England and Scotland for Dad's 70th
Day 7 - Wednesday - England
Last official day in London!
And again, it's sunny and bright.
Today we decide to make a running bolt for St.
Paul's, Madame
Toussaud's wax museum, and the R.A.F. museum out in Colindale (or
Colinwood, but I think I'm mixing that up with Dark Shadows), which
requires a 40 minute train ride out of town, but they're open until 6.
I wake up before anyone and sneak into the bathroom
for a quick bath
and shampoo, followed by shower nozzle rinse and dry with groovy black
towels Francesca laid out for me (she knows me so well).
Francesca's got a dreaded dentist appointment, so she gets to sleep in
a little and spend some time with us over breakfast. We chat
about local politics, one thing or another. What's the deal with
a footballer and a Spice Girl? I ask her. Victoria, she replies,
they're engaged, but I don't know sports. Then Francesca leaves
and reappears with a box of mints for me she brought me from one of her
meetings, marked with an insignia and the name "City of London
Club." She said she thought I might like that. Tonight, she
has to attend some sort of reception she's too tired to think about.
Dad and I go to Christopher Wren's greatest
achievement, St. Paul's
(featured in the Mary Poppins'
song, "Feed the Birds," you know).
I attempt some useless pictures of Dad in front of the cathedral (it's
too big and the best I can do is some columns behind Dad), and snap a
couple of pics for some American tourists. Then I see the
ultimate cool sign "The Crypt Cafe" announcing where one may procure
coffee once inside the cathedral, so Dad took a picture of me with
that. We go in and look around -- I love this cathedral more than
Westminster. It's quiet and calmer, totally churchy, no royal
banners or seats, no rude church tour guides snobbily pushing you
around. We visit the memorial for American Soldiers during the
Second World War, then down to the crypt (!!!) to see the little chapel
and grave of Wren and huge tomb of Horatio Nelson. Dad comments
on how bright and cheery it is (sincerely - it's all basically white
marble and well lit). The gift shop is our final stop before
going outside for more pictures (some better ones with Dad and the
cathedral dome behind him, and one of him with the John Wesley statue,
since we're Methodist), and we bolt for the train station.
Off to Madame Toussaud's!
When we arrive at Baker Street station, Dad points
at the wall tiles
with Sherlock Holmes' silhouette. I tell him that those and a
plaque on the bank where 221-B Baker Street rests is the only
acknowledgment of Sherlock Holmes here (I searched it out during my
first visit to London, since Dad's a big Sherlock Holmes fan).
Then we step out of the station and Dad says "Look!" and we practically
run into the deerstalker-lidded man himself, handing out cards for the
new Sherlock Holmes Museum. So I take a picture of them shaking
hands with Dad (!), and it's off to Madame Toussaud's!
Where there are approximately 100 million French
school children
storming the place. We cash in the last of our travelers checks
and beg advice from the Thomas Cooke lady on the entry to Madame
Toussaud's. She recommends going into the lineless Planetarium
for a combo ticket, watching the air-conditioned 30 minute show and
then walking right into Madame Toussaud's. Brilliant and
done!
We buy our tickets (one adult and one concessions, I
say, since that's
what they've been calling Dad's retired ticket all along -- the
salesman says, "What do you mean concessions? Retired?"), and
watch
the show. A nice star and space show, except they're playing
Dances With Wolves music
(going for a new frontier theme?) and while
we're watching all kinds of space travel to other planets, I'm
picturing Kevin Costner and Indians out in the western plains.
Into Madame Toussaud's, where I snap a picture of
Dad being interviewed
by Oprah, and Dad gets a picture of me with the circa-'63 Beatles, and
we view all the other wax figures from Tom Thumb to the Royal Family
(Princess Diana off to her own corner). We also go through the
icky Chamber of Horrors (I never enjoyed that -- too icky for me!), the
escape carnival ride, and the gift shop, which I was going to by-pass
(we're on a schedule!), but then I saw the Chamber of Horrors
strawberry preserves and I had to hold the jar before reluctantly
leaving it.
We wander back to Baker Street to check out the
Sherlock Holmes
museum. I take a picture of Dad by the real plaque of 221-B Baker
Street and we by-pass the museum a few doors down (both agreeing that
Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character -- what could they possibly
have in the museum that was real?). We had lunch at a pub where a
very nice bartender took care of us (ham and cheese open face
sandwiches and water -- "Would you like ice and lemon in that water?"
Yes! Thank you!).
Onto the nightmare of dealing with train-changing to
get to
Colindale. It's a 40-minute trip once we get on the right
Northern line train (there are three different destinations), and it's
all ready 3 o'clock. Now we've just got to get to the
Northern line station.
"Abandon hope all ye who enter here" belonged more
on the sign leading
into the Baker Street station than on Madame Toussaud's Chamber of
Horrors. First, the gate won't accept our all-day tickets (which
involves standing in a couple of lines looking for direction before
we're let in -- their gates are down). Then I make the fatal
mistake of choosing the Metro line to take us to the Northern line
station, my eyes blocking from view the Circle line which I know well
and is completely dependable, and we get on a Metro line train.
But it's going in the wrong direction, according to a rider, and we get
off and get on another train where a rider tells us it, too, is
wrong. So we're given directions to yet another platform, get on
the train and realize, as it's pulling away, it's the same train we
just got off of (we couldn't see because of some wall and steps and got
turned around). So we
ride f-o-r-e-v-e-r to the next station and get on the train heading
back to Baker Street station. We assume we're safe in the train,
and wait out the "10 minutes before departing" announcement (I'm
concerned about the time, wondering if we should get a Circle train
instead, we decide to wait it out, we're here, it's fine). 10
minutes later the train leaves, heading back to the station we just
left! (It terminated at Baker Street!). Another
f-o-r-e-v-e-r ride and return, and I announce we're getting off this
stupid platform and catching a Circle line! At last we catch the
Northern line (4 p.m.!) -- which offers no problem whatsoever in
getting
the right train -- and we arrive in Colindale. Yea!!!
We walk several blocks from the train station to the
museum, which is a
couple of big hangars filled with 75 different planes (Dad kept saying
"Wow! They've got a lot of 'em!"). We sought out the
Sopwith Camel (Snoopy the WWI flying ace's plane, y'know), the Mosquito
and Dad's special target, the Spitfire (he's never seen one in
person). So I took some pictures of him with the Spitfire, we
walked through some more exhibits, and it was time to leave, this time
catching a bus to the train station (our all-day travel ticket covering
the cost of the bus -- best transportation system in the world!).
On the way back, we decided to stop at Euston
station and check it out,
since it's where our Edinburgh train would be leaving in the morning
and we wanted to know how far we would have to carry luggage from
Underground train to BritRail train. No sooner do we step off our
train than a big announcement comes through the speakers asking "All
customers please leave the station immediately." So we have to
evacuate (a bomb threat, I'm fearing, but it's just a little fire in
one of the cars -- our train system is cursed today!), but we're sent
out in the direction of the BritRail station, so we get our answer and
walk down the block to another train station, passing fire trucks (all
the English sirens have acquired the eeeeeeEEEEEEEEEE American sound
and lost the cool E-e-E-e-E-e European siren sound -- I'm bummed).
We have cereal for dinner and a delightful Penguin
cookie for
dessert. Dad reads his joke from his Penguin cookie wrapper
"What's black and white, black and white, black and white? A
penguin rolling downhill," and I laugh and laugh.
Francesca walks in exhausted from her reception
(tonight's at The House
of Commons, tomorrow night's at The House of Lords -- which she
describes as 70-year old men hitting on her all night). She
steams some broccoli, throws in pasta and sour cream, tops it with
fresh tomatoes and Parmesan cheese and sits down minutes later to an
amazing meal.
Dad and I pack for Stratford and Scotland (what to
leave in London,
what to take), Francesca sits and eats, and we all chat. Then a
huge really cool lightening and rain storm comes crashing in through
the windows, and I'm really impressed. Francesca tells me I'm
very very bad, and we trade stories on getting stuck in houses without
power.
Bed.
England and
Scotland for Dad's 70th
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