Dreaming in Technicolor (14 page)

Pushing my fantasies aside, I tried to focus on the in-flight movie instead. But after two burps, a couple of belches, and a few other bodily functions I refuse to go into—in what had been billed a romantic comedy—I yanked off my headset and watched our slow progress on the global positioning map in front of us. The tiny graphic plane on the TV screen showed we were now flying over Greenland.

Greenland. Iceland. That whole name thing is just wrong. They need to swap them. I mean, Iceland is the one that's all green and inhabited, and Greenland's basically ice and isolated. Right? At least that's what I remembered from geography—one of the few things I did remember. Whoever named them made a big mistake. Big.

But never mind. I'm on my way to England! Land of Shakespeare,
scones, and
Sense and Sensibility.

And Alex.

Now the little graphic plane showed us flying over the Atlantic Ocean.

On second thought, maybe I didn't want to watch. Instead, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and thought of England.

And Alex.

Going through customs at Heathrow, even casual, laid-back MJ got a little fluttery over the delicious accents all around us. I thought she was going to break into a little
Riverdance
when she heard a cluster of Irish nuns chattering away. And we both leaned closer when an older man in a kilt began to speak to his companion in a rich Scottish brogue.

“Shades of Sean Connery,” my friend whispered as we towed our bags toward the Heathrow Underground station. “I like it here already.”

“Oh my gosh, MJ. Look, there's Notting Hill Gate!” I pointed to the color-coded map of the London subway system on the station wall. “Wonder if Hugh Grant hangs around there much? And look, there's Piccadilly Circus and Westminster and . . .
Knightsbridge
!”

“What's at Knightsbridge?”

“Only the most famous and one of the most expensive department stores in the whole world.” I sighed with longing. “Harrods.” But my shopping lust was diverted by another stop on the map. “Charing Cross,” I whispered. “I forgot about Charing Cross.”

Mary Jo chuckled. “What's there? Another ritzy store?”

“No.” My voice took on a dreamy tone. “There was this wonderful little film from the late eighties with Anthony Hopkins and Anne Bancroft, called
84 Charing Cross Road
. All about this feisty New York bibliophile–that's Anne Bancroft—who was searching for a hard-to-find book and discovered that a London bookstore at 84 Charing Cross Road had a copy. So she began writing to Anthony Hopkins, the British bookseller.” I sighed. “They shared this wonderful twenty-year friendship across the miles, based on their mutual love of books.

But they never met.”

“Sounds like my kind of action-filled movie. Okay, Ms. Lost in Movieland, think we can exercise a little action ourselves and get this show on the road?”

I know the practical travel gurus say to bring only one small, rolling carry-on bag and a backpack, but this was my very first time in Europe and I was determined not to look like some ugly American. One small suitcase and a backpack simply hadn't cut it.

Especially since I was going to be seeing my Alex again soon.

I started having second thoughts, though, as we lugged all my bags down the labyrinthine tunnels and ramps to the Underground platform and then onto the car.

It was a good thing Mary Jo had followed the sage traveling advice. With her modest little roll-on in tow, she helped me lug my multiple bags into the nearest compartment. I sucked in my J.Lo derriere just in time as the heavy automatic doors sliced shut behind me. (Yes, I wanted to lose weight, but I knew there had to be a less painful way.)

Now I knew how sardines felt. Multicultural, indifferent sardines. No one spoke or looked around. Most people buried their noses in books or newspapers, while others gazed above our heads in rapt fascination at the ads or the tube map showing all the different lines.

And every time the train stopped and let people on and off, a cultured, disembodied English accent would intone over the speakers, “Mind the Gap.”

Mary Jo, in her Wrangler jeans and sweatshirt, stared at me. “They do Gap commercials on the Underground? That store must be really popular here.”

Two seats over from her, an acned teen with several piercings on his face sniggered. I noticed brief smiles from a couple of the more reserved passengers too, quickly hidden behind the ubiquitous newspaper.

Then I got it.
Mind the gap is like mind your step: don't fall when you
get on or off.
I glanced down at my Manolos and their skinny stiletto heels and realized they could be a means to my destruction if I wasn't careful.

At our stop I disembarked gingerly.

Once outside in the open air again, we shifted our luggage and began walking. And walking. And walking.

I don't care what Nancy Sinatra says.

These boots are definitely not made for walking.

[chapter eight]

Mind the Culture Gap

y
ou girls are young an 'ealthy, so we've put you on the fourth floor. All right, then?” The pasty-faced, dentally challenged hotel desk clerk had to be at least sixty, but he handled the stairs with the energy of someone much younger.

“Sounds great.” I didn't care what floor I stayed on. I was in
England
! And my beloved Alex was somewhere nearby. Under my breath, I began humming “Get Me to the Church on Time.”

By the third floor, though, I was singing a different tune.

Nigel, the clerk, had taken charge of my large rolling suitcase while I followed behind with my smaller case and my cumbersome carryall, which kept banging against the wall as we made our way up the narrow, crooked staircase.

Mary Jo was having her own difficulties. “What? The women don't have hips over here?” she muttered behind me. “How do they make it up these dinky steps? Haven't they ever heard of elevators?”

Nigel only heard her last comment. “We call 'em lifts here, luv, and sorry this old 'otel ain't got one. Good exercise though.” He turned and shot her a lascivious, buck-toothed grin. “'Elp you keep your girlish figger.”

At the next landing I stopped, but he didn't. “Wait a minute. I thought you said we were on the fourth floor?”

“That you are, luv. Just one more flight to go.”

“I know I'm bad at math,” I wheezed, “but even I can count to four—and we just passed the fourth floor.”

“Over 'ere
your first floor is our ground floor. The first floor is the next one up.”

Behind me, I heard MJ groan.

Finally we made it to the top—exactly fifty-nine steps. I'd counted.
This had better be a room with a view.
My inner Maggie Smith clicked in, complete with waspish wit and dead-on, English accent.

Nigel opened the door with a flourish. “Right, then, 'ere you are. Anything you need, just ask. We sell bottled water at the front desk and the odd bit of Cadbury's now and then if Mavis ain't nicked 'em all. Lovely girl, our Mavis. Bit of a sweet tooth, though.” He gave us a jaunty wave and bounded down the steps.

Slowly I surveyed the musty room. “Well, it's definitely not the Ritz. But then again, at these prices it wouldn't be.”

Every movie I'd ever seen with stately English manor homes or Cotswold country cottages showed pretty chintz and lots of lovely floral fabric. And even though the fabrics didn't match—which I liked; too boring otherwise—they at least had a unifying color or floral scheme to tie them all together.

Nothing like that here.

The carpet looked like it might have once been a thick hunter green with red cabbage roses scattered throughout, but it had been trod upon so many times over the years that it had lost all its cushion and faded to more of a grungy pea-soup color.

But it was the bedspreads that really caught my eye. Once black with probably vivid tropical flowers—nary a rose in the bunch—they were now more of a dirty gray with pale peach birds of paradise.

And did I mention they were polyester? And stained?

“I think I'll sleep in my clothes tonight,” I told my roommate.

“You're such a wuss.” Mary Jo dropped her backpack on the bed nearest the door. “Think of it as camping.” Her eyebrows beetled together. “Hey, check it out. The sink's in the bedroom. That's weird.”

I glanced over at the chipped, dingy sink and cloudy mirror in one corner of the tiny room. “Wonder why?”

Mary Jo opened the bathroom door. “Um, there's no shower.”

“Sure there is. My confirmation said ‘en suite,' and that means shower in the room.” I peered beyond her into the cramped bathroom. No wonder the sink was in the bedroom. There was no room for anything besides the toilet and the dingy blue bathtub. “There's the shower.” I pointed. “See, it's one of those handheld thingies attached to the tub faucet.”

My traveling companion eyed the narrow tub, then looked down at her not-so-narrow hips. “Great.”

“It'll be fine. Don't worry. Besides, we won't be in our room much—just to sleep. We'll be busy sightseeing the rest of the time. And look, I'll bet there's a great view way up here.” I hurried over to the ancient orange velour curtains and flung them open, coughing at the puffs of dust that filled the air.

And what a view it was. Oy. A lovely cityscape featuring the dirty rooftops of commercial buildings, enhanced by the encrusted grime on the window glass. But wait—what was that? I squinted at a majestic building off in the distance. Could it be Buckingham Palace maybe? Or the Tower of London?

My grumpiness disappeared in a New York minute. I looked at my watch. “It's only four twenty.” I grabbed my purse and travel journal. “We can unpack later. Let's go exploring!”

We'd decided to play our whole trip by ear. No tours for us. I was a journalist, after all. My job depended upon my ability to explore brave new worlds, search out hard-to-find information, and go where no Barley girl had ever gone before.

“Oh my gosh, Mary Jo,” I said. (I kept forgetting to call her MJ). “I think that's Buckingham Palace!”

And no, it wasn't what I'd seen through the window. That had turned out to be just another hotel, albeit a much grander and more expensive one than our meager lodgings.

But this—it certainly looked like the real thing.

We'd taken the tube to Victoria Station—a stop whose name I recognized from countless movies—and begun wandering through the city, passing by countless shops and pubs, restaurants, and yes, Starbucks
.
They were everywhere, just like in Cleveland. But then we'd turned a corner and found ourselves face-to-face with an imposing building surrounded by high iron fencing.

Could that really be where the queen lives? Right here in the middle of
everything?

I'd always figured it would be off somewhere all by itself and totally inaccessible. The inaccessible part was right; the tall gates were locked, and I thought I saw guards in the distance, closer to the building. But in front of the main locked gate stood a majestic statue of Queen Victoria seated on the throne with a gold angel—we're talking major gold here—above her.

Amazing.

MJ looked up. “It must be the palace,” she said. “The sign says Buckingham Palace Road.” Unlike Lindsey, my Barley best friend isn't usually a squealer. But she looked across at the famous palace, then at me, and we both squealed in tandem, and then pulled out our cameras.

“Look. The flag's flying. That means the Queen's in.” I shook my head. “To think that the sovereign of England is this close—maybe playing with her Corgis or having tea with her son.” I gave MJ a telling look. “Or maybe even her hottie grandsons.”

She sighed. “That William is sure yummy looking. Too bad he's so young.”

We set out to explore the neighborhood, meandering through green parks and streets with such la-di-dah names as Grosvenor Place and Belgrave Square. Passing the beautiful white-fronted rows of upscale homes with striking doors in rich jewel colors—emerald green, ruby red, sapphire blue, and gleaming onyx, usually flanked by hanging baskets of flowers—I started to feel all Gwyneth Paltrow-ish—minus the thin thighs, rocker husband, and produce-named daughter.