Archive | May, 2011

A little story about irony.

19 May

Something interesting happened while I was in London: my credit card was declined. I was trying to buy a watch for Alan for his birthday and the cashier held up the transaction slip for me to review: DECLINED.

What? I knew I wasn’t over my credit limit, so I asked him to run it again. Again, declined. I had just purchased rail tickets with it successfully the day before and – oh wait – I realized the problem: my card had been flagged since I used it overseas without alerting my bank.

It’s odd – I’ve been overseas dozens of times and never had my card put on hold. I’ve been with OTHER people when their cards have been put on hold, but mine has always been fine. And I’ve always defied conventional wisdom and never alerted my bank. This, however, was a new card, supported by a new bank. With apparently stricter security protocols.

I growled for a moment when I realized what happened, thankful that I had another card with me that was tried and true. Had I just been limited to the one card, I would’ve been pissed.

Fast forward to when I returned to the US. I was sifting through my mail, processing bills, when I remembered I needed to call to get the hold lifted from Card #1. I grabbed both my credit card statements and something from Card #2 caught my eye: an $11 transaction fee. Huh?

It may seem ridiculous to get distracted by an $11 fee, but this is a card that I always pay off, in full, ahead of deadline. There shouldn’t be a fee on it.

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I’d offer you my seat, but you’re an ass.

17 May

When I arrived back in the US on Saturday, Dulles airport was a zoo. Apparently there had been thunderstorms holding many flights at bay, so when we landed, the line for Naturalization & Customs was RIDICULOUS.

Seasoned travelers around me groaned with impatience, all of us exuding the unmistakable (and un-maskable) Eau d’Plane. Unfortunately, we had a 45 minute wait ahead of us before getting our passports stamped for re-entry, so we just prayed that olfactory fatigue would kick in sooner rather than later.

After finally clearing Customs, I decided to take the Metro bus into the city, rather than springing for a more convenient (and $50 more expensive) cab ride. That meant kicking back and waiting 25 minutes for the next bus, which I did with a surprising amount of patience.

By the time the bus arrived, there was a sizable crowd waiting to board. As one of the first in line, I secured a seat near the front. Which ended up being the perfect vantage point for what was about to unfold. Across from me, a friendly guy with graying hair and a Boston accent sat down.

The bus started to fill up, and more passengers pushed to squeeze on. I made eye contact with a woman about my mom’s age and gestured to my seat. She declined the offer.

The bus was filled to capacity and two more people (toting large suitcases like everyone else) tried to force their way on,  but there simply no room. Every seat was taken and people were wedged butt-to-butt in the aisle.

It felt almost like this. ALMOST.

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I didn’t know “amusé bouche” meant “loud mouth.”

14 May

Alan’s birthday is coming up, so we decided to celebrate it properly while we were in London. As a foodie (and Food Network addict), he gets a semi-chubb for Chef Gordon Ramsay, so it was on his bucket list to eat at one of Ramsay’s restaurants. Thus, Alan made a reservation for us to have lunch at Claridge’s, and I picked up the tab. That’s how birthdays work.

We both did the five-course tasting menu, paired with wine flights for 55 pounds each. I’ll leave the nuanced food descriptions to Alan since he took copious notes (more on that shortly), and instead just share a couple quick observations.

But first, in case you don’t know who Gordon Ramsay is, this flowchart of his show (Hell’s Kitchen) created by Cracked.com should help serve as a primer:

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Walk this way! Or not.

13 May

This photo (St. Paul & The Millenium Bridge, as seen from the Tate) has nothing to do with this post, other than that it's set in London and I took it.

So I’ve posted about some of the walking tours I’ve done this week… Yes, I’m a nerd and — to top it off – I tend to scribble notes when I’m on the tour. Bite me. Moving on…

Let me tell you about the sociology of the Walking Tour. For starters, I’m the YOUNGEST person. On every walk. Nevermind that I’m closer to 50 than the legal drinking age. Every time, I look around and think, “Sweet! I’m on a tour with my PARENTS.”

I always marvel at how fast the guide walks, because I tend to be a fast walker and s/he is usually traveling at my pace. Maybe the strategy is to leave the weak behind and reduce the flock by 50%. (Alan has observed, however, that it’s a specific type of person who takes a walking tour… they tend to be thin and healthy, regardless of age. So maybe there’s not much whittling to be done.)

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My name is Alison, and I am an addict.

12 May

I’m addicted to walking tours. Simply cannot get enough of them. That either means I’m a nerd or a retiree. You do the math.

In any case, there’s a great walking tour company here in London (London Walks) willing to indulge me. Since I’ve been to London before and checked off most of the typical touristy spots in other visits, I’m using these walks to familiarize myself with some of the lesser-explored bits of the city.

King Kong, Elvis and Henry VIII - I like the way they think!

Monday I did the “London’s Secret Village” tour, which had us tromping around in Clerkenwell – in London’s central borough of Islington. Among the highlights:

  • Seeing where William Wallace (you know, the dude from Braveheart?) was beheaded.
  • Visiting a Plague Pit, knowing the soil below me was the resting place for hundreds of bodies from the 1665 plague.
  • Crossing the square where Dickens’ Oliver Twist got nabbed for picking the wrong pocket.
  • Learning that the subterranean River Fleet had so much sewer gas build up that it once exploded.
  • Spotting one of London’s most filmed churches – St. Bartholomew’s Church – known from The Other Boleyn Girl, Sherlock Holmes, Four Weddings & a Funeral, etc. – and learning that Henry VIII is considered the church’s second founder simply for not having it torn down when he was demolishing all things Catholic.

Jesus Hot Tub Time Machine.

Tuesday, Alan joined me for the “Inside the Ancient City” tour, where we weaved around back alleys north of the Tower and St. Paul’s. Among its highlights:

  • Pepys (pronounced “Peeps” like the Easter treat, not some version of Pepsi, which is what I was trying to do) – who wrote an amazing diary during the plague/fire of the 1600s but kept it in code because he was cheating on his wife.
    • Another Pepys reference that made me feel like I knew him: when his place was on the edge of the fire line, he figured he had half a day to save his prized possessions before the place burned. What did he do? Buried cases wine and a wheel of parmesan cheese. (I totally appreciate his priorities.)
  • Leadenhall Market: a cute functioning arcade that served as Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter movies.
  • The most perfect church in London: the church of St. Stephen Walbrook, which looks like nothing on the outside, but is a breath-taking church on the inside. Courtesy of Sir Christopher Wren (as is almost every other church in this city).
    • Odd note: the interior may be gorgeous, but the priest there in the 1970s decided to have a new, central altar commissioned by Henry Moore. I’m sure in an art museum it would look amazing, but in the midst of a 17th century church, it looks a bit odd. Like a Flintstone hot tub.
  • George & Vulture Pub: where Dickens’ family still meets every Christmas Eve to have dinner and raise a toast in his honor.

The thing that made the joint tour with Alan particularly fun was that we had a guy in the tour group who was VOCALLY EXCITED. By which I mean that he would burst out in a loud affirmation occasionally. I nicknamed him “Blurt Reynolds,” but Alan, being a bit more kind, referred to him as, “Joie de Vivre.”

I think London is having a mellowing effect on Alan.

(I’ve also done the Hampstead and Kensington walks, and will summarize them later for my friends who are armchair travelers.)

The moral(s) of this story: walking tours rock, I’m a nerd, and you might actually learn a bit of British trivia from reading this blog. Please humor me.

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