My anxiety thrust me into hyper-preparation mode. It was literally all I thought about from the moment my travel documents arrived three weeks prior to departure. On numerous nights, I woke at 2 or 3 a.m. and stewed about all the possible difficulties I could encounter. But, it kicked me into high gear, too. I cut 3x5 note cards in half and wrote important information on each small card - things like the address of each hotel, alternate transportation modes should the transfer arrangements I paid for fall through, places I'd like to visit and how to get there, and emergency numbers should my money or documents be stolen (truly, my greatest fear for Rome since a blogging friend of mine was robbed during her visit to Rome in the past year).
I had hoped to leave my van in my brother's driveway during my trip and have him drive me to Chicago's O'Hare airport for my flight, but they were on vacation. Thankfully, I found alternate arrangements that worked out better anyway because they eliminated my need to put someone else out on my behalf. I discovered the benefits of the Park, Fly, Sleep option at several hotels near O'Hare. The hotel provides free shuttle service to and from the airport.
When I began to make necessary calls to alert phone and financial companies to my future movements, I hit snag after snag. I have a simple phone through Virgin Mobile and I was told it wouldn't work in Europe. We looked into renting or purchasing an International phone, but this would ring up another $100-$150 and frankly, the reviews didn't sound all that favorable. Thus, in desperation, we convinced Trevor to trade phones with me for the duration of my trip (an immensely gracious act for a teen). This allowed me to FaceTime Sean three times during the trip and it set his heart at ease being able to see me while I was so far away.
Next, I contacted my credit card company to find I needed a pin number, which would take ten days to arrive (it came in time, shwew). Upon alerting my bank, I was told my debit card wouldn't work overseas due to recent global fraud situations. They suggested I put money on a travel card.
Sadly, as soon as I landed in London and attempted to use the said travel card, it was denied. Great! When I called the number to ask why it was denied, I was told records indicated I had used the card in two different countries within thirty minutes. "How is that even possible?" I asked. I had, indeed, used the card a few days before the trip because I wanted to be sure the card worked. But how could I have used it in the U.S. and, within a half hour, the U.K.? Ridiculous! Yet, my second attempt at an ATM in London yielded the same denial. Groan. My husband wasn't exactly thrilled with the international transaction fees I was racking up on my credit card, the only source of money that worked for me.
After waiting fifteen minutes, staring at placards with every name but my own, I finally found the transfer and we waited for a second party to arrive and share the car. Within minutes of meeting this couple, my heart felt at ease. They were on the same Groupon tour that I had booked and would be spending two days in London, two days in Paris, and two in Rome. We even had the same exact arrangements for our Eurostar Chunnel experience and our Paris-to-Rome flight.
We settled in at the hotel in Islington (a small area of London to the north, within a fifteen minute walk of King's Cross station and St. Pancras station - our departure point for the Eurostar train), Linda and Richard headed off to Cambridge to visit Linda's grandson and I set off on foot for the Harry Potter shop at King's Cross. I didn't wish to wait in the line for a photo of myself, and I couldn't get too close to the image of the shopping cart plowing through the wall at 9-3/4:
The shop was packed. Even though there were plenty of interesting things to purchase, from the very expensive clothing and wands right down to cheap little house badges and pencils, I couldn't decide what my Harry Potter-loving son would want. So, I left with nothing.
My biggest complaint about my two days in London is that I didn't make wise use of my time. After leaving King's Cross, I wanted to make my way to Postman's Park near St. Paul's Cathedral. I could tell from the map what bus to take, but when I boarded it, I was told I had to go into the Tube station to purchase an Oyster card. I wrongly assumed that they were purchased on a daily increment basis. I decided to wait and purchase the card the following day and simply walk to Postman's Park. However, after walking in the proper direction for twenty minutes, I began to worry that it would be too dark when it came time to walk back home, so I turned around and headed back to the hotel before the dark set in.
What drew me to Postman's Park, you ask? Well, when I attended Wheaton-in-England in 1985, I happened upon a memorial to honor heroic self-sacrifice. A wall in the park is covered with plaques listing the names and sacrificial actions of various individuals from the 19th century. As much as I wanted to visit this uncommon spot again, I consoled myself with the knowledge that I had already done that years ago. It was just as well that I returned in the early evening, because by then the jet lag was dragging me down and I might have fallen asleep on my feet if I had kept walking.
The following morning, after enjoying a sumptuous breakfast buffet at the hotel (the best buffet I've ever encountered), I sought out the nearest HSBC bank. I wasted an entire hour waiting in a queue to see someone in the hopes of determining whether monies I left in an account at that bank back in the 80's might still be available. My name had changed and I'd lost the paperwork. I knew it was a long shot, so I'm not sure why I wasted that valuable time only to learn that the account was probably dissolved due to dormancy. From there, I went to a Thomas Cook to exchange some pounds for euros (I needed to be able to pay the taxi driver immediately upon arrival in Paris). I attempted to try my travel card again and in their machine, both my cards (travel & credit) were denied - not a good sign. Could I survive the rest of the trip on the 100 pounds I had taken out at the airport?
When Linda, Richard and I headed off to visit the London Eye (to use the voucher I had paid for with my trip package), we decided that rather than burying ourselves in the underground, we'd prefer to see the city from atop a double-decker bus while we made our way.
This, too, proved to be a mistake. The bus stopped repeatedly and even sat in Euston Station for almost ten minutes.
By the time we reached the Eye, it was already 1 p.m. and I only had time to exchange my voucher for a ticket before I had to dash off in a taxi to find 1 St. Giles High Street.
In the weeks leading up to my trip, I had googled "hidden London" and found a free 3-hour museum walking tour. You can't beat free, right? So, I signed up for the 2-5 p.m. tour. The information indicated we would visit six different museums and gain access to each. The museum I was most interested in visiting was The Dickens House Museum. Once again, this was a mistake. The majority of the time was spent at a brisk walking pace, covering 2.5 miles along the "Museum Mile." At each museum, we did go inside and hear a ten-minute explanation of one artifact on display, but the majority of the time was spent walking and when the guide outlined the hours of entry for future reference, it really did me little good.
Because the London Eye closes at 6 p.m., I had to forfeit the final museum, which, true to my luck, turned out to be the Dickens Museum. Again, I consoled myself with the knowledge that I had already visited it back in my college days. I dashed off on the Tube and arrived at the Eye by 5:15, in plenty of time to make the ride. Alas, by this point, it was already dark. Still, it made for some interesting photos:
I probably didn't have anything to fear in traversing the Tube back to the hotel after dark, but it still made my heart pound a bit. I stopped off at a fish and chips shop down the street from the hotel thinking, since this was their specialty, it would taste good. Not so! I couldn't even eat much more than what you see in the photo:
Somewhere in London there's a decent fish and chips shop waiting for me to try, but it will have to happen on another trip.
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