Caution: 175 Steps.

 Great Britain, Photography, Travel  Comments Off on Caution: 175 Steps.
Jul 042011
 

The test’s over. My brain still resembles Jell-O, but it’s time to be a tourist.

So let’s start off big. How about the British Museum? Is that big enough for you?

It’s big enough for me.

I headed off to the Russell Square tube station, and encountered a sort of tube station that I haven’t encountered before. There are no escalators, just 3 giant elevators, and a spiral staircase with 175 steps and a warning that was no joke.

When my train pulled in, the access to the lifts elevators was jam-packed. It looked like it would take a while, so like a dummy, I thought, “Well, it’s only 175 steps. How bad can it be?”

Bad.

Very bad.

Remember how I said I’ve seen people make luggage mistakes before? I saw someone make a luggage mistake that looked like it could very well have been fatal– she was trying to lug a giant suitcase up these stairs.

That’s nuts.

I was having a hard time just trying to get my chunky American frame up the stairs. 175 steps… that has to be what? 12 stories? I stopped more and more frequently as I got near the top, because I was starting to see bright lights and hear the voices of what could be long-dead ancestors beckoning.

Turns out it was just the main station.

The downside of my stupid escapade on the stairs was that it took a lot out of me. That was energy and strength that I would need for my assault on the British Museum, which is no less of a monster than the stairs at Russell Square Station.

Getting There is Half the Fun

To get to the museum from the station, I cut straight across Russell Square Park, which is a lovely green area, then dodged the crazy traffic in the circle, walked down a street, turned a corner, and bam! There it was.

It’s huge.

The British Museum is not to be trifled with.

It’s free to get in (you ought to make a donation), but things like maps, guides, and audio guides all cost money. If you want an audio guide, be prepared to leave some sort of photo ID, like a driver’s license or a passport behind.

The museum is camera-friendly. Take pictures of whatever you want. Seriously, go for it. They don’t care one bit. I had fun, because most American and Japanese museums would wig out at that idea.

Here’s the rub– if you take the audio guide and you carry a camera around your neck, you are in for some suffering. I had both, and both annoyed the hell out of me. I wound up never using the guide, anyway, as everything in the museum is well-labeled.

Skip the audio guide, unless you can’t read.

The Treasures of the World–Now the Treasures of Great Britain!

First off I took a look at the treasures of Ancient Greece. They had lots of neat stuff, none of which I can remember the names of. I am a terrible and uncultured person. But it was all very impressive, and I took lots of pictures.

The bits they took from the Acropolis were very moving, as were the sculptures of the heads of the four major philosophers, and the sculpture of Alexander the Great.

Then it was off to Egypt. I was more interested in the sculptures than the mummies, to be honest. I always thought that the obsession with the display of old dead bodies to be kind of gruesome, yet that was the part of the museum that was the most jam-packed. Figures.

I think there should be a rule that any archaeologist that displays a body in a museum also has to be displayed in a museum when they die so hordes of sweaty future tourists can gawk at them.

It’s only fair.

After those two sections, my legs were starting to die off, because this museum is HUGE, and my hiking shoes are 4 years old, and on their way out. I knew I only had one more section left in me, and then I’d have to turn tail and run back.

I decided to head to the Japan section. (Hey, that’s my main interest.) It was a nice display that carries you from the Joumon period all the way to modern Japan.

By then I was totally beat, so it was time to shuffle back to Earls Court.

I went to the office supply store on the high street on the way back to the hotel to buy boxes, packing tape, and a magic marker, because I need to get rid of these books I don’t need. I don’t want to have to carry them back with me on the plane, and I want to have more room for souvenirs.

At least that’s the logic.

Not sure about dinner tonight. Nando’s again? Or maybe just more sandwiches?

The flight from Heck

 Great Britain, Travel  Comments Off on The flight from Heck
Jun 292011
 

I made it to London safely, but it wasn’t without a few snags. For starters, the flight was overbooked because the Sunday flight was cancelled, and they were trying to cram as many people on board as possible.

There was no way a mere $800 voucher was going to lure me away from taking my rightful crummy uncomfortable seat on the plane.

After the delay of sorting out who was going to get to board and who was not, we all got on the plane, and sat there at the gate.

And sat there.

And sat there.

We sat there for two hours because there were thunderstorms in the area, and the ground crews weren’t allowed outside to service the plane until the storms had passed for about 15 minutes.

So we sat there some more.

We finally got off the ground at about 8:15 p.m. or so– horribly late, but it couldn’t be helped.

I sat next to a nice guy from Kenya who was very big. Not fat, mind you, just a big, strong person. So we were both a little uncomfortable as we were crammed into those tiny little seats with our bulky bodies. And the guy sitting in front of me was headed to Afghanistan, so I agreed to let him recline a little. I know he’s not going to get much in the way of comfort for a while, so it was the least I could do.

Because no good deed goes unpunished, and I was sitting right in front of the bulkhead, I suffered for my kindness. I had all of 3 inches of reclining room. My knees were bruised when I got to London.

I’m never sitting in front of the bulkhead again.

Well, not in coach, anyway.

Arrival in London

We got to Heathrow at around 8:50 a.m. London time, completely blowing everyone’s schedules to bits, and causing just about everyone who had a connecting flight to miss it.

Lucky me, I didn’t have a connection to make.

Border control was uneventful. The line was long and moved slowly, but uneventful.

One thing you might want to keep in mind– they want the address of the place you’re going to be staying at in the UK for the landing card, so it would be useful to print that out, or write it on your hand, or something.

Customs was nonexistent. There was nobody there to check my bags for anything. I spent all of that effort to get all of those doctors’ notes, only to find out that nobody here cared.

Dammit, or is it yay?

Should I be upset that I wasted the effort, or I happy that I didn’t have to go through the frustration of having my bags forcefully unpacked again? Am I an idiot or what? Of course I’m happy that I didn’t have to go through the hassle of a customs inspection.

Sort of.

I suppose I should explain first. You see, I travel with a few medications. So in order to travel with this medicine without getting a nice pair of steel bracelets from angry border officials, I like to make sure I have all of the necessary paperwork done. The last time I went to Japan, even though I had the right paperwork, I still got hassled.

Before heading to the UK, I spent about 2 weeks trying to find out just what the hell the rules were, and got all kinds of interesting answers. I played all sorts of variations of phone tag, one version of which included a Home Office official claiming that the Home Office did not have jurisdiction over controlled substances.

This is the equivalent in the US of a DEA agent saying, “We don’t handle drug offenses.”

Eventually I found a web page on the Home Office website with some loose guidelines, and just closed my eyes and got as many notes and papers as I could.

Turns out it was all a waste of time, because apparently nobody in England cares about what’s in my bags when I get off the plane.

So while I was relieved that I didn’t have to go through a forced unpacking and lots of paper-shuffling, I was still irritated that I had wasted so much effort gathering paperwork.

One of my doctors even charged me $25 US for a travel letter, and wouldn’t even write the thing until I had sent him the money.

How Do I Get to Earls Court?

Getting to the hotel from the airport was a bit tricky, mainly because I had never done it before, so I was completely confused. I have to admit in a moment of honesty it’s kind of fun in a strange kind of way to be dropped in a strange city and have to figure out where to go next.

I found the Heathrow Express to Paddington just fine, but missed the first train. The second train pulled in, but we were told that we weren’t allowed to ride it unless we had first class tickets, which is just as well, because it turns out that it was going to stop at every station along the way. There’s no express in that.

Finally, I could get on the third train, which showed up after about 10 minutes total of waiting. Not bad.

I pulled into Paddington, and was slightly bewildered. So many places to eat. I was hungry, tired, and carrying tons of junk with me. I was glad I only had the one suitcase, but I was wishing the backpack didn’t weigh 35 pounds. It didn’t feel that heavy, just really bulky.

I finally figured out where the Tube was, and made my way there. Then I saw a sign that regretfully informed me of “Severe Delays” on the District Line, which was supposed to take me to Earls Court.

Well, that’s no good.

So I stared at the sign, in hopes that some more useful information would come forth.

It didn’t come forth.

I stared some more, because I was jet-lagged and feeling a bit dumber than usual.

It still didn’t come forth.

I saw a window with a sign that said “Tickets and Assistance.” “Well,” I thought, “I could use some assistance.” Naively, I stood in line. Then I overheard a woman complain bitterly in German that the people behind the window were very “unfreundlich.”

I lowered my expectations appropriately, and the man behind the window did not fail to disappoint. When I asked him how I should get to Earls Court, he said “Go to platform 1 and take a bus.”

And that was that.

I have no idea what lies at platform 1, or which buses I can take, so I stared stupidly at the bus map for 10-15 minutes until giving up, grabbing a Tube map, and just figuring out that if I ride enough trains, I can go around whatever is clogging up the District Line.

So I did just that. I rode the pink line, whatever it’s called, to Hammersmith, and caught the Piccadilly line there to go to Earl’s Court.

By the way, there are no lifts at Earls Court for luggage right now. Fun.

I highly recommend not traveling at all with luggage if you can possibly swing it.

I’m serious.

I have been party to some pitiful scenes, and seen many more pitiful scenes of others like me carrying bloated, obscenely heavy suitcases through places they were not meant to be carried.

Places like Earls Court train station.

Or JR Nara.

But there are far worse places than those two.

All Your Base2Stay Are Belong to Us

Anyway, I made it to the hotel after 2 hours of fumbling around on the trains, and managed to dump my bags there and freshen up in the hotel’s WC.

Then it was off to Gourmet Burger Kitchen for lunch, which was a chicken sandwich, chips (fries–whatever), and lots of lemonade with no free refills, and then off to Marks & Spencer’s for foodstuffs.

After check-in, the nice folks at Base2Stay had kindly moved my bags into my room for me (thank you very much), so all I had to do was drop off a few things, and head to Car Phone Warehouse to pick up a Vodaphone pay-as-I-go SIM card for my phone.

That evening, I found a little Italian place that made a decent cheese pizza, because I like to eat pizza when I’m jetlagged.

The sun sets at 9:45 p.m. or so, and rises at around 3:45 a.m. Very weird. It’s making me goofy already.

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