sucked into a jewelry store to do her "Christmas Shopping" (in Feb) for her daughters. Beautiful silver and amber jewelry caught her eye in the window of a shop, and in we all went, and stayed for at least 45 minutes. Mary Ann warned me that this might be the beginning of a pattern.
Our next stop was Bradford Cathedral. We had to circumnavigate a large hole in the ground in the center of the city, which is their version of Boston's Big Dig. A large complex of shops and offices will be built and is intended to revitalize/transform the city. Good luck in this economy!
Once we were in the Cathedral, it took us some time to locate the object of our quest, which was stained glass designed by William Morris. Once located, we sat on a bench and gazed at the glaze. I much preferred all of the other stained glass panels, NOT by Mr. Morris, and took many photos.
We each bought some cards at the church "bookshop". Purchases were made on the honour system, with coins being dropped into one of various slots ("cards and books", "candles", "restoration" etc.) No one was on hand to sell the goods or guard the take.
We made our way back out to the main street and up a little hill, and soon saw the Texere Warehouse. We were welcomed by the various workers, and shown the "retail" section, which had a small assortment of fancy yarns and walls of spools of silk threads, cords, gimp, etc. as well as a wall of books. Mary Ann and Barbara got waylaid there, whilst I set out to explore the two floors of the warehouse. This contained aisles and aisles of yarn skeins and cones of every fibre, thickness and colour. Cotton, silk, wool, mohair, chenille, and more filled the ground floor, with the floor above containing more of the same, plus spools of fine embroidery and needlepoint threads in cotton, silk, viscose, and more. In addition, there was rug yarn, rug canvas, needlepoint canvas, and thread. Paradise for the fiber artiste! I purchased a few "locker-hooks" for rug hooking, and frame for needlework, which can be used for needlepoint or rug hooking. It will make my self-designed hooked rug of a botanical print of "muskat-nusse" (nutmeg) much easier to construct.
We tried to visit "Little Germany", a neighborhood well-marked on the historical maps, but found no evidence of anything other than buildings that looked a lot like all the other Victorian- and Edwardian-era buildings. As it was a "brisk" day, we stopped in a little place called "Yo-Yo" for a hot lunch. The woman who served us came over to see our haul and projects, and was amazed to hear that the place they had been purchased was just up the hill one street.
On our way back we stopped at the Marks and Spencer food hall for wine and cheese, and Barbara also herded us into a shoe and luggage store, where she scored a fine rolling carry-on sized suitcase to hold all her purchases.
By the time we climbed the hill back to the New Beehive Inn, we were exhausted. We tried to blog from the wireless connection in the pub, but were unsuccessful. Therefore, we repaired to our family room, flushed once, and settled in for the evening with our wine, cheese, crackers, and fruit. Mary Ann conked out at about eight pm, while B. and I watched the telly for a while. At some point around ten, I turned out the light. If only there had been a clue as to the ruckus that would ensue, I would have slept right after "dinner".
We estimated that our room was above the billiards room. We knew it was a Friday night, and that there would be people in the pub and playing "snooker". I was counting on the fact that most pubs close around eleven pm, and we'd be able to slumber in peace after that. The sound of the piped-in music just below us, and the laughter of the party-goers was really not that annoying. I had seen a "Boots-the Chemist" shop across the street from M & S, but didn't think I'd need to purchase ear plugs. I regretted that decision.
Some time after eleven pm, the live music started. I'm not sure if it was right below us, or in the "music room", which was next to the pub on the other side of the ground floor. The THUMP THUMP of the bass and the screeching of the female vocalist became increasingly annoying. They MUST be stopping at midnight, I thought. Now, I like a live rock band more than most people from the 70's, but I couldn't believe that the proprietor of the New Beehive Inn had neglected to mention to us that Friday night was LIVE MUSIC night and that we'd be right over the band. I somehow managed to doze off, but dreamed a bizarre dream about moving into an old house and finding that the previous tenants had left behind a sub-woofer in the walls THAT COULDN'T BE TURNED OFF. Hubster and I had to open closet after closet to find the secret panel that held the giant bass speakers. I awakened again after this dream, and tossed and turned until about 2 am, when the band finally stopped playing. What a nightmare!
Our trip to York on the train the next day is a complete blur. I think I made the trip with Mary Ann and Barbara, as we all checked into the next hotel together. The Galtres Lodge on Low Petergate in York was to be our home for the next two nights. We each had our own separate room; MA and B had their own en suite toilet facilities, whilst mine was just down the hall. Bliss!
We did not count on Barbara's being sucked into a jewelry store to do her "Christmas Shopping" (in Feb) for her daughters. Beautiful silver and amber jewelry caught her eye in the window of a shop, and in we all went, and stayed for at least 45 minutes. Mary Ann warned me that this might be the beginning of a pattern.
Our next stop was Bradford Cathedral. We had to circumnavigate a large hole in the ground in the center of the city, which is their version of Boston's Big Dig. A large complex of shops and offices will be built and is intended to revitalize/transform the city. Good luck in this economy!
Once we were in the Cathedral, it took us some time to locate the object of our quest, which was stained glass designed by William Morris. Once located, we sat on a bench and gazed at the glaze. I much preferred all of the other stained glass panels, NOT by Mr. Morris, and took many photos.
We each bought some cards at the church "bookshop". Purchases were made on the honour system, with coins being dropped into one of various slots ("cards and books", "candles", "restoration" etc.) No one was on hand to sell the goods or guard the take.
We made our way back out to the main street and up a little hill, and soon saw the Texere Warehouse. We were welcomed by the various workers, and shown the "retail" section, which had a small assortment of fancy yarns and walls of spools of silk threads, cords, gimp, etc. as well as a wall of books. Mary Ann and Barbara got waylaid there, whilst I set out to explore the two floors of the warehouse. This contained aisles and aisles of yarn skeins and cones of every fibre, thickness and colour. Cotton, silk, wool, mohair, chenille, and more filled the ground floor, with the floor above containing more of the same, plus spools of fine embroidery and needlepoint threads in cotton, silk, viscose, and more. In addition, there was rug yarn, rug canvas, needlepoint canvas, and thread. Paradise for the fiber artiste! I purchased a few "locker-hooks" for rug hooking, and frame for needlework, which can be used for needlepoint or rug hooking. It will make my self-designed hooked rug of a botanical print of "muskat-nusse" (nutmeg) much easier to construct.
We tried to visit "Little Germany", a neighborhood well-marked on the historical maps, but found no evidence of anything other than buildings that looked a lot like all the other Victorian- and Edwardian-era buildings. As it was a "brisk" day, we stopped in a little place called "Yo-Yo" for a hot lunch. The woman who served us came over to see our haul and projects, and was amazed to hear that the place they had been purchased was just up the hill one street.
On our way back we stopped at the Marks and Spencer food hall for wine and cheese, and Barbara also herded us into a shoe and luggage store, where she scored a fine rolling carry-on sized suitcase to hold all her purchases.
By the time we climbed the hill back to the New Beehive Inn, we were exhausted. We tried to blog from the wireless connection in the pub, but were unsuccessful. Therefore, we repaired to our family room, flushed once, and settled in for the evening with our wine, cheese, crackers, and fruit. Mary Ann conked out at about eight pm, while B. and I watched the telly for a while. At some point around ten, I turned out the light. If only there had been a clue as to the ruckus that would ensue, I would have slept right after "dinner".
We estimated that our room was above the billiards room. We knew it was a Friday night, and that there would be people in the pub and playing "snooker". I was counting on the fact that most pubs close around eleven pm, and we'd be able to slumber in peace after that. The sound of the piped-in music just below us, and the laughter of the party-goers was really not that annoying. I had seen a "Boots-the Chemist" shop across the street from M & S, but didn't think I'd need to purchase ear plugs. I regretted that decision.
Some time after eleven pm, the live music started. I'm not sure if it was right below us, or in the "music room", which was next to the pub on the other side of the ground floor. The THUMP THUMP of the bass and the screeching of the female vocalist became increasingly annoying. They MUST be stopping at midnight, I thought. Now, I like a live rock band more than most people from the 70's, but I couldn't believe that the proprietor of the New Beehive Inn had neglected to mention to us that Friday night was LIVE MUSIC night and that we'd be right over the band. I somehow managed to doze off, but dreamed a bizarre dream about moving into an old house and finding that the previous tenants had left behind a sub-woofer in the walls THAT COULDN'T BE TURNED OFF. Hubster and I had to open closet after closet to find the secret panel that held the giant bass speakers. I awakened again after this dream, and tossed and turned until about 2 am, when the band finally stopped playing. What a nightmare!
Our trip to York on the train the next day is a complete blur. I think I made the trip with Mary Ann and Barbara, as we all checked into the next hotel together. The Galtres Lodge on Low Petergate in York was to be our home for the next two nights. We each had our own separate room; MA and B had their own en suite toilet facilities, whilst mine was just down the hall. Bliss!
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Super-Freak Accident
There I was, walking down Hall Road, minding my own business, when I tripped.
Actually, what happened was that I stubbed my toe on an infinitisimal, imperceptable difference in height between two pavement sections.
I was returning to my home from MomA's house after a pleasant mid-day interlude of knitting and chatting over tea. I had just phoned TeenE to let her know I was on my way home and was still holding my phone in one hand. I passed two women who were having what appeared to be a heated discussion, with gestures and arm-waving and slightly raised voices that are unusual in this part of town. Some of my attention was on them after I passed, i.e. slightly to the back of me. Another part of my attention was in front of me, as there was some roadwork being done just ahead and the sidewalk (pavement) was blocked off. I was in the middle of trying to decide what route I would take to cross the street when BAM! I stubbed my toe, flew forward face down, and reflexively put my arms out to break my fall. I wound up face down on the pavement, sprawled out and feeling very foolish. The nearby road workers exclaimed with surprise as I went down, and the two women were at my side immediately.
It is a good thing that I have been working out at the gym, doing all those press-ups, I must say. If I hadn't built up my arm strength, I think that I would have been seriously injured. As it was, the most painful parts of my body at the time were the palms of my hands. Although they burned with pain, there was no scraping of the skin. The women both cried "Are you alright?" in unison. I assured them I was fine, pushed myself up into a sitting position, and decided to sit there for a moment to gather my wits. They were perturbed that I was not springing up immediately. I told them that the only painful thing was my hands, and one of them said "You can't even sue the Council, as there is no crack in the pavement". I told them I had just stubbed my toe on a seam, even though I was wearing flat sensible shoes. I eventually got up, shook myself off, and was handed my mobile phone by lady #2, who had found and replaced the battery that had popped out when it landed nearby.
My pride was the most injured thing at the moment. I decided to go to Starbucks to pick up a coffee for me and a chai latte for TeenE. After I returned to the flat with the beverages, I discovered that one knee was skinned, although the tights I was wearing under my skirt were completely intact although blood-stained. When Hubster got home, I got him to massage my left bicep, which hurt so much that I couldn't knit.
I felt a little sore later that day and took some Ibuprofen, thinking that would be the last of it.
The next morning I woke up with a stiff neck, back, arms, hands and knees. By that evening, I realized that I had honest-to-goodness whiplash, which lasted over a week and kept me from sleeping comfortably on the whole Knitter's Roadtrip. Being away from home, I did not have access to a microwaveable heat pack for the neck and back. Today, just over a week later, I woke up for the first time and was able to move my neck and upper back without pain.
I wish I had moral to this story or some sort of witty remark, but as NYSis says, "It is what it is".
Actually, what happened was that I stubbed my toe on an infinitisimal, imperceptable difference in height between two pavement sections.
I was returning to my home from MomA's house after a pleasant mid-day interlude of knitting and chatting over tea. I had just phoned TeenE to let her know I was on my way home and was still holding my phone in one hand. I passed two women who were having what appeared to be a heated discussion, with gestures and arm-waving and slightly raised voices that are unusual in this part of town. Some of my attention was on them after I passed, i.e. slightly to the back of me. Another part of my attention was in front of me, as there was some roadwork being done just ahead and the sidewalk (pavement) was blocked off. I was in the middle of trying to decide what route I would take to cross the street when BAM! I stubbed my toe, flew forward face down, and reflexively put my arms out to break my fall. I wound up face down on the pavement, sprawled out and feeling very foolish. The nearby road workers exclaimed with surprise as I went down, and the two women were at my side immediately.
It is a good thing that I have been working out at the gym, doing all those press-ups, I must say. If I hadn't built up my arm strength, I think that I would have been seriously injured. As it was, the most painful parts of my body at the time were the palms of my hands. Although they burned with pain, there was no scraping of the skin. The women both cried "Are you alright?" in unison. I assured them I was fine, pushed myself up into a sitting position, and decided to sit there for a moment to gather my wits. They were perturbed that I was not springing up immediately. I told them that the only painful thing was my hands, and one of them said "You can't even sue the Council, as there is no crack in the pavement". I told them I had just stubbed my toe on a seam, even though I was wearing flat sensible shoes. I eventually got up, shook myself off, and was handed my mobile phone by lady #2, who had found and replaced the battery that had popped out when it landed nearby.
My pride was the most injured thing at the moment. I decided to go to Starbucks to pick up a coffee for me and a chai latte for TeenE. After I returned to the flat with the beverages, I discovered that one knee was skinned, although the tights I was wearing under my skirt were completely intact although blood-stained. When Hubster got home, I got him to massage my left bicep, which hurt so much that I couldn't knit.
I felt a little sore later that day and took some Ibuprofen, thinking that would be the last of it.
The next morning I woke up with a stiff neck, back, arms, hands and knees. By that evening, I realized that I had honest-to-goodness whiplash, which lasted over a week and kept me from sleeping comfortably on the whole Knitter's Roadtrip. Being away from home, I did not have access to a microwaveable heat pack for the neck and back. Today, just over a week later, I woke up for the first time and was able to move my neck and upper back without pain.
I wish I had moral to this story or some sort of witty remark, but as NYSis says, "It is what it is".
The One After 9:09
Which train will we be on? The title above attempts to convey our confused answer to that question.
Our trip from Llanfair Caereinion, Welshpool, Powys, Wales, to Bradford, Yorkshire, England, took us four hours and four train changes. Just keeping track of the various tickets and seat reservation coupons was a challenge.
We did a little shopping in the stores at the train station in Welshpool. I scored two packages of hosiery ("tights" in the UK), three pairs of tights in each package for 3 pounds. 1 pound per pair of tights was a price that one would never see in London. Just doing our bit to keep the local economy going...
We waited on a chilly platform in Welshpool for about twenty minutes, after having hauled our heavy rolling bags up a looooong ramp and over a foot bridge across to the correct side of the train tracks. Our train ride was only a minute or two longer than our wait on the platform. Barbara thought perhaps since we were crossing a border, she might need her passport, but Mary Ann and I knew otherwise.
Once back in Shrewsbury, back over the border with England, we had about twenty minutes before our next train arrived. This took us to Manchester, England, where we had another twenty minute layover. This amount of time allowed us to use the public toilets (30p to pee), buy some pastries, and watch the local police force being photographed for their outstanding something or other. As the government just passed a law that makes it illegal to photograph the police or army when they are doing their duty, I thought that Mary Ann might be arrested by her very subjects, but they left us alone. Of course, we're on every CCTV security camera in the station, so if they really want to find us, they can.
The third leg of the trip took us from Manchester to Leeds. Once again we enjoyed reserved seating at a table, so that we could face each other and put our knitting supplies out on the table. Mary Ann finished her Glitter Wristlets, Barbara worked on her Wormy Apple scarf, and I made some good progress on Nana's Sweater.
Once in Leeds we were supposed to have fifteen minutes until the next train to Bradford, but they leave every twenty minutes so there was one waiting right on the other side of the platform, so we hopped on board. No reserved seats were available as it it is a "commuter" type train, so Barbara and I stood with the luggage while Mary Ann scored the last seat. Once in Bradford, we quickly found the taxi "rank". The first turbaned taxi driver said he couldn't take us as his "boot" was not big enough and our luggage was too large. The next driver in the queue was happy to help us. His headgear consisted of a crocheted cap. He was very concerned about us when he heard that our destination was The New Beehive Inn. Why weren't we staying in a "real" hotel, he wanted to know?
The New Beehive Inn was a Victorian-era pub with working gas-lights in the ground floor rooms, which consisted of a breakfast room, a billiards room, a pub, and a "music room". There was a cozy fire in the fireplace in the pub, so we had a half-pint before retiring upstairs to our "family" style room, which consisted of a double bed and two single beds, and an en-suite bathroom with shower. Each room had a placque on the door labelling it with a yarn or spinning term. Our room was "Weaving". There were also "Carding", "Dyeing", "Slubbing", "Warping" and "Wefting". Our room was clean and lovely. Our room was comfortably warm, and enjoyed a fine view of the mosque.
The astute reader will realize that we were in the location that spawned the home-grown terrorists who were behind the London bus bombings of July 2007. Why on earth were we there, another set of guests wanted to know? They only came because they had been invited to a wedding. We were there to visit the Texere yarn Warehouse, home of Freedom Spirit yarn, and two floors of yarn of every description. See their website at www.texere.com for the complete listing.
In this hotel, the plumbing only dated back about a hundred years. We were challenged by the workings of our toilet, which took so long for the tank to refill that one could only flush it once an hour. Flushings had to be pre-discussed and pre-planned, as in "I'm going to use the toilet but I'm not going to flush, so beware". We would flush it before leaving the room, whether it needed it or not.
We enjoyed a "supper" of wine, cheese, crackers and fruit in our room, before knitting, watching telly, and retiring for the night.
Our trip from Llanfair Caereinion, Welshpool, Powys, Wales, to Bradford, Yorkshire, England, took us four hours and four train changes. Just keeping track of the various tickets and seat reservation coupons was a challenge.
We did a little shopping in the stores at the train station in Welshpool. I scored two packages of hosiery ("tights" in the UK), three pairs of tights in each package for 3 pounds. 1 pound per pair of tights was a price that one would never see in London. Just doing our bit to keep the local economy going...
We waited on a chilly platform in Welshpool for about twenty minutes, after having hauled our heavy rolling bags up a looooong ramp and over a foot bridge across to the correct side of the train tracks. Our train ride was only a minute or two longer than our wait on the platform. Barbara thought perhaps since we were crossing a border, she might need her passport, but Mary Ann and I knew otherwise.
Once back in Shrewsbury, back over the border with England, we had about twenty minutes before our next train arrived. This took us to Manchester, England, where we had another twenty minute layover. This amount of time allowed us to use the public toilets (30p to pee), buy some pastries, and watch the local police force being photographed for their outstanding something or other. As the government just passed a law that makes it illegal to photograph the police or army when they are doing their duty, I thought that Mary Ann might be arrested by her very subjects, but they left us alone. Of course, we're on every CCTV security camera in the station, so if they really want to find us, they can.
The third leg of the trip took us from Manchester to Leeds. Once again we enjoyed reserved seating at a table, so that we could face each other and put our knitting supplies out on the table. Mary Ann finished her Glitter Wristlets, Barbara worked on her Wormy Apple scarf, and I made some good progress on Nana's Sweater.
Once in Leeds we were supposed to have fifteen minutes until the next train to Bradford, but they leave every twenty minutes so there was one waiting right on the other side of the platform, so we hopped on board. No reserved seats were available as it it is a "commuter" type train, so Barbara and I stood with the luggage while Mary Ann scored the last seat. Once in Bradford, we quickly found the taxi "rank". The first turbaned taxi driver said he couldn't take us as his "boot" was not big enough and our luggage was too large. The next driver in the queue was happy to help us. His headgear consisted of a crocheted cap. He was very concerned about us when he heard that our destination was The New Beehive Inn. Why weren't we staying in a "real" hotel, he wanted to know?
The New Beehive Inn was a Victorian-era pub with working gas-lights in the ground floor rooms, which consisted of a breakfast room, a billiards room, a pub, and a "music room". There was a cozy fire in the fireplace in the pub, so we had a half-pint before retiring upstairs to our "family" style room, which consisted of a double bed and two single beds, and an en-suite bathroom with shower. Each room had a placque on the door labelling it with a yarn or spinning term. Our room was "Weaving". There were also "Carding", "Dyeing", "Slubbing", "Warping" and "Wefting". Our room was clean and lovely. Our room was comfortably warm, and enjoyed a fine view of the mosque.
The astute reader will realize that we were in the location that spawned the home-grown terrorists who were behind the London bus bombings of July 2007. Why on earth were we there, another set of guests wanted to know? They only came because they had been invited to a wedding. We were there to visit the Texere yarn Warehouse, home of Freedom Spirit yarn, and two floors of yarn of every description. See their website at www.texere.com for the complete listing.
In this hotel, the plumbing only dated back about a hundred years. We were challenged by the workings of our toilet, which took so long for the tank to refill that one could only flush it once an hour. Flushings had to be pre-discussed and pre-planned, as in "I'm going to use the toilet but I'm not going to flush, so beware". We would flush it before leaving the room, whether it needed it or not.
We enjoyed a "supper" of wine, cheese, crackers and fruit in our room, before knitting, watching telly, and retiring for the night.
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