High Tea in England

My obsession with High Tea started years ago in Walt Disney World, at the Grand Floridian Hotel. Despite wariness of my mother and aunt's ploys to "refine" me and my cousins, I wound up enchanted by the miniature tea sandwiches and their crustless perfection, the exotic tea flavors like Chocolate Mint and Raspberry Dream, the individual cozies for your individual pot of tea. 

Mostly, though, I fell in love with the cucumber sandwiches and devonshire cream.

Tea became a must-do activity at Disney World after that, and I expanded to Japanese Tea Ceremonies and Afternoon Tea in Pennsylvania with my Grandmom. When our plans for Europe began to solidify, I knew it was time to realize the obsession: I wanted to have High Tea in England.

After seeing the Rosetta Stone, Big Ben, the Crown Jewels and Parliament, having High Tea sounds lackluster, but for all the import and historical relevance of the former, it was the latter that made my day, that had me grinning ear to ear and smiling like a fool for an hour straight.

In the theory of games and play, intrinsic motivation - motivation that comes from within oneself as opposed to forced from outside factors - is one of the defining qualities of a play experience. Activities that are intrinsic are the most enjoyable, the most rewarding and fulfilling, the ones we crave and will go back to and mourn as adults when we lose, even if we can't quite place it. Through that lens, it's no wonder. The whole world could tell me that the Parliament building was an amazing thing, but I was the one who wanted High Tea. It was personal, meaningful. That was amazing. 

And amazing, too, to sit through it and know the whole time that it was actually happening, that it was a nexus of thought I'd return to time and again for the rest of my life, remembering those few present moments. The tea sandwiches and scones, the champagne jello, the Earl Gray Tea (picked for Captain Picard and the word 'Citrine' in its flowery description). I scoured all the details I could, wondering at which ones would last: the way the arm of Hanna's chair was worn bare from use, the pink fu dog on the lamp by the table, the patterns in the glass windows like a geometric infinity design, the statue of a samurai warrior with a white man painted on its stomach, the raw, lumpy sugars in white and brown and the disappointing straws of splenda tucked into the side of the bowl with its tongs that were all but impossible to close...

I know I was at Big Ben, but I won't remember being there. I'll remember being at Cadogan's Hotel, in the Chelsea District, for afternoon tea. I'll remember all the little details. I'll smile.

Mind the Gap

So after spending a week in Britain one does get to notice the differences. Cars driving on the other side takes some getting used to. The impulse to jerk your head warily in the wrong direction is astounding, like it’s all been a joke and this time the car will come from the other direction. Fortunately, in London at least, many of the main streets had useful notes saying “<--look left” or “look right -->” painted onto the asphalt. I wish I could say that after a day or two we no longer needed these, but they continued to be a relief and I miss them in Scotland.

During the intermission of “Warhorse” (a very cool show with massive horse puppets) the snack of choice was ice cream. Now certainly some American theater snacks are messy, but I would dare to say that other than sitting on your chocolate bar so that it melts none is as hazardous as melted ice cream. It was vaguely wonderful to see the older gentleman next to us delicately eating a tiny ice cream with a small spoon.

And lemonade is carbonated.

Now onto language – starting with “concession” which in American theaters makes me think of food and here refers to an elderly person. One can buy concession tickets rather than have a senior discount. “What’s on” is the phrase for events at a certain venue, and “take away” means “carry out” or “to go”.

Our host in the first hostel explained that Oxford St. was where we should go if we needed the “bits and bobs” and he was amused by Chelsea and my insistence on taking multivitamins (third syllable pronounced as in “it” rather than “ite”).

“To let” meaning “to lease” or “rent” gave Chelsea some pause and I have been grateful to my BritComs. They have been useful.

And of course there is the ever popular “mind the gap”, dutifully repeated by the many mechanical voices of the underground and train systems. I will also admit that hearing a very proper and refined woman’s voice inform us that the Piccadilly line terminates at Cockfosters nearly made me giggle at every stop.

As I find/remember more we might get a “Mind the Gap II” but that’s it for now.

Cheers, man.

Tower

So today we spent our morning at the Tower of London.

Now this is tricky. The Tower is a major historical site, a huge tourist trap, a checkmark on the superficial list of must sees in London. It has guards in red coats and black hats who march five paces in each direction in front of a little wooden structure about the size of a telephone booth with absolutely nothing in it. People take pictures of their children smiling in front of these guards.

And yet. It is the Tower.

We walked through rooms where prisoners had carved their names into the stone, a man who was part of the Gunpowder Plot. Some carved symbols of faith. One carved an astronomical chart. Towers and rooms were marked to show which monarch constructed them, right back to William the Conqueror. Traitor’s gate still rests in shallow water, and the ravens prance and cackle. And the jewels. You can’t forget the jewels.

And in the end, no amount of Henry VIII collectible dolls, no amount of fellow tourists exclaiming “It’s a unicorn!” in derision and disbelief, can really destroy the power that lives in that place.

The reason that I wanted to see the Tower was Lady Jane Grey.

For those of you who haven’t heard me babble about Jane Grey, she was Queen of England for nine days between Edward VI and Mary Tudor. She was seventeen when she was crowned, deposed and beheaded. And she was imprisoned and beheaded in the Tower.

It is not strange to encounter a historical figure who enchants you, and Jane Grey has always been one of mine. I’m not remotely alone in that. If you want a dramatized version there is a movie called “Lady Jane” with Helena Bohnam Carter and Cary Elwes which I adore and my family is sick of. Or you can read her letters.

One in particular. A letter to Thomas Hardy, written in the Tower, extolling him not to break with his faith, with Protestantism, for the sake of his immortal soul. It is beautifully written. And it was written when a conversion to Catholicism would probably have saved her own life.

At the Tower is a monument, two glass circles with the names of those given the honor of an execution within the Tower grounds. It is an unremarkable space, a field off a walkway, the walls are far away and it is open to the sky. Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard are there, and Countess Rochford who was Anne Boleyn’s sister-in-law and survived that queen only to be taken down in Katherine Howard’s fall.

And there is Jane Grey, the nine days queen.

I heard someone remark that it was too modern an object, out of place with the rest of the Tower.

Perhaps. But we are out of place, voyeurs who half understand what we are seeing. We don’t have time to really know this place, we who have a morning to spend glimpsing the behemoth that is history. I stood over Jane Grey’s name and mourned for her a little. Because I think she was brave. Because seventeen is too young. Because there was a person who walked from the Tower to this patch of ground and who, blind-folded, could not find the block.

That’s it really. I went looking for that moment and I found it, created it maybe. But I think that is what you have to do. It’s easy to forget the human beings involved in light of little paper dolls demonstrating how the rack worked.



“The soul takes flight into the world which is invisible, and there arriving she is sure of bliss and forever dwells in paradise.” – Plato, translated by Jane Grey for John Feckenham, who, bless him, wrote it down.

Morning Stroll to the Tower of London

Outside Buckingham Palace

Morning Sun & Statues

Lions Looking Down from the Tower of London

Doorways to Torture

Relic and Ritual

Castle Glare

And that's when my camera battery gave out.

Two Days of Necessaries

There is little more satisfying than, having searched and backtracked the same three blocks for a half hour, finally finding the road you were looking for.

There are a few things in London you simply must do, so we decided to do those first.

The Eye of London, Giantest Ferris Wheel (Hanna for Comparison)

That building that V exploded to the tune of 1812 (Also a clock)

Yeah, that clock.

Very pleased these are still around.

The carvings over the doors of Westminster Abbey

Going into the Tubes

The British Museum, Hanna, and the Lonely Lamb

The Rosetta Stone

The Tower Bridge feat. Hanna, Michelle & Toothless

and a horse.

Unfortunately, most of the obligatory location photos are not brilliant, but rest assured there are more on the way. May the horse be a small previous of what's to come.

Of Planes and Sleep Dep

Once upon a time, twenty-four hours ago, Chelsea and I arrived at Cleveland Hopkins International Airport. We got there two hours early. Our plane arrived forty-five minutes late.

Upon realizing the imminent problem of this situation, Chelsea pointed out to the lovely flight attendant that we would miss our flight to London and that this would be infinitely sad. And so the attendant, as a back up, reserved seats for us on a different flight, this one to Amsterdam. Amsterdam and London, close enough, right? At least we would get across the Atlantic on the right day.

However Detroit had other ideas. As we descended into that city, we realized that our flight to London should already have left and even the plane to Amsterdam might be tricky to get to on time.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Detroit airport, it is divided into two terminals: concourse A and concourses B and C. International flights leave from A. Domestic ones come in to B or C. The only way across from one to another is a tunnel. Now this is a lovely tunnel, its walls glow with rainbows, a soft soothing music emanates from its shimmering ambiance. It is an attractive, if strange and out of place, bit of architecture. It is less appealing when you have run all of concourse B and are preparing to do the same with as much of concourse A as is necessary.

Chelsea, bless her heart, but slowed momentarily. I worried that I had allowed myself to get horribly out of shape and would now have to catch up to her athleticism. I was soothed to discover that she was merely more stubborn with better hunting instincts and visualization. We collapsed together with mutual panting, shortness of breath and winded pain on a plane bound for Amsterdam.

Now one thing about planes, particularly those that cross oceans: If you have watched any of the series LOST, you try desperately not to think of it as you fly. It can be a quiet inner struggle, something put aside as you snooze and half-watch Avatar, but when a monstrous burst of turbulence hits, that image of Jack Sheppard opening his eyes on an island to the sound of screaming comes back with a gut wrenching jolt.

We had some of the worst turbulence I have ever felt, bouncing us around inside our flying metal canister for a little over half an hour. The plane did not break in half, which is awesome. That however, combined with a boisterous family of loud blonde Dutch children, apparently of the mistaken opinion that rest is for the weak, lead to very little sleep.

Our connecting flight left us briefly in the land of orange, clogs and tulips before dumping us into

London which welcomed us with grey skies and drizzle. Highly appropriate.

The long and the short is that we made it here, and I am certain it will be funnier in the morning. Sleep well all.

The Lonely Lamb

Every traveler needs a companion, and what more suitable than my own FV lonely lamb to follow around the European continent?

My partner in crime, Hanna, and I scoured the various Hudson shops searching for the classic member of the Illustrious Flock: black faced, white wooled, with skinny black legs. After several hours and terrifying encounters with talking lambs, lamb puppets, and build-a-bear style lambs, we were about to give up when we found an all white Webkinz lamb...

Not exactly the FarmVille style...

Well, we thought, we can be resourceful.