Unlikely Words

Some days you wake up with a feeling, and you just know how the whole day is going to go. I sprang eagerly out of bed at 7:30 sharp, walked out onto our terrace for a last look at Amalfi through the clearing haze, and breathed in deeply with satisfaction. Yes, sometimes you just know it’s going to be a good day.

And sometimes you’re completely and utterly wrong.

Things got off to a bad start when, at breakfast, we both ordered cappuccinos. Rachel generally doesn’t drink coffee, and for good reason: it makes her jittery, nervous, and sick to her stomach. The whole morning, she said, she felt her heart pounding as if in the middle of a panic attack. This did not bode well for her mental state during the travel to come.

The ride to the train station, in retrospect, was perhaps the easiest part of the day. The ride was as stomach-churningly twisty as always, which didn’t help Rachel any. Our driver spoke no English and we spoke no Italian; luckily, Rachel was able to dredge up enough high school French to make halting small talk and ask how much longer it would be until we arrived. The social pressure of making conversation seemed to distract her a bit from her feeling unwell, and as her mood improved I started to relax.

And then we arrived at Napoli Centrale Station. I’ve heard it said that in Italian, the phrase “go to Napoli!” is roughly equivalent to “go to hell!” (I also think of the classic scene from The Kentucky Fried Movie in which a prisoner is dragged before Dr. Klahn. The prisoner loudly asserts his fearlessness until Klahn pronounces his sentence: “Take him to Detroit.” The hapless victim is then dragged off-screen, screaming, “No! Not Detroit!” Let’s just say that Dr. Klahn could use Naples as a backup.)

The station was big, confusing, and poorly signed, but we eventually found our way to our train and, with the help of a moderately helpful guard, found our coach. I should mention that I had high hopes for this leg of the journey. A train ride across Italy sounds exciting and romantic, does it not? On the drive in, Rachel revealed that not only were we taking the Eurostar line (which Rachel and her father had given rave reviews in France) but we had first class tickets. First class! My mind was filled with visions of bone china, white-gloved waiters, and nubile slave girls to fan us with ostrich feathers.

In reality, our seats in the first class coach were, perhaps, more comfortable than those in second-class, but still somewhat cramped. The car slowly filled up with fellow Americans, mostly headed to Rome. We sat and waited. Inactivity seemed to return Rachel to her previous high level of nervousness, and she was anxious for the train to depart, but I assured her that things would be just fine and that we would be on our way shortly; it wasn’t even 11:30 (our scheduled departure time) yet.

Then the rumors started to move through the train: “There are people on the tracks.” People on the tracks? I had seen men in identical blue shirts running by out the window, shouting and laughing. As it turns out, the people on the tracks were actually blocking the tracks, arm-in-arm. It was a labor strike. “These things happen in Italy all the time,” our fellow passengers said, reassuring one another. “It’ll be resolved, and then we’ll get going.”

Forty-five minutes after the train was supposed to have left, an announcement came over the train’s PA system. In Italian. We Americans all looked at each other, shrugging our shoulders, until we saw the one Italian family on board gather their bags and start to leave the train. One woman knew enough English to tell us “cancelled” and “other station,” and then they were gone.

We dragged our bags down from the overhead compartments and out onto the platform, following the herd of confused passengers. At the end of the platform, we attached ourselves to a group of equally lost English speakers: a pair of recent college graduates backpacking across Europe, a blond guy (who looked a lot like Alan Tudyk) and his wife (who did not), and a family of three (including a girl, Tori, of about 11) from the Bay Area. The woman in this couple, Nancy, quickly became our leader. She spoke just enough Italian to find an older Italian gentleman who, for a few Euros each, was willing to guide our hapless bunch across the station, down the stairs to the Metro subway, and explain that our new train was leaving from the Fligrei station, six stops down the line.

Dragging our bags, we raced to the subway train (along with hundreds of other stranded passengers) and crammed ourselves in. Nancy managed to keep us all together, and keep everyone’s spirits up, in the hot, smelly, over-crowded car. For Tori’s sake if for no other reason, we all tried to confine our remarks to the kind of upbeat gallows humor that is the best-case scenario for travelers in our predicament. We all, in an unspoken agreement, appointed ourselves her co-protectors.

When the Metro finally, blessedly, arrived at Fligrei, Nancy herded us off the train, up two flights of stairs, and onto what we correctly guessed was our train. (Somewhere along the line, blond guy and his wife got separated from the group, but we saw them get onto a different car.) By the time we got to the train, every seat was, of course, occupied, and the aisle was rapidly filling up. Our group piled into coach number one and attempted to make ourselves as comfortable as possible in the aisle, sitting and leaning on our baggage.

And then we waited. The air-conditioning was not, of course, running while the train was stopped, and we had no idea when it was scheduled to leave. Rachel was feeling worse and worse as dehydration and dizziness took their toll. Finally, after almost an hour, the train started to move (to the wry applause of all on board). I spent the two-hour ride to Rome alternating between leaning against one of the seats with all of my weight on my left foot, and leaning against a different seat with all of my weight on my right foot. Rachel alternated between leaning against our bags and talking animatedly to our comrades and sitting on the floor with her head between her knees. (“She’s dehydrated,” said Nancy. “You have to make her drink water. I know; I’m a mom.” In fairness, we only had a quarter of a bottle of water between us.)

This portion of the day would have been truly unbearable were it not for Nancy, Ron, Tori, Melissa, and Steve. As the train finally pulled into Roma Termini, we exchanged email addresses and sincerely wished each other better luck to come. Rachel and I, however, were now on our own, continuing on to Bologna.

As the train emptied out, Rachel and I stowed our luggage and collapsed exhausted into our miraculously unoccupied assigned seats. We met a large and funny family from New Jersey, some of whom were double-booked in the same seats but cheerfully found seats elsewhere when they saw how pathetic we looked. We finally got our first-class perks: air-conditioning, a packet of cookies, and a Dixie cup of water.

Once we pulled away from Rome and our tickets had been inspected, Rachel went to check out the dining car. I asked her to bring me back a bottle of water and a sandwich. As it turns out, the dining car was only offering one food item – a sandwich – so that’s exactly what I got. It was ham (speck, I think) on bread. Dry and austere, but, given how desperately hungry I was, delicious.

We had two points of stress remaining to us. First, at every stop the train made, Rachel was convinced that it was somehow going to turn around and go back to Naples. The second was that we were going to miss our connecting train, and we had no idea when the next train from Bologna to Venice was. In this situation, I did what any self-respecting, self-reliant, competent and confident man would do. I called my daddy.

Actually, I text messaged both him and my sister, waking them both up at who-knows-what ungodly hour, and begged them to look up the Italian rail schedules for us. We also asked my dad to stand by to call his travel agent to find us a hotel in Bologna should we miss the last train out. As it turns out, there were plenty of trains for Venice, but without the help of our agents in the United States, Rachel and I would have had a much worse day. We salute you!

When we finally pulled into Bologna Centrale station, I was highly amused to hear the following announcement in Italian and English: “This is Bologna Central Station. This train is running 169 minutes behind schedule. We apologize for the inconvenience, and we thank you for riding Trenitalia.” Can you imagine, for instance, Amtrak ever acknowledging the fact that they were behind schedule, never mind exactly how far behind? Can you ever imagine them apologizing for it?

Compared to what preceded it, the Bologna train station was an oasis of calm beauty and serenity. We bought ourselves some dinner: speck e formaggio sandwiches. Rachel pointed out that the day’s meals had progressed from bread (breakfast) to bread and meat (lunch) to bread and meat and cheese. Who could say what amazing sandwich possibilities awaited us the next day?

The train from Bologna to Venice was not as nice as the Eurostar. It was essentially a commuter train, with oddly uncomfortable seats (the seats had about 15 inches of fabric between wide strips of plastic – they made us feel thunderously obese). Rachel pulled a muscle in her side and simultaneously crushed her pinky finger while lifting her bag overhead, and after a whole day of being in charge of not freaking out, I was starting to tire. The low point was when the conductor came through to check our tickets. He started at them for a long time – I thought, “what could we have screwed up this time? – and then pointed to the “first class” printed on the ticket. We were sitting in a second-class coach. Neither of us had any interest in moving our bags so we stayed put, although I was haunted by the possibility that I was missing out on nubile virgins with ostrich feathers just two cars up.

Back at the train station, I had called ahead to our hotel to let them know that we’d be arriving late and to ask them to arrange a taxi from the train station to the hotel – we felt in no shape to be navigating a new foreign city’s buses at night. The plan was that I was to call the taxi company from Mestre, the stop before Venice, and they’d tell me what taxi number to look for. Naturally, T-Mobile let me down here. My phone, which had been working perfectly in Europe for the whole trip, suddenly decided that it didn’t want to make any more calls in the Veneto. I could call anyplace in the world except our hotel and the taxi company.

When we arrived at the train station, therefore, we were stranded. We couldn’t figure out how to buy a bus ticket, we couldn’t reach the taxi company, and we couldn’t figure out how to work the Italian pay phones. (Seriously. How embarrassing is to fail to figure out how to work a pay phone?) I began to despair, but Rachel spotted a water taxi sign and for the price of €50 we had a ride to our hotel.

Once we actually stepped into the boat, all of the stress of the day disappeared. We had arrived. We were gliding down the canals of Venice. Venice! The air was cool, the boat was gentle, the buildings were – well, more on Venice tomorrow. The feeling, though, was amazing. This city is almost unreal. As the boat pulled up to the mooring in front of our hotel, and we unloaded our bags, Rachel and I turned to each other and grinned. Venice!

Today we woke up at exactly the time we’d planned. (Victory!) By 9:00 we were upstairs and arranging a shuttle bus to take us into Amalfi at 10:30. The plan was to spend an hour looking around Amalfi and then to take a bus up to Ravello, which several people (including our new best friend the bartender) had recommended highly. In expectation of a long day, I added some yogurt to the continental breakfast that the hotel offered.

The shuttle dropped us off right in the center of Amalfi, a few steps away from the spot where the SITA bus to Ravello stopped. We joined a throng of people when the bus arrived and were about to get on the bus when we heard the Australians in front of ask if they could buy their tickets on the bus. The answer was “no,” and since we didn’t have tickets either, we snuck out of line. It took a good 10 minutes of wandering around to find where to buy bus tickets, and then we had some time to kill until the next bus came, so we walked around the beach and pier in Amalfi. I was struck by the odd geometric concrete forms that made up the jetty. There must be a story here; is this some kind of art installation? Or is there a practical advantage to these shapes? Inquiring minds want to know!

Before too long the bus arrived, and we crammed on board, and we started to wind our way up the mountain roads. Now, I’m sure you want know: are these Italian bus rides on the roads along the Amalfi coast as scary as everyone says they are? Well, dear reader, I am here to tell you that the bus trip from Amalfi to Ravello is not, in fact, scary.

It is fucking terrifying.

It’s not really even the sheerness of the cliffs – the all-too-solid rock wall on one side and the precipitous drop to the rocky water below – and the paltry 3-foot guardrails. Nor, strictly speaking, is it the cars parked on both sides of a two-lane road that would, in the United States, be marked both “one way” and “no parking.” Nor is it solely the pedestrians walking up and down these roads, crossing the street as if they were not taking their lives into their hands. No, it is the combination of all of these things, coupled with a bus driver content to navigate the hairpin turns and switchbacks and cobblestone streets and blind driveways at speed. I am convinced that our driver used the horn more often than the brake pedal. It felt like a roller coaster (and I hate roller coasters) except that, as Rachel pointed out, roller coasters are on a track, and are inspected for safety, and have seatbelts.

The roads really are something. I mean, I’ve driven on winding roads before. I even nearly got carsick riding on some of the curvier stretches of US-1 in northern California. It’s probable that these roads are, in fact, curvier than California’s, but what makes them seem orders of magnitude more precarious is that California’s mountain highways are bounded by trees and the ocean. These roads are bounded by sheer cliff walls in some places, but in other places by houses, shops, restaurants, and parked cars. It simply would never occur to Americans to build houses (much less farms) on terrain like this.

We made it to Ravello alive, however. It’s a truly charmingly beautiful town. The views of the mountains and the water are spectacular, and the houses and shops have 100% of your recommended daily allowance of quaint. Before simply walking around and taking in the scenery, we needed (OK, I needed) to eat, so we consulted our Lonely Planet guidebook and ate at a restaurant called Cumpa Cosima. The food was perfectly fine, and when the owner came out to overcharge us she did so with a winning smile, but in our walking around we saw many more charming places to eat. I can only assume their markup was even worse.

We saw and photographed many beautiful houses, gardens, and vineyards. We bought some ceramic house numbers from a very friendly shopkeeper. We found the street named after Richard Wagner and took my picture under it as if to say, “Screw you, Wagner, you anti-Semite bastard.”

Then there was a long, long wait for a bus back to Amalfi. There appeared to be some confusion as to what bus we were supposed to take; when one finally arrived and we asked if it was the bus to Amalfi, the driver told us “no,” then got on his cell phone for several minutes and called out, “OK, Amalfi!” So we got on for another death-defying ride.

Here we also had our brush with the law. When you board an Italian bus, you’re supposed to put your ticket into the little validating machine so you can’t use the same ticket indefinitely. In the confusion, we boarded this bus through the back doors, not the front door, and didn’t see anyone else going forward to punch their ticket. Since no one even asked to see our ticket, we thought we were probably fine.

Wrong. At one of the stops, three SITA agents got on the bus and started going from seat to seat, checking tickets. The fine for failing to get your ticket validated is €34 per person. The agent, who spoke no English, indicated that he was willing to let one of us slide. This was very nice, and it cut our fine in half, but we still had to cough up the cash. It was tense, it was embarrassing, it was awkward and complicated, and it made us feel like the stupidest Americans ever to travel abroad. (We comforted ourselves by repeating over and over: “We’re having an adventure!”)

We finally made it back to Amalfi just in time to catch our shuttle bus back to the hotel. Once we got there, we decided to strip off our sweaty clothes, put on our swim suits, and get right into the pool to try to shed some of the day’s stress. This we did, despite the fact that it started to drizzle as soon as we were handed our pool towels.

When the rain and lack of sun made swimming less appealing, we went back upstairs to kill some time reading before dinner. At the bar, I asked the bartender to make me a Manhattan, and although he made fun of me for ordering a gratuitously American drink, it was the best Manhattan I’d ever tasted. Seriously, this guy was good.

Dinner was, once again, delicious. Rachel started with a margherita pizza that was spectacular. The crust was much softer than I expected, but not at all doughy the way “thick crust” pizza is back home. I had a plate of salmon and anchovy filets in olive oil and lemon juice, and it was just incredible: light, summery, and delicious. For our entrees, Rachel had a cod filet in a tomato sauce, and I had veal scallopini. I made sure to get the cod recipe from the maitre d’. For dessert we had something called, I think, “rum baba.” That’s what it sounded like the waiter said. It was a round bit of pastry filled with pastry cream and soaked in rum. Yes, please.

It had been quite a day. We staggered back down to our room, swearing to do nothing – nothing! – tomorrow.

A travel day. Since our flight to Italy didn’t leave until 4:00, we decided to squeeze one more bit of sightseeing in before we left: the British Museum. First, though, was breakfast. At a café across the street from the museum, I finally had a traditional English breakfast. If it weren’t for the fact that I’d keel over at the age of 45, I’d eat this every morning. Eggs! Bacon! Sausage! Mushrooms! Tomatoes! Baked… beans? Even the baked beans were, somehow, delicious. That plate and a cup of tea were just what I needed for a long day ahead.

I don’t think I can express how awesome the British Museum was, and how much more time we should have spent there. In the ninety minutes we did spend, we only saw a small handful of galleries: some of the Egyptian and Assyrian collection, and a tiny fraction of the Greek and Roman items.

First up was the Rosetta Stone. It was remarkable to walk into a museum for free (a museum that, I should add, is in an immense and gorgeous building that takes up two city blocks and which is more or less dropped in the middle of a neighborhood), turn a corner and nearly walk right into the Rosetta Stone. The actual, honest-to-God Rosetta Stone. The thing is huge, which I didn’t realize. All of the pictures I’ve ever seen made me think it was something one could pick up and hold, but one could not, unless one were the size of some of the Egyptian statues we saw. It’s a very cool artifact. Hieroglyphics, Rachel noted, look exactly like you think they do.

The rest of the exhibits we saw were great, too. Egyptian monuments, Assyrian narrative carvings, a bust of Tilgath-Pileser III, huge gates from Sargon’s palace, the Elgin Marbles from the Parthenon… and that was just on one floor, through one door off of the spectacular central hall. If you are in London, you must go to the British Museum.

Rachel finally dragged me out of there with enough time to walk back to Karen and Gordon’s place and say good-bye. We then walked from their apartment to King’s Cross station with all of our bags (OMG just like Harry Potter!!!1!!) to find our way to the tube to Liverpool Street station, and thence to Stansted Airport. (In our hurry, we neglected to take a picture of the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. I’m still kicking myself.)

Once at the airport, our check-in was a breeze. American airports might be able to learn something from the way Stansted works. We walked into the terminal, found our flight on a TV monitor, and then walked up to the EasyJet counter for our specific flight. It took maybe five minutes. We then had several hours to relax in the lounge area, eat some more Pret A Manger, and look in vain for a souvenir England football jersey. Going through security was also a breeze. There was no nonsense about taking off one’s shoes, or removing one’s laptop from the bag. Just put your stuff on the conveyor and walk on through.

From the central terminal you take a short automated tram to the gates, and here was my only complaint about Stansted airport: it was hot. Ridiculously hot. Sun streaming in the huge windows, sweat dripping down my back, and no air-conditioning. It was the first time I’ve ever felt more comfortable getting onto a plane than off.

The flight itself to Naples was entirely uneventful. About the Napoli airport, the less said the better.

We were met by a driver arranged by our hotel, the Hotel Belvedere in Conca dei Marini on the Amalfi Coast. The very nice young man, whose name was Fortunado, ushered us into a black Mercedes and we were on our way. (This is not how we usually travel, I should add, and it was the most pleasant bit of travel we expect to experience for quite some time.)

The drive from Naples to the Amalfi coast took about 90 minutes, the last half of which was up and down frighteningly curvy mountain roads – or rather, roads that would have been frightening if it hadn’t been pitch dark outside. We finally pulled up outside the hotel and were shown to our rooms by the night porter.

By the time we put our bags down it was almost exactly 10:00, and we hadn’t had dinner, so we dragged ourselves upstairs (the hotel is built into a cliff, so our room on the first floor was actually down two flights of stairs). The restaurant was long closed, so we decided to chance the bar.

The bartender at first seemed a bit surly and put out at our request for something to eat. In fairness, he might have been annoyed at our dithering about what drinks to order and under some amount of pressure as he seemed to be in the midst of making drinks for about three different groups in the bar. In the end, we settled on a gin and tonic for me and a Bellini for Rachel, and the bartender said he’d see if he could rustle up some fruit salad for us.

I have never been so happy in my life to eat a fruit salad. (It was even banana-free, and wasn’t overwhelmed by melon!) When he brought them over several minutes later, he seemed to be in a much better mood. He asked us if we were on our honeymoon and since the actual answer (“sorta”) was too complicated, we said “yes.” He came back over 5 minutes later with a strawberry that he’d carved in the shape of a rose for Rachel. He was our new best friend.

I’m running out of unique ways to say, “we got off to a later start than planned.” The day’s itinerary was to tour the Tower of London, take a boat ride up to Greenwich, and end up with a night out at the theatre. It didn’t quite work out that way.

Once again, we didn’t get out of the apartment until 10:30 or so, and then we spent way too much time trying to find someplace to eat breakfast. This was really a spectacular failure: we walked to two or three places in Covent Garden, couldn’t find precisely what we were looking for, and ended up in – how it pains me to admit it! – Starbucks. (Starbucks in England doesn’t have iced coffee. When I asked for it, the woman looked at me like I was insane, and offered an iced latte instead.)

When we finally got to the Tower, it was noon. We filed through the entrance arch in the middle of an immense group of people, and milled around waiting for one of the Yeoman Warders (Beefeaters) to show up to start a guided tour. I should mention how excited I was to be at the Tower of London. It really is an amazing structure; this huge walled and turreted fortress in the middle of a modern city. I’d read Neal Stephenson’s The System of the World and a biography of Samuel Pepys in the past year, so it was kind of thrilling to actually be walking past Traitor’s Gate and the Bloody Tower.

The Warder led a lively tour, and when it was over we went to walk through the White Tower and to see the Crown Jewels. The jewels were really something. I mean, on the one hand, it’s just some really tacky crowns; on the other hand, it’s the Crown Jewels of England. It turns out I am really fascinated by the trappings of monarchy. (That sentence right there just ruined any political aspirations I might have.) I think I could have spent an hour just looking at the coat of arms of each of the Kings and Queens of England since William the Conqueror. I’m going to end up as one of those people who know what “three lions, gules” means.

The White Tower itself was somewhat underwhelming, I’m sad to say. Just the experience of walking through a castle built in 1080 was amazing, but today it’s little more than a museum of armaments and weaponry. My Dungeons and Dragons days are far enough behind me that I’m not that interested in the difference between a glaive and a halberd, and I’m not much moved by a wall of pistols. We also decided that, while there was something strangely appropriate about the tower’s dungeon having been turned into its gift shop, we didn’t need to buy anything.

By the time we finished seeing everything we cared to see, it was 3:00, and I was becoming desperately in need of food. Casting aside all thoughts of exploring and finding something interesting or affordable, we bought sandwiches at the café attached to the Tower ticket booth. Boring and overpriced! It’s a tourist two-fer.

At this point, any thought of going to Greenwich was shot. We decided to focus our energy on finding a play to see in the evening. Why not take in Antony and Cleopatra at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre? We’d walk from the Tower of London to the much-lauded Millennium Bridge, buy tickets, and maybe kill some time at the Tate Modern next door.

The walk from the Tower to the Tate was not a complete success. Part of this fault lay with us: while we quite masterfully read the map to determine the route we should take – “turn left” – we didn’t look carefully enough at the scale. This was a long-ass walk. (Map My Run says it’s only 2km, but I don’t believe it.) The Millennium Bridge never seemed to get any closer, no matter how far we walked. Many were the times along the way that we nearly gave up and simply collapsed on the street, hoping to beg a passer-by for water, help, food, anything.

The rest of the fault can be laid squarely at the feet of London: the route we walked was almost completely along the very nicely signed “Thames Walk.” The problem is that, despite the inviting nature of the signs that indicate the route one might take to follow the Thames Walk, only a very small percentage of the walk is even remotely scenic or attractive. Oh, sure, it goes under London Bridge, and, yes, there are a number of restaurants where London business people must take lunch, but a significant portion of the route goes through areas that are not usually designated as tourist destinations, and at one point the River Walk sign pointed down a long unlit underpass which was used as a parking lot for the adjacent office buildings. Not so much “Let’s Go London” as “Let’s Get Out Of Here London.” We’re told the river path along the south bank of the Thames is much nicer; we might suggest that London not put the signs up on the north bank until they’ve thought things out a bit more.

At long last, however, St. Paul’s hove into view (where else but England can I use the word “hove”?) and there was the Millennium Bridge. It is, indeed, a lovely footbridge across the Thames, and Londoners are justly proud of it. On the other side is the imposing Tate Modern building and, just next door, the Globe.

The Globe, as it happened, was sold out. Even the £5 “groundling” tickets were no longer available. Nearly defeated, we collapsed onto a bench and flipped through Time Out. We were in no mood for a drama, and I didn’t have the strength to sit through a musical, so we settled on a lesser-known farce by Michael Frayn (whom we love) called Donkeys Years. One mobile phone call later (at international roaming rates), we had our tickets.

Having walked all that way, we thought we might as well give the Tate Modern museum a shot. Rachel and I, in our best mood, are not the ideal visitors for the Tate Modern. We don’t have much knowledge of art in general, and even when we haven’t been schlepping across London for hours we don’t have much of an appreciation for the more outré forms of modern art. It wasn’t a crushing shock, therefore, that we didn’t love the museum. The building itself is massive – it’s impressive for, if nothing else, the audacity of putting a modern art museum in a former power plant that must cost a fortune to heat in the winter (as it turns out, they don’t) – but we found the galleries themselves to be somewhat unattractive. While I do appreciate some modern painting and sculpture (there were a few Magrittes I liked), I just wasn’t moved in the same way I was at the National Gallery. After looking through a few rooms, Rachel decided to collapse into what we think was a chair (there’s an outside chance it was a piece of sculpture) while I checked out a few more galleries. I came back with this report: “I saw a dark room with four big dark red squares, a video of people mud-wrestling in bikinis, a painting of a man urinating, and a CD of fart sounds. I’m ready to go.”

So, back across the bridge, dragging our aching feet around St. Paul’s to the Tube. By the time we got back to the apartment, we were exhausted and somewhat worried about dinner; the play was at 7:30, and since we’d eaten lunch so late, we probably weren’t going to want to have a normal-sized dinner beforehand. I knew I wasn’t going to last until after. Gordon and Karen saved the day by inviting us out to drinks at one of their local pubs, where Rachel and I split a small salad and some hummus and pita. Just the light snack we needed. When traveling in a strange city, having friends willing to make food decisions for you is highly recommended. (If they can provide stimulating conversation as well, all the better.)

From there, it was back onto the Tube to Picadilly Circus. When we got out we realized that we’d forgotten to look up where, precisely, the theatre was. I consulted the map in my head, pointed down a street, and set off confidently in exactly the wrong direction, until Rachel asked a souvenir salesman where Haymarket Street was. We turned around and ran and made it to the theatre with five minutes to spare.

The play itself was amusing, but there’s a reason it’s not one of Frayn’s better known plays. (We love Noises Off and Copenhagen; this play seemed like it might have been practice for the former.) One odd thing about the theatre in England is that they serve ice cream at the interval (as they call intermission), and everyone buys it. Young and old alike, eating our little ice creams with a wooden stick. Weird.

After the play we found that the Picadilly Circus underground station was inexplicably closed, so we walked to Leicester Square (which was hopping) to catch the Tube home. I think I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

It’s not just that I’ve never left the country. That’s not even true; I’ve been to Canada. Being in England isn’t just being in a foreign country, although it is definitely that. I feel like there’s something special about the fact that this is my first trip out of North America. I am, for the first time, standing on a different continental plate; this trip is of tectonic significance to me.

It makes me think about how big this planet is, about how far and how fast we traveled, and with how little fuss. Watching the GPS display on the little screen at my seat, I had this image of our plane, suspended by the wind above the surface of the Earth, racing faster than the speed of the planet’s rotation to meet the sun, which was speeding around the other way.

(The little screen also drove home how far north England is. Our route basically followed the North American coast northeast, and then took a right at Greenland. This island is way up there, which is why the sun didn’t set until 9:30 today.)

But England is a different country. I’m sure I’ll have more to say about the experience of history here, of visiting the Old World from the New, but the first things I noticed were how similar-but-slightly-off everything is. I’ve often thought of Canada as being just like home, but rotated by about 5 degrees. England is the same, but make it 45. There are lots of little differences – of grammar, of culture, of accent – but what I started noticing first was that it was as if someone had set out to create a culture but turned the “whimsy” knob way up. (Example: I haven’t yet seen an exit sign. They all say instead: “Way Out.” But of course!)

I can now report, however, that the London Underground smells exactly like every other subway I’ve been on. The long ride from Hatten Court to Russell Square was hot and uncomfortable, but otherwise effortless. The suburban scenery that we passed was exactly what I expected: little row houses with cute little back gardens (with laundry! Hanging from lines!) and tiny cars parked out front.

Coincidentally, Gordon and Karen (at whose apartment we are staying) were also flying into London the same day from a week-long trip back home, and we actually arrived before them. We had very helpful walking directions, however, and found their place without difficulty. (I was very grateful for the “look left” and “look right” painted on every crosswalk, which may have saved us from being killed in traffic.) They live near Russell Square in a great little apartment (or should I say flat?) that’s welcoming and comfortable, but which makes me feel like I packed too big a suitcase.

We took a nap on their futon, and woke up when they arrived, looking insufferably well-rested and refreshed. They took us out for a picnic lunch in a private garden nearby, during which we feasted on surprisingly good pre-made sandwiches from the local Tesco’s. (Rachel and I shared the “Triple Chicken,” three half sandwiches in a cute little triangular box, with three different chicken salad variations. Yum!) After our picnic, we joined their friends Carl and Richard at an actual English pub (Carl: “Yeah, pretty much all English pubs are called ‘The Queen’s Head.’”) to watch the England-Ecuador World Cup match.

It may not be necessary to say this explicitly, as I am an American, but I know nothing and care nothing about soccer, or rather, football. But when in London… it would have been a cultural handicap not to have seen the game, so I went into it with an open mind. It turns out that, as with most sports, if you care who wins, the game is much more exciting. (Even I can find a baseball game boring if it’s between, say, the Royals and the Mariners.) Rachel drank her first beer ever while the other four explained the game to us and patiently answered our stupid questions.

I got pretty into it. I was proud of myself that a few times I was able to make the right noise (“Aw!” or “Nice!”) a split second before my tablemates. I learned enough to recognize that England made some amazing crosses (especially by Rooney) but just couldn’t capitalize on them. And I was pleased that the one player I’d heard of before scored the winning (and only) goal.

We left the exuberant pub and walked home to change for our evening activities, a night of improvisational comedy at the Comedy Store. Some of the Comedy Store players were known to us from the British version of “Whose Line is it Anyway?” and Rachel had seen the live show several times, so expectations were high. It was pretty funny. Josie Lawrence and Richard Vraunch cracked me up consistently, and the rest weren’t bad. The walk to and from Picadilly Circus was a great sight-seeing experience, although after getting 5 solid hours of sleep in the previous 36 hours, we were all too happy to collapse when we returned to Gordon and Karen’s, and planned a more restful next day: bus tour! Is there anything lamer or more touristy? How about lugging around two cameras? Aw, yeah.

I can’t remember the last time I started the day with a bath. I think I may never have started the day with a bath. I don’t think I’ve taken a bath, for hygiene purposes, since I was in elementary school.

When we checked into our bed and breakfast, we took a good look around the room: nice big bed, cute Victorian bric-a-brac all about, and a little bathroom with a toilet and a sink. And no shower. In the corner of the room, however, was a patch of tiled floor on which was standing a clawfoot tub, behind a decorative standing screen. “I think,” I said, “we have to take a bath.”

Rachel didn’t believe me. “There’s got to be a shower.” I raised my eyebrows and gestured to the bathroom.

“I guess you’re right!” she said. So, the next morning, we each took a bath. It was… odd. The screen provided only the barest amount of modesty, so it’s a good thing we’re, you know, married. And although the spigot included an attachment for washing one’s hair, it was still less convenient than a shower would have been.

After towelling off, we had a delicious breakfast of quiche (which ordinarily I don’t care for) with a mango-ginger-habanero sauce (which I very much care for). We were joined at breakfast by an attractive young couple with a very well behaved infant, and a father and daughter. The latter, 5 years old, was very cute, but was too shy to join us for breakfast and so ate in the kitchen, to the amusement of the innkeepers. (The aforementioned attractive young couple were from Seattle, and provided yet another data point for our theory that people from Seattle always talk about how miserable it is to live there. We believe it’s a plot to keep out the riff-raff.)

On our way out of Ferndale, we saw this sign for a point of historical interest. Is it just me, or should such a sign include just a smidge more information that might entice one to pull off and see it?

Then, it was driving. And driving. And driving. There really is just way too much California. The Redwood National Forest was, to be sure, lovely. A cheerful park ranger recommended that we take the parallel “officially scenic” drive, and it was tranquil and beautiful. About halfway along we found yet another scenic detour, this one labeled “coastal drive.” We pulled down the road, and were hailed by an SUV traveling the other way. It was a very nice older couple from Georgia who told us it was all fogged in, and wanted our opinion on whether we thought it would lift (our rental car had Oregon plates, so they mistakenly assumed we might have the slightest clue). Despite their warning that we wouldn’t be able to see anything, we decided to take the drive. Indeed, it was foggy. The ocean may well have been there, but we couldn’t see it.

The road itself was only mostly paved in parts, so it was kind of a rough drive. My favorite moment was when Rachel said, “Ooh, pull over for a sec, I want to take a picture of these trees with the neat silver leaves.” I slowed the car. “Oh, wait, no,” she said, “they’re not silver. They’re dusty.”

We did make several stops along the drive during the day for Rachel to do some “serious” photography. A lot of this involved her wandering down the road a ways while I sat with the car. I admit, I got a little bored during some of these stops, so, watching her walk down the road ahead of me, I started playing with the zoom on my camera and initiated a series of photographs I call “Pictures of My Wife’s Hot Ass.” (The title is a work in progress.)

Our trip would not have been possible without the GPS system that came with our rental car. We grew very fond of it, and started referring to it as “the lady in the box.” The lady really almost never steered us wrong. Sometimes we’d (intentionally or unintentionally) deviate from the route (for example, our scenic drives) and when we did, she’d admonish us to “please proceed to the highlighted route.” The problem with the GPS system is that when you’re in the woods, the satellite coverage is less than ideal, and sometimes the box wouldn’t quite know exactly where we were. While driving through the Redwood Forest, the little map on the display that showed where our car was tended to get confused. It started showing our car way off the road in the middle of a vast expanse of green or blue. Since we could tell we weren’t in the middle of the ocean, we got tired of being told to “proceed to the highlighted route,” and I reached over and turned it off. At that point, I really needed Rachel to say, “His computer’s off… Luke, you switched off your targeting computer, what’s wrong?” Then I could have squeaked, “Nothing! I’m all right!” Sadly, however, my wife has a tendency to fall asleep during Star Wars movies, so I think I’ll have to take a road trip with one of my male friends.

These entertaining incidents were then followed by hours and hours of uneventful driving up I-5 in Oregon, of which the less is said, the better (although we think we saw some sheep). We finally arrived in Portland (well, ok, Lake Oswego) where Rachel’s cousin Kim lives with her fiance Alex. Kim and Alex are wonderful people, and were great hosts, and their apartment (tastefully decorated, and overlooking a state park) was beautiful. We drove around Portland for a while trying to find a restaurant and ended up at a pretty tasty microbrewery. Rachel actually had a beer and claimed to like it.

Lively and wide-ranging conversation continued all the way home, where they took the futon so we could sleep in their bed, thereby setting a new standard for hospitality. To everyone who’s ever stayed at our house, I apologize. I didn’t even know that was done.

Wednesday we slept in, thank God. I think we both needed it. The plan was a day in the city which can be exhausting enough even without a time change and a rough day. On the drive in it occurred to me that the drive from Los Altos (where we were staying) to San Francisco is roughly equivalent to the drive from Providence to Boston, and we made the former trip without thinking twice. I think this means we should definitely get less lame about getting into Boston, since that drive doesn’t even have the super-creepy statue of Junipero Serra watching over the highway.

The first stop, I’m simultaneously proud and embarrassed to say, was the Apple store. This was equal parts shopping trip and pilgrimage. The store itself is gorgeous. The exterior echoes the aluminum look of the PowerBook I’m typing this on, and the interior is minimalist but very well laid out. They didn’t have, unfortunately, the item we went there for in the first place (I shall retell the Saga of the Bag at another time) but it was still a great deal of fun. I almost talked Rachel into buying a 12″ PowerBook for herself, and we almost impulse-bought a digital video camera. Damn that seductive retail environment!

Once we dragged ourselves away from the store, we went to meet Rachel’s cousin for lunch. (Rachel’s cousin’s name is also Rachel, so we tend to refer to her as “Cuzzie.” This is a nickname that I think she’s less fond of as she enters her late twenties.) Here, for the first time on the trip, the Hertz NeverLost GPS navigation system in our rental car let us down for the first time. We weaved haphazardly through the Presidio for longer than we’d have liked before Cuzzie talked us in. We did, however, get a neat picture of the fogged-in Golden Gate Bridge.

The three of us enjoyed a delicious organic lunch (free-roaming wheat!) at Cuzzie’s office. She works for an expedition travel company, which arranges tours to places I’m too chicken to go to. She’s spending three weeks in Bhutan in a month or so. I don’t even know that I could find Bhutan on a map. I’m impressed I can spell Bhutan.

After lunch, we checked out City Lights Bookstore which was, indeed, a great bookstore, although buying four books may have been a tactical error. Where did I think I was going to read them, in the car? And did I need more things to lug back home in our suitcase? And besides, I haven’t even bought much less started the next book for my book club. Stupid.

On our way out of San Francisco for the day, we got a call from my friend Rachel K., which means that not only did we get the Rachel trifecta for the day, but we also got to complete the “Matt’s Ex-girlfriend Tour” portion of the vacation. The two Rachels and I had a great time chatting at a little coffee place and then we headed back to Los Altos for dinner with the family.

After dinner, we played a couple of games of Pictionary with Rachel’s Aunt Terri, Uncle Donald, Cousin Ian, and his girlfriend Kelly. At Ian’s suggestion, we played a variation where we just made up our own clues to challenge each other. My shining moment was correctly guessing “For me to poop on!” while Ian was drawing. I rock.

Late that night, I finally heard from my college roommate Fred; we’d hoped to see them at some point on the trip (since they live in Santa Clara) but it turned out the only time was at around 11:30 at night. Rachel was pooped out, but I scooted down there to see them and their big ol’ house. Fred and Lisa seem not to have changed at all, which is rather comforting. It was great to see them and catch up on the last 3* years.

After that long day, and with the promise of a long one to come, bed was most welcome. Why are vacations so exhausting?

(*The original version of this piece claimed that it had been 5 years since I’d seen Fred and Lisa, not 3. We regret the error.)

Weather happens. It’s understandable, and there’s very little that can be done about it. Certainly, it’s not US Airways’s fault that a small typhoon parked itself over Philadelphia, but it’s hard not to feel surly about it anyway.

Our connection to San Francisco was a close one, and although we were assured getting on the plane that there would be no problem, I started to get worried when the time crept up on 4:10 and I saw the same farmhouse pass under the wing for about the third time. Sure enough, the captain got on the intercom and confirmed it: weather. The same storm that had delayed the plane getting into Providence in the first place was now making it impossible to land in Philly. We circled for a while, hoping, I guess, that it would clear, but then we were running out of fuel (which is never something you want to hear from the pilot) and so we had to divert to Allentown to refuel.

The only thing I know about Allentown is the Billy Joel song and, as it turns out, I only know the first two lines. I lost track of the number of times I turned to Rachel conversationally and said, “I hear they’re closing all the factories down.”

We sat on the suddenly stiflingly hot plane, and I did the world’s easiest crossword puzzle (Attaché magazine, August 2005). Finally, the crew took pity on us and said we’d be allowed to go into the terminal while they waited for the “ground stop” to be lifted on Philadelphia. (This means, apparently, that no plane bound for Philadelphia was allowed to take off so we knew that, while we were pretty thoroughly screwed, we were probably in very good company.) Whatever else might be said about living here in Allentown, the airport was clean, well air-conditioned, had really comfortable seats, and sold bottled water. If Lehigh Valley International Airport ever needs a testimonial, I’m their man.

I sat and ate a decent-for-an-airport salad while Rachel waited fruitlessly in line to talk to a gate agent. Finally the call went out to get back on our plane, and we did. We landed in Philadelphia at 7:00.

Our connection was now only a memory of a dream, so Rachel sprinted to a gate for the next flight to San Francisco, batted her eyelashes at the guy behind the counter, and got us on the flight. It was, we said to each other, the first break we’d gotten all day.

Then the captain came on the intercom. We would hear from the captain several times over the course of the evening, and every time he spoke he introduced himself using his full name:

“Folks, this is Captain Dan Roberts from the flight deck. At this point, we’re missing our first officer. We believe he’s in Baltimore, and as soon as he gets here, we’ll let you know and we’ll get underway.”

Not a good sign. After 45 minutes or so, they decide to let us off the plane. Not a good sign (but at least we got some dinner). Finally, after a seemingly interminable amount of time, the first officer arrives to applause. The lights go down. The TV screens angle down, and the safety video starts. Just as we’re learning not to inflate our life vests before leaving the plane, however, the video stops, the screens slide back up, and the lights come on.

“Folks, Captain Dan Roberts again, from the flight deck. I’m sorry about this folks, but this crew has been on duty since 11:00 this morning, and we’re no longer legal to fly you to San Francisco. Now, the good news is we’re not going to cancel the flight. There’s another crew here in the airport going to Tampa, and we’re going to swap with them. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

Nearly an hour later, the new crew was finally in place, and as we pulled back from the gate, we receive the day’s final piece of great news: there were 31 flights ahead of us to take off. That’s 31 US Airways flights; the captain didn’t know how many other planes were ahead of us. In the end, this flight that was supposed to leave at 7:30 took off at 11:45.

The main reason I was so unimpressed with US Airways during this whole experience is that their various crews seemed to take no public notice of the disaster unfolding around them. Had this been, say, a Southwest flight, the flight attendants would have said something other than the robotic “Welcome to Allentown.” “Welcome to Philadelphia.” “US Airways welcomes you to San Francisco, where the local time is 2:00 am.” Had this been Southwest, there would have been considerably more bonhomie from the crew, and a lot more camaraderie among the passengers.

It’s not that I own stock in Southwest Airlines or anything, I just know from experience that they would have offered everyone on the plane a free drink to compensate for the rough day. This flight, including the 4-hour delay on the ground, didn’t offer beverage service at all. No drinks. No peanuts. Not even any pillows or blankets. The final indignity? They were still charging people on the plane $5 for the headsets to watch the in-flight movie. That’s right, despite the weather and all the delays, US Airways was still charging its passengers money to watch Monster In-Law.