Back in Blighty

After a hellish drive (how about 6.5 hours instead of 4? How about repeated construction delays? How about insane NJ drivers going 80mph and changing lanes like Danica Patrick?), We arrived in Newark and began the process of removing our shoulders from our earlobes.

Dinner? Well, we planned on driving over, havinng dinner at the airport, then wandering about in a leisurely manner before convincing the lovely young lady behind the Virgin Atlantic desk to give us a nice pair of first-class seats, gratis.

But no. Thanks to traffic, we arrived late enough to worry about timing. So we went straight into the secured terminal. There, we chose among: a repulsively seedy bar/restaurant, aged sandwiches in a cooler, and candy at the dirtiest magazine shop I've ever seen. Grrr...Newark.

Of course, I see my mistake. I told Mother, on Saturday night, "Newark used to be a dump, but now it's nice!" MIS-Taaaa-aaaaake. Turns out that the arrivals area from the international terminal is nice, but when you're heading out of NJ, it's more like "don't let the door hit you..."

So, one bag of Combos and some Jordan Almonds later, having read enough about Nicole Richie's pregnancy and Stars: They're Just Like Us! to feel American again, we finally boarded our crowded plane, took our tiny economy seats, and settled in.

And now, a word for my new best friend. The woman who has taken my heart and made it her own. Her name? unknown. But she's a princess. How do I know this? She moved across the aisle, in flagrant defiance of the flight attendants, before the flight began. This left Charles and me with an empty seat between us. I gave her my blanket and would have given her much more. Wherever you are, Miss, I hope you win the lottery. Also, your jean jacket is totally cute.

The flight proved uneventful, and catching the bus to Oxford was the easiest thing ever. We rode back to town in a haze, just biding time until we could lay down our heads on the pillow.

So here we are, six hours of jet-lagged sleep later, one trip to Tesco accomplished, with the first cup of British tea with British milk (excellent!) sitting here on the table. Delish, and so, so welcome.

Syracuse?

Um....

Observed on a church billboard near Sylvan Beach: "Afraid of Burning? Try some Son Screen"

And that's all I have to say about that.

Been There, Done That, Time To Do It In Reverse

So, we arrived in Newark, negotiated customs, found the car rental and car, drove for 4.5 hours to East Syracuse and finally got to bed about something like 6 am GMT, making an almost 24 hour day to get to the wedding here in NY.

Friday: slept late, lunch, necessary shopping for things needed for the wedding like socks and razors, rehearsal (another hour drive, thank you very much), rehearsal dinner, drive back to East Syracuse, and bed. Luckily, we did locate Starbucks. (Only travel in England can make US prices at Starbucks seem cheap.)

Today: breakfast at hotel, pick up the groom, drive to church (another hour in the car - can you say, "Good times?" I thought so), wait for an hour for wedding to start (groom needed to be there an hour early, naturally), 37 minute ceremony (not that I was timing it or anything, but a tuxedo is a bit warm at the best of times), receiving line, photos, drive back to hotel (another hour, with stop for coffee at Starbucks, thank you very much), some more photos, reception, return from reception to hotel via drug store, post to blog.

Along the way, of course, we had nice visits with nice people.

Tomorrow, we can look forward to the reverse trip from Thursday: East Syracuse to Newark (4.5 hours), anxious queueing at the airport (.5 to infinite hours, but we've budgeted at least 3), flight back to London (7.5 hours, give or take), more customs (Yay!), baggage claim, bus to Oxford (2 hours), walk home (10 minutes).

Now, I'm not trying to be funny here, I'm just being honest, I'm not bovvered, I'm not, really, I'm not bovvered.

Heathrow

So far, so good. Bus to Heathrow worked well and was the nicest bus so far. The line for tickets and giving up our luggage to fate was so short as to be non-existent. Security was a moderately confusing but quick moving set of separate inspections. First bags and metal detector, then a separate shoe x-ray. Quick, though.

Then into a Vegas style mall area with high end vendors and run of the mill, but nice enough, restaurants and many seating areas. We had a pub lunch/breakfast complete with magner's cider.

Then about an hour or an hour and a half of waiting for our gate to be announced. Up until just over an hour before departure they don't even tell you the gate number and the mall area is a 10 minute walk from the gates.

This made sense once we arrived at the gate area because there is yet more security but no facilities.

And now, the flight.

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Captions, captions everywhere

I added captions to the photos below. So go back and look again.

And to add another fun bit. In the Metro, the doors have a little sticker. It says something like, "Don't put your hands on the door, or you risk a good hard pinch." Translated into English, this comes out, "Avoid putting your hands on the door." How boring.

Somehow, we find ourselves without a picture of little Sophie, Brian and Dominique's smallest daughter. It's too bad, because she's ridiculously cute. My mother would be particularly fond of her, since I only saw her once wearing any color other than pink or purple.

Things I looked at in France

We had great hosts and saw more cool stuff than we could photograph.

Below, the kitchens at Fontevraud. They date from the 11th century, I think. The chimneys around the edges show where fireplaces sat on the outside of this round room, so you could cook over many fires at once.


Outside of the Abbey of Fontevraud:


Gargoyles at Fontevraud, on the kitchen building:






More recent buildings, mostly 15th and 16th century. The Abbey began as a refuge for abused women, a place of worship, and a retreat for the family of the Counts of Anjou. The Abbey contained both nuns and monks (and people just visiting), but was always governed by an Abbess, which was rare for its time.




Below, the gardens of the Abbey. They are flower gardens, food gardens, and medicinal gardens, all laid out in lovely French precision.


Looking upward into the chimneys of the kitchen building. There are multiple chimneys.


Below, the inside courtyard of the more recent part of the Abbey.


In the room where they ate, the walls have eyes.


Imagine eating here. In silence. Or with someone reading the Bible in Latin.


Fontevraud had an exhibit which tried to link the history of medieval France to the fantastical imagination of the present and the past. So they put up images of unicorns, Robin Hood, etc., alongside descriptions of the reality. A favorite translation? From "C'est bon? C'est mal?" into English: "Was he a goody or a baddy?"



Knight in Armor, Armor...Darth Vader. Umm...ok.


The back of the Abbey church:


Inside the Abbey church:


King Richard of England (Richard the Lionhearted), laying next to Isabella of Angouleme. She was married to John, Richard's loser brother. John stole her from Hugh Lusignan, to whom she was engaged, and whom she married after John died. Meanwhile, the French managed to smack John around (reportedly while he was lazing about in bed with his new wife, enjoying connubial bliss until noon) and take almost all of the land the Plantagenet dynasty held in France. The French remain proud of this. The proof is that throughout the Abbey, whenever John appears (and he comes up often) he is identified as John Lackland. Nice.


At Richard's head lie the bodies of his parents, Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry II of England. Henry is the same king who inadvertently ordered the death of Thomas a Becket, now Saint Thomas. And let that be a lesson to all of you. You go around shouting things like, "Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?" and bad stuff happens. You could end up crawling on hands and knees to a shrine while wearing a hair shirt and letting monks whip you. Seriously.


The church.


Claire, skipping along happily in her pretty outfit. Claire is as delightful as her corkscrew curls.


Laura, learning to use a camera, model, and enjoy modern art all at the same time.


Also Laura, in the garden at the tapestry museum in Angers. Laura was about to burn off some energy by running madcap around the garden for 20 minutes or so. Laura is living proof that cold fusion exists. She only weighs about 40 pounds, but I swear she could generate enough electricity for a major city. Think about it.



The castle in Sameur. Very pretty indeed, perched over the Loire in one of the prettiest towns I've ever seen. You can get a good lunch there, too. I'm just saying.



Below, the moat around Sameur castle. It's crazy deep.



Another view of the castle. It's under renovation, so we could not go inside. On the right, that's the Loire.


Here we have the cathedral in Angers as seen from down the hill. It is even more impressive up close and inside.


Trelaze was a mining town, and they have a museum to commemorate the mine. We missed it, but walked around and this beautiful cottage is part of the grounds. The whole thing is made of slate.


Guess what? Angers has a castle, too. And it's a corker. Check out these towers. There are 17 of them. Inside lies a much more recent chateau, and it's lovely. Also inside are a set of tapestries. They're the oldest, best-preserved tapestries in France, and they are very beautiful. They tell the story of the Apocolypse, though, so you have to stiffen your spine before venturing inside.



Below, the entrance:


You wouldn't expect this, would you? And yet, there it is, pretty as a picture.

Chez Kjerulf

Is really pretty. Note the blue shutters. They work. Note the slate walls. That's right, the walls are about a foot thick, made of slate stacked like dinner plates. Angers produces slate, and Trelaze was a mining town before the mine closed. Brian and Dominique say that the house remains about 65-70 degrees year round because of its walls.


This rose was a gift to Dominique about four years ago. Number one, how pretty is that? Number two, if you enlarge the image below you can see the stem in relation to my hand. It got that big in 4 years. Wow. And Stick said it was climbing up the house. They had to cut it back. Amazing.

The Fat Lady Sings

Charles's post reminded me of the most memorable aspect of our mad dash across Paris:

[Note: It takes more than 1.5 hours to walk from Montparnasse to Gare de Nord. Walking fast. Do not attempt to do this with a 2-hour window between TGV trains.]

I was walking along the Boulevard de Sebastpol, trying to keep up with my husband, Speedy Halloran, when suddenly a teenager on a bicycle jumped the curb and came straight at me. He was going super-fast, which is odd since he had at least 15 feet to hit the brakes, so perhaps he had no brakes? I dunno.

I ducked to the side, and he twisted, and he missed me. But he nearly hit the French lady behind me. Charles began to curse him out, shouting, but then retired from the field of battle. Why?

The French lady, who was wheeling a potted plant in a baby carriage and towing a small, fluffy dog alongside, opened her mouth and let loose a string of what I can only imagine to be gutter, potty, devilish, angry French. It was like the Opera, only including words I don't know and don't wish ever to be screamed at me.

Charles and I kept walking, and we agreed that since she was so formidable, she could take over the chastisement, thankyouverymuch.