Part Four: Arrive in Venice

This is part four of my travel diary revisited. Next stop: Italy!

Saturday, May 31 – This morning I bid farewell to England and embark on the next leg of my journey. Another ride on the Hoppa Bus shuttles me back to Heathrow. Apparently, this airport has a shortage of gates. Consequently none of the flights have one pre-assigned to them: no reserved parking spots. It’s sort of a “first-come, first-served” arrangement. This leaves the flying public waiting in a central holding area, staring at overhead screens until their flights are finally given gates (roughly 30 minutes before departure, or in the case of my flight, even less). Imagine my surprise when I at last go to my gate to find, not a plane, but a bus waiting. The bus takes us on a fascinating, round-about tour of Heathrow’s underbelly on the way to our plane, which is parked out on the tarmac with no gate to call its home. No modern Jetway ramp for us. We get to climb the old-fashioned roll-away stairs: another new experience.

The flight itself takes only two hours. I once again have a window seat, which gives me a bird’s-eye view of the lagoon and the city of Venice itself on our approach. After my solo adventures, it's wonderful to find my husband waiting for me when I arrive. He carries my bags and drives me the short distance to our hotel, showing me to our room before returning to work. The plan is that I will settle in, have a nap (I am still operating in a seriously sleep-deprived state), and then we (Ron, his coworkers, and I) will all head in to Venice for dinner. Since I will be exploring on my own much of the time while I’m here, Ron and his friends – who have had a 3-day head start – are going to show me how to get around. After some rest and a change of clothes, I am introduced to Kim, Dorothy, Wendy, George, Jason and Jim. We catch the bus for the 30-minute ride from the mainland to the islands of the old city via the causeway. Once there, we board the practical, all-purpose water bus, called the vaporetto.

I’m sure I will always remember my first ride down the Grand Canal. It's truly magical. The temperature is perfect. The beautiful architecture, utterly unique. And the unusual quality of the late afternoon light robes everything in a warm, incandescent glow. No matter where I look, there’s a scene worth preserving. I drink it all in. After the stress and rushing around of the last few days, it feels fabulous to be at my final destination with plenty of time to enjoy it. We stroll through the famous Piazza San Marco area by twilight and cap off the night with a two-hour dinner at an open-air café. Life is good.

Part Three: Hampton Court, Sonehenge, and Bath

Here's the third part of my travel diary, pared down to a manageable length.

Friday, May 30 –
This is the only full day I get to spend in England on this trip, and I have booked a tour that takes in Winsor Castle, Stonehenge, and Bath. Unfortunately the publicized hotel pick-up does not include my hotel, so I have to make my own way into downtown London. I've been told a taxi there and back would run around a hundred pounds (that’s in the neighborhood of $200 and more than the price of the entire tour!). The only alternative is public transportation: the city bus and the train. I'm assured it's all very simple. OK. I’m a grown-up. I can do this. So, I double the time I was told it will take and set off early in the morning on my adventure.

Back to the airport and down to the subway station I go. The man at the ticket booth tells me I need to take the Piccadilly Line halfway, get off, transfer to the District Line and ride that to Victoria Station. Once on the train, I'm surprised to discover that much of the “underground” is actually not underground, affording a more scenic trip to London than I had expected (although most of my attention is taken by the colorful people collecting around me). I narrowly avoid making a fatal error when I change trains and, to my own surprise, I emerge at Victoria station with enough time left to walk to the tour company ... if only I knew which way to go. Once again, total strangers eventually points me in the right direction and I arrive with ten minutes to spare.

The first news I hear is that our visit to Winsor Castle has been cancelled; the Queen apparently doesn’t feel like having company today. Hampton Court Palace is substituted. And it is indeed impressive – vast, manicured gardens; bricked courtyards with clock towers; a chapel with the most exquisite ceiling; rooms and staircases designed and decorated sparing no expense. My overriding thought, however, is that Henry VIII (and most of his seven wives, presumably) walked these very halls long before me.

Next, our group reassembles on the bus to set off for Stonehenge. It is a gray day, much the same as I left behind in Seattle. And the countryside doesn’t look that foreign to me either - richly green open fields, low rolling hills, birch and other mostly-deciduous trees. It reminds me a lot of western Oregon. We lunch at the Stonehenge Inn and then tour the monument itself. This place has never held any particular fascination for me, but even so, I feel a certain awe as I walk around it. If it was built in an attempt to honor a primitive idea of God, I can respect that. If not, I can at least appreciate the engineering feat required to move and erect the enormous stones with manpower alone.

Now, on to Bath! This is the real reason I signed up for the tour. I want to see for myself the places Jane Austen mentioned in her books, to walk on the cobbled streets she knew so well. I crane my neck and catch a glimpse of the Pultney Street Bridge over the Avon as we come in to town: the first "check" on my list of must-sees. The bus parks behind the Abbey, and our guide instructs us when we need to be back aboard. I want to scream in protest. There's nowhere near enough time for all I had hoped to do! I hurry through the Roman Baths, finding out what I can about how the place looked in 1800 (check) from the on-site guides. The Pump-room (check) looks just the same as it would have then. I sample the mineral water served at the bar (check), which is very warm but not nearly as redolent with sulfur as I expected. Next, I cross the churchyard for a quick tour of the Abbey (check). I gape at the soaring ceiling, take in the magnificent stained glass windows on all sides, and pause in a pew for a prayerful moment before reluctantly moving on.

With a glance at my watch, I decide to head in the direction of the Royal Crescent. Along the way, I have the presence of mind to turn and look for Beechan Cliff (check), which peaks over the tops of the Georgian-style buildings. I luckily stumble across the Jane Austen Center (check) on my way up Gay Street. Wishing I had an hour to spend, I pop in just long enough to purchase a couple books. A little further up the street, I enter into The Circus (check), a circle of connected town houses in three segments with a large green in the center. I wonder if the same trees stood there in Jane Austen’s day. Exiting the Circus to the left, the Royal Crescent (check) finally comes into view with its expansive front lawn and famed gravel walk (check, check). I admire the view, take a few pictures, and then turn to run for the bus. My feelings are mixed as we drive away, heading back to London. Although it's heartbreaking to leave when there's so much more I want to see, I'm glad I came and amazed how much I've been able to take in.

Part Two: London Arrival

Here's the next installment on my travel diary:

Thursday, May 29 Somewhere over the Atlantic, it becomes Thursday. And when we touch down at Heathrow, we are informed that it is a little after noon. Once I deplane, claim my bags, and breeze through customs, I begin following signs that I hope will take me to the shuttle for my hotel. How hard could it be? After all, everything's in English. It’s about this point that I’m learning two very important lessons simultaneously. First, Heathrow is a large, disorganized, spread-out kind of an airport with a lot of walking involved. And second, luggage without wheels becomes heavy alarmingly fast. (Note for future reference: select different bags next trip or travel with strong husband to carry them.)

With a little help from a gal at the information desk, I arrive at the shuttle (called the Hoppa Bus – very clever) pick-up point. A bus pulls up only minutes later. Great! I’m dead tired and anxious to get to my hotel asap. Just to be sure, I ask if the bus will take me to the Holiday Inn Ariel. The driver, obviously an immigrant from a foreign land (perhaps Pakistan or India?), shakes his head and points back toward the terminal saying something that sounds for all the world like “hedge seeks.” He repeats it several times with no further clarification resulting. All I get from this exchange is that his bus is definitely not the right bus for me. I wander away wondering where I went wrong and what the "hedge" he was talking about. After asking around some more, I finally piece together that what the driver had been trying to tell me, utterly unsuccessfully, was that I needed to get on the H6. Right stop; wrong bus.

When I made my last-minute travel plans, I didn’t have many options available to me. I felt lucky, then, to be able to book a route through London, which had at least two advantages. Not only did it allow me to get the most out of my trip by making an excursion while here, but, being an English-speaking country, I expected less difficulty finding my way around. I seriously overestimated the benefit of the latter. The bus driver’s is only the first of assorted challenging accents I encounter. It seems that nearly everyone who works in London's transportation and hospitality industries is from somewhere else.

Despite the confusion, I arrive safely at my hotel, only a little the worse for the wear. A shower, a nap between crisp clean sheets, and a meal of fish and chips revives me. I spend what’s left of the evening reading and studying up for tomorrow’s sightseeing tour.

Travels Revisited - Part One

We have been enjoying fabulous weather for the last week or so here in the Pacific Northwest, with far more sun than we normally expect in May and June. Still, I can't help remembering that at this time last year, I was in Europe. My husband, Ron, was sent by Boeing on a business trip to Venice, Italy. Being a supportive wife, I naturally felt it was my duty to join him there (such a sacrifice!). I had to make my own travel arrangements though - all very last minute too. When I found a flight that went through London, I couldn't resist the opportunity to make a stopover in England on my way to Venice. It was quite an adventure and I had a marvelous time. I admit it; I'm still living on the afterglow of that trip. So, let me share with you some excerpts from the diary I kept along the way.

Wednesday, May 28 Ron left for Venice by way of Frankfurt yesterday on the flight scheduled for him by Boeing. His dad, who is going to house-sit for us while we are gone, comes early this morning to drive me to the airport. I’m excited, nervous, convinced I’m forgetting something important, and a little terrified to be traveling so far by myself. Roger drops me off outside the terminal, gives me a good-bye hug, and drives away. I’m on my own with only the butterflies in my stomach to keep me company.

I manage to find the United self-check-in machine, print my boarding pass, and check in my bag. So far so good. The next stop is security where my first blunder is discovered; my tube of sunscreen is over the 2 ounce limit for liquids and cosmetics in carry-on bags. Astutely judging that this violation is the result of inexperience rather than sinister intentions, the nice TSI employee lets me off with a warning and even allows me to keep the contraband item. Mental note to self: transfer the sunscreen to checked bag at London stop-over.

After repacking my lap-top and retrieving the rest of my belongings, I look for the United Airlines VIP Lounge (or whatever they call it). Ron has told me that, because I am flying business class, I will be able to hang out there – where the chairs are cushy and the complimentary refreshments yummy – until my flight is called. I look for it, but I never see the place. So instead I end up grabbing a gourmet breakfast at the McDonald’s counter and settling into a molded plastic chair to wait near my gate.

I have allowed plenty of time (the last thing I wanted was to add to my not-inconsiderable stress level by having to run for my plane) so I’m feeling pretty good. The knots in my innards begin to unwind. I calmly take out my book to read. It’s a long book, and a little dry actually. In fact, I’ve had a hard time getting through it. But I am determined, and I’ll have plenty of time on this trip to finish it. I have more time than I thought right now because they’ve just posted the fact that my plane is delayed.

The first leg of my journey takes me to Denver. My United Mileage Plus card notwithstanding, I’m not a frequent flyer by any means, a fact I cleverly try to hide by maintaining a nonchalant manner, as if I do this kind of thing all the time. Any chance I had of pulling off this charade is lost when our lunch is served and I have to ask the guy next to me where to find my tray table. Additional note to self (and other inexperienced travelers): in first class, it’s usually inside your armrest.

Due to our late departure from SeaTac, our flight is an hour and a half behind schedule. As we approach Denver, the pilot begins calmly giving information to the passengers over the PA system about connecting flights. He starts by instructing “those of you who still have a reasonable chance of making it” what gate their plane is slated to depart from, presumably so they will know in which direction to run when we land. I have no such worries. My awkwardly-long six-hour layover at Denver International has just been revised into a much more-manageable four and a half hour stay. So really, for me, it’s a good thing. I’m on vacation, so I’m thinking the glass is half full. More good news: this time I find the United Red Carpet Club and make myself comfortable there. Then, I’m off again. Next stop: London.