Preliminary note: 4 May 2017, in Barcelona: I've been having major iPad email weirdness, involving bad WiFi for an entire week in Lyon, iPad issues for which I had to find help at a Lyon Apple Store, AND the loss of all my draft letters from London and Paris and a couple from Lyon. (I learned some good French swear words.). Now I'm in Barcelona with an iPad that's been fixed, at a hotel with good WiFi. Hopefully the Internet and Apple goddesses and gremlins will cooperate and I'll get caught up on most, if not all, my travel letters before I get back to Sacramento next Wednesday 10 May. If not I'll just send them out when I get home.
So ... Here's the first London letter...
Getting to London
Andy's birthday today. He and Bill arrived at London Gatwick Airport about forty minutes early, and it only took them twenty minutes to clear customs. They ended up here at St. Ermin's Hotel about two hours earlier than expected.
Linda and I, on the other hand, arrived here yesterday about three hours later than we expected. Getting out of Amsterdam and into London yesterday was a very long slog, even though our actual flying time was less than an hour. For one thing, we'd been advised to arrive at Amsterdam's Schiopel Airport three hours before our flight if we wanted to get special assistance for me through security and to our gate. After our galloping arrival in Amsterdam three days before, we definitely did.
As soon as we got into the terminal, Linda leaned me up against a wall and went off to go figure things out. I had no problem staying put until she came back. In that cavernous cacophonous terminal full of moving and stationary NUOs (numerous unidentified obstacles) all strategically placed to smack a blind lady where it hurts and grab her by the backpack and cane, I was hopeless on my own. Linda told me that she, herself, was overwhelmed when we first entered the terminal.
But she came back underwhelmed and armed with good working information. She found the KLM ticket counter where we checked in my backpack (for free because it was under carry-on weight), and she found the special assistance counter where we signed up for help to get me through security and to our gate. By then we still had a couple hours before our flight so we set off to find lunch.
That was located in another huge dimly-lit cave on a lower level of the terminal. By the time Linda scouted the place and found us the salads we wanted, and got us back up to the assistance waiting area, we'd used up almost all our free time.
Getting through security with me in the wheelchair wan uneventful, Having me in the wheelchair really did make the whole process easier, especially on Linda.
Getting to the gate was another story. First, I needed a restroom. Our helper wheeled me to one of those private disability-accessible toilet rooms, which suited me just fine until I couldn't get the door to close.
It was an automatic sliding pocket door, a kind I'd never seen before, and no matter what I did, it kept sliding back open. Our helper tried to close it, and then Linda tried, but none of us could get the thing to close. "You'll just have to get in there with her," our helper told Linda.
Eh? Linda and I like each other a lot, but we do like our toilet privacy. And neither of us could figure out how having her get in the room with me was going to help. But by this point I wasn't in a position to argue, as my situation was growing rather urgent. Dr. Linda's Smooth Move tea had worked very well, and I still had just a little more business to finish.
So LInda got in with me, and much to our surprise, the door closed. We pretended we weren't in there together, and I dropped my pants and lowered myself down. Just before I could get going with my business, the damn door slid wide open again.
There I was, sitting on the john, in full view of the world outside.
I looked at Linda and she looked at me, and I said, "So. I suppose this means I'm supposed to write about tinkling in full public Amsterdam airport view in my next travel letter."
And tinkle was all the business I managed, as the whole experience was traumatizing enough to clamp my window of opportunity firmly shut. Under the circumstances, this was probably for the best.
Besides private disability-accessible toilet rooms that provide universal access when actually in use, Schiopel Airport is full of weird elevators in weird places. After fleeing the scene of my clamping window, we must have gone through a half-dozen elevators to our gate. By the fourth one I was totally distracted from my toiletary trauma and convinced that Schiopel's elevators must breed like rabbits. They were everwhere. I've never been through so many elevators. They're varying degrees of width and depth, they're right next to each other and go to different places from the same place, and they each have their unique dings and clicks and rumbling rattles.
When we finally got to our gate, we learned our flight was delayed more than an hour. By the time we got on the plane, we felt like it already was a very long day. And then we felt like we'd just lifted off when we were getting ready to land at London's Heathrow Airport.
Getting through Heathrow customs took longer than our fifty-minute flight did. We expected Heathrow customs to be, well, serious, and it was. The Brits were all perfunctory business. They acted like they were trying to make the best of a bad day and not doing a very good job of it. They were polite, but not very happy about it.
After we'd finally cleared customs, I was wheeled to a pole somewhere and informed that I'd have to wait a few minutes before someone was available to wheel me downstairs to baggage claim and on out to our taxi. We decided Linda should go on ahead, grab my backpack, and I'd meet her down there.
So I waited in my wheelchair next to the pole. And waited and waited. After twenty minutes, my back started to hurt so I stood up. After ten more minutes I realized my window of opportunity had re-opened. "Excuse me, I need some assistance please," I said loudly. I said it twice before someone came up to me.
"Madam, we don't have anyone available to take you downstairs yet," a polite young man informed me very seriously. "It will be a few more minutes."
"I'm sorry, but I'm really desperate for a restroom," I said. "As soon as possible."
"Well it will be a few more minutes," I was informed again.
"No sir, we do not have any more minutes," I informed him back. "I've already waited here more than thirty minutes. If you don't get me to a restroom within the next two minutes you are going to have a very embarrassing mess on your hands." I was calm but very firm.
"Well, uh, let me see what I can do..."
"Now you have less than two minutes," I informed him.
"OK OK, I'll get you downstairs," he said hastily, and began wheeling me down a ramp toward baggage claim and a restroom. Fortunately this one had a door that worked.
This little incident reminded me of a similar one I had years ago while traveling with my first guide dog, April. I don't remember which airport it was, but it was big, and April and I had been traveling for twelve hours. (My connecting flight had been canceled and rescheduled.). We'd been waiting for hours for the next flight, which the gate agents kept telling us would be cleared to board "in just a few minutes." Those "few minutes" kept adding up to hours, and finally l realized that I simply had to give April some park time. But I couldn't get the gate agent or any airport staff to let me take April out of the terminal to park her. They kept telling me someone would help me "in a few minutes," but after repeated requests (from my co-passengers as well as me), no assistance was in sight and I could tell April was getting desperate.
So I had April take me to the middle of the carpeted waiting area in prominent view of the gate agents. hen took off April's harness and lengthened her leash, and made ready to circle her around me (her signal that it's OK to relieve herself). "OK APRIL, PARK TIME! PARK TIME! DO YOUR BUSINESS!"
She'd only made about a quarter turn when a security guy came hurrying up. He guided us to a nearby door, unlocked it, and let me take April down the stairs to the tarmac below. He stood watch while April relieved herself. I neatly cleaned up after her. Then I handed the plastic bag full of April's poop to the security guy as though I was handing him a present. "Here you are!"
That felt almost as good as April must have felt.
So anyway, back to the present moment in London. I was happy with the Heathrow private disability-accessible toilet room with a door that closed and locked, and Linda and I were even happier to finally get out of the airport and into our taxi.
It was the middle of the worst of rush hour by then, and our ride in to Westminster and the St. Ermin's Hotel took more than an hour. But the taxi was comfortable, and our driver was cheerful and fun to chat with (unlike the customs agents who were all having a bad day). He recommended some good pubs, and gave us a bit of a tour on the way in: "There's Buckingham Palace," and "Westminster Abbey is just down that road there," and "The Crowne Pub I told you about is right over there," and, finally, "Here we are!"
When we walked into the St. Ermin's lobby, we immediately felt even better. Andy did a good job picking out that hotel. It's definitely the most posh hotel we've stayed in so far on this trip. We were going to go out and find one of the nearby pubs our taxi driver recommended, but the hotel bar and grill looked so inviting we decided to give it a try.
And I decided to give a British-style Manhattan a try, too. It was very good, but not quite as good as the ones from Biba Restaurant in Sacramento. Still, I didn't have any problem drinking two of them. Linda had her two glasses of wine and we both enjoyed a perfect simple dinner of pea and ham soup (fresh peas, not dried split peas) and good crusty bread.
Over our dinner we realized just how tired we are, and agreed that instead of getting up early today to do some kind of tour before Andy and Bill arrived this afternoon, we'd give ourselves the morning off to relax and enjoy our nice luxurious rooms. We got together shortly before noon for a walk around the neighborhood and lunch at Feathers, one of the local pubs near our hotel that our taxi driver had recommended.
Linda had classic British fish and chips, and I decided to eat healthy and opted for a fresh greens and quinoa salad. It was good but not as good as Linda's fish and chips. Really fresh fish in a light breading, good potatoes, everything fried up lightly crisp and brown -- this was no Long John Silver's offering.
The Feathers pub had interesting tables. They were pole tables, sort of like pole lamps, only instead of a lamp at the top, the pole held up a round tray about a foot above the table itself, which was just big enough to seat two comfortably. The tray was for stashing bottles, mugs and whatever to keep the table below from getting too cluttered. We have no idea if pole tables are common fixtures in pubs, but we thought it was a clever design.
Westminster is an important and affluent area of London (after all, the Queen lives here), so it's not surprising that the Feathers pub is a very nice facility.
Its restrooms, however, are not very nice. At least, the women's one is not. We had to go down three flights of stairs, then through a narrow door into a tiny three-feet-square cubicle that gave us just enough room to open another door, then go down more stairs and open yet another door. This last door opened into a small room with two sinks and mirrors, and at the far end there was a platform with two toilet stalls. One of the toilets was stopped up. And when we wanted to dry our hands after washing them, there were no towels in the towel dispenser.
We were not impressed. I told LInda that I am beginning to think I should dedicate a chapter in my travel novel to toilets. "I think I'll call it 'Toiletary Traumes and Tribulations," I said.
Changing the subject and wrapping up for the day ... Linda and I made reservations here at the St. Ermin's Hotel restaurant for Andy's birthday dinner tonight. It's his last year in the fifth decade, and dinner at a nice place in London is a good way to celebrate.
We'll see what we're up to tomorrow. There is a huge bike marathon going on tomorrow which will close many streets and even subway stations here for much of the day, so the usual bus tours won't be operating. Plus, Andy and Bill have a little weather culture shock to adjust to. They left California basking in eighty-degree temperatures, and it's cold and cloudy here, definitely warm jacket weather. But after Easter snow flurries in Sweden, Linda and I think London is positively balmy.
Short shots:
Check-out warm fuzzier:
Linda and I checked into Hotel Aalders feeling disappointed that it wasn't quite as advertised, but we checked out with a warm feeling about the hotel in general and Monique in particular. The hotel staff went out of their way to help us with local transportation and tour advice, and Monique personally rescheduled our tulip gardens tour when we had to change our original plans and make room for necessary shut down time. She more than anyone at Hotel Aalders helped us make the best of our short time in Amsterdam.
She slipped Linda a note the night before we checked out, which said she wouldn't be on duty when we left, and wanted to say goodbye and tell us she enjoyed meeting us. She also said she and her family are planning to open a hotel in Florida that will cater to guests with disabilities -- they are thinking of calling it "Hotel Care" or something like that. Linda and I were touched by Monique's thoughtfulness, and whatever Monique's new hotel is called and whenever it opens, we're making reservations.
Canadian warm fuzzier:
One of the buttons on my black tunic top keeps coming undone, presenting my bra and cleavage for all the world to see. So I went down to the Hotel Aalders front desk to see if they could find me a safety pin. A search of front desk drawers and staff purses turned up no joy, and I regretfully headed back to the elevator.
A gentle hand on my shoulder made me pause. "I have something that will help you." It was one of the women I'd ridden down the elevator with earlier. She was from Montreal and was in Amsterdam for ten days. (I envied her; Linda and I would have loved another week in Amsterdam, ourselves.)
We rode the elevator back up together, commiserating about big boobs and the "boob spread" problems we have with our blouses. She went down to her room and brought me a safety pin. What a sweetheart she was.
It is only now as I write this that I realize I never got her name, nor she mine. I send her bodacious grateful vibes anyway and trust the Universe to get them to her.
Schiopel security:
Linda and I wondered whether we'd encounter tense attitudes at airport security checkpoints, but in spite of very recent terrorist attacks near Parliament in London and the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, we have not sensed any tension except maybe at Heathrow. Copenhagen, Gothenburg and Amsterdam were all very warm and welcoming.
But while we were sitting in the Schiopel Airport assistance area, Linda suddenly turned to me and said, "I just saw two military men walking by with machine guns."
So ... Here's the first London letter...
Getting to London
Andy's birthday today. He and Bill arrived at London Gatwick Airport about forty minutes early, and it only took them twenty minutes to clear customs. They ended up here at St. Ermin's Hotel about two hours earlier than expected.
Linda and I, on the other hand, arrived here yesterday about three hours later than we expected. Getting out of Amsterdam and into London yesterday was a very long slog, even though our actual flying time was less than an hour. For one thing, we'd been advised to arrive at Amsterdam's Schiopel Airport three hours before our flight if we wanted to get special assistance for me through security and to our gate. After our galloping arrival in Amsterdam three days before, we definitely did.
As soon as we got into the terminal, Linda leaned me up against a wall and went off to go figure things out. I had no problem staying put until she came back. In that cavernous cacophonous terminal full of moving and stationary NUOs (numerous unidentified obstacles) all strategically placed to smack a blind lady where it hurts and grab her by the backpack and cane, I was hopeless on my own. Linda told me that she, herself, was overwhelmed when we first entered the terminal.
But she came back underwhelmed and armed with good working information. She found the KLM ticket counter where we checked in my backpack (for free because it was under carry-on weight), and she found the special assistance counter where we signed up for help to get me through security and to our gate. By then we still had a couple hours before our flight so we set off to find lunch.
That was located in another huge dimly-lit cave on a lower level of the terminal. By the time Linda scouted the place and found us the salads we wanted, and got us back up to the assistance waiting area, we'd used up almost all our free time.
Getting through security with me in the wheelchair wan uneventful, Having me in the wheelchair really did make the whole process easier, especially on Linda.
Getting to the gate was another story. First, I needed a restroom. Our helper wheeled me to one of those private disability-accessible toilet rooms, which suited me just fine until I couldn't get the door to close.
It was an automatic sliding pocket door, a kind I'd never seen before, and no matter what I did, it kept sliding back open. Our helper tried to close it, and then Linda tried, but none of us could get the thing to close. "You'll just have to get in there with her," our helper told Linda.
Eh? Linda and I like each other a lot, but we do like our toilet privacy. And neither of us could figure out how having her get in the room with me was going to help. But by this point I wasn't in a position to argue, as my situation was growing rather urgent. Dr. Linda's Smooth Move tea had worked very well, and I still had just a little more business to finish.
So LInda got in with me, and much to our surprise, the door closed. We pretended we weren't in there together, and I dropped my pants and lowered myself down. Just before I could get going with my business, the damn door slid wide open again.
There I was, sitting on the john, in full view of the world outside.
I looked at Linda and she looked at me, and I said, "So. I suppose this means I'm supposed to write about tinkling in full public Amsterdam airport view in my next travel letter."
And tinkle was all the business I managed, as the whole experience was traumatizing enough to clamp my window of opportunity firmly shut. Under the circumstances, this was probably for the best.
Besides private disability-accessible toilet rooms that provide universal access when actually in use, Schiopel Airport is full of weird elevators in weird places. After fleeing the scene of my clamping window, we must have gone through a half-dozen elevators to our gate. By the fourth one I was totally distracted from my toiletary trauma and convinced that Schiopel's elevators must breed like rabbits. They were everwhere. I've never been through so many elevators. They're varying degrees of width and depth, they're right next to each other and go to different places from the same place, and they each have their unique dings and clicks and rumbling rattles.
When we finally got to our gate, we learned our flight was delayed more than an hour. By the time we got on the plane, we felt like it already was a very long day. And then we felt like we'd just lifted off when we were getting ready to land at London's Heathrow Airport.
Getting through Heathrow customs took longer than our fifty-minute flight did. We expected Heathrow customs to be, well, serious, and it was. The Brits were all perfunctory business. They acted like they were trying to make the best of a bad day and not doing a very good job of it. They were polite, but not very happy about it.
After we'd finally cleared customs, I was wheeled to a pole somewhere and informed that I'd have to wait a few minutes before someone was available to wheel me downstairs to baggage claim and on out to our taxi. We decided Linda should go on ahead, grab my backpack, and I'd meet her down there.
So I waited in my wheelchair next to the pole. And waited and waited. After twenty minutes, my back started to hurt so I stood up. After ten more minutes I realized my window of opportunity had re-opened. "Excuse me, I need some assistance please," I said loudly. I said it twice before someone came up to me.
"Madam, we don't have anyone available to take you downstairs yet," a polite young man informed me very seriously. "It will be a few more minutes."
"I'm sorry, but I'm really desperate for a restroom," I said. "As soon as possible."
"Well it will be a few more minutes," I was informed again.
"No sir, we do not have any more minutes," I informed him back. "I've already waited here more than thirty minutes. If you don't get me to a restroom within the next two minutes you are going to have a very embarrassing mess on your hands." I was calm but very firm.
"Well, uh, let me see what I can do..."
"Now you have less than two minutes," I informed him.
"OK OK, I'll get you downstairs," he said hastily, and began wheeling me down a ramp toward baggage claim and a restroom. Fortunately this one had a door that worked.
This little incident reminded me of a similar one I had years ago while traveling with my first guide dog, April. I don't remember which airport it was, but it was big, and April and I had been traveling for twelve hours. (My connecting flight had been canceled and rescheduled.). We'd been waiting for hours for the next flight, which the gate agents kept telling us would be cleared to board "in just a few minutes." Those "few minutes" kept adding up to hours, and finally l realized that I simply had to give April some park time. But I couldn't get the gate agent or any airport staff to let me take April out of the terminal to park her. They kept telling me someone would help me "in a few minutes," but after repeated requests (from my co-passengers as well as me), no assistance was in sight and I could tell April was getting desperate.
So I had April take me to the middle of the carpeted waiting area in prominent view of the gate agents. hen took off April's harness and lengthened her leash, and made ready to circle her around me (her signal that it's OK to relieve herself). "OK APRIL, PARK TIME! PARK TIME! DO YOUR BUSINESS!"
She'd only made about a quarter turn when a security guy came hurrying up. He guided us to a nearby door, unlocked it, and let me take April down the stairs to the tarmac below. He stood watch while April relieved herself. I neatly cleaned up after her. Then I handed the plastic bag full of April's poop to the security guy as though I was handing him a present. "Here you are!"
That felt almost as good as April must have felt.
So anyway, back to the present moment in London. I was happy with the Heathrow private disability-accessible toilet room with a door that closed and locked, and Linda and I were even happier to finally get out of the airport and into our taxi.
It was the middle of the worst of rush hour by then, and our ride in to Westminster and the St. Ermin's Hotel took more than an hour. But the taxi was comfortable, and our driver was cheerful and fun to chat with (unlike the customs agents who were all having a bad day). He recommended some good pubs, and gave us a bit of a tour on the way in: "There's Buckingham Palace," and "Westminster Abbey is just down that road there," and "The Crowne Pub I told you about is right over there," and, finally, "Here we are!"
When we walked into the St. Ermin's lobby, we immediately felt even better. Andy did a good job picking out that hotel. It's definitely the most posh hotel we've stayed in so far on this trip. We were going to go out and find one of the nearby pubs our taxi driver recommended, but the hotel bar and grill looked so inviting we decided to give it a try.
And I decided to give a British-style Manhattan a try, too. It was very good, but not quite as good as the ones from Biba Restaurant in Sacramento. Still, I didn't have any problem drinking two of them. Linda had her two glasses of wine and we both enjoyed a perfect simple dinner of pea and ham soup (fresh peas, not dried split peas) and good crusty bread.
Over our dinner we realized just how tired we are, and agreed that instead of getting up early today to do some kind of tour before Andy and Bill arrived this afternoon, we'd give ourselves the morning off to relax and enjoy our nice luxurious rooms. We got together shortly before noon for a walk around the neighborhood and lunch at Feathers, one of the local pubs near our hotel that our taxi driver had recommended.
Linda had classic British fish and chips, and I decided to eat healthy and opted for a fresh greens and quinoa salad. It was good but not as good as Linda's fish and chips. Really fresh fish in a light breading, good potatoes, everything fried up lightly crisp and brown -- this was no Long John Silver's offering.
The Feathers pub had interesting tables. They were pole tables, sort of like pole lamps, only instead of a lamp at the top, the pole held up a round tray about a foot above the table itself, which was just big enough to seat two comfortably. The tray was for stashing bottles, mugs and whatever to keep the table below from getting too cluttered. We have no idea if pole tables are common fixtures in pubs, but we thought it was a clever design.
Westminster is an important and affluent area of London (after all, the Queen lives here), so it's not surprising that the Feathers pub is a very nice facility.
Its restrooms, however, are not very nice. At least, the women's one is not. We had to go down three flights of stairs, then through a narrow door into a tiny three-feet-square cubicle that gave us just enough room to open another door, then go down more stairs and open yet another door. This last door opened into a small room with two sinks and mirrors, and at the far end there was a platform with two toilet stalls. One of the toilets was stopped up. And when we wanted to dry our hands after washing them, there were no towels in the towel dispenser.
We were not impressed. I told LInda that I am beginning to think I should dedicate a chapter in my travel novel to toilets. "I think I'll call it 'Toiletary Traumes and Tribulations," I said.
Changing the subject and wrapping up for the day ... Linda and I made reservations here at the St. Ermin's Hotel restaurant for Andy's birthday dinner tonight. It's his last year in the fifth decade, and dinner at a nice place in London is a good way to celebrate.
We'll see what we're up to tomorrow. There is a huge bike marathon going on tomorrow which will close many streets and even subway stations here for much of the day, so the usual bus tours won't be operating. Plus, Andy and Bill have a little weather culture shock to adjust to. They left California basking in eighty-degree temperatures, and it's cold and cloudy here, definitely warm jacket weather. But after Easter snow flurries in Sweden, Linda and I think London is positively balmy.
Short shots:
Check-out warm fuzzier:
Linda and I checked into Hotel Aalders feeling disappointed that it wasn't quite as advertised, but we checked out with a warm feeling about the hotel in general and Monique in particular. The hotel staff went out of their way to help us with local transportation and tour advice, and Monique personally rescheduled our tulip gardens tour when we had to change our original plans and make room for necessary shut down time. She more than anyone at Hotel Aalders helped us make the best of our short time in Amsterdam.
She slipped Linda a note the night before we checked out, which said she wouldn't be on duty when we left, and wanted to say goodbye and tell us she enjoyed meeting us. She also said she and her family are planning to open a hotel in Florida that will cater to guests with disabilities -- they are thinking of calling it "Hotel Care" or something like that. Linda and I were touched by Monique's thoughtfulness, and whatever Monique's new hotel is called and whenever it opens, we're making reservations.
Canadian warm fuzzier:
One of the buttons on my black tunic top keeps coming undone, presenting my bra and cleavage for all the world to see. So I went down to the Hotel Aalders front desk to see if they could find me a safety pin. A search of front desk drawers and staff purses turned up no joy, and I regretfully headed back to the elevator.
A gentle hand on my shoulder made me pause. "I have something that will help you." It was one of the women I'd ridden down the elevator with earlier. She was from Montreal and was in Amsterdam for ten days. (I envied her; Linda and I would have loved another week in Amsterdam, ourselves.)
We rode the elevator back up together, commiserating about big boobs and the "boob spread" problems we have with our blouses. She went down to her room and brought me a safety pin. What a sweetheart she was.
It is only now as I write this that I realize I never got her name, nor she mine. I send her bodacious grateful vibes anyway and trust the Universe to get them to her.
Schiopel security:
Linda and I wondered whether we'd encounter tense attitudes at airport security checkpoints, but in spite of very recent terrorist attacks near Parliament in London and the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, we have not sensed any tension except maybe at Heathrow. Copenhagen, Gothenburg and Amsterdam were all very warm and welcoming.
But while we were sitting in the Schiopel Airport assistance area, Linda suddenly turned to me and said, "I just saw two military men walking by with machine guns."
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