Terrible Tuesday

Terrible Tuesday.

Fantastic. So, when we left off, I was feeling like a rotting, giant tomato. Fine. Things will get better. The swelling from the Indian food will abate. I'll be able to get rid of the all the crappy fat I put on. That'll happen, right? Right?

Whatever the case, here is neither time nor place to discuss that. We had other things to do. Most importantly, go to Brugge!

First things first. Check out of the hotel. We were only leaving our home base for 2 nights, so we thought it best to bring only an over night bag with a change of clothes. Make sense, right? Sure. I'd also decided to bring every single item of clothing I had. All of it worn on my person.

We packed up, left our extraneous baggage at the concierge's hold room and jumped (and I use that term lightly) into a snazzy black cab. A few minutes later, we arrived at a beautifully decked out St. Pancras Station.
   
Yes, beautiful. 

I'm not sure why, but it seemed really strange to me that going through this train station was like going through an airport. It really shouldn't seem strange, after all, we were traveling internationally, but it did. I mean, it was the whole thing. Passport stamp, going through the metal detector, strip with optional cavity search, the whole nine yards.

We get through security, and we have time to kill, so we go to a little cafe with benches outside. It was there I realize that I left my scarf at the hotel. Mom calls the hotel to tell them that I left it there and please keep it for us. No problem.

I go to get mom the requisite pastry and DC and feel like I lost one of my gloves. I freak out for a second, but find it. No problem.

After consumption of sugary treats, I carry all of the stuff for mom as we go to the restroom. She goes, then it's my turn. I felt bad about using the handicapped one, so I go to the regular one.

Okay. Here is where disaster strikes. Before we left, mom gave me a ring. She claims that this ring was a gift from my dad to her years ago and she wanted me to have it. Sweet, right?

Let me describe it for you. It was a small gold flower with a NECKLACE band. Let me try to explain that. It was a piece of link necklace. LINK NECKLACE soldered onto the back of this flower.
Think about that. It was quite pretty. But think about it. What happens if you glue a piece of a necklace onto something and then it moves? It BREAKS. And that's what happened. It broke. The thing slid right down the drain. Right. Down. The. Drain.

By the time I got back to the holding area for the train, I was crying inconsolably. Making a jackasss of myself is a regular occurrence for me, so I really had no problem sobbing hysterically in a 'stiff upper lip' place like St. Pancras. Screw 'em if they want to look. At that point I didn't care. I also didn't have the heart to tell moms what happened, so I said I lost the ring. This was a big mistake.  

Confession time. If you've been following this blog, you may have noticed I hadn't written in a while. This is why. When I began starting to document this particular trip, I got a phone call from said Momster. I quote: "While you're telling everyone how horrible I am, you just make sure you tell them you lost that ring I gave you." At which point not only did I stop writing this blog, but I blocked said pain in the ass mother mine from FaceBook. 

But I digress.

Not really being able to quell my tears, we board the Eurostar train. We were going to take the Chunnel! I don't know why I've always wanted to do that, but I did. And now we were doing it.

  I stuffed our bags in the above compartment, dried my tears, and settled in for a nice ride.

We were in the 'business class' car or whatever it's called, so we got a meal with the ride. 

Water, orange juice, yogurt and pastries. More damn pastries. At this point, I was beginning to see why the Plague took out 1/3 of Europe. Dairy and wheat, do not a healthy diet make. But enough of my harping.

I'm harping!

As always happens when I'm being transported, I fell asleep due to the rocking of the train and missed the Chunnel experience. That's about right.

We disembark at Brussels Midi and have to catch another train to be let off in Brugge. Easy right? NO! Why would it be? Why?

We get of the train. There is no lift. Great. Just great. So I have to get mom down to the station to catch another train. !@#$%!

By some miraculous act of God, she hobbles down the stairs. Then what? I don't know. Do you? No, you? No. !@#%##!

After about an hour, we figured it out. Oh, and guess what? Back up the stairs to the platform. Thankfully this time there was a lift.

We get onto "Any Brussels train" (literally that's what the directions say), and hope for the best.

Several stops later, we've arrive. Brugge! The most preserved Medieval city.

Yay! HOLY CRAP it was cold! I'm not talking cold, I'm talking HOLY !@#$%! CRAP it's cold. Beyond cold. It was so cold, they were having an ICE FESTIVAL. ICE FESTIVAL!!!!

The screen says ICE FESTIVAL!

Did I go? HEEELLLZZZ no!
Well, maybe a little.

Tweleve Euros and a tip later, we get to the Pand Hotel. The Pand is a 5-Star hotel. It's also tiny. Tiny, tiny. Yeah, we had a bed. A bathroom too. There was no moving around the room.

 
 There was a radiator, thank God, and a window right next to it that opened. That seemed like a weird idea to me but as long as the heat was on, I was good. We were on the First Floor and yes, there was a lift. And, oh what a lift it was! 

One of the joys of this trip was me watching She Who Must get into this lift. First, she had to pull the tiny door open. Then she had to go 'tap, tap, tap' with her foot on the floor of the lift. After she was sure that there was indeed a floor, she could get in. Once in, there was no turning around. This thing was 4 feet by 3 feet. No lie.

Here, see for yourself: 

Now don't give me a hard time about the orientation of the video, I know it's not right. But hell, I could barely feel my hands.  

We had, literally about two hours left of daylight, so we hobbled our frozen asses down to the square. In Medieval life, there was only the square, so that's where we went. 

Now, Burgge is beautiful. Absolutely lovely! I'll post a few photos (and only a few- you're welcome) of Brugge in the next post, but for now, I have to introduce you to the most wonderful thing in the world.

TARTIFLETTA!

It's glorious. And when you're in below freezing temperatures, it's your best friend, (along with the warm ameretto, and ameretto laced hot chocolate). But for now, the most wonderful thing in the world:

Before it's cooked;
 

After it's cooked:


 Moments before being in my belly:


So simple, so perfect, so delicious:  Recipe:
 
Now I have to warn you. This is addictive. I ate this 6 times in two days. Fattening? Oh you bet. But seriously, potatoes, cheese and bacon? Probably the most perfect food. I made a more or less version of this when I got home (Rheblochon cheese is impossible to find here). It was so wonderful, I had to promise not to make it any more. Yeah, that good.

This has been a long post. Had some technical difficulties, so my apologies.  I'll add more later.

 

Blue Monday Part 2

 Blue Monday Part 2.






After the horrible day I'd had, I didn't want to do anything. Nothing, Nadda.

Turns out that the people that put on the Sherlock Holmes dinner theater called us and asked if we could reschedule our dinner. I guess there wasn't enough people for a show that particular day.

Turns out we were able to still go to a show later in our trip. Yay.


I get back to the Hotel, the famous Bloomsbury Holiday Inn - just in case you forgot, and told my mom about the cancelled class. She was not amused. I then handed her the disgusting headshot, which she accepted with a staunch smile.

Not my mom, but this was her look when getting the headshot.

 I flung myself upon the bed, not wanting to do anything. Mom let me rest for all of 7 minutes.




    

By this time, it was around 4:00 pm. 4:00 pm in England is pretty much sunset. Which is fine. "Come on, let's go get dinner."

Dinner. Because after looking a giant Killer Tomato, that's what I want to do. Eat. Blah. 

 "Let's go to the Dog Head pub." Which is what I was calling Friend at Hand pub. It's got a dog face on it.

"Uh-uh, no. Let's go to the Italian place next to the Indian place." 

Sigh. I don't know why I even try. "Okay, whatever." 

So, I pick up my sorry ass from the bed, put my scarf on and haul myself and momster down the lift and out the door.

A few blocks later, we go into Il Fornello across from Russell Sqaure.
 

Here is our dinner. I had soup with stuffed mushrooms. Mom had some type of pasta.  And wine. Wine was had.


And if you're interested, here's the menu:







And we shared a dessert. 

 

 

Following our delicious dinner, we walked back to the hotel stopping only to purchase souvenirs at the souvenir shop that is right in that area. We got back to the hotel, but couldn't get up the lift. WTF??? My key wasn't working. Dammit!

I went to the hotel reception desk, presented my hotel key and explained that it wasn't working in the lift. Evidently the HI gets rocking so much at night that they had to have extra security. Sure. I believe that.

Whatever the case, my key had become de-magnatized since I kept it in the pocket of my spy jacket. So, with great annoyance to the hotel staff, I got a new one.

We got back into the room. I showered and crawled into bed to metaphorically curl into a fetal position and suck my thumb. Maybe not so metaphorically.

Thus endeth Blue Monday.

Blue Monday

So, let's be honest.

I've gotten through almost a good week with with the Moms and it hasn't been too bad. All of that was about to change.

 If you remember, at the beginning of the conception of the precipitation of this trip, I was sending my mommie ideas that I found on Livingsocial.com, all of witch were tossed away without a single thought.

I, however, felt like I hit the MOTHER LOAD (no pun intended), when I found a voucher for a photo shoot with hair and make up for 20 pound. Translated, that's about 35 bucks, give or take, and COMPLETELY unheard of. UN -HEARD!

So, that Monday morning, I packed up a few different things to wear... okay, pretty much anything nice I had with me, which wasn't anything, and started on the trek through the London Underground to find the Islington studio.

I'd never been to Islington. In all honesty, there really isn't much to report. It was just gray. If you think London and think gray, you have Islington.

I arrived a little early for my appointment, so I spent the time in the cafe across the street. Did I mention it was cold? No? It was cold. So, I had a hot cocoa. Yes, I know that cocoa is a dark liquid and will therefore give me and my fish belly whiteness  dark circles. But hey, it can't happen that soon, can it?


A few minutes before the hour arrived, and I trudged my ass and my bag up the 5 stories of stairs. I was thanking God that momster decided she'd rather pass the morning in the hotel in complete comfort. I couldn't imagine her climbing this particular mountain.

I get into the studio, meet the photographer and the make up artist and let them know I was looking for 'Spotlight Photos', which is what headshots are called over there. "Spotlight" is the website where performing artists present themselves and their representation. Much like Actor's Access over here, if you know (or care) what that is.

The 'studio' was this guy's 5th floor walk up apartment. His rollaway bed was tucked up in the corner of the kitchen covered by a plastic sheet. The makeup station was a make shift counter -  the stove with a plank of wood and a mirror on it. 

The studio floor was a hard wood space with a computer station and some back drops hung up on scaffolding. Now, I'm not going to judge. No one knows what it's like to be a starving artist better than I, and to this guy's credit, he seemed to be doing more or less okay for himself. At least he was able to live, right? I thought it might be considered rude to take pictures of the place.

The make up artist was from Spain. I don't want to know where the brushes came from. Nor did I think it was a good idea to dwell on how old they were or the last time they were washed. Better not to ask. 

I know Spain has gone through a hard time. I get that. I now know that the Spanish refer to it is a 'tragedy'. I get that too. What I don't get is why this woman, who claims that she has worked in Mexico and on a ton of Spanish Soap Operas was using make up techniques from the '80s. And don't even get me started on the hair! Don't!

Of course, knowing that she was here trying desperately to survive by only making a few pound per hour, I didn't have the heart to scream at her artistry. No, I'm not an ugly American. And besides, maybe the pics will be good, right? RIGHT???? 

Suuuurrreeee they will.  Anyway, we went through the process of taking pics, changing tops and taking more pics. This lasted about 20 minutes. Fair enough. Then... pics revealed. 

Only one word comes to mind:

There really is no other word for it. I looked like a giant, red, moldy tomato. It was such an horrific blow to my ego. I had to stand there and tell this guy how awesome his work was whilst looking at this fat, old, red... thing. Let me tell you how bad it was: Part of the package was one photo printed. I picked the lesser of all the evils and presented it to mom. Months later I was visiting and saw the thing in a frame. I expressed my disgust at it and asked her to get it out of sight. She willingly complied saying she didn't like it either. Gag, gag, gag, gag, gag. 

Whatever! It was over. I'm fat, and old, and ugly and will never get a job. Just f'ing great. I packed up my crap, tipped the Spanish girl and the crappy photog, tucked my tail between my legs and considered flinging myself down the five flights of stairs. I settled, instead for going here:

The Shakespear Pub. I ran across this place looking for the tube. I had decided to walk a different route on the way back to the hotel. I was so numb from the humiliating experience, I wasn't thinking straight. Or maybe that was the cold. Did I mention it was cold? It was. I didn't care. 

It had to have been about 11am, and the pub just opened. I didn't know if it was providence, coincidence, or just the spirit of the Bard being a dick and laughing at me. Whatever it was, I went in. I bellied my belly up to the bar and ordered an Irish Coffee. It's hot. It's alcohol, it's sweet, I'm depressed, leave me alone. 

Look at the smirk on that rat bastard!

I sat there a few minutes and drank my drink trying not to relive the horrors of the previous hour. After a while, I got up, used the loo, asked directions and clumped my gargantuan body to the nearest tube.

On the way to the tube, I took this picture. I don't know or care what it was, but It amused me at the time. Anyway, the tube let me out at Goodge Station. I know Goodge. It's right by RADA. That's good, I had to find out what was up with my class anyway. I had booked the next level of my classes and was curious as to how to go about taking my certification exams. I decided to stop in and ask. After about an hour of the run around, and making seven phone calls (WHY I had to make phone calls as opposed to WALKING to an office, I don't know), I was told the class was cancelled. Cancelled. Huh. Cancelled. Thanks for letting me know. What a waste! No, they didn't keep my money if you were wondering, but that's not the point. The class was CANCELLED. Shit.

I thought this post was going to be small. Guess not. I'll stop here for now and let you digest this. Plus Blogger is being a jerk and messing with my pristine format.There's more to come.

Sunday F##$@!ing Sunday

Ahhh, Sunday. A day of relaxing and quite contemplation. Or not.

Following the Stonehenge/Salisbury debacle, there was no way IN HELL we were going to miss our second scheduled tour. 

After all, we did spend hours with the people to get our money back from the first one. 

Here was the game plan: 

Get up.
Make sure EdieBaby is ready.
Hobble over to the Meeting point.
Enjoy tour.

Getting up wasn't a problem. Sleeping, that was the problem because it didn't actually happen.  We dragged our bodies out of bed on a very chilly morning. Having a stroke of genius, mom called down to the concierge to order a taxi for 5:30. Our pick up was confirmed for 6:00 am. We get dressed and go downstairs to wait. 

The taxi pulls up more or less on time and we crawl in and take the 6 block ride to the front entrance to the British Museum.

We get there really early. Which is fine, we were prepared. We had a pack of cookies, two bottles of Diet Coke and a bottle of water. I was bundled into my coat three layers of clothes. All was right with the world.

As we wait, a family joins us. Turns out that the family is from New York, but the lady is from New Orleans. Man, you can't get away from Y'ats. Half way around the world and we run into a 'Wanka'. That's a 'West Banker' for those not learned in the language of the Y'at. Whatever the case, they were very nice and we chatted amiably until the shuttle arrived a few minutes later.

The shuttle pulls up and the guy gets out and opens the door for us. Ah... I knew this going too easily. Momster, being all of 3 feet tall was too short to climb into the shuttle. The guy had to root out a square bottle of water, (which I'm assuming is to cool down the radiator) and put it under the door as a step.  Whatever works, right? After that, we all climb on. The shuttle has to make two stops to pick up other passengers and then we were on our way.

I'd love to say that we had a wonderful ride through the country

side as we made our way to Stratford Upon Avon. I'd love to say that. The truth is, I really don't know. As soon as the van started moving, I fell asleep. I know the tour guide was saying something, but I have no idea what it was.

Some time after the sun came up, we arrived at the birth place of the Bard himself. If you're not sure what Stratford Upon Avon looks like, watch Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows parts 1 and 2. Harry Potter's original home, Godrick's Hollow was based on it. They shot some scenes in the church yard as well.
 

Harry Potter's house

 

 

 Now, I'm no Shakespearean scholar. And I won't even try to get into an argument with someone over whom wrote all of the plays (Marlowe, Shakey, Duke of Oxford), quite honestly, in real life it doesn't matter. What does matter is that there was a Shakespeare and I went to his house. But first, we visited the Shakespeare trust and checked out a whole bunch of hand written documents. 

His handwriting is a lot better than mine, although I can't read his either.
I don't remember what these documents are, but I did buy a book.

 

From the trust, we were allowed a few minutes to scramble around the small area of Stratford.  I found this: The Creaky Cauldron. Now, I'm not a big Harry Potter fan girl, but I did read all of the books, and due to the nature of my work, worked on ALL of the movies. So, I felt a kinship. I also thought it was cute.

I also got one of these: Butter Beer. Oh yes I did! It was good too. I don't know what was in it, but I felt the fat immediately adhere to my ass. It was delicious.

We piled back on the bus for the short trip to Shakey's birth place.

This was made into a weird tourist attraction. Not that I'm complaining. I thought it was amusing. There were tour guides dressed in period garb leading you through the tour. Upstairs, down stairs, playing with the gloves and other leather goods Ole Bill was said to have made and sold. It was a sweet little experience. My favorite, I have to say, was at the end of the tour, a little Troubadour guy was singing songs of the era. He encouraged us to sing along with a 'Clink! Clink!' chorus. Insert Chinese tourists and hilarity ensues. I'm pasty white, so I'm not allowed to comment, but please, allow your imagination to run wild. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shakey's House

Our next stop was a cute little Cotswold town called Stow-on-the-Wold. I have no idea what that means, but it was adorable.

If you've ever read an Agatha Raisin novel by M.C.Beaton, she speaks a lot of the Cotswold towns. This is one of them. If I were to go back, I'd probably want to stay in their little pub houses as an experience. Just to people watch for a couple of days.

After we visited the church, the Moms and I had lunch at a place called Talbot. I didn't take any pictures of it, but mom had this really interesting cauliflower and cheese dish. I don't remember what I had. Of course Diet Coke was on the menu.

After another rest room break, it was back on the tour bus to make our way to Oxford.

Ah, Oxford home of a semi- famous university and a bunch of buildings with pointy things.

Once again, if you've ever seen a Harry Potter film ever, you've seen Oxford University. Hogwarts is, in reality, Oxford. It's where they shot all of the exteriors, all of the Great Hall shots and based the entire school upon the layout. Make no mistake about it, Oxford is proud to be Hogwarts. If you go to any of the Oxford U stores, not only do they have Oxford Rowing jerseys, they also sell t-shirts, jackets and jerseys for all the houses of Hog's. It's weird.

It's a stunningly beautiful school. Probably had I seen it before embarking on my Uni career, I would have wanted to go there. How different my life would have been!

Anyway, there was a walking tour available for Oxford. One that promised to show beautiful architecture and historical sights. Moms had enough hobbling around for one day, so we hit up the stores instead.

We found a candy store. Mom was low on her supply of sour gummy things, so she filled up there. We tottered around for a few minutes, then copped a squat on a bench to wait for the shuttle.

 

 Back up the plastic bottle and into the shuttle we went. A short nap later and we were deposited back at the British Museum. To me it felt like 2:00 am, but was really more like 6:00 pm. The sun goes down really early there. It's hard to adjust. Weirdly, mom wanted to hit up the Indian place again. Whaaaa?????

I know! Miracles never cease.

We had this:

After which, we made our way back to the hotel room. I bathed and crawled into bed. 

Thus endith Sunday!

 

 


 

Saturday, Blessed Saturday

Saturday, Blessed Saturday!

This was Saturday. Technically a day off. Or, at least a day with no activities planned.

I would have to recommend scheduling a few 'empty' days when dealing with momsters. They do need a break. As do I. But I didn't get one.

We made a plan. 
Get up.
Eat breakfast at the hotel.
Go visit the ol' Alma Mater.
Return.

 
Sure, why not?

We, well I, crawl out of bed. Freezing - because the air has to be on, of course, and still exhausted from the wheezing in the next bed.  Shower and get dressed. We had purchased breakfast tickets upon check in so we clumped our way down to the restaurant.

 Not being as well versed as I in hotel brekkies, but knowing the meaning of  'all you can eat', Mom got in and headed for the bacon and pancakes.

Now here was something I'd never seen. I can't explain it, but for some reason, I found the idea repulsive.

                           MAKE YOUR OWN PANCAKE MACHINE.

 She Who Must, however, had no issues at all with this device and happily dumped in the goo and cooked her own stuff. Kudos to you!

Knowing what we were to do that day, and since old habits die hard, I created a nice protein breakfast with the idea of providing a lunch for myself later.

Eggs, streaky bacon, weird potato thing and mushrooms.
Add to that a plate of beans, British bacon and grilled tomatoes.

 The dream: Eat some egg whites and sausage with the beans and mushrooms, potatoes and tomatoes, then make a nice lunch with the bacons and maybe another egg white.

The reality: "That's disGUStin'. Don't do that. Eat that here and we'll get something later." 

So, once again, eating out of guilt and trying to get my money's worth of the breakfast ticket, I stuffed down enough food to feed a small starving tribe. I felt my tights and jeans pulling at the seams.

After a very painful breakfast, we got a bunch of crap for the road and took a black taxi to King's Cross station.
Yep, that King's Cross.

We picked up 2 tickets to Hatfield, about an hour or so north of London. 

We didn't have much time to wander about the station, so we got on the train (the CORRECT one this time), claimed our seats and a few minutes later, were on our way. (How's that for a run-on sentence?)

With a full belly and rocking train car, I dozed off. Mom was reading her tablet. I did take a picture inside the train.

After a nice nap, the train pulls into Hatfield. A cute little town filled with regular people doing regular stuff. And a bunch of international students from the Uni.

We get off the train, walk the platform, take the lift down and out into the street where we catch a taxi to the University.

Good Ole 'Uh...' a.k.a 'DUHmb Ass U'. I really shouldn't say that.
After all, they did grant me a Doctorate, God bless them.

So, here it is, a Saturday, during winter break, walking around a mostly dead university.

At some point we had this:

I have no idea what it is, and for the life of me I can't remember consuming it. Talk about making a good impression!

Eventually, we wandered around the circular campus finding our way to the Student  Center shop.

As a present, Moms bought me a really thick zip up sweater with the universal University symbol on it.
 

Since it's regularly -3 degrees in most office buildings I visit, I tend to wear this nearly every day. 

Momster got herself a pull over sweatshirt with a similar logo I believe.

In the cooler of the little store, I found this concoction.

 It looked delicious and disgusting all at once, so I had to have it.  I was right, too. It was delicious and disgusting all at once. Plus alcohol. I've found that having some of that around (and by 'around' I mean being metabolized),  tends to soothe the matricidal tendencies. A little. Sometimes. On a good day.

There really isn't anything to do at a shut down university in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, so instead of taking the bus back to the station like I did when I was alone, we called the same taxi guy and had him pick us up and bring us back to the station.

Needless to say, after we got back, I find this article on the interwebs:Is Hatfield Haunted?

Well what the crap? NOW they tell me? Guess I'll have to look into going back.

Anyway... train ride back, fell asleep, eating cookies, blah, blah, blah. Get to station, get a cab to the hotel, nap time.

Ahhh... Nap time! My favorite. 

A little while later, we awoke in time for dinner. 
'Why don't we try something new?' I asked, fingers crossed.
'Okay. What?'
'Remember you promised to try Indian?'
'Okay.'

WHAT???? WHAT???? She AGREED???? Holy crap turds, Batman!

Before she had a chance to change her mind, I bundled her up in her jacket and led her into the lobby and out into the street, the three block walk to the Indian place.

Still with fingers crossed, I placed an order. 
 
                        
Papadams with the various salsas and Chicken Tikka Masala with a side order of Naan. Pretty much the standard 'white people safe' food of Indian cuisine. Much like 'chow mein' and 'fried rice' is to Chinese.

"Oooh, this is good!" erupted from She Who.

Alien Spore

"What?" Not because I didn't hear correctly, but because  upon hearing positive feedback from the organism beside me, I was certain that whilst in Hatfield, an alien spore lodged itself within my mother's person and had taken over her faculties. Or maybe it happened when I fell asleep on the train.


To give credit where due, the dinner was delicious. And who knew? Miracles can happen. Momster found something new to eat. 

After dinner, the cashier guy fixed my mom's watch. I thought that was nice.

We waddled our way back to the hotel, went upstairs, made some calls via Skype, and called it a day.

In the realm of not bad days, I'd say this was pretty high up on the list.